by Shawn Kupfer
“Most of this is no problem. But what’s a Challenger Vapor?”
“Talk to your boy Don Lewis from Delta 3-3,” Black said.
That was going back a ways. Christopher had saved a Marine Master Sergeant in the Battle of Neryugn about a year and a half ago, grabbing him out of a horde of Chinese shoulders on an ill-fated attempt to take a tiny airfield.
“Haven’t heard from that guy in a while,” Christopher said.
“He’s rotated stateside. Had to have surgery. But he’s in a position to get that item for you. I’m sure that hacker girl you have can set up a call.”
“You really need twenty cartons of Marlboro Reds?” Evans said, taking the paper from Christopher and reading through it. “You should probably cut back.”
“Oh, I don’t smoke,” Black said, offering no further explanation.
“I can make most of this list happen. Might take me a few days on the exotic stuff,” Christopher said.
“Sooner the better. I don’t expect to be able to track your guy forever. Best case, he finds a hide to charge the phone for a couple of hours. Failing that, we have to hope he just shoves it in a pocket and forgets it’s there. Once that signal goes dead, his trail goes dead,” Black said, his face suddenly serious. “That happens before I’m in China, and we might as well call the whole thing off.”
“I’ll get it done,” Christopher said. “Everything by tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s my boy. I’ll hitch a ride with you guys back to Zulu – if you would find me a place to sleep where no one will fuck with me out there, it would be a big help. I really need a nap.”
“Right. If you’re ready to go now, we should get back sooner rather than later,” Evans said, pouring more coffee into his paper cup and standing up.
“Yeah, let’s fly. That maintenance excuse your First Recon buddy gave the 160th won’t hold up more than a couple more hours,” Black said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.
Christopher just shook his head. This guy really did seem to know everything. He was a bit odd, but if there was anyone he thought could get to Nick while he was in China, Jason Black was that guy. He felt better about Nick’s chances then, if only slightly. He’d been able to do something, which was better than the nothing he’d been told to do.
Now, he just had a lot of palms to grease and a lot of favors to call in to put together Black’s list of goodies.
Chapter Six
How (Did This Loser Get This Job?)
Nick drove the Brave Warrior up to the end of the long line of cars waiting to get on the Tongsha Ferry. The line wasn’t moving quickly, and Nick took the opportunity to get his bearings. He found a street sign and discovered he was on 204 National Road – and just beyond the street sign, he saw his face staring back at him from the side of an apartment building.
“Shit,” he grumbled. “We’re not getting onto the boat with my face right there.”
“Why don’t we just take out the guards? Looks like there’s only two of them,” Hansen said, nodding through the windshield at the PLA soldiers on either side of the line.
“Do you know how to drive a ferry, Hansen? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“So we back out of this line, find another way across.”
Nick had already thought of that. He could see down the river in both directions pretty far, and didn’t see any bridges anywhere. He did catch sight of another ferry way downriver, but he had no way to know if his face was up right next to that terminal, as well. It stood to reason that it was – PLA National Police probably made sure that his image and the images of his crew were distributed at every transit point imaginable.
“Probably the same story wherever we go,” Nick said.
“Well, unless you can suddenly change your face, we’re pretty fucked. I mean, I’m already caught, but you...”
“Christ, Hansen. I am not capturing you. I don’t have time to have this argument again. At least wait until we’re on the other side to start up with that shit again, will you?”
Nick couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the pilot chuckle under his breath.
Something Hansen said, though, started the wheels turning in Nick’s head. He couldn’t change his face, but maybe he could hide it. He remembered the victims back at the office complex on the other side of Shanghai, the ones with their faces burned and covered in blood, screaming while the medics did what they could for them. Nick flipped down the sun visor and found that there was a small mirror on it, just like any factory production car. He reached into his boot and pulled out his small, spring-loaded folding knife, which he flicked open.
“What are you doing?” Hansen asked, his eyes widening. Nick was sure the pilot thought he was about to get stabbed. He decided to let Hansen sweat that for a minute, and didn’t answer.
Instead, Nick laid the point of the blade to his forehead just underneath his hairline. He took a deep breath and pushed down on the blade until he felt it bite into the skin. It didn’t hurt as much as he expected, though he did suddenly have the urge to sneeze. Nick slowly pulled the blade an inch to the right, keeping the pressure constant.
The blood was almost immediate, and there was a lot of it. It gushed down over Nick’s left eye, and he let it pour down without making any effort to stop it. He checked the mirror and saw that the left side of his face was quickly turning red, covered almost completely in blood.
“Fuck. You really hurt yourself there,” Hansen said, but there was no concern in his voice.
“Head wounds tend to bleed like a bitch. It’s not that bad. It just looks bad, which is exactly what we need right now.”
The line was moving forward, and Nick kept his front bumper within a couple of feet of the car in front of him. He closed the knife and stashed it back in his boot, letting the blood ooze down his face as they waited in line.
“Don’t think they’re gonna ask about that?” Hansen said, pointing at Nick’s forehead.
