The Russian Bride

by Ed Kovacs

  Kit already knew this from having read Popov’s dossier. There are many different types and designs of e-bombs, EMP weapons, or directed energy weapons, but they share common results: the affected target areas, subject to extreme magnetic fields, would be, technologically speaking, sent back one hundred years. Computers and most if not all data on them would be destroyed. TVs and fluorescent lights would glow even if turned off—and never work again. Anything electronic would be rendered useless, forever. Only some diesel engines would survive, but all other vehicles would never start again. Batteries would become warm and ruin cell phones and any device that used them. Telephone lines would pool into mush. Air-conditioning, elevators, refrigerators, cars, trucks, hair dryers, radios, and anything that needed a battery or electricity would be destroyed.

  Cascading blackouts would also likely result, knocking out power for potentially tens of millions of people, hundreds if not thousands of miles away from the original target, because, unlike wise consumers, electrical substations and generating plants don’t have surge protectors. And once the grid went down in a big way, it would not be so easy to bring it back up.

  So while humans aren’t killed by e-bombs—thus making the devices nonlethal weapons—the way of life of the targeted humans is killed.

  “The e-bombs Popov stole … were they nuclear?”

  “Nonnuclear. They sold them on the black market, is what I was told. Every last one in the entire Russian arsenal! Can you imagine?”

  “Yes, I can. Lots of arsenals all over Russia were being emptied out and sold in those days. Luckily, I believe most of the EMP weapons ended up in the hands of the CIA and not terrorists.”

  “Well, Russia has a nonlethal weapons program, as America does, of course, but now all of our EMP weapons are part of our nuclear arsenal.”

  “The nuclear explosion provides the energy for the EMP effects,” said Kit.

  “Correct. Nonnuclear EMPs rely on conventional explosives to initiate the reactions. Anyway, when I first went to work after I got my university degree, I was schooled in the use, construction, and operation of the old, nonnuclear EMPs. And I studied the American designs, too. I learned on nonworking models. We were going to restock our arsenal but never did because they were not dependable devices. At least our EMPs weren’t. Generals like to know exactly what will happen when a weapon is employed, but with our e-bombs, there was little consistency. The U.S. nonnuclear EMP arsenal is more advanced than ours ever was, but no funds were forthcoming for us to restart the program. So I was transferred to the R and D unit where I now work.”

  “Okay.”

  “One night about two weeks ago some men came to my apartment. They took me and my daughter, Kala. They said if I wanted to see her alive again, I would do exactly what they said. They said I was to marry an American soldier, travel to America, and perform some work that I was trained in. I was instructed to tell you nothing, nothing at all … or Kala would die.”

  She looked at Kit nakedly. There was no disguising the fact that her revelations put her daughter at even greater risk. Kit didn’t speak but nodded his understanding. “My sister, your daughter. We’ll get them back, one way or another,” he said.

  Yulana smiled a little sadly; he knew she had no choice but to hope he was right.

  “The one thing that seems to connect me to Popov is the EMPs. But I don’t know, I’m just guessing,” she said, resigned.

  The gist of the scheme clicked into place in Kit’s mind like an unwelcome revelation. He saw the connections now, including his own.

  “They need you to work on some kind of device, Yulana.”

  “Do you think Popov has found one of the old Soviet nonnuclear EMP bombs?”

  “Maybe.” Kit said it, but he didn’t believe it. He had his own connection to e-bombs. A few years back, Kit had led a Red Team, as part of a security training exercise, that had broken into an arsenal of EMP weapons stored at Sandia National Labs in New Mexico. He’d gotten in rather easily, actually. And that must be why Viktor Popov needed the services of Kit Bennings.

  Sandia. Popov wants me to steal an electromagnetic pulse bomb from Sandia, and Yulana’s job is to make sure it detonates. But what does he want to hit? What is the target?

  Bennings picked up the bottle of vodka and took a swig for real.

  CHAPTER 19

  A stiff breeze blew cool dry air over the desert floor, gifting Las Vegas with the kind of temperature more common to midwinter than late May. Endless sunshine, mild temps, and clean air comprised an allure almost as compelling as the nonstop party atmosphere of the Strip; the notion that anything was possible in this city was an idea for many—especially the desperate—that constantly bubbled to the surface.

