by Dale Brown
“Our security officer, in the van.”
“If you are speaking of Lieutenant Quintao, I’m afraid he won’t be answering you,” Zakharov said. “He wasn’t very trustworthy anyway—I found him nearly asleep behind the wheel. I believe I taught him a valuable lesson: never fall asleep on guard duty.” He stepped toward Ariadna menacingly. “But he did not have a walkie-talkie with him, just a video camera. So who were you talking to?”
“I have some questions for you, Colonel Zakharov,” Kristen interjected. “Let’s you and me talk. She isn’t in charge of this crew: Iam.”
“Oh, believe me, Miss Skyy, we will be talking together, quite extensively,” Zakharov said. “But I know you very well already, of course; and you have two people over there that, if I may hazard an observation, look like members of your production crew. I would even venture to say they are not armed. But you were armed, menina. And pardon me, but you do not look like a journalist to me. Now, who are you?”
“I told you, Colonel, I’m a…”
The butt end of the Dragunov sniper rifle flashed in a blur of motion, and in the blink of an eye Ariadna lay on her back on the stone patio floor, blood streaming from her mouth. “It is going to get very, very ugly for you, lagarta, unless you talk,” Zakharov said. “It is a simple question: who are you?”
“Bastard!” Ariadna swore, wiping blood from her mouth. She was unable to speak for several moments, dazed from the blow; then, she replied weakly, “Vega. My name is Vega.”
Zakharov’s eyes widened in surprise—it was clear that he recognized the name. “Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Dr. Ariadna Vega?” It was Ari’s turn to look shocked. “I am surprised to see you here. You are not at all what I expected. A female civilian scientist and electrical engineer working for the United States Army—I expected either a tattooed dyke or an ugly one-hundred-and-fifty-kilo nerd with glasses as thick as icebergs.”
“What are you talking about, Colonel?” Kristen asked. “Do you know her? What’s going on here?”
“We will have our conversation soon, Miss Skyy,” Zakharov said in a menacing tone. “For now, please do not interrupt us.” He withdrew a military walkie-talkie from underneath his coat and keyed the microphone: “Kapitan? Zayaveet. Ana zdyes.” To Ariadna, he said, “We did not expect you to accompany Miss Skyy, so it created a little confusion out at the airport.” Ari’s eyes widened in fear. “Oh yes, we located your jet and your friends at Abaete airport, and they should be well taken care of by now. The PME was not very cooperative at first, but we convinced them quite easily of how much we wanted to greet our visitors from New Mexico.” He keyed the mike button again: “Kapitan? Zayaveet!”
“If you’re trying to call Captain Khalimov, Colonel, don’t bother—he’s right here.” Half-hidden by a corner of the farmhouse, Sergeant Major Jefferson emerged with his pistol aimed at Khalimov’s head. “Now drop your rifle and order your men to drop their guns.”
“I suggest you drop your weapon before there is a bloodbath here,” Zakharov said casually, aiming the captured pistol at Ariadna. “We have you outgunned.”
“Não exatamente, Zakharov,” Manuel Pereira said, using his commando skills to remain hidden in the darkness although he was less than a dozen meters away. “And if there is to be a bloodbath, you will be the first to die. Eu garanto-o.”
“Manuel!” Ruiz shouted. “Thank God you’re alive.”
“Do it, Zakharov!” Jefferson ordered. “Drop your weapons, or I’ll blow this fucker’s head off, and Manuel will do the same to you.”
“You mean, all that’s standing between my seven hostages and you is Captain Khalimov there? Ya huy na nivo palazhyl. Here’s what I think of that.” In a blur of motion, Zakharov pocketed the pistol, swung the Dragunov sniper rifle up, and fired. Khalimov screamed and flew backward, the round hitting squarely in his chest like a hammer.
The ensuing battle took only seconds, but the carnage was enormous. Zakharov immediately sprinted to his right and took cover behind the van. His two gunmen fired bullets into the heads of the two Brazilian farmworkers, killing them instantly. One of them turned his gun toward Kristen Skyy and fired. Kristen screamed, took a couple of steps toward Jefferson, then dropped to the ground. The Russians died moments later when Pereira fired two three-round bursts from Khalimov’s submachine gun and made perfect hits.
