“Don’t move and don’t make a sound,” I ordered him in a monotone.
My eyes engaged his. My stare hardened. He didn’t move. I wished I was holding the Kel-Tec with a suppressor attached, but that wasn’t where the roulette wheel stopped.
“Dutch, run down those stairs and close both doors of the white room, then run back up here as fast as you can.”
The low cracks of the .32 caliber weapon we had heard would be nothing compared to the sounds generated by the firing of AKM 7.62 high-velocity cartridges. I could only control the room I was in and could ill-afford the drivers of the vehicles outside to take any action at all. With my left hand, I picked up the syringe loaded with morphine and advanced upon the chess table.
“Don, stand behind him,” I said, my eyes never leaving the Captain’s.
I held up the syringe when Don was in place.
“You have a choice,” I advised Victor. “You can let me give you this morphine, which is enough to take you to dreamland for a few hours, or you can force me to shoot you, with your own weapon, which I will. And we have no time. Decide.”
I heard Dutch running back up the stairs. Captain Cherno’s face was a frozen mask.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
I motioned to Don with my head.
“Grab his elbows,” I said.
Don grabbed. The captain jerked. The threat of being shot probably would deter Cherno. It usually did unless you were threatening a player. Citizens, even military officers, have almost never been so threatened in their lives. They don’t react to the threat. I had seen it many times. I had had to shoot a few of them to prove I would and could.
I stuck the needle of the syringe directly into the left side of the Captain’s neck. I pushed the plunger all the way in as he jerked and bucked. The scuffle caused the syringe to free itself from my grip, and the captain’s neck as well. It flew across the chessboard, knocking some of the pieces to the floor. The unique shiny tops of the pieces sent reflections scattering like small diamonds.
“Let him go!” I yelled at Don.
The big, drunken Russian staggered, both hands clutching his neck. I knew immediately that I had not hit an artery. The man would have died in seconds if that had been the case. He might die anyway. That much morphine he could probably handle, but I did not have time to wait the several minutes it would take for the drug to work through muscles and fat. I had to have a brain shot, and the neck was as close as I could get. Cherno went down, not like a tree falling, but more like a collapsing two hundred and fifty pound flower.
I did not have time to check his vitals, for Dutch had returned. I put the automatic back in my pocket, zipped up the bag, and made for the front of the building.
“Let’s get the hell—” I began, when the assistant walked through a side door.
All three of us gaped. Nothing was said. We just stood there, five feet apart. The assistant’s eyes scanned the Captain’s body sprawled on the floor by the chessboard. I lunged at the man, hitting him with my right shoulder, which I had dropped as my hand again went for the automatic.
Both of us hit the door and then kept on going. When he went over backwards, we both slid under a table. I got the automatic up and then brought it down on the exposed side of his head, time after time, butt first.
I felt my feet being tugged. I looked back to see Dutch pulling away. I grabbed a bunch of scattered cloth napkins and shoved them into the stunned assistant’s mouth. I held on.
“Get the damned bag open. Tape him. We can’t have any noise.”
Fearful about the drivers nearby, I tried to stop the injured man’s writhing and kicking. I listened for the sound of a diesel engine, but could hear nothing. And I knew we were running out of time.
No matter what had happened in the underground gulag, soon, very soon, there were going to be well-armed men coming up and filling the building still occupied.
Don pulled out rolls of tape from the bag and went to work on the man’s head. His hands shook so badly that his tape job made the assistant’s head resemble Hollywood’s Invisible Man. I realized that I had blood all over my hands, my vest, and my face. Heads bleed terribly.
“Help me clean up,” I said quietly to Dutch.
He wiped my face. I did my hands as best I could, then stripped off the vest. I looked down to see two belts of gold strapped around my waist. I pulled my shirt out of my pants and let it fall free. The soaked vest was history. The shirt would have to hide the belts, my looks would have to pass muster with the drunken drivers, and my pocket would have to serve as a holster for the nine-millimeter. As best I could without water, I cleaned the gun off, and then stuck it into my front pocket.
I didn’t like the size or the shape of the bulge, but I had no choice. I took a syringe from the bag, loaded twenty milligrams, and then stuck it into the stomach of the still struggling assistant. We all held onto him. A couple of minutes passed before he grew completely still. I zipped the bag and stood up.
“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” I shouted.
Dutch and Don ran in front of me.
“Jesus Christ, walk,” I swore at them.
They slowed. There was nobody in the study. Captain Cherno’s body lay where it had fallen. Whether we were leaving a slew of corpses behind I didn’t know. If we were, then there’d be hell to pay somewhere down the line. For now, however, we had to stay alive in order for the opportunity to face such a prospect. We went through the double doors as though we were leaving a restaurant after lunch.
The sun was still beating down, when we stepped onto the porch. Outside there was no sign that anything had happened in the house or down inside the ghastly gulag. It was peaceful and pastoral, but I realized we were fast running out of a precious ally: time.
“You two in the back,” I said to Dutch and Don, following at least a tattered remnant of my original plan.
