Burning Angels

Each of their rucksacks was lined with a waterproof canoe bag. The tough black sacks transformed the heavy packs into makeshift flotation devices. Holding these before them, the three figures began to kick out for the ragged fringe of palm trees that marked the shoreline. They began surfing inwards on the powerful breakers. Barely minutes after hitting the water they made landfall, crawling on to the sand and dragging their sodden forms into the nearest patch of cover.

For five minutes they waited and listened in the shadows, scanning their surroundings with eagle eyes.

If someone had spotted the C-130 making the drop, it was now that they were most likely to put in an appearance. But Jaeger could detect nothing. No unusual noise. No surprise movement. Seemingly no life out there at all. Apart from the rhythmic pounding of the waves on the pristine white sand, all around was utter stillness.

Jaeger could feel the adrenalin of the coming attack kicking into his veins now. It was time to get moving.

He pulled out a compact Garmin GPS unit to check his position. It wasn’t unknown for aircrew to put troops down on the wrong grid, and tonight’s pilot would have had more excuse than most to do so.

Grid confirmed, Jaeger grabbed a tiny, luminous compass, took a bearing and signalled the way forward. Narov and Raff moved in behind him and they set off noiselessly into the forest. No words were necessary between such battle-hardened professionals.

Thirty minutes later, they’d traversed the largely deserted landmass. The island was cloaked in thick groves of palm trees, interspersed with swathes of shoulder-high elephant grass, which meant they’d been able to move like wraiths through its cover, unseen and undetected.

Jaeger signalled a halt. By his calculations they should be one hundred metres short of the villa complex in which Leticia Santos was being held.

He crouched low, and Raff and Narov closed in.

‘Suit up,’ he whispered.

The threat from an agent like Kolokol-1 was twofold: one, breathing it in; two, absorbing it via a living, porous membrane like the skin. They were using Raptor 2 protective suits, a special forces variant made of an ultra-lightweight material, but with an inner layer of activated carbon microspheres to soak up any droplets of agent that might be sloshing around in the atmosphere.

The Raptor suits would prove hot and claustrophobic, and Jaeger was glad they were going in during the dead of night, when the Cuban air was at its coolest.

They also had state-of-the-art Avon FM54 gas masks, to shield face, eyes and lungs. They were superlative pieces of kit, having a flame-hardened exterior, a single visor and an ultra-flexible, close-fitting design.

Even so, Jaeger loathed donning these respirators. He was a man who thrilled to the open and the wild. He detested being locked up, entrapped or unnaturally constrained.

He steeled himself and threw his head forward, dragging the respirator over his face, making sure that the rubber formed an airtight seal with his skin. He tightened the retaining straps, and felt the mask pull in close around his features.

They’d each selected a mask personally tailored to fit their own face size, but had had to bring a looser-fitting escape hood for Leticia Santos. The hoods were universal in size, yet still provided a decent period of protection in high concentrations of toxic gas.

Jaeger placed his hand over the respirator’s filter and breathed in hard, drawing the mask tighter on to his face, doing a ‘confidence check’ to make sure the seal was good. He dragged in a few gasps of air, hearing the alien suck and blow of his own breathing roaring in his ears.

Mask checked, he stepped into the cumbersome rubber overboots, and dragged the hood of his CBRN smock over his head, the elastic sealing around the front of the mask. Finally he pulled on the thin cotton under-gloves, plus the heavy rubber over-gloves, to doubly protect his hands.

His world was now reduced to the view provided by the eyepiece of the mask. The bulky filter was attached to the front left-hand side, so as to prevent it from blocking his vision, but already he could feel the claustrophobia starting to build.

It was all the more reason to get in there fast and get this done.

‘Mic check,’ he announced, speaking into the tiny microphone embedded within the rubber of the mask. There was no need to press any buttons to talk; they were all permanently on send. His voice sounded weirdly muted and nasal, but at least the short-range radio intercom would mean they were able to communicate during the coming action.

‘Check,’ Raff responded.

‘Check… Hunter,’ Narov added.

Jaeger allowed himself a smile. ‘The Hunter’ was the nickname he’d earned during their mission to the Amazon.