“Colonel,” nodded Bakunin. Lokransky saw him struggling to not salute.
“Sergei Ivanovich,” he said smiling, holding out his hand. “We need to dispense with ranks,” he said as they shook. “We’re all just gangsters now.”
“So, Anton Mikhailovich, you’re no longer the boss?” said the former Spesnatz major, hiding a grin as they made their way up the path to the top of the bluffs.
“I’ve always enjoyed your sense of humor, Sergei,” said Lokransky. “Consider me the gangster chieftain. How was your trip?”
“Uneventful. Though we had to stay below decks on that stinking pig of a ship. She usually hauls livestock to South America. The aromas linger.”
“I noticed.”
They’d embarked from New York’s East River after dark, ninety-eight former commandos ostensibly in the employ of a Queens, New York security firm. The men had entered the United States in twos and threes over the past week on work visas issued by well-bribed U.S. Consular officers in Moscow and St. Petersburg—officers since killed in Russia’s brutal urban crime wave.
Staying in several apartment buildings in the almost entirely Russian Brighton Beach area, they’d remained inconspicuous, waiting for the call that had come two days ago.
“Why didn’t you just rent some trucks for the weapons and the equipment, charter a few busses and drive up, Sergei?” asked Lokransky, looking at the freighter. “A lot easier and less conspicuous. Cleaner, too. They don’t have police checkpoints in America.”
Bakunin shook his head. “And what if there was an accident or we were stopped? How would we explain the weapons? Tell them that we were going to a swap meet?”
“They might have believed you.” He glanced at a line of Spesnatz hauling a series of crates and boxes toward the hospital. “What have you brought?” he asked.
“An international medley,” said Bakunin, his hand sweeping the line of men. “Vektor CR21 5.56mm compact assault rifles from South Africa. Tadiran HF-6000 tactical commgear, with automatic bandskipping and 32-key encryption, made in Haifa. Our Swiss friends at Bofors have provided us with an MK19 Mod3 40mm machinegun for use on bothersome aircraft. And lastly, our host country has furnished us with four M2 .50 caliber machineguns, made in the State of Maine and featuring the new M2HB interchangeable barrel, and six M60 7.62mm machineguns. Plus approximately 100,000 rounds of ammunition, night vision goggles, automatic grenade launchers, sniper rifles, Semtex plastic explosives, Stinger shoulder-fired missiles with dynamically-shaped charges. And, lastly, a gift from the Old General himself.” Talking a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka from his pack, he tossed it to Lokransky.
“This isn’t Borodino or Stalingrad,” said Lokransky. We don’t need all these toys. I hope to be out of here in a few days.”
“The man who sent you the vodka said to tell you that the heavy stuff is insurance, to buy you a little extra time, should you need it.”
“By which he means don’t come home without the cow,” said Lokransky with a thin smile.
Bakunin nodded.
“Even if we are detected,” said Lokransky, “it will take the Americans at least a day to gather sufficient forces to dislodge us. More than enough time for us to disappear.” Taking a map from his jacket, he unfolded it atop a rock. Bakunin shined his flashlight on the map. “This is the island,” said Lokransky. “We are here,” he pointed. “This is the bridge that leads to the island. This is the Director’s house, this is the hospital, behind it the old fort, part of which is used by the hospital.
“Mine the bridge and place a strong defensive position at this end—one of the heavy machineguns. Set the 40mm mount up on top of the hospital roof, along with two of the fifty-calibers and establish the command post in the hospital lobby. Put another fifty caliber inside the lobby and the others along the bluffs to command the sea approach.
“And the rest of us?” asked Bakunin as they reached the top of the bluffs.
“Perimeter patrols and sentries along the shoreline. Distribute the Stingers between the heavy machinegun positions and the command post. Four men to be at the call of the American Admiral at all times—they go where he goes. Right now he’s at the house. Do whatever he asks in terms of handling prisoners. Otherwise, all orders come from me. Post sentries in the hospital and the fort—I’ll show you where. All off duty personnel are to bunk in the hospital and are confined to the hospital. No sightseeing.” He folded the map and handed it to Bakunin.
“Any patients in the hospital?”
“The few that were have been moved off island.”
“And what is our mission?” asked Bakunin, folding the map and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
“They didn’t tell you?” asked Lokransky, surprised.
“They told me to obey orders.”
