The way George Hadash had explained what he needed Dean to do, it had sounded more or less like glorified tourism. Dean had realized, of course, that there was more to the situation than what Hadash was saying and that there was a possibility of at least some danger. But until this moment he hadn’t actually considered how much danger there might be. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of being shot at, much less dying in the Russian wilderness.
Fear began creeping up his back as he walked across the field. It felt like a small monkey, nails poking slightly as it curled itself up on his shoulder. The ground was a little wet and Dean slid slightly with each footstep. The visor, though light, sat awkwardly against his cheekbones. The assault gun had an oddly unbalanced feel, seemingly all in the stock. Dean pushed it against his side, reaching up to his ear to adjust the com set.
“Keep your spread,” said Karr.
“No shit,” muttered Dean. He stopped, checked six, then crouched, trying to relax. The visor gave the sky a purple glow where the clouds cracked to let the moonlight through. The sheds and warehouse looked like a shot used in a movie to set a scene.
A dark, foreboding scene.
Dean thought he heard a helicopter. He lifted out the ear bud to listen better, then realized it was just an odd effect of the com device.
“Don’t fall asleep back there,” said Karr. “We’re at the wire.”
“Not charged,” said Lia, testing it for electric current.
“Go for it.”
Dean heard a soft clang of metal as she started to climb the fence. He stopped about five yards from Karr, then turned to face the van. He didn’t look back until he heard Karr’s grunts going up the fence.
Lia was already inside the complex, probably at or even beyond the building closest to the fences. Karr pulled himself over the razor wire—Lia had covered it with a blanket—and went down the other side so quickly Dean thought at first he’d fallen.
“Your turn, baby-sitter,” said Karr, after topping the second fence. “Keep in touch.”
The Kalashnikov swung as he climbed. Dean paused at the top of the fence, examining the blanket covering the wire. It was made of a metal mesh and something similar to Teflon. He found he could grip the sharp wire strand through it without cutting himself as he pulled himself over the fence.
The second fence, much lower, had three strands of barbed wire on the top. Lia had secured these with a pair of what looked like carpenter’s C-clamps, flattening them down. Even though Dean was careful, he caught the side of his pants leg against the barbs.
At the bottom of the fence, he checked his six once more and scanned forward and back along the fence line. Maybe their high-tech gear was worth something, he realized; without it he would have been worried about the bulky shadow to the left, wondering whether there was a gun emplacement there.
He left the fence for the back of the building, moving toward the spot Karr had shown on his handheld. The position gave him a view of the yard beyond the structure as well as the approach to the fence and the field behind them. He crawled the last few feet, peering around the corner from the bottom. The steel warehouse had been constructed on a large cement pad. The foundation sagged about midway, and the warehouse wall hung down at a slight bow. There were some small floodlights at the front of the building, aimed toward the side. Their oblong circles of light left more than two-thirds of the alleyway in the dark. Across from the warehouse sat a brick wall that had once been part of another building; now it was just ruins. The back wall no longer existed, but the front remained almost completely intact, with a large metal garage-type door and two windows that seemed, at least in the night viewer, to have glass.
“More fuckin’ razor wire,” said Lia over the com set. “What the hell—do they make it here?”
“Eyes on the prize,” said Karr.
“Dogs!”
Dean could hear barks in the background, then a faint whiffff. There was a whine, another whiffff.
“Shit,” cursed Lia. “What the hell—they couldn’t find them? Shit.”
“Eyes on the prize. I’m on your left.”
“Right, right—truck!”
Dean heard the vehicle and saw a pair of headlights moving well beyond the building. He moved up the alleyway to the front of the warehouse building, but he still couldn’t see the truck. Karr and Lia exchanged a terse pair of curses, then stopped transmitting. Dean pulled out one of the ear buds, listening for the truck. He heard the motor somewhere on his left, beyond a row of squat shadows that had been drawn as one-story buildings on Karr’s handheld. Then he heard something else considerably louder—the crackle of three or four automatic rifles working through their magazines.
