Prime (10 page)

The small concrete building seemed to vibrate
with the rising crescendo of gunfire. The Delta shooters were the best in the
world at their job, but for every insurgent that went down, five more advanced
another ten meters, pouring lead at the defenders. The air was thick with
sulfurous smoke and dust; the relentless assault pulverized the concrete walls.

Then a different sound cut through the
tumult. There were long eruptions of noise that overpowered the random staccato
pops of the AKs and HK 416s. It was the distinctive report of a Browning M-2
.50 caliber machine gun—affectionately nicknamed “Ma Deuce.”

And Ma Deuce never traveled alone.

Someone let out a whoop.
“Hot
damn.
Now it’s a party.”

For a second, Sigler thought it was Jess
Strickland, but then he remembered that Strickland had died when the helo blew
up.

Must
be the blond guy, Tremblay
.

He didn’t dare look back. Twenty
fighters…maybe more…were attempting to cross the last thirty meters to reach
the building. There wasn’t even time to aim; he just kept pulling the trigger.

Out of nowhere, a blocky shape blasted
through midst of the charge.

It was a Humvee.

Bodies went flying, and some were crunched
under the heavy tires as the armored vehicle rolled to a stop between the besieged
structure and the advancing horde. The Humvee’s gunner swept left and right
with the .50 cal, but right below him, the rear door flew open and a soldier
emerged, waving frantically to the men in the building.

Sigler got the message. “Our ride’s here!
Move out.”

The Humvee was the first in a line of five
similar vehicles, which had deployed in a semi-circle between the building and
the two advancing fronts of enemy fighters. While the turret gunners laid down
suppressive fire from their M240B and M2 machine guns, the rear doors on the
sheltered side were thrown open to admit the beleaguered defenders. Sigler
directed the wounded to the nearest trucks, and then with Parker right beside
him, he headed for the front vehicle.

A familiar percussive boom thundered across
the desert—an RPG launch. He didn’t see the rocket, but a moment later, the
grenade impacted the front end of the lead truck. The high-velocity jet cut into
the engine block like a Jedi lightsaber, and the subsequent detonation flipped
the Humvee onto its side.

Parker was halfway in the truck when the
grenade hit. The force of the explosion spilled him out, and he fell next to
Sigler, who had thrown
himself
flat. The armored
vehicle rose above them like a looming wave, and they scrambled to avoid being
crushed beneath it. The soldier manning the machine gun was catapulted from the
turret and hurled against the side of the building.

Then something extraordinary happened. The
soldier sat up, shook his head like a football player trying to shake off a hit
and then slowly climbed to his feet and stalked toward the wreckage of his
vehicle. He was big, at least as tall as Sigler but broader, and in his full
body armor he looked like a walking mountain. He strode past the two Delta
operators,
glancing
their direction as if to verify
that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he went right back to his weapon.

Sigler wasn’t sure what the big soldier
expected to accomplish. With the Humvee on its side, the M2 was useless. The
heavy machine gun was hanging from its mount like a broken wing, its long
barrel jammed into the ground, but the soldier approached it like this wasn’t
even a minor inconvenience and pulled the quick release pin on the swivel
mount, wrestling the gun into his arms.

Parker whispered something, a name perhaps,
and Sigler saw the look of recognition on his friend’s face, but there wasn’t
time to ask for clarification. He didn’t know what the walking mountain planned
to do with the Ma Deuce—it wasn’t the kind of weapon you could shoot from the
hip—but figuring that out wasn’t his problem. He got to his feet and raced to
the turret hole in the Humvee’s roof and stuck his head inside to check for
survivors.

The vehicle’s only occupant was the driver,
who was dazed but alive and apparently unhurt. Sigler could hear rounds
plinking off the armored underside of the Humvee, but as long as the insurgents
didn’t hit it with another RPG, they were safe for the moment. As he helped the
driver extricate himself, he heard the M2 booming again.

The big soldier had somehow braced the gun
against the Humvee’s tire, and Parker was right next to him with a spare can of
ammunition.

