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Buy drinks. William’s buddies there. Maybe they tell you someting.”
    “Good idea. What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
    “You no want to know,” replied the Russian.
     

CHAPTER THREE
    Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan
    Six Weeks Prior
     

     
    The chamber was dark, illuminated only by muted red lights designed to preserve their night vision, while the dull throb of the C-130 cargo plane’s four engines sent a continual vibration through the fuselage.
    “Final check!” barked the jumpmaster.
    Major Chance Redigo came to his feet and again wondered how he could ever actually fight in all the gear they loaded onto a paratrooper.
    He went through the protocols robotically, knowing there were so many things that could cock up a night parachute jump that no checklist could ever cover them all. Then he saw Sergeant Torres come down the steps from the cockpit and waddle toward him under the weight of his gear.
    “It’s a go, sir!” said the sergeant. “Convoy just left. Target is in the uncovered truck, as we discussed.”
    The major nodded. “Then let’s do this thing. Captain?”
    A Redwood tree wearing a helmet turned. “Yes, sir?”
    “This is your show, Captain. The, ah, ‘observer’ and I will be up on the mesa just to scout and call in air if need be. Our ‘allies’ should be in place along the road as planned. The operative word is ‘should,’ so watch your back. You’re only there to advise.”
    “My advice is dispensed in .227-caliber increments sir.”
    “As well it should be. Just bring your crew back alive.”
    “Coming up on drop zone!” yelled the jumpmaster. “Masks on!” Everyone pulled on their oxygen masks, opened their air valves, and gave a thumbs-up. Then he threw the lever, causing the massive ramp door to yawn open as frigid air blasted into the cargo hold.
    Major Chance Redigo, intel officer of the US Army’s Delta Force, kept his tether line fast as the six men walked to the lip of the cargo ramp and looked down on a blanket of clouds. Because of those clouds, he was here instead of a Predator drone, which made him think ruefully that at least some jobs couldn’t be replaced by machines.
    “Check your GPS,” he said into his microphone to the men, and they dutifully did so, looking through their goggles at the digital displays on their wrists.
    “Everyone pop on my mark at twelve thousand above the clouds. Ceiling is supposed to be about eight thousand. That only gives you about two thousand to nail your landing, so we’re flying on instruments tonight. And remember—we were never here.”
    A chorus of “Rogers” came in response, and he nodded to the jumpmaster, who gave him the go sign.
    Then he turned to the “Observer,” who was securing her own oxygen mask.
    “All right, Ms. Jones. This is where it gets real. Sure you want to go through with this?”
    Sarah Kashvilli pulled her mask harness tighter and said, “You have your orders from the Delta commander, Major. I am to accompany you as an observer.”
    “You people from Langley can be so subtle. I was told you were HALO qualified. Guess we’ll find out. See you downstairs.” Then with a movement lacking in elegance, he unhooked the tether and belly flopped into the thin night air of 25,000 feet.
    Without hesitation, Sarah followed, as did the six other Delta Force troopers.
    The icy wind knifed through the thermal layers of Sarah’s jumpsuit as she reached the free-fall terminal velocity of 120 miles per hour. Moonbeams reflected off the clouds with a ghostly light, and in a different context, she would have admired the natural beauty of it. But now her concentration was total as the white blanket rushed up at them. Watching her wrist altimeter, she pulled hard on the ripcord at twelve thousand feet and braced her neck muscles. On cue, the parasail billowed open to yank her like a marionette. Around her, she heard the staccato of muffled whumps as the rest of the team popped their