Night Strike

by Michael W. Sherer

  Rostropovich stared at him, his head cocked as if he, too, was listening. “Chopper,” he said.

  The Chechen tensed. Yes, a helicopter. But why? Judging from the course they’d followed in the past day or two, they were far from land. A rendezvous with another ship? Now he wished he did know more about the ship’s mission. He felt his fingers flexing into fists and forced himself to relax. He had to focus and not let the uncertainties make him deviate from the plan. He composed himself and hid his concerns. He didn’t trust Rostropovich, knew that he wasn’t who he claimed to be. But he could do little about it here except be alert. Perhaps the break Rostropovich offered by arriving early would help. He let the tension drain away and put a smile on his face.

  “Thank you, lyeytyenant. It was kind of you to think of me.”

  Rostropovich stepped aside as he pushed past into the passageway. The Chechen couldn’t tell if the man had seen his apprehension or not. Soon it would make no difference.

  Chapter 35

  July 28—Seattle

  Images strobed in the visual cortex of my brain, giving me fleeting glimpses of a man in a tunnel, gun in hand, running hard. I heard heavy breathing, felt my heart pound and my feet slam against the ground over and over. In the distance a hulking mass blocked the tunnel. It chugged and snorted and clouds of steam billowed from vents with ominous whistles obscuring the mechanical monster. I ran faster and the footsteps echoing behind me sped up, too. I took one more look behind me before I ran headlong into the dead end. The man with the gun had disappeared, the footsteps I heard now from a woman looking over her shoulder, too. She turned to face me, running faster, revealing a mask of dread. Anya. I called her name. Her eyes searched for me, but steam swirled around me, hiding me. As she got closer I could see blood dripping down her face.

  My eyes snapped open. I don’t know how long I’d been out. When I woke no brightness shone behind the curtains, and the living room seemed dimmer than before. I turned my head to see only one torchère lamp lit in the corner, but the inside of my skull burst into a bright starburst of pain. I slowly centered my head while I assessed all the damage. A dull ache cinched my torso like a corset, but I didn’t feel any cracked or broken ribs, and hoped no organs were bleeding internally. Curious, my tongue explored a stinging sensation and encountered an exceedingly fat lip and the taste of dried, caked blood. My stuffy nose reminded me I’d bled all over the rug, but it didn’t feel broken.

  I lay curled up on one side, wrists still bound behind my back. I stretched and sharp pain shot up one leg like a bullet to the brain. My left knee—the bum one—burned white hot as if someone pressed a knife under the kneecap and tried to pry it loose. I pushed the mental fog aside, trying to remember… Marko had collapsed my leg and I’d gone down hard onto the kneecap. So—think!—contused. No torn ligaments or meniscus. I straightened it slowly and raised my head.

  Marko sat in an easy chair across the room, eyes glinting under hooded lids. Soft snoring came from the wall opposite. Peter had his head thrown back, mouth open, but Chance was awake, alert, watching Marko. I wondered if Marko’s return meant that he hadn’t accomplished the mission Dmitrov had taken him on. Struggling, I managed to sit up. Reyna watched me with questioning eyes. I wet my lips, but wasn’t sure I could articulate the thoughts running through my head.

  I asked her what time it was, but it came out garbled. She frowned.

  “Hey, what you say?” Marko called. He looked at Reyna. “What he say?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  I tried again, impulsively playing a childish game. “Ow-hay uch-may ime-tay?”

  I saw a glimmer of recognition in Reyna’s eyes. She shrugged.

  “What in fuck he say?” Marko demanded.

  “Rigori-gay?” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “Stop talking, you!”

  Marko got up and went over to Chance, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and flicking the blade into the light with a click. He rested the point on the skin under Chance’s right eye. Peter had awakened with a snort and now drew back, his eyes wide in terror.

  Marko nodded at Reyna. “You tell me now what he say.”

  “I don’t know what the hell he’s saying,” Reyna said, holding her ground.

  “Et-gay i-may elt-bay—”

  Chance screamed as Marko pushed the knife deeper. The point broke the skin, blood welling and rolling down Chance’s cheek.

