Authors: Ken Goddard
"Yes sir. We'll locate and contact him immediately," Wintersole acknowledged the barely disguised order.
"An excellent suggestion, soldier," Rustman congratulated the young man who had posed the credibility issue. "Which, I might add, just goes to prove the basic superiority of the American fighting man — and woman," he added without missing a beat, but noting that the single female member of the team, a very tough, no-nonsense-looking soldier in her own right, acknowledged the comment with a slight dip of her head. "If an American commander is lost in battle, the next subordinate officer, NCO, or grunt is expected to step forward and provide immediate and effective leadership in the field. I expect that premise to apply to everyone in this room. We have a mission, and we will not fail to complete it, no matter what. Are there any other questions?"
Not a single hand went up.
"It's still hunting season," Rustman went on, "so no one outside the community will pay too much attention to gunshots . . . even if we do increase the firepower of our paramilitary associates. In fact, any shooting at all will provide a useful cover for our own activities," he added with a slight smile.
"We have established five primary escape routes" — he indicated these with five quick passes of the pointer — "which will give you access to pre-positioned supplies which we'll also leave in place. A total of one hundred kilos of Semtex® and twelve claymores, set in rearward-facing, cross-trail patterns at five twenty-yard intervals, protects each escape route. The devices are rigged and armed for remote detonation from your individual transmitters, and the outer ranges are clearly marked in the standard long range reconnaissance manner. Just make sure you and your teammates are completely clear before you activate and use the system," the military officer added with another one of his thin-lipped smiles.
The team members continued eating with studied indifference. They knew all about the escape routes. They'd spent two full weeks putting the devices and markers in place, and memorizing the kill zones. No problem.
"Your targets —" Rustman went on, and was pleased when every member of the hunter-killer team immediately stopped eating and listened intently — "are five Special Agents of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service."
Rustman paused for a moment to let those words sink in.
"For reasons that are not important to you or to your mission, these agents represent a significant threat to our military/industrial readiness. Their deaths, and the subsequent exposure of their activities in the media, will significantly impact the reputations of a number of highly influential people willing to sacrifice the military strength of our nation for the continued survival of a few weak animal species.
"I had hoped to have individual profiles available for you today, but our accelerated timetable made that impossible. However, First Sergeant Wintersole will give you verbal descriptions of these agents which will enable you to recognize and isolate both the primary and diversionary targets. The profiles — which will include photographs — will be delivered to you at the message drop site prior to your interaction with these agents. I can tell you right now, however, that none of these people have any prior military experience, and none are expected to be armed with anything other than their assigned duty weapons, primarily 10mm Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistols with twelve-round magazines. Like all federal agents, they're trained to shoot for center of mass, a considerable advantage for you, since your body armor will easily defeat a 10mm expanding hollow-point pistol bullet.
"In addition to your superior weapons and firepower," Rustman went on, "you will be equipped with the latest generation of night-vision gear which utilize a phased array of infrared and ultraviolet detectors. The view screens provide some interesting computer-enhanced color imagery for hot objects, which turns out to be a major improvement over the old green monotone scopes . . . especially in terms of small objects that are either distant or moving. The effects can be disorienting at first, especially if you're used to the old night-vision gear, so you're going to need to get some practice hours in before we go operational; but as you'll see, the tactical advantage you gain is substantial.
"In other words," the retired military officer concluded, "your adversaries simply won't stand a chance."
Rustman noticed that every member of the hunter-killer team — with the exception of Wintersole, who remained expressionless — nodded their heads and smiled slightly at that last comment. No broad grins. No hand-slaps or cheerful commentary. Just a quiet and professional display of pleasant anticipation. It was nice that the odds for the impending operation were completely stacked in their favor. Not essential. Just nice.
This pleased Lt. Colonel John Rustman a great deal.
"At 0900 hours this morning, local Caribbean time, a hundred thousand dollars was placed in each of your designated Grand Bahamian bank accounts. At the completion of this mission, an additional two hundred thousand dollars will be added to each account. There will also be an opportunity for each of you to earn a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus," Rustman paused for effect, "in the event that a female agent who is expected to be added to their team is captured alive and utilized for our diversionary ploy. First Sergeant Wintersole will explain all of that to you later.
"Oh, and one more thing," Rustman said. "There is a possibility that we may have an informant working on the outer perimeter of our operation, for purposes of gathering intelligence. In the unlikely event this informant ever needs to make contact with any of you, the code identifier will be 'canvasback,' repeat, 'canvasback.' Everybody have that?"
All seven heads nodded in acknowledgment.
"If all goes as planned, and it will, make no mistake about that," Rustman emphasized in a firm and confident voice, "this should be a one-day, in-out mission. Once the agents are lured into position, you will move in fast, hit hard, disengage, and get out. Any questions?"
Another member of the team raised his hand.
"Sir," he began hesitantly, "like First Sergeant Wintersole said, you're moving the operation into your backyard . . . or pretty close to it. Won't that make things more complicated for everybody, yourself especially, even if everything goes exactly to plan?"
"It will make things marginally more difficult for me," Rustman admitted, "but not for you. For reasons which I assume are obvious, this is the last time I'll be in contact with any of you until long after the mission is completed. I had intended to hold at least one more briefing before sending you into action, but this new development makes that too risky. I'm too well known in Jasper County, which is why we're meeting here in Jackson County. So, from now on, we'll be relying on the message drop site for routine communications and transfer of materials.
"In fact" — Rustman consulted his notes — "we'll use a little hole-in-the-wall post office off Brandywine Road, right next to Loggerhead Creek, as our primary mail drop point. Name of the place is the Dogsfire Inn. You'll use post office box number fourteen to receive mail, and send any to us using box fifteen." He tossed a ring of six identical keys on the table. "We'll send someone to drop off or pick up mail at 0800 and 1600 hours. You can work out your own pickup and delivery schedules, but try not to be there plus or minus fifteen of those drop times. We want to avoid as many outside connections to you as possible."
