by Shawn Kupfer
“Now... is there someone else coming to this station in the next 24 hours?” Nick asked, making sure to keep the gun pointed directly at the technician’s forehead as he shrugged into Nick’s BDU shirt.
The technician nodded.
“Good,” Nick said, grabbing the BDU jacket and cutting off the sleeves with his knife. He used the pieces of the jacket to tie the technician’s hands and feet, then used a strip from the back of the coat to gag the man.
Nick shouldered his assault rifle. The technician made no move to get up or to struggle in any way, but Nick saw the older man’s eyes suddenly widen. He turned around just in time to see Hansen had woken up, grabbed Nick’s pistol, and had it pointed at the now-bound older man.
The pistol dry-fired, and Nick snatched it out of Hansen’s hand.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Nick hissed in English.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Why doesn’t this gun have a round chambered?”
Nick stashed the gun in his belt and hauled Hansen to his feet. The pilot winced as he put weight on his injured leg, and Nick fought back a tiny grin. He dragged Hansen out to the truck, opened the back door, and tossed him onto the back seat. Before Hansen could say anything, Nick slammed the door and walked around the front of the truck to the unlocked driver-side door.
He recognized the make of the truck – it was a Foton SUP. He’d actually test-driven one in Los Angeles during the summer of 2016, when he was looking for a new truck to drive back and forth to his job in construction. The main reason he’d looked at the Fotons was because they were extremely cheap – online reviews had dissuaded him from buying one. Instead, he’d bought a three-year old Toyota Tundra from Craigslist.
Four years ago, we were trading freely with China, Nick thought, shaking his head and climbing behind the wheel. Now I’m committing armed robbery and grand theft auto in their country.
Nick slammed the door behind him and started the engine. He heard Hansen behind him taking a breath, and whether that breath was in preparation to say something or not, Nick cut him off.
“You pull any sort of shit like that again, I’ll shoot you in the head and leave you on the side of the fucking road,” he growled.
“That guy –”
“That guy was a civilian. Unarmed. Noncombatant.”
“He was a Chink.”
“Reconsider your word choice very carefully,” Nick hissed, throwing the truck into reverse and pulling out onto the highway. “I’m done hearing that word out of you.”
“What, you’re the guy who’s going to teach me to be politically correct?”
“No, I’m the guy with all the fucking guns. Consider that before you talk again. Also, know that I’m just sick enough of your shit that I have no problem shooting you in your other leg if you say one word I don’t like. We clear on that?”
Nick wasn’t even trying to keep his voice steady anymore – he was yelling, and he didn’t care. Hansen said nothing. Nick slammed on the brakes, and felt Hansen roll off the back seat and crash into the back of his chair.
“Dammit!” Hansen yelled.
“I said, are we clear?” Nick yelled.
“Yeah, fine. Clear. Whatever.”
Without another word, Nick slammed on the gas and pushed the truck north.
* * *
Almost an hour passed before Nick realized he would have to worry about fuel. There had been a quarter tank when he’d taken the truck, but now the display between the speedometer and tachometer was showing less than 40 miles of fuel left. The technician’s wallet was in the work jacket on the passenger seat, and thankfully, the guy had three 100-yuan notes and two 50-yuan notes inside. It wasn’t a ton of money, but it would get them fuel.
And maybe some food, Nick’s brain suggested. I don’t remember the last time I ate, and Hansen could probably use a bite, too.
Nick checked the center console and found that the GPS had a listing for a gas station about 10 miles ahead in Sheyang, just off the G-15 Shenhai Expressway he was currently driving. He checked over his shoulder – Hansen was either asleep or faking it.
“Hey, Hansen,” Nick said.
“What, am I allowed to talk now?” the pilot grumbled.
“Possibly. We need fuel. There’s a gas station up ahead. Stay out of sight if you want to keep breathing. I don’t know if there’ll be a military presence at the station, but from what I’ve seen in the past couple of weeks, it’s likely.”
