Danya looked thoughtful all of two seconds—then dived inverted under dashboard, standing on shoulders, feet waving in air, while briefly rooting around up behind speedometer.
Shortly muttered something sulphurous-sounding in Hebrew, made convulsive movement, resurfaced holding small, black, thickish plastic disk trailing visibly yanked-loose wiring.
“You were right. Apparently Kazimirov likes to keep track of his personnel while they're out and about. This is a GPS transponder. All they had to do was ping it, and they were able to drive straight to where you'd left the truck. I bet the UAZs have them, too.”
Did. Easily remedied, though yanking out wires by roots, flinging offending artifacts as far as possible offered only transitory satisfaction. Particularly since now only 45 minutes remained.
Which is why we'd bothered debugging UAZs: Faster than lumbering truck—and faster acquiring ever-increasing importance.
Danni jumped in behind wheel of one, hit starter, as I tried other. Both fired right up, leading to sighs of relief all around—if escaped Khraniteli survivor had used head, could just as easily have sabotaged all three vehicles: Slashed fuel-pump tubing f'rinstance, never mind something as quick and easy as lopping off all tire stems, effectively anchoring us there to be collected at their leisure.
Splitting up kids between vehicles, we pulled out, headed cross-country at flank speed, bee-lining for plane—tracks be damned; needed to get into air soonest.
Your Humble Historiographer led, since Danni didn't know where had stashed Stallion.
En route, attempted to listen in on opposition: Sotnik, both desyatniks (sergeant/corporals), had worn field comm units: cute little one-piece radios consisting of single hook-on earpiece, plus voice-activated microphone wand reaching from ear to mouth's corner; looked rather like moddish cell phone accessory.
Danni, Tasha, and I, swallowing hard to overcome repugnance (certainly in own case) wiped all visible traces of Khraniteli from earpieces (at least to degree possible in field, lacking actual boiling water, 20 minutes’ un-previously-spoken-for time), hooked plastic retainers over ears, tucked speaker buds into auditory canals; positioned mics, but with sound-activated send switches off.
Since Danya spoke Russian like native, Tasha rode with me, the better to furnish instant translation if comm traffic developed. Had eavesdropped nonstop since leaving combat scene; however, no mention of us thus far on Khraniteli's tactical radio channel.
Tasha held youngest child in lap with one arm, kept firm grip on UAZ's structure with other. Maggie crouched between us, eyes laughing, tail wagging furiously. Rest of children, piled high in rear, hung onto everything in reach, plus each other, as we pelted over uneven terrain.
Tried to stick to reasonably survivable surfaces, avoid fallen logs, sticky-up boulders, potential launching ramps of any description, but still found ourselves pretty much careening from one high spot to next.
Also tried not to keep looking at watch while driving. At least no more frequently than about every 15 seconds.
* * * *
Volume XIII
Runway Maintenance
By the time Demon Hippodrome Driver Girl skidded UAZ to halt just off camouflaged Stallion's starboard wingtip, everybody's knuckles uniformly white; even Tasha's grin had become forced. (Only Maggie still having fun.) Nonetheless, even though everyone downright round-eyed, and some smaller kids’ grimy cheeks visibly tear-streaked, all still maintaining brave silence, along with mostly stiff upper lips.
And just between us, Posterity, couldn't blame them: Maybe ten miles from base camp to plane—up hill, down dale, through woods, across open fields; none of it likely to be confused with PGA golf green. Portions of Wild Ride would have left even Mr. Toad feeling twitchy: Once managed to yank wheel barely in time to correct lateral rotational displacement—right-side wheels must have traveled three, four feet off ground for good 50 yards.
But, like aircraft landings, any headlong pursuit one can walk away from is good one—and had saved enough time on ground to get ship into air, out of range.
Probably.
Glanced again at watch as stopped; countdown timer (minus 30 seconds) showed 35 minutes 32 seconds left.
Comm unit lodged in ear still broadcasting nothing but occasional crackles of static; no radio traffic.
No news good news? Hoped so.
