The Seventh Angel (46 page)

Myers and Hicks moved slowly and cautiously, taking care not to disturb the twisted pair of wires that connected the shaped-charge to the initiator, about fifty feet away. Myers was scanning the snowy terrain with a Föerster Mark-26, moving in as straight a line as the rugged surface of the ice pack would permit. Hicks was his observer and assistant, providing a second set of eyes and hands as they were needed.

The Mk-26 was a fluxgate magnetic gradiometer; it could locate hidden metal objects by detecting the fluctuations they caused in the earth’s magnetic field. Myers and Hicks were nearly finished with the magnetic sweep. They’d already done the visual sweep, the infrared sweep, and sampled the air down-wind of the device using a hand-held Fido detector to sniff for vapors and residue: the telltale molecular traces given off by explosive chemicals.

This was the last step of the secondary reconnaissance. Gunny Armstrong had performed the initial recon himself, with Sergeant Travers covering observe and assist. He was confident that he had the configuration of the device thoroughly sussed out.

Myers was performing the entire recon again, to be certain that Gunny hadn’t missed anything on the first pass. Gunny didn’t expect him to find anything new, but the procedures laid out by the 60 Series EOD manuals were clear: two separate reconnaissance sweeps, conducted by two pairs of qualified Explosive Ordnance Disposal technicians. There were exceptions to the rule, in time-urgent operations, or when there weren’t enough techs available. But Gunny’s team had the personnel and the time. They were going to do it by the book.

The device itself was relatively straightforward. Six shaped-charges were spaced evenly around the perimeter of a large circle, maybe a hundred feet in diameter, all wired to an initiator package in the middle of the circle.

Gunny and Myers had both scanned the initiator using an RTR-4 real-time x-ray unit. The package appeared to consist of two modules of electronic circuits, housed in an insulated enclosure about the size of a shoebox. There were no indications of explosive charges in or near the enclosure.

A Kevlar-jacketed cable led from the package into a hole drilled in the ice. Short of trying to dig it out, which Gunny’s team was
not
going to attempt, there was no way to know how long the Kevlar cable was, or what might be wired to its other end. The cable probably penetrated all the way through the ice, and into the unfrozen water below. Gunny assumed that the remote triggering device, whatever that might be, was hanging at the submerged end of the cable. There wasn’t really any way to test that assumption, but it seemed logical, and no one else on the team could suggest an alternative.

Of more immediate importance, Gunny hadn’t found any booby traps anywhere around the charges or the initiator package. No motion sensors, no proximity detectors, and no anti-tamper devices. Whoever had planted these explosives had apparently depended on secrecy and the remote location for protection. It would have worked too, Gunny figured, if some intelligence bubba hadn’t gotten his hands on the rough coordinates of the devices. Somebody with inside knowledge had talked.

Myers and Hicks finished the Mk-26 sweep, and backed away from the device until they were well clear of the danger area. Then they made their way across the ice to Gunny’s position, Myers still carrying the L-shaped magnetic sensor.

The wind wasn’t blowing very hard, but it had a whistling quality that made conversation difficult, so Myers leaned in close and spoke loudly. “Secondary recon is complete, Gunny. No big surprises. I count six shaped-charges of roughly thirty pounds each. Cyclohexyl-based plastic explosives. The Fido samples called out cyclic nitramine with high mercury content. Looks like Russian military-grade RDX to me.”

Gunny nodded. He’d gotten the same readings. “Continue.”

“
All six charges are wired to a central initiator, enclosed in an insulated housing. On the RTR-4, it looks like a couple of blocks of electronics, connected to each other, to the charges, and to a cable that runs down through the ice.”

Gunny nodded again. The report matched his own assessment.

“
No signs of any anti-tamper devices,” Myers said. “I didn’t spot any proximity detectors, no motion sensors, no tripwires. Nothing.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think our render-safe procedure is going to be pretty simple. I say we take out the initiator with the
PAN
, and use
Niffers
to cut all six pairs of firing wires simultaneously.”

The PAN, short for
P
ercussion-
A
ctuated
N
on-electric Disrupter
, was a specialty tool of the EOD trade. Consisting of a long stainless steel barrel attached to an adjustable metal frame, the PAN used blank 12-gauge shotgun shells to fire specially-designed slugs into bomb components, destroying key circuits or mechanisms, and making the bomb inoperative.

Niffer
was the common pronunciation of the abbreviation NFR, which stood for
N
onvolatile
F
ast-
R
esponse Wire Cutter
. A Niffer was a tube-shaped device—about the size of a fountain pen—that could be attached to a small bundle of electrical wires, and sever them on command. Unlike the PAN, which had been invented specifically for Explosive Ordnance Disposal, Niffers had been adapted from the American movie industry, where special effects technicians used them to remotely control pyrotechnic charges for action films.

“
Good plan,” Gunny said. “That’s about what I was thinking. But I want to take out that Kevlar cable at the same time.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the device. “Odds are, that cable leads to a remote trigger. We’d probably be okay if we left it in place. But I don’t want to gamble if we don’t have to. So we take it out of the equation, just to be on the safe side.”

Staff Sergeant Myers nodded. “Understood. How do you want to cut the cable? It’s too heavy for the Niffers, and we’re already using the PAN to disrupt the initiator package.”

“
Let’s pop it with detonating cord,” Gunny said. “The cable is Kevlar, so it’s going to be resistant, but a couple of loops of det. cord ought to do the trick.”

“
Roger,” Myers said. “I should have thought of that.”

Gunny Armstrong slapped him on the shoulder. “You will next time.”

Myers gave him a thumbs-up, his hand almost cartoonishly large in the thick cold weather glove. “Roger that,” he said.

The Staff Sergeant looked out across the grubby surface of the ice, in the direction of the device. “Is it just me? Or is this turning out to be too easy?”