12
Lia cursed as the bullets began to fly. The idiot Russians didn’t have a clue where they were but were putting so much lead out that sooner or later they were bound to hit something. She had gotten her knife into one of the dogs as it came at her, and used the rifle butt on the second, crushing the Doberman’s skull and killing it instantly.
Damn shame to hurt dogs. She felt like shit.
The Russians stopped firing. They had flashlights, and she saw them flickering about ten feet away, near the entrance to the fenced-in yard where she was. Then they put the lights out.
“You see where they are?” said Karr in her ear.
Something moved very close to her and she froze, not even daring to answer.
“Damn,” Karr cursed in her headset. Obviously he was pinned as well.
Okay, Marine, Lia thought to herself. This is where you show us you can live up to your re´sume´. Get your cute butt in here and show us you’re more than gray-haired eye candy, Charlie Dean.
13
Dean plunged across the large circles of gray-yellow thrown by the spotlights, running across an access road into a level field strewn with gravel and weeds. Three or four huts sat at the other end; the fenced yard where Lia and Karr had gone was just beyond it. At the near-left corner was the truck he’d heard.
What he couldn’t see were people.
So all the high-tech bullshit was just that—bullshit. It was a liability now—if one of the other team members were captured, the Russians could probably figure out how to use the gear to locate the others.
Like him.
Kneeling, Dean unclipped the mike from the collar of his shirt and put it as low as it would go on his shirt, where he folded the fabric over to cut down as much as possible on any ambient noise. He’d continue listening over the headset; it might give clues on what else was going on.
If it came to it, he’d have to take off the pants and their locator device. Stinking high-tech toy crap.
Dean took one of the extra clips from his pocket, holding it in his hand as he moved to his right, flanking the truck and the small buildings. The perimeter fence stood on his right, near what seemed to be a generator shack; a motor hummed inside it and there was a faint glow from under the door, as if a night-light were on inside. Beyond this was a lagoon of muck, which extended beyond a chain-link fence. Inside the chain-link fence sat a row of old cars.
Or not-so-old cars. They looked to be Mercedeses. Dean still didn’t have a good read on where his team members were or who’d fired the guns. He began edging toward the truck, moving parallel to the fence. Finally he saw something move on the other side of the truck and he froze.
A man with a rifle.
Short, five-six or -seven. Bulky, maybe because of a vest.
Dean watched the man walk to the front of the truck, scan down the fence line, then walk back. Thinking he might start the truck and turn on the headlamps, Dean lowered himself to the ground and waited a few moments. When nothing happened, he got up and strode as quietly but quickly as possible toward the truck, aware that he was exposed to anyone in the huts on his left.
There’d be at least one other person working with the guy at the truck. Otherwise, he would have left.
About twenty feet from the truck, Dean’s
boots splashed into a shallow puddle. He stopped, leveling the AKSU slightly lower than he’d normally aim, figuring it would ride up when he fired. He was worried, too, about the vest.
But the Russian didn’t hear the noise, or at least didn’t check it. That bothered Dean—maybe the man had moved away from the truck. Dean stepped through the puddle as quietly as he could, moving into a crouch. He slid the second clip back into the back of his pants, scanned around to make sure he wasn’t being flanked himself, then edged backward, taking an elliptical approach to the rear of the truck. When he was less than five feet away, he saw the Russian standing a few feet from the tailgate, zipping up after taking a leak. The man glanced over his shoulder, then reached into his pocket to light a cigarette. He had his gun under his arm.
Dean flew forward. He was a step and a half away when the Russian heard him and started to spin around, bringing up his rifle. The short wooden stock of Dean’s AKSU smacked the Russian in the side of the skull so hard he fell out of Dean’s reach. Dean jumped after him, hammering the man’s chin with his boot but losing his balance and falling backward on the ground near the rifle the Russian had dropped. Dean rolled to his side, levering himself up and throwing out his elbow to protect against the attack, but the sentry lay limp nearby.