“Any chance of some food or water?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Hansen grumbled something, but Nick ignored it. He’d gotten the necessary information across, and the less he talked to the guy, the less he wanted to hurt him. Nick saw the gas station up on his right about a half a mile out – it was the only light breaking up the dark farmland he’d been looking at for the past half hour. He pulled the SUP up to one of the pumps, realizing as he did so he had no idea which side the gas tank was on. As he got out of the truck and stretched, he saw he’d guessed correctly – it was on the passenger side, as was the pump.
Nick went inside the store, squinting a bit under the harsh fluorescent lights. There was one guy inside, dressed in a bright yellow coat.
“I’m on my way out,” he said to Nick, flashing a smile.
Nick hadn’t thought of that – apparently, gas stations in China, commercial ones anyway, were full service. If this guy went out to the car to fill it up, he’d certainly see Hansen sprawled out on the back seat.
“It’s no problem,” Nick said, attempting a smile. He felt like it came off as more of a grimace. “You can stay here. I’ll pump my own fuel.”
“You sure? It’s no problem.”
“I prefer to do it myself. The fuel filler release on my truck is,” Nick stalled, trying to think of the word for temperamental. He gave up. “Broken.”
If the attendant noticed his verbal stumble, he didn’t show it. He just nodded and smiled and took a seat behind the register.
Nick moved quickly through the aisles. It was a new convenience store, and large, but the shelves and coolers looked like they hadn’t been stocked in a while. There were still some snacks around, stuff Hansen probably wouldn’t be too thrilled with – lychee flavored potato chips, cucumber popcorn, vacuum-packed spicy chicken feet. Nick grabbed them anyway, plus two liter-sized bottles of water. As he carried them to the register, he noticed there was other stuff in the store that would be terribly useful – t-shirts, watch caps, knockoff jeans. He knew he didn’t have the money for it, though, so he just passed the small clothing section by.
“Road trip?” the attendant asked, scanning the food and water. The total came to 120 yuan.
“Visiting relatives,” Nick said, handing all of his bills across the counter. “Put the rest in the tank.”
“Right,” the attendant said, turning on the gas pumps. Nick watched as he put the food into a plastic bag... then froze. The attendant caught sight of something on the screen in front of him, then looked back across the counter at Nick, eyes wide.
Knocking a man out with one hit wasn’t easy, but Nick learned how to do it when he was a kid. He fired his right fist into the attendant’s face just below the left eye, a quick, savage jab that knocked the kid back into the wall behind him. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Nick knew what was on the kid’s computer screen before he looked, but he leaned over the counter to check anyway. There, indeed, was his face and the faces of his team, the same mug shot he’d seen all over Shanghai. There was one difference this time, though – the words “report to Unit Ghost immediately if seen” at the bottom of the screen.
“Assault, grand theft auto, armed robbery... why not hold up a convenience store while I’m at it?” Nick muttered under his breath, heading back through the aisles and taking clothes for both him and Hansen, more food, more water, cigarettes, and anything else he thought he could use.
Chapter Eleven
Computers D
on’t Blunder
“The syntax on these orders... it is off,” Gregor said, handing the tablet back to Mary as the APC bounced along the highway to Yekaterinburg.
“I thought something looked off about it,” Mary said, taking the tablet back and studying it. “Like it was written by a child.”
“Translated, I would guess,” Gregor said.
Mary nodded and turned to Christopher.
“From what little I know of the language...” she started.
“Chinese?” Christopher guessed.
“Korean,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll run it through the computer to be sure, but Korean is my guess.”
Christopher already sent the message back to Zulu that they’d probably been compromised. Though they were back in Russia now, halfway to Kurgan, Yuri didn’t trust the radio frequencies anymore, so Christopher had sent an encrypted email with Mary’s computer. There had been no response from Zulu yet, but Christopher figured he could call Colonel Ross once they got to Yekaterinburg and detail the situation for him.
He didn’t get that chance. While Mary was running her translation program on the data from the tablet, the communications screen between Yuri and Gregor lit up. Several lines of scrolling Cyrillic text appeared, but Christopher was able to pick out something he understood, despite not really speaking any Russian: 47 эхо.