“
Don’t count your chickens,” Gunny said. “When we’ve finished the render-safe procedure on this site
and
the second site, you can tell me all about how easy this all was while we’re riding home in that raggedy-ass chopper. Until then, make sure you keep eyes in the back of your head, Marine.”

Myers nodded. “Will do, Gunny.” He turned and walked toward the team’s pile of equipment, to select the gear they’d need to safe the explosives.

Gunny Armstrong watched the younger Marine go without speaking. He was feeling it too: the nagging suspicion that this mission was proceeding just a little too smoothly. EOD jobs
never
went this easily, not even in training exercises.

He kept wondering if they had forgotten something, if all four members of his team had overlooked some critical detail. But as hard as he wracked his brain, he couldn’t think of a thing.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t something they’d missed. Maybe it was a premonition.

The idea brought a grunt of disdain. Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Armstrong did not believe in premonitions. That crap was for the Psychic Hotline; dial
1-800-Mystic-Bullshit
.

He shook his head. It was just a case of the heebie-jeebies. His best bet of getting out of this in one piece was to forget about premonitions and focus on doing the job safely and correctly.

He picked his way across the ice, toward the spot where Staff Sergeant Myers was breaking out the gear. Gunny spoke to himself as he walked, his voice swallowed up by the whistling wind. It was an unconscious thing; he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. “This ain’t gonna work,” he said to himself. “It ain’t gonna fucking work.”

* * *

But it
did
work. Despite Gunny Armstrong’s growing sense of foreboding, his team rigged their equipment without incident. When everything was set, they all pulled back to a safe distance, and he gave Myers the
go
signal.

Myers flipped up the protective cover on the remote trigger, and gave the button three quick squeezes. On the third squeeze, the disrupters all triggered at once. All six of the Niffers rammed their metal pistons home, shearing six pairs of firing wires with a noise like the slamming of several car doors. At the same instant, the long-barreled PAN fired a ceramic-tipped steel slug into the center of the initiator package, punching through the insulated housing to shatter the modules of electrical circuitry inside. The det cord ignited simultaneously, the little knot of chemical explosive parting the Kevlar cable with a bang not much louder than a firecracker.

In an instant, the job was done. The small quantities of smoke from the PAN disrupter and the det cord were snatched away by the brisk Siberian wind, and the single echo bounced off the face of the ice and faded to silence.

Gunny felt his unease relax half a notch. One job down, and everybody still had their fingers and toes. If the second device went as smoothly as this one, they might make it home after all.

He glanced at Myers. “We’ll start packing up the gear,” he said. “You get on short-comm and inform the chopper that Response Element Two has completed Site Charlie, and we’re standing by for transport to Site Delta.”

Staff Sergeant Myers acknowledged the order, and began digging in the side pocket of his parka for the new hand-held battlefield phone known as
short-comm
.

Gunny Armstrong turned toward the other two Marines, and he was getting ready to issue further instructions when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw a helicopter flying toward his team, keeping low to the ice and moving fast. For a couple of seconds, it flew in apparent silence, and then he began to hear the throp of the rotors: barely audible at first, but quickly growing louder as the chopper closed on their position.

Gunny’s brain processed three thoughts in rapid succession.
First
… The helicopter shouldn’t be here yet. It was supposed to stand off to the south until the team called for it, which Myers hadn’t done yet.
Second
… It was the wrong kind of helicopter. And
third
… He was watching the evidence of his premonition brought to life.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. An accident, maybe, or a misstep, or a booby trap. But not this.

He pursed his lips and whistled sharply, to grab instant attention. “Hit the deck!” he yelled. “That’s not our chopper!”

As the words left his mouth, he threw himself forward, hitting the ice hard, his body plowing through several inches of grubby snow. The impact with the ice knocked the breath out of him, but there was no time to worry about that. He reached behind him, his hands scrabbling to find the M-4 carbine slung barrel-down across his back.

His right hand made contact with the collapsible stock of the rifle, gloved fingers groping for purchase on the smooth carbon plastic of the butt. He got a hold on his weapon and hauled it around into a two-handed shooting grip.

The helicopter was still getting closer, the sound of its rotors growing from a rumble to rhythmic thunder.

Out of the sides of his eyes, Gunny took inventory of his men. They had followed his lead. They were all prone on the ice, with weapons drawn and tracking the inbound chopper.

Hopefully, hitting the deck made them smaller targets, but it damned sure didn’t hide them. The greens and browns of their woodland camouflage were a sharp visual contrast to the dirty whites and grays of the ice.

Bulldozer in a fucking bathtub
, Gunny thought again.

He was getting a better look at the helicopter now. The bulbous nose of the aircraft had two bubble-shaped cockpits, one atop the other and set slightly aft. Angled weapons pylons stuck out from the right and left sides of the fuselage, like stubby wings. Gunny recognized it as a Russian HIND-D. A gunship, well armored against small arms fire. Practically a flying tank, with enough guns and rockets to chew his men to ribbons.

The Soviets had used HINDs in Afghanistan in the nineteen-eighties, and they’d wreaked a vicious toll on the Afghani fighters until President Reagan had authorized the shipment of shoulder-launched
Stinger
missiles through back-door channels in Pakistan.

A Stinger could take down a HIND gunship. A rocket-propelled grenade might manage it too, with a lucky enough shot. But the EOD team didn’t carry Stingers, or even RPGs, and there wasn’t a chance of punching through that armored Son-of-a-Bitch with the 5.56mm NATO rounds from their M-4 carbines.

The only spots vulnerable to small arms fire were the helicopter’s rotors and the tail boom, both of which were difficult to hit. It was the only choice they had, so Gunny flipped a mental coin. It came up
tails
.