Double blind

Chapter Twenty-seven

As directed, the other members of the Army Ranger hunter-killer recon team awaited Wintersole when he returned to the rented KOA campsite. All except one.

"Where's one-seven?" Wintersole demanded as he and the younger, injured soldier joined the other casually dressed members of the team around the small cook fire.

"Unable to leave his position at this time, First Sergeant," the team's communication specialist and medic responded immediately. She had immediately noticed the fresh cast on one-four's left wrist under his jacket, but like the others, knew better than to ask. First Sergeant Aran Wintersole would tell them what he wanted them to know, when and if he wanted them to know. End of discussion.

"Why?"

Wintersole's brief coded message, transmitted from his truck over the secured long-range comm-net, directed the entire team to regroup at campsite Foxtrot at 1300 hours, sharp. While it wasn't unheard-of for a member of an elite, handpicked Ranger hunter-killer team to disregard a team leader's directive — as opposed to disregarding a team leader's direct order, which simply was unthinkable — the circumstances that might justify such an action were extremely limited.

And the fact that an Army Ranger first sergeant of Aran Wintersole's caliber and reputation led this particular hunter-killer recon team, instead of a more customary buck or staff sergeant, made one-seven's decision all the more intriguing.

"Unknown, First Sergeant. His entire signal was 'one-seven, unable to disengage, out,'" the comm specialist responded.

Wintersole nodded.

"Okay, we'll debrief him when he arrives. Let's have the status reports — weapons first."

"One-five and I picked up the weapons for the militia group this morning, First Sergeant." One-two, the team's weapon specialist and ranking corporal, pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and began to read from his list. "Twenty refurbished M16Als — one assault rifle each for the fourteen adult males and two teenage males in the group plus four spares; one hundred thousand rounds of five-five-six ball ammo; two hundred twenty-round magazines; two magazine loaders; twenty sets of Nam-era web gear, complete with canteens and first-aid kits; a used reloading outfit rigged for five-five-six military ball; sufficient supplies — bullets, powder, and primers — to reload an additional fifty thousand rounds; and twenty cleaning kits. All weapons, magazines, ammo, loaders, re-loaders, supplies, and kits manufactured prior to 1976."

"Where are they now?" Wintersole asked.

"We established a temporary supply dump two klicks south of the militant compound. The site's camouflaged with rocks and local vegetation, but we were limited on the latter." The soldier shrugged. "You can only lay out so much fresh-cut pine before it starts drawing attention."

"Will it be okay out there until Saturday?"

"Yes, First Sergeant. No problem."

"Okay, good job, soldier. Next status report — recon."

One-three and one-six both reported essentially the same thing: they had cruised the local motels, bars, grocery stores, restaurants, and gas stations all morning. Neither of them had seen any sign of the Special Ops agent team Lt. Colonel John Rustman had described — federal wildlife agents who, according to their informant, supposedly had been operating in the general area for the past three and a half days. As far as they knew, one-seven would likely report the same situation. Neither soldier had any idea why their teammate suddenly found it impossible to disengage from the recon assignment.

It was left to one-three to state the obvious.

"It'll be a lot easier to spot these people once we get their profiles, First Sergeant," she offered hesitantly.

"The profiles weren't there when we checked a little while ago," Wintersole announced matter-of-factly.

No one seemed surprised. Simon Whatley was a civilian and a politician, and his young aide was an easily frightened wanna-be. That said it all.

"However, we did run across something interesting at the Dogsfire Inn, where we also suffered our first casualty: one-four's broken wrist."

Wintersole turned his attention to the injured soldier. "Give them a sit-rep," he ordered.

One-four, also known as David for any civilian purposes, presented his situation report in clear, precise, and dispassionate detail, describing his error in grabbing the woman, the response and subsequent actions of the woman's apparent boyfriend, his own failed attempt to counter the wristlock takedown, the disruptive role played by the woman's pet panther, the careful disengagement of the three men, and the brief stop he and the first sergeant had made at the local hospital for a quick set of X-rays and a cast. The injury was inconvenient, he conceded, but it would not impede his effectiveness as a member of the team. Per the first sergeant's orders, he would switch to sidearms, and trade duties with one-three for the duration. He would camouflage the white plaster cast for any fieldwork. End of report.

Wintersole nodded his head approvingly, then looked at the other members of the team.

"Questions?"

One-five raised his hand. "Do you think the boyfriend could be a cop or a federal agent?"

The injured soldier thought about the question for a long moment.

"I suppose either one is a possibility," he responded hesitantly, "but I don't believe so. If he was, he probably would have pulled a badge instead of going for the wristlock. He's martial-arts trained, no doubt about that, but at a higher level than most cops — I'm guessing third or fourth Dan — and he's definitely in competition shape. He let me think I could power out of the wristlock and put him down, then he snapped my wrist one-handed. And he stayed pretty damned cool when confronted by the first sergeant," the soldier added meaningfully. "Way I saw it, if that damned panther hadn't popped out from under that table, I think we would have had our hands full."

One-four's last statement told the other attentive members of the Ranger hunter-killer team a great deal.

