Deep Black

by Stephen Coonts; Jim Defelice

  Then the real fun would begin, since they didn’t know for sure which building Martin was in. The Art Room had assigned percentages to the possibilities, though they hadn’t explained the formula they used to come up with the figures. The building on the left was marked at 70 percent; the building on the right, 30. Karr’s gut refused to let him make a call, so he’d go with the Art Room’s numbers.

  According to the Art Room, there had been no more than six or seven people in both buildings at the time their bugs had run out of juice. That struck him as optimistic, but you never knew—they were due for one good break somewhere along the way; maybe that would be it.

  Dean finally crept next to him.

  “OK, baby-sitter, here’s the gig—we run straight to that building right there, one at a time. First guy runs, other guy watches the observation post.”

  “That’s a hike,” said Dean. He thumbed right. “Why don’t we head that way? We can sweep around, just be exposed on the right there.”

  “We can’t afford the time, and besides, the barracks will be able to see us anyway, so it’s not that high a percentage,” said Karr. “At least here we know it’s just the one or two sets of eyes.”

  He looked at the image from the Bagel; there was a truck coming from the barracks area, behind them to the right. “We’ll wait for the truck to clear. It’s got troops in it. If they go to the gate, that’s where the guards’ attention will be.”

  “OK.”

  “If you start shooting, remember the contingency plan.”

  “Which contingency plan?”

  “Every man for himself,” chuckled Karr, hunkering down as the truck’s headlights swung up the road.

  41

  Lia punched the button on her handheld several times, frustrated that they had lost the feed from the Bagel. That didn’t mean it had been shot down or run out of fuel—reception was notoriously difficult in the Hind.

  But it wasn’t good. Lia pushed against the restraints of the gunners’ cockpit. It was a tight squeeze, even for her. With the missiles and gun pod loaded on the stubby wings, she was paranoid about hitting the switches on the panels, even though the gear was fully safed.

  Karr had gone too far this time. It was uncharacteristic—she was the one who took chances, not him, not like this. Jesus, he was out of his mind.

  Dean’s fault. Karr obviously thought he had to impress the old fart.

  Not that Dean was old, actually. Or a fart. Not a fart at all.

  “How we doing?” Fashona asked over the interphone, or internal communications set.

  “They’re working their way to the building, but I’ve lost the feed from the Bagel. Can you get higher?”

  “I don’t want to show up on the radar. We’re just barely out of coverage range as it is.”

  “We’re five miles away and five feet off the ground.”

  “That would be twenty. The radar is definitely on and scanning.”

  “I’d like to see what the hell is going on.”

  “Relax. Karr knows what he’s doing.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about.”

  “Hots for Charlie Dean, huh? He’s a hunk.”

  “Screw yourself, Fashona.”

  “Physically impossible, though many have tried,” he said. “You want me to go over the target list again?”

  “Why don’t you suck on a grenade?”

  “If I go, you go,” he told her.

  “That may be an acceptable trade-off.”

  42

  Dean threw himself against the cement bricks of the building wall, his pulse thumping in his throat. The night glasses blurred so badly all he could see was one dark shadow around him.

  “Up, up,” said Karr in his ear.

  Easy for him to say. Dean put his hand out and moved to the left, fishing for the nylon rope Karr had left for him. He found it finally, took a breath, and started pulling himself upward.

  “Jeez, Louise, what’s taking you?” hissed Karr. “I had to get up without a rope, and I gotta weigh about fifty pounds more than you.”

  “The fucking guard just about saw me.”

  “Relax. I would’ve nailed him.”

  “Fucking Ruger’s bullets would’ve bounced off his head.”

  “Only if his skull’s as thick as mine. Come on. I’m ready to go through the roof.”

  Dean pulled himself over the low rise at the edge of the roof, then immediately began hauling up the rope. Karr had already taken out what he claimed was a silenced Makita portable saw and started cutting. It may in fact have been a Makita—it was blue—but it looked more a small wastepaper basket with a five-inch saw blade than a battery-operated skillsaw. It wasn’t completely silent, but Dean didn’t hear the high-pitched hum until he was about ten feet away.

  “Here we go,” said Karr, standing up. He smacked his foot down against the cutout—and promptly fell through the hole.

  Dean swung the A-2 forward as he leaped forward. After two steps he dropped knee-first into a slide and pushed the nose of the gun into the hole ahead of his face.

  Karr lay sprawled on his back eight feet below.

  “Don’t shoot me yet, baby-sitter,” he said, groaning and cursing as he rolled over and got to his feet. “Luckily, I landed on my head.”

  Dean pushed his legs over the edge of the hole and jumped down, then crouched and scanned the unlit hallway. At the far end, Karr paused by a set of double doors made of glass. He put out his hand, signaling for Dean to stop. Then Karr took a large device that looked like the plunger head from a plumber’s helper from one of his vest pouches and put it against the glass. A wire ran from the device; he plugged it into his handheld.

  “Ssshhh,” warned Karr as Dean crept toward him.