“Leave it!” Sigler shouted.
“Time to go.”

Sigler wasn’t sure the walking mountain had
heard the
order,
much less that he would follow it.
The guy looked completely zoned in. Sigler had seen soldiers get all jacked-up
on adrenaline, screaming obscenities and lost in the fog of war, but this was
different. The big soldier reminded him of Schwarzenegger in the Terminator
movies—intense but dispassionate, methodical, efficient…unstoppable.

But it was time to go.

There was an incendiary grenade mounted on
the Humvee’s center column—a self-destruct measure in case the vehicle had to
be abandoned, which was exactly what they were going to have to do. Sigler
didn’t bother to remove it from the mount; he just pulled the pin and let it
burn.

“Fire in the hole!” he shouted as he ran past
Parker.

A tiny supernova erupted inside the vehicle,
spilling blinding radiance and intense heat through the opening as the thermate
grenade, burning at over 3000 degrees Fahrenheit, vaporized synthetic fabrics
and plastic, and set the very metal itself on fire.

The big man just nodded, and then with the
same degree of effort that someone might use to drop a hamburger wrapper in a
trash can, he stuffed the M2 into the turret and ran after Sigler.

The big guy and the driver piled into the
next truck in line, while Sigler and Parker ran for the one behind that. The
turret gunners were firing at a cyclic rate, burning through ammo to keep the
enemy from shooting any more RPGs, but with everyone aboard, the drivers took
off.

The sound of bullets smacking into the armor
plate was strangely comforting—like rain on a tin roof, but in a few seconds,
they were well out of range of the insurgents’ rifles.

The quiet was even better.

ELEVEN

The mood in the Special Forces compound at Contingency Operating Base
Speicher was somber. The Delta shooters busied themselves with maintenance
tasks—cleaning their weapons, inspecting their equipment to ensure that all was
ready for the next mission and even grabbing some food and shut-eye—but hardly
anyone spoke. The brief sense of elation that accompanied their salvation was
tempered by the knowledge that, for several of their friends, the help had
arrived too late.

Every career Spec Ops shooter had experienced
the emotional conflict that occurs when not everyone makes it back from a
mission, but this instance was on a different order of magnitude. Only three
members of Cipher element remained. Four of the snipers had survived, though
two were wounded—including Lewis Aleman, whose crushed hand would almost
certainly spell the end of his career as a Delta operator. Of the eight men
comprising the flight crews of two Night Stalker Black Hawk helicopters, only
one had made it back. Everyone on Beehive Six-Six was MIA. Perhaps even worse,
the survivors knew that their lives had been bought with the blood of those who
had come to save them, including Sonny “Houston” Vaughn, the Alpha team leader,
who had caught a bullet on his way to the Humvee and died in Stan Tremblay’s
arms on the ride back.

Sigler’s black mood wasn’t just due to
survivor’s guilt, though. He was angry. The deaths of his teammates weren’t
just the fortunes of war; someone had set them up and sent them into a trap.

He was going to find out
who
that someone was. Then, he was going to kill them.

They’d returned to the regional base just as
dawn was breaking in the east. The 7th Special Forces team—the guys that had
come riding to the rescue—had given the survivors a hut to recover in, but
Sigler had been kept busy with administrative tasks, seeing to the needs of the
wounded and of course, reporting the details of the disaster to headquarters.
Thus far, JSOC had not responded to his requests for information that might
help identify the persons responsible for the attack.

As he sat with the tattered remnants of
Cipher element, Eagle-Eye and Alpha team, meticulously disassembling and
cleaning his weapon—an activity that was, for a soldier, something akin to
meditation—he searched his memory to see if the answer lay somewhere in the
events of the previous night. He was physically exhausted, but his mind would
not let go of the mystery.

Someone had set a trap for them…why? He
rejected the obvious answer—to kill them. There were plenty of ways to
accomplish that.

But if killing Cipher element wasn’t the
primary objective, then what was?