Dean waited on one knee, momentarily unsure of his bearings. The sketch from Karr’s handheld had shown an opening along that side of the fence, but he couldn’t remember how far up it was.
He could hear something.
Feet on gravel. Inside the fence.
Dean moved behind the truck, then circled around. He saw a figure emerge from the fence line about twenty yards up. As he brought his AKSU up he felt something sting him hard in the side, an errant fastball catching him in the ribs. He spun, catching a muzzle flash a dozen yards away. The submachine gun on Dean’s hip barked, the recoil easier than he’d thought.
Dean threw himself to the ground as the figure by the fence fired. He touched the glasses, steadying the image. The man he’d fired at had gone down and didn’t seem to be moving. As Dean twisted his head toward the other Russian, he saw a shadow retreating away from the fence.
Still on his belly, Dean began following. Before he reached the fence, two figures carrying rifles appeared on the other side, back near the truck. Dean cut them both down, aiming high enough to hit them in the necks or heads above any armor they might be wearing. As he fired, the man he’d been tracking began to shoot as well. Bullets whizzed in the dust; Dean managed to crawl into a shallow gully and reload.
He lost track of the gunman for a second as he started to crawl out. Thinking the man had retreated, Dean climbed to his feet. Almost immediately, two bullets bounced off his vest. They barely hurt, but before he could return fire he lost the man again. Dean dived back into the ditch.
Most likely the Russian had a nightscope or something similar. Dean thought of the smoke grenades Lia had given him—they’d work just as well against a night device as they would in daylight. He took one from his pocket, thumbing off the tape. As he went to toss it, the gunman began firing again, this time with a much heavier weapon.
Adrenaline screamed in Dean’s veins. He curled his body and leaped from the ditch toward the fence. The Russian had moved to a PKU machine gun a few yards from his original position. The smoke may have blinded him—his shots were wild and high—but also made it difficult for Dean to see.
Best bet, he thought, was to flank the sucker while he was focused on the smoke. Dean crawled sideways to the fence, rose, then shouldered the chain links until he got to the opening. As he dashed across, something grabbed him from behind and yanked him to the ground. In the next second, there was a loud explosion from above.
“About fucking time you got here,” said Lia when the ringing in Dean’s ears stopped.
14
Rockman studied the sensor grid. “They got them all,” he told Telach finally. “Tommy took out the machine gunner with a grenade. Got him right in the head. Big mess.”
“How’d you miss the dogs?” asked Telach.
“The spread,” he said. “They must have been in the back of the truck sleeping. We just weren’t close enough to hear. We knew where the people were. They would have stayed in the shed and the truck if the dogs hadn’t gone crazy.”
Telach frowned.
“Got movement on the road,” he told her.
“Tell them.”
“I’m about to.”
15
Lia began trotting toward a pile of wrecked buses farther back in the lot.
“Is Karr hurt?” Dean asked, running to catch up.
“Nah.”
“Where is he?”
“He started circling around to ambush them when you didn’t show up,” she said. “He just took out the machine gun. He’s looking to see if there’s anybody else our friends in the Art Room missed.”
“Aren’t we going to back him up?” asked Dean, grabbing her arm as they reached the closest bus.
She jerked her arm away. “He can handle it. Just watch my ass, okay?”
“She’s got a cute one,” said Karr in his earphones.
Dean reached to his shirt and undid the muffle, putting his mike back in place. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“I had to go deep. You did a good job, Charlie Dean. Noisy, though.”
“They fired first.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Karr laughed. “Stick on Lia. I’ll come over and play tail gunner. I always like the dirt road.”
