Mayweather touched his headset. “Syrkin? You on perimeter?” A pause. “Get Andrews to relieve you and report to me.” He took his hand-screen from its clip on the dash and scrolled through the briefing text. “Yeah. That’s who it is.”

  “Who, Captain?” Burkett asked.

  “The spooks’ inside man at the monastery. He’s been using a satellite phone to talk to Chance. He’s given us most of what we’ve got. I’m the only one here to get this briefing memo, and Chance left it up to me if—”

  Cpl. Alexi Syrkin appeared at the open window next to Mayweather.

  “Sir?”

  “Corporal Syrkin—you have a brother named Olek? Got some iffy connections in Bulgaria?”

  Syrkin hesitated. Then he nodded.

  “Yes sir. Last I knew, he was working for my Uncle Denys. Who’s… more than iffy.”

  “See, the reason you’re on this one is that Olek’s here at the monastery. He’s our inside man. CIA asset. He’s a hired gun, not agency, but he’s given us good intel so far.”

  “Here, sir? He’s here—at the target?”

  “Yeah. He knows we’re coming in. He’s supposed to do some spot sabotage for us tonight to make it smoother. I’m sorry you weren’t briefed—I wasn’t allowed to talk about this until we were on the ground and ready. He’s asked for exfil—Chance discouraged the idea, but he thinks Olek is going to try to exfil with us anyway. If Olek comes with us, we’ll want you to run herd on him. Keep him under your wing.”

  Syrkin scowled. “Why should the CIA not want him to come with us?”

  “Because they figure most of these guys are gonna do a runner. If he goes with them, he can continue to report on them. They’re hooked up with Moscow.”

  “Sir—if he wants to exfil, he should be allowed to. He’s running a big risk getting us this far.”

  “I don’t disagree, Alexi.”

  Syrkin was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. “Sir, he’s liable to get killed in the op!”

  “He knows to keep his head down tonight. With any luck he’ll be okay. Are you okay, Corporal? I need you frosty.”

  Syrkin chewed his lower lip. Burkett could see inner struggle in the man’s eyes… and then resignation. The CIA and the Rangers had left him no option but acceptance.

  “Yes sir,” he said at last.

  “Grab the rest of the load-out and take your place in the vehicle.”

  Without a word, Syrkin turned away and strode up the ramp, anger visible in every step.

  “He should’ve been told,” Burkett murmured.

  “Chance is a fanatic for need-to-know.”

  “If anybody ever needed to know, it was Syrkin, Captain.”

  Mayweather sighed and turned to the window.

  “You all have your orders,” Mayweather called from the LTV cab window. “Light-Up personnel, get in if you’re geared up. If you’re not, why the hell aren’t you?”

  The soldiers scrambled to obey as Mayweather focused on the screen. Burkett climbed into the shotgun seat and leaned to see what the drones saw. Mayweather had three windows open, each showing a drone’s-eye view. Two kinds of night vision combined—an upgrade on the old green tones—to provide a dull-red and muted blue image and a sharp green of the topography around the valley to the north.

  Mayweather directed the drones out to a hundred meter spread and sent them skimming low, in case the TiL operatives had some form of radar going.

  Burkett suspected they did. They had too many men here just to guard three prisoners, and they were in an unnecessarily remote, fort-like location. All of that had to be Moscow’s idea. The GRU had orchestrated the taking of three important researchers—every one of them working on something exotic with military applications. Meaning they knew there might be an American or NATO black ops rescue attempt.

  Had they picked up the short-term blip of the S-7? Was their radar sensitive enough to spot the squad’s relatively small drones?

  As Burkett watched, Mayweather slowed the drones to a hover just behind the woods to the south of the monastery, a quarter klick from its steel-reinforced front gates. Then he sent Drone 2 straight up, away from the others. He held it at 200 meters and rotated it, looking through its camera eyes for any movement outside the monastery. Vehicles, patrols, drones—nothing yet. Taking care not to come in too close, he directed Drone 2 to circle the ancient structure.