Zakharov fired a round toward the corner of the farmhouse where Jefferson was, making him duck for cover, then retrieved Ariadna’s pistol from his pocket and fired at where Jorge Ruiz had been standing near the Amarals. At the first shot, Ruiz turned, ran at full speed, and body-tackled his parents, sending them and himself over the other side of the short stone wall surrounding the patio. Kristen’s crew members leaped over the wall themselves, disappearing into the darkness.
“Stop!” Zakharov shouted from behind the van. “Stop or I’ll kill Skyy and Vega!” Ariadna was still too dazed to move—she had simply curled up in a fetal position when the bullets started flying over her, with her hands over her ears and her eyes tightly closed.
“Give it up, Zakharov!” Jefferson said. “You’re not going anywhere!”
“And neither are you!” Zakharov said. “I knew about your jet at the airport, and I had everyone there executed. The jet and all your equipment is mine.”
Jefferson found he had stopped breathing—could he be telling the truth? “Bullshit!” he finally shouted. “Pereira! Flank that bastard and kill him!”
“If I even suspect he’s moving against me, I’ll kill her.”
“If you kill Vega, I’ll spend the rest of my life hunting you down!” Jefferson said. “Pereira! Get that son of a…!”
At that moment, a military helicopter appeared out of nowhere, a bright Nightsun searchlight sweeping across the patio. “Uyedu na-hui! About fucking time!” Zakharov swore to himself. He pulled out a portable radio, keyed the mike button, and said in Portuguese, “Este é Zakharov. Escute acima! Target one on the northwest corner of the farmhouse; target two somewhere in the weeds west of target one; targets on the move on the east side of the farmhouse. Mate-os todos!”
The Nightsun light zeroed right in on Jefferson, and a gunner aboard the helicopter opened fire with an assault rifle. Jefferson ducked out of the way just in time and ran behind the farmhouse. Pereira switched his submachine to full automatic and swept the sky with bullets toward the helicopter until the magazine was empty, then ran out toward the highway. The helicopter wheeled right and maneuvered in that direction to follow him.
“Nao!” Zakharov shouted in Portuguese. “Comece outro! Get the other one! I want target one!” The helicopter wheeled hard right again and started searching for Jefferson. Switching to Russian, Zakharov shouted, “Keptan! Pashlee! Tyepyer!” Pavel Khalimov rolled painfully onto his back to catch his breath, then rolled again and struggled to his feet, rubbing the spot in the center of his chest where the sniper round had impacted his bulletproof vest. He half-collapsed on the hood of the van that Zakharov was hiding behind. “Are you all right, Captain?” Zakharov asked.
Khalimov wiped half-dried blood from around his left eye, but nodded. “It feels like my sternum is broken, Colonel,” he gasped, “but I can travel and fight.”
“Serves you right for getting yourself captured, Captain,” Zakharov said, only half-joking. “Next time you do that, I’ll aim higher.” A switchblade appeared in Zakharov’s hand out of nowhere; he cut Khalimov’s wrists free and gave him the pistol. “Kyem? Who is he?”
“He is military,” Khalimov replied. “Older, but very well trained.”
“Jefferson. United States Army Ranger. Bardak,” Zakharov swore. “Looks like our airport team failed.” He raised his walkie-talkie to his lips, keyed the mike button, and asked in Portuguese, “Where are the ground units?”
“Pulling onto the ranch now, Colonel,” the helicopter pilot responded.
“I want every one of those bastardos captured and executed!” Zakharov shoute
d. “No one is to be left alive, do you understand?”
“Compreenda tudo, senhor. We have one of them in our sights now.”
They looked over and saw the helicopter stabilize just a few dozen meters away, the Nightsun searchlight focused on the east side of the farmhouse. The door gunner opened fire with several three-round bursts. The helicopter descended until it was less than ten meters aboveground, and the door gunner opened fire again. From that range, Zakharov thought, he could not miss. “Well?” he radioed. “How many did you hit?”