  An inhuman shriek came from Peter as he frantically waved his hands. “Stop it! For God’s sake, stop! He’s speaking—”

  I barked. As loudly as I could. Anything to cut Peter off. I followed it up with a couple of woof-woofs and a hound dog howl for good measure. Peter stared as if I’d gone mad, but said nothing.

  “He’s speaking gibberish,” Reyna said, her voice full of disgust. “Nonsense. Your friend must have hit him too hard, given him brain damage.”

  The dream came back to me. I leaned toward Reyna. “E-may ow-knay ere-whay eh-they irl-gay ives-lay.”

  “Zavali yebalo!” Marko yelled. “Shut the fuck up!”

  The front door slammed and Grigori strode in. He surveyed the room, his gaze landing on Marko.

  “What’s going here?”

  Marko rattled off something in Russian.

  “Dubiina!” Grigori spat. “Idiot.”

  “Uff-tay ize-gay ack-bay,” I said.

  Grigori stepped toward me and looked at Marko again. “You want him to shut up, this is what you do.”

  I didn’t see him swing. Someone just shut off the lights at the same time my head exploded.

  * * * * *

  I heard someone groaning, but I didn’t want to open my eyes to see who it was. Keeping them closed seemed like a better idea. But the moaning became irritating. I wanted to swat whoever it was into silence until I realized with chagrin that the noises came from me. I gritted my teeth against the pain and strained to sit up. I blinked and looked around the room. Marko was back in the easy chair, eyes closed, chin on chest. Grigori was gone. Peter slept with his head in Chance’s lap. Chance watched me without expression, gently stroking Peter’s hair. Chance was one of the best female impersonators outside of Vegas. It had never occurred to me that he wore the pants in the family.

  For weeks, months, I’d suffered worse insomnia than usual, startled at loud noises, broken into panic attacks for no reason, awakened from night terrors wrapped in sheets soaked with sweat, and experienced flashbacks in the middle of the day, reliving moments of extreme stress and a few close calls with death in the past couple of years. I didn’t need Brian Whitney to tell me I probably suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. But the physical threat from Marko and Grigori hadn’t cowed or shaken me. Getting hit just pissed me off. I wanted to hit back.

  I nudged Reyna awake. “Can you get free?” I whispered.

  “Cuffs are too tight,” she whispered back, “but I can probably get my hands in front of me if that helps.”

  I nodded. She pressed her back against the wall, lifted her butt and slid her hands underneath. Sitting back down, she bent her legs and leaned forward until she was able to step one foot inside the loop of her arms, then the other.

  I glanced at Marko. He rustled, but didn’t wake.

  I turned back to Reyna. “Get my belt.”

  She leaned over and fumbled with the buckle. “Hell of a time to ask for a blowjob, Blake.”

  I clamped my mouth closed to keep a snort of laughter from escaping. Reyna smiled and pulled the belt loose.

  “You know what to do,” I murmured. “Know any Russian?”

  She shook her head. We’d soon see how much English Marko understood. I glanced across the room. Chance’s eyes gleamed, and he leaned forward in anticipation.

  I took a deep breath. “Marko! Hey, asswipe!”

  Marko stirred, opened his eyes and shook his head groggily. When he realized he’d fallen asleep he jerked upright and looked around.

  “Y
eah, you, fuckface,” I said. “Ou-yay on’t-day eak-spay ig-Pay atin-Lay? Too bad. Means I can insult you all day long and you won’t understand a word. I can call you a dumb shit, a pea-brained motherfucker.”

  Marko leaped to his feet. “What you call me?”

  “A stupid son of a bitch who couldn’t find his own ass if his hand was taped to it. ¿Comprendes? Understand me now, asshole?”

  He pulled the knife from his pocket and flicked the blade out as he slowly stalked across the room.

  “Maybe I come over there and cut out your tongue,” he said. “Then you talk no more.”

  “Sure, whatever. Your mother must have dropped you on your head when you were born, you’re so stupid.”

  He smiled and waggled the knife as he came closer. “We see who is stupid one, yes?”

