Deep Black db-1

by Stephen Coonts

  “This is pretty similar, except you can select five-shot bursts as well as three- and full automatic. Even full there’s almost no recoil. Seriously. They call it an A-2, but I don’t know if there was ever an A-1. Pretty loud. The bullets sound like they’re one long cannon shot. I’d leave it on three-shot unless the entire Russian army comes over the hill. Very, very accurate. If you’re any good, all three bullets right into the dot at three hundred yards. If you’re terrible, the spread’s maybe a half an inch. Give or take.”

  “I only need one bullet.”

  Karr grinned. “Yeah, but you have to fire three. Guess they didn’t figure NSA dweebs would be much good at shooting.”

  “They got that right,” said Lia.

  “Does the small caliber stop anybody?”

  “Well, you won’t stop a tank,” said Karr. “But it’s close to a NATO round and you get a muzzle velocity out near nine hundred, nine hundred thirty meters a second. That’s better than an M24. Right? And it’s three bullets, on the dot.”

  Dean grunted. The kid did know a few things about guns, at least. Dean held the A-2 up. The laser danced around the interior of the helicopter.

  “Would have made more sense to activate the laser by touching the trigger,” he said.

  “I gather the trigger assembly is tricky,” said Karr. “Besides, it’s not a sniper weapon; it’s an assault gun.”

  Dean wondered what they might give a sniper these days — probably radio-guided bullets. The A-2 felt more like a toy than a gun. He put its muzzle down and clicked off the sighting device.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” Karr said.

  “I never do.”

  The helicopter began to bank. Karr got up and went to the cargo door, looking through the large window at the top. Lia, with a binocular and one of the guns in her hand, came and stood beside him. The helicopter took a wide circuit, orbiting around their target area. Karr wrestled with the door mechanism, pounding a few times with his fist before rearing back and kicking. The door unfolded downward with a thick clunk. The helo completed two more turns, then settled into an unsteady hover. Dean gripped the bottom of his seat, worried that he might spill forward. Lia pulled a small digital camera from one of her pants pockets and began taking photos.

  The front end of the helicopter suddenly pushed forward and down. It rammed hard against the ground and Dean found himself sprawling on the floor. He rolled to his feet, expecting to see a fire or smoke or something, but the cabin was empty; the others had hopped out. Apparently the jolt was nothing more than a routine landing, as the rotors were still spinning and the helicopter seemed intact.

  Which was more than could be said for the aircraft sprawled along the ground in front of him.

  Not that it looked like an aircraft. Twisted sheets of metal lay in different jags in the mushy tall grass. Odd wires, shards of glass, and toothy spars that looked like chewed-up I-beams dotted the ground. Dean walked along the trail of metal, gradually catching up to Karr and Lia, who were standing over what looked like a black shroud about twenty feet long. Karr appeared to be talking to himself, but Dean realized he must be using his com device to talk to the NSA support people in what they called the Art Room. Dean adjusted his ear buds and mike, calling to Lia to make sure his unit was working.

  “You’re supposed to be watching the road,” she told him.

  “Why don’t you watch it, Princess?” Dean told her.

  “Don’t ever call me that,” she hissed.

  Dean hung back near the road as she circled the wreckage area. Most of the ground was solid, but there were large patches of muck and deep mud. In one or two places water puddled in shallow pools a few feet wide. Dean walked down toward the road a ways, checking to see if there were any parts here. He’d heard stories about people finding intact luggage, wallets, shoes, and clothing at crash sites, and wondered if he would find any.

  He also wondered if he’d find anything more gruesome.

  “Here,” said Lia, calling to him. Dean trotted over, thinking she’d found something, but she was pointing to empty grass.

  “What?”

  “One of the engines was here. They saw them from the road, see?” She pointed.

  “OK.”

  “The other one they took — there.” She pointed again. This time the marks were more obvious — there was a gouge in the dry earth. The tail fin had probably lain right next to it.

