Ghost-ARC

by John Ringo

  "I'm not particularly interested in talking to you," Mike said, standing up and taking the girl's hand.

  "You will be," the woman said, standing up and coming over to whisper in his ear. "You want a nuclear weapon?" she asked quietly.

  Mike froze and leaned back, looking her in the eye. She regarded him calmly, then raised an eyebrow.

  "Take off, honey," Mike said, pulling out another note without looking at it and handing it to the girl. "Me and Tanya gotta talk."

  The girl looked at the money, then rolled her hand over it and walked away quickly.

  "You're joking, right?" Mike said, sitting down and leaning back in his chair. The nearest patron in the dive was ten feet away, so they could talk without being overheard. He hoped. This was not something that you talked about in public. Or private. Hell, outside of a secure facility. "And why me?"

  "I have been watching you," "Tanya" said. "Not only here. I have seen you in other places. You don't move like most of the Americans who come to places like this. They are fearful, afraid of being attacked. You move like . . . a panther. Everyone sees it. You are a player, as they say. And you are rich."

  "And how would you know that?" Mike asked.

  "You realized you just handed Lydia a hundred-euro note, right?" Tanya said, laughing.

  "Shit," Mike snorted. "Is that what I did?"

  "Yes," "Tanya" said dryly. "And a man who can hand a cheap whore a hundred euros without noticing it, might have the money to buy . . . what we have to sell. And . . . Americans, even 'player' Americans, are more trustworthy than Russians."

  "And a man who had that much money might smell a rat," Mike said. "For that matter, the American government would buy it. Why don't you go to the embassy? Even a consulate?"

  "Then there would be questions and problems . . ." the woman said, drawing the words out and shrugging. "That was talked about. As was simply pointing out their . . . misstep to the Russian government or selling it to an oligarch. I convinced them that I could find . . . a better buyer. One who would ask fewer questions."

  "I'm going to ask a damned sight of questions," Mike said. "Because I smell what we call in America a con job."

  "No con job," the woman said. "I can take you to a man who can explain where it came from. I can show you the . . . thing. You can test it as you wish."

  "And if I agree to buy this item?" Mike said. "What in the hell do I do with it, then?"

  "You are a player," the woman said, shrugging. "I can see that in your face, in your moves, in your eyes. You will already have an idea of what to do with it."

  * * *

  If it wasn't a con job, it might be a roll. That was looking more and more likely as "Tanya" got out of the cab and waved him towards an alleyway.

  Mike stepped out, though, walking carefully and following the old whore. He had his senses dialed up to code orange, expecting at any moment to hear a stealthy movement as someone tried to mug him, or a group of thugs to appear and tell him to give them all his money. He could give them everything he had on him—even the money in his jump bag—and it wouldn't make a dent in his bank account. But he was planning on shooting first and asking questions much later. Because Russian thugs tended to believe in the axiom that "dead men tell no tales."

  But there were no thugs, no stealthy movements. The woman led him to a set of steps to a basement club, a dive to make his previous haunts look serene. The door was guarded by a bouncer, a big guy who looked as if he used to be on the Russian wrestling team. And he had a telltale bulge on his hip that said he was packed. Hell, from the looks of the room, most of the patrons were as packed as they were drunk.

  The room stank of spilled vodka, body odor and cheap tobacco smoke with a faint underlay of puke and piss. The whores were nowhere near as pretty as at the club he had come from and the patrons were not much better: low-class factory workers, bums and pensioners. He saw a few uniforms in the place and the Red Army pay was notoriously low. If the hookers in this place cost more than ten euros a night, it was because they were farming out their daughters as well. Five-ruble stand-ups were probably the order of the day.

  The woman led him to a table at the back where a Russian lieutenant was slumped, staring at a shot of vodka like it was the Holy Grail. He picked it up and downed it as they reached the table and shook his head.

  "I have found someone who is interested in the item," Tanya said, sitting down with her back to the room, thus giving Mike the choice of a chair against the wall.

  "It is too late," the Russian said, shrugging. "Those idiots . . ."

  "What do you mean 'too late,'" the woman said, then broke into Russian.

