to hear it from somebody who's walked the ground.'
'You know,' Kozlov said, 'that there is also the roof here. It is not marked, but it is reinforced to act as a helipad. It is quite big. Can you land on a regular helipad?' Taylor grew extremely interested. 'Piece of cake. And that's the roof of the main headquarters building?'
'Yes. This is always for the helicopter of the general.'
'Better and better. So we can access the building from up there?'
Kozlov looked up blankly. Taylor's turn of phrase had baffled him. Meredith quickly put the question into Russian.
Kozlov's expression eased. 'Oh, yes. Although it may be guarded.'
Taylor reached for a detailed sketch Kozlov had provided of the building's various levels.
'All right, Viktor. You're convinced that this room will still be the ops center?'
'It must be so. Only this room is of a big enough size and with so much wiring.'
'All right. And this should be the computer room?'
Kozlov chewed his lip with his coffee-colored teeth. 'I must think it to be. All of the specialized wiring is only to here and then to here, you see. We had great problems in the remaking of the wires in the building. It is so old.'
'You don't think they might have rewired the place?' Kozlov shrugged. 'I cannot tell. But it would be very hard.'
'All right. We'll just have to take our chances on that. Now, if we were to put one ship down on the helipad, say three in the central courtyard, with two flying cover for us all… how would the team from the helipad get down to the computer room and the ops center?'
Kozlov traced his finger along the mock blueprint. 'There is perhaps a very good way. Here is the private lift for the general, but that is too dangerous, I think. Then there is a stairwell.'
'Here?' Taylor asked, bending very close to the map to read the plan that Kozlov had drawn by hand while riding in an aircraft. Taylor's finger touched a small shaded square.
'Yes. That is the stairwell. You must go down three flights of the stairs. Then you are in the main corridor. The operations center and the computer room are only here. It is very good.'
'Well, that's convenient,' Williams said.
Taylor nodded. 'It's great. If we can get down those goddamned stairs. That stairwell's a death trap, if ever there was one.'
Everyone looked at Taylor. The dead skin on his face had turned to wax. There had not even been time to splash water over the layers of oil, dirt, and exhaustion that each of the Americans wore.
Taylor snorted. 'But I don't see much choice. It's too direct a route to pass up.' He looked at Kozlov. 'We'll try it, Viktor. The fire teams from the main raiding force can strike from the parade ground. We'll link up, if we can. If not, they'll at least provide a hell of a diversion for us.' Taylor shook his head. 'I hate stairwell fights, though. I lost a damned good NCO that way when we had to retake the U.S. consulate in Guadalajara.'
'The classic surgical strike,' Colonel Williams commented, studying the map over Taylor's shoulder.
Taylor straightened, twisting the stiffness out of his back. 'Wouldn't call it that at all, Tucker. This is a classic raid. Strike unexpectedly. Take out everything that moves. Do your business. And un-ass the area. Surprise, shock, speed… and all the firepower you can put out.' Taylor turned to Meredith and Parker. 'I want to hit them at sunset. We'll be coming out of the east, riding out of the darkness. I want to strike when there's just enough twilight for us to get our bearings visually, but when it's already dark enough to fuck with their heads.' Taylor broadened his gaze to include the rest of the planning team. 'We're going to come out of the sky like death itself. We're going to bring them fear.'
Taylor shifted his field of fire to Ryder. It was difficult for him to look at the young warrant, because it was then so difficult to look away. The resemblance to the young man who had died so miserably in Africa was the stuff of bad, bad luck.
'Chief,' Taylor said, 'how much time are you going to need once we boot your ass into that computer room?'
Ryder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his expression distinctly uncertain. He was obviously out of his element.
'Fifteen minutes?' Colonel Williams prompted.
'I guess so,' Ryder said. He had a flat, midwestern accent.
'Don't fucking guess,' Taylor said sternly. 'Tell us how much time you're going to need.'
The young warrant reddened. 'If everything's in working order,' he said, 'I think half an hour would be best. If that's all right. See, I've got to insert—'
'Thirty minutes,' Taylor said. 'You got it. Now. Merry. Give me what you've got on possible enemy response forces. Who are they, where are they, what's the reaction time? You know the list of questions.'
'Yes, sir.' Meredith began. 'Within the facility itself…'
The men labored through schematics and figures, turning again and again to the automated support systems or to subordinate staff officers and NCOs. Neglected cups of coffee went cold. To each man, the process was as familiar as could be, and even Kozlov slipped easily into the pattern of the universal details of staff work. Warning orders went out to the volunteer crews, along with photocopies of maps and the building plans. Junior leaders gathered to listen to Hank Parker, whose stature seemed to grow by the hour, while Meredith grilled others on potential threats and contingencies, forcing them to actively remember the crucial details of his briefing. No man had any healthy energy left. They continued to function only by the grace of the wide-awake tablets and individual strength of will. The importance of each moment prodded them along, yet it was important not to hurry so much that errors or oversights occurred. The genius of good staff work was always a matter of striking exactly the right balance between speed and thoroughness — and recognizing immediately when that balance shifted as the circumstances of the battlefield changed. Right now, the paramount enemy was the clock.
In the early morning hours, Taylor and Tucker Williams found themselves alone over disposable cups of coffee that really held only heated, disinfected water with a bit of brown color added.
'George,' Williams said, 'you need to catch a little rest. Those dark circles are going to be getting caught under your boots.'
Taylor nodded. 'I just have to go back over the ammo up-load figures.' He sighed as though the years had finally overtaken him. 'Christ, I feel like a brand-new butterbar locked in a supply room that just failed the IG. Old Manny picked a hell of a time to get himself killed.'
'I'm sure he feels bad about it too,' Williams said. 'Listen, George — where am I riding? With you in the command bird? Or do you want me in another ship, just in case?'
'You're not going, Tucker.'
Williams blustered like a character from an old cartoon. 'What do you mean, you sorry sonofabitch? Whose goddamned idea was all this, anyway?'
'You're not going.'
'The hell I'm not. You're going to need me, George.'
'No,' Taylor said matter-of-factly, 'I'm not going to need you. One more shriveled-up bird colonel won't make a lick of difference tomorrow.' He glanced automatically at his watch. 'Today, I mean. Nope, I don't need you, Tucker. But the Army needs you. And the Army's going to need you more than ever after all this is over. You're going to have to finish what you started. Cleaning up all the shit.'
'Don't give me one of your speeches, George.'
Taylor waved a hand at his old comrade. 'No speeches. I just hate to think of the U.S. Army having to do without both of us. Wouldn't be a decent scandal for at least ten years.'
The two men sat quietly for a moment. The words between them had not been as important as the absolutely clear but unarticulated understanding that left no room for further argument: Taylor was the mission commander, and he had decided that Williams was not going. Therefore, Williams knew that he was not going. The rest was merely a ritual.
Williams knocked back a slug of the bad water masquerading as coffee. 'George,' he said seriously, 'you don't sound like you think this one's going to be very clean.'
Taylor twisted up his dead lips as though he were chewing a cud of tobacco. 'Truth be told, I don't know what the hell to expect. Too many variables.' Then he grinned. 'So I'm just doing what comes naturally. And we'll
