Free Ready to Kill by Andrew Peterson Page A

intruders. The next thirty minutes seemed to stretch into thirty hours. Nathan didn’t like being immobile, but it was the right thing to do given their situation. Sometimes no action was the best action.
    Nathan tapped his memory of the mission briefing Bill Stafford had given them. The Nicaraguan air force had several Mi-8 Hip military transport helicopters and at least five Mi-24 Hind attack birds in its arsenal. With skilled pilots, the Hinds were capable ships, and Nathan had no desire to engage one of them. If a Hind had bored down on them, they would’ve had little chance of surviving, even with all the cover. Trees were no match for rockets and large-caliber machine guns. There was an outright terror associated with being hunted by a helicopter, especially a Russian-made gunship.
    With five minutes to spare, he looked over at Harv’s position, issued the form-up signal, and started in that direction.
    “I think we’re good,” Harv said. “If anyone’s tracking—” His friend stopped midsentence. “Someone’s talking. The RF detector just vibrated.”
    Nathan pulled his Sig and crouched. Harv followed suit. Were they blown? How? And who was it?
    “Nate, it’s going off again.”
    “Shit.”
    The next thing they heard was a voice from somewhere above. It had a Southern drawl.
    “US Marines, one-one.”
     

CHAPTER 11
    What the hell? Nathan exchanged a stunned glance with Harv and quickly considered their options. He needed verification in a big hurry. That voice could belong to anyone.
    He called out a question. “Where’re you stationed?”
    “Pendleton.”
    “Where did one-one see its first major campaign?”
    “Guadalcanal.”
    “What’s great about Sports Illustrated ?”
    There was a brief pause. “The swimsuit issue.”
    “What cities have the Raiders played in?”
    “Oakland and Los Angeles.”
    “Do you like them?”
    “No.”
    “Copy that. We’re coming up.”
    “Shit, Nate. You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Harv mocked his question. “‘What’s great about Sports Illustrated ?’—what kinda question is that?”
    Nathan shrugged.
    Harv shook his head. “Cantrell said we’d be supported, but I sure as hell didn’t expect this.”
    “Let’s beat feet up there.”
    Since their USMC friend had been vocal, it could only mean the immediate area was secure. They made their way up to the summit without haste.
    Slightly winded, they arrived at the highest point of the bowling-pin formation but didn’t see anyone. The tree cover up here was modest, but it obscured most of the moonlight. Waist-high ferns and shrubs dominated the area. Like something out of a video game, six ghillie-suited figures materialized from crouched positions. Within seconds they were surrounded. Nathan had his Sig in his hand but kept it lowered.
    One of them approached, presumably the marine who’d made contact. In the dim light, he looked identical to Nathan and Harv, just not as tall. When the man pulled his hood back, Nathan saw his face was also painted. The other marines formed a defensive perimeter. Nathan and Harv released the elastic straps and pulled their hoods back.
    Nathan extended his hand. “You guys are a damned welcome sight.”
    “Thank you, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Lyle, one-one. We don’t know your identity, and we won’t ask.”
    “Understood. Sorry about the interrogation, but we weren’t expecting you. I had to be sure you were the real deal.”
    “That’s not a problem, sir.”
    “Did you get a good look at the helo? Was it a Hind?”
    “Yes, sir. A twenty-four. Nicaraguan air force.”
    “Is there any chance it inserted troops?”
    “No sir, at least not within our visual range. We monitored its thermal signature. It never hovered, and it wasn’t high enough for jumpers. It was probably just a routine patrol. They’re used mostly for drug interdiction.”
    “A long time ago, we were with one-eight,” Nathan said.
    “Recon?” Lyle asked.
    Nathan