“That was my first thought, but the target complex is less than a five-minute helicopter flight from the Branson Airport, where we’ll be staged. They obviously expect advanced warning of an attack,” said Felix.
“Or they suspect the place is already under surveillance from a distance,” said Oleg.
“Right. And there’s nothing worse than a surprise,” said Felix. “They’re probably figuring some shock factor into our sudden arrival.”
“Anything on who or what we’re up against?”
“Oddly, no,” said Felix. “But I’m guessing it’s an assassination team.”
“Easy enough. I’ll have them pack the light machine guns and their ammunition in separate bags. One for each helicopter,” said Oleg.
“Good idea. And the more I think about it, make sure everyone packs a separate mission bag with their primary weapon, pistol, ammunition, night vision, and plate carrier gear. If privacy turns out to be a concern at the Branson Airport, we’ll have to kit up in the helicopters.”
“Got it,” said Oleg. “No grenades or heavier stuff?”
“Not if we’re flying in hot,” said Felix. “One unlucky hit and kaboom. Everything that doesn’t go in the personal kits should go into sorted bags for easy access if the mission profile changes. I’m told we’ll have some friendly support at the hangar to watch over anything we don’t take in the helicopters.”
“And some friendly ground support at the site? Radio frequencies for contact and coordination?” said Oleg. “What exactly are we defending here? My guess is an oligarch’s mansion or one of Pichugin’s rich American friends?”
“That was my first guess, but a quick look at the attached maps shows what looks to be some kind of campground or summer retreat,” said Felix.
“What? Like a snazzy summer camp where rich people dump their kids?” said Oleg. “I heard the Ozarks are a popular vacation place, but I didn’t think people like Pichugin sent their children to the United States.”
“To be honest, I don’t know what this is,” said Felix, opening a few attachments.
One was a schematic representation of the camp’s layout and internal roads. Shaped like an X, with four larger buildings and a pool in the center and two square fields a few hundred yards to the north. The four wings of the X appeared to be rows of cabins and longer structures labeled BATHHOUSE. Another contained several photographs of the buildings and cabins. All one-story structures, the cabins built in orderly rows between the trees. The X was simply labeled SITE ZERO.
“Definitely not a camp for rich people,” said Oleg. “Unless this is what they’re into these days. You can never say, right? I mean, they pay twice as much for tattered clothing.”
“Looks abandoned in these pictures,” said Felix, still not sure what to make of it.
The next set of pictures gave him an uneasy feeling. A Google Maps satellite image of the same site without any structures, the location only recognizable by the two rectangular clearings shown in the schematic to the north, labeled as ATHLETIC FIELDS. Only the outline of an X meticulously drawn in the center indicating where the camp should be. He searched the image, finding no indication of the camp, or any roads leading to it. A small icon to the east, at the end of a long cover, was labeled DOCK. Only accessible by water and somehow invisible to Google Maps. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill summer camp.
“What the hell is this place?” asked Oleg.
He shook his head. “In the end, it doesn’t matter. A job is a job—and Pichugin is paying us well for this one. Brief the team about the gear and get the steaks cooking. It might be a while before we eat again.”
“I’m getting a Last Supper vibe,” said Oleg.
“Ah. Don’t read too much into it,” said Felix before doing the exact opposite the moment Oleg stepped out of the RV.
He clicked through the attachments and reread the mission documents at least three more times before concluding that they were in for a very long night. Something was off about this mission. Pichugin hadn’t provided any indication of who or what they would be defending. The “why” wasn’t important. He didn’t care “why,” as long as they got paid. But they’d never gone in this blind about the “who” or “what,” and that bothered him.
CHAPTER 41
Devin Gray languished under the pontoon boat canopy, the stifling heat and humidity sapping his energy and eroding his enthusiasm for anything but another ice-cold bottled water from their rapidly emptying cooler. He pulled his feet back and out of the sun, his knees now bent at a ninety-degree angle. A few hours from now, the sun’s superheated rays would fill the entire boat, adding to the misery—while dangling perilously low on the horizon. Dangerous because they were running out of time.