by Robin White
“Am I waking you, cousin?”
Bashir jerked. “Mahmet! I didn’t hear you!”
“Some mujahedin.” Mahmet had the rocket launcher over one shoulder, the AK slung over the other. Yuri and Chuchin came huffing up the slight slope. “Go inside,” said Mahmet. “I’ll take the watch.”
The lights inside the hangar weren’t bright, but Chuchin slipped on his dark glasses anyway. He took over guard duty while Yuri left to preflight the jet, taking Anzor, the youngest brother, along with him.
“What are you, a rock star?” one of the prisoners asked.
Chuchin barely turned.
Tereshenko watched the red light on the radio blink furiously. You could hear the tension in the transmitted voices. They were shouting over the radio as though trying to be heard without one. A shooting at the hotel, a chase at the open pit. Security patrols everywhere. It brought to mind a wasp’s nest swatted down from a limb, buzzing, boiling with angry insects. Now the night manager prayed for two things: that the terrorists would leave, and that Kirillin wouldn’t try to rescue him before they did.
“Angara Three! Angara Three!”
Tereshenko looked up. He recognized the voice of the mine director.
“Angara Three! Answer!”
Chuchin brought the radio to him and held the microphone up. “Talk.”
Tereshenko took a deep breath, then said, “Angara Three. Listening.”
“Where were you?” Before Tereshenko could reply, Kirillin said, “Listen carefully. The city is sealed. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”
Tereshenko looked up into Chuchin’s dark lenses. He held a very large, very black, revolver. “Please repeat.”
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary? Strangers? Vehicles?” asked Kirillin, then, to seal Tereshenko’s fate, “Unauthorized aircraft?”
Lie and Kirillin would make them all pay. On the other hand, there was this maniac with a gun who would—
“Tereshenko!”
“It’s been snowing,” he blurted.
“Thank you for the weather report. Never mind. The patrols will be there shortly. Is Omsk 7 there yet?”
Omsk 7. A militia patrol. “I haven’t seen him.” It was even true. “He’s definitely not here, Mister Director.”
“Is the runway plowed?”
“Yes.” Also true, though a Chechen had done it.
“The snow’s stopped for the night. Bring in all the vehicles and lock them up. Then lock all the doors. Don’t open them for anyone until you see me or a militiaman you personally know. Is that understood?”
“Count on me, Mister Director! I will open no doors.”
“All right, Tereshenko. Kirillin out.”
Yuri took the direct route to the Yak. Instead of going through the offices, he went through a side door in the garage. But it didn’t lead outside. Instead, it opened onto another hangar. He felt around for the lights, found a switch, and flipped them on.
He whistled softly.
A gleaming Yak-40, white with two bold stripes on the side, one blue, the other gold, and the blue diamond in a circle logo painted on the tail. If his Okurok was a cigarette butt, this was a fine Havana cigar.
Kristall’s Yak had three new turbofan engines. They made more thrust, pushed the jet higher and faster, and used less fuel to boot. It even had extra fuel tanks, “slippers,” under its wings to give it continent-spanning range. If he’d had this beauty instead of the Cigarette Butt, he could have flown from Irkutsk to Mirny and back without having to stop for gas.
He checked the sight gauges mounted on the external tanks. Brimming full. Wherever they were planning to go, it was a long way from Mirny. He thought, If I don’t find a single diamond tonight, pocketing this jewel would make it all worthwhile. But how? He could just fly away with it. One coat of new paint and it would be White Bird International’s flagship. But there was Kristall to consider. Dodging the tax man in Irkutsk was one thing. Pissing on Kristall was another. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look inside, would it?
The rear ramp was up, but not locked. He pulled the handle. A stairway covered in plush red carpet magically, silently dropped. The interior lights came on automatically, revealing a small aft compartment with just two seats. The plush jet smelled of leather and money. Yuri filled it with rich American phantoms, winging across Siberia to save some endangered arctic mouse or photograph some scrawny plant.
