Double blind

Chapter Ten

At precisely 0700 hours that same Monday morning, eight individuals dressed in jeans, boots, and flannel shirts gathered around a large octagonal table and waited for the waitress/owner to finish putting out the steaming stainless-steel pans filled with scrambled eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, and rolls in the secluded meeting hall.

She examined the buffet table critically, making sure that blue flames still glowed in all of the Sterno® cans, and that she'd provided sufficient plates, cups, and silverware to accommodate the group's needs.

"Okay, fellows, here's the way it works," she announced, scanning the buffet one last time. "The coffee's fresh — forty cups and plenty more where that came from — the food's hot, and the bathroom's clean. You want anything else, more food, coffee, cleanup, whatever, pick up that phone and dial '5.' It may take us a while to get here because my husband and I are all by ourselves today, but one of us will come eventually. If it's important, come get one of us. Otherwise, the place is yours until three, when I've got to start cleaning up for a card game this evening. We built this place off by itself, so feel free to make all the noise you want. Just don't break anything, or it comes out of your deposit."

"We'll be fine." Lt. Colonel John Rustman politely dismissed her, then waited until she retreated down the hill to the small bed-andbreakfast lodge before securing the door.

"Okay." He motioned toward the buffet. "Everybody grab something to eat. This may be your last chance for a decent meal for the next week or so."

Rustman waited until the entire team reassembled around the table with filled plates and cups of coffee. Then he walked over to a four-foot-square piece of black cloth covering a section of the far wall, carefully lifted the bottom edge of the fabric, and pinned it to the upper portion of the wall.

The retired military officer's actions caused one of the men to stop eating and stare at the block letters printed at the top of the suddenly exposed map.

"Jasper County?" Wintersole's voice sounded distinctly cold and foreboding. "You're bringing the operation into your own backyard?"

"That wasn't the original plan," the retired military officer replied evenly as he picked up a wooden pointer, "but some opportunities presented themselves which will provide us with some extremely useful advantages — the primary ones being time and terrain."

Rustman indicated a large circular area in the upper-right-hand corner of the map with the pointer.

"You've been conducting training exercises in this area for the past four weeks. You know the lay of the land, the local fauna and flora, the weather and traffic patterns, and the minimal local law-enforcement patrols."

He moved the pointer to a spot just outside the circle.

"The proposed ambush site is located here" — he tapped the map with the end of the pointer — "twelve klicks out from one of your existing hideaways, and within twenty-five klicks of two others and all but two of your reserve ammo and supply caches… which means we can simply leave all of that material in place.

"The surrounding mountains are high and close together with superb tree cover, which effectively negates any air-search capability. That's not a particularly relevant issue, because the nearest military base is in Klamath Falls, and the air-search capabilities of the local federal and state law-enforcement agencies are extremely limited and otherwise undependable. But we need to be thoughtful about the escape routes in any case, and local terrain might turn out to be a critical factor if we were ever to lose control of the situation.

"The ambush site is a small, mountainside compound near Loggerhead City occupied by an antigovernment, quasi-religious paramilitary group known as the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal. They've been dug into the hills about twenty years waiting for the big curtain to go up. The group consists of approximately fifteen adult males, thirteen adult females, and a handful of kids. None of the adults are known to possess any formal military training, but they've had plenty of time to memorize their library of basic field manuals. All of the adult males hold the self-assigned rank of full colonel, lieutenant colonel, or major. Two young men above the age of fifteen are designated captains, and all of the adult women hold the rank of lieutenant. As far as anyone knows, they have light arms only — shotguns, pistols, and a few scoped hunting rifles — no night-vision gear, a few military surplus grenades that may or may not be functional, and almost certainly some rudimentary traps and trips out on the perimeter, if they haven't all been set off by animals or their own people by now.

"All things considered, I think it's pretty clear that the members of this group represent a minimal threat to our operation."

Rustman paused, pleased to see that not one member of Wintersole's hunter-killer team had cracked a smile.

"And as you may have guessed by now, in addition to being the location of our ambush site, the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal will also function as our primary bait. Any questions so far?"

