tech agent added thoughtfully.
'Yeah, I guess.' Henry Lightstone nodded his head slowly, then suddenly looked directly at his friend. 'You know what really bothers me about this whole deal?'
'What?'
'Bobby.'
'Bobby LaGrange? Your ex-partner?' Mike Takahara blinked in confusion. 'I don't follow.'
'Unless he's become a lot better actor in his retirement years, I got the distinct impression his blood turned to ice water when I suggested he and Susan might be targets. Bobby's a pretty laid-back guy, and it takes a lot to get him riled, but going after Susan or Justin would definitely do the trick. I really don't think he was faking it.'
'Unfortunately, that takes us right back to the rather frightening idea that none of this has anything to do with Halahan wanting to get back at us for screwing up his training program,' the tech agent pointed out.
'That's how I see it.'
'Which takes us back to the equally frightening idea that Charlie Team may have put themselves right in the crosshairs of some whacked-out militants, and not know anything about it.'
'Exactly.'
'So what do we do about it, given the fact that Halahan and Moore just gave us direct orders to stay the hell away from Charlie Team?' Mike Takahara asked reasonably.
'Like I've always said, the only way to deal with bullies is to stand your ground, confront the bastards right away, get in their face
… or they'll go right over the top of you.'
'Sounds like useful advice for a ten-year-old schoolboy,' the tech agent commented. 'But how does that apply to Halahan… let alone those militants?'
'I'm not sure it does, but I think it's worth a try. Got a plain piece of paper, a plain envelope, and a first-class stamp handy?'
'I think so.'
Two minutes later, Mike Takahara peered over his partner's shoulder as Henry block-printed twelve words in the middle of the sheet of paper.
'You really think that'll draw them out?'
'I think it'll draw someone out,' Lightstone promised as he addressed the envelope, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, applied the stamp, then handed the envelope to the tech agent. 'The relevant question is 'who?' '
'Not to mention when, where, and how,' Mike Takahara added thoughtfully.
'Oh yeah; that, too.' Henry Lightstone smiled pleasantly. 'You know how to find the post office?'
'Dogsfire Inn, at the intersection of Brandywine Road and Loggerhead Creek?'
'That's the place.'
Mike Takahara looked at his watch. 'I can be there in a half hour, no problem. Then what do we do?'
Henry Lightstone shrugged. 'After that, we go back to doing what we always do when things go to shit on us.'
'Oh yeah, what's that?'
'We stop playing by the rules.'
Chapter Thirty-nine
At almost 1830 hours — six-thirty in civilian terms — that Saturday evening, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team finally re-grouped at a hidden campsite approximately eight miles northeast of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal's training grounds.
Concerned but not totally surprised by the events of the day, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole maintained a thoughtful silence while his team went through the practiced motions of stowing their assault gear for ready access; establishing a concentric pair of perimeter trip wires, heat sensors and motion detectors; setting up camp; tending to their prisoner; preparing hot water, coffee, and a composite MRE combat ration meal with three dug-in, Sterno-fueled burners; consuming the high-protein, high-carbohydrate rations; then washing the team's cooking and eating utensils and burying the resulting trash before he finally brought them all together.
The campsite was far removed from the militant's compound, the town, rural homes, popular camping sites, and all of the established hiking trails in the area. And the outer-perimeter detection system would alert the team to the presence or movement of any warm-blooded creature larger than a medium-sized dog. So they could have built a small fire to fend off the evening chill without adding any significant risk to their security if they so desired.
But the desire for creature comforts held little appeal for any of these rigorously trained, professionally alert, and highly motivated soldiers.
In the last seventy-two hours, the team had made several forays into enemy territory; spotted, monitored, and photographed members of the opposing team; suffered a casualty; taken a prisoner; and established a very useful aura of superiority over a group of supposed 'allies' who ridiculously described themselves as a 'paramilitary organization.'
In effect, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team had engaged with the enemy.
And until the team accomplished all of the essential steps to disengage safely from that enemy and return to home ground, an after-dinner pot of hot coffee would serve as the highest luxury these soldiers would allow themselves.
'Give me a status report,' Wintersole ordered the team seated around him in the growing darkness. 'Start with the prisoner.'
'The prisoner has been fed, allowed to relieve himself, re-secured, sedated, and put to bed, First Sergeant,' one-seven reported.
'Is there a chance that he could hear us talking?'
'No. We plugged his ears and taped them closed.'
'What are you using to keep him quiet?'
'Sodium phenobarbital, injected,' one-three, the team's communications specialist and medic responded.
'What's his condition?'
'His external injuries are relatively minor, with no obvious signs of infection. Or at least none that I can see. However, to play it safe, I'm giving him some broad-spectrum antibiotics, as well as some decongestants to deal with a mild cold.' The young female soldier hesitated. 'It's his internal injuries that concern me. Based on the extent of his facial injuries and the amount of time we know he spent in the water, we can assume that he suffered a fairly severe concussion as well as from exposure. He's stable, and I'm keeping him warm and quiet, but I don't think he'll be up to any serious movement for at least a couple more days.'
Wintersole nodded his head. 'No problem. We can transport him if necessary.'
The team members all nodded agreeably.
The Army Ranger hunter-killer recon team leader then scanned the group.
'Anybody have anything else to add regarding the prisoner, our targets, resources, intel, tactics, or anything else, before we discuss the merits of our new associates?'
Nobody responded.
'Okay.' Wintersole nodded, then turned his attention to the team's heavy-weapons specialist. 'One-two. How do you see the situation?'
'Not good, First Sergeant,' the muscular young soldier with the corporal's chevrons on his collar replied evenly.
'Explain.'
'Of the sixteen men we trained today, less than half qualified on the paper targets at twenty-five yards. Two qualified at fifty yards, one just barely, and none of them topped out higher than marksman on the overall scores. That was the good part. The assault exercises were a complete disaster. Teamwork and fire discipline were