Still, wondered if maybe had occurred to Khraniteli, if intruders had wiped out squad, might be eavesdropping. Bad Guys might have changed frequencies, or possibly just abandoned system altogether for nonce.
In any event, had UAZ's ignition switched off, handbrake set, and was over the side, switching from Demon Hippodrome Driver Girl mode to Intrepid Girl Aviatrix almost before vehicle fully stopped. Slashed tie-down securing camouflage netting over Stallion's door. Flipped up edge to gain access. Then unlatched, propped plane's door wide open.
Grabbed nearest little kid, pitched up through opening. Tasha followed example.
Maggie preceded second kid by whisker, spun as landed, jumped back down. Unsurprisingly, prevailing epinephrine-laced ambiance to her liking.
However, as reached back for third, noticed Danya executing statue impression, attention all downhill.
Paused myself. Without asking, knew what must have attracted attention. “How close?”
“Too,” came cryptic response, with what I regarded as entirely inappropriate calmness; adding, “How long before you can get us in the air?”
Turnabout crypticness only fair play: “Too, too.” Breathlessness level, however, vitiated attempt at projecting matching calm. Gave it up as bad job; rushed over to stand beside her.
Even with naked eye, could make out UAZ command car, plus two six-by-six trucks, similar to those that had accompanied tank during Daddy-retrieval; each, once again, equipped with roof-mounted Gatling cannon. Open cargo beds overflowed with additional armed bodies.
Obviously, third UAZ's occupant had made it back to base, raised alarm, returned with reinforcements.
Sole positive note—at least tank not among pursuers....
Just over two miles back, three vehicles coming fast (though not as fast as us!), driving with confidence—well, yeah, blind man could have followed our tracks through otherwise virgin, grassy, shrub-speckled terrain, across which, however faintly, could actually hear diesels’ snorting.
“They're already too close,” I fretted aloud. “We have to take off downhill. We'll pass right over them. As low as we'll be, they won't miss if they only throw rocks.”
Danya looked thoughtful. “What assets do you have?”
Patted holstered Glock. “This, my M-1, and, in the plane, another M-1, the Barrett, lots of ammuni—”
“You brought a Barrett ... ?”
Grinned sheepishly. Until that moment, had actually managed to forget huge personal cannon. “Do you think Wallace will be mad?”
One of those tight little expressions Danni sometimes uses for a smile flickered across face. “Not if you strip, clean, and lube it really well after we're done, put it back,” she replied dryly; finishing, “—and don't miss."
Then turned serious: “You're the better shot. Tasha can get the kids aboard while I strip the camo netting and preflight the plane. You see what you can do to discourage our progenitors.”
“Right.” Spun, dived up into plane. Tossed Barrett's aiming crotch support pole out onto ground. Lugged big gun over to door, set down. Returned for field shooting kit (heavier still). Hopped down, carried load over to UAZ, set on hood.
Slid huge rifle from case, locked scope into place.
Dug out handful of magazines. Arranged in row on hood. Picked up nearest; extracted first round, a flamboyantly non-Geneva-Convention-compliant, expanding-tip, antipersonnel slug. Slid in sharply pointed, steel-jacketed, Teflon-coated, armor-piercing round from shooting kit's boxed ammo.
Slapped home magazine, yanked lever to charge chamber. Rested barrel end in pole's crotch. Took exploratory peek through scope; t
ried traversing: left, right, up, down...
No good; target area too broad; barrel support too restrictive.
Unclicked bipod legs, rested feet on UAZ's hood. Tried again.
Worse.
Debated briefly. Solution obvious, but did not like it.
Turned back to Danya as swarmed past, engrossed in own chores. “Can you fly a Stallion?”
Mentor paused, shook head. “Never even ridden in one.” Momentarily, actual, regular-people-style grin flashed across face. “No pressure, boobula—you're it...”
Abruptly sobered then, realizing question not product of idle curiosity. "Why?"
“I can't do this with the bench rest or barrel support,” I sighed. “I need more freedom of movement if I'm going to get them all before they start scattering. There's only one way to do that.”