"Sir, what about the radios?" the communications specialist and only female on the team asked politely.
"You already know the team comm-net is short range, the transmitters are scrambled, and we've got mountains all around to block or confuse any inadvertent long-range transmissions, so intra-team communications shouldn't be a problem," Rustman reminded them. "But I strongly advise you to stay off the wide-area net unless it's an absolute emergency. The chances of anybody in the area picking up any of your signals and de-scrambling them are essentially nil. But even scrambled transmitters can be located, and the Fish and Wildlife Service technical agent on the opposing team is supposed to be some kind of electronics hotshot, so there's no sense in taking the risk.
"You have the overwhelming advantages of surprise, terrain, intelligence, and firepower," Rustman concluded. "You will know your targets, your locations, your timetables, and your escape routes. There shouldn't be any need to communicate with me any further once we leave here today . . . other than to signal three simple words," he added with a thin-lipped smile.
"Mission completed. Out."
Chapter Eleven
When congressional aide Keith Bennington returned to Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed's suite of rented offices in Jasper County, Oregon, he found Simon Whatley waiting for him.
"Did you get the congressman off okay?" Whatley asked as he ushered the young aide into his corner office and shut the door.
"Uh, yes sir," Bennington replied nervously. "His plane took off on time, no problem."
"Did he say anything to you on the way to the airport? Any comments about the trip? Anything he wants us to have ready for him when he comes back?"
"Uh, no sir. He just sat in the back, closed his eyes and kind of hummed to himself the whole trip. He didn't actually say anything at all, except 'good morning' and 'good-bye.' That was pretty much it."
"Did he look all right?"
"He did look kind of tired, like he didn't get too much sleep last night."
"I'm sure he didn't. He's a very important man," Whatley reminded the underling. "He works hard, and he plays hard. And it's our job to make sure that he uses his time to his best advantage."
"Uh, yes sir," the young aide agreed, even though he didn't have a clue as to what Whatley was talking about.
"So tell me," Whatley went on casually, "what happened yesterday?"
"You mean about the camera?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean." The congressional district office manager nodded his head.
"I . . . I guess I lost it," the young man confessed nervously.
"The camera?"
Bennington nodded silently, staring down at his lap.
"That was a very expensive camera, Keith. How in the world did you manage to lose it?"
"I dropped it," the young aide stammered, and then blurted out: "Because they shot at me. They tried to kill me!"
Simon Whatley closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
"Keith, what am I ever going to do with you?"
"But —"
"Keith, I can assure you that nobody shot at you . . . and certainly nobody tried to kill you."
"But —"
Whatley put up a silencing hand.
"Keith, that entire area is one huge hunting preserve. Dozens of hunters shoot at hundreds of creatures there every day. But they don't shoot at human beings" — he smiled kindly — "and they definitely don't shoot at congressional aides. Especially congressional aides from this office," he emphasized.
"But the tree —" Bennington whispered, his eyes wide and glassy. "The bullet hit the tree right next to me, and pieces of wood hit me in the face, and I . . . I knew you wanted me to get those pictures, but you didn't tell me they might . . ." The young aide looked up accusingly.
"Might what? Shoot you for taking their pictures?" Simon Whatley interrupted with a chuckle. "Keith, those people are very good friends of Lt. Colonel Rustman and Congressman Smallsreed. I wanted to surprise the congressman with a set of candid photos. He likes to put things like that on the wall in his office."
"But—"
"But it was my fault," Whatley went on smoothly. "I should have told you to wear a bright orange hat so that no one would mistake you for a deer."
"A deer!" Keith Bennington exclaimed. "But I don't even —"
"So what you're saying," Whatley interrupted the distressed young man, "is that a stray bullet accidentally hit a tree very close to you, and you panicked, ran, dropped the camera, and then didn't go back to get it. Correct?"
"No! . . . I mean, yes, of course I didn't go back, because I thought that . . ."
"That some of Lt. Colonel John Rustman's dear and close friends were trying to shoot you, Keith Bennington, the grandson of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed's college roommate? Dear and close friends who are expert shots, and who certainly would not have missed if they really wanted to hit you? You do understand how foolish that sounds, don't you?" The congressional district office manager smiled benevolently.
Bennington blinked in confusion and stared down at his hands again.
"Keith, don't worry about the camera," Whatley suggested soothingly. "I'm sure the congressman would understand, if we ever need to explain it to him, and I'm equally sure we can arrange for a replacement so he doesn't even know how or why it was lost."
"Oh . . . okay, I guess," the young aide reluctantly agreed.
"Good. Now then," Simon Whatley immediately changed the subject, "I want you to focus on that law-enforcement inquiry. We need to get that completed as quickly as possible. Have you heard from Robert?"
Keith Bennington nodded. "I, uh, called him early this morning, before I went to pick up the congressman. He's, uh, not too happy."
"Why not?"
"I guess some of that stuff you wanted him to get is pretty sensitive."
"Of course, it's sensitive — especially to people in law enforcement who don't like the idea of powerful men like Congressman Smallsreed making inquiries into their activities." Simon Whatley shook his head sadly.
"Actually, I think Robert was more concerned about the legal issues," Bennington volunteered. "Something about the files having restricted access, and being afraid he might get caught."
"Robert apparently forgets that we went to a tremendous amount of effort to get him burrowed down into a full-time permanent position," Whatley pointedly reminded his aide.
"I know, and I told him you'd probably say something like that," Bennington replied, then hurriedly added, "since I'd heard you say that to him before."
"And what did he say?"