Or not-so-old cars. They looked to be Mercedeses. Dean still didn’t have a good read on where his team members were or who’d fired the guns. He began edging toward the truck, moving parallel to the fence. Finally he saw something move on the other side of the truck and he froze.
A man with a rifle.
Short, five-six or — seven. Bulky, maybe because of a vest.
Dean watched the man walk to the front of the truck, scan down the fence line, then walk back. Thinking he might start the truck and turn on the headlamps, Dean lowered himself to the ground and waited a few moments. When nothing happened, he got up and strode as quietly but quickly as possible toward the truck, aware that he was exposed to anyone in the huts on his left.
There’d be at least one other person working with the guy at the truck. Otherwise, he would have left.
About twenty feet from the truck, Dean’s boots splashed into a shallow puddle. He stopped, leveling the AKSU slightly lower than he’d normally aim, figuring it would ride up when he fired. He was worried, too, about the vest.
But the Russian didn’t hear the noise, or at least didn’t check it. That bothered Dean — maybe the man had moved away from the truck. Dean stepped through the puddle as quietly as he could, moving into a crouch. He slid the second clip back into the back of his pants, scanned around to make sure he wasn’t being flanked himself, then edged backward, taking an elliptical approach to the rear of the truck. When he was less than five feet away, he saw the Russian standing a few feet from the tailgate, zipping up after taking a leak. The man glanced over his shoulder, then reached into his pocket to light a cigarette. He had his gun under his arm.
Dean flew forward. He was a step and a half away when the Russian heard him and started to spin around, bringing up his rifle. The short wooden stock of Dean’s AKSU smacked the Russian in the side of the skull so hard he fell out of Dean’s reach. Dean jumped after him, hammering the man’s chin with his boot but losing his balance and falling backward on the ground near the rifle the Russian had dropped. Dean rolled to his side, levering himself up and throwing out his elbow to protect against the attack, but the sentry lay limp nearby.
Dean waited on one knee, momentarily unsure of his bearings. The sketch from Karr’s handheld had shown an opening along that side of the fence, but he couldn’t remember how far up it was.
He could hear something.
Feet on gravel. Inside the fence.
Dean moved behind the truck, then circled around. He saw a figure emerge from the fence line about twenty yards up. As he brought his AKSU up he felt something sting him hard in the side, an errant fastball catching him in the ribs. He spun, catching a muzzle flash a dozen yards away. The submachine gun on Dean’s hip barked, the recoil easier than he’d thought.
Dean threw himself to the ground as the figure by the fence fired. He touched the glasses, steadying the image. The man he’d fired at had gone down and didn’t seem to be moving. As Dean twisted his head toward the other Russian, he saw a shadow retreating away from the fence.
Still on his belly, Dean began following. Before he reached the fence, two figures carrying rifles appeared on the other side, back near the truck. Dean cut them both down, aiming high enough to hit them in the necks or heads above any armor they might be wearing. As he fired, the man he’d been tracking began to shoot as well. Bullets whizzed in the dust; Dean managed to crawl into a shallow gully and reload.
He lost track of the gunman for a second as he started to crawl out. Thinking the man had retreated, Dean climbed to his feet. Almost immediately, two bullets bounced off his vest. They barely hurt, but before he could return fire he lost the man again. Dean dived back into the ditch.
Most likely the Russian had a nightscope or something similar. Dean thought of the smoke grenades Lia had given him — they’d work just as well against a night device as they would in daylight. He took one from his pocket, thumbing off the tape. As he went to toss it, the gunman began firing again, this time with a much heavier weapon.
Adrenaline screamed in Dean’s veins. He curled his body and leaped from the ditch toward the fence. The Russian had moved to a PKU machine gun a few yards from his original position. The smoke may have blinded him — his shots were wild and high — but also made it difficult for Dean to see.
Best bet, he thought, was to flank the sucker while he was focused on the smoke. Dean crawled sideways to the fence, rose, then shouldered the chain links until he got to the opening. As he dashed across, something grabbed him from behind and yanked him to the ground. In the next second, there was a loud explosion from above.
“About fucking time you got here,” said Lia when the ringing in Dean’s ears stopped.
14
Rockman studied the sensor grid. “They got them all,” he told Telach finally. “Tommy took out the machine gunner with a grenade. Got him right in the head. Big mess.”
“How’d you miss the dogs?” asked Telach.
“The spread,” he said. “They must have been in the back of the truck sleeping. We just weren’t close enough to hear. We knew where the people were. They would have stayed in the shed and the truck if the dogs hadn’t gone crazy.”
Telach frowned.
“Got movement on the road,” he told her.
“Tell them.”
“I’m about to.”
15
Lia began trotting toward a pile of wrecked buses farther back in the lot.
“Is Karr hurt?” Dean asked, running to catch up.
“Nah.”
“Where is he?”
“He started circling around to ambush them when you didn’t show up,” she said. “He just took out the machine gun. He’s looking to see if there’s anybody else our friends in the Art Room missed.”
“Aren’t we going to back him up?” asked Dean, grabbing her arm as they reached the closest bus.
She jerked her arm away. “He can handle it. Just watch my ass, okay?”