  Fantastic fun, if not outlandish riches, were just waiting to be had with the roll of the dice or the push of a slot button, and starting life over with a winning hand was par for the course for those who chose to make the attempt. At least that was the bill of goods sold in slick marketing campaigns to the gullible.

  And so the transient population of the city was never a low figure.

  Siegel Suites on Tropicana west of the Strip and the I-15 freeway catered to a transient clientele. Furnished, one-bedroom “suites” with utilities included rented by the week or month. Prostitutes in town for a few weeks, pimps, drug dealers, cons, criminals, and others living on the lower margins made the roach-infested complex home.

  The units looked presentable on the outside but were often shabby on the inside. It was the perfect location to remain low-key, where residents didn’t pry or ask questions of their neighbors. The perfect place to stash Staci Bennings with a two-person babysitting detail.

  The Russian man, the one called Gregory, had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Again. He sat slumped, his head tilted back over the edge of the straight-backed kitchen chair. The blue-eyed blond woman, Lily, was outside smoking somewhere on the third-floor walkway.

  They were in Las Vegas. Staci was sure of that. Maybe a mile west of the Vegas Strip. She had caught a glimpse of the horizon the night they first carried her up to the apartment. They were somewhere due south of the Rio, which had been lit up with purple and red lights, and the Palms, with the electric rainbow on the roof. She had recognized those buildings.

  Staci was confined to the living room, where she slept on the ratty, filthy sofa at night and watched endless TV shows the rest of the time. All of the windows were blacked out, and she had to ask permission to use the grungy toilet or the kitchen area. The bedroom was used by Lily and Gregory to sleep in shifts. The TV droned on with some late-night program that wasn’t that funny and featured celebrity guests who weren’t particularly talented.

  Staci’s swollen and discolored wrist was broken and still throbbed with stabbing pain. Her puffy left knee hurt almost as much, but maybe she only had ligament damage. These injuries were courtesy of Lily, administered while Staci stood drugged and held from behind by Gregory.

  At least Gregory had given her aspirin, elastic bandages, and mentholated cream. She had to apply the bandages herself; her captors wouldn’t help her. Staci understood that Lily wanted to kill her, and she also understood that since she could clearly identify both of them, they probably would. Unless she could get them first.

  If she had a weapon she could kill Gregory right now as he slept; he was supposed to be awake, watching her. But the room had been sanitized. There were no pots or pans, cutlery, no heavy objects or blunt instruments. If her wrist wasn’t broken, she could sneak up behind him and choke him to death, and then take her chances with Lily. But Staci knew she was too badly injured to put up much of a fight. And they both carried weapons.

  So what other options did she have?

  The phone. Gregory’s cell phone lay on the round kitchen table just inches from his hand.

  But who could she call? She remembered few phone numbers by heart. Her fiancé, Blanchard, was half a world away in the concrete canyons of Tokyo. Kit! Surely Kit would be
in Los Angeles by now. She would send a text to his U.S. cell phone, the same number he’d had for over ten years. One of the few numbers she remembered.

  As she stood, excruciating pain coursed through her knee and she almost cried out. Slowly, carefully, and as quietly as she could, she limped to the table. She held her injured wrist against her chest; there was no way she could use that hand.

  Gregory, who had had four shots of vodka, as he did every night, snored lightly. She’d watched him like this before, when he sometimes would wake suddenly, for no reason. Was he going to wake? She could worry about it or she could just do it.

  Staci’s hand trembled and she stopped breathing as she picked up the phone. She tried to remember if his keypad was set to make a sound when he inputted characters. Yes, it was, she thought. So she first went to SETTINGS, then GENERAL, then PERSONALIZATION and silenced KEYPAD TONES. Then she went to MESSAGES, CREATE NEW, and entered Kit’s number. Then she typed, “Vegas S of Rio/Plms nr Strip 3fl 2Russ hrry Stci.” She started to hit SEND but thought of something to add: “dnt rspnd.” She hit SEND. Then she went to the SENT FOLDER and deleted the message.

