Target Deck - 02 (59 page)

“Well, take a shot at it. If you miss and the hook crosses through the path of those microwave transmitters below we are fucked but no pressure or anything.”

“Some of us like the pressure,” Pat said as he rotated his arm, warming up his shoulder.

Grabbing the hook, Pat wound up, feeling the weight in his hand for a few mock practice throws. Kurt tied off the free running end of the rope around a fixture for a lightning rod at the edge of the hangar roof. Bolted firmly in place, it would be able to support their weight.

Thirty feet away was the three sided communications tower with antenna and satellite dishes hanging off the side. Pat took a deep breath. Stepping forward with one foot, he overhanded the metal hook through the night sky. The mercenaries winced as the hook passed through one of the metal cross bars and thudded off the side of the mast. It made noise even with the rubber padding.

Kurt slowly retracted the rope and as if by magic the hook snagged on the metal cross member.

There was the ghost of a smile on Deckard's face.

“Who owes who a case of beer now?” Pat boasted. “I gots some skills.”

Kurt carefully untied the knot around the lighting rod fixture and retied it using some mountaineer knots to make the rope as taut as possible. The former GSG-9 commando then handed out the 550 chord lengths he had cut. Aghassi was going across first. He used the chord to tie a loop through his belt and then across the rope bridge which would act as a safety line if he slipped and fell.

The mercenaries had constructed the rope bridge across thirty feet of empty space, crossing over the microwave sensors and barbwire fence below. The drop was about forty feet, enough to kill you in and of itself. Aghassi looked somewhat less than confident as he felt the rope creak and strain under his weight. Laying on top of the rope, he attempted to commando crawl across but with his AK-103 and other combat equipment making him top heavy, it was not long before he slipped and was dangling under the rope, holding on with his hands and feet crisscrossed over the top.

Grunting his way across the rope, Aghassi crossed the chasm and pulled himself onto the communications tower. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his uniform, he was visibly tired. Kurt went next, tying himself into the rope and them shimmying across. Aghassi was already climbing down the tower to the roof of the command and control building.

The other mercenaries pulled security, watching for signs of enemy activity. If one of their own was spotted on the rope, the climber would be helpless while he was taken apart by gunfire.

Kurt managed to commando crawl across the top of the rope the entire way, with one bent knee and ankle locked into the rope while the other leg hung underneath to help him keep his balance. Not bad for a guy who was medically discharged from the German military after a rappelling accident.

Once on the other side, Pat tied his tether in and started across the rope.

“Shooter-One?” Deckard said over the radio.

“All quiet here.”

“Let's hope it stays that way.”

When Pat was almost to the other side, Deckard tied in and waited until Pat came off the rope and scooted down the tower to join the other two mercenaries. As he began his commando crawl, Deckard got that sinking feeling. It wasn't just a fear created by vertigo, the rope really was stretching to its limits as he was now the last man across. With the loss of dexterity, he had a hard time maintaining his grip. His forearms were also about torqued out. As he reached out with his hands, he pulled himself forward with his ankle resting over the top of the rope.

Every movement was a struggle. The Oaxaca campaign had taken him well over his threshold. How much longer he could hold out, he had no idea. There was little experience in the world in pushing this hard or coming this far. They had traveled into the unknown.

“Six, freeze right there!” Nikita's warning came over his headset. “Two guards just came from behind the far side of the hangar. They are walking towards you between the chain link fence and the hangar.

Without forward movement to help stabilize him, Deckard's body slowly rotated off the top of the rope where he hung upside down underneath. With his plate carrier and rifle hanging off his body, it was simply too difficult to maintain his balance.

In the darkness, he could hear voices in Arabic advancing below him.

He tried to lock his fingers around the rope, securing them in place like a vise but knew that he was slowly losing purchase as his grip gave way. His gloved hands slipped so he tried to regain a better grip but was unable to clench his hands around the rope.

The improvised tether tied around his belt and the rope saved him from falling. It pulled tight as he hung upside down with his arms out. His feet were crossed and locked into the rope.

Gravel crunched under approaching footsteps. As blood ran to his head, Deckard heard their voices as one lit up a cigarette. The words were in Arabic.

“No one knows what happened in Mexico?” one of the guards asked the other.

Deckard was struggling to stay alive but picked up the gist of the conversation.

“It just exploded. It might have been an accident but no one knows. Maybe someone was smoking in the ammo dump again,” the other guard said, grabbing the lit cigarette out of his partner's mouth. The smoker laughed as he grabbed it back and took a puff.

“I just can't wait to get out of this place.”

“No kidding. They are talking about sending the entire group to Syria in a few weeks.”

“I've heard the rumor.”

The guards were passing right under Deckard as he hung helplessly. Nikita might be able to get off a shot if he were compromised but not before the guards filled him with lead. Feeling movement across his neck, Deckard panicked. The sling on his AK-103 rifle was sliding right over his head.

