by L. J. Martin
A pair of the guys have tried to close the distance between us on foot and have their AK's shouldered and are firing, when one of the mines is activated by their movement and both of them are literally cut off at the knees, and are doing somersaults as the rockets hit about as quickly as you can say, one, two, and the van, already on its side, goes six feet up in the air then lands completely engulfed in flame.
That's the good news, the bad is that Hank lays it down and sparks fly as the bike spins away between, then past us.
I put my bike on its stand and run to him, helping him to his feet.
"You good?" I ask.
"Took one in the helmet. Can't see. Dizzy. Took one in the leg, I think."
I drag him over to my bike and mount up, all the while trying to help him balance. Then help him mount up behind me. The bikes aren't built for two and are sans footrests for anyone on the back, but we make do as I gun it and Pax looses another clip at the remnants behind us, and we're gone.
We make a kilometer or so then I brake it and we take a look at Hank. His helmet has a hell of a gouge where an AK slug cut a grove, and he's still dizzy as hell, probably a slight concussion. The leg is not so good. He took one in the thigh near his hip and it traveled through coming out just above the knee. Luckily, it doesn't seem to have taken any bone with it.
Pax digs out his first aid kit and we drop Hank's pants on the soft shoulder and disinfect the wound entrance and exit the best we can, stuff the wounds with gauze, and bind both up. He's losing blood, but not so much he won't be able to make it to some decent medical help…if we can get him there in time.
Now I have a quandary, find Skip, and risk losing Hank, or ignore my rule no-man-left-behind?
I decide it has to be the bird-in-the-hand. But there might be another solution. I have the coordinates of the dacha so I get on the iPhone to Natele.
"I've got a man missing and a man needing medical help—"
"How bad?" she asks.
"Leg wound, possible concussion. Can you get here to get him some help."
"Here where?" she asks.
"The turn off to the dacha where Goings picked up TooBad."
"Forty, forty five minutes."
"Too long. How about a chopper? My problem is we left a mess on the road between us and town and, driving, you might not be able to get by—"
"You called at the right time. The Jet Ranger is standing by at the pasture west of town. I can get him there in fifteen or a little more."
"Get 'er done," I say. Then turn to Pax. "Back to the dacha driveway. The Jet Ranger is on its way."
He smiles. "I like working with the C.I.A. and NATO, those boys spare no expense."
"Let's go," I say, the over my shoulder, "hang on, big man. We got you a ride."
We pass where the Mercedes has taken a swath out of the forest and a man is wandering around, shell-shocked, but not carrying so I ignore him as I roar past.
I can hear Hank grunt with every bump we hit, and he's hugging me like a biker bitch, but we make it and five minutes after we do, I can hear the wop, wop, wop of the chopper. In less than ten minutes more Hank is riding in style.
We mount up again and turn our bikes to the driveway, when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and pull up and dig it out. Caller I.D. says it's Skip, and I'm feeling relieved, until I answer, "What's your twenty."
"Fuck you, yankee asshole," the voice comes back and it's the same one I was talking to when TooBad was taken down.
"Where's my buddy?" I ask, and maybe sound just a little exasperated.
"In about a hundred meters he vill be in Russia."
I'm silent for a moment as this puts a whole new light on things, and a whole new set of problems.
"Fine," I say, "I've always wanted to visit Russia."
"You vill be very velcome," he says, then laughs.
"Is this Azarin?" I ask. "I'd hoped you were in that Mercedes we just blew all to hell."
"This is Azarin. I am not so easy to kill as the fools who work for me. So, my reputation has proceeded me? No, when I got my big blond prize I decided to use him for insurance...or torture him a while just for amusement."
"I want my buddy back."
"And you Americans are used to getting what you want, and maybe you vill this time. Bring me the girl, and eighty thousand U.S. for my Mercedes."
"I'll bring you a check."
"Ha, cash, if you do not mind."
