So it was Charlie Mike—continue mission.
The single-story warehouse was about seventy meters long by twenty meters wide. It had a tin roof and tin sides, which appeared to be affixed to a two-by-four frame. A dirt parking lot was in the front. It held several local vehicles and a five-ton cargo truck. The left side of the compound held several outbuildings that contained broken equipment and a small charcoal stove. The back, which had access to the front by a dirt road, had several open bays and a covered landing under which rested fifty crates identical to the ones they found aboard the cargo ship.
Infrared, night vision, and thermal all proclaimed that the site was deserted. But as they sat in the jungle, the noise of strange insects and animals surrounding them, Walker couldn’t help feeling that the whole thing was too easy.
“It’s Echo Platoon all over again,” Laws said, mirroring Walker’s thoughts. “This is a sensitive site exploitation, pure and simple.”
“You were at Prata Ghar?” Yaya asked.
“I was.”
“I was in Echo three years later. They still talk about the pucker factor on that one.”
“I heard there were no casualties,” Holmes said.
“Wasn’t for lack of trying.” Laws shook his head. “There were fourteen buildings. The Germans took the largest one and we took the remaining thirteen. We named each one after a major U.S. city. Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles—you get the idea. We had some Feebs, Air Force SOF, a pair of EOD boys, and fifteen SEALs. I don’t mind shooting at bad people. In fact, I prefer it. And I don’t mind CQB. But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the farm animals, we cleared three hundred and fourteen rooms. There could have been a beegee behind each door, so we had to be ready. My ass was puckered so hard I think I shit Silly String for a week.”
“Not many rooms here,” Walker pointed out.
“And it looks like there are no beegees,” Yaya added.
“Which makes it worse. Now we have to be ready for anything, all the time. Wired tight. Always on.”
“Maybe you’re getting a little too old for this,” Ruiz said.
“Fucking hell,” Laws snapped. “I’ll give you too old. SEAL can’t even bitch for a minute to get it out of his system?”
Everyone was silent for a while.
Finally Holmes asked Laws, “Is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Out of your system.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then let’s go.”
They deployed Walker fifteen meters inside the tree line. He found a tree that provided him with a set of low branches to establish a nest. He switched his scope to thermal and watched as they progressed in two teams to either side of the structure. Worried about traps and IEDs, they left Hoover behind. The dog whined gently at the base of the tree, her eyes on Yaya’s back as he departed.
Walker turned to scan 180 degrees. Other than a few monkey screeches and birdcalls in the trees, there was nothing living.
51
Ruiz moved stealthily behind Holmes. They’d reached the left side of the warehouse. Ruiz stared forward through the scope mounted on his Super 90. Infrared images were in black-and-white; the whiter the image, the more heat it was giving off. Right now he saw nothing but a field of gray. He wished he had access to a thermal scope like Walker had on his Stoner. Those handled more of the infrared spectrum and provided a color feedback, showing heat using the visible red spectrum rather than black-and-white. It was certainly more nuanced and had a greater degree of accuracy.
He’d once taken his thermal scope back to the woods of West Virginia. His hometown had a yearly possum hunt in the local woods. Sometimes there’d be seventy dead possum at the end of the day. He hated the hunt. What had been a sport had been turned into a tournament. But he’d fixed them … for that year, anyway. The night before the hunt, using his thermal imager, he’d tracked down every single possum and had relocated them to an abandoned farm. One hundred and forty-three possum. The night of the big hunt there wasn’t a single thermal image larger than a squirrel in any of the trees. There were more possum lying dead on the side of the road than there were in the forest. For the first time in the history of the hunt, not a single possum was killed. Eventually he let it be known that it was him and that pissed people off even more. But he didn’t care.
Holmes began moving toward the front, leading with his MP5. He checked the corner, then knelt. Ruiz knelt as well, keeping the boss in his peripheral vision while he swept the rear and side.
“Clear front,” Holmes whispered into his MBITR.
Ruiz couldn’t hear the response, but when Holmes turned and moved toward the back, he imagined Laws had it clear on the other side as well.
They made their way around the corner. Although it was dark, he could make out Laws and Yaya coming from the other corner. Both groups moved with care. Although there were no windows, they were approaching the area with open bay doors. Thermal imaging and infrared had its limits. If the steel was thick enough, a platoon of beegees could go undetected. Then there was also the fear of the chimera. They’d only encountered one on the ship, but they’d been well aware that the other crates in the hold had held hundreds of them … just as these crates probably did. They’d know soon enough. Part of the sensitive site exploitation would be to inventory the chimera and investigate their size, weight, and makeup. If there really was a threat to the United States, the information they’d provide could be critical to the defense of the country.
The wooden crates weren’t arranged in any order. Some were stacked three high, reaching a height of twelve feet, while others were unstacked. It was as if a giant kid had just tossed his letter blocks on the floor. But before they could investigate the crates, they had to clear the building.
Holmes moved in fast. Ruiz kept on his six. The interior of the warehouse was shrouded in darkness. Holmes and Ruiz checked their infrareds, but it was nothing but grays and blacks. They switched to night vision and the darkness was illuminated in an eerie green. They scanned the room. They could just see the opposite wall through the darkness. The center of the room was filled with more haphazardly stacked crates.
“Moving left,” Holmes whispered into the MBITR.
They moved forward, hugging the outside wall as best they could. Here and there were smaller boxes, tables, and chairs. There was a spot where three couches were side by side. On the center one rested an old engine, rusted beyond recognition.
Ruiz continually scanned the room, his ears attuned for even the slightest sound. Not that he was trigger happy, but the longer they stayed in the room without being able to really see it, the more puckered his ass got. In fact, his skin began to crawl as he imagined a dozen fighters hidden behind the crates in the center of the room, just waiting to open fire on them.
They reached the corner and turned.
Ruiz remained in place, facing the center of the room as Holmes continued down the short side of the building. Moments ticked by as the SEAL team leader moved to the corner. When he arrived, he announced it into his MBITR, then gave Ruiz a hand signal.
Ruiz’s chest tightened. If it was going to happen, it would happen here. He began creeping to the center of the room. He opened his eyes as wide as he could. He switched back and forth from night vision to IR, just to make sure that there were no heat signatures. When he judged that he was three meters away, he stopped and went to one knee.