  They checked around but found nothing else. Lia straightened suddenly, said “OK,” and began jogging toward the helicopter. Dean watched her, thinking again how pretty she was. As he stared, she got into the Hind and it lifted off.

  Karr slapped him on the back as he watched it go.

  “I want you to work from this side over,” said Karr, handing him what looked like an oversize electric tester with a microphone instead of a set of probes. “Tell me if the needle moves.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “That’s a sniffer. If it detects certain chemicals, the needle will move.”

  “So what am I looking for?”

  “Human remains. Preferably incinerated.”

  19

  When he reached his office, Rubens found a note on top of the blanket he routinely threw over the desktop to cover any classified material inadvertently left there. It was from Admiral Brown, in his usual shorthand—“Me ASAP.”

  It meant Rubens should see him immediately. Rubens folded the note and then inserted it into one of his shredders; it was an unnecessary reflex.

  There was a whole list of calls to make, projects to check; each was undoubtedly more important than whatever his superior wanted, in Rubens’ opinion. But demanding an immediate audience was his superior’s prerogative, and so Rubens left his office and went down the hallway, sticking his head through the portal so the admiral’s administrative assistant could see him.

  Connie Murphy had served under three different directors and probably knew more about the agency than anyone else. She also was pushing seventy, at least.

  “Mr. Rubens.” Connie sounded like a third-grade teacher nipping off trouble in the back row. “We’ve been waiting.”

  “I just saw the note.”

  “You were paged.”

  “I was in the Art Room.” The security precautions prevented the paging system from reaching him there; the system would have automatically rerouted to his voice mail.

  “Yes.” She picked up the black handset on her desk and tapped on the intercom.

  “How’s the bingo?” asked Rubens, waiting for the admiral to pick up the line.

  “Proceeding,” she said. “Five cards yesterday evening.”

  Rubens wasn’t sure whether that meant she had won on five cards or merely played them. “Is that good?”

  “Better than would be expected.”

  The admiral finally picked up on the other end. She said one word—“Rubens”—then looked up at him. “You may go in,” she said.

  Inside, he found that Brown already had someone in his office — Collins of the CIA.

  Rubens was too well practiced to reveal his true feelings to the DDO, though she undoubtedly knew what they were. He bowed his head graciously to one side.

  “Ms. Collins, so nice to see you today. Admiral.” Rubens helped himself to a chair. As a gesture of strength, he pushed it so close to hers that it nearly touched. She repositioned her legs — which were in rather ordinary blue pants — as he sat.

  “The CIA has a theory,” said Admiral Brown. “The deputy director came here to explain it in person. They believe a coup is being planned in Russia.”

  Here was a dilemma. Rubens and George Hadash had discussed the possibility of a coup just a week ago when analyzing the frustration of the hard-liners in the Russian parliament. Rubens thought it not only possible but perhaps even probable; in fact, he had had a team sifting the tea leaves for evidence that they were right.

  Evidence that had thus far eluded them.

  To admit this
, however, could be interpreted as saying that the agency not only was correct but also had beaten him to the punch. On the other hand, denying the possibility of a coup would be arguably worse, most especially if his own people did come up with evidence.

  The straight play was to admit everything. But he dared not do that with Collins until he fully understood her agenda.

  Rubens straightened his shoulders, then moved his legs, momentarily brushing Collins. He felt her jerk back.

  “Hard evidence?” he asked.

  “There are… indications,” said Collins.

  “Hmmm,” said Rubens.

  They had nothing more than guesses, he decided.

  Or was she being coy?

  “We’re going to the president with an estimate tonight,” she added.

  “Of course,” said Rubens, who now had to assume that they did have evidence. “Can we see it before then?” The estimate would be a high-level intelligence summary of the situation.

  “It’s not ready. The team is working very close to deadline. I’m here to ask for more help.”

  “If it’s in my power, it’s yours,” said Rubens. He couldn’t help but sweep his arms.