One member of the team raised his hand, and Rustman gestured for him to speak.

"Colonel, begging your pardon, but it seems to me these people lack the credibility to be bait… or anything else, sir."

Lt. Colonel John Rustman nodded thoughtfully. "That is a problem, soldier," he agreed. "What would you suggest we do to correct that situation?"

"Arm them properly, sir," came the immediate reply.

"So they become a legitimate threat to your team?"

"I don't think so, sir." The soldier smiled briefly. "Just credible."

Rustman turn to glance at Wintersole, who nodded solemnly in agreement.

"You're going to need a go-between to introduce you to these people." Rustman spoke directly to Wintersole. "I understand there's at least one outsider these people seem to trust enough to let into their compound on a routine basis. Some old codger who claims to be a soothsayer — some kind of fortune-teller — hangs around town trying to sell Indian jewelry and artifacts to tourists. I've seen him down by the pancake house three or four times in the past month. He's about five-ten, one-fifty at most, frizzy gray hair, full gray beard, wears a variety of beaded headbands and jewelry — most of which, I gather, he's perfectly willing to part with if the price is right — and typically dresses in old Vietnam-era cammo gear. He might be worth a try."

"Yes sir. We'll locate and contact him immediately," Wintersole acknowledged the barely disguised order.

"An excellent suggestion, soldier," Rustman congratulated the young man who had posed the credibility issue. "Which, I might add, just goes to prove the basic superiority of the American fighting man — and woman," he added without missing a beat, but noting that the single female member of the team, a very tough, no-nonsense-looking soldier in her own right, acknowledged the comment with a slight dip of her head. "If an American commander is lost in battle, the next subordinate officer, NCO, or grunt is expected to step forward and provide immediate and effective leadership in the field. I expect that premise to apply to everyone in this room. We have a mission, and we will not fail to complete it, no matter what. Are there any other questions?"

Not a single hand went up.

"It's still hunting season," Rustman went on, "so no one outside the community will pay too much attention to gunshots… even if we do increase the firepower of our paramilitary associates. In fact, any shooting at all will provide a useful cover for our own activities," he added with a slight smile.

"We have established five primary escape routes" — he indicated these with five quick passes of the pointer — "which will give you access to pre-positioned supplies which we'll also leave in place. A total of one hundred kilos of Semtex® and twelve claymores, set in rearward-facing, cross-trail patterns at five twenty-yard intervals, protects each escape route. The devices are rigged and armed for remote detonation from your individual transmitters, and the outer ranges are clearly marked in the standard long range reconnaissance manner. Just make sure you and your teammates are completely clear before you activate and use the system," the military officer added with another one of his thin-lipped smiles.

The team members continued eating with studied indifference. They knew all about the escape routes. They'd spent two full weeks putting the devices and markers in place, and memorizing the kill zones. No problem.

"Your targets — " Rustman went on, and was pleased when every member of the hunter-killer team immediately stopped eating and listened intently — "are five Special Agents of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service."

Rustman paused for a moment to let those words sink in.

"For reasons that are not important to you or to your mission, these agents represent a significant threat to our military/industrial readiness. Their deaths, and the subsequent exposure of their activities in the media, will significantly impact the reputations of a number of highly influential people willing to sacrifice the military strength of our nation for the continued survival of a few weak animal species.

"I had hoped to have individual profiles available for you today, but our accelerated timetable made that impossible. However, First Sergeant Wintersole will give you verbal descriptions of these agents which will enable you to recognize and isolate both the primary and diversionary targets. The profiles — which will include photographs — will be delivered to you at the message drop site prior to your interaction with these agents. I can tell you right now, however, that none of these people have any prior military experience, and none are expected to be armed with anything other than their assigned duty weapons, primarily 10mm Smith amp; Wesson semiautomatic pistols with twelve-round magazines. Like all federal agents, they're trained to shoot for center of mass, a considerable advantage for you, since your body armor will easily defeat a 10mm expanding hollow-point pistol bullet.