  Gregory snorted and stirred. Is he going to wake up?! Damn, what kind of beating would it be this time? Staci started to replace the phone, then waited. But Gregory still slept.

  She couldn’t call 911, since she didn’t know where she was. They could trace the call, but she would have to leave the line open for that to work and she couldn’t risk it: Lily would return any minute. So she called home. She assumed no one would pick up and she would leave a message.

  Her hand shook by the time the answering machine finally beeped. As quietly as possible she whispered “Las Vegas, south of the Rio and Palms, third-floor apartment or hotel. A dump. Help, Las Vegas…”

  Footsteps outside the door. Lily!

  Staci ended the call, then clicked on MENU. More movement outside the door! Her hand shook as she clicked on LOG, then RECENT CALLS. Damn, there were too many pages to click to do this! And just then, Gregory stirred.

  She clicked DIALED NUMBERS. There was the call! But now she had to select OPTIONS just as she heard the sound of a key going into the lock.

  Screw it, she thought, and with determination, using just one hand, she clicked DELETE. But then she had to confirm the choice and clicked YES. Then she pushed the red button and put the phone back on the table.

  The door started to open slowly, and Staci ran back to the sofa and slumped onto it just as Lily entered the room and Gregory woke up. Her face was turned away from them and she held her breath as tears streamed down her cheeks from the knifelike pain that stabbed her knee.

  She took a slow breath, careful not to reveal she was awake. A sense of victory washed over her, the seeds of hope had been delivered, until she remembered … she hadn’t gone back to SETTINGS and turned the KEYPAD TONES feature back on. The next time Gregory used his phone, it would be silent.

  CHAPTER 20

  A double homicide in the parking lot of the county morgue was a first. Generator-powered mobile light towers turned the scene from night to day, so it was easy to spot Sheriff’s Detective Bobby Chan finish off the last of a 7-Eleven hot dog as he arrived on-site. The smiling coroner didn’t seem to mind that the deed was done in his own front yard, probably because he could walk from his office to the crime scene.

  “Chan!” called out Detective Ron Franklin, who had been working the scene. He stood next to a sedan wrapped around a palm tree.

  “Talk to me Ronnie; the wife won’t,” said Chan, approaching.

  “You’ve been divorced for over five years, Chan.”

  “And she’s still not talking to me. Go figure.”

  “Our dearly departed buddies here won’t be doing much talking, either.” Franklin was holding the dead men’s wallets and waved them toward the bodies still in the car.

  Chan looked in through a broken-out window. “Well, well, it’s déjà vu all over again. The same two Russians we busted this afternoon. These guys have been working too hard. Stress can kill, you know.”

  “LAPD didn’t even hold them overnight.”

  Chan shrugged. “If they had a clean record and a good lawyer, then it’s ‘Adios, see you in court.’ The jails are overcrowded, no room for the bad guys anymore.”

  “This ties right into the Bennings investigation.”

  “It would seem so. These guys are shooters. They wanted to get him at the airport but missed. Then they tried again tonight, but Bennings didn’t miss. Kind of makes me think the Russians pulled the hit in Chino Hills.”

  Franklin nodded. “But we still don’t know what the beef is about.”

  “The stiffs here look all mobbed-up to me, so I guarantee it’s something to do with money.” Chan looked back to the dead Russians. “I’m going to tell the coroner that I’m reclassifying the death of Gina Bennings as a probable homicide. Looks like the Russian mob went after Major Bennings and his whole damn family.”

  “The registration address of both cars is a PO box in Beverly Hills. And the dead guys have identical residence addresses on their driver’s licenses—a storefront in West Hollywood.”

  “Find out who their lawyer was that got them sprung so fast today. Might lead somewhere,” said Chan.

  “Hey, Bobby,” warned Franklin as he took in the sight of two men with buzz cuts and wearing cheap dark suits approach.

  “Remind me again,” said Chan quietly to Franklin. “Is polyester in or out?”

  “Excuse us, Detective Chan?” said the stocky one with a bald head.

