“Maybe they are waiting on something,” Remington said.
Cal Remington wasn’t one to drop hints and not pay off on them. “You got something, Cap?” Goose said.
“I don’t know yet, Sergeant. But I may have a way to get something. I’ve got a maybe-mission for you, purely hide-and-seek with a chance at some action. If you’d rather bake in the sun and watch the Syrian army corps sleep, I can use one of the staff sergeants for this little exercise.”
Smiling despite the tension, Goose scanned the Syrian line again. Lots of snoring soldiers. Even with the changes in the front line, many Syrian troops were stretched out in the shadows under vehicles or under small tents. In this climate, a nap in the shade made a whole lot of sense. Goose felt it was a pity he and his men couldn’t join them.
“I’m interested in a maybe-mission, Cap. Especially if it gets me off this plateau and out of the sun. It’ll give me a chance to stretch my legs and clear my head.”
“Not worried about leaving the troops there, Sergeant? As I recall, you’re usually the last one to leave the field when we’re in a hot zone.”
“You’ve got sat-relays overlooking the play out here, sir,” Goose said. “You’ve got a clearer view of what’s shaping up than I do. I figure you must need me. I know you don’t like me being away from the front line any more than I do.”
“That I don’t, Sergeant.” Remington’s banter was light. “I may have eyes and ears in space, but I’ll take your gut over technology any day. Anyway, you’ll be back in place soon enough. I’m looking at a short hop that will give you the chance to show your stuff. Maybe if you get away from that standoff for a little while you’ll get a different read on it when you get back.”
“Yes, sir.” Goose peered along the mountainous area and at the tarmac road that crossed the border. The Syrians and the Turks had checkpoints for vehicles as well as pedestrians. So far there had been nothing to see today. “Who do I need, and when do I go?”
“Take a squad. Yourself and ten. Two vehicles. And you’re leaving now.”
Captain Cal Remington stood behind the four-man unit that handled the communications relays for his present operation. Nervous energy filled him, pushing him to act. Instead, he waited and watched the eight computer screens spread in front of his team. Waiting was not his forte and never had been.
The computers in the cinder-block building that had been revamped into a command HQ five klicks behind the border made the chill air-conditioning necessary. Gasoline-powered generators supplied the juice to run both the computers and the air-conditioning. Thick bundles of cables snaked across the chipped stone floor. An assortment of bullet holes scarred the walls, offering mute testimony to how many times firefights had taken place in this building. The building had once been part of a small village, a place where farmers and artisans had met to swap goods and talk, but it was mostly rubble now. Only three of the small cinder-block buildings remained intact.
The satellite feeds came in beautifully, panning down over the Turkish-Syrian border. The signals actually came from two different satellites, but Cray computers relayed those signals into the systems so they could be handled independently at each of the four workstations manned by Remington’s tech support unit.
OCS hadn’t revealed all the secret machinations of its cybernetic systems, and Remington was amazed at the computer surveillance program’s abilities. Still, he knew how to use the intel the programs provided. Even though the information they gave him would have been a commander’s dream just a few years ago, he needed more. Three shifts of four operators kept twenty-four-hour surveillance on the border over different overlapping fields.
After three days of close scrutiny, Remington was of the opinion that there wasn’t much they hadn’t seen, photographed, cataloged, and archived along C Company’s section of border country. The tech teams had accumulated gigabytes of information and pumped it out to army databases in Diyarbakir, where the general command incountry was situated, to the ARG headed by the USS Wasp out in the Med, and to the Pentagon. None of the information gathered so far offered any indication of what was behind the increased terrorist attacks within Turkey. Something was up. Watching just wasn’t enough; Remington wanted—needed—to know what the enemy was thinking.
“Captain Remington, sir.”
Turning, Remington studied the man in civilian clothes who stood between two Ranger escorts. The man was tall, over six feet, but Remington stood two inches taller. The Ranger captain was also broader through the shoulders than the new guy, and at thirty-eight, probably a handful of years younger.
“Sir,” the corporal said, throwing a sharp salute while standing at attention, “this is Central Intelligence Agency Section Chief Alexander Cody.”
The CIA agent didn’t look happy about the announcement. He seemed to be fit, and his mouth looked habitually stern. He had short-cropped dark hair going gray at the temples. His light-colored slacks, white dress shirt, and tie showed a layer of dust, as did the tan jacket slung over one arm. Beneath a painful looking wind- and sunburn, his skin was pale. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes.
“Come in, Agent Cody,” Remington said. “Corporal, Private, you’re dismissed.”
The corporal saluted again, spun smartly, and departed with the private in tow.
“Not exactly the kind of introduction I usually get in my line of work.” Cody crossed the room and held out his hand. “Or one that I would want.”
Remington shook the offered hand. Cody had a firm grip and a callused palm. “In the regular army,
