CHAPTER ONE
Over Yonder at the Edge of Nothing
1.
The C-5 Galaxy aircraft pitches and bumps over the jagged air currents above the vast, desolate surface of the Black Sea. The cabin smells of body odor and burning circuits as the leader of a small group of passengers braces himself against the jump seat, checking the luminous dial of his tactical chronograph. It’s now pushing 10:00 P.M. Moscow standard time.
Close enough for government work, the senior operative thinks as he surveys the dead grey slipstream outside the portholes. As far as the night sky is concerned, he could be anywhere. On a business trip over the Pacific. Approaching Hawaii for a long vacation. Hell, the aircraft could be flying over the little hardscrabble hamlet where he grew up. But his true destination—known only to the other four members of his team, a pair of pilots, and a couple of suits in the Defense Intelligence Agency—is a territory in the Tartarus Mountains between Armenia and Azerbaijan that currently holds the distinction of being the Most Dangerous Place in the World. Over yonder at the edge of nothing, the senior operative muses silently. He has a million of these colorful cornpone expressions that he picked up back in his childhood birthplace of Ducktown, Texas. (A QUACKING GOOD PLACE, the man remembers the town sign assuring passersby back in the day.)
A lean and weathered former jock clad in desert camo and body armor, the senior operative is somewhere in his fourth decade, his jarhead buzz cut just starting to streak with grey. Each and every deep line and crease around his icy blue eyes has been earned the hard way. In the field of battle. Under fire. Against the clock. Balancing life and death on a high-tension wire.
Many years earlier, back at Langley, the code name Spur had been conferred upon him during Specialist Training Camp. In those days intelligence operatives didn’t have a choice in the selection of their code names. But once in a while the instructors chose handles apropos of a particular subject’s skill set. The senior operative had a knack for motivating others, as in “Put the Spur to ’em, Paul!” The truth is, though, over the years the code name became the bane of his existence, an embarrassment, but that’s how code names work. They stick to you like a blemish that will never fade.
The man known as Spur feels the center of gravity shifting in the cabin as the aircraft banks over the craggy cliffs of the Balkan coastline. They begin to descend through an invisible chute of Georgian airspace, a sense of levitation tugging at the man’s gut. Military transports approach Camp H. S. Sherman near the northern border at a tremendous velocity for planes of this size—much faster than commercial airliners—due to the constant reports of antiaircraft guns along the Gehenna Highway.
Spur gnashes his teeth as the monstrous airship slams through the thickening atmosphere, pitching and yawing in the darkness. The voice next to him sounds all warbly, as though coming through a tissue of water.
“Racking up the air miles—eh, Spur? Got my eye on that Samsonite luggage.” The wisecracks emanate from the whip-smart Latina sitting across the cabin, also decked out in camo and battle-rattle, her raven-black mane tucked under her headset. Her code name, Pin-Up, is an old-school reference to her traffic-stopping beauty. The moniker had been given to her when the SEAL team recruited her out of the Second Brigade Combat Team, Fourth Infantry, 358th Police Battalion. She had been a nurse in the 358th, and had gotten hit on more times than a punching bag at Gold’s Gym. In civilian life she’d been a working actress in L.A., had shot some national spots, done a few soap operas, but nothing of note.
Now she uses her striking good looks and chameleonlike acting skills to get into places off-limits to the rougher-hewn operatives.
In the intelligence services, code names can be jokey, they can be profane, or they can be cryptic. But on many levels, they are the coin of the realm in this shadowy world of black ops and government wet work, like private passwords for obscure computer applications. In fact, over the years it’s been unclear whether the code name grows on the person, or the person grows into the code name. There’s no denying the fact that the code names among Spur’s team have taken on a certain psychological resonance for each operative.
“Just do me a favor and stay frosty, Pin,” Spur says, and then surveys the length of the cabin. “That goes for all y’all.” He gives a terse nod to the other three agents hunkered along either side of this steel coffin they call a transport plane. Two other men and one other woman. Five operatives in all. All suited up and salty. Ready to rumble. Their HK416 assault rifles on safety, vertical, barrel down between their knees. Each loaded for bear with 5.56-millimeter NATO open-tip rounds. These weapons officially don’t exist. Nor do the specialists wielding them. Nor does this mission. “Spur” will file no paperwork, regardless of outcome. Loss-of-life-in-action carries the field acronym LOL, which is highly appropriate since death is merely a cruel joke to these five ghost soldiers.
The architect of today’s mission is the section chief of the Special Expeditionary Section of the United States Defense Intelligence Agency. All of which is why the mood in this hollow chamber of steel and nylon strapping has the businesslike feel of an operating room as the aircraft approaches the base. The cabin fills with metallic noises beneath the roar of the engines—snapping, zipping, locking.
Spur unbuckles himself and stands with his rifle slung tight across his chest. “Meter’s running, y’all,” he announces to the others, his big gnarled hands gripping the rail to steady him against the turbulence as the landing gear deploys with a muffled rumble. “On touchdown, I want eyeballs on the backgrounds. Gunners are stationed in the tower, trackin’ us with the escort. We got a lot of real estate to cross to get to that fucking bird. Airstrip’s been hairy in recent months. I want lips buttoned.” He shoots a look at a wiry African American man adjusting the chin strap on his headgear. “That means you, Ticker. Keep your mouth shut and your safety off.”
The agent in question makes a zipping motion across his mouth, knowing full well that the comment from Spur is drenched in good-natured sarcasm.
The operative code-named Ticker is a man of few words. The appellation was given to him by the training staff back at Dam Neck. The word has an esoteric origin. In those days, to “tick” meant to be hyperaware of the passage of time, as in “I still got half the SAT test to go, man, and I’m ticking like crazy now with only thirty minutes left on the clock.” The code name suited this handsome agent well whether he liked it or not. Mostly due to his razor-sharp intelligence. During his tenure at the training facility, he’d been hyperaware of everything—not only the hands of the clock.
Still is today.
In his midthirties with a finely trimmed goatee, Ticker holds the distinction of being the youngest Ph.D. to matriculate from MIT’s prestigious Applied Physics Program. He was bound for a tenured position at Oxford when his social-worker wife back in Chicago got herself killed in gang cross fire. Which changed everything for Ticker. In less than a year he was enrolled in the Naval Special Warfare Development Group. Training to be a SEAL. His near genius intellect combined with his relentless drive made him a prime candidate for Spur’s elite ghost unit.
The lurch of the landing gear making contact with the tarmac vibrates through the fuselage.
Copyright © 2021 by POW Entertainment, LLC