  The babble went back and forth and started to rise in volume as Mike surveyed the room.

  "Uh, folks," Mike said, waving a hand between them. "I don't know what you are saying, but keep it the fuck down, okay?"

  "He said that his men that were guarding the item have already sold it," Tanya snapped. "He thinks it was to Chechens."

  "Okay, now this is bad," Mike said angrily. "And this is no place to be discussing it. First things first," he continued, digging in his pocket. "Tanya, go get a bottle of the most decent vodka they have in this place. When you do, we are getting the fuck out and taking this conversation to a hotel room, pronto."

  * * *

  "Okay," Mike said when they were in his hotel room. It was the best hotel in town, but it still would be a low-end Best Western in the U.S. It dated from the Soviet era and the construction showed: cheap carpets, horrible beds, lousy plumbing and walls of cast concrete that were flaking onto the cheap carpet. "Start at the beginning, go through the middle and get to now." He placed the vodka on the table and waved at it. "You can have as much of that as you need, as long as you can keep talking."

  The lieutenant looked at the bottle for a moment and then shrugged.

  "We are guards on an old nuclear facility," he said, picking up the bottle, tearing off the thin metal cap and putting a splash of vodka in a glass. "Was accident in it, long ago. Is contaminated. But still stores some nuclear material, what they call isotopes."

  "I know what an isotope is," Mike said, pouring himself some vodka and downing it. It was very, very bad. "Go on," he gasped.

  "Americans cannot handle their liquor," "Tanya" said, pouring her own shot.

  "There's liquor and then there's ant piss," Mike said, waving at the bottle. "You can have all that ant piss you want. Keep going."

  "Is very boring," the lieutenant said. "We are not to go in facility, but we get bored. We have radiation detectors. Is not so bad in most places. One of my men, Yuri, is very bored. He goes in facility. Is much of it underground. Is flooded, yes?"

  "Yeah," Mike said, thinking about groundwater contamination. But the whole of Eastern Europe was still such a cesspool from "enlightened Communism" and its approach to environmentalism that a nuclear facility leaking radioactive isotopes into the groundwater was barely a blip on the screen.

  "So he finds part where flooding is not so bad," the lieutenant continued. "And goes back up. There he finds . . . item."

  "Let's get specific," Mike said. "Are we talking a gravity bomb or a warhead or what?"

  "Is very old warhead," the lieutenant said, shrugging. "We cannot get manuals but Yuri is interested in these things. Thinks it was warhead from old missile. Is shaped like warhead," he said, making a cone shape in the air, "and is very radioactive."

  "So Yuri ran and told you?" Mike asked.

  "No," the lieutenant admitted. "Tells others. Is . . . big fight. Yuri is wanting to tell government. Others, Oleg especially, want to sell to anyone. I am told by platoon sergeant. We all agree that I will find a good buyer. I sign myself on pass, yes? Know Tanya from . . . before. She knows people, so I tell her. We think, is much money, enough we can share. But . . . while I wait, Oleg is found buyer. They come and bring money. Platoon sells while I am gone. I find out tonight." He stopped and poured another, large, shot and downed it. "Is gone. So is Oleg,
went with buyer. Others have deserted, are afraid of what will happen when government finds out."

  "How much money did they get?" Tanya asked, angrily.

  "Ten thousand euros," the lieutenant said, shrugging. "Is not much, split up among platoon. Oleg takes nothing, goes with buyers."

  "Ten grand?" Mike snapped. "That's it?"

  "The buyers, they say that it is training weapon," the lieutenant said, shrugging. "Is not real weapon. And they offer money now. Have it in hand. Is gone," he repeated, shrugging again.

  "Like hell," Mike said, shaking his head. "Look, we have to find this nuke. I don't think for a second it was a 'training round.' Why in the hell would they buy a training round? And why was it radioactive?"

  "They say is for training," the lieutenant said. "I don't believe either. But they have money."

  "Well, we're in a right pickle," Mike said, thinking hard. "We're going to have to come clean, tell the American government and then tell the Russian government. The American government will cover you as best they can if you get us all the information you have on the buyers. Because we're going to have to track this mother down before it gets refurbished and used."