"What girl?" I ask, trying to sound as innocent as possible.
"General Holland's daughter, of course. Is she more important to you than your man and a lousy eighty thousand?"
"How about a hundred thousand and I keep the girl?"
"No, no, the girl is worth a great deal to me, in fact I've grown very found of her."
"She means nothing to me," I lie. "When and where. You'll have to bring my man out of Russia and back to Estonia."
"You are no longer directing this operation, asshole. You vill bring her to Chudskoe. There is a small harbor there, where I keep my speedboat, and we vill trade there."
I laugh. "So, you want me to expose myself and my men to you and your men and us on the water and you bunkered up, in Russia, with lots of machine guns and more? I was born in the night, but not last night."
"What does that mean?" he asks, seeming a little confused.
"It doesn't matter. We will meet you halfway, in the middle of the lake, on the border."
He's quiet for a moment. "And you vill bring the girl? And I vant one hundred thousand, since you have that much."
"Fuck yes, you've got my brother."
"Ah, so blood, as you Americans say, is thicker than water."
He's taken me literally, but that's fine. "Let's both try and keep the blood out of the water."
"I am there, on the border, right now. Can you come now?"
"The girl is in Tartu," I lie, "and I'll have to arrange for a boat."
"Oh, too bad, you have no boat. I have a beautiful Italian cigarette. Maybe you should go to work for Alexei?"
"Sorry, Alexei, I'm an independent contractor."
"So, when do we trade, Mr. Contractor?"
"Mid-morning, tomorrow. Is my brother okay?"
"His shoulder is broken. Maybe a collarbone from a clean shot through and through. It seems he ran into a little lead. But he vill live, if you do exactly as you say."
"Stand by the phone and I will call."
"And I vill answer," he laughs, and rings off.
Now what?
23
I bring Pax up to speed. "Azarin has Skip, and he's wounded."
"Has him where?"
"On their way to some little village across the lake."
"So, we're going to Russia. Great, those Russian women are beautiful." It takes me a second to realize he's being sarcastic.
"We may not have time for any assignations," I reply in kind.
"When?"
"I made arrangements to meet Azarin in the middle of the lake tomorrow, so we're going in tonight...if we can get a ten-twenty on Skip."
"Azarin has his phone."
I give him a hold-on sign and dial Natele again. "I need coordinates on Skip's phone, that Azarin is using. I'll try the find-your-buddy feature but I'm sure he'll pull the battery."
"He'll think he has," she reminds me, "but the case acts as one as well. Unless he goes into the guts of the phone, he'll do no good."
"And I need a boat."
"A boat?" Now it's Natele's turn to be sarcastic. "We forgot to bring a boat along."
"They've got Skip and he's across the lake, probably near a village called Chudskoe."
She's silent for a moment, then sighs before she says, "So, it's international incident time."
"I don't care if it's start friggin' World War Three time, I'm going after him."
"You're a little short on troops."
"Sometimes a small force is the answer—" then I hear someone talking behind her.
It's a moment, then sh
e comes back. "Fletch says he's going with you."
"Can Goings keep up?" I ask. I've only met the guy one time. He's small, but looks fit enough.
"You may have to do the keep up. Before joining NATO he was a gun for hire and before that in the Estonian Special Police and before that an Olympic gymnast."
Okay, I think. Then ask, "Can he shoot?"
"He's been with NATO for a dozen years and was a private contractor before that...Africa and other gigs."
"We have Hank's Ingram, and a few clips for him."
"And he has a sniper rifle he'll throw in the mix. He's a shooter."
"So, a boat?"
"You've got the sack full of money. Buy one, rent one...whatever."
"You check out things there, I'm hitting the villages on the water. Something small, only three of us, and fast. I want to cross by midnight, if we can get a location."
I hang up and go to the find-your-buddy feature, and sure as hell, get a location just outside Chudskoe, the village Azarin wanted to use as a meeting place.