  “Thanks.” There was just the slightest twinge of sarcasm in her voice. “Amy Gordon and Bill Kritol are with the Sigint and Collection people.”

  “Sounds like you have it under control,” said Rubens.

  “I do.” She rose. “Mr. Director, William, thank you for your time.”

  Rubens watched her leave. Whatever her age, she had the hips and butt of a twenty-year-old swimsuit model. Even in pants.

  “Pretty cold,” said Brown.

  You’d be surprised, Rubens thought. But he simply nodded.

  “What do you think?”

  “It has been a concern. I discussed it with George Hadash last week in an offhanded way.”

  Brown’s eyebrow shot up involuntarily.

  “It was purely theoretical,” added Rubens. “We are, however, looking at intercepts. The normal thing.”

  “Collins was practically gloating,” said Brown. “She thought she had stolen a march on you.”

  Rubens smiled. Anyone else would have denied it, shaken his head, said, “Absolutely not.” But the feigning humility was considerably better. It was a gesture people remembered and valued.

  “She may have beaten us,” said Rubens, confident that Brown would think exactly the opposite. “Did you two have a long chat?”

  “Hardly.”

  There was no subtle way to get him to elaborate, and so after a suitable pause to make sure the admiral had nothing else to say, Rubens rose and said good-bye.

  “Is she always that… frigid?” Brown asked, having trouble finding the right word.

  “Not always,” he said. “Not nearly.”

  20

  By the time Dean heard the truck coming, Karr had already begun walking toward the road. Dean trotted up to him, A-2 rifle parallel to the ground. Karr put his hand out to lower it. “Ours,” he said.

  Maybe it was, but it looked like a Russian Ural-375, the ubiquitous 6X6 that was to the Russian Army what the M35 series once was to the U.S. It had rather garish red stars on its dull white cabin, and a canvas top flapped loosely over the slatted sides. The truck stopped on the road, then backed off toward Karr, stopping when the muck reached halfway up the deep treads of the tire.

  “Gotta load it on the highway,” said Karr.

  The truck whined and groaned as the driver ground the gears and shoved it forward to the drier ground, stopping on what passed for a shoulder to the narrow two-lane road. The cab door opened and Lia jumped out.

  “Find anything?” she said, going to the back.

  “One hit, up near the edge of the swamp,” said Karr. “A little metal there. Nothing beyond that.”

  “They must’ve been fried. The sniffers aren’t that sensitive.”

  “Hmmph. Maybe. One definitely. Maybe two.”

  “You’re getting too paranoid. You’re going to be like Rubens soon. Show me where it is.”

  Karr pointed to the area where the sniffer had registered something. Lia climbed onto the tail end of the truck and hauled back the canvas, disappearing inside. When she returned, she had a large boxy device that looked a little like the leaf blower a parks maintenance worker might use.

  “High-tech vacuum,” Karr explained to Dean. He held him back. “Damn thing’s louder than hell. Just let her do her thing. When she’s done, we’ll load the pieces into the truck. Then you take them back for analysis.”

  “Back where?”

  “The farm,” said Karr. “Home.”

  “Home being the States?”

  “Who says you’re slow, Charlie Dean?”

  The vacuum revved up. Dean’s eardrums rattled so badly he put his hands over them. Karr, meanwhile, went around to the front of the truck. He returned with a brown paper bag, from which he took out a pair of sandwiches. Before Dean could unwrap his, Karr had swallowed the other whole.

  A metallic oily smell filled Dean’s nose as he opened it.

  “Some kind of sturgeon they stick in oil,” explained Karr. “Goes good with the egg. Beer, too, but we don’t have any.”

  Dean looked at the sandwich doubtfully. He brought it up to take a bite, then thought better of it. Just the smell was enough to wrench his stomach.

  “It’s good,” insisted Karr, even as he took the sandwich back.