Nick put the sun visor back in place and grabbed his TotalVis goggles from his side pocket. He set them to dark, their sunglass setting, and wiped the blood out of his left eye. He slipped the goggles on and turned slightly to look at Hansen.
“I’m counting on them asking. Now put your hands behind your back like they’re cuffed, and don’t say a goddamn word when they check us out.”
Nick expected an argument. He’d gotten one on every point since he’d met Hansen. But this time, the argument didn’t come. The young pilot just put his hands behind his back and leaned on them to hide the fact that they weren’t handcuffed. Nick moved the car forward as the line moved again, trying to ignore the uncomfortable, warm sensation of blood coating the left side of his face. The blood was reaching his lips now, and though he tried not to open his mouth, he could taste it – dry and metallic, like a greasy coin.
When the Brave Warrior finally made it to the front of the line a few minutes later, Nick caught a glimpse of himself in the truck’s side mirror. He couldn’t even recognize himself – the left side of his face looked like it had been bashed in with a tire iron. He just hoped the People’s Liberation Army National Police Sergeant on the other side of the window couldn’t recognize him, either.
He rolled down the window – it was still an old-school window crank, like Nick hadn’t seen in years. The mid 1990s Jaguar he’d worked to restore in high school and college had been the last car he’d seen without automatic windows, and the image of that car rushed into his mind as he turned the crank.
“I’ll need to see your – fage, sir! Are you all right?”
It took Nick a moment to realize that “fage” was a direct transliteration from English – “fuck.”
“I’m sure you know about the attacks in downtown,” Nick said, keeping his voice steeled and even.
“You caught one of them?” the Sergeant asked, nodding his head at Hansen, who was looking at the floor.
“That’s correct. And I’m taking him –”
&
nbsp; “The facility in Taizhou,” the Sergeant said, nodding.
“That’s correct.”
“You look pretty beat up, Major. Do you need any help? We can call ahead to the other side and have an escort take him off your hands so you can get medical attention.”
The Sergeant’s eyebrows were knit at the center, and Nick was almost touched for a moment. This Chinese policeman was showing genuine concern – he really thought Nick needed help, and he was going to do everything he could to make sure he got it.
“It looks worse than it is,” Nick said, waving a hand dismissively. “These head wounds bleed excessively, but I assure you, I’ve had worse.”
“Wait right here,” the Sergeant said, standing up and looking across the car to his partner. “Go and get the first aid kit. Make it fast – the ferry leaves in five minutes.”
The man on the other side of the car took off at a run. The concerned Sergeant leaned down to the window again, and Nick quickly glanced over at Hansen. The pilot was getting squirmy – no doubt, he thought the other policeman was running for reinforcements. Hansen must not speak any Chinese at all, Nick realized – he would have no idea what was going on, and he had to be jumpy and expecting to be caught. Nick tried to think of a way to calm the pilot down, stop him from making any stupid moves now that they were so close to being home free. If he could get the cop to smile, or laugh...
Nick didn’t know the first thing about Chinese humor. Still, a memory slammed into his forebrain – his mother’s cousin, on a visit when Nick was five, had told him a joke once. Nick hadn’t gotten it then, and even as the words came back to him, it didn’t seem funny, but anything was worth a shot at this point if it kept Hansen from reaching for Nick’s pistol and starting a shitstorm.
“So, how long have you been a policeman, Sergeant?” Nick asked.
“Four years, Major.”
“I remember something I heard about a policeman and a ticket scalper once in Shanghai. The scalper was standing outside the National Opera, yelling ‘tickets for sale! 350 yuan!’ and the police officer stopped and said ‘I’m a policeman.’ So the scalper said, ‘oh, for policemen, it’s only 320 yuan!’“ Nick smiled as he told the joke, and blood ran into his mouth, coating his bottom teeth.
He still didn’t think the joke was at all funny, but the policeman sure did. What started as a low, rumbling chuckle in the Sergeant’s chest quickly turned into an all-out guffaw. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Hansen jump slightly in his seat, then resume his slumped, defeated look before the cackling Sergeant could notice. Nick laughed along with the Sergeant, and blood trickled down into his throat. He did his best not to gag and devolve into a coughing fit.
“Where did you hear that one, Major?” the Sergeant asked, finally getting his giggle fit under control.
“That’s an old one. I heard it back when I was in school,” Nick said, forcing himself to swallow the blood that was hanging out at the back of his throat. He did his best not to grimace as he swallowed, but the Sergeant probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway.
A moment later, the Sergeant’s partner reappeared with a small plastic medical kit, which he tossed over the roof of the Brave Warrior into the Sergeant’s waiting hands. The sergeant pulled out a roll of gauze and a few bandages, which he handed to Nick through the open window.
“Thanks for that, Sergeant. I’ll clean this up on the boat,” Nick said, nodding forward.
It’s nice that this guy is concerned, and all, but I really hope he doesn’t insist that he help clean me up, Nick thought. Just clear us to go on the fucking boat already.
“Right, sir. But make sure to get that looked at when you get to Taizhou. Wouldn’t want it to get infected, right?”
“Right, Sergeant.”
“On your way, then,” the Sergeant said, straightening up and chuckling. “Ticket scalper. Good stuff.”