“Uh…senhor, nos temos um problema aqui,” the pilot radioed back. Both Zakharov and Khalimov turned toward the target being highlighted by the searchlight…
…just as a strange figure leaped up onto the roof of the farmhouse! It was larger than a man, standing over three meters tall, but it moved with amazing agility and speed. The helicopter swooped down, almost right over him, the door gunner firing on it in full automatic mode now. “Shto yobanyy eta?” Zakharov shouted.
“That’s it! That’s the robot I reported to you, sir,” Khalimov said excitedly.
“The one that was supposed to be broken?” Zakharov shouted. “The one that you were supposed to have captured at the airport?”
But the assassin didn’t have a chance to answer because seconds later, just as the gunner stopped to reload, the robot leaped off the farmhouse roof and flew right into the helicopter’s open door. Moments later the door gunner flew headfirst out of the door, and thick smoke started streaming from inside the helicopter. The robot figure leaped clear of the aircraft as it started to spin uncontrollably; Zakharov helped Khalimov run away when the craft crash-landed just a few meters from where they had been.
“My…God,” Zakharov breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“They must have repaired it on the way here from Santos,” Khalimov said. “I crushed it under a bulldozer and dropped it into the ocean!”
“No, I was told that it was inoperative just before we came out here!” Zakharov roared. “That’s the last time I listen to intelligence information from someone who’s sitting on their ass thousands of miles away.” At that moment, heavy-caliber machine gun fire erupted, followed by a racing diesel engine and then a loud explosion. “Let’s get out of here before something else goes wrong, Captain.”
A squad of six Jeeps raced up the gravel driveway to the farmhouse, with three PME soldiers and a gunner on board manning a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on a pedestal in the back. The Jeeps were fitted with searchlights, operated by the soldier in the passenger seat. Three of the Jeeps veered off the road to the east and started their pursuit as the soldiers spotted Ruiz, the Amarals, and Kristen’s crew members running down into a grassy gully. The gunners took aim on Ruiz and…
…at that moment a huge figure landed on the hood of the lead Jeep, reached out with a hand, and snapped the machine gun off its pedestal with one twist. Using the forty-kilo machine gun as a club, the figure smashed the Jeep’s steering wheel and driver’s side instrument panel with a single tremendous blow, then jumped off and ran after the second Jeep. Jason ran beside the second Jeep and swung the machine gun again, destroying the windshield. The driver and passenger ducked just in time to avoid the weapon, but the driver lost control and flipped the Jeep over.
The third Jeep wheeled left to try to run the robot over while the gunner tried to draw a bead on him. Just as Jason was going to make a leap that would take him on top of the gunner, a warning indication flashed in his electronic visor: less than thirty minutes of power remaining. Moments earlier it said he had over an hour of power remaining. Something was happening: he was losing power at a tremendous rate, probably due to a short-circuit somewhere caused by being immersed in seawater. At this rate, he could be out of the fight in just a few minutes—he might not even have one more jump. And there were still three more PME Jeeps out there.
Heavy-caliber bullets began peppering his composite armor shell as the Jeep barreled toward him. Jason crouched down into a ball, making himself as small a target as possible, but the Jeep kept right on coming. As it hit, Jason extended his arms, letting the vehicle slide up and over him, then shot to his feet. The Jeep did two complete rolls, spilling PME soldiers in all directions, before landing upside-down several meters away.
Thankfully, the other soldiers in the PME Jeeps saw what had happened to their comrades and stayed away, firing their machine guns from long range. Jason picked up a tire that had come off the last Jeep and threw it at one of the Jeeps about fifty meters away, caving in a windshield and showering the driver and passenger with glass. After that, the PME soldiers lost the desire to fight and sped away out of sight. Jason made sure they were safely away, then went over to the group of escapees in the gully. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sim, agradecimentos a você,” Jorge Ruiz said.
“Stay here until I find out if there are any more soldiers nearby,” Jason said, and ran off in the direction of the farmhouse. He found Jefferson, Kristen, and Pereira helping Ariadna up. “Ari, are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay,” she replied, giving him a crooked grin. “I see you got El CID working. Thanks for the ‘help.’ You can help pay for my new set of teeth.”
Jason scanned the area quickly with his on-board millimeter-wave radar. “I see two persons rendezvousing with those PME Jeeps that bugged out of here. I’m going after them.” But he took just a few running steps in that direction before stopping.
