Fallen Angel (11 page)

CHAPTER 12

MOYER KEPT AN EYE
on Crispin as they approached shore. Insertion into hostile territory would frighten any man with half a brain. Moyer knew how the other members of his team would react. He had been in dicey situations with them in a dozen different countries. Crispin, however, was the unknown. It was one thing to excel in training; it was a completely different matter to go up against a real enemy.

Over the years of his service, Moyer saw men who were brave and steady on the military base but stumbled on feet of clay the first time a bullet whistled by their ears. He never criticized those individuals. They were probably smarter than he.

So far Crispin did everything well and without hesitation. He even removed the almost ever-present earbuds without Moyer's prompting.

The petty officer slowed the CRRC a mile out and even more when they were a hundred yards from the shore. The outboard motor was noisy and sound carried over water very well. The insertion point was selected carefully. It was a short span of sand surrounded by rugged rocks and low cliffs. In theory, no one would be around, but theory had a way of going south. One old insomniac who enjoyed a little nighttime surf fishing could blow the whole operation.

The petty officer guiding the boat operated it like an Indy racer, familiar with every nuance of the craft and of the sea. Moments ago, he steered through low surf, timing his approach to ride the incoming waves. The boat beached as if the sailor practiced the maneuver at this spot a hundred times.

Moyer gave no orders. There was no need. The thick, rigid, rubber hull slid up the sand and his men sprinted from the craft. J. J. and Pete were first and ran two yards and dropped to their bellies, weapons pointed before them, sweeping the beach. J. J. carried an M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System; Pete an M4A1 carbine.

Jose and Crispin were on their heels, taking positions a few yards to either side of the first two men.

Moyer followed Rich from the boat. Both men stopped, turned, and pushed the Zodiac back into the water. The petty officer would have a challenge getting back through the surf without cranking the throttle enough to be heard a mile away, but Moyer was certain, based on what he already saw the man do, the sailor would make it happen. Had there been houses, industry, or towns nearby, they would have rowed the last hundred yards and another sailor would have been aboard to help row back out. That wasn't needed here.

Moyer's eyes, aided by the NVGs he wore, scanned the area. Nothing in the green, light-enhanced image.

He started for a small cliff on the south side of the beach, jogging through the thick sand. A glance to his side revealed his men doing exactly as they planned: weapons at the ready and moving from side to side and up to the high ground.

The sand gave way to broken shale and loose rock. Using the sling on his M4, Rich shouldered his weapon, put his back to the cliff face, and cupped his hands. Moyer estimated the top of the drop-off at nine feet, an easy scale.

Moyer pointed at J. J. who stepped forward, placed a foot in Rich's hand, and stood as if he were standing in a stirrup. Pete and Jose kept their weapons pointed at the top of the cliff. Crispin and Moyer kept an eye on the beach around them.

Slowly, J. J. peered over the cliff's edge. "Now."

Rich lifted and J. J. pulled himself over the edge. Moyer couldn't see what J. J. was doing, but he knew anyway. His weapons expert would be flat on his stomach, surveilling the area.

"Clear."

The announcement came over the earpiece Moyer and the others wore. He motioned to Crispin who followed J. J.'s example. Jose went next, then Pete. Moyer was next. Rich, whose strength still amazed Moyer even after so many missions, put a little extra into the lift. For a moment, he was sure his friend was going to throw him up the cliff.

Moyer and Jose leaned over the cliff. Rich took several steps back to get a running start. He planted a boot in the side of the cliff and reached for the upper edge. Moyer and Jose each grabbed an arm and helped the big man up and over the side.

Jose triggered his tactical throat microphone. "You ever heard of Jenny Craig, big guy?"

"You want your kids to grow up without a father, Doc?"

"Hey, I'm just sayin',
amigo
. You're just a few pounds away from looking good."

"Boss, permission to squash Doc like a bug."

"Denied. For now." Moyer was on his feet and moving to an asphalt road a short distance away. The macadam had so many holes it reminded him of a bombed-out runway.

As planned, the team split into two teams of three. One squad on each side of the road. Rich led Jose and Crispin on the eastern side of the road; Moyer took point on the western edge. Also per plan, Rich's group stayed fifty yards to the rear giving one team the opportunity to come to the aid of the other should the need arise.

Moyer set off in double time, his eyes ever forward looking for headlights or movement that would indicate they were no longer alone.

He picked up the pace, keeping in mind it did no good to wear his men out before they were thirty minutes into a mission.

TWO KILOMETERS LATER, THEY
departed from the road without seeing another human. Moyer could only imagine what someone driving down the road might think if they caught sight of six heavily armed, helmeted men jogging along the path.

The area around them was bare with areas of low shrubs. Hills still clinging to what remained of their snow blankets loomed to the west.

Moyer slowed his men as a weatherworn building came into view. It looked like a two-story barn without the accompanying farmland. Its wood siding was stained from years of resisting rain, snow, wind, and months of freezing temperatures. It was the kind of building a landscape painter would enjoy replicating on canvas. To Moyer, it represented the next step in the mission.

A small grove of Siberian larch stood a few yards from the road. Moyer and his team took cover behind the trees. It was still several hours before sunrise, a realization that made his mind run home. There was almost a fifteen-hour difference between here and his South Carolina home. What was his family doing with their afternoon? Moyer refocused his thoughts. He had business.

Moyer raised a small pair of M25 stabilized binoculars to his eyes and studied the building and the few small shacks around it. No indications of life; no activity. "Place looks abandoned."

