Chapter 185: Spotted!

While the U-2S and the RC-135 mapped the high stratosphere and the radio spectrum, a very different kind of reconnaissance mission was unfolding ten thousand feet lower, skimming just above the frozen pine canopy of the southern border foothills.

Cruising silently through the narrow ravines at one hundred and twenty knots was an MQ-9 Reaper Block 5 remotely piloted aircraft, callsign Reaper One-One.

Painted in low-visibility matte gray, the slender, propeller-driven drone was virtually invisible against the gray mountain fog. Powered by a single Honeywell turboprop engine fitted with an acoustic noise-suppression shroud, its gentle hum was completely swallowed by the howling mountain wind. Mounted beneath its chin was the Raytheon MTS-B Multi-Spectral Targeting System—a gyro-stabilized turret packing high-definition electro-optical cameras, short-wave infrared sensors, a laser rangefinder, and an active laser target designator.

Three hundred miles away, inside a secure, air-conditioned Ground Control Station van parked inside a blast-hardened hangar at Port Solis, Captain Austin Sterling and his sensor operator, Staff Sergeant Brett Lawson, sat in pilot seats facing banks of computer monitors and aircraft controls.

"Altitude nine thousand MSL, three hundred feet above ground level," Sterling said, adjusting the flight stick with light, precise finger movements. "Passing through Waypoint Delta-Four. We are flying nap-of-the-earth through the gorge. Keep your eyes on the treeline, Brett. Don’t hit a pine tree."

"Terrain avoidance is green, Cap," Lawson replied, his hands resting on the sensor control trackball and throttle console. "MTS-B turret is slaved to track the valley floor. Switching to short-wave infrared. Penetrating the morning ground mist."

The video display inside the trailer cleared instantly.

The thick mountain fog and falling snow vanished from the screen, replaced by a crystal-clear, high-definition monochrome feed of the snow-covered gorge below. Every frozen boulder, every fallen pine log, and every thin sheet of ice covering the mountain stream was rendered in sharp detail.

"Watcher Six-Two’s radar pass indicated that the southern breach points end right around this grid," Sterling said, cross-checking the digital tactical overlay. "The Wallachians stopped their digging less than ten meters from the surface along this entire ridgeline. Look for any surface disturbances. Soil subsidence, cracks in the permafrost, displaced snow."

"Scanning the western face of the ridge," Lawson murmured, smoothly panning the infrared camera.

The crosshairs swept over a steep, rocky scree slope. To the naked eye, it looked completely untouched. Heavy drifts of white snow had settled over the boulders, and jagged icicles hung from the frozen overhangs.

Then, Lawson noticed something strange in the thermal contrast.

"Hold up, Cap," Lawson said, rolling the trackball back. "Stop the orbit right here. Look at the temperature differential on that rock face."

Sterling eased the flight stick back, putting the Reaper into a gentle, flat circle directly above the gorge. "I have the orbit. What do you see?"

"Look at the snow line," Lawson pointed at the screen. "Everywhere else on the ridge, the snow is two feet deep, showing dark blue on the thermal scale—roughly minus ten degrees Celsius. But on this specific cliff face, an oval patch about forty feet wide is showing up as light gray—minus one degree. The snow there is melting from underneath."

"Geothermal heat?" Sterling asked.

"No way," Lawson replied, adjusting the optical zoom. "Look at the rock structure. Those aren’t natural granite boulders. Those are pre-cut basalt blocks fitted together with mortar, covered in a thin plaster made to look like jagged stone. It’s an artificial rock wall."

"An illusion bulkhead," Sterling breathed, leaning in closer. "They built a fake cliff face over the tunnel mouth."

"And look at the ground right at the base of the false wall," Lawson zoomed the MTS-B turret to maximum optical magnification.

Beneath the dusting of fresh snow, the camera picked out tiny, telltale signs of activity.

A series of small, narrow holes—no larger than an inch across—had been drilled through the false rock face at ground level. Extending from the holes were thin strands of fine copper wire, barely visible even under high magnification, disappearing into the frozen moss and brush of the forest floor.

"Tripwires?" Sterling asked.

"No... not tripwires," Lawson said, his eyes scanning the wire paths. "Look where they lead. They connect to small ceramic jars buried beneath the snow every ten meters along the slope. Those are magical claymore mines. Runed proximity traps. If an American patrol walked up this gorge, they’d trigger those runes and blow the whole hillside down on themselves."

