Double blind

Chapter Forty-eight

Remembering his new employer's comment that it would take no more than fifteen minutes to learn how to use the night-vision gear, Henry Lightstone made a show of paying careful attention while his wrist-cast-hampered fellow instructor demonstrated how to secure the binocular night-sight goggles over his head, and adjust the spacing, aperture, and focus of the eyepieces to give him nearly perfect stereoscopic vision.

Unbelievable, he thought to himself, amazed at the degree of improvement in the latest generation of night-vision equipment. Unlike with the second-and third-generation light-magnifying tubes Lightstone was familiar with, the flow of light green images in these new goggles appeared multi-contrasted and almost razor-sharp.

Pretending to master the technology, Lightstone rotated his body in a 180-degree arc. In doing so, he observed two other members of Sergeant Aran Wintersole's training team standing in the trees about twenty yards away from the main group.

A chill went up his spine when he realized that both of these men carried night-vision-scoped bolt-action rifles — very much in contrast to the five trainers grouped around him who all wore standard military-issue Beretta 9mm semiautomatic pistols. In addition, all of the men wore military camouflaged flak jackets with a bullet-deflecting breastplate insert. A half dozen canister grenades dangled from rings on each side of the breastplate on Wintersole's and two of the other soldiers' jackets, and all three carried what looked like a roll of duct tape attached to a loop at waist level opposite their pistol holsters. The other two instructors carried a roll of tape, but no grenades.

Two plus five equals seven, Lightstone told himself. The same number of soldiers he'd seen conducting the surveillance of Charlie Team, all present and accounted for.

In spite of the chilling sight of the two night-vision-equipped snipers partially concealed in the nearby woods, Lightstone felt relieved. That meant that if Charlie Team wasn't the focused target of this supposed night training exercise, they wouldn't be wandering around the perimeter of the nearby Windgate National Wildlife Refuge in the dark and under active surveillance by a bunch of lethally trained combat troops… unless, of course, Lightstone reminded himself, the retired Army Ranger first sergeant had held some of his resources in reserve.

But in any case, Charlie Team wouldn't be out there alone. Whether they liked it or not, Lightstone smiled, the more experienced, manipulative, and treacherous members of Bravo Team would cover them on the perimeter, once again ready to do whatever it took to win.

Not that we'll be much help if things don't go our way, the covert agent's smile faded as he returned his attention to his injured companion.

"Feel comfortable?" the young soldier inquired.

"Just fine," Lightstone acknowledged.

"How do you like them?"

"Pretty amazing." Lightstone put just the right amount of wonder in his voice. "I feel like I'm walking around in some kind of green daylight."

"That's exactly the idea." The young soldier laughed. "The earphones are separate from the goggles, so if you ever have to take the goggles off, you'll stay linked to the rest of us. Your collar mike's an auto-sensor, so just talk and listen. Try not to interrupt someone else, unless it's an emergency. Everything clear?"

Henry nodded.

"Good." The young soldier removed something from the box behind him. "Here, let me help you put this on."

"What is it?"

"Flak jacket. Basically an armored vest."

"What the hell do I need an armored vest for?" Lightstone asked as the young soldier secured the wide Velcro straps tightly around his shoulders, chest, and waist.

"Didn't the sergeant tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Lightstone wheeled to face Wintersole who, to Lightstone's amazement, actually appeared less menacing with the binocular night-sights over his cold pale gray eyes.

"Just to make it a little more interesting for our side, our opponents are going to be firing live rounds tonight."

"What?"

"Don't worry about it." Wintersole noted then casually dismissed Lightstone's reaction. "They have pop-up reflector targets — which they can hardly hit in the daylight when they're twenty feet away — to aim at. And they'll be stumbling in the woods, about 90 percent blind, even before the first flash-bang goes off. Just stay low, maintain your cool, keep your goggles on, and you'll be fine. Probably'll have a better chance of getting taken out by a falling meteor."

"Yeah, right." Henry Lightstone shook his head in amazement. "What the hell's a flash-bang?"

"These little gems here." Wintersole reached forward with both hands and tapped the underside of the two grenades that hung from Lightstone's flak jacket like a pair of small firm breasts. "They're basically stun grenades, but they generate an extremely bright flash in addition to the concussion. You ever throw a hand grenade?"

"I've seen it done in the movies," Lightstone responded dryly.

Wintersole chuckled. "Same basic process. But if you do your job right — move in close, take them down one at a time, disarm them, and then tape them up tight — you won't need any grenades. But, in case you get caught out in the open, just slip the grenade off your vest, hold the lever with two fingers of your throwing hand like this" — he demonstrated with a grenade from his own vest — "pull the pin with your other hand, and throw."

"Wonderful," Lightstone muttered.

"Just remember," Wintersole warned him, "you've only got about two and a half seconds after the lever kicks out before it goes off, so try to aim for something thirty feet away — or at the very least, get behind a big tree after you throw it. Otherwise, you end up on your ass with your clock rung. And don't look directly at the flash. These fourth-generation tubes aren't supposed to flare out if they get too much light, but there's no sense in taking a chance."

Wintersole looked around at his team.

"One more thing. I was just advised that the Brigade leaders authorized one of their women to take part in the exercise tonight. I don't want her hurt, so I figure we'll leave her to our martial-arts expert."

"Watch out for your balls, man," one of the soldiers chuckled, and immediately froze when Wintersole glared at him sharply.

"Any more questions?" the eerie team leader inquired.

"Yeah, several," Lightstone replied evenly.