I climbed into the vehicle, slammed the metal door, and latched it. I crouched behind the drivers. I unzipped the bag at my feet, took out a banded pack of hundreds, split the paper holding it together, and handed five bills to each Russian.
They both giggled when they took the money. I waited with forced patience for them to stow the bills in their pockets. Finally, the Tundra Cat driver hit the ignition switch. The diesel belched black smoke out of its raised twin exhausts. I did not relax at the sound, but I felt a lot better. The man played with the control levers. We backed slowly away from the building and then stopped. He rotated the tracked vehicle on its axis. During the slow, grinding turn, I watched the two Russian sailors attached to Captain Cherno’s vehicle walk out and size us up. I didn’t like the fact that they were so alert and mobile. Maybe I should have given them two bottles. The conjecture added to my mounting number of regrets.
“Thank you, Indy,” I heard to my left.
It was Hathoot, propped up in his seat, his leg showing some blood, but not enough to cause me worry. It was too soon to give him more of the pain medication that we were beginning to run a bit low on. The bottle had not been empty when I had put it back, but it was getting close. I had become one of those wild animal hunters rather than a hunter of men. Perhaps what I really needed was one of those tranquilizer guns. I cut off the thought, ending it with the hope that Alexi had taken maximum advantage of all six shots he had had.
We screamed up to top speed, gradually escaping out of the muck and flying across the terrain. We did not make it out of the valley’s natural swale. We were climbing toward its lip when I saw a flurry of activity behind us at the house. I motioned our drivers. They were concentrating on driving and chatting with one another. Seconds later, however, shots were fired. Quick sharp cracks cannot be mistaken for anything other than what they are.
Supersonic bullets headed our way. Our Tundra Cat slowed as both drivers turned to gape behind them. In the dista
nce, uniformed men milled about, emerging from the ground like ants. We had only encountered four, maybe five, of the guards, but I could plainly make out at least twenty now in front of the house. I estimated our range at about a mile, well beyond the effective range of an AKM, even the old 7.62 millimeter versions. The Russians used short 7.62 cartridges. They lacked the long-range punch of the U.S. or NATO 7.62. We were beyond effective range, but not beyond maximum range.
Sometimes, rarely, a firearm’s maximum range can also be its effective range. One of the guards set off a full magazine at us. Its sound, which arrived at the same time that Don and Dutch both cascaded forward into the middle seats of the Tundra Cat, was akin to that of a distant short-lived chain saw.
Our driver stopped the Cat. I knelt by Don. He had taken a hit through the tissue above his collarbone. The bullet had gone in and out only an inch from the top of his shoulder, at the “V” of his neck.
“Pressure,” I shouted into his ear, taking his good hand and shoving it over to cover the wound. “Press hard, I’ll get to you.”
His eyes half shut with pain. Dutch was already holding the outside of his arm. I pulled his hand away.
“Thank you, God,” I intoned. It was another flesh wound.
The bullets had been so far from their driving explosives that they had almost fallen through both men. There was no hydrostatic damage, no spalling or rotating within the tissues.
“Pressure, keep it on,” I coaxed him.
I looked into his eyes so I could determine if he really understood. I pulled the automatic out of my pocket and then faced our two drivers in front.
They were both twisted around, gawking. I moved to the back of the front seat. I could not shoot them, but they did not know that. But I wanted their cooperation. I rummaged in my bag without looking away from the men. I pulled out two banded packages of hundreds and handed one to each man.
“Provideniya, fast,” I said, and then motioned with the barrel of the pistol.
They each held a pack of the money, first exchanging glances, then grins. I knew then that I was probably not going to have to shoot them, so I smiled too. We took off.
Back at the hell house the Captain’s vehicle, loaded with guards, started after us.
“Oh Christ,” I muttered.
Even if our Tundra Cat was fast enough to beat their smaller rig to town, which I thought it was, any dockside battle would be a complete and utter disaster. We could never hope to win a firefight. For one thing, we had one small automatic pistol. Our drivers were part-time, undependable mercenaries, already paid off. And there was an active military presence in Provideniya. Nor could we not stop, wait, and hope to ambush our pursuers. They were armed to the hilt. That left only surrender, which was out of the question. I couldn’t imagine another alternative.
Until the pursuit vehicle stopped. Ours was fast closing on the upper edge of the valley. We would be lost to visual contact in seconds. The guards were out of the vehicle behind us. It became obvious that they were in total disarray and disagreement.
“What the hell?” I boomed.
Hathoot heard me. He was watching with me.
He laughed. “They’re caught in a classical dilemma. They must go back and help their Captain or chase us. They know they cannot catch us. If they go back, then they have to rush to the airport to get to the helicopter. That will take too much time. And that has its own problems, because they must then decide to either come after us or get the captain back to his ship.”
Hathoot’s train of thought made total sense. There were two forces behind us. The guards were one force and the Navy men the other.
“They can’t agree on anything,” I responded.
We watched them agree on one thing, however. They lined up and then lay in prone position. I pushed Hathoot down, then grabbed the boy, still wrapped in my cashmere coat, and shoved him down, too. Our vehicle was struck several times by what seemed like heavy hail before the sound of distant chainsaws rolled up the valley wall.
