Lima Company’s commander was a captain named Ludlow, whose call sign was Havoc. Belanger listened to Ludlow’s reply.
“Banshee Two, Havoc. Go for Six actual.”
“Roger. Interrogative: Request Six actual confirm no friendly air-breathers southwest of phase line Red.”
“Roger, Banshee, this is Six actual. I copy and confirm. Darkhorse-fires states all friendly aviation remains staged at their FARPs or on strip alert.” The Lima Company commander was confirming all friendly helos were in their forward-area rearming points and the jets were ready for takeoff on the runways.
“Copy. In that case, be advised. Contact, enemy UAV. UAV travels east over phase line White. Will cross phase line Red in about three mikes. Altitude six hundred MSL. Rate of march approximately twenty-five kph.”
Belanger listened while Ludlow asked a few more questions about the UAV. Its behavior, whether or not it was large enough to be armed or if it was enemy reconnaissance only.
After a few minutes of conversation, Belanger gave a long sigh of frustration, and took the headset from his radio operator. “Banshee Two, this is Darkhorse. Can you engage with SASR?” he said, referring to the snipers’ M82 .50-caliber sniper rifle.
“Negative, sir. Its rate of march is too fast. Suggest either one of our crew-serveds or a Stinger. Otherwise it’ll have free visual on all Lima Company’s friendly positions in about two mikes.”
Belanger said, “Banshee Two, Darkhorse copies all. Continue your mission, scan and report activity in your zone on this net. Break, break, Vandal Three, this is Darkhorse Six.”
Vandal Three was the machine-gun section assigned to India Company.
“Go for Vandal Three,” came the voice of the machine-gun section leader.
Belanger asked, “You have eyes on that UAV?”
“That’s A-firm, Darkhorse.”
Belanger did not hesitate. “Kill it.”
Belanger actually thought he could hear a smile on the face of his machine gunner as he responded over the radio. “Vandal Three copies all. Engaging; time now.”
The deep-throated thumping of the M2 echoed through the woods and into the village. It fired in short five-round bursts. Paused. Then fired again. Belanger couldn’t see the shooting, but with his twenty years of experience he knew the gunner was using the linked four-in-one tracers in the five-round bursts to get a lead on the target. That kind of fire discipline is what he’d always preached to his company and platoon commanders. He thought for a minute, trying to remember who would be behind that weapon. He knew all his men pretty well, but there were so many, sometimes it took him a while to remember.
Yes. That was Sergeant Ascherbrock leading that machine-gun section. Ascherbrock knew his shit.
Within ten seconds the short bursts stopped.
“Darkhorse Forward or Darkhorse Six,” came the voice of Sergeant Ascherbrock.
“This is Darkhorse Six, go ahead.”
“Roger, sir. UAV is a KIA, in the field one klick west of our position. Do you need a grid?”
“Negative, we have the general location.”
Belanger nodded and allowed himself a slight smile. The men upstairs with him in the Darkhorse Forward CP pumped their fists in the air.
The lieutenant colonel rolled his eyes. “Congratulations, studs, now let’s dial that shit back. We just killed the smallest speck of nothing in the Russian arsenal.”
The intel officer looked up from his station and said, “Gotta start somewhere, sir, and I don’t mind taking out some of the Russians’ eyes.”
“Yeah, Deuce, understood, but I’m certain their video feeds are playing back our front lines in Technicolor right now.”
“Don’t matter, sir, those fucks just got Darkhorsed!” said his radio operator.
Belanger suppressed a chuckle. If he survived this night, he knew he’d never forget it.
His chuckle didn’t last, because he knew what was coming, and it came instantly.
The scream of incoming rockets filled his ears.
72
Martina Jaeger had complained to her brother incessantly for the past six days that she was bored to death because there wasn’t a damn thing to do around Amsterdam. To this her brother Braam had pointed out helpfully that she had partied in the techno clubs around the city, she’d eaten the best meals, and taken the best drugs. She’d biked sixty miles through the countryside and she’d worn out her air rifle at the range.
Sure, she’d allowed, but still she’d grown accustomed to back-to-back operations for the Russians over the past several weeks, so the downtime felt especially slow and meaningless.
She needed some real action.
For Braam’s part, he had enjoyed being back in Amsterdam. He’d worked out in his gym and wrestled in his local dojo, he’d biked with his sister and watched a lot of television. He figured he could stand another week of this easy living before he would feel the restlessness Martina had been showing since the second day back at home.
Still, for her sake he was happy to see a new instant message pop up on the TOR application on his computer this evening. He knew it would be the Russians, and he knew they never checked in to ask about the weather.
No, he and his sister were about to get a new contract.
Braam opened the instant message and read it. He found himself happy with the order, but he knew Martina would need some convincing.
He called across his living room, affecting a cheery voice. “Goed nieuws, zus!” Good news, sis. “They want us back in the BVIs.”
Martina let out a groan of annoyance. “No! Tell them no way. We were just there, and it was just as dead as it is here.”
Braam read the message aloud. “We request your immediate return to support an ongoing operation in the British Virgin Islands.” He looked up. “It sounds like it’s more action than the last time.”
Martina sat up on the sofa. “Not to me it doesn’t. When it’s a wet operation they are always very clear on the target.”
Braam said, “I’ll ask for more details.”
“Suit yourself, but I’m not going.”
Braam typed for a moment while Martina looked on from the sofa. Finally, he said, “It says, ‘Senior management is concerned about hostile actors in the area who are attempting to infiltrate our operation. Your expertise is required in eliminating the threat.’” Braam looked up at Martina. “That’s a wet op.”
“No, it’s another babysitting mission.”
“‘Eliminating a threat.’ What else could that possibly mean?”
She looked at her brother for a long moment, sighed, then rolled off the couch as dramatically as she’d fallen onto it. Her brother could see she wasn’t happy about taking the contract, but she would do it anyway.
She said, “It either means he has someone for us to terminate, or I am going to terminate him for wasting my time.”
Braam shrugged. “I’m glad we’re going back. You should try the Anegada lobster this time. It is really worth the trip.”
Martina Jaeger shook her head in disbelief. “Flying halfway around the world for dinner is idiotic. Going that distance to kill a man for money — now, that is a trip worth taking.”
Braam said, “I’ll let you pull the trigger if you let me have my lobster. That way, we’ll both enjoy ourselves.”
She tousled her brother’s hair as she passed him by at the desk, then headed to her bedroom to pack.
Jack Ryan, Jr., was sound asleep at noon, wrapped in covers with a large pillow over his head to block out the light. He’d worked the night shift alone, eight entire hours of boring surveillance, while the pair just in from Lithuania got some real sleep, but now they were up and he was down, crashed in the back room on one of two twin beds in the third-floor flat.