Flynn stared at him. “You’re going to blow the wreck up?”
White nodded. “We’re going to sanitize this site, Captain. And thoroughly. This mess needs to be cleared up before any more unwelcome visitors arrive — say the international press, or members of several of the factions who claim they’re in charge of this godforsaken region.”
“Because otherwise they’d find evidence that you’ve been running guns to a different splinter group? Here in Libya? Or south in Chad?” Flynn said pointedly.
“A provocative assertion,” the other man acknowledged. His voice took on an edge of its own. “But since the matter is highly classified, I strongly suggest you let it drop. Here and now.”
“Or what? You’ll have to kill me?”
White smiled narrowly. “You’ve been watching far too many bad movies, Captain Flynn. We don’t kill people to protect our secrets these days. Well, not often, anyway.” He shrugged. “We prefer nonlethal measures.”
“Like what?” Flynn pushed with a wry smile of his own. “Amnesia drugs? MiB-style memory zappers?”
“Nothing so technical,” the other man said coldly, dropping any pretense at affability. “Now we rely on leaks to our allies in the media. We can count on them to shit all over people’s careers and reputations until everyone who matters is convinced our targets are either crazy or dirty.” His pale eyes glittered. “Trust me on this — you really do not want to find out what it’s like being on the receiving end of one of our smear operations. So just back the fuck off.”
Flynn stiffened and then felt Zalewski’s big hand land on his shoulder.
“The guy’s not worth the trouble, sir,” the PJ murmured. “Let it go. For now.”
Reluctantly, Flynn let himself be guided away. He glanced up at the technical sergeant. “You’re not going to give me some heartfelt lecture on the perils of wrestling with a pig, are you?”
“Hell no,” Zalewski said. He grinned. “I’m a suburban kid. Bacon and pork chops are as close as I ever get to pigs.” Then he nodded back over his shoulder toward where White stood watching them walk away. “But I’ve got a pretty good built-in detector for creepy sacks of shit. And that guy’s pegging the top of the meter.”
“What’s your read on his security detail?”
The PJ shrugged. “Mostly solid. Definitely ex — meat eaters.” He used the slang for Special Forces troops who took part in dangerous combat missions instead of training allied soldiers and local militias. “I figure their new Secret Squirrel bosses pay a lot more than ours do, though.”
Flynn thought about his monthly check with all its assorted deductions and nodded. “Safe bet, Zee.” He checked the crest of the dune again. Another couple of robed men had appeared and joined the others observing them. His eyes narrowed. “Can you make that hour deadline to get the bodies out?”
“It’ll be tough,” Zalewski admitted.
“What if I give you a hand? I’m checked out on some of your extraction gear.”
The PJ shook his head. “Appreciate the offer, sir. But it’s real tight inside that part of the wreck. As it is, me and Mike are having to take turns clearing a good-sized opening into the cockpit.” He followed Flynn’s gaze and nodded. “Anyway, I kinda figure we could use a good pair of eyes out here. Watching the watchers, if you get my drift.”
“Yeah, I’m not real happy about having an audience, either.” Flynn was uncomfortably aware that they didn’t have enough spare personnel to maintain a secure perimeter around the crash site. Most of the OGA black ops team was busy around the C-130’s cargo compartment. And Wizard One-One’s flight crew — Dykstra, Kasper, and Wade — were fully occupied watching over their own helicopter. The same went for the Mi-17’s two pilots. White had posted one of his ex — Special Forces contractors on guard near the tail section of the downed plane, but otherwise there was just him.
Flynn’s subconscious had started sending up flares the moment Zalewski confided his suspicions that this crash wasn’t an accident. Well, he decided, it was high time he started paying attention to those danger signals from his lizard brain. Whoever had brought the cargo plane down might have bigger plans — plans that could prove dangerous to the health of Mama Flynn’s dark-haired boy… and every other American in the vicinity. Which made it imperative that he take a long, hard look at their surroundings and tactical situation.
So, as soon as the PJ squeezed back inside the C-130’s damaged forward fuselage, Flynn made the long trudge upslope to the top of the dune. Loose sand slid out from under his combat boots with every step. By the time he made it, he was drenched in sweat. Little swirls of sand danced along the knife-edge-like crest, kicked up by occasional gusts of wind that were as hot and dry as if they had come straight out of a bake oven. His shadow stretched away to the left, lengthened by the sun slanting lower in the west.
Squinting against the glare, he raised his binoculars and scanned across the sea of dunes toward the Wath Oasis. Its tiny cluster of buildings marked the only source of water for more than sixty miles in any direction. Any trouble was likely to come from that direction.
There were tracks down the nearest slope off to the south, heading this way. They continued across the desert floor, coming to an end among a small herd of camels tethered down at the base of this sand dune. They were about a couple of hundred yards from his position on the crest. Two more of the white-robed locals squatted close to the camels, evidently guarding them.
Flynn focused in on them. Under those head wrappings, it was hard to get a good look at their faces, but they appeared to be young and fit, certainly not more than thirty years old. The hard work needed to survive in this waterless, harsh climate aged people fast.
Slowly, he lowered the binoculars. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any women or children among those who’d arrived to gawk at the wrecked Super Hercules and the Americans working the crash site. Nor had he noticed any of the elders who ordinarily controlled the daily life of this region’s seminomadic clans.
A flash of movement off to the south caught his eye and Flynn got his binoculars back up just in time to catch sight of another white-robed man stationed high up on the next dune over. He was vigorously waving at a rider mounted on a camel that had just lumbered over the crest. Unlike the others, this rider was dressed in the bright-colored clothes favored by local women. Obediently, she turned the head of her beast around and disappeared down the other side again. Apparently satisfied, the watcher sank back on his haunches.
“Crap,” Flynn muttered. Somebody out there was definitely controlling access to this area — making it off-limits to any but able-bodied young men. That almost certainly spelled trouble. Turning quickly, he half trotted, half slid back down the dune’s loose slope.
He found White supervising his team’s activity near the tail of the wrecked C-130.
“What is it this time, Captain?” the gray-haired intelligence officer snapped in exasperation. “I thought I made it clear that this is my bailiwick, not yours.”
With an effort, Flynn controlled his temper. “We may have bigger problems than jurisdictional squabbles, Mr. White,” he said evenly.
“Such as?” the other man asked skeptically.
Rapidly, Flynn ran through his observations and his reasoning. “It’s likely this aircraft was deliberately brought down here, either by a missile or a bomb. And my bet is that whoever’s responsible is gathering a force to finish the job,” he concluded. “Which means we’re all in the crosshairs.”