He was working through the possibilities when
two men he didn’t recognize strode into the room. One of them was wearing
civilian clothes—khakis and a long-sleeve, pale-blue dress shirt—the other was
wearing ACU fatigues. The name-tape over his breast pocket said ‘Keasling,’ but
it was the rank badge in the middle of the man’s chest that got Sigler’s
attention: a single black star.

He jumped to his feet and was about to call
the room to attention, but the general waved him off.

“Stand easy, men.” Keasling regarded each man
in turn, and finally brought his attention back to Sigler. “I won’t bullshit
you. We are at condition FUBAR. Sixteen hours ago, the President did two
things: He asked General Collins for his resignation, and he hired me to run
the Joint Special Operations Command. I’m your new boss.”

Glances were exchanged but no one spoke.
Keasling gestured to the civilian. “This is Domenick Boucher, the Director of
the CIA. Gentlemen, we are here to fix this train wreck.”

Stan Tremblay folded his arms over his chest
and leaned back in his chair. “You’re the new JSOC? That’s a three-star billet.
That must have taken some grade-
A
ass kissing.”

Keasling’s right eye twitched, and for a
moment, Sigler thought the general was going to blow a gasket, but then the
twitch went away. “I guess the President liked my smile. Now, if you’re done
busting my chops,
sergeant
, there’s
work to do. We’re in the dark, men.”

Sigler pointed a finger at Boucher. “Why
don’t you start by talking to him? It was his people that sent us out there in
the first place. Last I heard
,
they were both aboard
the Black Hawk that went missing.”

Boucher glanced at Keasling, as if silently
asking for permission to answer, and then cleared his throat. “Then let me
update you. After leaving you, the helicopter designated Beehive Six-Six
crossed the border with Syria and continued on to Damascus. The pilot flew
nap-of-the-earth to avoid ground radar, but we were able to track him from an
AWACS plane.

“Our assets in Syria searched the abandoned
helicopter and found the remains…” He swallowed, as if this was the first time
he’d put it in words. “They positively identified the remains of Officer Scott
Klein, along with two members of the flight crew, and one of your men.”

One
?
The implications of that punched Sigler in
the gut.
“Who?”

“Sergeant Major Pettit,” said Keasling. “He
was executed; they all were.
Point blank range; no sign of a
struggle.
We have to assume that everyone who was not found dead on that
helo is on the side of the enemy.”

Sigler felt his blood go cold. The enemy now
had a face and a name: Kevin Rainer, his commanding officer. Rainer had led
them into the trap and left them there to die.

Boucher continued. “Three Caucasian men and a
Eurasian woman were spotted at Damascus International Airport, boarding a
flight to Doha, Qatar. From Qatar, they caught a connecting flight to Yangon—”

Tremblay scratched his goatee.
“Yangon?
That’s somewhere in East Butt-Fuck, right?”

“Close,” Sigler said. He wasn’t sure about
Tremblay’s impulsive need to turn everything into a joke. Sometimes, it was
good to have someone around to help lighten the mood, but there was such a
thing as too much. “Most people still call it Rangoon. It’s in Myanmar…which
most people still call Burma.”

“Goddamn,” Tremblay muttered sourly. “Can’t
these people just pick a name and stick with it?”

“They’re in the air right now,” Keasling
said, steering the discussion back on point. “We don’t know if that’s their
final destination, but our assets in Yangon will pick up their trail.” He
looked around the room again, once more making eye contact with each man in
turn. “I’m acting under the assumption that some of you here might be
interested in payback.”

Sigler could tell that Keasling had been
hoping for a cheer or a rousing “Fuck, yeah!” but the subdued mood persisted.
After a few seconds, Parker broke the awkward silence.

“Mister…Boucher, is it? Why don’t you tell us
what’s really going on?”

Keasling frowned and looked as if he was
about to tell Parker to shut up, but Sigler quickly backed his friend up. “I
think we all deserve some answers, sir.”

Boucher sighed. “Honestly, I wish I knew. I
had the same
intel
as you going into this. I’ve got a
team conducting forensic analysis of the documents you recovered in Ramadi. Our
working theory is that the message that sent you out there—the message about a
bio-weapons factory—was probably planted.”