  There were men on the outer wall, walking in twos, with others stationed at machine-gun posts — one to the north, one south, and one to the west. A TiL thug seemed to be tinkering with a transmitter dish on the top of the central building. There were a couple of trucks parked in the courtyard next to a chapel with a partly collapsed roof. No one in the courtyard, no one currently visible outside. Lamps and electric lanterns burned here and there.

  “They’re ready—but not ready,” Burkett noted dryly.

  “There, Art, see that door on the west side? You can barely make it out from up here…”

  At the bottom of the drone’s steep angle of observation, the shadows thickened halfway along the western wall, forming a rough rectangle. “That our entry point?” He’d seen it marked in their orders, but it was good to get a visual fix in his mind.

  Mayweather nodded. “This guy Olek thinks it’s the best way in. It’s heavily barred and he can’t open it for us—too out in the open—but we’ll blow it in and sprint across the cobbles there to the building. He’s supposed to have that inside door unlocked—if he doesn’t, we’ll take that down, too. One floor underground, just inside that door, we'll find the cells, and hopefully the prisoners are still alive.”

  “Good stealth on these drones. Seems like no one’s spotted them yet. Another drone might, though…”

  “Yeah.” Mayweather did a ping-scan for enemy drones, came up empty.

  “No state of alert, looks like,” Burkett remarked.

  Mayweather nodded. “Area of operations is virginal. Go to tactical readiness. Chest armor only, except for Tafir—minimize the battle-rattle. Assign Beta Team to draw fire. There’s a sweet outcropping of granite thirty meters from the south wall. We’ll put Beta there. You take Alpha to hit the door—Tafir’s some of your cover.”

  “Yes sir.”

  * * *

  Tafir was sharply aware of the others staring at him as he clomped down the ramp in his Talos combat suit. They were ducking one by one into the Light-Up and glancing back as they went. A helmet completely concealed his head and his entire body was covered with complex and heavy-duty combat suit armor.

  He chortled to himself and took a place on exterior footing at the back of the LTV, a glorified running board, holding onto a metal half-ring.

  “What the fuck, Lance Corporal?” Lemuel said, taking up a place beside him. They were poised like nineteenth-century firemen on the back of the vehicle. “Tafir, you didn’t clue us about this knight-in-ugly-armor shit because you wanted to see our faces?”

  “Yep.”

  “You like to see us going ‘what the fuck,’ right?”

  “Exactly right, Private.”

  “So how come the Captain didn’t brief us?”

  “You didn’t get briefed on it ’cause you didn’t have security clearance, small fry,” Tafir said.

  Lemuel snorted and they gripped the handholds as the LTV started off. “Those suits never work for dick.”

  “It’ll work. It’s got smartness, PFC Dorman. Much… smartness. I tested the model before this one. They got the bugs out since then—so they tell me—and this one’s been fitted for me.”

  At least I hope they got the bugs out, Tafir thought.

  “You got the adaptive camo skin on that thing?” Lemuel asked, looking it up and down.

  “Yeah, more fine-grained than the Light-Up’s.”

  “Ever occur to anyone that we might need to be trained to be around a combat suit? How we going to work with you, if we can’t see you?”

  “Um… take that up with the General.” The suit didn’t provide complete invisibility, though it would wrap the backdrop around it, but he had to admit that at night, it would be hard for the other Rangers to see it.

  “Shut the fuck up back there,” the Captain said, over his headset. “Loud as a couple of huskies in heat.”

  Another problem with the suit’s adaptive camo was its tendency to blow through its power charge. He’d have to be sparing with it; he didn’t think he could use the semi-invisibility mode. The exoskeleton that was supposed to support the 290-pound armor, computer interfacing, and smart sheathing, sometimes had labored to keep up with weight stress.

  That stuff was supposed to have been ironed out, but right now, Tafir’s HUD—the heads-up display—bombarded him with way too much information. He didn’t think he’d need “electromagnetic field surveillance” or the “kill triangulation” software. Best to shut those two down.

