Don Pendleton - Starfire

With any blessing whatsoever due them from the gods of black ops, and McCarter figured to live long enough to see the fall of the place of evil in this corner of Hell.

COMPLAINING ABOUT THE MOST adverse conditions of a mission never cut it. In the experience of his line of work, Calvin James knew that moaners and complainers weren’t only unreliable under fire, but they were often the first to get cut down in combat. The M and C crowd—of which there were none on his team, and none except for a couple officer types he could recall during his stint as a United States Navy SEAL who were mostly interested in bucking for promotion while the real deal did the fighting and killing for them—floated a mere notch above yellow.

His case in point was made when the two Dag sentries came whining his way.

The black ex-SEAL was through the hole at the base of the fence, liquid nitro spray gun dumped behind on the ground and replaced by the suppressed Beretta 92-F, when they shuffled into view. James didn’t know the language, but he could sure read faces and judge bitter tones for what they were. One of them forgot all about his AKM, the muzzle pointing at the ground, as he began jabbing a gloved mitt at the bottle of vodka his comrade didn’t seem inclined to share. The bickering decibels rose as the guard gestured angrily at the sky, waved at the line of tanker trucks with a dark scowl on his bearded face, his companion stamping his boot and fuming like a waiter stiffed on a big check. Whether the ongoing gripe was over the cold, boredom with sentry duty or who polished off the rest of the vodka, James didn’t know.

But he damn sure cared, since they were in the way of progress.

With a rock-steady, two-fisted grip on his weapon, he ended the argument with two quick taps, as hypersonic 9 mm Parabellum rounds cored their brains.

Two down, and James had a gut feeling it was set to go to Hell. He scanned, left to right, adrenaline practically carrying him to the bodies, despite fifty pounds of plastique added to his combat load. Quickly, he rolled the bodies under the silver beast’s tail, ears and eyes tuned to the no-man’s land between the fence line and the tankers.

He knew more sentries were in the area. In fact, combat senses shouted they were close. Manning was nowhere to be found, but James took that as a good sign the big Canadian was already making swift tracks.

The tankers were parked, nose-to-tail, in two rows with feet to spare, the odd rig out toward his teammate’s advance from the south. Maybe fifty meters needed to be covered before he met Manning in the middle, and both knew there was no set time to plant and prime the charges, but sooner the better.

James hauled the first shaped charge from his open nylon satchel, stuck it under the back wheel well, speared the priming rod in the middle of the package. It struck him next, checking his six before moving on, that McCarter was holding on to the extra radio remote unit. Backup hellbox, sure, just in case…

THE DRAWING BOARD and spit-balling of finer points for attack strategies always looked and sounded good, like it would all actually work according to plan. The reality, T. J. Hawkins knew, equaled the difference between life and death.

Sat images, HUMINT, EM scanners and thermal imaging handhelds and night vision to paint walking infrared radiation of the enemy on the way in was all well and good, and, in truth, solid planning was a must. Those Tomahawk salvos, the F-117 and Spectre strafes were a definite bonus package to soften up the target and shatter the enemy into a senseless slab of jelly, assuming anybody on the other team was still in one piece to cry the blues. All that and a bag of chips, he thought, but at the end of the smoke and the blood of battle, it all boiled down to the soldier. Skill and experience, a lion’s heart in the game all the way, and the capacity for improvising with the mayhem of combat counted far and away the most. All of the above was important, no question, but too often he’d seen that a little smile beamed on the good guys from Lady Luck won the day.

Or, in this instance, the dawn.

The simple fact they were in position and moving in for the kill at that hour was a case in point to tip the hat to Lady Luck, when he considered the agonizing delays on the ground back in Turkey, how bad weather simply wouldn’t allow decent satellite pictures. As it stood, sentries had already endured the long, cold night, bored out of their gourds, he knew, on the verge of nodding off as they were anxious to be relieved of duty. Better, whoever the yet-to-be-determined VIP playboys inside the main compound would be sleeping off a tough night of booze and broads. There would be security goons on hand, some of which would either be tasting the goodies on the sly, or sulking in envy and resentment they had to seethe, idle on the sidelines.

Life was tough like that.

The question now moving into the ex-Ranger’s scope was who exactly life would get tough for.

Hawkins had sensed the guard in the fur hat with pointed crown and knee-length black-leather coat already knew something was amiss, and before he started barking their names.

“Dhzari! Ghombalj!”

Moments ago, Hawkins caught Calvin James skirting the periphery of his vision, the ex-SEAL a blurring ghost with two kills in his wake. The dead men’s comrade was now in search of his buddies, as he stepped out from behind the rear of a tanker, three rigs down from where James had stashed the stiffs. Unless he missed his guess, reading the guard’s tight body language, Hawkins was a few moments away from sending him to join his comrades.

The Klieg lights provided ample illumination, so Hawkins didn’t need to switch the scope to infrared. He hefted 4.4 kilos of killing power, rose up on a knee, extended the sound-suppressed Dragunov, and tracked his mark with the naked eye for another moment. The Russian piece was a gift from the special ops in Kurd-land, and it came complete with a state-of-the-art scope with digital read off the laser sight. The extended detachable box magazine held fifteen 7.62 mm armor-piercing rounds. This time around McCarter had handed him the sniper designation. Hawkins would have preferred a tried-and-proved American high-powered rifle, but he understood McCarter’s reasoning that they carry a mixed assortment of weapons into battle. Russian grenades, German assault rifles, U.S. sidearms, and if they went down to a man no one would be the wiser about their origin of allegiance.

As if it would matter.

A quick search of the tankers provided no sighting of his teammates; all was quiet and holding.

But…

The guard spotted the boots under the rig’s tail.

Hawkins bit down the curse, hit one of three buttons on the side of his scope. In less than one eye blink the fiber optic scan threw up the virtual reality numbers in the upper left corner where they hung like some ghost script scrawled on a UFO above his field of vision. Distance to target, elevation, down to factoring in wind speed—2.5 knots, and at his back—he read the trajectory data as the guard’s expression of shocked anger framed with instant crystal clarity in the crosshairs. The man was reaching for his handheld radio, mouth already opening when Hawkins painted the red laser eye just above his right ear and squeezed the trigger. Muzzling at 830 meters a second, the armor-piercing projectile streaked the eighty-two yard bridge to target in a microsecond, so fast Hawkins had to peer hard before he registered there was, in fact, nothing in his scope but a faint dark mist raining over empty space.

He lowered the rifle, confirmed the decapitated heap of twitching carcass at a glimpse, then began scouring the field. Somewhere to the south—Manning’s way—he heard a voice calling out. Another comrade search.