The entire team flinched back from the blast. Even though the AT4 was designed for use in close quarters, the blast was still a little too close for comfort this time.
As the smoke and dust cleared, the all looked towards where Vlad’s lieutenant had stood. All that was left was a dark, sooty mark on the floor and a pile of ashes that danced and whirled in the backdraft from the tunnel entrance.
There was no heel drumming.
No thrashing.
No fireworks.
The fucker simply vaporised on impact. As did a bench, three advertising hoardings, a ‘NO ENTRY’ sign and every single tile on the end of the platform wall.
Danny lowered the AT4 and sniffed. “I ain’t payin’ for the damage, boss. Not on my wages.”
Yolanda stood and walked towards the end of the platform. She stopped and crouched where the old lady’s head lay, discarded and bloody. She unzipped her jacket and took it off, carefully covering the old woman’s remains.
She looked up and into the darkness of the tunnel, and quietly spoke.
“I’m coming for you, Vlad. I’m coming for you…”
DEEPEST, DARKEST
Hank Schwaeble
The most disturbing thought that crossed Hatcher’s mind as he scanned the team members lining the interior of the fuselage wasn’t that this may have been the first time an audit letter from the IRS was a pretext to coerce participation in a covert op, but rather that it likely wasn’t.
The C130 landed on a dirt strip in Malawi, seven miles from the Zambian border. The plane slowed to a bumpy roll, almost coming to a stop, and the pilot turned a tight radius using the right engines and left brakes. She goosed the engines and taxied the big bird back toward the other end.
Hatcher unbuckled from the nylon webbing of the jump seat and stood, hooking a hand on a support along the fuselage wall. A pale glow was spilling in from the front of the plane through the cockpit. The pilot eased the big transport into another turn, then began shutting down the engines, moving sets of controls protruding from a center console. Hatcher stepped toward the cockpit and leaned in.
“How long?”
The pilot tugged her headset down from her ears, let it hang around her neck. “Ten nautical miles out a minute ago. ETA in about five.”
Hatcher nodded. The inbound chopper would take them into Zambia just as the sun was breaking the horizon. It was a short hop to the LZ.
“You know him? The pilot, I mean.”
She gave him an enigmatic look, like she had to think about the phrasing of her answer. “Not really. He’s Army.”
Hatcher glanced at the co-pilot, who looked like he was about to graduate junior high. The kid smiled and shook his head.
“He sure seems interested in knowing her,” he said. “Or knowing her better. He’s been coming up with excuses to check in with her all day.” He pointed to a display on the console where there were two sets of numbers. He was indicating the second set. Five digits, the last one separated by a decimal point. Vacant frequency, Hatcher guessed.
“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant,” the captain said.
“How long are you in-country?”
“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “We’re flying back to Lilongwe, spending the night there. We’re supposed to wait for orders. I suppose those will be to pick you up?”
“Let’s hope.” He looked at the numbers on the radio again, thinking of the COMSEC limitations his team would be operating under. Zero Airwave Presence.
The whine of mechanisms grew slower and lower, whirring sounds, pinging sounds, ticking sounds. Hatcher stepped back into the main body of the transport and looked over his team, strung together some words in his head. He gave a nod to the one named Woodley, who gave one back. Woodley was some sort of contractor, had done this kind of thing before. Why that guy wasn’t team leader, Hatcher still couldn’t figure. He hated being in command.
“All right,” Hatcher said, projecting his voice. “You all know the mission and the plan. Time to suit up and go Tom Clancy. If you have any questions, they better be good ones, because the time to ask them was during the six hours of briefing, not now. Otherwise, get your weapon and lock and load.”
“I got one.” It was Garza. Sniper. Ex-Marine. Short and top heavy. Scar deforming the side of his upper lip. “Why aren’t we doing this under dark cover?”
It was a good question. One he’d asked himself, when the operational parameters had been explained to him. He was told not to volunteer the answer if it came up, to give some lame rationale about airspace and international treaties and technical distinctions between hostile incursions and minor violations. But he wasn’t going to keep anything from the team.
“The people we’re working with on the ground, including our contacts, are superstitious. I’m not sure how else to put it. They believe there are threats in the darkness, risks they aren’t willing to take. They insisted on daylight. That’s why we’re being dropped at the crack of dawn.”
Hatcher knew the locals were right. There were threats in the darkness. But he doubted what they were afraid of had anything to do with the kinds of things he knew to be true, the kinds of things he knew to be lurking in the dark. And he seriously doubted there was anything to the particular superstitions that caused many in the region to participate in a robust black market for albino body parts, prizing them for some sort of mystical qualities it was believed they possessed — a practice that apparently motivated the woman Hatcher and his team were tasked with rescuing to do volunteer work in dangerous territory, angering dangerous people — other than maybe the power that comes from a long history of folklore. Still, the thought bothered him.
The loadmaster was a small NCO. He stood near the rear and began a roll call of assigned numbers. The first guy to grab his M4 from the man chuckled. His name was Ivy, ex-SEAL. He tapped the magazine against his helmet. Ivy was medium height, medium build. Well proportioned. Very dark skin with high cheek bones.
“Superstitious,” Ivy said, chin swaying. “Never known a brother who wasn’t.”
Some laughs from the group. Zorn, an athletic looking guy with sandy brown hair in a neat flat top sat up stiff, making a show of concern. “Hold it, now, I was told you were the only black guy I’d have to put up with. And they promised you weren’t allowed to speak. They ain’t paying me enough.”
A few more laughs. Ivy made a comment about Zorn’s mama having plenty of quarters to spread around, last he’d heard, and Hatcher stepped in to shut everyone up. This, he figured, was why they didn’t want that kind of thing talked about. An off-color joke, a poorly-phrased comment — the slightest wrong note at a fragile moment could spell trouble. Cooperation could be cut-off instantly, especially when you were dealing with people who had it rough, people who had little else but their pride.
“Not a word of it. Not to our hosts, not to anyone from this point on. You all have the Ugly-American angle covered well enough with your looks.” He stared each of them down, one by one, before catching Woodley’s eye. “When the bird lands, you and I are out first. Ivy, Zorn, you’re next, but on signal. Garza, you follow them. And watch it with the jokes. Save ‘em for the flight back. Game-face time.”
Hatcher gestured Woodley near. He was the first in the group Hatcher’d been introduced to in that basement dungeon of offices, during the carrot portion of the pitch, right after the stick. Tall, athletic in a lean way. Smiled way too much, kept patting Hatcher on the back and talking about how glad he was Hatcher was on board. Hatcher had taken an instant dislike to him. The gung-ho attitude and Aryan features screamed poster-boy for the Hitler Youth. “You understand why we’re first, right?”