“Get them all ... ?” For second time today—not to mention ever—Danni's eyes actually went round. But, as professional, zeroed in immediately on key issue: "What one way?”
“I have to get them all. It'll only take one leftover Khranitel still in condition to shoot, putting one bullet into the wrong place, to bring us down. To do that, I need to shoot freehand—but the only way I can hold it steady is by using hysterical strength.”
Hesitated unhappily. “And I'm pretty sure holding up that much gun for that long, combined with absorbing all the recoil, will require more of a sustained effort than I'm capable of. This will be my third hysterical-strength session today. I may not be much use afterward.”
Momma Spook's eyes narrowed in concern. “Would you rather I shoot while you ready the plane?”
So tempted. Really, really, really didn't want to dabble again in physiological equivalent of Black Arts. (Been there, done that; been “just dead” afterward.) “Yes—but I am the better shot.”
“That you are.” Again, that hint of a smile. “If it'll make you feel better,” she added comfortingly, “while I've never flown a Stallion, or any tail-dragger for that matter, I am not the worst pilot the Israeli air force ever let slip through flight training. If I have to do the driving, I may not collect a lot of style points, but I won't actually crash us.”
Sighed again. But fresh out of inspired alternatives. “Oh, hell,” I muttered. “Shazam.”
Response, on occasions when have had time to appreciate it, never ceases to amaze: Instantly, day's accumulated fatigue evaporated, breathing stabilized, mind cleared, time slowed again—plus near-godlike sensation of power just feels so good.
For briefest moment, wondered if experience in any way akin to high that brought drug addicts of yore back time after time, despite awareness of consequences.
Then shook head, blanked thoughts of own forthcoming consequences from mind. Focused on job at hand.
Twisted left arm into sling, swung now effectively weightless monster rifle up into effortless freehand stance. Despite fact that majority of thunderstick's nearly 40-pound weight (with full magazine) now supported exclusively by one arm, muzzle could hardly have been steadier if permanently cast into prestressed concrete bridge truss.
Noted as well, with usual heightened peripheral awareness, local meteorology: typical early morning; absolutely dead calm conditions prevailed; windage would not be factor.
Centered crosshairs on Ulyanovsk Automobile Works’ emblem in middle of lead vehicle's grille. Pressed rangefinder button. Invisible (ha!—to them) infrared laser reached out, reported vehicle still roughly 7,500 feet off, closing at about 30 miles per hour; straight-on approach, no lateral motion: Unnecessary to lead target.
Vertical crosshair equipped with handy, vernierish array of ranging crossbars. Selected appropriate elevation adjustment for indicated distance, subtracted slight gut-feeling increment, squeeeeeezed off shot.
Probably says something lamentable about your Humble Historiographer's fundamental evolvedness (or un-) that precision shooting monster gun at such long range delivers so visceral a gratification.
Whatever. Slug's arrival, within two inches of intended target after nearly three seconds’ ballistic trajectory, generated almost physical rush of self-satisfaction.
As did results: With spectacular gout of flame, smoke, vapor, UAZ's engine exploded as big armor-piercing slug passed through radiator as if so much tissue paper, then bored unpreengineered corridor from one end of engine block nearly to other, sundering crankshaft, connecting rods, pistons, etc.; trashing quite literally everything in path.
Vehicle ground to stop, smoking, steaming, hemorrhaging miscellaneous fluids onto ground beneath. Gun trucks skidded to halt right behind them so abruptly, actually dislodged several unwary members of troop complement.
Comm unit awoke with explosion of unmistakable Russian profanity. Voice sounded familiar...
But then (hardly dared believe eyes!), rising into view like heavy-set, bad-tempered bear, Khraniteli's Fearless Leader himself, Vladislav Kazimirov in the flesh—only truly successful genocide ever to emerge from history of planet—stood up in rear seat of lead vehicle to loom over driver. Lip movements visible through scope synced with tirade carried by comm; no doubt inquiring into failure's cause. More or less. Between descriptives.
As well as—talk about Christmas coming early!—to Kazimirov's immediate left, rising slowly to tower over scene like hood-spreading snake monster from bad old weekly TV horror serial—Fedka...