“Somebody looking for us?” Christopher asked, leaning on the back of Gregor’s chair and squinting as if that would make the rest of the Cyrillic mess make any sense to him.
“Kasatka helicopter. Russian Air Force,” Gregor said, turning slightly to face him. “They have apparently been trying us on radio for the past 15 minutes.”
“I’m not great at Russian, but it says a lot more than that,” Christopher said, grinning and waving a hand at the screen.
“Correct. They will be landing at a clearing two kilometers down the road. They have orders to take you and your team to another mission.”
“Any way we can verify that? Not that I’m blaming you guys, or anything, but the last time we got a message telling us to go somewhere, it didn’t exactly go well.”
“I was thinking the same. Their authentication codes are correct, but those could be forged,” Yuri said. “They say they have an American Ranger aboard.”
“Think it’s safe to talk to them?” Peter asked, joining Christopher at the front of the truck.
“Our frequencies are obviously compromised,” Gregor said, shrugging.
“If there really is a Ranger aboard, he’ll have his radio tuned to 1-9 Victor,” Anthony piped up from the back of the APC.
“Good point,” Christopher said, nodding. He toggled his throat mic. “This is 4-7 Echo. We got a Ranger on that bus?”
The answer came back quickly, and Christopher knew the rest of his team had already tuned in to the low-frequency Special Forces channel as soon as Anthony mentioned it.
“That’s affirmative, Gunnery Sergeant.”
Christopher recognized the voice – Staff Sergeant Carson Richmond, one of Johnny Evans’ right-hand people.
“Carson? That you, kid?”
“Roger that. They sent me out here to pick up you and your team. Apparently, there’s a situation someone needs your special talents to un-fuck.”
Through the front window of the APC, Christopher could now see the large Russian helicopter touching down in a flat, open area of land between two crater lakes. The side door opened, and a man in digital ACUs stepped out. As Yuri drove closer, Christopher saw that it was, indeed, Carson Richmond.
“Well, looks like you two will have to entertain each other for the rest of the drive,” Christopher said, sighing as Yuri brought the APC to a stop.
“That is unfortunate, for Gregor is very boring,” Yuri said, smiling and showing teeth.
* * *
“Where are we even headed?” Christopher finally thought to ask after about fifteen minutes in the air.
“Yekaterinburg, not that you’ll be there long,” Carson said, raising his voice to be heard over the rotor noise. “You’re pretty much getting off this chopper and onto a plane.”
“To go where?” Christopher said.
Carson shrugged.
“They tell me to come get you and take you to the airfield, I come get you and take you to the airfield. Sorry, Gunny. You now know everything I do.”
Yekaterinburg was 300 miles away from where the chopper picked them up. It would have been at least six hours in the lumbering APC, but by the time Christopher learned where they were going, he had a little more than an hour and a half left in the chopper. Talking to his crew much would have been useless – the Russian chopper was even noisier than its American counterparts, and after an hour, it gave him a hell of a headache, like he remembered a hangover felt.
Huh. That’s odd. I haven’t had a hangover in two years, he thought. He realized he’d quit drinking through no action on his part – liquor was just hard to come by, and when he did lay his hands on it, it was more valuable as currency than anything else. Back in Daytona, he drank like a fish... and here, he hadn’t even noticed that he’d quit.
There was nothing to do on the ride, and no one was talking much, probably having come to the same noise conclusion Christopher had. He started to think “Man, I hate downtime,” but something seemed wrong with that statement. Christopher Lee, armed robber and con man from Daytona Beach, didn’t hate downtime. In fact, he loved the shit out of it. Back home, he’d missed entire weekdays by napping through them. Christopher Lee, Marine, hated downtime. Christopher Lee, Marine, didn’t drink or smoke weed.
Christopher Lee, Marine, even looked different, he noticed with a bit of a jump as he caught his reflection in the dark window next to him. The image he had in his head was a kid, baby-faced and rail-thin, short black hair, always a smile. Tailored clothes, $400 shoes. The guy looking back at him from the window wasn’t a kid by any stretch.