Nick rolled up the window and drove the Brave Warrior onto the barge behind a midsize sedan he couldn’t identify. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, not saying a word, for a good minute. It wasn’t until the ferry workers closed the gate and the boat started moving that he finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.
“So, that could have gone worse, I guess?” Hansen said. Nick suddenly realized that the pilot was probably waiting on him to confirm that they were, indeed, in the clear.
“Yeah. We’re OK for the moment.”
“So, when we get across the river, you turn me in to your bosses and get an award, or a medal, or whatever the Chink Army does in this type of situation. Bowl of rice, maybe.”
Nick shot a glare in Hansen’s direction, which probably looked even more severe than usual thanks to all the blood covering his face. Hansen tried to hold in a laugh, but failed.
“Look, you said wait until we were past the checkpoint before –”
“Shut the fuck up, Hansen.”
Chapter Seven
Come Out Fighting
Christopher had just enough time to secure Black’s list before his orders came through – he and his unit were to report to Camp Python for two weeks of training. Rumor was they’d lost a day of rest. They were originally supposed to take a chopper to Yekaterinburg, but a few Russian Federation Spetsnaz operators had also been ordered to Python, and they had a BPM-97 armored vehicle they were driving there. There was enough space on the BPM for Christopher and his crew, and their nice, comfy chopper ride was cancelled in favor of a two-day drive inside a Spartan Russian APC.
The inside of the APC wasn’t at all comfortable – it had two actual seats for the driver and passenger, and two long benches along either side for the crew/cargo. There were two Spetsnaz operators waiting when Christopher and his team showed up, and they seemed happy for the company on the long drive. Christopher liked the Russians he’d met so far, and seemed to get along with them rather well, so it could have been worse.
The drive also gave him time to get some work done, work he hadn’t even known he’d had to do as commander of 47 Echo. Before leaving, Colonel Ross told Christopher he needed to pick a second in command for his unit, and that decision turned out to be harder than he’d thought it would be. He’d gotten copies of all of his people’s files downloaded to the command screen in the arm of his BDU jacket, and realized this was the first time he’d seen any of their files, his included.
By the time they’d made it a few hours down the road from Firebase Zulu, he’d narrowed the list down a bit. Daniel, his sniper, was too valuable as a lone gun, so he was out. Martin, the demolitions expert, was through-the-roof brilliant, but dangerously unstable, so no go there. Mary was also a genius, but he needed her full attention as the team’s hacker and tech person, so she was out. Gabriel was not yet even 19, and still needed a lot of training to even function as the team’s medic – adding SIC duties on top of that would overwhelm the young kid. His communications tech, Anthony, was a solid enough guy, but he’d been a bit sketchy since the attack on New York, his hometown. That left Michael Riley and Peter King, his two machine gunners, and Bryce, the driver.
Problem was, each of them was outstanding at their jobs. He really didn’t want to add responsibility to any of them – it would only split focus. Christopher himself had pretty much been Nick’s right-hand man since the inception of the unit as a Special Forces group, so being second in command was his focus – now he needed someone else to step in and take over that responsibility.
Christopher of course knew why he needed someone to be his second. If he was killed in the field, someone would need to take over command of the unit, first of all. But more importantly, he needed a sounding board – someone who would poke holes in his plans, expose any weaknesses he hadn’t yet thought of, without undermining his authority. Any one of the three on his short list would be able to do that – he trusted each of those men implicitly.
In the end, it came down to simple duplication of duties. Bryce was their only driver, but both Michael an
d Peter were heavy machine gunners. Razor assault vehicles, the tool the team used most often, had two dual-50 caliber machine gun turrets, and that was where Michael and Peter lived. But they weren’t always in Razors, and they didn’t always necessarily need two gunners. In a pinch, Daniel could fill in as one of the turret gunners, so Bryce dropped off the list.
The possibilities down to two, Christopher used their criminal records to determine which he was going to choose. Michael had been a break-and-enter guy, an armed robber who had killed both a security guard and a police officer on a robbery gone bad. Peter had been a gangbanger in Detroit, but he had been a leader in his particular street gang. In the absence of everything else, leadership won out – and Peter was a relatively large, scary dude. He got people to listen to him. As they rolled through hour six of their 17-hour drive, Christopher got up and walked over to Peter, who was sleeping sitting up on the bench behind the passenger’s seat.
“‘Sup, boss?” Peter asked as Christopher shook his shoulder gently. The younger man didn’t yawn, didn’t blink – he simply woke up instantly, his hand going to the M-249 SAW sitting at his side.
They’d all started waking up that way years ago – sleeping light, ready to jump into action with zero notice. For once, though, Christopher wasn’t waking his friend to go shoot at something.
“No worries, Pete. We’re good.”
“Right on,” Peter said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapping the Spetsnaz operative in the passenger seat on the shoulder. “Mogu li ya kuritʹ zdesʹ?”
Christopher, who’d just taken a few crash courses in Russian, was impressed by the younger man’s pronunciation.
“Da,” the operative said, “Yesli vy dadite mne odnu.”
Peter handed the pack to the operative, then lit his own smoke.