  * * *

  "What is it with you, Mike?" Colonel Pierson yelled over the wash from the helicopter. "Can't stay away?" The colonel was wearing an Extreme Cold Weather Gortex suit over BDUs, a necessity for the day.

  It was early fall but the weather was more like winter, a cold wind blowing from the north and a light dusting of snow already on the ground. The hard-looking clouds overhead presaged more bad weather to come.

  The helicopter had landed in a brush-grown field right outside the gates to the facility. The facility was mostly crumbling Soviet-era buildings with one fixed up to house the "guard" platoon. All of it was overrun with weeds with the exception of a small area around the barracks and the gravel road leading in and out. Beyond the fence, with the exception of the clearing where the helicopter had landed, fir and pine trees stretched for miles into the almost limitless Siberian taiga.

  "Bad luck," Mike answered, shaking his hand and looking at the Russian colonel who was following him.

  "This is Colonel Erkin Chechnik," Pierson said, waving at the Red Army colonel. "Russian Intelligence. Sort of my opposite number; he works in an office that briefs Putin."

  "Pleased to meet you, Colonel," Mike said, taking the Russian's hand.

  "Am wishing I could say the same," the colonel said. "Is very embarrassing for my country."

  "Shit happens," Mike replied. "Look, we're not going to get diddly, short of harsh interrogation methods, from these guys if . . ."

  "Is covered as you Americans say," the colonel said, shaking his head. "As long as are giving answers, is not a problem. And the American government is going to be . . . how you say? Supplementing their salary," he added, glancing at Pierson.

  "As soon as we have all the answers we can get," Pierson said, "the platoon, and the hooker, have a one-way trip to the Land of the Free and an entrée into the Witness Protection Program. If they come clean."

  "Okay," Mike said, blowing out. "Most of the platoon had already deserted when we got here. Sergeant Oleg Zazulya was the ringleader of the sale. He left with the buyers. The rest ran off on their own, taking the platoon truck. The only remaining witnesses are Sergeant Ivar Fadzaev, the platoon sergeant, and Private Yuri Khabelov. They're in the barracks, hoping like hell that I can work a miracle on their behalf."

  "What about the hooker?" Pierson asked. "We want to cover this up entirely."

  "She's here, too," Mike said. "And by cover up, I assume we're not talking graves. These guys seem to be . . . sort of patriots. As close as you get among the narod in Russia."

  "No graves," Colonel Chechnik said, shaking his head. "Just questions, yes?"

  "Yes," Mike said. "Well, let's get to it."

  * * *

  "Hello, Private Khabelov," Colonel Chechnik said. The interrogation was taking place in the lieutenant's old office with the Russian colonel behind the desk and Mike and Pierson on a ratty couch. The room was sparsely decorated with a single picture of Putin on the wall and a small representation of the Russian flag behind the desk. The private was standing at attention, sweating in the cold room, clearly wishing he'd cut and run.

  "The American colonel is Robert Pierson, a man who speaks directly to their president and I speak to President Putin. The colonel speaks Russian but his fellow does not. I understand you have good English so please use it. As you were told, you have been promised emigration to America, if you wish, if you give us all the information you have about the weapon and those who took it. Alternatively, you will be given money and, if you wish, an honorable discharge from the Russian military and can remain in Russia. But you must give us all the information you have. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Colonel," the private replied. "I will give you all the information I have, freely. And if I may remain in the Motherland I would prefer it."

  "This is good," the colonel said, sighing. "Your lieutenant has opted to go to America, but your sergeant also wishes to remain. I am glad for this. So, tell me what you know about the weapon. And take a position of at-ease, if you will."

  "It was on the second level below ground," the private said, dropping to something that was more like parade rest. "In a room marked C-142. It was conical shaped, about a meter and a half long and perhaps two thirds of a meter wide at the base. There were no markings on the exterior, but on the base there was a plate, perhaps steel, with a number inscribed. It was corroded," he reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, "but I could make out the numbers 7493. We moved it up to the upper levels and secured it in a top-side weapons locker. After it was determined to . . ." He paused and swallowed. "Colonel, I argued to turn the weapon over to the government . . ."