"Look at this place," Rich said. "Would you hang around? Cold, desolate, no fast-food joints."

"It's a good thing we're trained to endure such hardships." Jose kept his voice low.

"Desolate is what we want right now." Moyer lowered the binoculars. "That's our building. We go in quiet but loaded. Shaq, you take Junior and cross the road. Approach the structure from the rear. I'll take Hawkeye and we'll come in from the north side. That should keep us from view of anyone who might be watching from the other buildings."

"You sure you don't want me to take the new guy?"

"Thanks, but I don't want him showing you up. Hawkeye, leave your toys." Moyer turned to J. J. "Colt, you and your M110 take a sniper position forward and keep an eye out for problems. Doc, you be his extra eyes."

"Roger that, Boss." J. J. worked his way to the front of the small stand of trees and removed the lens cover of the AN/PVS-174 night sight. The Army Navy/Portable Visual Search device turns night into day. Moyer watched as Jose took a position a few feet to J. J.'s right.

"Let's do this fast and sweet, Shaq."

"Will do, Boss. Will do." Rich turned to Pete. "Let's hit it, Junior."

"On your six, Shaq."

The two sprinted across the narrow road and a dozen yards farther on. Each man moved quickly but with caution. Moyer gave them two minutes before following his assistant team leader. He wished for more cover but nothing was available. It was one reason they worked at night.

The industrial building grew in Moyer's NVGs but still no motion. What little intel they had for the region gave no indication hostiles waited for them, but there was—somewhere—an Air Force Spec Ops team that might beg to differ.

Rich and Pete made it to the back of the building without incident; Moyer and Crispin arrived at the side of the building moments later.

"I got a door here." Rich's voice came over Moyer's earpiece.

"Understood. Colt?"

"All clear, Boss."

The wall by Moyer had a series of six double-hung windows, each covered in grime. He saw no lights. Still, he raised a pair of fingers to his eyes, then pointed at the windows. Crispin nodded, then glanced in the window nearest him and immediately pulled his head back. With a shake of his head he indicated he saw nothing. Moyer did the same with the window close to him: nothing but blackness.

Moyer lowered his head and scrambled past the window, not taking the chance someone with a gun might be sitting in the dark. Moyer checked half the windows; Crispin eyed the remaining three. The best Moyer could tell, nothing but darkness filled the building.

Reaching the corner with Crispin in tow, Moyer joined Rich and Pete. A sharp, upraised hand by Rich stopped Moyer in midstep. Rich gave a hand signal directing Moyer to look in the rear window near where Rich stood.

Moyer approached and glanced through the glass: A small, red glow floated four feet off the floor. Laser sight? Ghost?

Rich brought two fingers to his lips, then pulled them away.

Cigarette. Good catch, Shaq.

Two feet north of the window was a door covered with peeling red paint. Moyer took a position to one side, Crispin immediately behind him. Rich took the other side, Pete on his six.

Moyer eased a gloved hand onto the knob and turned it with painful slowness. It rotated. Unlocked. Moyer's eyes drilled into Rich's.

Rich nodded and turned on his tactical light, a small flashlight attached to the underside of his M4. The others did the same.

Moyer pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, his light slicing the black, his weapon pressed into his shoulder. Other beams swept the area looking for any threat.

The floating red glow was near the middle of the wide, empty room. Moyer drew down on it and the dim shape behind. The others followed suit until all four beams were fixed on a man seated in a wood chair, a cigarette in his lips.

"Gentlemen. I've been expecting you." The voice was calm and the accent thick. He leaned to the side and extended his arm.

"Don't move." Rich took a step closer, close enough that the barrel of his M4 was only inches from the man's head.

"Slow down, cowboy." The man continued to extend his arm. Moyer heard a click, and a dim light pushed back the darkness. Seated in the chair was a bald man with a half crown of hair running from ear to ear. He was round in the middle and slump shouldered. He wore glasses with thick lenses and a wire frame. His clothing was that of a working man: dirty jeans, heavy flannel shirt, and work boots. He looked like he'd be more comfortable with a platter of nachos and a six-pack.

The lamp sat on a battered folding table and shared the space with a pot of tea, an unidentifiable half-eaten sandwich, and a nearly empty bottle of vodka.

Moyer signaled Pete and Crispin to finish securing the building. Moments later they returned. "Clear," Pete said. "But you won't believe what we found."

Moyer kept his focus on the bald man. "State your name."

"You know my name. I'm why you're here."

"State you name," Moyer repeated. Rich put the barrel of his weapon to the man's temple, putting the exclamation point to the order.

"Lev."

"Lev what?"

"Lev Nikitin. Now, can you call off your dog?"

"He's our man." Moyer waved Rich off.

Lev grinned. If Rich put any fear in the man, it didn't show. Lev had the look of a man who had seen a lot, maybe too much.

"I don't have much to offer. I'm afraid I finished the tea. The vodka . . . well, you are on duty, are you not?"

Moyer frowned. "Yeah, just like you."

"Ah, I see. You think I'm drunk. Well, I'm Russian. Drunk is a long way off."

"Are you sure this is our guy?" Rich's disdain was clear.

"What? You don't like my looks?" Lev stood. "You think I should wear a tie and suit coat? How many agents do you think are willing to work in this area? Vodka is a staple of Russian diet. It got my father and mother through the Cold War years and my grandparents through Stalin."