Miyagi continued filling vials with water samples as the men gathered under the shade of the tree, some sitting back on a large woven rug, others squatting on their haunches in the manner peculiar to Asian men. One, a large man with a full black beard that doubled the size of his face, appeared to be the guest of honor. He sat at the head of the blanket, where he could rest his back against the oak. He would be Ali Kadir, a close associate of Ranjhani — Emiko’s target. She had learned that his parents lived here in Razika village and he’d come to visit them and pay his respects. With any luck, he would lead her to Ranjhani.
Miyagi knew the great oak was a customary place for men to hold a Jirga or sit in council. The day before, she had placed two listening devices in the crooked branches as she’d walked by, feigning the need to lean against the tree to fix her sandals. The bugs were small gray-brown sticks, barely two inches long and made to blend into wood or stone backgrounds.
With Ismail safely talking to the gathered men, Emiko reached beneath her robes and took the small earpiece from the pocket of her khakis. She flicked open the latches on the smaller Pelican case to activate the receiver that would boost the signal from the listening devices. The receiver was nestled in the foam padding of the plastic case and difficult to distinguish from her other test equipment.
Men’s voices resonated in her ear. Amazingly clear, they spoke in the singsong cadence of Urdu. Though not fluent, Miyagi was conversant enough to know the men were speaking of their journeys in and the hardships of simply “being men these days,” what with their government of weak-minded American puppets. Ali Kadir told fantastic tales about beloved brothers who’d martyred themselves in the war against the Great Satan. Miyagi’s ears perked up when he spoke of an upcoming mission “to spill infidel blood.” He gave no specifics but mentioned only vague allusions when pressed for details by the other men.
Miyagi used a Sharpie marker to label her test vials in order to appear busy. She tilted her head when a round of crackling static filled her earpiece. When it didn’t go away, she adjusted the gain on the receiver inside her Pelican case and glanced toward the oak.
A flash of movement caught her eye. At first she thought it was a bird, but there was something different in the way the thing moved, like a bee or a hummingbird, only bigger. It flitted back and forth, hovering for a moment in one spot before zipping to another, as if working a grid. Whatever it was, it was searching for something — or more likely, someone. The static in her ear grew louder as the object came closer. Five more of the little things zipped in from nowhere appearing nearer the oak, barely visible against the blue sky.
The men sitting in Jirga under the tree would pay the tiny drones no mind, thinking they were birds or insects. Miyagi recognized them for what they were. Known as a Black Hornet, the tiny radio-controlled helicopter could have fit into her palm. Each was outfitted with a nose-mounted camera that fed images back to its handler. They were also capable of remotely “painting” a target for laser-guided munitions.
It was no secret that the US military employed all sorts of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles for everything from forward observation to assassination. Targeting a terrorist leader like Ali Kadir and the other men under the great oak certainly met the drones’ mission description of work that was too “dull, dirty, or dangerous.”
Miyagi cursed the irony of her luck. The man who would lead her to the terrorist responsible for trying to topple the US government was about to be killed by the US military.
She moved instinctively to the far side of the stone wall that surrounded the well reservoir, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the men. Once the target was found, it would be only a matter of seconds before a larger Predator drone or even some manned aircraft sent a Hellfire missile screaming into their position, reducing them to a crater of ash.
Miyagi watched as the Black Hornet spun on its axis, following her as she moved. The nose of the hellish little thing continued to point directly at her. A moment later, two more of the tiny pocket drones zipped in from the direction of the oak and settled in a tight formation next to the first — hovering passively against the pale blue sky.
A cold realization crept over Emiko Miyagi, chilling her even under the heavy robes. A half a breath later, a screaming hiss split the air and a Hellfire missile impacted dead center on the donkey cart, fifteen feet away. The drones weren’t looking for Ali Kadir.
They had come for her.
DAY ONE
My wife handed me my rifle, saying, “Here’s your gun… fight.”
Chapter 1
Jericho Quinn used the back of a bloody hand to wipe windblown spray from his eyes. Behind him, the growl of a single-engine airplane brought a familiar twist of concern to his gut. He turned from his spot at the steering post of an open aluminum skiff to watch a newer-looking Cessna Caravan emerge from a line of low, boiling clouds to the south, on the other side of the Yukon River. Quinn nudged the throttle forward and leaned against the console, bracing himself against the constant chop brought on by a fresh breeze that worked against the current of the mighty river. Water hung in droplets on his thick black beard. A tangle of wet hair escaped a camouflage ball cap, framing the portions of his face not covered by the beard. Even after a long, lightless winter in the north, he was deeply tanned — a trait inherited from an Apache grandmother — and chapped by wind and weather. His knees ached from the constant bouncing on the river — one of the several new pains to which he’d resigned himself over the past half year.
The ripping blat of the approaching aircraft drew his attention away from his aches. Even the most experienced bush pilots steered clear of weather like this. Quinn tamped back the nagging uneasiness in his belly and coaxed the skiff around to cut the current diagonally. A hundred meters away, in the lap of rolling hills, low and covered in willow, white birch, and spruce, a tumble of weather-worn buildings spilled from the fog. It was Asaacarsaq in traditional Yup’ik, but to the United States Post Office it was known as Mountain Village.
Behind Quinn, standing at the stern of the little skiff, a big-boned Eskimo leaned back to watch the airplane pass directly overhead, less than five hundred feet off the water. The big man shook his head in amazement. His name was James Perry, but Quinn had known him since high school and had never called him anything but Ukka. When Perry was nine, his grandfather had given him the Yup’ik nickname, Ukkatamani — “a long time ago.” It was the Eskimo equivalent of “once upon a time.”
Quinn looked back over his shoulder from the steering pedestal while he turned the boat in a slow arc. “You see something in the water?”
Ukka’s eyes were locked off the stern. “Never know,” he said, cocking his head to one side in concentration. He was a broad man, standing an inch over six feet and weighing in at nearly two hundred and fifty pounds. “We’ll have to get in close if we see one so I can stick it. You can’t just shoot ’em out here. Freshwater doesn’t float them as well as seawater… so they sink fast.” He glanced up. “I ever tell you about the time my grandfather caught that beluga whale with a harpoon from his kayak down by Alakunuk?”