Double Blind (41 page)

"I guess not. But what does it mean, technically?" Lightstone pressed.

"Well, among other things, I'd say it means your new playmate is deeply involved in this, all the way up to her pretty little eyeballs . . . either way you look at it."

"Exactly." Henry Lightstone tossed the report down, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"Hey, it could be worse," Mike Takahara attempted to console his teammate.

"Yeah? How?"

"Well, if it really is a game, then the rest of us could just as easily be involved in it, too. You could be out on the limb all by yourself on this deal . . . with the possible exception of Larry, who's suffered more than anybody," the tech agent added thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I guess." Henry Lightstone nodded his head slowly, then suddenly looked directly at his friend. "You know what really bothers me about this whole deal?"

"What?"

"Bobby."

"Bobby LaGrange? Your ex-partner?" Mike Takahara blinked in confusion. "I don't follow."

"Unless he's become a lot better actor in his retirement years, I got the distinct impression his blood turned to ice water when I suggested he and Susan might be targets. Bobby's a pretty laid-back guy, and it takes a lot to get him riled, but going after Susan or Justin would definitely do the trick. I really don't think he was faking it."

"Unfortunately, that takes us right back to the rather frightening idea that none of this has anything to do with Halahan wanting to get back at us for screwing up his training program," the tech agent pointed out.

"That's how I see it."

"Which takes us back to the equally frightening idea that Charlie Team may have put themselves right in the crosshairs of some whacked-out militants, and not know anything about it."

"Exactly."

"So what do we do about it, given the fact that Halahan and Moore just gave us direct orders to stay the hell away from Charlie Team?" Mike Takahara asked reasonably.

"Like I've always said, the only way to deal with bullies is to stand your ground, confront the bastards right away, get in their face . . . or they'll go right over the top of you."

"Sounds like useful advice for a ten-year-old schoolboy," the tech agent commented. "But how does that apply to Halahan . . . let alone those militants?"

"I'm not sure it does, but I think it's worth a try. Got a plain piece of paper, a plain envelope, and a first-class stamp handy?"

"I think so."

Two minutes later, Mike Takahara peered over his partner's shoulder as Henry block-printed twelve words in the middle of the sheet of paper.

"You really think that'll draw them out?"

"I think it'll draw someone out," Lightstone promised as he addressed the envelope, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, applied the stamp, then handed the envelope to the tech agent. "The relevant question is 'who?' "

"Not to mention when, where, and how," Mike Takahara added thoughtfully.

"Oh yeah; that, too." Henry Lightstone smiled pleasantly. "You know how to find the post office?"

"Dogsfire Inn, at the intersection of Brandywine Road and Loggerhead Creek?"

"That's the place."

Mike Takahara looked at his watch. "I can be there in a half hour, no problem. Then what do we do?"

Henry Lightstone shrugged. "After that, we go back to doing what we always do when things go to shit on us."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"We stop playing by the rules."

Chapter Thirty-nine

At almost 1830 hours — six-thirty in civilian terms — that Saturday evening, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team finally re-grouped at a hidden campsite approximately eight miles northeast of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal's training grounds.

Concerned but not totally surprised by the events of the day, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole maintained a thoughtful silence while his team went through the practiced motions of stowing their assault gear for ready access; establishing a concentric pair of perimeter trip wires, heat sensors and motion detectors; setting up camp; tending to their prisoner; preparing hot water, coffee, and a composite MRE combat ration meal with three dug-in, Sterno-fueled burners; consuming the high-protein, high-carbohydrate rations; then washing the team's cooking and eating utensils and burying the resulting trash before he finally brought them all together.

The campsite was far removed from the militant's compound, the town, rural homes, popular camping sites, and all of the established hiking trails in the area. And the outer-perimeter detection system would alert the team to the presence or movement of any warm-blooded creature larger than a medium-sized dog. So they could have built a small fire to fend off the evening chill without adding any significant risk to their security if they so desired.

But the desire for creature comforts held little appeal for any of these rigorously trained, professionally alert, and highly motivated soldiers.

In the last seventy-two hours, the team had made several forays into enemy territory; spotted, monitored, and photographed members of the opposing team; suffered a casualty; taken a prisoner; and established a very useful aura of superiority over a group of supposed "allies" who ridiculously described themselves as a "paramilitary organization."

In effect, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team had engaged with the enemy.

And until the team accomplished all of the essential steps to disengage safely from that enemy and return to home ground, an after-dinner pot of hot coffee would serve as the highest luxury these soldiers would allow themselves.

"Give me a status report," Wintersole ordered the team seated around him in the growing darkness. "Start with the prisoner."

"The prisoner has been fed, allowed to relieve himself, re-secured, sedated, and put to bed, First Sergeant," one-seven reported.

"Is there a chance that he could hear us talking?"

"No. We plugged his ears and taped them closed."

"What are you using to keep him quiet?"

"Sodium phenobarbital, injected," one-three, the team's communications specialist and medic responded.

"What's his condition?"

"His external injuries are relatively minor, with no obvious signs of infection. Or at least none that I can see. However, to play it safe, I'm giving him some broad-spectrum antibiotics, as well as some decongestants to deal with a mild cold." The young female soldier hesitated. "It's his internal injuries that concern me. Based on the extent of his facial injuries and the amount of time we know he spent in the water, we can assume that he suffered a fairly severe concussion as well as from exposure. He's stable, and I'm keeping him warm and quiet, but I don't think he'll be up to any serious movement for at least a couple more days."

Wintersole nodded his head. "No problem. We can transport him if necessary."

The team members all nodded agreeably.

The Army Ranger hunter-killer recon team leader then scanned the group.

"Anybody have anything else to add regarding the prisoner, our targets, resources, intel, tactics, or anything else, before we discuss the merits of our new associates?"