  Night-sight built into the helmet was pretty damned good, Tafir thought, looking around. It was simply part of the visor on the helmet that covered his head and face. Walking to the LTV, he’d found the armor to be well supported by the exoskeleton, and the joints flexible enough. No way he was going to be as nimble in this piss pot as without it.

  His auto-shotgun had an add-on that communicated with his suit, projecting precision sighting on the HUD. That might compensate for his slowness.

  The LTV headed out, past Ike Faraday who was setting up the 10mm laser-sight machine gun behind a movable wall he’d set in place. Mayweather drove, Burkett beside him.

  In a few minutes the Captain swung west, then sharply north. Mayweather gauged the rough terrain through his night-goggles, veering around an outcropping now and then.

  * * *

  In the back of the Light-Up, his back pressed against the steel wall, Alexi Syrkin looked around at the others. Sgt. Des Andrews was across from him, next to Sgt. Linda Strickland. Rodriquez was following the Light-Up in a smaller LTV, essentially an armored ambulance with room for three wounded.

  The other soldiers were serious, quiet, centered in their own thoughts as they looked down at the deck. Their heads and shoulders jiggled as the wheels hit rough grade. Next to Syrkin was Sgt. Megan Lang, Lance Cpl. Kyu Cha, and Second Lieutenant Carney. They hadn’t seemed strange before. Not during the briefing on the ground, not on the orbcraft. A crew of professionals. But now…

  Syrkin glanced over at 2nd Lt. Carney, who looked sickly in the red light of the overhead. He was breathing hard and trying to hide it—clearly he hadn’t been in close combat before. Why was he even here?

  To please his father, the General.

  And why did they bring me along? Syrkin thought. Because my brother might be a problem?

  “All personnel,” Mayweather said over the intercom, “you know from the hand-screen briefing we’re looking to take Mikhail Ildeva prisoner if we can. You had orders to memorize his picture, so you better have done it.” He paused, then continued. “There’s another man who may ask for exfiltration. He’s a valuable agency asset named Olek Syrkin. CIA has not seen fit to give us a picture of him.”

  At that, everyone in the back of the Light-Up looked at Alexi. They hadn’t been told. Not much had been done to protect his brother…

  “If he requests exfiltration, we’ll grant it. Let that be on the record. Watch your fire. Corporal Syrkin can identify him for us. This man is his brother.”

  “You have a picture of him with you, Alexi?” Linda asked.

  Alexi shook his head.

  “Squad, check your hand-screens,” Mayweather ordered as the LTV came to a stop. “It’ll show you the satellite image of the AO. We are that green blip just west of the trees, 200 meters from the wall. Beta Team, head north-northeast, through the trees for that big granite outcropping. Undergrowth isn’t much in there. Sergeant Strickland is weapons squad leader for Beta Team, follow her, she has it locked in.

  “When I say follow her lead, that includes you, Lieutenant Carney—you’ve got the rank, but she has the experience.” After a moment he added, “Put your hand-screens away and be weapons-ready. Beta is SBF—draw fire and take down anyone you can on the walls. Watch sharp to repel counterattack. That’s it.

  “Hit your positions right fucking now!”

  FIVE

  Olek Syrkin was taut with uncertainty. He sat on a wooden bench, clenching his hands, staring at the prisoners’ cell door, as Ilyov spoke with Zelinsky. The TiL stood at the doorway down the narrow stone corridor, to Olek’s left. They were bitching, as usual. No sense of urgency about them.

  Fingering his submachine gun, Olek thought about nailing both Zelinsky and Ilyov the instant gunfire started up.

  Chance had asked Syrkin to set a fire, to prevent the TiL from getting Kevlar vests and ammo resupply. Did Olek have time to do that? Doubtful—and even if he managed it, could he hope to go unnoticed, and escape this slimy rockpile with his life?

  If he weakened TiL, it meant the commandos were likely to succeed, and more likely to take him out of here. First he’d have to kill Ilyov, though, because the bastard would object to Olek leaving his post.

  Someone shouted down the stairs. Zelinsky waved to Ilyov and went to see what was going on. Ilyov stayed where he was, lighting a cigarette and staring into space. His back was turned.

  This was the moment.

