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I tuck the phone away and remind the team of our timeline. “Once we beach, you’ve got thirty minutes to set up. At twenty-one hundred, switch on your radios and stick to the script. O’Reilly advertised a range of twenty miles for our ambush, so once we give our coordinates, it won’t be long before any planned attack happens. Fish, you cover the rear. Let’s move out.”
Fish and Sadie’s partner, Aaron shuffle toward the back of the group. Chelsea already has the raft out of the bag and unrolled when I rejoin her at the water’s edge. I can’t help but tease the obvious. “You look like you’ve done this before.”
“I was captain of the inflatable polo team in high school,” she answers without looking up.
While I can’t deny she’s funny, hearing only silence or sarcasm is beginning to rub. Mainly because it’s shallow communication, and I’m eager to see more of what’s inside. “Are you always this much of a smartass?”
Chelsea shrugs and continues her work to inflate the raft. “It helps to pass the time.”
I give up. For now. As my temporary partner loads the raft with practiced ease, I don’t miss the graceful way she moves. Pair that with the fact that Chelsea has never tried to prove her worth to us SEALs, and I recognize how lethal she must be. Chelsea may be a fish out of water when not in uniform, but she’s money when it comes to her skills. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.
All eight boats are put into the water soon after, and we begin our seven-mile run down the Maritsa River. The IR shields serving as roofs over the rafts keep us from being spotted by satellite just in case anyone else is watching from the sky. And thankfully, the night shields Chelsea’s ass from my eyes.
The electric motors ensure a quiet and fast ride to our destination, and my team quickly sets up the fake observation post near the train track. Bandaid, Wrench, and their PMC shadows join us at the cemetery after placing the BZ gas canisters. We disappear beneath our infrared shields, and after checking in with base and the scout team, I give the order to turn on the radios, ready to orchestrate our practiced play.
We volley back and forth as we would have done during the trip downriver and settling into our bogus positions. At the end of the script, I give our decoy’s coordinates to mission operations and issue a command for radio silence until the train approaches.
That’s the signal to turn the radio’s auto-transmit feature off and recommence communicating by secure satellite phone. I call into base and get patched in with Bash, who’s leading the scout team. Knot’s voice comes through first. “I’m here with Birdie, O’Reilly, and our CIA contact. We’ve got your locations pegged and confirm your IR signatures have gone dark. The decoys are illuminated perfectly. Scout team, issue radio reports as we direct. Strike team will respond in kind. Remain online until this is over.”
Now, we wait. About fifteen minutes later, Knot says, “The train is on the move. Scout team, radio it in.”
Bash keys up his mike, the sound coming in as an echo over the radio and phone. “Fudd to Porky, the train is leaving the station. ETA seven minutes. Over.”
“Copy, Fudd. We’re in position. Over.”
I turn my radio back down and hear Knot’s satisfaction when he reports. “We have a big rig coming to a stop on the road opposite the tracks. Stand by.”
A few tense moments pass before he adds, “Ten bodies headed toward the decoy. One remaining with the truck. The attack squad is holding at the road. My guess is they’re waiting to see if someone is watching and reacts. Nobody move. I don’t want them spooked.”
Knot counts off the distance to the BZ as our target advances. “Twenty feet, fifteen, ten. Get ready to trigger the gas in three, two, one. Now!”
None of us in the cemetery can see what’s happening, but Knot keeps us updated. “The targets are scattering. Slowing…” and then, “targets are down. Medical team, move.”
Bandaid and Duck scramble, with the rest of us close behind. At fifty yards out, the medical guys don gas masks and hold us back until confirming the BZ has dissipated.
“We got all ten, sir,” I report to my commander and Knot once we reach the scene.
“It’ll take a while to relocate ten men. Myers, do you have something to keep them out until you can move them back upriver?”
“Sir,” Chelsea interrupts. “We could load them into the truck they brought. It’d be a hell of a lot safer, not to mention faster.”
“I like it. That’s your plan. Wrench can hotwire the thing if you can’t find keys fast enough.”
I wink at Chelsea, acknowledging her idea. It sure beats carrying these bastards three hundred yards back to the boats.
“Hill, you see the teams back upriver. Myers, I want you with the prisoners. Bennett, you’re with the truck. Keep in teams and on guard in case this isn’t over.”
Damn. For all the groundwork and setup, that went fast. Pulling my mask off my face, I grin at Chelsea. “Ready to ride shotgun?”
Chelsea cocks her head to the side in challenge. “Hell no. I’m driving.”
Chelsea
The road is a busy trade route, and if I’m guessing right, the attack squadron paid off a local to taxi them here. “I need to deal with the driver before trying to load these men.”
Jackson looks up from searching one of the sleeping bodies. “Local?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