"In addition to your superior weapons and firepower," Rustman went on, "you will be equipped with the latest generation of night-vision gear which utilize a phased array of infrared and ultraviolet detectors. The view screens provide some interesting computer-enhanced color imagery for hot objects, which turns out to be a major improvement over the old green monotone scopes… especially in terms of small objects that are either distant or moving. The effects can be disorienting at first, especially if you're used to the old night-vision gear, so you're going to need to get some practice hours in before we go operational; but as you'll see, the tactical advantage you gain is substantial.

"In other words," the retired military officer concluded, "your adversaries simply won't stand a chance."

Rustman noticed that every member of the hunter-killer team — with the exception of Wintersole, who remained expressionless — nodded their heads and smiled slightly at that last comment. No broad grins. No hand-slaps or cheerful commentary. Just a quiet and professional display of pleasant anticipation. It was nice that the odds for the impending operation were completely stacked in their favor. Not essential. Just nice.

This pleased Lt. Colonel John Rustman a great deal.

"At 0900 hours this morning, local Caribbean time, a hundred thousand dollars was placed in each of your designated Grand Bahamian bank accounts. At the completion of this mission, an additional two hundred thousand dollars will be added to each account. There will also be an opportunity for each of you to earn a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus," Rustman paused for effect, "in the event that a female agent who is expected to be added to their team is captured alive and utilized for our diversionary ploy. First Sergeant Wintersole will explain all of that to you later.

"Oh, and one more thing," Rustman said. "There is a possibility that we may have an informant working on the outer perimeter of our operation, for purposes of gathering intelligence. In the unlikely event this informant ever needs to make contact with any of you, the code identifier will be 'canvasback,' repeat, 'canvasback.' Everybody have that?"

All seven heads nodded in acknowledgment.

"If all goes as planned, and it will, make no mistake about that," Rustman emphasized in a firm and confident voice, "this should be a one-day, in-out mission. Once the agents are lured into position, you will move in fast, hit hard, disengage, and get out. Any questions?"

Another member of the team raised his hand.

"Sir," he began hesitantly, "like First Sergeant Wintersole said, you're moving the operation into your backyard… or pretty close to it. Won't that make things more complicated for everybody, yourself especially, even if everything goes exactly to plan?"

"It will make things marginally more difficult for me," Rustman admitted, "but not for you. For reasons which I assume are obvious, this is the last time I'll be in contact with any of you until long after the mission is completed. I had intended to hold at least one more briefing before sending you into action, but this new development makes that too risky. I'm too well known in Jasper County, which is why we're meeting here in Jackson County. So, from now on, we'll be relying on the message drop site for routine communications and transfer of materials.

"In fact" — Rustman consulted his notes — "we'll use a little hole-in-the-wall post office off Brandywine Road, right next to Loggerhead Creek, as our primary mail drop point. Name of the place is the Dogsfire Inn. You'll use post office box number fourteen to receive mail, and send any to us using box fifteen." He tossed a ring of six identical keys on the table. "We'll send someone to drop off or pick up mail at 0800 and 1600 hours. You can work out your own pickup and delivery schedules, but try not to be there plus or minus fifteen of those drop times. We want to avoid as many outside connections to you as possible."

"Sir, what about the radios?" the communications specialist and only female on the team asked politely.

"You already know the team comm-net is short range, the transmitters are scrambled, and we've got mountains all around to block or confuse any inadvertent long-range transmissions, so intra-team communications shouldn't be a problem," Rustman reminded them. "But I strongly advise you to stay off the wide-area net unless it's an absolute emergency. The chances of anybody in the area picking up any of your signals and de-scrambling them are essentially nil. But even scrambled transmitters can be located, and the Fish and Wildlife Service technical agent on the opposing team is supposed to be some kind of electronics hotshot, so there's no sense in taking the risk.

"You have the overwhelming advantages of surprise, terrain, intelligence, and firepower," Rustman concluded. "You will know your targets, your locations, your timetables, and your escape routes. There shouldn't be any need to communicate with me any further once we leave here today… other than to signal three simple words," he added with a thin-lipped smile.

"Mission completed. Out."