“I gave Zack the authority he needs to gain access to a cache there at the Point. It’s got anything you could possibly need.”
“I don’t have credos to go anywhere on base.”
“Taken care of. Plus, I’m sending Travers down in a helo to pick you guys up and bring you back into this area.”
“Chris Travers? He’s a pilot?”
“Not much of one, but he’s learning.”
Court didn’t feel terribly comforted by this, but he had a feeling he’d just taken on an assignment where dying in a helicopter crash would be the least of his worries.
70
Court and Zack both felt like two kids who had been left alone overnight in a candy store. By the time they turned on all the lights in the massive underground storage facility to see what they had available to them, the two ex–CIA employees felt like they could fight a small insurgency.
The underground warehouse was the size of a supermarket. On shelves, in lockers, and in numbered squares on the floor for reference and restocking, thousands of items sat ready for the taking. Small arms and ammunition, knives, motorcycles, rubber boats, parachute rigs, night vision devices, and communications gear. Climbing equipment and helicopter fast ropes, camouflage uniforms, and snow skis. Explosives, crossbows, medical supplies, GPS units, and even horse saddles.
They selected kit for their job ahead, although there were a lot of questions about just what they would be getting themselves into. Two guys hitting a building with an opposition force of eight to ten was bad enough, but Court and Zack knew precious little about the capabilities of their enemy, and absolutely nothing about the building itself.
They went with general-purpose gear: pistols and carbines, a sniper rifle with a suppressor for Zack, and an ultra quiet small-caliber suppressed handgun for Court. They stocked up on ammo and magazines, body armor, radio headsets, medical equipment, ropes, knives, and other accessories useful for men in their profession.
They also equipped themselves with grenades and explosive breaching charges.
Zack whistled after he and Court looked at everything they had selected to take with them on their op. “What do you say you and me say screw it to Hanley and instead go invade some Caribbean nation? I think we could orchestrate a coup in Dominica, maybe even Grenada. Make our own laws and live like kings.”
Court ignored him, because something had caught his eye: a door that read Experimental Locker.
He went inside, flipped on a light, and began looking around. Zack followed him in. They walked between several shelves packed with a large collection of more esoteric equipment. Microdrones, robot cameras, even a heartbeat detector for tactical teams that looked useful to Court until he tried to lift it, then decided he’d rather check back in a few years when the eggheads got it miniaturized into something he wouldn’t have to schlep around like a medicine ball.
They read the tags and printed material attached to several other different pieces of equipment. Hightower said, “I don’t think you and I are smart enough to figure all this shit out.”
But Court knelt down over a black watertight case and pulled a laminated instruction booklet out of an attached plastic pouch.
Hightower walked over to the unit and bent down to see what had Court so engaged. He read the label on the case, then he read it again. Then he shook his head. “Hell no.”
“Hell yes,” replied Court.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You’re a hero, dude. But you’re not a superhero. That right there is a one-way ride to hell.”
“I can make it work.”
“You’re gonna die.”
“Gotta die of something.”
“Shit, man, die of something else.”
Despite continued protests from Zack, Court lifted the twenty-five-pound case and lugged it out with the rest of the gear they would take back with them.
Zack followed him out. “Seriously, Six, what the hell are you thinking about doing? It’s eight dudes in a house. We go in, hit it, and quit it.”
Court said, “I’m planning ahead. I’m going after Denny.”
“Fuck that. Denny’s untouchable. Hanley would never sanction it.”
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t work for the CIA. I’d probably get written up or something.”
—
Just after nine thirty a.m., a small blue and white helicopter flew low over the trees at the west end of Harvey Point, and then it slowed to a hover over a grassy field just south of the SAD storage facility. Zack and Court stood next to all their cases and packs of gear and watched the helicopter land.
The aircraft powered down and Chris Travers climbed out of the right seat, then walked directly over to the two men.
There was no greeting. He just said, “I hope you dumbasses don’t think you are taking all that shit on board this helo.”
Zack said, “We weighed it. Two hundred forty-five pounds of kit. That’s a Robinson R44 you’re flying there. You can carry this, us, and more.”