“Don’t let them get away, Major!” Jefferson cried.
“One vehicle is racing away at high speed, and the others are heading back here,” Jason said. “I’ll be lucky if I have enough power to get you guys back to the airport.” They saw the robot’s massive shoulders slump dejectedly. “I can’t leave you guys alone out here. Let’s get back to the airport. I’ll radio the jet to be ready for takeoff.”
The van had been hit by gunfire but was still operating. They removed the body of Lieutenant Quintao and laid him next to the bodies of the farmhands and the two dead Russians, then drove over to where the others were hidden. “Let’s go, everyone,” Jefferson said. He looked around. “Where the hell is Ruiz?”
“Ido, senhor,” Judge Amaral said.
“Gone?” Kristen’s producer Bonnie exploded. “He can’t go! He’s the whole reason why we’re here! He’s Kristen’s story! Without him, she has nothing! Jason, can you…?”
“I see him,” Jason said, “but I also detect more radio chatter on the PME command channel. There may be other troops coming.”
“Everyone, load up,” Jefferson said.
“Sergeant Major, wait. I can…”
“Major…Jason, no more arguing,” Jefferson said. Jason was about to argue again, but the approaching troops and the CID unit’s status told him that Jefferson was right and he had no choice. They piled into the van and headed off to the airport.
The jet was already at the end of the runway, its right engine idling, the entry door opened. The copilot, carrying a pistol, waved them in. Kristen and her crewmen helped Ariadna into the plane, while Jason dismounted from the CID unit, folded it, and stowed it into the baggage compartment with Jefferson’s help. Once everyone was on board, the copilot closed and dogged the entry hatch, the pilot started the left engine…
…and it wasn’t until then that they realized Pereira was gone. “Where did he go?” Kristen shouted. It was obvious he wasn’t on board. “That was our last hope! The story is ruined!” She turned to her cameraman. “Rich, please tell me…”
“We got some tape,” Rich murmured. “I haven’t checked it yet, but I got the camera, and it was running.”
“Thank God…”
“And I’ll be sure that the film is confiscated by the Defense Intelligence Agency, CIA, and Justice Department upon our arrival,” Sergeant Major Jefferson said. “It’s evidence we’ll need to indict Zakharov, Khalimov, and the rest of his gang.” Bonnie looked at him with a stunned expression, but the jet starte
d its takeoff roll and she took a seat, mentally and physically drained, and chose not to argue.
After they were safely established in the climb, Jefferson got up and checked Ariadna. “How is she?” he asked Jason.
“Bruised and sore, but I don’t think she has a broken skull or a concussion…”
“I’m fine,” she responded weakly, half-opening her eyes to look at them. “Thank you for saving me, Sergeant Major.”
“It was pure dumb luck that we’re not all dead,” Jefferson said. He looked carefully at Richter. “Or maybe not. You told me the CID unit was broken, Major.” Richter nodded. “Why the bogus story? We could’ve been killed out there. The CID unit could’ve detected all those killers long before they attacked us. Two innocent people were needlessly killed. Your own engineer was beaten and could have been killed too.”
“I took a chance, sir,” Jason replied. He turned to Ariadna. “I’m sorry, Ari, but I had to do it.”
“A chance? What are you talking about?”
“A chance to give out some false information so we’d draw out the bad guys,” Jason said. “Everybody but myself and Ari thought that the CID unit was down. That means…”
“That means that someone we told about our plan to go to Abaete to hunt for Ruiz without the CID unit ratted us out to Zakharov,” Jefferson said. “I only told the National Security Adviser, and it was on a secure circuit.” He turned to Kristen. “Who did you talk to?” he demanded.
“Our executive producer…the chief of the news division…the president of SATCOM One…”
“Jesus…!”
“Even I can’t just go traipsing all over South America without getting permission,” Kristen retorted. “The news was sent all the way up to the president’s office before we knew it. What did you expect…we were just going to whip out our credit cards and pay for this trip ourselves?”
“And how many persons could they have told?”
“They don’t blab about our movements, Sergeant Major…”
“Who? How many could have known?”