He found a vault built into the tail compartment. It was bigger than the lavatory that usually was installed in the same space. It was open, so at least he didn’t have to torment himself with the possibility that it was stuffed with diamonds. The main cabin had all the trappings of a well-appointed corporate jet.
Wasn’t there some way to close this deal? With Nowek’s protection he could thumb his nose at Kristall. But without Nowek, there was no way he could grab it and—
“Boss!”
Yuri stopped and peered under the Yak’s tail. It was Anzor.
“Patrols are on the way!”
Yuri gave a wistful look at Kristall’s jet, then said, “Let’s go.”
“So how did you get involved with these pirates?” Tereshenko asked Chuchin.
“I’m just a pensioner getting a ride back home.”
“Why do you wear those dark glasses at night?” asked one of the maintenance men.
“You didn’t know? I’m blind.”
Another of the prisoners was emboldened. “What have you got in your jacket? A bag of diamonds?”
Chuchin opened his coat and showed him the Nagant. “My hearing aid. It works in reverse. When I use it, everything gets quiet.”
Just then, an excited voice reported a fire at the bottom of the karir. Omsk 7, the lost patrol Mahmet had rocketed, had been found.
Then a new voice.
“We have him!”
“Who?” asked the man at militia headquarters.
“The Siberian Delegate! We have Nowek.”
Chuchin stared at the little radio as though it had just called him by name. What did they just say? He ran up the volume. Alive?
“We’re bringing him in now! He’s wounded and carrying contraband!”
“Contraband?”
“Diamonds!”
Yuri poked his head in. “Okay, grandfather. We’re leaving.”
Chuchin shook his head. “No. We’re not.”
Kirillin looked at Gate 5. It was in perfect working order. “Someone let them through. Whose card was used?”
“Tereshenko’s,” said General Stepanov, the commander of the Mirny militia. “The terrorists ambushed our patrol. It looks like explosives were used. Perhaps a rocket.”
Kirillin turned. “Really? You can just look at a hole in the ground, some scattered pieces and four tires that flew a kilometer and a half, and come up with such a conclusion?”
“Well,” said Stepanov, “it was probably a rocket.”
Kirillin started walking back to the jeep, thinking out loud. “Boyko. A single shot in the hotel, fired out of Delegate Nowek’s room. Your men ambushed. Tereshenko’s card.” He looked off in the direction of the airport. “It’s clear these saboteurs flew in. That’s where we’ll have to stop them.”
“Sending two jeeps against rockets is slaughter, Mister Director.”
He faced Stepanov. “We’ll use the snow tanks to push them back into their airplane. We’ll encourage them to go.”
“Encourage them? They’ve killed—”
“We’ll station sharpshooters off either end to make sure they don’t succeed, of course.”
Chuchin made his case to Yuri. His breath smoked white in the chilly garage. Mahmet and Anzor, the eldest and youngest of the Brothers, stood silently. Aslan was guarding the plane. Cousin Bashir was back covering the road to the terminal with the PK, hyperaware of every sound now that he’d been surprised once.
When Chuchin was done, Yuri said, “Not a chance. I’m not sticking around another minute.”
The
five prisoners watched them argue, their eyes going back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.
“But he’s alive,” said Chuchin. “I heard them say it.”
“They’re sending a fucking army in our direction. Did you hear that, too?”
“Pah.” Chuchin pulled out his Nagant. “I’m staying.”
Mahmet’s rifle seemed to materialize out of a white cloud of breath. It was pointed at Chuchin’s head, safety off.
Chuchin paid no attention to the AK. “You came to pick him up because you thought there was trouble. Now there’s trouble and you’re running. If I’m the only one with balls, then go. All of you. Get out of my sight.” Chuchin turned his back on them in disdain.
Tereshenko said, “He’s right. You’d better go while you can. You may stop a militia jeep, but you won’t stop tanks.”
Chuchin turned. “Tanks?”
“The security office uses them for transporting diamonds to the airport. Believe me, if they don’t come for you tonight, they’ll be here in the morning. There’s a shipment of . . .” He stopped himself, in time he thought. But he was wrong.