  “That’s me,” said Chan, eyeing the two men warily.

  “We understand you’re the lead investigator into the murders at the Bennings house in Chino Hills.”

  “And you are?”

  “Agents Flood and Bates, U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Command.” Bates, the stocky one, handed Chan a business card.

  Bobby Chan held up the card into the light. “Seven Hundred and First Military Police Group, Field Investigative Unit.” The two men definitely looked military and not like regular coppers to Chan. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for this man, Major Kitman Bennings.” Flood was a tall black man who didn’t look a day over twenty-five. He handed Chan a color printout of Kit Bennings wearing his army uniform.

  “Never met him. But I’ve seen his ass in gear.” The soldiers looked confused. “I saw him run out of the international terminal at LAX this afternoon.”

  “So he eluded being taken into custody?” asked Flood.

  “I didn’t say that. I said I saw him run out of the terminal.”

  “Was he alone?” pressed Flood.

  Chan stared at the agent and smiled. “Now don’t go getting existential on me,” said Chan. Flood and Bates exchanged a quick, confused look. “Alone in a crowd of thousands? Well, let’s see; my partner and I were there, some Russian thugs were there.… Where were you guys, the wrong terminal?”

  Flood and Bates looked like they were finally getting the idea that Chan was screwing with them. “Do you have any leads as to the major’s location?” asked Bates.

  “I’m rich with leads. Poor with time. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Did Major Bennings have anything to do with the killings here tonight?” asked Flood.

  “Now that’s a good question.” Chan didn’t elaborate.

  “Sir, the clerk inside said Bennings left minutes before the shots were fired.”

  “The clerk inside heard shots?”

  “He, well, no, he said—”

  “You know, fellas, about twenty years ago I was on lunch break and stopped at my bank. Was it Wells Fargo? Wells Fargo sucks, but then, all of the big greedy banks suck. Anyway, I used to go there a lot because there was a real pretty Asian girl working as a teller. I mean, she was smoking. So … you know, I’d go in and get change for a quarter, whatever. It was pretty pathetic.”

  Bates and Flood both started shifting their feet and looking down
.

  “Anyway, one day, a few minutes after I left, the place was robbed by a guy with a shotgun. But I promise that even though I’d just left, I didn’t have anything to do with the armed robbery. I did marry the clerk, though.”

  “Sir, could you tell us…?” Bates started to ask.

  Chan looked at the business card again. “Quantico, Virginia, huh? You know, Franklin, almost nobody lives in Quantico, but the big marine base is there, the FBI Academy, FBI Lab, all kinds of important stuff there.” Chan handed the card to Franklin, who pulled out his seven-inch tablet computer.

  “What do you want Bennings for?” asked Chan.

  “He’s AWOL, sir.”

  “Really? Let’s see, he’s a defense attaché in Russia, he flies from Moscow to L.A., arriving here about three-thirty this afternoon. He’s on leave because of a death in the family, and nine hours after he arrives he’s AWOL?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “You boys flew all the way from Quantico to pick up a soldier who is obviously on leave, who you now say is AWOL? Why didn’t a CID team just drive in from Fort Irwin? That’s only ninety minutes from here.”

  Flood and Bates looked at each other but stayed silent.

  “Sounds to me like something secret is afoot, Detective Franklin.”

  “Sounds that way,” said Franklin.

  “Want to explain to me what’s really going on?” asked Chan to the army investigators.

  “Sir, it’s classified.”

  “Got it,” said Franklin looking at his computer screen. He started to read, “Field Investigative Unit conducts investigations involving sensitive matters and other investigations of interest to senior army leadership requiring exceptional levels of discretion.” Franklin looked to Chan.

  “You two are just like the FBI guys that are investigating the kidnapping of Staci Bennings. It’s all one way. You don’t answer any of my questions, you don’t tell me squat, you just want me to hand everything over to you. You two grunts want me to give you a person of interest in a murder investigation so you can bundle him onto some base where I don’t have any access to him. Well, heck, yes, that sounds like a great deal to the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department Homicide Unit, San Bernardino, California.”