Nobody responded.

"Okay." Wintersole nodded, then turned his attention to the team's heavy-weapons specialist. "One-two. How do you see the situation?"

"Not good, First Sergeant," the muscular young soldier with the corporal's chevrons on his collar replied evenly.

"Explain."

"Of the sixteen men we trained today, less than half qualified on the paper targets at twenty-five yards. Two qualified at fifty yards, one just barely, and none of them topped out higher than marksman on the overall scores. That was the good part. The assault exercises were a complete disaster. Teamwork and fire discipline were nonexistent. Not one Brigade member qualified on the pop-ups, and only two of them — the two youngest ones — made it all the way up the hill to the final set of targets. I saw four of them leaning on their weapons, and damned near every one of them with their fingers in the trigger guards while running. By my count, there were at least seventeen incidents of accidental discharge — three of which went cyclic in spite of direct orders to stay on select fire — and I'd guess at least that many more I didn't see. From my perspective, it was an absolute miracle they didn't sustain any friendly-fire casualties."

"How do you assess their capability for accomplishing their portion of our mission?"

"Poor . . . and that's really giving them the benefit of the doubt," the sturdy weapons specialist concluded. "If these people actually went up against a professionally trained and properly equipped adversary — these federal wildlife agents, for example — I estimate they'd take one hundred percent casualties within a matter of minutes. One-four said it exactly right at the Colonel's briefing, First Sergeant. They're not credible. They're just not."

Wintersole sighed.

"So how do we make them look credible?" he asked after a long moment.

"Additional training's not the answer," one-five volunteered. "Even if we had the time, which we don't, we wouldn't accomplish much. Maybe with the two young kids if we ran them through a serious basic, instilled some discipline, got their minds straight. But the adults are too far gone. They're wanna-bes, and that's all they'll ever be."

"I concur with one-five, First Sergeant," one-seven added. "Those people aren't combat troops — much less high-ranking officers. They're just lazy, overweight, and under-exercised barflies with delusions of grandeur. Give any one of them a pair of lieutenant's bars, a real platoon, and a serious combat mission, and you'd end up with fifty dead troops . . . and a blown mission."

Three of the other four Rangers solemnly nodded their heads in agreement.

Wintersole turned his attention to the one man on his team who didn't agree with one-five's assessment.

"You see it differently, one-four?" the hunter-killer team leader inquired.

"No, First Sergeant."

"What's the matter then?"

"I was just thinking . . . maybe what those clowns need has nothing to do with weapons, training, or motivation. Maybe what they really need is some new blood. Somebody on their team who would be a credible threat to these federal wildlife agents."

"You have somebody in mind?"

"Oh yes, First Sergeant." A slight smile formed on the young Ranger's face as he held up his broken wrist. "I certainly do."

At ten-thirty that Saturday evening, East Coast time, Special Operations Chief David Halahan's beeper began to vibrate against his hip.

Sighing inwardly, he excused himself from his understanding wife and late-evening dinner companions, went out to the lobby of the Japanese restaurant, and was directed to a phone.

"Hello?"

"This is Halahan. What's up?"

"I'm not sure," Freddy Moore replied. "I received an interesting e-mail message from Bravo Team a few hours ago. I didn't want to disturb your evening, but the more I thought about the whole deal, the less I liked it."

Halahan's deputy chief went on to describe the message, and his reply.

"So what do you think?" Moore finally asked.

Halahan was silent for a few moments as he considered some of the possible implications.

"I think you were right the way you answered them," he said finally, "but I'm a little uneasy about the number of individuals involved in the surveillance of Charlie Team, and I don't like that business about Lightstone finding a device under his truck at all. How did Takahara describe it again?"

"As a switched tracking device. Lightstone's description was consistent with a military MTEAR device," Moore read from the printout in his hand.

"What's a MTEAR device?"

"Simulated explosive, magnet- or adhesive-based, remote-triggered, generally rigged as a combined flash-bang and a smoke grenade. The army uses them for war games," Freddy Moore explained.

"Are they something these militant characters could pick up through military surplus?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Moore replied. "I remember we used to get some batches with a high frequency of duds. Pretty soon, we'd just survey the entire batch and open a new shipment."

"No wonder my taxes are so high," Halahan grumbled as he considered this new bit of information. "Was Takahara able to make a confirmation ID?"

"Negative. They decided to leave the truck where it was for a while."

"What's Lightstone using for transportation?"

"He bought a motorcycle out of his emergency funds."

"Bought a motorcycle?"

"Yeah. According to Takahara, Lightstone wanted to stay mobile, and maintain his contact with Sage and the woman innkeeper. A new car would have been a little more difficult to explain. I approved it after the fact, and wired them some more cash." Freddy Moore sighed audibly.

"What's the matter, something bothering you?"

"Yeah, a couple of things, I guess." The deputy Special Ops chief hesitated for a moment. "I still think it's a good idea to keep Bravo Team out of Charlie Team's way. Those kids have enough problems with self-confidence as it is. And I still don't see these Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal idiots as representing any kind of a serious threat to a team of highly trained and moderately experienced field agents. And Riley's still there to keep an eye on them. But this business with Boggs has definitely got me worried."

Halahan's eyebrow came up.

"What's happening with Boggs?"

"Nothing. That's just it. They still can't find him."

"That doesn't make much sense."

"No, it doesn't," Freddy Moore agreed. "Think we ought to notify the regional office?"

"And possibly get Boggs in trouble if it turns out he went off on a fishing trip with some of his state fish-and-game buddies without bothering to tell his boss?" Halahan finished.

"That's one of the problems," Freddy Moore admitted. "You know Boggs. He never was much for paperwork and following standard protocols, but he sure gets the job done when he puts his mind to it."

Halahan hesitated for another long moment.