Page 107 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“I take it the men who didn’t make it are the ones who didn’t get their flags?” the Brit asked.
“Non,” the Frenchman said. “The Nigerian got his before he bought the farm. Same with the Turk. I couldn’t get to mine. I saw two drones on patrol. I would have waited longer but we were ordered back to the rally point. I have an idea how to capture my flag, but I’ll need at least one other person to help me out.”
The Brit counted on his fingers. “Six flags captured. Two captured by the dead. Eight left alive. Frenchie missed his. I got mine. What about you, Ivan?”
The Russian scowled. “Check your map. You can see I got my assigned flag.” He pointed at Linc and Juan. “So did they.” The big Slav grinned like a toothy pumpkin and pointed at Plata. “But our fearless leaders fell short.”
The Guatemalan’s reddened face glanced up from the map.
“Like Frenchie said, there were drone patrols all over the place. We know how to get our flag next time.”
Juan fought back a grin, enjoying Plata’s embarrassment. He tore open a bag of Pili nuts, branded in packaging from the Philippines. The high-fat treats were an excellent energy source and tasted like toasted butter. He popped a handful into his mouth.
“That makes four flags left with just under forty hours remaining,” Juan said. “So what’s the plan, jefe?”
“What do you think it is? We find a way to grab those four last flags,” Plata said, turning back to the map. “You have a better idea?”
The buttery Pili nuts, softer and sweeter than almonds, practically melted in Juan’s mouth.
“Not getting killed would be at the top of my list.”
Plata faced Juan. “We need to figure out what went wrong with each previous attempt and try to overcome it. We have eight people for four flags. We’ll go back out in pairs and grab them.”
Plata pulled the small camp table with the topo map to the center of the cramped room. “Everyone take a look.”
The mercs shuffled over. Except for McGuire, still stretched out on a cot with a cap over his eyes. Plata kicked the sole of his boot. The Irishman stirred, and peeked out from beneath his hat.
“What?”
“Get over here.”
Linc handed Juan a slice of slimy mango. Cabrillo shoved it into his mouth, savoring the tangy sweetness as the Irishman shambled over to the table.
“All right, let’s start with the Polish mission,” Plata said. “Flag number nine. Any idea what happened?”
“I saw their bodies in the open field,” McGuire said. “Could’ve been shot, but I heard three explosions earlier.”
“Minefield?” Dragu? asked.
“That would be my guess.”
Plata shrugged. “I didn’t see any mine-clearing equipment in the armory. Nobody requested any.”
“Why would we? It was supposed to be a VIP security mission,” the Frenchman said.
“Is there a truck or a car we could wire up and send out to explode the mines?” McGuire asked.
“Even if there was, the first mine would disable the vehicle. No telling how many are out there.”
“Or how the mines got there,” the Russian said.
“What do you mean?”
“Dropping mines from the air is a dirty little trick my people have perfected. You stop the advance with a nasty surprise and then you cripple them further as they retreat. Killed a lot of Ukies that way.”
Plata shook his head, despairing. “We’ve got no chance, then. And if we fail to get even one flag, we’re dead.”
“Did you inventory that armory?” Cabrillo asked.
