TWENTY-FIVE
Master Sergeant Matt Beasley was ordinarily a patient man. All those years as a student of human nature had taught him to be still like a predator, always looking and listening.
But the lights had just gone out. And the captain had ordered them to do… nothing.
They were waiting ten more minutes to give the Tigers' security team time to check in with each other, time enough to give them all a false sense of security.
Hitting the castle directly after the power went down was much too conventional, and they would be tense, despite whatever story the CIA's inside man told them about the outage.
And that explained why Beasley, Brown, Jenkins, and Hume continued lying on their bellies within the ditch at the edge of the woodland. The pair of small, two-man civilian helicopters were less than a hundred meters away.
Images of those choppers had been captured by Beasley's camera and uploaded to the network. Within a minute the helicopters had been identified as Brantly B-2Bs manufactured by a Texas company that had been bought out by the Chinese. A detailed set of schematics and even a suggested sabotage point within the cockpit focusing on the bird's electronics systems accompanied the intel.
Parked near the choppers were a pair of jeeplike SUVs identified as the new Brave Warriors, and Beasley didn't need the geeks back home to tell him how to sabotage them.
Out there, a few hundred meters beyond the vehicles, lay the castle, growing even darker as swollen clouds descended like enormous zeppelins to blot out the stars. From one window came the faintest trace of a flashlight being switched on.
Beasley returned his gaze to the helicopters. He'd hoped that the Tigers would have chosen much larger birds so that the Ghosts could've revised their exfiltration plan to include a swift chopper ride back to the coast courtesy of a Chinese pilot held at gunpoint.
But as Murphy and logic would have it, the Tigers had chosen to be discreet and flown in via those smaller civilian birds.
A few drops of rain struck the ditch, followed by a few more. Beasley hoped the captain didn't wait much longer, because once the storm really kicked in, their targets would seek cover in their vehicles, making them even harder to pick off.
The two chopper pilots and two drivers had gathered near the open tailgates of the trucks and were drinking, smoking, while one was engrossed in a small, handheld computer game.
Beasley had already played out Bravo Team's raid a half dozen times in his head. He'd initially considered a standoff attack, dropping each guy quietly like snipers and taking full advantage of the camera mounted on his Modular Rifle — Caseless (MR-C) to peek around the vehicles. However, once those men had gathered in close, he'd realized that the raid must be more swift, that all four needed to go down at once.
And to ensure success, Beasley knew they had to get in close. Very close.
'Well, that's ten minutes,' whispered Jenkins over Bravo Team's radio channel.
'Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead,' called Beasley on the main channel. 'Still waiting on you, Boss.'
'Uh, yeah. Sit tight.'
Something ominous had crept into the captain's tone.
'What the hell's he waiting for?' asked Brown.
'The captain knows what he's doing,' Beasley retorted, only half buying the assurance.
'I know he knows. Wish he'd share it with us.'
'He sounds distracted,' said Jenkins.
'We're all distracted,' Beasley snapped.
'I think something's going down,' said Brown.
'Yeah, it's called Operation War Wraith,' Beasley finished.
'Uh, I don't know. This… this ain't right,' said Hume. 'Every time we work with the spooks, there's always something they don't tell us — and I got a feeling the captain just got a piece of intel he definitely doesn't like.'
Beasley sighed. The longer they waited, the more paranoid they would become.
Huang used the small penlight to lead the village elders into their usual meeting room. Eleven of the twelve men stared worriedly at him as he spoke. 'Everyone is in their rooms. The gate door is open. Our visitors are asleep, and Fang and his men remain at their posts. I'm told there will be four men, dressed all in black. We need only stay out of their way. It will all be over soon.'
One of the other elders, a ruddy-faced man named Pan who had never liked Huang because of a dispute between their sons, both now grown, widened his eyes. 'I will say it again. I'm outraged that you've made this deal with the secret police. If anyone is hurt, I will blame you, Huang. You.'
'What is worse? Dealing with the police or being forced to open our doors to these criminals? Tonight, our problems will end once and for all. Go now to your posts. Keep low. And watch. I am told it will happen soon.'
Pan held up his index finger at Huang. 'I know he's agreed to give you his truck, but you'd better not accept it. That is, as you say, a gift from a criminal.'
Huang glowered at Pan as the man passed by.
Interestingly enough, Fang had driven his truck inside the central building and parked it in the courtyard, beneath a long row of canvas awnings, out of sight. He'd certainly made it appear as if he were leaving it behind.
As Huang stepped outside, he glanced at the truck then up past the balconies to where Fang now stood on the sloping roof, his cane a dark slash mark across his hip.
Huang grew rigid, and his breath became shallow. His need for revenge or
Exacting
There was no other way.
Frowning over the drizzle, Diaz checked her Cross-Com's downlink channel for a weather report. Damn, the radar indicated it would only get worse, and the wind speed was picking up, the direction shifting more to the southwest.
Her target didn't like the weather either. He had twice wrestled with his position, his Type 88 rifle resting steadily on its bipod. She found it curious that he wasn't toting a more powerful weapon. Still, she knew that the 88 had only been issued to the PLA in small numbers. Perhaps it was one of his personal favorites.
Diaz's own DSR 1 subsonic sniper rifle had been manufactured by the German company AMP Technical Services, and the rifle had been adopted by the GSG 9 counterterrorism group and a few other elite European agencies. DSR stood for Defensive Sniper Rifle, but in Diaz's hands, it was nothing but offensive.
The rifle had a bullpup design, meaning the action and magazine were located behind the trigger. The design increased the barrel length relative to the weapon's overall length, saving weight and increasing maneuverability. The bipod was mounted on upper rails, and the adjustable front grip was mounted on lower rails. Diaz had already made slight adjustments to the buttstock and cheekpiece, and she had inserted a spare four-round magazine into the holder in front of the trigger guard. The extra mag sitting right in front of her hand made reloading much faster and kept her gaze locked ahead on the target zone. The rifle's bipods were firmly planted on her carrying bag, which doubled as a shooter's mat, and the bag sat atop a long, flat rock.
Additionally, the DSR had a rack-and-pinion fully adjustable monopod jutting from the bottom of the buttstock; as a result, the rifle was fully seated on the firing surface by bipods up front, monopod in the back.
Diaz's subsonic variant had been adjusted to incorporate the 7.62x51mm NATO rifle cartridge instead of the