  "So I have been told," the colonel said, nodding in understanding. "This reflects well upon you. But . . ." he added, shrugging, "there is great corruption in Russia. And the Red Army is not well paid. This I know and have argued against, for this sort of reason if no other. Do not worry about the decision, just give us the facts."

  "Very well, Colonel," the boy replied, swallowing again. "The lieutenant went to town to try to find a buyer for the weapon. While he was gone, two men arrived in a white van, a nine-passenger Mercedes van with tinted windows. The license plate had been removed. Oleg met them at the gate, as if the meeting had been prearranged, and let them in the compound. Sergeant Fadzaev ordered us to prepare our weapons, but Oleg said that they were potential buyers. They appeared to be unarmed. They were not Russian; they spoke with an accent that . . . well, if I was to guess I'd say Chechen, and Sergeant Fadzaev agreed. They were dark-skinned and had black hair: real black-asses. They looked at the weapon and told us it was a practice system, that the radiation was from isotopes that were in it to make it seem like a real bomb. They said that they wanted it for the isotopes, since they could be resold, but that it was not worth much.

  "We discussed it a long time, everyone was involved. They had brought vodka and we drank, although they did not. They had ten thousand euros with them and most of the platoon thought that since the lieutenant had been gone for almost a week, we should take the money and be done with it. There was . . . great fear that the government would find out and take it from us, and that we would get in trouble for not having reported it and trying to sell it. Finally, most of the platoon decided that they should sell it for the ten thousand. I and Sergeant Fadzaev disagreed but . . . everyone was armed and we could tell that if we didn't agree to selling it . . . we might be killed. When it was agreed, the weapon was loaded in the back of the van, the men gave us the money and then they left. Oleg went with them. The rest of the platoon became frightened about what might happen if the government found out. I stayed with Sergeant Fadzaev in his quarters, with both of us keeping watch. In the middle of the night, we heard the platoon truck start up and then drive out of the compound. We went to investigate
and found the rest of the platoon gone. It was then that Sergeant Fadzaev called the lieutenant and told him what had happened."

  "Two dark-skinned, black-haired, possibly Chechen males in a white, nine-passenger Mercedes van with tinted windows," Colonel Pierson said, sighing. "Same from both witnesses. And not much to go on."

  "Why a passenger van?" Mike asked, puzzled. "Why not a panel van if they knew what they were buying?"

  "I dunno," Pierson said. "But we've got the information; it's up to others to analyze it. Colonel," he said, turning to Chechnik, "we need to get the FSB involved as soon as possible. And I'd like to turn all this over to our intel people, start seeing if the weapon is going out of Russia."

  "I am thinking it is headed for Chechnya," the colonel said. "Or for a Russian city."

  "That's an internal Russian matter," Pierson said. "Although, if we develop any leads, we'll turn them over to you of course. But we need to get moving on the basis that it's going to go in play outside of Russia."

  "Da," the Russian said, nodding. "The helicopter will take you to Perm and there is a jet waiting to take you to Moscow."

  "Colonel," Mike said, standing up, "no unmarked graves."

  "Not for these," the colonel said, waving at the still nervous private. "But if I find this Oleg fellow . . ."

  "I'll hand you the shovel," Mike replied.

  Chapter Two

  "Chatham Aviation, Gloria speaking, how may I help you?"

  "Hi, the name's Mike Jenkins," Mike shouted over the racket from the Russian Hip helicopter. He knew diddly about Chatham Aviation, but they came up high on Google for "charter aircraft business jet" and their website promised on-call service. "I need a jet in Moscow. I don't know where I'm going to be going from there, but I need it there as soon as it can get there. I'll pay lay-about fees or whatever. Something small and fast."

  "Layover," the receptionist corrected. "I don't seem to find an account for you, Mr . . . .Jenkins."

  "I've never used you," Mike said. "I got your name from the Internet. I figured an English company would have English-speaking pilots and I don't have time to wait on one from the States. I really need a jet, quick."