"Mark the grid," Sterling ordered crisply. "Designate hostile minefield, Sector Victor-Seven. Transmit the coordinates directly to the 1st Armored Division’s tactical net."

"Coordinates locked and sent," Lawson said, hitting the data-link upload button. "Cap, let’s slew the camera higher up the ridge. Watcher’s report tagged an exhaust chimney right above this breach point."

Lawson panned the sensor turret upward, aiming at the jagged crest of the ridge five hundred feet above the false cliff face.

Sure enough, nestled behind a cluster of ancient pine trees, was a hollow stone chimney disguised as a natural rock spire.

Hot, sulfurous air was pulsing out of the top, melting the snow on the surrounding pine needles.

"Got it," Lawson said. "Target Echo-Zero-Seven. That’s the direct ventilation feed for this assault shaft."

"Laser rangefinder active," Sterling commanded. "Let’s get an exact firing solution. If Supreme Commander Smith decides to take these tunnels out before they breach, the fast-movers will need a clean target basket."

Lawson squeezed the trigger on his sensor stick.

A pulsed, eye-safe laser beam shot out from the Reaper’s nose turret, painting the disguised chimney with an invisible beam of coded infrared light.

On the heads-up display, the targeting computer calculated the telemetry instantly:

LAT: 44° 12’ 08.4" N

LON: 18° 45’ 22.1" W

ELEV: 6,420 FT MSL

SLANT RANGE: 2.4 NM

TARGET ERROR PROBABLE: ZERO METERS

"Target locked," Lawson reported with professional satisfaction. "Clean laser designation. A single GBU-12 Paveway II dropped from an F-16 at twenty thousand feet would slide right down that chimney like a quarter into a vending machine."

"Don’t drop anything yet," Sterling reminded him with a dry chuckle. "We’re on a recon pass, not a strike mission. Keep painting, keep recording."

Suddenly, the screen on Lawson’s console flickered.

A low-frequency warning chime sounded in the control cabin.

"Cap, look at the optical feed," Lawson warned, his voice suddenly sharp. "We’ve got movement on the ridge."

Sterling adjusted his view.

Emerging from behind the pine trees near the chimney were three humanoid figures.

They were not wearing the standard black armor of the Wallachian border guards. They wore long, flowing woolen cloaks trimmed with silver fur. As the lead figure stepped into a patch of sunlight between the trees, the wind blew her hood back, revealing sharp, delicate features, long blonde hair, and an ivory circlet resting against her forehead.

"Holy shit," Sterling gasped, staring at the screen. "Is that...?"

"Zoom in! Zoom in!" Sterling barked.

Lawson threw the camera into maximum optical resolution, locking the digital crosshairs onto the woman’s face.

The screen stabilized, displaying the woman in stunning, crystal-clear detail. Her face was pale, tight with stress, and her eyes were a piercing, unmistakable gold. On her wrists were heavy silver armbands etched with glowing purple runes. Flanking her was a tall, heavily scarred warrior with a black leather eye patch over his left eye, carrying a broad shortsword at his waist.

"TOC, this is Reaper One-One!" Sterling shouted into his headset, abandoning his normal calm demeanor. "Flash traffic! Priority One! We have positive visual identification on Hostile High-Value Target One!"

"Say again, Reaper One-One," the controller at Port Solis replied, the background noise in the command center suddenly dropping to complete silence.

"We have eyes on Viona!" Sterling reported, his fingers gripping the flight stick tightly. "Grid Victor-Seven, southern ridge of the Dragonspine range! She standing right outside the Ventilation Shaft Echo-Zero-Seven! They are conducting an on-site inspection of the southern breach point!"

"Reaper One-One, hold your orbit!" the TOC commander barked back over the radio, his voice crackling with sudden adrenaline. "Do not engage! I repeat, do not engage! Maintain continuous optical track! Transmit full-motion video directly to Supreme Commander Smith’s tactical display immediately!"

"Reaper copies," Sterling answered, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Streaming high-definition video now. Crosshairs locked on the targets."

On the monitor inside the remote trailer, the crosshairs of the American drone stayed glued to Viona’s face.

She stood on the frozen cliff edge, looking south toward the vast, sunlit plains of the territory she had lost. She looked completely oblivious to the gray drone circling silently three thousand feet above her head, invisible against the blinding mountain clouds.

She looked down at the empty valleys, thinking she was completely safe behind her hidden tunnels and her false walls of stone.

She had no idea that a digital crosshair was resting directly between her eyes, and that every breath she took was being watched by twenty screens five hundred miles away.