already have a couple of good primary ciphers in mind, but I may have to pull in at least one outsider specialist to back them up."
The President nodded. "You've got your usual blank check, Fred. Pull in your team."
Chapter Four
Huckleberry Ridge Mountain Warfare Training Center
Throughout the morning, small-unit war had raged across the alpine meadows and forested slopes of the Cascade range. Rock scuffed, devil's club burned, and with their camo face paint streaking with sweat, Jon Smith and the other three members of his trainee fire team dropped into cover behind a rotten fir log.
The ridge crest lay perhaps fifty yards beyond and above their position in the tree line, up an open slope dotted with ghost-pale snags and shaggy with low brush cover. Just beyond that crest would be another open slope and another tree line and, just possibly, another fire team similar to their own. Another group of classmates designated for the day as part of Red Force, the enemy.
Nothing moved save for a few dried grass stems in the hint of a breeze. Smith, his eyes fixed on the ridge crest, began to struggle out of his rucksack harness. "I'll be back in a minute, Corporal. I want to see if we might have some company over on the far side."
"What do you want us to do, sir?" His assistant team leader, a gangly young paratrooper from the Eighty-second Airborne, inquired. He and the other two members of the combat patrol lay spaced out in the forest duff beside the log.
"Just sit tight," Smith replied, distracted. "There's no sense in anyone else breaking cover."
"Whatever you say, sir."
Smith slithered over the top of the log. With his rifle resting across his forearms, he began to belly-slither up the slope to the crest. He'd already plotted his crawl path through the open terrain, a weaving course that would take best advantage of the deepest brush clumps and largest downed logs to maximize his concealment.
Smith took his time, mentally projecting and plotting each inch of the crawl, down to how his movements would affect each individual overhanging branchlet and twig. A hunting python would have created a greater disturbance as it oozed to the ridgeline.
Objective achieved. He held the high ground, and the far side of the ridge opened out below him. More brush tangles, more storm-stripped logs, and another line of evergreens, deep sun shadows puddling beneath their low-set branches. Hugging the earth, Smith eased the SR-25 out ahead of him. Flipping the protecting lens caps off the telescopic sights, he wormed forward a final foot, clearing his firing arc.
His weapon was something new since the last time he had served with the Teams. A creation of master gunsmith Eugene Stoner, the SR-25 was referred to as a tactical sniper's rifle. Scope sighted and firing the 7.65mm NATO cartridge through a semiautomatic action, it fed from a twenty-round box magazine. Possessing considerably more range, accuracy, and stopping power than the conventional assault rifle, the SR was also light and handy enough to be carried as a primary weapon, at least for a man of Jon Smith's size.
Over the past couple of weeks Smith had become fond of the potent brute and had been willing to put up with the extra carrying weight and barrel length in the field, amiably arguing the SR's finer points with his fellow trainees. Now he intended to put its qualities to use.
Slowly Smith tracked the sighting reticle across the tree line at the bottom of the ridge. Any potential target would presumably be as concerned with concealment as he was.
Once upon a time, in a more chivalrous day, stretcher bearers, medics, and military doctors had been classified as noncombatants. They were barred from carrying weapons and participating in active combat, yet they were also shielded by the theoretical Rules of Warfare, rendering them invalid targets on the battlefield.
But with the coming of asymmetrical warfare there had also come a new breed of enemy, one who obeyed only the laws of savagery and who viewed a Red Cross brassard only as an excellent target. In such an environment the Marine motto of "Every man a rifleman" became a matter of necessity and common sense.
Smith completed the first scope sweep without result. Swearing silently, he tracked back. Those bastards had to be down there somewhere.
There! A minute movement at the base of that cedar. A head had tossed, maybe shaking off one of the endemic yellow jackets. Now Smith could just make out the outline