We then passed over the ridge and out of their view. I checked back with our drivers. They were oblivious to the impact of bullets. The driver in the passenger seat tipped up a half empty bottle of Black Label, offering it to me with a crazed grin. I took it. I made believe I was drinking, too. The power of drugs, booze, and money was not over-rated in this world. They were the modern secular version of the Trinity, and I could not succeed without them.
I didn’t know what the Russians behind us were going to do. I didn’t know what their radio or landline capabilities were with Provideniya or with the heavy cruiser. And there was the helicopter to consider, as well. Was it armed? There were still way too many variables to calculate.
But my short-term work was cut out for me. I dug into my bag to retrieve bandages, tape, and still more morphine.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN:
Harassment and Interdiction Fire
The Tundra Cat whined over the top of the soft summer mud at top speed. I knelt next to Don, who lay on his back. The vehicle’s constant movement caused him to groan with each small bounce or course correction. I prepared another syringe with ten milligrams of morphine, which I administered into the exposed hollow of his undamaged shoulder. I aspirated to make sure I had not entered a vein before I put light pressure on the plunger. I then refilled and reused the same syringe on Dutch. I flashed him a look of encouragement before tossing the syringe over the side. Only one was left in my bag and not much more than one shot remained in the bottle. I hoped that I would not need it for myself.
Don’s wound was as superficial as Dutch’s. Both had been turned to the rear to watch the action behind us at the instant they were hit. They had not ducked beneath the thick aluminum edge of our Tundra Cat’s top. Aluminum even more than a quarter inch thick is not normally very effective as armor against small arms fire. But the rounds which had been fired at us had been at the very end of their trajectories. As with the final combined effort of the guards, during which many rounds impacted on the side and back of the vehicle, none penetrated the cabin. We had been extraordinarily fortunate, but luck was a fickle entity.
I bandaged and taped the messy wounds. Next, I got the wounded vertical again and made them passable. Our return to the ship had to be as normal as when we had disembarked. Kessler was going to be in no mood to allow exceptions for anything — and gunshot wounds were tough to lie about, even under ordinary circumstances. Timing was again vital. We needed Kessler to hold the boat just long enough for us to get aboard and then, once we were, to immediately make for the open Bering Sea. I had overlooked how I might convince him that traveling the entire length of Providence Bay at the Lindy’s top speed was compulsory.
If my planning had gone well, then Kasinski was dead, along with Alexi, and quite possibly an assortment of guards. What might have involved a period of brutal interrogation and incarceration before would now, given the likely circumstances, involve summary execution. The guards would overreact to the killing of their own as almost all military organizations around the world did, including my own.
I checked out the boy we had plucked from the gulag. He was the reason for my presence in Russia and all the mayhem we had just survived. He had said nothing since being retrieved. I leaned close to him while scrutinizing my vicuña coat. No cleaning job of any kind could restore it to life. I also noticed that he treated the covering as if it were his early childhood blanket. He hugged it to himself and secured a piece of the collar in his mouth. His eyes were watery but intelligent.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my face only inches from his. My concern was real and I let him see that.
“I’m okay,” he whispered, almost too softly for me to hear. But then his volume rose a bit. “Why did the fat man call you Indy?” he questioned.
I rubbed my hair with one hand. I had no idea how to answer him.
“I’m not fat,” Hathoot
groaned, loudly. “I’m Lebanese.” He said the words as if that somehow explained his upside down teardrop shape. “We call him Indy because he’s just as crazy as the idiot,played by Rex Harrison in those juvenile movies.”
The kid relaxed for the first time since I had met him. “It’s Harrison Ford, not Rex Harrison,” he shot back at Hathoot.
“Whatever,” the purser said, looking away, his pupils still fully dilated.
I checked his pulse, which was a little fast, but within tolerable limits for the situation we were in. I checked our back trail, but could see nothing. We had come far enough for the Navy personnel, with the guards, to have crested the top of the valley wall, if they were still pursuing us.
If instead they had returned to the old House atop the gulag, retrieved Captain Cherno, and then raced for the Airport, the timing of their movements would be critical to our survival. I didn’t think their chopper would get into the air and then interdict us in time. But the chopper would be in direct contact with the heavy cruiser. It, in turn, would be in direct contact with Providenya. Our noose might very well be constructed of radio waves.
If we did not beat the other vehicle in our sprint to the Lindy, then we would drive right into oblivion at Provideniya. At least one T-72 tank was there, plus crew. It might be temporarily disabled, but where there was one tank, there was at least one other. Tank squads the world over ran with at least two in tandem. They were also, normally, only put in the field by platoon. That would be six or eight tanks — and that would be a death sentence for us. If we lost the race.
We approached the city’s outskirts. I crawled back to where Don and Dutch sat. Both had their coats on. I, the agnostic, thanked God, again, for the warmth and time of the day. They had been shot without their coats on. Bullet holes in clothing were more distinguishable than most people would have thought.
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