“Diamonds?” asked Yuri.
The snow tanks looked like eight-wheeled turtles painted white. They weren’t true tanks, just obsolete BTR-60 armored personnel carriers Kristall had acquired from the army. Too slow for a modern battlefield, their armor and gun turrets made them excellent mobile diamond vaults.
First one, then the second tank started up with a clatter of cold engines and clouds of oil smoke. No diamonds were brought on board through the rear doors. Only belts of heavy machine gun rounds, each bullet as long as a man’s index finger.
When they were ready, the driver settled behind his bulletproof prisms, and moved off, heading north.
“Mommy?”
Larisa closed the small suitcase, locked it, then put it beside her bed. “What are you doing awake?”
Liza wore a one-piece suit in a waffled pink fabric. “I heard you yelling.” She saw the suitcase. “Are you going away?”
“We’re both going away. Tomorrow morning.”
“For a long time?”
“If we’re lucky. Now back to bed with you.”
“Can Misha come, too?”
Her bear. “Of course.”
She ran to the bear and grabbed it, hugging it close. “Why were you yelling?”
“Sometimes people say bad things that can hurt.”
“You mean when they lie.”
“Yes.” She stroked Liza’s wheat-colored hair. “But sometimes when they say something that’s true, it hurts even more.”
“Mommy? Misha has a bump.”
Larisa looked. It was true. There was a hard lump under the bear’s brown scalp. The seam in the back was loose. Torn.
“I hear a snowplow!” Liza jumped to the window, excited.
Larisa probed the lump in poor Misha’s head. Her finger came up against something cold and sharp. She drew in a quick, startled breath when she realized what she was feeling, then another when she felt the crystal’s size. She joined Liza at the window in time to see the first snow tank rumble by. Then the second. “The snowplows are gone. Now go to bed.”
“Mommy?” Liza looked up. “Why are you crying?”
“Please,” said Larisa. She clutched the torn bear to her breast. “Just go to bed.”
The stars were out again, the clouds driven off by the wind, and the temperature was plummeting. “What do you think?” asked Yuri.
“It’s possible,” said Mahmet. He peered down the shallow slope at the road to town. It was very quiet, which was not good. It meant they wouldn’t come in stupid.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“If you want something sure, boss, we should leave now.”
“You heard what he said. The tanks are coming in the morning with diamonds. How many diamonds fit in a tank?”
Mahmet considered it, then said, “Enough.”
“Exactly. There’s something else, too. In the hangar next to the garage. A jet. A very nice jet.”
“Two jets and one pilot is a problem, boss.”
“Maybe not,” said Yuri.
Pavel was a sergeant in the Mirny militia, and an avid gunner of eiders. Like mushroom hunters with their secret glades, he had his secret lakes where he would build a hideout, sit behind a good mosquito net with his shotgun, and wait.
What he was doing tonight was the same. Pavel sat in a semicircular snow cave off one end of the runway. Someone else, he wasn’t sure who, was waiting at the opposite end. An airplane flew faster than an eider, and it might have dazzling lights to blind him, but unlike a shotgun, his snow-white SK self-loading carbine gave him ten chances to hit a target. By any reasonable count, that was six more than he would need. He had no doubt who would bring the plane down. Having no doubts was the key to accurate shooting.
The first bullet would go through the jet’s left windshield, the next through the right. He’d send a third and a fourth through the eyeless frames just to make certain. It would be embarrassing if it took any more than that to kill them.
Mahmet saw them first. A fan of dark moving figures strung across the road. Behind them was a vehicle. Then another. Not jeeps. Not trucks. He whistled to Anzor. He was standing in the terminal door.
“Tanks!” he shouted in to Yuri.
“Slow them down!” Yuri yelled. “Then meet us at the plane!”
Anzor ran outside to join Mahmet at the machine gun. He slid behind the PK. “Slow them down?”
“They’re Russians.” Mahmet took command of the rocket launcher. “Just shoot. Let God decide who lives.” Mahmet eyed the approaching tanks. They were at extreme range. A hit would be an accident, but it would make them think. He elevated the tube, whispered a prayer, and fired.
