Woodley chewed on it, but not for long. He registered his comprehension with a pop of the eyebrows. “Got it.”
The muted rhythm of helicopter blades thumped against the aluminum skin of the plane. The rear cargo hatch lowered like a drawbridge. The loadmaster called out the remaining numbers, handing each man his rifle and five magazines. Hatcher went last. After the weapons and ammunition were distributed, the loadmaster unlocked a separate container and handed Woodley a silver metallic briefcase. The men exited single file, headed straight toward the chopper. Hatcher waited for everyone else to board, scanning the tree lines, before climbing on.
There was no preflight briefing. There were headsets, but none of the team reached for one and Hatcher decided not to, either. The right-seat pilot shut the sliding passenger door and climbed back in. The engine grew louder a moment later and the craft shifted, a sliding feeling, then it rose. The nose dipped before it got twenty feet off the ground and then they were accelerating forward.
The ride was smooth. It was Hatcher’s first time in a Lakota. Much nicer than the Hueys and Chinooks he was used to, but he reminded himself that had been over a decade ago. He watched the terrain roll by below, green concentrations of heavy vegetation, beige-yellow plains. They were barely ten minutes into the flight when the pilot gestured back, then pointed. The helicopter descended into a clearing.
Hatcher slid a hand to the small of his back, feigned like he was scratching. He touched the tiny metal cylinder tucked behind his belt, a tool he’d taken to carrying everywhere, ever since his last run-in with the police. Why the feel of it at a time like this gave him comfort, when he was armed to the teeth, he wasn’t sure. Maybe because he felt trapped, roped into an operation against his will, and the reason he always carried it was to make traps seem less hopeless. The idea made him feel silly.
Two automobiles emerged from beyond the tree line, approaching. One was an olive-green Land Rover with an open rear and a large metal frame instead of a roof, what looked like a podium extending over the hood surrounded by a railing. Safari observation platform, Hatcher supposed. The other was a bleached-out tan Humvee. Both were beat up, with numerous dents and bond-o blotches and mud-caked rugged tires that were worn long past their replacement date. The Land Rover had a driver but no one else in it. The Hummer had a driver and a passenger.
Woodley opened the door and glanced at Hatcher. The others were all in various states of lean, ready to go, but Hatcher held up a fist. He picked a headset off a hook, made sure it was plugged in, and spoke into the mouthpiece.
“There’s always a chance they may pull weapons. At the first sign of anything that I or the team member with me can’t handle, you get these men out of here and abort.”
The pilot nodded. Per the mission rules, there would be no radio traffic. Extraction was set by time and coordinates, with a contingency meeting point set two hours later. There was no host government involvement, so risk of a communication capture was to be avoided with extreme priority. While nobody liked those kinds of orders, Hatcher grudgingly understood. The entire mission was a gross violation of national sovereignty. The ramifications could be far reaching and threaten myriad pacts and alliances, formal and informal. There was no escaping politics.
Woodley hopped out and Hatcher followed. They double-timed it in a slight crouch until they reached the Hummer.
The driver opened the door and put one foot on the ground, standing, but didn’t get all the way out. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses that reflected the glowing sky to the east. A khaki shirt, pockets but no sleeves. To Hatcher’s surprise, he didn’t appear to be armed.
The man slapped the outside of the open door — pop pop — then held out his hand at an expectant angle. His dark skin was wrapped tight around a lean, corded arm, a bump for a bicep, a knob for an elbow. He snapped his fingers, fanned his hand toward his body.
Hatcher shifted his eyes to Woodley and gestured with his chin. Woodley stepped forward with the briefcase. The man grabbed the handle and tossed the case into the jeep behind him without so much as a pause to glance at it.
Woodley stepped back. The man leaned on the vehicle door, hiding behind his mirrored lenses. He seemed to be waiting for something else.
“You got your money,” Hatcher said. “Now, where are we heading? Distance and direction.”
The man stared at Hatcher. His upper lip and the side of his mouth curled enough to show teeth, but he said nothing.
“You’re either the leader of whatever gang or outfit or tribal clan you belong to, or the guy sent by the leader. That means you speak English.”
Woodley started to say something, but Hatcher threw up a palm without looking at him.
“Well?”
“I am thinking,” the man said. He took a long minute eyeing Hatcher, head tilting up and down. “About what I am being paid to do. It is not easy to betray someone.”
The whine of the helicopter hummed in their ears. Hatcher felt Woodley tense, sensed him shifting his weight forward. He stuck out his arm like a road block.
He didn’t like any of this. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t like being in charge, and sure as hell didn’t like having been blackmailed into the whole thing. But even if he’d signed up willingly, he would have hated this plan. This was supposed to be a hostage rescue, but they were paying for the location. Half rescue, half ransom. That meant dealing with shifting allegiances and incomplete information of unknown reliability. His objections had been overruled. The plan was put in place at too high a level to change it, he’d been told. And that plan was to pay the money, get the location, and extract the young doctor with the powerful parent back home who’d made the possibly fatal mistake of doing her volunteer work in the wrong country at the wrong time.
“Then don’t,” Hatcher said. “Stick with the deal as planned. The one you made with the people who sent us. What you’re doing will free an innocent woman. That’s not a betrayal. That’s doing the right thing. No need to complicate things.” A moment later, he added, “any more than they already are.”
The man ran his long fingers down the side of his face. His knuckles were cracked and chalky from callouses and scabbing.
“That is a good way to think of it. I will take heed of your words.” The man seemed to shift his attention to Woodley for a moment, then back to Hatcher. It was hard for Hatcher to tell with those glasses. “The camp is nine kilometers northwest. We will take you and your men to a location a little less than one kilometer from it. From there, I will escort you and one other to the perimeter. Exactly as agreed. Then, my men and I will take our leave.”
Hatcher nodded once. He turned to the helicopter and held up an arm, pointed his index finger to the sky and swirled it. His team egressed one at a time, moving swiftly, heads low, weapons in a ready position across their chests.
Leaning in toward Woodley, Hatcher said, “Keep your eye on him.” He gestured with his eyes back to the driver. “He’s hiding something.”
Woodley swallowed. The exchange had clearly rattled him; a greasy film of sweat slicked his forehead.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
Hatcher’d openly wondered at the first briefing why they hadn’t just put Woodley in charge, since he seemed to be the only one in the group with current military ties — though his actual status had been vaguely referenced as classified — and knew more about the situation than any of them. One reason had become obvious. He was jittery, uncertain. Maybe the powers-that-be weren’t as oblivious as Hatcher had assumed.