  “That some sort of bug?”

  Karr didn’t answer. The device used a set of microphones to pick up sounds, calculating distance in roughly the same way a submarine would use passive sonar. The closed stairwell and the glass were a perfect medium, though it could also work reasonably well through a single-layer wall.

  “Clear now.” Karr stood and, while still looking at the handheld screen, dusted the door hinges with silicone. It may have helped, but the heavy door still creaked on its hinges.

  They stopped at the bottom. Karr handed Dean his A-2, then took the pistol out.

  “Two guards, coming toward us. Walking. I don’t think they know we’re here,” he said.

  “You better hit them in the face.”

  A smile poked up the corners of Karr’s mouth; then he was through the door. The bullets made a light popping sound as they came from the pistol—two bullets, two guards on the ground.

  Square in the forehead, both shots.

  “Good work,” said Dean.

  “I may not be as good as you, baby-sitter, but I can hit what I’m aiming at every so often.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

  “Basement door,” said Karr, pointing all the way down the hallway. A steel door sat next to the main entrance. He started moving toward it, then stopped as a set of headlights swung across the front of the building. When the lights faded, Karr trotted forward, then threw himself down and slid the last ten feet on his belly, possibly to keep from throwing a shadow that could be seen through the front glass, though Dean thought Karr might just have done it for fun. He put his plunger up again, fiddled with the handheld, and cursed.

  “Door’s too thick. Doesn’t resonate enough.”

  “Let’s search the rest of the place first,” suggested Dean.

  “Nah. If I’m putting a jail in here, it’s going downstairs. Place looks like a lab or something, doesn’t it?”

  Dean hadn’t seen inside of the rooms—they were all closed—so didn’t hazard a guess.

  “You don’t have some X-ray machine that can see through the walls?” he said instead.

  “Stinkin’ bean counters cut it out of the budget,” said Karr. He took a grenade from his belt, thumbed off the tape. De
an still held his gun. “Hopefully, we don’t need this.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Sure you’re sure?”

  “You gonna bust my chops all night or what?”

  “Only as long as necessary, baby-sitter.” Karr jerked the door open, pushing himself across and into the opening. Dean waited until he started to retape the grenade, then slid over to follow.

  The basement was a long low-ceilinged room crammed with machinery. Several tables were tarped; others had racks of what looked like oscilloscopes and discarded computer gear. They walked the length without seeing any sign that prisoners were kept here.

  “Shit,” said Dean.

  “Yeah, all right. Let’s check out the first floor.”

  The doors to the rooms were locked by card-readers. Rather than fooling with the locks, Karr put his listening device up, scanning the room sonically.

  “You sure that’s good enough?” Dean asked.

  “As long as he’s breathing, we’ll hear him. These doors aren’t that thick.”

  “What if he’s dead?”

  Karr shrugged and moved on. At the last door he pulled down the gear and took out a small drill, punching through the screws that held the mechanism together. Dean tensed, his adrenaline once more starting to pump.

  “There’s no one inside,” said Karr. “I just want to see what the hell they do here.”

  With the cover of the lock off, he examined the circuit card, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a set of alligator clips. One of the LEDs on the reader mechanism flashed a few seconds after he began probing around, and the door lock clicked open. Dean started to push inside, but Karr held him back, nodding toward the floor. The goggles picked up two fuzzy IR beams. The room was filled with several dozen servers and storage devices, along with two workstations.

  “They have the room alarmed but not the hallway?” said Dean.

  “Pretty interesting, huh?” Karr took out a small digital camera and began taking pictures.

  “What do you figure’s in those computers?”

  “Could be porn.”

  Dean wasn’t sure whether he was kidding or not. He followed Karr back upstairs, where a similar search revealed equally empty rooms, though no more computers.

  “I was afraid of this,” Karr said. “Let’s go next door. Get on my back.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to lift you out of the building,” he told Dean. “Unless you think you’re strong enough to pick me up and let me drop the rope to you.”

  Dean scowled but said nothing, climbing up the bigger man’s back and then balancing precariously as he was lifted by the heels up through the hole in the roof. He felt a little shaky; fatigue was starting to get to him, and he was hungry besides. He managed to crawl out of the hole, then stopped a few feet away, resting for a moment before going for the rope. He was too old for this shit, too old.

  “Dean!” said Karr in his headset.

  “I’m moving as fast as I can,” answered Dean.

  He looked up. Two guards stood five feet from him, the laser targeting dots from their AK-74s crisscrossed on his chest.

  43

  Karr didn’t have time to figure out how he’d missed the guards outside when he’d checked the UAV image before they started down the hallway. He ran back to the stairs, Dean’s gun in his left hand and his in his right. He got down to the first floor, slung the second rifle over his shoulder, then pushed out. He ran into the computer room they’d examined earlier, jumping over the security system’s detection beams. He just barely kept his balance.

  There were no windows, but there was a door that led to another room. It was locked. Karr threw his shoulder against it, but it stayed put. With no time for finesse, he took out the pistol and bored out the lock mechanism.

