Nightmare Army. Don Pendleton
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you.” The brunette introduced herself as Anoush, the blonde as Lusine and the raven-haired young woman as Siranush. Once Scott and Alcaster had gotten another table and chairs, the three women sat among the suddenly tongue-tied young men.
“You are all here on vacation?” Lusine asked.
“Er, yes,” Scott said. “We’re medical students on holiday, that’s right.”
The three women exchanged glances. “You are going to be doctors, yes?” Siranush said, placing her hand on Alcaster’s thigh. “We love doctors.”
“Well, we’re not—” he began.
“Great!” Tyrell interrupted a bit too quickly. “We were just about to order a bottle. Is there anything you would recommend?” he asked, ignoring the sudden warning glance from Scott.
Again, the three girls glanced at each other. “You all seem like nice boys,” Aroush said, her voice low. “You should know to be careful about asking that sort of thing here. A lot of bars in the cities have arrangements with the girls, who get a kickback for steering tourists to higher-priced drinks.”
“Oh, they do?” Tyrell asked. “Well, thanks for the tip. I think you all deserve a drink just for telling us that.”
Siranush swept her long, dark hair back over her shoulder, exposing generous cleavage as she nodded at the beer bottles on the table. “You are all drinking beer. Perhaps you would care for something a bit stronger?”
The three students exchanged hesitant glances. “Perhaps...?” Tyrell said.
The blonde flagged down a server and rattled off an order in Armenian, then leaned back in and snuggled up to Scott. “He will bring us a bottle of Ararat cognac. It is very good, and not nearly as costly as other bottles.”
“All right...” Scott leaned over to Alcaster. “What about ‘beer before liquor, never sicker’? I don’t want to be ill for...you know, what comes later.”
Alcaster considered the adage for a moment. “Well, we’ve already eaten, so it shouldn’t be a problem—”
Tyrell cleared his throat. “Guys? Would you mind keeping your heads in the game here, please?”
Their server had returned with a squat bottle and six small glasses. With a flourish and a small bow, he presented the cognac to the group, then set it and the glasses on the table.
“Now, if I remember correctly—” Tyrell said as he distributed glasses to each person and began filling them with the dark amber liquid “—there’s supposed to be a toast with each round, right?”
“Very good, Josh,” Anoush said as she raised her glass. “What would you like to drink to?”
With a broad grin, Tyrell stood and raised his glass. “To a night we’ll never forget!”
Ten hours earlier
“We’re ready for you, Doctor.”
Richter took the offered headset with its attached microphone and slipped it on, adjusting it on his oblong head. “Testing, testing, one, two. Mr. Firke, can you hear me?”
“Yes, and that had better be all I hear from you until we’re finished, understand?”
“Unless I feel the situation warrants it, I will leave the execution of this mission entirely in your hands. On the ground, you are in charge.”
Richter was pleased he’d gotten Stengrave to go along with wiring the infiltration team for video and sound. He’d pushed hard for it, saying he wanted a record of the entire experiment, and that the data they collected on the Armenian village before the test began would be vital for their results. He figured Firke wouldn’t be pleased about it, but as Richter had suspected, he had gone along when he realized there was no getting around his boss’s orders.
Now he watched as the squad of six armed men drove down the deserted mountain road, their vehicle’s headlights barely illuminating a few yards through the foggy night. Cresting a hill, they spotted the lights of the target village a mile away. Firke killed the lights and the engine, and the men got out and checked their gear one last time. Slipping a pair of night-vision goggles on his forehead, he made sure his team was ready to go and led them into the night.
Although the distance wasn’t that great as the crow flies, the steep mountainside varied from passable to almost vertical, and the men had their work cut out for them on some of the rougher sections. Halfway there, two of the men, each carrying a long, hard-shell case slung across his back, split off and began climbing an escarpment overlooking the village. Covering the rest of the mile while making sure they weren’t detected on the way took just over an hour, about as long as Richter had estimated.
He made sure the digital recorders, a primary and two backups, were all running perfectly, then turned his attention back to the over-the-shoulder view he had of the men as they cut their trail, as though he was walking right behind them. After a few minutes of quick, silent movement to get as close to the wall as they dared, Firke held up a fisted hand. All of the men stopped immediately.
Richter checked on the pair that had split off. They had reached the top of their hill and had a great view of the darkened valley, lit only by the lights of the walled village below. Both men unslung their cases and began removing equipment. One uncased a long sniper rifle, uncapped his scope and turned it on, then lay down. After adjusting his position one last time, the second man covered him with camouflage netting, then lay down behind a spotting scope and covered himself. When both men were ready, they radioed in to the rest of the team.
Meanwhile, Firke had reached what looked like a four-foot-high water outflow pipe buried between two hills. An ankle-deep rivulet of water splashed out and trickled down the hillside. The opening of the pipe was covered by a latticework of what looked like rebar. Checking to make sure he couldn’t be seen by anyone on the walls, Firke took a small cutting torch from a pocket, turned it on and began cutting through the bars. Within five minutes he had burned through enough of the latticework to bend back a large portion of it.
He signaled the rest of his men forward to the entrance. Turning on their night-vision goggles, they entered the sewer pipe, the tunnel lit only by the eerie, bright green of the NVGs. Occasionally, Richter saw the fleeting shape and heard a squeak of a rat in the pipe, but Firke and his men didn’t seem bothered in the least.
They progressed deeper into the pipe, until Richter estimated they had gone at least one hundred yards. At an intersection Firke pushed his goggles back onto his forehead and peeked around a corner to see a dim shaft of light and a trickle of water coming down into the sewer from above. He waved his men forward again. When they reached the light and water, Firke took a hand-held screen attached to a small cable and fed the cable up through the sewer grate. A picture flickered into life on the screen and he studied it for a few minutes before stepping past the grate and waving two of his men forward.
They pushed the grate up and turned it sideways to fit it down the hole with them. Carrying it back, the other three hunkered down a few meters away and watched as Firke carefully stuck his head above the hole and looked around.
His camera took in cobblestoned streets and a neighborhood that could have come right out of anywhere in nineteenth-century Europe. Sturdy, wattle-and-daub buildings that had probably been built sometime in the last century lined the street, their tiled roofs two stories above the street. At this hour, the entire place was deserted. The camera caught the glow of the wall lights above, but none was turned to look inside the perimeter.
“What are they doing, Doctor?” The scientist monitoring the recordings, a callow youth of twenty-five—a near genius when it came to breeding virus stock, but relatively untutored in much of the outside world, including this sort of operation—blinked in confusion.
“They’re taking stock of the situation, making sure there will be no surprises