The rocket whooshed up and away, arcing high, tipping over, a falling star accelerated as it neared the ground. The round went long, exploding behind the rearmost tank, sending a column of white fire, red flame, gray smoke, and snow into the air.
The figures dropped and began firing blindly. Supersonic bullets cracked overhead, smashing the terminal windows, cratering the concrete walls. Mahmet loaded another spindly rocket and dropped it between the two tanks. The return fire grew in intensity. Bullets sent innocent puffs of snow into the air in front of where they lay.
“Answer them, brother,” said Mahmet.
Anzor pulled the trigger bars and the PK vomited a stream of bullets. He walked tracers through the prone soldiers, and sent their bodies tumbling back over the snow, loose-limbed as dolls. Bright sparks spattered off the nearest tank. “God is making good decisions!”
The tank turret swiveled, the main gun rose.
“Anzor!” shouted Mahmet. “Get—”
A stuttering white flash, and the world vanished behind an avalanche of snow. A second burst punched a chain of fist-size craters in the concrete wall behind them.
Mahmet grabbed his youngest brother by the shoulder. “Let’s go! We’ve got to—“
The tank fired again. The first round amputated the machine gun from the tripod and sent it flying into the air. Anzor still had his hands in front of him, holding the vanished handles, when the second round struck.
“Brother!” Mahmet dropped the RPG and dove into a sea of red snow. Anzor’s legs, his hips, were connected to his chest by slender blue sinews. Anzor stared at his ruined body in wonderment, then recognition. He blinked, looked up at his older brother, and said, “God . . .” His eyes went wide, dimmed, then shut.
Mahmet stared for perhaps a second, oblivious to the fury erupting around him. They were a family. A blow against one was answered by all.
He crawled back to the RPG. The figures down in the snow were coming again. They were close. He stood with the tube over his shoulder. He put the first tank in his sights, and as the crackle of automatic fire rose to a crescendo, he screamed “Allahu akhbar!” and pulled the trigger.
The rocket tore across the o
pen space, flying almost in a flat trajectory. It struck at the joint of turret and hull, lancing through the thin steel armor, blowing the turret into the sky, and igniting the gasoline in the fuel tanks.
A wave of fire broke over the troopers. Mahmet could see them running into the snow, guttering like so many human candles. He dropped the weapon and ran for the plane. Its three jet engines were already running, screaming for the dead.
Pavel listened to the explosions, the growing storm of automatic weapons, and knew that his own moment was drawing near. It was quickly confirmed by first the sound, then the sight, of a jet moving away from the terminal. It wasn’t showing a single light, and the flashes and crumps coming from beyond said that whoever was flying was leaving someone, maybe everyone else, behind. It was a cowardly thing to do, and it made Pavel feel better about killing them.
The jet swung out on the runway and pivoted, pointing its nose right at him. The shooter at the other end of the runway was firing now. He could see the muzzle flash, but the report was lost against the thunder coming from the jet engines. The turbines throttled up to a roar. Pavel felt vibration in his belly as he lay flat to the ground. He brought the SK up, relaxed, checked the safety one more time, then placed the sights on the cockpit windows.
The Yak began to roll. It was coming straight at Pavel’s eyes.
Not too soon. There’s no hurry. No reason to rush.
The jet was gaining speed. He moved his sights slightly to the left, took up the slack in the trigger mechanism, and fired the first round. The explosion of windshield glass came at the exact same instant Pavel sent the second bullet flying, this time to the right. He sent a third round into the cockpit, a fourth, and because he wasn’t sure, a fifth.
The Yak lifted its nose and ramped up into the sky.
Pavel squeezed a sixth shot off into its belly. He didn’t fire a seventh, because he was flattened by the thunder of three turbojet engines passing over his head.
He spun and brought the SK to his shoulder and sent a seventh, an eighth, a ninth, a tenth bullet into the bright red eyes of its fiery engines. He squeezed the trigger again, but the SK was empty.
