The Ghost Pattern

…56

Alex unscrewed her canteen and gulped down a mouthful of water, after swishing it in her mouth a little, to trick her brain into thinking she drank more than that. The humid heat had let down a little after sunset, but she was still sweating profusely under all the heavy-duty clothing and weight she was carrying. Mosquitoes were an enemy force of their own, biting her viciously despite the thick layer of bug repellent cream she’d applied on every exposed inch of skin.

She refrained from slapping herself where a mosquito just stung her; afraid the slap would cause too much noise in the deathly quiet forest. The few crickets that still chirped were far away, barely audible.

Darkness worked a little in their favor, keeping them hidden as they waited, only five klicks away from the missile silo. They sat scrunched down against tree trunks near the edge of the forest, at the established rendezvous point with the contracted backup team.

She was worried their arrival might get the attention of the Russian Coast Guard, very active in that area. Lou, an artist at his special ops trade, had researched the terrain a little and had instructed them to fly in following the river, an old route for caviar smugglers, and one of the very few loopholes in Russian border defense.

A low hum at first, the sound of the approaching helo grew to slightly higher levels, as the lights of the AW101 became visible. Its rotor blades made a distinctive noise, a lower pitch and choppy, with an unexpectedly quiet whoosh. Lou turned his laser spot on, marking the center of the clearing, and then spoke into his radio.

“Inbound, inbound, this is Lima, green marks the spot. Go dark. Do you copy?”

“Copy, Lima. Ready to deploy.”

The chopper cut its lights, hovering forty feet above ground shrouded in darkness, as the mercenaries dropped to the ground on ropes. As soon as their feet touched the ground, they took off toward the edge of the forest, guided by Lou’s laser spot.

Alex turned on her night-vision goggles, and took in the unfamiliar green-hued imagery. The device had the option to use infrared on one eye, or on both. She tried it both ways, to see which was better. With both eyes, she had an eerie feeling of surreal imagery, but she had balance and depth perspective. Single-eye option gave her the benefit of infrared vision, but kept her other eye accustomed to seeing and perceiving her environment the usual way. Either case, night vision took some getting used to.

The helo lifted higher in the air and departed, turning its lights back on after a couple of seconds.

She stood, a little dazed, hoping that her brain would adjust faster to the new way to see the surroundings, and walked toward the huddled armed men. Four had already taken positions, weapons ready, covering the perimeter.

She tripped on a tree branch and almost fell. She felt a strong grip on her right arm, steadying her, helping her regain her balance.

“Fuck,” she muttered, then looked sheepishly at the man holding her arm and whispered, “I mean thanks.”

The man grinned, his teeth glistening against his camouflage-painted face.

Alex reached the group as Lou wrapped up his briefing.

“We’re five klicks from target. We’re expecting 20 to 50 hostiles, and more than 400 hostages.”

“Copy,” a man replied. “Comms?”

“We have encrypted radios patched into sat phones.”

“Weapons?”

“Tavors, handguns, CornerShot, grenades, limited ammo. We’ve been at this for a while,” Lou clarified. “We have one wounded and two civilians.”

“Out of how many?”

“Out of four,” Lou replied dryly.

“Understood,” the man said, after a split second of silence.

“This civilian is ready to fight. You can count me in,” Blake said, stepping up toward the man. “Blake Bernard,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.

“Call me Martin, I’m the team lead.” The man shook Blake’s hand vigorously, not hiding his surprise. “The Blake Bernard?”

“Uh-huh,” Blake replied.

One of the men whistled appreciatively.

“It will be an honor to go to battle with you, sir,” the man added, ending his statement with a firm salute.

“Alex Hoffmann,” she introduced herself. “Also ready, but not nearly as famous.”

Martin shook her hand just as vigorously.

“One question,” she said, “how do we call you? Your men?”

“Just call us Bravos. We like anonymity in our line of work; I hope you understand. We’re your backup team. Bravo stands for backup.”

“OK, got it,” she replied, then turned her attention to Lou.

“There’s a single entry point to the silo that we can see here,” Lou continued his briefing, showing the men his phone screen with the imagery received from DigiWorld. “There are guards here and here,” he continued, pointing at the screen, “and there’s a hangar or carport of sorts to the side, where some trucks are parked. Those are guarded too.”

“Copy,” Martin confirmed. “Bravo teams, move out.”