His face had changed. The baby fat melted away, showing the angular, severe cheekbones and deep hollows of his eyes. He had a black beard now, one that on closer inspection had the beginnings of a gray stripe under the left side of his mouth. His hair was past his collar, and there was some gray invading there, too. A short, thick scar under his right eye reminded him never to knife-fight a North Korean soldier again if he could avoid it, and though the smile was still there, it usually appeared nowadays on command. When he needed something from someone, he grinned. Most times, his mouth was flat, tight-lipped, giving away nothing.
Christopher shook himself out of the uncomfortable self-reflection and took a look at his watch, a Soviet-era Paratrooper model he’d won in a card game a year or so back. As soon as he saw the number in its date window, he realized why his brain had decided to compare Past Christopher with Present Christopher – it was March 23.
He’d just turned 30 that morning.
When he’d first been assigned to 47 Echo, he hadn’t expected to live past 28, much less make it to his thirties. But here he was, a newly-minted member of the 30s club. He suddenly had an irrational fear that the chopper was going to crash, and 30 was as far as he’d ever make it.
The chopper didn’t crash, of course. It landed at Koltsovo Airport in Yekaterinburg, just as Carson said it would. The team was hustled off the plane by Russian Air Force ground personnel and loaded onto a bus, which sped off before the chopper’s rotors had even spun down.
“I hope they’re not leaving without me,” Carson said, nodding his head out the back window at the chopper. “I think they’re my ride home.”
Christopher smiled at him, but said nothing. He reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a pack of Dukat cigarettes, lighting one and tossing the pack across the aisle to Peter.
“Thanks, Chief.”
“So you really have no clue where we’re headed?” Michael asked as the Dukats made their way around to him.
“Nope. But I figure that has something to do with it,” Carson told him, pointing out throug
h the bus’ bug-spattered windshield to the huge plane they were hurtling towards.
“C-5,” Anthony said. “Haven’t seen one of those since the Area November evacuation.”
“The what now?” Martin asked.
“Before your time,” Christopher told him. “But those things mean heavy cargo. Tanks, Razors, stuff that you wouldn’t think would even fit in a plane.”
The bus came to an abrupt stop about a hundred feet from the gigantic aircraft, and the driver opened the door and motioned for everyone to get out. Christopher and his crew grabbed their gear and stepped out onto the Tarmac. Carson came out with them, and the bus driver quickly slammed the doors shut and took off.
“Dude! I need a ride back to the chopper!” Carson yelled after the rapidly shrinking bus.
“Staff Sergeant Richmond?” an older man in a green flight suit asked. Christopher glanced at his nametape – Major Gary Griffin. Air Force. Probably the Galaxy’s pilot. Several other flight-suited officers were milling around the plane, as well. Christopher tried to get a look inside the plane, but they were at a bad angle, and there was heavy cargo netting covering whatever was in there.
“Yes, sir. I’m here to hand these misfits off to you, sir,” Carson said, saluting.
“Afraid not, Sergeant. Your name is on my list, too. All of you, load up. We’re wheels up as soon as you’re aboard. Mission briefing in-flight,” Griffin said, waving his tablet at the plane’s open back ramp.
“They didn’t mention shit about this,” Carson grumbled as he and Christopher headed for the plane.
“Welcome to my world, Sergeant,” Christopher said. “Where no one mentions shit about anything.”
Chapter Twelve
Suburban Rebels
Changing clothes without stopping the car wasn’t easy, but Nick managed. The stuff he stole was in better shape than the clothes he’d taken from the technician back at Taizhou. They fit better, too, but they didn’t exactly look great. He was now wearing a pair of jeans, a knockoff Guess t-shirt (that was spelled “Geuss”), and a flannel hooded overshirt. Injured leg aside, Hansen had managed to struggle into his clothes, a pair of track pants and a black sweatshirt, with a black watch cap to cover his blond hair. It wasn’t going to fool anyone – he still looked like a white guy, just a white guy wearing a black hat.
