We have to move back. We’re supposed to be farther away.
What’s the backup position? Delta or Beta?
Shit!
She keyed her mike. “Team, move to pickup point, pickup point…”
Why was her brain freezing on this, of all things?
“Move to Delta,” said Rosen over the radio. “Prepare for evac.”
Chelsea tapped the right side of the screen, opening the window that showed the pickup helicopter’s com section. A double tap sent an audible message over the encrypted line directing it to Delta.
The helicopter’s pilot acknowledged. He was two minutes away.
Chelsea went back to the grid and designated the target area for Destiny, directing a line barrage of attacks with half its remaining missiles.
“Launch attack in thirty,” she told it. “Attack in thirty seconds.”
She turned toward where the gunfire was coming from and waited.
Red flared in plumes of black against the gray distance. The air popped.
Got him!
Chelsea felt herself being pulled to her feet.
“Hey!” yelled one of her teammates. “You gotta get to the exfil! Here’s the chopper!”
Though he was the last one out of the house, Johnny had to pace himself as he ran, consciously holding himself back so he wouldn’t pass the others. His legs were just that—his legs, completely part of him, exactly as his “real” ones had been before the accident. The only difference was, these were about ten times stronger, considerably faster, and not prone to cramping, tiring, or even getting a mosquito bite.
Not that they were better. They were just… his.
The helicopter appeared in a whirl of dust and dirt. Johnny turned quickly, making sure they weren’t followed.
Something moved in the shadows to his right. He stopped. The night glasses were powerful enough to illuminate even a mouse at a hundred yards, but they couldn’t see through solid objects, and his vision was blocked by a wall. He waited a few seconds, unsure if he’d actually seen anything or if it had all been a figment of his imagination.
“Chopper! Chopper!” yelled the team leader. “Count off!”
The others were getting aboard, calling out a number as they got inside.
Johnny waited, covering the others, scanning the shadows. It was his turn to go, past his turn.
Nothing was there.
Go!
He leveled his gun and fired in the direction of the house. He kept firing, emptying the magazine as he walked backward to the chopper. Someone grabbed him, pulling.
“In!”
Johnny turned and threw himself across the deck of the helicopter as it swept sideways and swung into the sky. Chelsea was next to him.
“Hey!” he yelled to her. “Thanks.”
In the next moment there was a flash, then a rumble.
They’d been hit by a surface-to-air missile.
33
Johansen shook his head.
“All right,” he shouted, tapping his clipboard against his leg as he walked around the “crash” site. “Exercise over. Everybody up.”
One by one, the “dead” rose.
“I think I would have survived the crash,” quipped Charles “Manson” Burgoyne.
“Recovery vehicles are that way,” said Johansen. “Breakfast and debrief in twenty.”
“I want some serious coffee,” said Johnny.
“I’d rather a beer,” said Burgoyne.
Johnny didn’t realize how hungry he was until he went back for thirds, chowing down on the excellent prime rib. He hadn’t eaten like this since coming to Arizona to train.
Actually, he hadn’t eaten like this in years. The CIA knew how to put out a spread.
He stayed away from the beer, refilling his coffee cup. Walking back from the buffet table, he noticed Chelsea sitting by herself. She’d changed and showered, and was huddled over a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” he told her, walking over. “This place taken?”
She looked up glumly, then shrugged.
“What’s up?” he asked, putting down his plate.
“I fucked up.”
“How?”
“I couldn’t figure out where to aim the suppressing fire.”
“You took out the first wave,” Johnny told her. “That missile that got us came from the hill, outside of the landing zone.”
“I didn’t see them.”
“They made it so we couldn’t succeed,” said Johnny. “We had shit like this at the Bureau. You see the team getting cocky, so you put them in their place. Relax. We kicked ass.”
Johnny reached over gingerly and patted her on the back. Chelsea bristled, and he pulled his hand away.
She’d been very standoffish the entire time they’d been training, avoiding him even.
He told himself it was a male-female thing — she had to appear tough and went out of her way to do it. There was only one other woman on the team, Krista Weather, a former Air Force pararescuer or PJ, and even he realized the atmosphere was pretty macho.
Or maybe this was too much for her. The training sessions were pretty damn extreme, beyond even those he’d been through in the Army or the FBI.
“You OK?” he asked.
“Perfect,” said Chelsea, rising with her coffee cup. “Just need a refill.”
Johnny noted silently that it was more than half-full.
All her life, Chelsea had been among the best, if not the best, at everything she did. Even field hockey, at least on her high school team.
But now, here, she felt like a failure. She’d screwed up and gotten them all killed.
She’d directed the second attack back at the wall, rather than looking for a wide scan from the backup bird, a surveillance drone supplied by the Air Force. She could have — should have — done that. She knew the procedure. She’d practiced.
In a few minutes, once they did the debrief, everyone was going to know.
Was that what bothered her the most — her ego? Everyone knowing she was capable of screwing up?
No, it was the hesitation itself, the way her brain hadn’t worked properly. Her brain hadn’t worked properly the entire time they’d been training.
Maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered in the first place. This was a hell of a lot harder than she’d expected.
Give up?
Weak. Weakling.
I’m not weak. I’m small, tiny compared to most of these guys. But I’m not weak.
Chelsea topped off her coffee cup and glanced over at Johnny. She was embarrassed to go back over.
Why?
Because he knew how vulnerable she really was. He knew she was mostly bluster and bullshit. He’d seen her vulnerable. And that wasn’t who she wanted to be.
“All right,” said Johansen, walking to the front. “Everyone full? Ready for a nap?”
One or two of the team members laughed. Everyone else had had their sense of humor pounded out of them on the range.
“This was designed as an impossible exercise,” said Johansen. “We kept throwing problems at you, left and right, trying to screw you up. And you held up well. So, good. But there’s always room for improvement.”
Johansen took a step forward as a screen lowered at the front of the room. He began talking about contingencies and communications, “the two C’s.”
He was big on axioms.
Why the hell did I volunteer for this? Chelsea asked herself for the millionth time. Who the hell do I think I am?