  “Ooo, I’m so scared of the bad man. You going to cut me? Pretty tough since I’m tied up. Come on, asshole! Bring it! Give me your best shot.”

  He bent over and leaned in, bringing the knife point up under my chin. Now or never. I lunged, head-butting him in the face. His head snapped back, blood streaming from his nose. I barely felt the knife tip catch flesh and slice its way clear as he pulled away. I was already rolling to the right and swinging my left foot toward him as hard as I could. The leg sweep caught him just above the ankle, and he toppled like a redwood, head falling toward Reyna as I’d hoped. I rolled the other way and brought my other leg up and over his thighs and locked my ankles, catching him in a scissors grip.

  Reyna was on him in a flash, looping the belt over his head and falling backward with one end twisted around her hand. She got a foot on his shoulder for more leverage and pulled with all her might. Marko flailed wildly, trying to swing the knife back where he might do some damage. Reyna let out a small cry when he managed to stab her leg. He raised his arm, but before he could stab her again, I un-scissored my ankles and aimed a kick at his wrist as hard as I could, enough to jar the knife loose and send it clattering to the hardwood floor. Marko thrashed more feebly, his fingers clawing at the belt around his throat now, and he finally went slack.

  “Bastard stuck me!” Reyna said, panting.

  “Get the knife,” I said.

  She picked it up, gripping it in two hands. I managed to sit up and twist around. She sawed through the plastic ties binding my hands. I rubbed my sore wrists, took the knife from her and went to work on her cuffs. Blood dripped onto my pants.

  “He cut you too,” Reyna said, inspecting my face.

  A stinging sensation from the spot under my jaw where he’d sliced me finally registered.

  “We have a good first aid kit,” Chance said softly.

  I’d forgotten he was awake and watching. I handed the knife back to Reyna. “Want to cut them loose while I go through this pig’s pockets?”

  She nodded and scooted across the floor. Chance held his arms out and Reyna went to work. Peter still slept with his head in Chance’s, but the sound of the front door opening and banging shut brought him up with a start. I froze, but Reyna had already pivoted toward the sound, and as soon as Grigori rounded the corner into the living room she leapt. Hands full with a cardboard carrier of coffee cups, Grigori raised his arms to ward off her stabbing blow. The coffee went flying. Grigori didn’t hesitate, stepping in and swatting Reyna aside with one big mitt, using her momentum to his advantage. She crashed into a table with a cry.

  Grigori went digging for the gun in his waistband holster, the sight sending a surge of adrenaline through me. I put my head down and charged across the room. Kicking the knife out of Marko’s hand had tested the bad knee, so I knew I could trust it, but blinding pain seared through my brain as I rushed him. I tackled him around the waist and we crashed into a wall. He brought both fists down on the back of my head and smashed me to the floor. I lashed out instinctively and caught a fistful of his trousers. I yanked as he stepped away, up-ending him. We scrabbled to our feet at the same time, and I bulled into him again before he could reach for his gun.

  The peaceful night air now filled with the sounds of struggle, sounds erupting all over the room—Grigori’s grunts of effort, my own labored breathing, Peter’s whimpering, Chance’s shouts of “Get ’im! Get ’im!”

  Reyna. I didn’t hear Reyna. All of a sudden there she was, leaping on Grigori’s back and wrapping her arm around his throat in a chokehold. He punched me in the stomach, put his hands on my chest and shoved, sending me staggering back against a couch. As I strained to pull myself upright Grigori bent an arm back around Reyna’s head and snapped his body forward, tossing her like a ragdoll on top of me. We went down on the couch in a tangle of limbs.

  “You’re a fucking dead man!” Grigori roared.

  I craned my neck to see around Reyna. She rolled off onto the floor as Grigori pulled his gun from its holster and swung it toward us.

  “No!” Chance shouted.

  He’d somehow crossed the room during the scuffle without me seeing, and now crouched by Marko’s body holding a big semiautomatic. Grigori took in the threat, his arm continuing its arc past us toward Chance, but it never made it. An explosion ripped through the room, and another, and another, the blasts deafening in the small space. Peter shrieked, a high shrill scream of terror. Grigori’s body twitched as the slugs found their mark, his eyes widening in surprise. I counted five loud booms, each shot smacking center mass before Grigori slowly dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and toppled over on his face.