It's time to use the iPad so I dig it out of my saddlebags and bring up Google Earth. A small village, Ranna, is to the north twenty or so clicks and another is to the south ten or so...but Ranna has a small marina and is twice the size of the other.
I try to find Chudskoe and surrounds, but it appears Russia is not too hospitable to Google Earth.
So, Ranna it is, to rent or buy a boat. I remember seeing a sign and if memory serves me it was on this side of where we left a couple of messes in the road, so we haul ass back to find the road north.
We don't even make it to the turn off before I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and have to pull off and answer. Natele has been busy.
"I found something that might work," she says.
"And it is?"
"Not it, they. Sea Doos, two new ones and a used one at the dealer here in Tartu."
"How fast?"
"Faster than I want to go in a small craft...the guy says they'll do sixty."
"How much?"
"Forty five thou, U.S., for all three and two trailers."
"Can we get there and back?"
"How far?"
"Twenty clicks or so."
"Easy, they carry over fifteen gallons."
"Get me some waterproof bags large enough for the Ingrams and one for Goings's sniper rifle."
"No RPG?" she asks.
"Hell, I'll strap one on. Odds are the water won't hurt it. Only two trailers? We've got to get them to the water."
"They weigh just over four hundred pounds plus fuel. One in the back of the Mercedes van and we can tandem two trailers. This isn't California."
"Tell the guy it's cash and I don't want to screw around. I'll pay him a grand extra if we can just hand over the money and leave."
"I'll do my best. When can you get here?"
"Presuming the road's not full of military or cops working the mess we left behind, inside of thirty minutes. Give me a location for your Ski Doo guy."
She does and I load it in the GPS feature on my iPhone.
There are three ambulances, a tow truck, and a half dozen Estonian patrol cars at the two locations, but luckily no shot up assholes to point us out as we are directed off onto the soft shoulder and idle on by the mess.
Natele is waiting at the dealer, who handles Volvo's and other miscellaneous vehicles, including Sea Doos and some small sailboats. And he's happy to have me count out forty six thousand in Franklins, and we're on our way in less than a half hour, no questions asked. Old Ben Franklin is still a powerful dude.
I pull Natele aside as I have an idea. "Hey, you made me think when you said I don't have enough soldiers. Here's the plan..." We talk for a few minutes and are together on the planned action.
Now, into Russia, just like we know what the fuck we're doing.
24
If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear, does it make any noise?
If a dacha burns in the forest, and doesn't catch the forest on fire, and is a couple of clicks from the road, does anyone give a rat's ass? Apparently not in Estonia, as when we return to where we know we can launch the Sea Doo's, no one is there. The dacha is a pile of twisted blackened timbers. I have no interest in seeing the remnants of any humans in the mess and don't look. Zakhar Dziba is lying down, twisted and shot to hell in the yard, but we ignore the body.
And we idled past the cops at the mess we left on the road without hardly a notice. Two guys on motorcycles and a couple in a fancy Mercedes van, towing a couple of recreational personal watercraft seem to attract little notice.
Now it's wait until darkness, and hope no one comes to inspect the smoke that had to have been seen for miles around. Maybe the burning of trash or slash piles in the forest is a common thing in Estonia.
It's a good time to catch up on some shuteye, so Pax and I find a shady spot down near the water, and sack out. Other than the sand flies, it's as nice a three hours as I've spent since leaving Cedar City, Utah. And I guess I need it as I have to be shaken awake by Natele, who's been back to town and returned with a couple of pizzas, some cokes, and a bucket of fried chicken. I've also asked her to pick up a couple of hundred feet of nylon line and three small anchors as I don't want to beach the Ski Doos. I also asked for a couple of small back packs or butt packs, hopefully the latter, and she has them as well
The first thing I do upon being awakened is check the find-your-buddy feature, and am pleased to note that Skip's phone, at least, is still in the same location just a half a click south of Chudskoe and less than a quarter a click inshore from the lake.