  This room had two windows. He pushed the door shut behind him, then ran to them quickly. Dean was saying something in English over the com system; it went dead before Karr could figure out what it was.

  The windows were alarmed, but it was a simple wire system, easily defeated with a clip and wire set. He pushed the window open, then paused, checking the Bagel scan carefully. He saw now why he’d missed the sentries—there was a ladder up the side of the roof, hidden by an overhang. They were making for it now.

  It was on the opposite side of the building, away from Building Two.

  Karr pulled up the cursor and clicked it on Dean’s IR profile, prompting the computer to memorize it. It could now locate him at will.

  Assuming they didn’t kill him first, of course.

  Building Two had a set of steps that led to a steel door in the basement. Karr ran to them, once more using his .22 to blow out the lock. But this door had a dead bolt or something else securing it: it jammed when he tried to get in.

  There came a time in every show when you had to play the luck card. Tommy Karr hated to play it this early, but there was no other choice. He ran up the steps, glancing at the feed from the Bagel—the sentries were coming around the side of Building One. He bashed the nearest window with his gun and then dived inside the building, rolling in the darkness on a surprisingly thick and relatively soft rug.

  Like a pig in shit, he thought to himself, jumping up.

  44

  “What the hell’s going on, Karr? Where are you?” Lia hissed.

  “Building Two. Aren’t you watching?”

  “I’m still trying to get the feed from the Bagel.”

  “Just use the sitrep. Did you get all the weapons loaded?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did Fashona bitch about the jacks?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  Specially designed trolleys and hydraulic jacks were used to load the weapons pods onto the wings. While these machines did all the heavy lifting, they had to be positioned just so beneath the hard points; it was not a job for an impatient man, and inevitably left the pilot in a foul mood.

  Lia clicked into the map, which showed Karr’s and Dean’s positions. Dean was on Building One, moving toward the side.

  Christ, the bastards were going to throw him off.

  “We’re coming in,” she said.

  “Just hold on,” Karr told her. “Let me find Martin first.”

  “They’re going to kill Dean.”

  “Relax. They’ll question him before they kill him.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t go postal, honey.”

  “Postal? You’re fuckin’ hyperventilating.”

  “I’m out of breath. Look, you guys have to stay on schedule or you’ll get nailed by the SA-6. Wait until they take out the van. I’ll get Martin, then I’ll bail out Dean.”

  She bounced back to the sit map, which showed the team’s location.

  “Karr.”

  “You have ten minutes. You can’t sit tight until then?”

  She was worried about Dean. She was really worried about Dean.

  Would she have worried so much about Karr?

  Damn straight.

  Maybe.

  “Take out the guns, then get the two guards on the inside of the gate, in case they have shoulder-launched SAMs,” Karr reminded her.

  “I know my fucking job.”

  “Then do it,” he said. “Gotta go.”

  His channel remained open. Lia pressed the mike button for the helicopter’s interphone. “Ray—”

  “I heard,” said the pilot. “The SA-6 van blows in seven and a half minutes.”

  “God, they’ll be dead before we get there.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Shit, Ray, go! Let’s go now—we can take it out ourselves.”

  “If you want to get out and push, be my guest. If not, we do it the way Tommy drew it up.”

  “If Dean and Karr die in there, I swear to God, I’ll never talk to you again,” she said.

  “Yeah, w
ell, they ain’t going to die, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  45

  Dean moved down the fire escape–like ladder as slowly as he could. Every five seconds of delay would increase Karr’s chances of getting away, which in turn increased his own odds of survival. Finally, the man above him had enough and began stomping at his fingers to make him go faster. Dean jumped the last two rungs and pretended to crumble to the ground, but the Russians were having none of that—the man who’d gone down first put his rifle about two inches from Dean’s face.

  Dean had surrendered the .22 and his combat knife, along with his pack and all of his grenades. He still had a small Glock hideaway strapped to his calf and another under his vest. But at the moment there was no way he could get them before being perforated.

  The Russian said something, probably telling him to move forward to the front of the building, where there was a vehicle. Dean didn’t have to pretend not to understand; he stood with his hands out, as dumb a look on his face as he could muster—which was pretty dumb.

  “I don’t speak Russian,” he said.

  The Marine said something that sounded like “pash-lee, pash-lee,” which Dean recognized as Russian for “let’s go.” As he started to move, the Marine behind him decided he wasn’t moving fast enough and slammed his rifle butt into Dean’s kidney. The American fell to the ground, this time not faking it. The Marine went to jab him again, this time with the barrel end. Instinctively Dean grabbed the gun.

  He realized this was a big mistake about half a second before it fired.

  46

  One minute, Stephen Martin was having a glorious wet dream, banging two models on a pristine Aruba beach. The scent of sunscreen mixed with tequila and the heavy odor of women in heat.

  The next minute, he was being pulled out of bed by his undershirt, dragged across the cold cement floor.

  “Fuck,” he mumbled as he tried to grab whatever had him. “Jesus. Let me wake up.”