Benson’s orders were uncomplicated—to ensure the team had a fast and clear path of extraction if needed. He quickly checked the SINCGARS radio unit was operational. The small but powerful communication system used LPI, Low Probability of Intercept technology, to obstruct unauthorised transmission intrusion. By using automatic signal hopping, it changed its frequency hundreds of times per second during transmission, making it virtually impossible to intercept a signal. The HAWCs’ headpiece units were not powerful enough to communicate directly with command so they were relayed to Benson’s unit which pushed them up and out of the cave to another relay point in southern Australia. Satisfied, Benson pulled the flap down over the small box to blanket its winking lights.

He switched off all the camp lighting, unfolded his blackout cloth and covered himself. The cloth absorbed light and broke up the telltale human shape. He did not move, he became part of the cave’s natural debris. He had selected a position with his back to the west wall where he had all compass quadrants covered. Just his eyes and gun muzzle peered out from the cloth. In all his years of elite soldiering he had never made a mistake, even when he was captured in Afghanistan and tortured for three days. They had chopped off his fingers, slice by slice, and he never talked, never wavered. In this business, one mistake was all that was needed to make the difference between life and death.

The Russian moved around the gaping hole to the eastern edge. He unfolded his Dragunov SVDS sniper rifle. This version, with its shortened barrel, flash suppressor and polymer structure was his weapon of choice for distance killing. He clipped the silencer into place. The newer, Russian-designed silencers used baffle chambers to shift the frequency of the sound beyond the range of human hearing; it provided an almost soundless kill—less enjoyment for the big assassin, but a necessity when silence was critical to an operation.

Benson’s sixth sense was tingling and he switched to night vision. He was being watched, but from where? He rapidly scanned in an arc around his perimeter, then quickly turned his face towards the ceiling.

The glass-tipped bullet entered his forehead directly above and between his eyes. On entry the bullet tip was designed to shear away; it had done its job of maintaining the projectile’s aerodynamics, the remaining slug was effectively a hollow point, broadening inside the skull cavity and turning his brain to soup. Benson fell forward—he had ceased to exist.

Uli Borshov circled his hand in the air once. The other two Krofskoya agents broke from their concealed positions in the snow and the three of them raced to the drop winch.

As the Americans would say, time to join the party.