Swatting out his hand, he managed to hook it through the sling just as it was about to fall through the night and land beside the guards. Deckard closed his eyes as he hung on to the sling, the rifle swinging below him.

“I think they have another group working Syria already and just want to send us for the final push. Once Syria falls to the Brothers then we will be going into Iran.”

“If Allah wills it.”

The guards moved on, turning around the corner of the hangar and out onto the runway.

“You are clear,” Nikita said, letting out the breath that he had been holding.

Deckard managed to get the sling back over his head and shoulders. He had to use his forearms as hooks, bending at the elbows and throwing them over the rope. His hands were next to useless at the worst possible moment. Inch by inch, he moved like a caterpillar across the rope to the communications tower.

When he finally got there, his face red and dripping with sweat, he held onto the metal structure, standing on it with his boots and resting for a moment. Testing his grip on the handle of his Sub-Saharan knife, he pulled it free and cut through the tether chord. Placing the knife back in its sheath, he slowly made his way down the tower.

“Are you okay?” Pat asked him once he got down on the roof. “I thought we had lost you for a second there.”

“Me too,” Deckard said. “Me too.”

50

One by one, the mercenaries dropped off the roof of the windowless building. After a careful examination for an easier way in, there was no other entrance aside from the single doorway on the ground level. Hanging off the side of the building, each man let go and fell a few feet down to the gravel. Once on the ground they were at the outer wall and outside the range of the microwave detectors that were arrayed between the building and the fence.

Deckard, Pat, and Kurt took up positions around the front entrance where the biometric sensors were located while Aghassi started pulling out his tools.

“Let's watch MacGyver get us out of this one,” Pat said breaking his balls.

“You fuckers are going to eat your words,” Aghassi promised.

Retrieving a small tube of finger print powder, he blew a small amount over the glass fingerprint scanner installed next to the door. Next, he booted up his notebook computer and set it down while the operating system loaded. Waiting on the computer, he pulled a small sandwich bag from his kit and shook his beef jerky out of it, dumping the Slim Jims in his cargo pocket. Taking a few hits off his Camelbak water bladder, he spit some of the water into the plastic bag.

“Hold this,” he said, handing the bag to Kurt while he went back to his computer. Clicking through the ToughBook computer he brought up the picture he had taken of the relieved command center staff member who he had photographed during the guard shift change. Transferring the image from the camera onto his notebook, he cropped the image of the man's face and put it against a flat black background.

“Give me that bag,” Aghassi said, grabbing it from Kurt.

Holding the computer screen up in front of the camera that conducted the bio-metric face scan, he placed the bag of water on top of the powder that had stuck to the oils left behind by previous user's finger on the scanner.

The face scanner measured the distances between distinct physical features on the face in front of it, thirty seven different measurements in all from ear to ear to nose to lip, to eye to eye, and so on. The water bag pressed down on the powder residue sticking to the fingerprint, simulating the flat pad of the finger itself. Both scanners hummed as they operated.

After a few seconds there was a click within the door as a deadbolt lock retracted back inside the heavy metal door.

Deckard reached out and grabbed the handle. The door easily swung open on its hinges without so much as a squeak.

“Eat your words,” Aghassi reminded him, just to say he told them so.

The mercenaries stepped inside, moving to the walls of the corridor as automatic overhead lighting kicked on. The walls were painted flat off-white with linoleum tiles on the floor, completely nondescript with nothing on the walls, not even a fire plan with directions. The door clicked shut behind them as Aghassi slipped inside while stuffing his computer back into his kit.

At the end of the hall, a door opened. The mercenaries held their weapons at the high ready as a figure appeared looking around, surprised that the overhead lights had flipped on. He was going business casual in khakis and a polo shirt.

“Oh,” his mouth hung open as he spotted the four shooters zeroing in on him. The Samruk International men walked forward, their muzzles not wavering from center mass of their target.

“Well,” the man conceded. “This is a surprise. You are coming in from Mexico?”

“Open the door,” Deckard ordered.

The black site employee scanned his access card and the glass door clicked open. As he opened it, Deckard pushed him inside. They were in some kind of war room. There were work stations lined up on desks, the screens blacked out as they were all in sleep mode. Six flat screen television sets were hung on the far wall. Five were turned off, the other was running a 24 hour news network but was on mute.

“Who are you?”

“Greg Soloman. I'm a special activities manager for G3 Communications,” he volunteered.

“Greg Soloman, special activities manager,” Deckard repeated. “Where is the safe?”

“What-”

Greg's words were interrupted as Kurt slammed a fist into the manager's stomach.

“Where is the safe?”

The G3 manager was struggling to catch his breath.

“Stand up straight,” Deckard said as he pulled him up. “Take us to the safe.”

Greg led them into the adjoining room where there was a shoulder high safe sitting in the corner of an office. Turning the dial, he opened the heavy composite metal door.