  When Lia finished her vacuuming, Dean helped Karr cut the long pieces of blackened metal so they could be easily piled into the truck. The metal had obviously been burned by a serious fire; pieces of plastic and other material had adhered to it, and in sections were thicker than a phone book. This, along with scattered clumps of congealed plastic and metal, was all that remained of a top-secret elint-gathering section that had been part of the aircraft.

  Karr, though he professed to know nothing of the mission, said that the high-tech gear would have been rigged to self-destruct if anything went wrong, incinerating itself. There would have been no way out for the pilots and operators.

  “You don’t think they could get around that?” said Dean.

  Karr shrugged.

  “If it were me, I’d find a way,” Dean told him.

  “Good thing it wasn’t you, then,” said Karr.

  “Maybe your gear doesn’t work right.”

  “Hey, look around. Definitely. I’m not thrilled with the results myself. Like I told Lia, I doubt there were more than two bodies fried into the mush there.”

  “Maybe they were there and left.”

  “Nah. Doesn’t work that way. The sniffer—” Karr jerked his head around midsentence. Lia was already running across the road, taking a position on a knoll that overlooked the wreckage.

  “Just a car,” Karr said. “Keep working. She’ll cover us.”

  The vehicle, which looked as if it dated from the end of the Soviet Union, slowed but did not stop. Dean stripped off his shirt as it passed. This might be Siberia, but the afternoon had turned remarkably warm. Karr had given him an ointment to ward off the flies; it had an overly sweet citrus smell but was infinitely better than having to swat the things away.

  “Jesus, put your shirt back on,” squealed Lia from her vantage across the road.

  “Hey, I like his pecs,” laughed Karr.

  “Why don’t you take off yours, Lia?” said Dean.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Karr. “My stomach’s not strong enough.”

  They finished removing the blackened classified section of the aircraft around three o’clock. Lia, meanwhile, had been looking at a piece of the tailplane that had been left behind. As Karr tied up the rear of the truck, she announced that the plane had been taken down by a radar-guided missile.

  “How do you know?” Dean asked.

  She ignored him, repeating the information for Karr, who only shrugged and went to sit in the shade next to the truck. Sweat had soaked h
is shirt, and the skin exposed at his neck and arms was beet-red from the sun.

  “How do you know it was a radar missile?” Dean asked. “Are you an expert?”

  She made a face and tapped her ear. Obviously the people in the Art Room had been feeding her data.

  “How do they know?”

  “Number one, because the engines were intact,” Lia told him. She went to the driver’s side of the truck, returning with a large bottle of Gatorade. She gave it to Karr, who polished off about half before handing it to Dean. To Dean’s surprise the liquid was so cold it hurt his back teeth.

  “Don’t drink it all,” said Lia.

  Dean glanced at her and realized she was trying not to be caught staring at him. He held the bottle over toward her, then started to jerk it away, but she was too quick, grabbing it from his tired grip.

  “If it had been a heat-seeker, it would have hit one of them. There also would have been burn marks on the tail,” she said. “And there weren’t, at least not that we saw. That confirms that the shootdown was done from a reasonable distance.”

  “And?”

  “No visual ID. They knew what they were firing at.”

  “Or maybe they didn’t,” said Dean. “Maybe they were too far away to see but assumed they were right.”

  “True.”

  “Or maybe the mission was compromised,” said Dean. “So they were targeting it all along.”

  “Then why is it still here?” said Karr. “If we shot down a spy plane in Nebraska, would we leave it sitting on the ground until someone else came and picked it up?”

  “Another car,” said Lia. She grabbed her gun and ran back across the road.

  “Art Room warns us,” said Karr. “They sowed small detection units along the approaches before we got here.”

  “They’re not watching us from space?” said Dean.

  “Not in real time. We’re too low a priority,” said Karr, who could dish out sarcasm but obviously had trouble detecting it, at least from Dean. “Besides, you can only get stills every sixty or ninety seconds, and they tend to lag even further. Real-time video from space doesn’t really work too well.”