He reached around and grasped the militiaman’s lapels, but without waiting for his co-worker to give him the go-ahead, as he should have, the prone Sapper rolled the body over. And there, to the standing Sapper’s horror, was a single grenade.
Before the Sapper could brace himself or even curse, the fallen militiaman’s eyes suddenly snapped open and he deadpanned, “Boom!”
“Damn it. Sapper, you just went and killed your buddy!”
exclaimed Reed. For in reality, the militiaman was only playacting, and he couldn’t help but smile as Reed then read his trainees the riot act.
“There’s no use going to all that trouble if you fail to get your Sapper buddy to step aside.
“Cause where he was standing, that grenade would have cut him in half!”
Reed pulled a flare gun from his Load Bearing Equipment harness, pointed the blunt muzzle skyward, and launched a white star cluster. It activated with a loud pop, its dazzling light now illuminating the objective like a newly risen sun.
“Listen up. Sappers!” Reed proclaimed.
“We just had our first friendly casualty over here, and all because of a soldier’s carelessness.
I realize that all of you are tired and hungry. But this isn’t the time to go and get sloppy. You did a great job to this point. EPW search teams, mind your technique! And, PL, how about getting your Demo team in place? We’re already running late, and I want that cache blown and us off this ridge and on our way to the Roubidoux within the next thirty minutes!”
The flare faded, along with Reed’s anger. He removed a flashlight from his THE and illuminated the body of the fallen militiaman.
“Nice job, OPFOR,” said Reed.
“Sorry we had to keep you out here so late.”
The fallen militiaman, who was a corporal assigned to Leonard Wood’s Military Police detachment, stiffly got to his knees and stood.
“Not to worry. First Sergeant. Next time you’ve got to let me and my boys try a little flanking action.”
Sergeant Stewart emerged from the trees, his own flashlight in hand, and addressed the MP.
“Hey, Corporal, you carryin’ any long cut?”
“My old lady made me give up the habit, Sarge. Care for any M&M’s?”
Stewart grimaced and looked to his fellow Sapper instructor for salvation. Without a word spoken. Reed tossed Stewart his can of Kodiak, while the voice of the PL boomed out behind them.
“Demo team’s up!”
The plan was to detonate a five-pound block of C-4 to simulate the destruction of the weapons cache. Since blowing things up was one of the things that every combat engineer did best, Reed was content to let Louis Stewart grade their efforts. He watched while the three members of the OPFOR began extinguishing the campfire, and pulled out his two-way to contact operations. Yet before he could activate it, his attention was drawn to the woods, where five heavily camouflaged men were in the process of emerging from the tree line. Each of these armed individuals wore ghillie suits, specially designed fatigues covered with strips of brown and green cloth and favored by snipers.
Reed’s first confused thought was. Who ordered the additional OPFOR? But if that were the case, why would two of them be sporting long ponytails, with an associate bedecked in a full beard?
For the first time since being assigned as a Sapper Leader course instructor, Sam Reed wished he had a weapon with real bullets in it.
Chapter 2
The first of a flight of two U.S. Air Force C-17 cargo aircraft landed on the main runway with the barest of jolts. There was a deep, growling roar as its thrust reversers were activated, and the stubby, high-winged, T-tailed jet ground to a halt using less than a third of the runway’s ten-thousand-foot-long expanse.
Instead of continuing on to the main terminal, the C-17 followed a pair of black Zil police sedans to an isolated apron. Here, beside an immense hangar guarded by dozens of armed soldiers, the Air Mobility Command airplane braked to a final halt and shut down its four Pratt & Whitney engines.
A side hatch, positioned immediately behind the cockpit, cracked open and a pair of airmen in green flight suits deployed a self-contained stairway. While one of the Zil sedans pulled up to these stairs, a tall, solidly built black man wearing a superbly tailored pinstriped suit made his appearance in the hatchway.
Samuel Forrest Morrison II had experienced enough flying for one day. Since leaving Andrews eleven hours ago, the Special Agent in Charge of the President’s Secret Service detail had been confined to the C-17’s noisy hold. Except for a single trip to the cockpit to witness one of the two aerial refuelings that they had undergone, this had been the extent of his wanderings, and he couldn’t wait to get some fresh air and properly stretch his long legs.
It was only too obvious that summer had arrived in Ukraine, and the hot, humid air outside reminded Morrison of the weather he had just left behind in Washington, D.C. Towering, dark gray cumulus clouds dominated the western horizon, and it appeared that it was only a matter of time before the heavens would open up. The SAIC hoped this shower would hold off until his preparations here were complete, and he glanced down at his watch, noting that he had a little less than two hours before Air Force One arrived.
A short, balding figure dressed in a dark brown suit exited the Zil. It had been nine months since Morrison had last worked with Alexi Kosygin, co-head of the Russian President’s security staff. A former Spetsnaz commando, Kosygin was a likable, efficient chap, and the SAIC knew that he was very fortunate to have drawn his services.
“Special Agent Morrison,” greeted Kosygin in passable English.
“Let me be the first to welcome you to the Rodina.”
The SAIC replied after climbing down the stairway and accepting a firm hug and a kiss on each cheek.
“It’s good to see you again. Comrade.”
“I do hope that your flight went well,” said Kosygin, his glance drawn to the C-17’s tail as its rear loading ramp began opening.
“I understand that your Boeing C-17 is a most amazing plane.”
Morrison nodded.
“They’re something special, all right, though not quite up to Air Force One’s standards when it comes down to the creature comforts. If we have the time, I’m certain that the flight crew would be happy to give you a tour.”
The deep growl of whining jet engines caused both men to look over at the adjoining runway, where the second C-17 had just touched down. It too stopped well short of the runway’s end, prompting the Russian to shake his head in admiration.
“That bird’s carrying the limos and our communications van,” revealed the SAIC.
“We had to fight the temptation to load all of our seven vehicles into one aircraft.”
“Why take the chance of carrying all your eggs in one basket when you have the luxury of a backup?” Kosygin mused.
As the newly arrived C-17 headed toward them, a large group of clean-cut men and women dressed in black fatigues climbed down the rear cargo ramp of Morrison’s aircraft. They carried black, padded weapons bags at their sides, and the SAIC identified them as members of his Secret Service Counter Assault Team.
While the first of three black Chevrolet Suburbans was driven down the C-17’s ramp, Morrison and Kosygin walked over to the nearby hangar, where an operations room had been set up. Waiting for them inside the cavernous structure was Nikolai Zinoviev, security chief of Ukraine’s National Police Force. A pencil-thin skeleton of a man, Zinoviev wore a baggy gray suit that hung limply on his gangly frame. Morrison had previously worked with him on a counterfeiting case, and remembered well the skinny Ukrainian’s piercing blue eyes and bushy handlebar mustache.