Then we eat and shoot the bull, mess with the waterproof bags and Ski Doos, and doze until eleven. We only have two of the Husq's with us and cut the hidden explosive charges out of the saddle bags, split them into one pound hunks, and both Pax and I strap on a butt pack.
Unfortunately it's a full moon and too much light but as it's risen late and we're traveling into it, at least we're not backlit. And fortunately there's only a slight breeze and no chop on the big lake.
We set out, running at low speed without lights and using my iPhone and the GPS to guide us to a spot on the opposite, Russian, shore which Google Earth has shown to be a half a click from any buildings and just under three quarters of a click from where the find-your-buddy feature says Skip's iPhone is located.
We don't beach but tie the Ski Doos, still afloat, bows facing out for a quick getaway after dropping the anchors, bound to the boat with slipknots, a little farther offshore.
The country is not as thickly forested as the Estonian side, more cropland, but is equally vacant of homes and farm buildings.
We follow a hedgerow between two fields with crops only knee high...no cover unless you're on your belly, and come to what I'd thought was a new-growth forest but turns out to be an orchard of stone fruit of some kind. It takes us to within a hundred yards of our target, which turns out to be a two story farmhouse with a barn and a pair of smaller outbuildings. There are two dark cars parked in front of the farmhouse. Unfortunately, fifty yards farther is a one story building that resembles a long low dormitory, with windows equally spaced and with a passenger van and four more vehicles parked nearby. It has bright bulbs in light fixtures on both front and rear porches.
There's another orchard beyond the far building and a young one, trees only five feet high, to the north of the farmhouse that lines both sides of a lane coming from some road farther on.
There is a light inside on the farmhouse's lower floor, a porch light, and a light on the front of the barn up high under the eaves in front of a second story set of doors that I imagine is access to load hay into a loft.
Pax, Fletch and I do a quiet recon on the edge of a corral only seventy five yards from the house.
All of us are carrying our sidearms, have two frag grenades, a shock grenade, and a smoke clipped to our belts, and our Ingrams slung underarm, with flash suppressors in place. The suppressors also act as silence
rs, but unlike what is portrayed in the movies, the sound is still a loud pop. We've left Fletch's Barrett .50 sniper rifle, with night vision scope, on the Ski Doo as well as the RPG and its six rockets. Pax and I have butt packs, each with two one pound size charge of explosive and pencil size timing detonators.
"What's the plan?" Fletch asks.
"I want to circle the house. I've got a heat seeking app on my iPhone and if anyone is near enough the outer wall, I can get a read on them."
"Heat?" Fletch asks.
"Yeah, used by guys trying to sell insulation, but it works for other purposes as well."
"The light on the porch and at the barn is not your friend," Fletch says.
"I wish I had a pellet gun, nice and quiet," Pax says.
"I can get the barn light out," Fletch offers.
"How?" I say, a little perplexed.
"See the rope coming down from the pulley outside those upper doors. I'll get up there and unscrew it."
"Pax," I say, "I'll circle the house and get the porch light. You stay back at the other fence line and cover our act."
"Ten four," he says. And we all slip through the rails of the corral fence and start across. And of course Murphy's law kicks in as a dog begins yapping and running our way from the front porch.
Pax raises the Ingram, but I put a hand on his arm and stop him. "I got this," I say, and move quickly to the far fence line. The dog has stayed ten feet inside, on his side, and as I kneel at the rails he's jumping back and forth, up and down, and yapping like hell. He's some kind of a shepherd, at least not a Rott or Doberman. I hope Natele's pens are not species specific, and give him a shot from the knockout twist. He goes down as if I'd poleaxed him with a baseball bat.
All of us stay perfectly still, watching the house for any sign of life. But no additional lights come on, nor does anyone appear at a window. It seems like we wait an hour, but is probably only ten minutes.
