Plausible deniability, Bolan thought. Every bureaucrat’s trump card.
Failure was not an option because it never happened.
The repetitive noise of the slicing rotor blades and the cool intake of the sea air made conversation inside the Black Hawk impossible, so Bolan adjusted the fit of his ear mic and switched the frequency so he could talk exclusively to Grimaldi.
“How far, Jack?” Bolan asked.
“All the way, Striker,” Grimaldi answered, repeating the old airborne refrain with a chuckle.
Bolan allowed himself a rare smile as he waited.
Seconds later the Stony Man pilot spoke again. “We’re about three minutes out. And the last report from our limited, myopic eye-in-the-sky showed no activity.”
“Roger that,” Bolan said, amused by his partner’s pejorative description of the drone surveillance aircraft. Grimaldi considered himself a top-notch pilot for virtually any type of aircraft, but held a special disdain for the unmanned variety.
Bolan, on the other hand, had developed a healthy respect for the drones and recognized the advantages and capabilities they brought to the battlefield, not the least of which was they could provide a lot of information and firepower without a lot of risk. He’d been in enough combat situations to know that you had to grab every advantage you could get.
He switched back to the team frequency. “Three minutes. Then we’re on the ropes.”
Five heads nodded in unison. Despite the cool sea air rushing in through the open doors, Bolan could smell the adrenaline-laced sweat.
“Approaching drop point,” Grimaldi said over their radios.
Bolan moved to the edge of the door, adjusted his tight-fitting leather gloves and picked up the thick rope. The others did the same. They felt the Black Hawk cant to the left and angle downward. Outside the night sky was still black, but traces of stone buildings dotted the terrain, punctuated by the occasional winking of a light. Other than that, the remnants of the ancient city below were almost totally dark.
When the helicopter’s movement slowed to a stop, Grimaldi’s voice echoed in their earpieces once again.
“Okay, ladies, all ashore who’s going ashore.”
Bolan tossed the coiled rope through the door and followed it down.
He swiveled on the rope to give himself a better view of the target destination. It was an old fort, or rather the remnants of one from the long-lost days of British colonialism in this part of Yemen, set along the sloping embankment of one of the rising hills that overlooked the coast. Not far away, the seaport had once been one of the busiest in the world, but of late had been practically abandoned as the region continued its downward spiral. Bolan hit the uneven, rock-covered ground seconds later and assumed a prone position several feet away. The jutting rocks poked into his torso, making the position uncomfortable, but in combat, comfort was the rarest of luxuries. He heard the grunts of the others as they touched down as well, and heard the faint click of Grimaldi’s mic as the helicopter disappeared into the darkness.
Bolan did a quick equipment verification check, then glanced at his watch again and marked the time. The Stony Man pilot had enough fuel to circle for twenty minutes before heading back to the landing zone to pick them up. That meant they had to get moving. Their pinpoint placement on a slightly higher elevation gave them the initial advantage of the high ground. Taking out his night-vision goggles, he quickly surveyed the area, centering on the stone tower of the old fortress and the missing sections in the deteriorating wall that surrounded it.
The intelligence-gathering drones had provided them with comprehensive and detailed pictures of the area. But the flat, two-dimensional images didn’t provide an exact, three-dimensional perspective. He saw now that the tapering angle was sharper than he’d anticipated. It would slow them down a tad, but at least the heat and humidity had abated due to the darkness. It was still far from pleasant, however, and each of them was wearing level 4 body armor and Kevlar helmets. Bolan could already feel himself starting to sweat from only this mild exertion.
No movement was discernible. Johnson, the highest-ranking team member, crawled up next to Bolan.
“How’s it look, sir?”
Bolan was not in the military anymore and had never been an officer, thus the salutation was inappropriate. He didn’t bother to correct him.
“The decline’s steeper than expected.” He kept his voice at a whisper. “We’ll have to take extra care.”
“Roger that.”
“But it looks pretty quiet so far,” Bolan said, still keeping his tone low. “Hopefully, they didn’t hear the chopper.”
He knew they had to operate on that assumption, but the specter of an ambush was always a possibility.
“Everybody’s good to go,” Johnson said. “Doerr’s setting up as sniper with the Barrett.”
Bolan nodded and motioned for the rest of them to get moving. He regretted not giving Doerr a spotter, but there was no choice. They’d gone through several rehearsals of movement and room-clearing drills aboard the navy ship, but rehearsals, especially in confined area, were no substitute for the real thing.
At least they had the hope that their adversaries didn’t possess much in the way of night-vision capabilities.
Their quick insertion to the area above the fortress meant a downward trek to the long wall, and offered them the best chance of surprise. Bolan rose to a crouch and swung his M4 around so it hung in front of him, ready to go if needed. Indicating with arm signals for the rest of the team to assume the appropriate staggered intervals, they melted into the darkness along the stark rise. The rocky ground made for slow going until they came to a stretch devoid of stubborn shrubbery and errant rocks. Maintaining his forward movement, Bolan lifted his night-vision goggles once more and made another check of the structure. He saw nothing that indicated enemy movement. With a little luck, they would reach the wall in three to four minutes.
They reached the first portion of the crumbing barrier and paused for another perimeter check and a sitrep with Doerr.
“Everything’s looking quiet so far,” Doerr radioed. “There appears to some kind of vehicle parked under the overhang on the north side.”
“What type of vehicle?” Bolan asked.
“Unknown at this time. Possibly a pickup truck.”
Bolan acknowledged, told him to maintain observation and motioned the team forward. He estimated that they were more than a few minutes behind schedule, which meant they had to pick it up. They got to the edge of the wall, and the angular confines of the fortress lay about fifty feet away.
The fort had been constructed of mud and stone, and Bolan thought it had to have once shone a bright yellow in the midday sun. But that had probably been close to a century ago. Years of neglect and sand and wind had etched a pitted surface into the stones and mortar. Several sections of the wall had worn away, leaving piles of jagged and uneven rocks that slowed their progress.
The grinding noise of a vehicle engine starting mixed with another milder, but continuous, droning that pierced the stillness of the night.
Bolan raised his fist, signaling a full stop. He listened. The engine caught and settled into a rough idle. The sound was loud and deep, like a truck.
Voices, speaking in Arabic, were audible among the rumbling piston noise. Twin beams of headlights illuminated the darkness perhaps