“She’s got a cute one,” said Karr in his earphones.
Dean reached to his shirt and undid the muffle, putting his mike back in place. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“I had to go deep. You did a good job, Charlie Dean. Noisy, though.”
“They fired first.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Karr laughed. “Stick on Lia. I’ll come over and play tail gunner. I always like the dirt road.”
Dean walked past a row of Mercedes S sedans. There was a break in the row about ten cars down on his left; he turned up and walked past another two rows of pickup trucks, these mismatched among Fords, Chevys, and Toyotas. Beyond the second row sat a decrepit bus. Dean walked to the right and saw that the rest of the yard was laid out with various pieces of machinery and pipes. He nearly tripped over the bodies of two dogs, then saw a figure working at a piece of metal ten feet away, beyond a large Y-shaped piece of metal piping. A small blue flame appeared and danced in the air.
“Lia?”
“What?” she snapped without turning around.
“Just making sure it was you.”
“No, it’s Mr. Midas.” She went back to cutting the metal.
Dean, his left hand on the clip of the gun, scanned the area to make sure they were alone. Lia kicked at the metal, removing a rectangle about twelve inches long. She worked at the remaining piece almost as if she were a sculptor, burning the edge into a wavy pattern.
“What are you doing?” Dean asked finally.
“Baking a cake,” she said. “I think this is it.”
“Okay, Princess, let’s move,” said Karr.
“Coming.”
“Dean?”
“I can hear you,” he said.
“Grab her and pull her out of there.”
“Fuck you,” said Lia, jumping up and grabbing the piece of metal she had cut off. She kicked the dirt around in what seemed to Dean a fairly useless attempt to scatter the bits of burnt metal that had fallen off and then cover her tracks. Then, as
Dean moved backward toward the old bus, she started to run full speed toward one of the pickups on the right, tossing something in the back.
“Come on, Chuckie,” she said, catching up on a dead run.
Dean started to run after her. “What’s up?”
“Two trucks,” announced Karr. “Mile away. Meet me at the perimeter fence where we came in.”
Dean followed Lia out past the buildings, through the marshy field, and back along the alley where he’d originally been posted. Lia sprinted hard and threw herself about eight feet up the fence, hustling upward seemingly without breaking stride.
“Separation,” she hissed as she hit the top and twirled over.
“Screw separation,” said Dean, starting up after her as the headlights of the approaching truck swung across the far side of the fence.
“Charlie, take the blankets and clips with you,” said Karr. “Don’t forget them.”
Dean had trouble with one of the clips, and the blanket on the razor wire was hooked on the inside of the fence. He tugged and almost lost it over the side, which would have meant going back in. Finally he got it and, barely holding his grip with his left hand, managed to drop it below. Just as he started down, gunfire erupted beyond the lot where they had left the van. Within thirty seconds, Kalashnikovs were roaring all along the fence line. Dean couldn’t tell from where he was what was going on, and he didn’t stop to observe, dropping the last eight feet from the fence, grabbing the blanket and tucking it beneath into his pants as he ran. A flare shot up from the access roadway, lighting the night. As Dean squared his AKSU in the direction of the gunfire, he heard a loud hush, the sort of sound a vacuum might make in a sewer system. It was followed by a crinkling explosion and then a loud rumble; one of the trucks had been hit by a small antitank missile, which ignited its fuel tank and a store of ammunition.
A second later, the compound they’d just left erupted with a series of explosions. The loudest came from the pipe area Karr had told him earlier to ignore — the underground tank exploded, spewing fire into the air.
Dean stared at it for a second, then realized the van was starting to move. He ran to it, grabbing at the rear door as the truck veered suddenly to the left. Somehow he managed to throw his weapon and then himself inside. One of the AKSUs fired from the front cab and then a grenade exploded nearby. Smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal filled the back. The van slammed to a stop and then quickly began backing up at high speed. Both Lia and Karr were shooting now — Dean fished for his gun but lost it as the truck tipped hard to the right, wheeled around, and sped erratically over the field, bouncing wildly over ruts and through a ditch.
And then it was over. The gunfire stopped, the ride smoothed out; they were on the highway. Dean couldn’t even see the glow of the burning flares through the window.
“How you doing back there, baby-sitter?” snarled Lia from the front. She was in the driver’s seat. “Pee your pants yet?”
“I thought he did pretty well,” said Karr. “Sorry about the big bangs at the end, Charlie. That was mostly for effect.”
Dean looked up at the top of the truck. Several rounds had come through the walls.
“Some effect,” he said.
“The problem with dealing with the Russians is that you have to act like the Russians,” said Karr. “You have to be as totally obnoxious about things as they would be. Otherwise they get suspicious.”
The agent explained that they had made the operation look like a rival mafiya gang had hit the storehouse of another, blowing up most of their vehicles with a Russian version of C-4. Hitting the trucks on the way out was necessary, since a rival gang would not have missed such an easy opportunity.
“Plus we wanted to get rid of the part from our airplane,” added Karr.
“Was it your airplane?” Dean asked.
“Looks like it.”
“Now what do we do?”