Dean walked past a row of Mercedes S sedans. There was a break in the row about ten cars down on his left; he turned up and walked past another two rows of pickup trucks, these mismatched among Fords, Chevys, and Toyotas. Beyond the second row sat a decrepit bus. Dean walked to the right and saw that the rest of the yard was laid out with various pieces of machinery and pipes. He nearly tripped over the bodies of two dogs, then saw a figure working at a piece of metal ten feet away, beyond a large Y-shaped piece of metal piping. A small blue flame appeared and danced in the air.
“Lia?”
“What?” she snapped without turning around.
“Just making sure it was you.”
“No, it’s Mr. Midas.” She went back to cutting the metal.
Dean, his left hand on the clip of the gun, scanned the area to make sure they were alone. Lia kicked at the metal, removing a rectangle about twelve inches long. She worked at the remaining piece almost as if she were a sculptor, burning the edge into a wavy pattern.
“What are you doing?” Dean asked finally.
“Baking a cake,” she said. “I think this is it.”
“Okay, Princess, let’s move,” said Karr.
“Coming.”
“Dean?”
“I can hear you,” he said.
“Grab her and pull her out of there.”
“Fuck you,” said Lia, jumping up and grabbing the piece of metal she had cut off. She kicked the dirt around in what seemed to Dean a fairly useless attempt to scatter the bits of burnt metal that had fallen off and then cover her tracks. Then, as Dean moved backward toward the old bus, she started to run full speed toward one of the pickups on the right, tossing something in the back.
“Come on, Chuckie,” she said, catching up on a dead run.
Dean started to run after her. “What’s up?”
“Two trucks,” announced Karr. “Mile away. Meet me at the perimeter fence where we came in.”
Dean followed Lia out past the buildings, through the marshy field, and back along the alley where he’d originally been posted. Lia sprinted hard and threw herself about eight feet up the fence, hustling upward seemingly without breaking stride.
“Separation,” she hissed as she hit the top and twirled over.
“Screw separation,” said Dean, starting up after her as the headlights of the approaching truck swung across the far side of the fence.
“Charlie, take the blankets and clips with you,” said Karr. “Don�
�t forget them.”
Dean had trouble with one of the clips, and the blanket on the razor wire was hooked on the inside of the fence. He tugged and almost lost it over the side, which would have meant going back in. Finally he got it and, barely holding his grip with his left hand, managed to drop it below. Just as he started down, gunfire erupted beyond the lot where they had left the van. Within thirty seconds, Kalashnikovs were roaring all along the fence line. Dean couldn’t tell from where he was what was going on, and he didn’t stop to observe, dropping the last eight feet from the fence, grabbing the blanket and tucking it beneath into his pants as he ran. A flare shot up from the access roadway, lighting the night. As Dean squared his AKSU in the direction of the gunfire, he heard a loud hush, the sort of sound a vacuum might make in a sewer system. It was followed by a crinkling explosion and then a loud rumble; one of the trucks had been hit by a small antitank missile, which ignited its fuel tank and a store of ammunition.
A second later, the compound they’d just left erupted with a series of explosions. The loudest came from the pipe area Karr had told him earlier to ignore—the underground tank exploded, spewing fire into the air.
Dean stared at it for a second, then realized the van was starting to move. He ran to it, grabbing at the rear door as the truck veered suddenly to the left. Somehow he managed to throw his weapon and then himself inside. One of the AKSUs fired from the front cab and then a grenade exploded nearby. Smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal filled the back. The van slammed to a stop and then quickly began backing up at high speed. Both Lia and Karr were shooting now—Dean fished for his gun but lost it as the truck tipped hard to the right, wheeled around, and sped erratically over the field, bouncing wildly over ruts and through a ditch.
And then it was over. The gunfire stopped, the ride smoothed out; they were on the highway. Dean couldn’t even see the glow of the burning flares through the window.
“How you doing back there, baby-sitter?” snarled Lia from the front. She was in the driver’s seat. “Pee your pants yet?”
“I thought he did pretty well,” said Karr. “Sorry about the big bangs at the end, Charlie. That was mostly for effect.”
Deep Black Page 9