That caused a little nervous laughter.
"We would like to avoid casualties on either side if at all possible, so we will utilize flashbangs, puke gas, and pepper fog to neutralize threats. No one is to fire unless fired upon first, and then only if the other side is using armor-piercing rounds, which is highly unlikely. Our intelligence indicates that most of the soldiers in Bissau are armed with Kalashnikovs — when they are armed at all — and issue ammo is standard Soviet Bloc surplus.
"Let me be clear on this point. We are not at war with this country, and we don't want to leave bodies piled up all over the place, understood?"
There was a mumble of acknowledgment.
"We are set to collect the package at 0130 hours. Any questions so far?"
Nobody had any.
"After Beta Team collects the package, we will rendezvous with Alpha at the assembly point, then proceed to the landing site. Whatever our status on the ground, the Hueys will lift at 0230 hours and proceed on the prearranged flight path back to Banjul. If you miss the bus, you'll have a long walk home. Any questions?"
There were no questions.
"All right then. Finish suiting up and lock and load. We leave in one hour. Dismissed."
The pilots and squads filed out into the rain, which was finally beginning to slacken. Michaels, Toni, Winthrop, and Fernandez stayed behind with the colonel.
"Got your gear?" Howard asked Michaels and Toni.
He was referring to the Kevlar helmets and hardweave armor vests he had given them. They weren't going into combat, but he'd insisted that if they were going in the copters they must wear them. And he'd also issued them each a suppressed pistol, which he also wanted to see strapped on. There was always a chance the copter could blow a gasket or take small-arms fire and be forced to land. It was better to be armed than not when moving overland in hostile territory. And with a gun that didn't make a lot of noise.
"Got them," Toni answered for herself and Michaels.
"You know you really should stay here," Howard tried again.
"You've assured us the danger is minimal," Michaels said.
"Minimal is not the same as none," Howard said.
"I appreciate your concern," Michaels said. End of discussion.
"All right. We're set then. Winthrop will be with me on Beta Team, Sergeant Fernandez leads Alpha. Our projections run between eighty-eight-percent and ninety-three-percent success, if we've plugged in all the proper variables. This ought to be a piece of cake. In and out, quick and clean. By this time tomorrow, we should be well on our way home."
Michaels nodded.
"I'll see you at the transports in fifty-five minutes."
Platt hated this damned country. Being stuck in a mud hut that sat there and cooked in the hot sunshine all day hadn't helped his mood. Hell, even when it rained a frog-drowner like it had this afternoon, it still didn't get cool. Just muggier, so your sweat wouldn't even evaporate, it just rolled down your legs and soaked into your socks. It was like sitting in a steam bath with your clothes on.
He looked at his watch for the fiftieth time since it got dark. He was about a mile from the pink palace, the Land Rover parked inside a tin shed next to the mud house. The house's owner, a white-haired old man, was tied up and lying on the col in the corner. The old guy hadn't seemed too fretted about a man with a gun barging in. He'd damned near brained Platt with his walking stick — he was a lot faster than he looked. Another two inches and the party would have been over; as it was, the stick had left a scrape over Plait's left ear.
These jigs weren't complete pushovers like he'd figured. That bothered him. If the palace guards were up to snuff, that could be a real problem.
After he'd gotten the stick away, Platt had trussed the old man up like a hog. Near as Platt could tell, the old boy was asleep. Couldn't get away, hell, might as well take a nap. In the old man's place, Platt didn't think he'd feel so cool.
The idea of being taken out by a nigrah was… was unreal. He had to be more careful.
He'd planned to wait until around midnight before he headed for the palace, but Platt had had enough of this hanging around. He was going now. They'd roll up the sidewalks around here by eight or nine anyhow — if they'd had sidewalks.
He changed into a black T-shirt and black pants, with black tennis shoes and black socks. What skin showed was stained pretty dark, and it wouldn't show up too well at night. He tucked a little flashlight into his back pocket and strapped on the Browning 9mm, with two extra magazines in pouches on the other side of the web belt, next to the sheath knife. He had a screw-on suppressor for the pistol; he'd put that on when he got there. Coiled over his shoulder was a half-inch hemp rope with knots in it every two feel, and a steel grappling hook on one end. He thought about taking the AK, but decided against it and left it in the Rover. But he did hook the pouch with the two old German hand grenades in it onto the web belt. Things got nasty, he would go out with a bang…
As ready as he was going to get, Platt rolled his shoulders and bent his neck left and right to stretch, waved at the sleeping old man, and started out. He was gonna move careful, so it might take him a couple-three hours to get where he was going.
If Hughes had company in bed, they were going to get a surprise along about 1:30 or 2 a.m. Platt was looking forward to it.
Howard piled into the ancient pickup truck last, and dropped the piece of canvas that covered the back opening. The pickup was an old one-ton Chevy, and the owner had built a wooden frame over the bed and stretched canvas over the frame, so the thing looked more or less like a motorized covered wagon.
"Go!" Howard commanded.
One of Beta Team drove. The driver started the motor and the truck lurched off. When he shifted into second, the driver clashed the transmission gears together, and one of the troops said, "Hey, grind me a pound too!"
Howard glanced at Lieutenant Winthrop, whose face looked awfully pale in the darkness, then looked at his watch.
Alpha Team was already on the road in a similar dilapidated vehicle.
Howard had been assured that no matter how bad they looked, the trucks were mechanically sound, and would take them to and from where they wanted to go.
He sure hoped so.
The locals would have heard the copters coming down, no way around that, but local police response time to motor noises in the night wasn't likely to be real fast — if they bothered to come out and check at all. And as soon as Beta Team was another quarter mile farther up the road, its truck would stop, whereupon two soldiers would hop out and rig flashbangs on the road's shoulders. These devices would be controlled by a pressure strip set on the only road leading from town to the helicopters. If any local cops or troops came out to check on things, they'd would get a light and noise show that would make them stop and think. So would anybody else out driving this late, but that wasn't likely to happen. This was a narrow dirt road that dead-ended at a forest, and the people who lived off this path didn't own automobiles. The pressure strip would let a bicycle or motorcycle pass over it without firing the flash-bangs.
The day's heat hadn't abated much, and Howard felt the sweat soaking his clothes. They were wearing tropical-weight assault uniforms under the SIPEsuits, but in this kind of high-temperature, high-humidity weather, any-weight clothes were too much.
"You all right, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I'm fine," she said.
Then she said, "Actually I'm a little nervous, sir."
He smiled at her. "Only a little? I personally am scared spitless. Pucker Factor of about twelve."