The Infiltrator by T. R. Hendricks

Author:T. R. Hendricks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

14

Twenty-three days after entering the woods of Kentucky, Derek approaches TRP twelve from the north. The morning sun shines brightly. He had been moving since before dawn, his early start giving him an acute sense of his surroundings, as the birds and critters hadn’t risen yet. Now that the sun is up, he can see his objective clearly ahead.

At a thousand meters out he slows practically to a standstill. Every step is deliberately chosen. Every tree is a part of his cover. Every sound is as silent as possible.

A steep hill covered in trees and rocky outcroppings rises in front of him. Derek knows from his map and the intel brief that this is the key terrain feature marking the target reference point. On the other side of the hill will be the Saddle Oaks horse ranch. Lowering himself to the ground and lying prone, Derek searches out a suitable position. Seeing a tangle of brush fifty meters off to his right, he cradles his rifle across his chest and begins to painstakingly low-crawl.

Inch by inch Derek slides across the forest floor. He moves, a foot or so at a time, and then stops. Waiting. Watching. Listening. Looking for any sign of the enemy. Any sign that they have detected his approach.

It takes well over an hour to reach the brambles. With the same deliberate action, Derek slowly removes his pack. Holding his rifle in front of him with his right hand, and his pack by the carry handle in his left hand behind him, Derek shimmies and slides his way into and under the brush. Once sufficiently in the concealment, he keys up his radio.

“Central, this is Slingshot. LP, OP established just north of TRP twelve. Marking GPS and initiating surveillance now.”

After a moment the response crackles back in his ear. “Roger, Slingshot. Listening post and observation post established. Waiting on your signal.” Derek punches the requisite entry into his wrist-top computer. A blue dot emerges on his GPS map with rings emanating from it every ten seconds. “We’ve got you, Slingshot. Strong signal. Proceed.”

He waits. One hour. Two. Ants and other insects crawl over him. Down his sleeves. Across his gloves. Derek blinks away rivulets of sweat streaking into his eyes, refusing to move unless absolutely necessary. Confident in the coverage of the brush, he rocks onto his side ever so slowly and relieves himself before sliding back down into the prone position.

He radios in the passing of each hour so that they can adequately chronical the time and analyze any patterns in patrol lengths. Except no patrols come. Derek glasses the ridgeline at the top of the hill extending east and west from him in an attempt to locate any crow’s nests like the ones that were employed at the other camps. Nothing. He’s beginning to think he has another abandoned location, another victim fallen to the Kentucky economy, when a truck engine turns over.

Derek marks the time and calls it in, straining now to listen further. After the vehicle drives off he can just make out voices.

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