  Olek drew his knife, switched it to his left hand.

  This has to be done fast and it has to be done silently. One mistake, and Ilyov would kill him. The old bastard was strong, and knew scores of lethal tricks. Best not to try and sneak up on him.

  He’d sense that.

  Cold sweat on his palms, Olek tightened his grip on the haft of the double-edged Karatel knife and walked casually up to Ilyov, not trying to hide the sound of it.

  One motion, he told himself.

  Olek suddenly stepped in close, slapped his right hand hard over Ilyov’s mouth, then stabbed up under the ribcage, nearly vertical, driving the blade in fully and with all his strength—deeply afraid of what would happen if Ilyov had even a slight chance of survival. For a man like this it could not be the kidney stab and throat-cutting maneuver. It had to be the heart—he absolutely must die instantly.

  Olek felt three pops in his knife hand, as the razor-sharp blade popped through Ilyov’s coat, his skin, and—with a slight delay—his heart.

  But Ilyov surprised him. The old gangster stayed upright, struggling to twist away, gnawing at Olek’s right hand, trying to force Olek to remove it so he could shout the place down. Olek felt a wrenching, painful strain in his arms and his back as he fought for control.

  Then Ilyov snorted blood onto Olek’s right hand, quivered, and went limp. Panting, Olek held on and twisted the knife to make sure, but Ilyov was dead. He could smell it.

  Olek backed up, step by step, dragging the dead weight down the hall. He turned, cruelly pulling a muscle in his lower back to do it, and dragged the body into the empty cell next to the one holding the hostages. With a gasp of relief, he dropped it into the shadows, then bent to tug his knife out of the corpse, wiping it on Ilyov’s coat.

  “I’m sorry, Ilyov,” he said hoarsely, sheathing his knife, “but you lived long enough. You had your fun, eh?”

  Walking a little unsteadily Olek left the cell, closed the door, and looked around. A splashy trail of blood on the floor led back to the cell, and there was blood on both his hands. Some of it was his own blood, from where Ilyov had bitten him.

  And here came Zelinsky, down the stairs. “Hey, Ilyov, they want you to…” He stopped, staring at the blood.

  “Lutzoff was sloppy this time,” Olek said.

  Zelinsky was staring at Olek’s bloody hands.

  Olek shrugged ruefully. “I was trying to clean it up. I tried a rag, got it everywhere. I’ll get a mop—”

  “Where… where is Ilyov?”

  “Oh, he’s checking on the prisoners.”

  Gunfire, from somewhere above. Olek heard Ildeva shouting. The rattle of a machine gun.

  It’s begun.

  Lots of gunfire. Cover for what he had to do next. Zelinsky turned, started up the stairs, but Olek had the submachine gun up, and he fired a long burst. Zelinsky grunted, tumbling down the stairs to the stone floor below.

  No point in dragging this one to a cell. No time. The others would be busy with the Americans, and he had to get to the western door alive.

  * * *

  2nd Lt. Linda Strickland was running through the strange blue, green, and red world of night vision—things that were green to the naked eye were dull blue here. She got her team almost under cover at the big outcropping of granite and was two strides away when they were spotted from the wall. They heard Slavic shouting as a spotlight on the roof of the central building sliced down at the Rangers.

  She let loose a long burst of NATO rounds at the silhouettes at the top of the nearest wall—a full forty yards away—with her H&K precision-guided integrated assault rifle. Hurried as she was and unable to use the precision guiding, she simply slashed the burst across the top of the wall to suppress Tango fire as she got under cover.

  Strickland laid the weapon in a crotch of granite atop a boulder about five and a half feet high and kept firing to support the rest of Beta as they sprinted up behind her.

  Bullets whined off the outcropping, spattering chips of rock. She popped off three short bursts at dimly seen figures atop the wall—one of them vanished with a suddenness that said probably a hit. There was a machine-gun position on the wall, but it was far enough to the left that it couldn’t sight on them very well from the firing nock. It looked like the gunner was fumbling to change the tripod position. She sent a burst that way, but the angle was an awkward sighting for her, too.