One-four, the Ranger Reserve company's secondary hand-to-hand instructor, held a brown belt in judo, and a first-degree black belt in the Army Rangers' lethal version of contact karate. The black cloth belt that Company First Sergeant Wintersole wore while instructing hand-to-hand drills at Fort Bragg was worn and faded. He never mentioned his black belt rank, and no one ever had the nerve to ask. But the entire team had seen Wintersole work — on the mats, at the range, and in the live-fire Hogan's Alley exercises. The idea of an experienced and deadly senior noncom like Wintersole "having his hands full" with any single individual — with or without the backup of a fellow combat-trained Ranger — was an eye-opening concept, to put it mildly.

"I agree with one-four," Wintersole stated flatly. "The man's been in his share of scraps, no doubt about it. But he maintained control and, more importantly, made no effort to push weight. I'm guessing he's just one of the local good-old-boys, but he may have a military background.

We can't discount that possibility. I suspect he works an evening or night shift, instructs at one of the local dojos, wants to maintain a good reputation in the community, but won't back off if somebody gives his girlfriend a bad time. We won't repeat that mistake," he added meaningfully. "We need that drop point."

"Uh, one thing, First Sergeant," one-four ventured hesitantly.

"Go ahead."

"That damned cat came out from under the table where the boyfriend was sitting. I'm sure no expert on panthers, but it seems to me that might mean this guy's either real comfortable around wild animals, or has something to do with wildlife."

"That's a good observation, soldier." Wintersole nodded his head thoughtfully. "The next time we…"

However, he never completed that statement because at that moment, the missing member of the Ranger hunter-killer team came roaring up on his motorcycle.

All six members of the team turned and watched as the combat rifleman designated one-seven (the seventh member of Fire Team One, First Squad, Second Platoon, Delta Company, Third Battalion of the 54th Army Ranger Reserves) set the kickstand on the motorcycle and ran toward them.

He turned to Wintersole and announced breathlessly, "One-seven reporting, First Sergeant. I think I found them."

It took the Ranger hunter-killer recon team almost an hour to camouflage themselves appropriately and work their way along the low, tree-filled ridge overlooking the designated site.

"I spotted the black guy first, coming out of the local 7-Eleven," one- seven explained, speaking softly into the short-range radio mike mounted on his shirt collar as the spread-out team members focused their field glasses and spotting scopes. "It's not all that unusual to see twenty-to-forty-year-old black males walking around town, so I didn't necessarily think too much about it until I saw him hop into a beat-up car with an Asian dude. We know local real-estate figures classify this as a pretty much white, conservative, working-class community — say 3 % Asian, 1 % black and Hispanic combined — so I figured the odds real quick, decided I might be on to something, followed them out to a warehouse just outside town, and dug myself in deep."

"Understood." Wintersole acknowledged the soldier's perfectly valid justification for ignoring his "disengage and report back to Charlie Foxtrot immediately" directive.

"The third guy, the smaller one in the long-sleeved red shirt and vest there in the back of the booth, kinda fit the profile the colonel gave us — male, white, six-foot, one-eighty — but I wasn't convinced until I saw the big guy. He should be… wait a minute, there he is, coming back from latrine duty. Right side, gray plaid shirt, big belt buckle. Looks like a goddamned Abrams without the gun, don't he? I figure six-seven, six-eight, maybe three-twenty. Looks like he's done his share of weight lifting, probably even played a little pro ball back when. That's when I decided, hey, these have gotta be our boys, and reported in."

"Good job, soldier," Wintersole spoke softly into his collar mike, and then: "One-three, do you have them all?"

"Negative, First Sergeant. Two more to go," the comm specialist replied as she made a slight focus adjustment, dropped down a half stop, snapped one more quick telephoto shot, and then shifted the viewfinder of her camouflaged, telephoto-lensed and tripod-mounted camera to the next figure in the restaurant.

"Take your time," Wintersole directed her. "Let me know when you finish. We need them all for verification. Tango-one-one out."

First Sergeant Aran Wintersole smiled as he put down his field glasses.

Very good job, soldier, he thought to himself. Now we can get down to the serious work.

Henry Lightstone remained in place a good fifteen minutes after the camouflaged surveillance team packed up and moved off the ridgeline… and gave thanks that he did so when he sensed movement to his left, waited another five, then observed another camouflaged figure come up to a kneeling position in the concealing brush before moving out.

Spotter. Covering the back door, just in case. Jesus.

Lightstone felt extremely unhappy with himself, knowing that he probably wouldn't have played it safe — that he more likely would have opted to follow the group — if he hadn't been watching for the cast. When the first six figures appeared to use their left hands freely as they moved out, Lightstone had remained in place… and discovered that his young, muscular, trim, short-haired, intense, and ever-so-disciplined and obedient new friend with the cleverly camouflaged cast was the one who had been given — or, more likely, volunteered for — the tail-end-Charley detail.

What was I waiting for, a goddamned salute? The experienced covert agent chastised himself as he watched the camouflaged figure disappear over the ridgeline.

So that makes seven, he thought as he shifted his field glasses back to the interior of the restaurant and mentally ticked off the very familiar faces in his head.

As he did, he tried very hard to ignore the cold sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that slowly yielded to a burning, protective rage. A feeling accentuated by several pertinent overriding questions: Just who are these people working for?

And what the hell are they doing here?