“See, they found the wreckage and scavenged the engines,” Karr explained. “But they also brought along a little piece of the tail with some Russian serial numbers. The Art Room will check it out, but in the meantime we’re going to go to the place where they found it and see if anything else is left.”
“Why didn’t we go there in the first place?” Dean asked.
“Not my call,” said Karr. “But I assume they had it under surveillance, saw that these guys took something, and wanted to find out what it was. It was the motors, right, Lia? I mean, you do know the difference between motors and wings.”
“Oh, har-har.”
“If you hadn’t taken out the guards, we might have just snuck out,” Karr told Dean. “But that kind of committed us. Better to blow all the shit up anyway. Plus I can’t resist using the Russian bazooka. What’d you think of the pyro shit at the gas tanks? Wasn’t that cool?”
“If I hadn’t taken them out they would have killed you,” said Dean.
“Water over the dam now.”
“Wait a second. You’re criticizing me for bailing you out? I saved your butts.”
“I’m not criticizing you, Charlie,” said Karr. He sounded almost hurt.
“We almost got killed. Your high-tech gear isn’t worth shit,” said Dean. He began surveying his body to see if any of the various aches and pains he felt were serious wounds. “And your plan sucked.”
“Oh, please,” said Lia.
“Well, the support team didn’t cover itself with glory,” said Karr. “I’ll give you that. But we weren’t almost killed.”
“You got ambushed. If I wasn’t there, you’d be dead.”
“If you weren’t there, we would’ve done it differently.”
“I suppose the Marines have a better way,” said Lia.
“A Marine operation would have had more people.”
“And less dogs,” said Karr brightly.
“Yeah. Your high-tech gizmos were outsmarted by dogs,” said Dean. “Shit.”
“Nobody in the Art Room has pets. That’s the problem,” said Karr, stepping on the accelerator.
16
Alexsandr Kurakin nodded as his adviser continued, talking about how Kurakin might refine his image for the coming elections. American-style election consultants with their polls and slick advertising styles had been mandatory since the 1990s; Kurakin himself had first used the consultants to win election to the state parliament. But there was a great deal of witchcraft involved, and he trusted these men even less than he did the parliament.
“Your popularity in the countryside remains strong,” said the consultant, whom Kurakin privately referred to as Boris Americanski. The man gestured toward the chart he had projected on the wall, the gold of his pinkie ring catching a glint. He talked like an American consultant, but he dressed like a Russian gangster. Kurakin hated both, though necessity at times demanded they be used.
More and more he found himself a prisoner of necessity. Not since the breakup of the Soviet Union had Russia been so ungovernable, so at odds with itself. By any economic measure, by any social indicator, it was in chaos. The future promised by the democratic reformers had proven to be the stuff of a child’s fairy tale. No, crueler — a parent’s promise of a plentiful Christmas when foreclosure loomed instead.
Kurakin felt the bitterness more deeply than most of the people he governed. He himself had been one of the reformers; many of the now-empty promises had emanated from his own mouth.
He had been a true believer. He trusted in the people and the system to bring a better life to ordinary Russians — to his parents and brother still living in the east beyond the Urals and still, by any definition, ordinary Russians.
The president strode around the room as the consultant continued to speak. Some months ago Kurakin had moved his offices from the Senate to the Arsenal as a security measure. His quarters were cramped, altogether inadequate, but the move had been necessary. It was, to him, an important symbolic concession to reality, and to the course that he knew he must pursue.
Kurakin had
lost faith, not in the people, not in the future, but in the system. Democracy did not work, at least not here. Special interests blocked true reform. Graft and corruption diverted energy and resources from where they were needed. Old hatreds — some even dating from Stalin’s day! — poisoned the legislature. Rivalries in the military drained morale. He saw and understood everything, and it was his responsibility as president to fix it.
He would do so, but with his own methods. In parliament, a bill suggesting that the sun rose in the morning would not make it to the floor for a vote if it was whispered that he supported it.
The rebels in the south were an even more enduring and obstinate irritation. But he could not deal with them forcefully, as Putin had dealt with Chechnya, because of the Americans.
Indeed, Kurakin felt checked at every point by the U.S. The American president professed to like him — Kurakin kept his own opinion of the man well hidden — yet blocked Russia from taking its proper place as partner in NATO or the Middle East. More critically, the Americans threatened to call in their loans and end a long list of programs if Russia punished China for aiding the southern rebels or dealt too severely with the rebels themselves. The Americans had recently taken to monitoring the Kazakhstan border. It was a particularly egregious slap, considering how Russia had assisted the U.S. in its war against the Islamic militants in Afghanistan.
“The good news is, no other likely opponent polls higher than fifteen percent,” said Boris, who’d been droning on, oblivious to the president’s disinterest.
“The bad news is, I poll fourteen,” said Kurakin dryly.
“It’s not quite that bad.”
“I still have my sense of humor,” the president told the consultant. His approval hovered between 35 and 43 percent and had since the election.
“Historically, it’s not bad. Look at Yeltsin. Russians love to hate their leaders.”
Yes, thought Kurakin, unless they give the people a reason to hate them. In that case they love them.
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