singing. It wasn’t Protocol. It was tradition, and that was something every soldier valued because they often had little more than that to hold on to.
Kirk tried. As the newest member of the team, he felt he had to.
“I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand—”
he began, singing Warren Zevon’s most famous song, but when no one else joined in, he fell silent.
Apparently they saved werewolves for successful missions.
The only sound was the Humvee engine and the desert rolling under its oversize tires.
When Roland started, his choice wasn’t surprising, but he didn’t start with the chorus, because that indicated the beginning of a mission.
“I’m the innocent bystander,”
Roland more yelled than sang.
“Somehow I got stuck…”
Eagle, who had more movies, books, and song lyrics stuck in his head than most Mac hard drives, joined him.
“… between the rock and the hard place.”
Moms, Nada, and Mac were on board for the next, appropriate line.
“And I’m down on my luck.”
Kirk finally got it and the entire team did the next two lines:
“And I’m down on my luck.
“And I’m down on my luck.”
And then they fell silent and that’s the way the Nightstalkers pulled up to the Ranch, which pretty much summed up what Nada would later call “The Clusterfuck in Nebraska.”
If only that was all there ever was to it.
Pitr walked back into Ms. Jones’s office. She could tell by the look on his face that it was bad news. She lifted a finger, indicating for him to deliver it.
“An Acme has decoded the missile’s guidance system. It had two targets preprogrammed into it, with an option switch back at SAC headquarters. And the warhead was a W59 one megaton.”
“Large yield.”
“Yes.”
“And those targets?”
“The first, naturally, was Cuba. That was a secondary targeting overlaid on top of the missile’s original, primary target.”
“And the primary target was?”
“Area 51.”
Neeley had long ago learned that waiting to kill people could be boring. Technically her mission here was recovery, but she’d accepted during Isolation that it would inevitably involve killing at least a few people. Since she’d been on the ground, she’d revised that number upward, because all was not as it had seemed in Isolation.
It never was.
She used the night-vision portion of her retina, just off-center of vision, as Gant had taught her so many years ago. She was experiencing déjà vu, and for good reason. The alley running between ramshackle concrete buildings held several Dumpsters, a burned-out car, and piles of refuse, very similar to an alley in the Bronx so many years ago. Except tonight she was in Abbottabad, Pakistan, and the clock was ticking on making contact with the extraction package.
Except there was a problem, one which Neeley had raised to the dismissive CIA liaison in Isolation. This was an ambush. It was a proven tactic of terrorists to draw in rescue forces and hit them hard. Except forces in this case was “force,” singular, in the person of Neeley, primary operative of the Cellar and the closest thing Hannah back at Fort Meade had to a friend.
Which meant not much of a friend at all, except they’d saved each other’s lives years ago and they’d die for each other. Hannah also sent Neeley on missions like this, where she could get killed.
It was all part of being in the Cellar.
Neeley was buried inside one of the six-foot-high mounds of refuse. She’d squirmed her way in twenty-four hours ago, stayed in it without moving all day as more trash was heaped on top, including various liquids that seeped down on her. She actually appreciated the fouler-smelling and disgusting items because it made it that much less likely someone would come rooting through.
Living was worth a little, and a lot, of discomfort.
Neeley leaned her head to the right, pressing her right eye socket up against the rubber socket on the end of the thermal scope mounted on the sniper
Kirk tried. As the newest member of the team, he felt he had to.
“I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand—”
he began, singing Warren Zevon’s most famous song, but when no one else joined in, he fell silent.
Apparently they saved werewolves for successful missions.
The only sound was the Humvee engine and the desert rolling under its oversize tires.
When Roland started, his choice wasn’t surprising, but he didn’t start with the chorus, because that indicated the beginning of a mission.
“I’m the innocent bystander,”
Roland more yelled than sang.
“Somehow I got stuck…”
Eagle, who had more movies, books, and song lyrics stuck in his head than most Mac hard drives, joined him.
“… between the rock and the hard place.”
Moms, Nada, and Mac were on board for the next, appropriate line.
“And I’m down on my luck.”
Kirk finally got it and the entire team did the next two lines:
“And I’m down on my luck.
“And I’m down on my luck.”
And then they fell silent and that’s the way the Nightstalkers pulled up to the Ranch, which pretty much summed up what Nada would later call “The Clusterfuck in Nebraska.”
If only that was all there ever was to it.
Pitr walked back into Ms. Jones’s office. She could tell by the look on his face that it was bad news. She lifted a finger, indicating for him to deliver it.
“An Acme has decoded the missile’s guidance system. It had two targets preprogrammed into it, with an option switch back at SAC headquarters. And the warhead was a W59 one megaton.”
“Large yield.”
“Yes.”
“And those targets?”
“The first, naturally, was Cuba. That was a secondary targeting overlaid on top of the missile’s original, primary target.”
“And the primary target was?”
“Area 51.”
Neeley had long ago learned that waiting to kill people could be boring. Technically her mission here was recovery, but she’d accepted during Isolation that it would inevitably involve killing at least a few people. Since she’d been on the ground, she’d revised that number upward, because all was not as it had seemed in Isolation.
It never was.
She used the night-vision portion of her retina, just off-center of vision, as Gant had taught her so many years ago. She was experiencing déjà vu, and for good reason. The alley running between ramshackle concrete buildings held several Dumpsters, a burned-out car, and piles of refuse, very similar to an alley in the Bronx so many years ago. Except tonight she was in Abbottabad, Pakistan, and the clock was ticking on making contact with the extraction package.
Except there was a problem, one which Neeley had raised to the dismissive CIA liaison in Isolation. This was an ambush. It was a proven tactic of terrorists to draw in rescue forces and hit them hard. Except forces in this case was “force,” singular, in the person of Neeley, primary operative of the Cellar and the closest thing Hannah back at Fort Meade had to a friend.
Which meant not much of a friend at all, except they’d saved each other’s lives years ago and they’d die for each other. Hannah also sent Neeley on missions like this, where she could get killed.
It was all part of being in the Cellar.
Neeley was buried inside one of the six-foot-high mounds of refuse. She’d squirmed her way in twenty-four hours ago, stayed in it without moving all day as more trash was heaped on top, including various liquids that seeped down on her. She actually appreciated the fouler-smelling and disgusting items because it made it that much less likely someone would come rooting through.
Living was worth a little, and a lot, of discomfort.
Neeley leaned her head to the right, pressing her right eye socket up against the rubber socket on the end of the thermal scope mounted on the sniper
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