By
Kevin Rainer,
Sigler
thought.
The promise of a WMD was
irresistible bait for the trap.
But why?

Why had the Delta commander sold out his men
?

“You’re all missing the most important thing,”
Parker interjected. His expression was taut, like he was about to explode. “The
message wasn’t just about bio-weapons.”

Keasling looked to Boucher for confirmation.
The Director of the CIA nodded. “The message contained a specific reference
that led to one of our cryptanalysts being sent along.”

“Sasha Therion,” Parker supplied.

“That’s right. We’re considering the
possibility that she might have been involved.”

“Bullshit.”

Sigler coughed to get his friend’s attention
and flashed a warning glance.
Take it
down a notch, Danno
.

In a more subdued voice, Parker continued:
“That reference to the Voynich manuscript… There was a reason for that.
They…whoever they are…needed your expert on the manuscript.”

The Delta operators in the room stared at
Parker in disbelief; it was as if he’d suddenly grown horns or begun speaking in
tongues. But Boucher just nodded. “That’s a scenario we’re considering.”

“Considering? Well consider this. Someone
turned at least three operators to make this happen. Whoever is behind it has
money and influence, and for some reason they think that a medieval manuscript that
no one can read is worth all this trouble. So what you should be considering
is: what do they know that we don’t?”

Parker’s comments had aroused Sigler’s
curiosity; he wasn’t sure if his friend was really on to something or if his concern
arose from a schoolboy crush on the enigmatic Sasha Therion, but he made a
mental note to ask his friend for further clarification.

Keasling shook his head. “That doesn’t
matter. All that matters is stopping them. That’s your new mission.”

Keasling’s final statement went through Sigler
like an electric shock.

Your new mission.

My new mission
.

As if reading the unasked questions in the
faces of the men in the room, Keasling continued. “Sigler, you’re Cipher Six
now. Organizational structure is at your discretion. Tremblay and Roberts,
you’re TAD to Cipher element for the duration of this mission…” He glanced at
Sigler.
“Unless you have an objection to that?”

Sigler glanced at Tremblay and the man he
knew only as “Silent Bob,” but their faces were unreadable. Even though Delta
operators were consummate professionals, every team relied upon the unique
chemistry of its individual members. It was impossible to predict whether the
remnants of Cipher element and the survivors from Alpha team would mesh seamlessly,
or burn up in a fireball of friction. “No objection from me.”

“If you need additional personnel, you can
draw from 7
^th
Group. I’ll travel with you to Myanmar and liaise with
our assets on the ground.” The general checked his watch. “It is now 1630. I want
to be in the air no later than 1800. Now, if there’s nothing else…”

Sigler recognized that was Keasling’s way of
signaling that the discussion was at an end, but he knew this might be his only
opportunity to show everyone in the room that he was ready to be their leader.
“Actually, sir, there is one thing.”

Keasling frowned. “Go on.”

“I’d like to change the mission designation.
We’re not really Cipher element anymore, so it doesn’t make sense to keep using
Cipher callsigns.”

“Bad juju, is that it?”

Sigler shrugged.
“If you
like.”

Keasling waved his hand as if the matter were
of no consequence.
“Fine.
Use your Delta handles. Make
sure to submit an updated roster. Just out of curiosity, Sigler, what’s your
callsign?”

“Elvis, sir.”

Keasling made a face. “How on God’s green Earth
did you get tagged with that?”

Tremblay gave a theatrical gasp. “Sir, are
you disrespecting the King of Rock and Roll?”

Sigler couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve always
kind of been an Elvis Presley fan. TCB—‘Taking care of
business’—
is
sort of my unofficial motto.”

“I loathe Elvis Presley. My ex-wife ran off
with an Elvis impersonator,” Keasling groused. He squinted at Sigler. “But in
the interest of getting this show on the road, let’s say we compromise. Your
new operational callsign is—”

“Pelvis!”
Tremblay chortled.

Keasling ignored him and spoke just one more
word: “King.”