Was all could do not to laugh out loud as eyed pair through scope; listened to Kazimirov rage over comm. Clearly vehicles making so much noise on their own, concussion from mile-and-a-half-distant rifle shot had arrived unnoticed. At this point, occupants still thought engine simply had blown.
However.
Kazimirov, for all his silly, pompous mannerisms, surface distractibility, fascination with western movies, still Khraniteli's most important strategist: Single-handedly had come up with breathtakingly overkill planetary-cleansing scheme in first place, as well as directing scientific program, which made atrocity possible.
But Fedka was ... Fedka.
Loss of either would significantly weaken whatever Khraniteli opposition survived Serdtsevina Rasovyi's thermonuclear destruction; but eliminating both would constitute major strategic benefit—separate and apart from personal satisfaction to be gained from correcting nature's mistakes.
Yes, inconceivable that impending detonation would fail to take out both after our departure. But standing there, clearly outlined against rugged background, Khraniteli leaders presented unmatched opportunity to make sure....
Offered up wordless prayer of thanks (hoped uneasily would be received in spirit intended). Centered crosshairs on second button of chief sociopath's shirt with sensation approaching spiritual ecstasy.
Then...
(At this point, Posterity, must confess: Did something incredibly stupid—though to be fair, probably laboring under influence of compulsion; couldn't have resisted had fate of entire universe hung in balance.)
...keyed mike: “Hans, this is Roy. Yippee-ki-yay, mother—”
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
Briefly Terry flapped his wings in startled reaction, as most of us, huddled around his stand in the cavernous, toasty-warm cargo hold of the B plane rumbling through the stratosphere toward Serdtsevina Rasovyi at maximum cruising speed, erupted in cheers, laughter, and applause—which tapered off abruptly, leaving us all staring at each other in awkward silence.
Glancing around the huge chamber, the macaw settled his feathers with a satisfied expression; then, clearly expressing his own opinion, he said, “How 'bout that....”
Lisa suppressed the tiny beginnings of a giggle—over our reaction, I think; I'm pretty sure she herself has no particularly feelings about “bad” words.
Everyone recognized the movie quote, of course—but this was Candy, and heretofore, about the most brimstone-laden observations or commentaries any of us had ever heard her use were the mildest of standard four-letter condemnations, and even those infrequently. Personally, I ha
d never heard her say anything even remotely approaching that level of vehemence.
Not even while dying....
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
Barrett's thunderclap obliterated soul-satisfying final two syllables. Heard them only in my head.
But Kazimirov obviously heard them in earpiece. And clearly, from expression, recognized voice. Brow furrowed. Eyes began shifting, head swiveled, looking around for source. Mouth opened, no doubt to issue command.
Prayed would make connection before bullet's arrival.
But no time to waste gloating. As barrel settled from recoil (okay, yes; not supposed to, but did hurry it some), retargeted on Fedka (arguably one of most loathsome blotches ever to soil H. sapiens’ escutcheon); squeezed off another shot.
Shifted immediately to man on ground on right, fired again. Continued retargeting, shooting, as rapidly as possible.
After dispatching bullet to each of those in, around UAZ, shifted attention to first gun/troop truck. Initially chose targets in ever-widening pattern, moving out from center, but shortly switched to targeting those closest to anything which might serve as cover.
(Took real effort not to waste time waiting, watching for each impact. In fact, operated purely on faith throughout: Due to scope's narrow visual field of view, haste with which was having to work, length of time each projectile spent in transit, apart from UAZ's grille emblem, had yet actually to see any bullet's arrival, or resultant bodies on ground.)
Following fifth shot at first truck's occupants, Barrett's semi-auto action's “empty-now” lock-back caught me by surprise (bad Candy—second offense). But endless reloading practice under Danni's efficiency-expert's gimlet eye now paid dividends: Took just over training-session-best second and a half to pop out empty, snatch up next magazine in line, slap home, recharge, resume sight picture, find next target, fire again.
And again. And again. And...
* * * *
Excerpts from the journal of Danya Feinberg:
Analog SFF, October 2008 Page 20