"Then come with me," Wintersole ordered as the rest of the team dispersed into the woods. "I'll see if I can properly educate you before your students show up."

Forty-five minutes later, settled into a concealed position on the outer perimeter of the designated contact zone, Henry Lightstone saw the first sign of movement.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling both relieved and increasingly uneasy, he had all of them spotted but one.

Riley and Green in place on the far side. Wu on the near side. Which means it's going to be Donato and LiBrandi on the hunt. He moved his head slowly in a 270-degree sweep, searching the entire outer perimeter of the contact zone one more time. No more bodies. And no movement.

So where's the wildcat?

He began another slow sweep knowing full well that Riley wouldn't let his most volatile and unpredictable agent get too far out of his sight, but then two bright red flashes at the edge of his vision suddenly brought his head back to the designated contact point.

He immediately spotted Special Agents Gus Donato and Mark LiBrandi standing in the clearing, each of them holding a bolt-action hunting rifle and a flashlight.

Moments later, a second pair of red flashes emerged from the light in Donato's hand, and an identical pair of flashes immediately answered from the far edge of the clearing.

As Lightstone watched, two figures wearing military flak jackets — sans grenades — entered the clearing carrying flashlights that now emitted steady, bobbing bright red beams within the light green world of the night-vision goggles. The four men stood together talking for perhaps thirty seconds when the familiar voice of First Sergeant Aran Wintersole whispered in Lightstone's earphones:

"Okay, take them down, now!"

Lightstone had only a brief moment to see the four distant figures suddenly become two paired sets of grappling combatants when three intensely bright green explosions erupted within the perimeter zone, sending three bodies tumbling. He had just started to come up to his knees, and out of his concealed position, when the first gunshot streaked over his head.

Special Agent Natasha Marashenko was still moving forward, holding the old second-generation night-vision spotting scope to her left eye with one hand and firing her Smith amp; Wesson 10mm semiautomatic pistol with the other when Lightstone came up, knocked the pistol out of her hand, and then drove his shoulder into her stomach in a lunging tackle that sent the two of them tumbling to the rock-and-brush-covered ground.

Only the fact that he'd knocked most of the air out of her lungs with his shoulder tackle saved Henry Lightstone from serious injury in those first few seconds when — unable to give her any kind of reassuring warning because of the microphone attached to his collar — he tried to get into position for the chokehold while Natasha Marashenko kicked, bit, gouged, scratched, and otherwise fought for her life.

Even so, by the time he finally managed to get the inner portion of his right elbow pulled tight under her chin, grabbed his left biceps with his right hand, looped his left arm around the back of her thrashing head, and then tucked his head in tight against the side of her head as her carotid arteries became tightly compressed against the biceps and forearm muscles of his right arm, Lightstone felt convinced the female agent's jackhammering elbow had broken every one of his ribs.

Several very long moments later, Lightstone felt her go limp in his arms… just as Wintersole and one of his soldiers came running up.

"Get… her… off… me," Lightstone gasped.

"Hey, man, I warned you," the soldier whispered as he knelt down and pulled the limp body of Marashenko aside.

"She… okay?" Lightstone had a hard time getting the words out. Among many other things, his solar plexus seemed unwilling to cooperate.

First Sergeant Aran Wintersole quickly knelt and pressed two fingers against the side of the young woman's throat.

"Good strong pulse. She's fine," he announced, then motioned for the soldier to tape her up quickly.

Then he moved to Lightstone.

"You okay?" the hunter-killer recon team leader asked with what Lightstone considered a very mild degree of interest or curiosity.

"That was one of the Brigade women?" he whispered in what he hoped sounded like a sufficiently raspy and disbelieving voice.

"That's right."

"Then I take back every smart-ass thing I ever said about these people confronting the federal government," Lightstone apologized as Wintersole easily pulled him to his unsteady feet and helped him readjust the night vision goggles. "Tell those Brigade characters to stay home and send their women out to fight. The damn government won't stand a chance."

At a little after midnight that Tuesday morning, while Wintersole's soldiers secured the stunned, bound, and gagged agents from Charlie Team into their new underground jail quarters, the hunter-killer team's medic tended the wounds of their severely beaten new martial-arts instructor, and the Chosen Brigade stared in awe at their new captives while animatedly chattering about their long-awaited trial, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole hiked up the narrow pathway to the rocky outcrop overlooking the blackened expanse of the Brigade's training grounds, where Lt. Colonel John Rustman stood waiting.

"How did it go?" the retired military officer asked.

"Real smooth. By the way, that little female agent was everything you said — and more." Wintersole chuckled coldly. "Damn near beat our new hand-to-hand instructor half to death before he managed to choke her out. But other than that, everybody looks like they're in pretty good shape."

"No other injuries?"

"Just a few cuts and bruises. Nothing serious."

"Excellent." Rustman nodded approvingly. "Now all we need to do is identify and isolate Lightstone, set up a reasonably secure area for the trial — they're going to use that old barn, right?"

Wintersole nodded.

"Good. Then rig the explosives, and call the media," Rustman finished with a look of satisfaction on his tanned face.

"Well, there is one more problem, sir.

"What's that?"

"Agent Lightstone. We still don't know what he looks like."

"Right." Lt. Colonel John Rustman mused silently for a long moment. "Tell me, Sergeant," he finally spoke, "you still have Special Agent Boggs in custody, do you not?"

"Yes sir, we do."

"And wouldn't you expect agent Boggs to recognize Special Agent Lightstone?"

Wintersole shrugged. "Yes sir, I guess I would."

"Well, then, why don't you ask him?"