Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

In truth, Papa was not sure about that last part. The intel was spotty at best, but it was a better answer than the standard ‘need-to-know’ line.

“On site security works four shifts of three on duty at any given time. Probably a dozen, but no more than fifteen in all.” None of the shooters offered comment on the size of the security force they would be going up against, so Papa went on. “There’s a sentry post here.” He tapped a spot on the map. “And the other two guard the gate, which is hardly ever used. They’ll be buttoned up tight tonight.

“Civilian personnel numbers no more than twenty. Scientists and support staff. Most of the work is done in the east wing of the old hotel building.” His finger continued to move about the map. “Living quarters are in west wing. That’s where we’ll be doing most of our work tonight. You all have your cards?”

Each of the shooters had been issued a short deck of laminated cards, the size and shape of regular playing cards, with photos of key targets believed to be at the facility. Although destroying the facility and everyone in it was the primary objective, if any of the researchers survived, there was always a chance that the project could be reconstituted, probably somewhere a lot harder to reach. Driver nodded, answering for the rest of the team.

“Our job is simple and dirty. If you see them, kill them. No exceptions.”

Papa watched for a reaction—a flinch, a look of distaste, or perhaps worse, a gleam of hungry psychotic anticipation—but he saw nothing. These men were professionals. They knew that they were just a policy tool—a sword—and like any weapon or tool, they bore none of the responsibility for how they were wielded from afar by politicians and bureaucrats. The job was the job. They did it and then they went home. If they were lucky, the memories of the violence done would quickly fade.

Even the most dedicated and capable soldiers were sometimes haunted by the ghosts of the men they had killed in open combat. Unlike regular soldiers, spec ops shooters sometimes had to carry out assassinations, killing unsuspecting, and often unarmed, targets from a distance. Usually—not always, but usually—there was a very good reason why those targets needed to be taken out, but part of the job description was that you didn’t second guess the chain of command. The toughest part of the shooter’s job was the balancing act: keeping humanity in check long enough to get the job done, without being driven crazy by the ghosts or turning into a sociopath.

Not everyone succeeded.

“If you see them and they’re already dead,” he continued, “check to see if the face matches one of your cards. Bring me a royal flush, and I’ll buy a keg for your team room.” When that did not immediately elicit the laughter he had hoped for, Papa decided to wrap it up. “Any questions?”

There were none. Papa inclined his head. “Driver, it’s your show.”

As the team leader began assigning individual tasks to the other men, the one called Billy Boy approached Papa and handed him a small, black, waterproof bag. Inside, Papa found a set of A/N PVS-7B night vision goggles, a short-range radio with headset, and a Skorpion vz 61 7.65 millimeter submachine pistol, outfitted with a suppressor. He gave the Czech manufactured weapon a cursory inspection. Its collapsible wire stock was folded over in the stored position, so it was only a little bigger than an ordinary semi-automatic pistol.

With a cyclic rate of 900 rounds per minute, the Skorpion was not the subtlest of weapons, but it had the advantage of being extremely generic. Like a lot of weapons from former Soviet-bloc nations, there were so many of them on the black market that they were virtually untraceable. When the storm passed and the damage was discovered, there would be nothing to directly point the finger back to the Agency. There would be suspicions, of course, but no meaningful physical evidence.

Papa fitted the night vision goggles over his head and turned them on. After a moment, the world was rendered in a hazy green. Raindrops scattered the ambient light, giving the impression of static, but it was a big improvement over what he had been able to see before. He snugged the radio headset into place, and then waited for the team to finish their preparations. When Driver called for a radio check, he dutifully keyed the mic and said, “This is Papa, roger, out.”

“Move out,” Driver did not transmit this message, but spoke in his normal voice. “Papa, stick with me.”

Papa nodded and fell into step alongside the team leader. His job was to observe, and if something unexpected happened, advise. He was content to do the former in silence. Billy Boy trailed behind them, while the rest of the team split off in pairs, carrying out their respective pieces of the mission.