  Chapter 36

  July 28—North Pacific Ocean

  Not able to sleep after his shift on middle watch, Macready had wandered the passageways, alert to who was still about. Except for those who kept the ship running properly, however, the ship slept. Macready made his way out on deck, the smell of the sea air invigorating him. He leaned over, forearms on the rail and noted the constellations splashed brightly against the inky sky, getting his bearings. Warmer than it had been since he’d left Andrews AFB weeks before, the soft breeze told him they’d traveled far south of the Bering Sea, certainly well south of forty-five degrees north latitude. He chafed at not having come up with more answers, wondering where Orlov and Marinesko intended to make their play.

  For a few minutes, though, Macready was happy to just be another simple matros taking in the night breeze. But soon he stiffened, alert to a change in vibration in the air. Long before he saw it, he felt and identified the thump-thump of the helo’s coaxial rotors. Finally, he picked out a black smudge on the starry horizon that grew steadily larger as it approached the ship. Casually, he sauntered across the deck, down a companionway and over to another one that led up to the flight deck. He knew he was taking huge risk but counted on the clear weather to bring out a few more spectators. By the time he climbed to the heli deck, one or two other curious insomniacs had already arrived. The FDO was never happy to see visitors, but on a long, boring voyage made certain allowances. He herded the bystanders to the fore, close to the hangar doors and out of the way of the incoming chopper.

  The Ka-52 came in from the north, astern of the ship and lightly touched down on the flight deck, the wash from its rotors blasting Macready and the others with gusts that whipped their clothing. The whine of the jet turbines died quickly, and the rotors gradually slowed and stopped. Several of the on-looking sailors scuffed their shoes on the deck and milled about before drifting off in small groups. Macready casually moved closer to the chopper and watched as the rear hatch opened and a passenger emerged into the dim circle of landing lights on the helipad. A lyeytyenant like himself that Macready thought he remembered from the hangar. Feigning interest in the chopper, Macready edged closer as the officer steered directly toward the FDO.

  The FDO saluted. “Successful mission?”

  Macready barely heard the words before the breeze snatched them away.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “Partly,” he said loudly. “The circuits fit, but we’re missing key instructions. I need to see the captain. Is he on the bridge?”

>   The FDO nodded, and the passenger turned and jogged toward the companionway off the flight deck. He met Macready’s eyes for a moment as he passed, his expression curious and thoughtful. Macready wondered if the officer remembered him from the hangar, too. He let the man go by and descend the ladder to the main deck before he turned and casually followed.

  Chapter 37

  July 28

  Orlov had felt rather than heard the chopper return from Unalaska, sensing its return. But he couldn’t mistake the rap on his cabin door.

  “Vhodit',” Orlov called. “Come in.”

  Captain Marinesko entered followed by a harried looking lyeytyenant. They stood side by side and saluted. Orlov waved a hand impatiently and they stood at ease.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “Lyeytyenant Lunin has just returned on the helicopter from the rendezvous in Unalaska.”

  Orlov swirled a hand in the air. “Yes, yes. Report, lyeytyenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lunin glanced at his shoes nervously before continuing. “We met the courier at the appointed spot, and received two computer circuits. They fit the laser design perfectly.”

  Lunin took a moment to catch his breath and smile at the admiral, as if that bit of good news would outweigh the rest of his report.

  Orlov didn’t share his enthusiasm. “Go on.”

  Lunin’s smile faded to a rueful grimace. “To operate the laser properly, the circuits need software instructions. We don’t know what those are.”

  “A fool’s errand,” Orlov muttered. “And there’s nothing to be done?”

  “We know the circuits help modulate the wavelength of light being emitted by the laser, changing its color, so we’ll try to work out what the code might be.” Lunin shrugged. “Without the lab notes or test results we must use trial and error.”

  “How long?”

  Lunin shifted his weight and flushed. “I don’t know. A day? A week?”