putting dirt over on top of them. Stand by, we have a truck heading this way.'
Off to Ramirez's left, Vega had his machine gun up on its bipod, the sight tracking the pickup as it moved down the east side of the runway. Every few hundred meters, it stopped, and the passenger jumped out and shoveled dirt on one of the sputtering flares.
'Reach out, reach out and touch someone...' Julio murmured.
'Be cool,
'No problem.' Vega's thumb was on the selector switch - still set on 'safe' - and his finger was on the trigger guard, not the trigger itself.
The flares went out one by one. The truck was briefly within one hundred fifty meters of the two soldiers, but never approached them directly. They merely happened to be in a place the truck had to pass by. Vega's gun stayed on the truck until well after it turned away. As he set the buttstock back down on the dirt, he turned to his comrade.
'Aw, shit!' he whispered in feigned disappointment.
Chavez had to stifle a giggle. Wasn't this odd, he thought. Here they were in enemy territory, loaded for fucking bear, and they were playing a game no different from what children did on Christmas Eve, peeking around corners. The game was serious as hell, they all knew, but the form it took was almost laughable. They also knew that could change in an instant. There wasn't anything funny about training a machine gun on two men in a truck. Was there?
Chavez reactivated his night goggles. At the far end of the runway, people were lighting cigarettes. The faint images on his display flared white with the heat energy. That would kill their night vision, Ding knew. He could tell from the way they moved that they were just bullshitting around now. Their day's - night's - work was complete. The truck drove off, leaving two men behind. These, it would seem, were the security troops for this airstrip. Only two, and they smoked at night. Armed or not - they seemed to be carrying AK-47s or a close copy thereof - they were not serious opposition.
'What do you suppose they're smoking?' Vega asked.
'I didn't think about that,' Chavez admitted with a grunt. 'You don't suppose they're that dumb, do you?'
'We ain't dealing with soldiers, man. We coulda moved in and snuffed those fuckers no sweat. Maybe ten seconds' worth of firefight.'
'Still gotta be careful,' Chavez whispered in reply.
'Roge- o,' Vega agreed. 'That's where you get the edge.'
'KNIFE, this is Six,' Ramirez called on the radio net. 'Fall back to the rally point.'
'Move, I'll cover,' Chavez told Vega.
Julio stood and shouldered his weapon. There was a slight but annoying tinkle from the metal parts as he did so - the ammo belt, Ding thought.
The rally point was a particularly tall tree close to the stream. Again, people replenished their canteens at Olivero's persistent urging. It turned out that one man had had his face slashed by a low branch, requiring attention from the medic, but otherwise the squad was fully intact. They'd camp five hundred meters from the airfield, leaving two men at an observation point - the one Chavez had staked out for himself - around the clock. Ding took the first watch, again with Vega, and would be relieved at dawn by Guerra and another man armed with a silenced MP-5. Either a SAW or a soldier armed with a grenade launcher would always be at the OP in case the opposition got rambunctious. If there was to be a firefight, the idea was to end it as quickly as possible. Light-fighters weren't especially big on tanks and heavy guns, but American soldiers think in terms of firepower, which, after all, had been largely an American invention in the first place.
It amazed Chavez how easily one could slip into a routine. An hour before dawn, he and Vega surveyed the landing strip from their little knoll. Of the two men in the permanent security team, only one was moving around. The other was sitting with his back against the shack, still smoking something or other. The one up and moving didn't stray far.
'What's happening, Ding?' the captain asked.
'I heard you coming, sir,' Chavez said.
'I tripped. Sorry.'
Chavez ran down the situation briefly. Ramirez put his binoculars on the enemy to check things for himself.
'Supposedly they aren't being bothered by the local police and army,' the captain observed.
'Bought off?' Vega asked.
'No, just they got discouraged, mainly. So the druggies have settled down to a half-dozen or so regular airfields. Like this one. We're gonna be here awhile.' A pause. 'Anything happens -'
'We'll call you right off, sir,' Vega promised.
'See any snakes?' Ramirez asked.
'No, thank God.' The captain's teeth flared in the darkness. He clapped Chavez on the shoulder and disappeared back into the bushes.
'What's wrong with snakes?' Vega asked.
Captain Winters felt the pangs of disappointment as he watched the Piper touch down. It was two in a row now. The big one from the other night was gone already. Exactly where they flew them off to, he didn't know. Maybe the big boneyard in the desert. One more old piston bird would hardly be noticed. On the other hand, you could sell one of these Pipers easily enough.
The.50- caliber machine gun looked even more impressive at eye level, though with dawn coming up, the spotlights were less overpowering. They didn't use the spy-plane ploy this time. The Marines treated the smugglers just as roughly as before, however, and their actions again had the desired effect. The CIA officer running the operation had formerly been with DEA, and he enjoyed the difference in interrogation methods. Both pilots were Colombians, the aircraft's registration to the contrary. Despite their machismo, it took only one look at Nicodemus. To be brave in the face of a bullet, or even an attack dog, was one thing. To be brave before a living carnosaur was something else entirely. It took less than an hour for them to be processed, then taken off to the tame federal district judge.
'How many planes don't make it here?' Gunnery Sergeant Black asked as they were driven away.
'What d'you mean, Gunny?'
'I seen the fighter, sir. It figures that he told the dude, 'Fly this way or else!' An' we been called here more times 'n airplanes have showed up, right? What I'm saying, sir, is it stands to reason, like, that some folks didn't take the hint, and the boy driving the fighter showed them the 'or else.' '
'You don't need to know that, Gunny Black,' the CIA officer pointed out.
'Fair enough. Either way, it's cool with me, sir. My first tour in 'Nam, I seen a squad get wiped because some of 'em were doped up. I caught a punk selling drugs in my squad, back in '74-75, and I damned near beat the little fuck to death. Almost got in trouble over it, too.'
The CIA officer nodded as though that statement surprised him. It didn't.
' 'Need- to-know,' Gunny,' he repeated.
'Aye aye, sir.' Gunnery Sergeant Black assembled his men and walked off toward the waiting helicopter.
That was the problem with 'black' operations, the CIA officer thought as he watched the Marines leave. You want good people, reliable people, smart people, to be part of the op. But the good, reliable, and smart people all had brains and imagination. And it really wasn't all that hard for them to figure things out. After enough of that happened, 'black' operations tended to become gray ones. Like the dawn that had just risen. Except that light wasn't always a good thing, was it?
Admiral Cutter met Directors Moore and Jacobs in the lobby of the office wing, and took them straight to the Oval Office. Agents Connor and D'Agostino were on duty in the secretarial office and gave all three the usual once- over out of habit. Unusually, for the White House, they walked straight in to see WRANGLER.
'Good afternoon, Mr. President,' all three said in turn.
The President rose from his desk and took his place in an antique chair by the fireplace. This was where he usually sat for 'intimate' conversations. The President regretted this. The chair he sat in was nowhere near as comfortable as the custom-designed one behind his desk, and his back was acting up, but even presidents have to play by the rules of others' expectations.