Lokransky shook his head, disgusted. “Fine. The mission. An experiment is being conducted here over the next few days. It’s the culmination of many years work. If it goes well, we are to take the fruits of it and leave, eliminating all personnel and equipment as we go. If the American government should interfere, we are to resist long enough to accomplish our mission.”
“What sort of experiments?”
“Genetic. Long-term genetic experiments.”
“And the fruits we’re to carry away?”
“Records and several canisters of organic material. We need to find where they’re stored. Oh. The doctor is an old fascist butcher. He may be a problem, but for now he’s needed. But he won’t be going with us. When the time comes, he’s mine. Everything clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Come, I’ll give you a tour.”
Chapter 23
Jim met Eddy at the base of the Quincy Yacht Club pier. A ramshackle wooden structure stretching out into Quincy Bay, the QYC was small and rustic, with just a handful of boats moored there. It was an early weekday morning with few people about.
“We got a boat?” asked Eddy. He was carrying a fishing rod and a small cooler.
“That thirty-footer over there,” said Jim, pointing to a small cabin cruiser tied to the pier. Like the yacht club, it had seen some years. Merri-Lee, Quincy, Massachusetts read the faded gold letters on her stern.
“Look’s kinda old,” said Eddy, dubiously eyeing the boat.
“The QE2 was booked for the week,” said Jim as they walked down the pier.
“You a sailor, El Tee?”
“No, Eddy, but he is.” He pointed toward Musashi, who stood at the end of the pier, the collar of his windbreaker turned against the brisk wind. He was looking across the bay at Smalls Island. Hearing them, Musashi turned and waved, walking toward the Merri-Lee.
“Who’s the Jap?” asked Eddy.
“His name’s Tennu Musashi,” said Jim. “And Eddy, I know of at least one Japanese you were very fond of, so be nice.”
“What’s he do?”
“He knows things,” said Jim as they reached the boat.
After introducing Eddy as “an old friend”, they cast off, roaring away amid a cloud of diesel fumes. “I wouldn’t want to go very far in this boat,” Musashi called above the roar of the twin engines. “These engines need an overhaul and you can almost smell the rot. I’ve seen the charts,” he continued as they sped across the almost glassy clam surface, no other boats in sight. “We’ll circle the island and come back under the bridge.” The half-mile long suspension span connecting Smalls Island to Quincy was now to their starboard.
“What are we looking for?” asked Eddy.
“A cave. I first saw it on the old maps of the fort. It was a smugglers lair, a grotto, from at least the War of 1812, when the British blockaded the coast. The cave’s in a small cove, on the windward side of the island.”
“Great for smugglers,” said Jim, zipping his coat against the stiff breeze. November was not the best time for pleasure boating in New England. “Not visible from the mainland.”
“When they built Fort Strong in the 1840’s, they connected the cave to
the subgalleries they were using for storage. Supplies and personnel could be brought into the fort if the landing area on the leeward side was blockaded.”
“Have you been in the cave?” asked Jim.
“No. I’ve seen the end of the connecting passage inside the fort. There’s an old iron door at the entrance to the fort. It’s locked. With the right tools, we can cut through it quickly.”
“Don’t look, but we’re being watched from the island,” said Eddy. “I saw the sun on two pairs of binoculars up on the bluffs.”
“Time to fish,” said Jim. Musashi pulled back on the throttle and cut the engine then went forward and dropped anchor.
“His English is great,” said Eddy, bending to open the bait box.
“So’s his hearing,” said Musashi, leaping nimbly back over the railing and onto the deck.
“Eddy,” said Jim, looking inside the cooler, “there’s no bait!” A half a dozen cans of domestic beer lay nestled atop a blue icepack, next to some plastic-wrapped convenience store sandwiches.
“So? Just fake it, El Tee.”
“How? Stick a beer can on the hook?”
“Jimbo, what would you do if you caught somethin’? Eat it? You don’t want nuthin’ outta there. Sure, they’ve cleaned the water up a lot in the last ten years. Just means you can go for a dip without your dick turning green and falling off in the shower a week later.” Eddy reached into the cooler, passing out the beer.
“Eddy, you have a gift for vivid imagery,” said the Japanese, opening his beer as he returned to the wheel.
“You ever hear from Emmy’s folks or Tami?” asked Eddy a few minutes later, as the Merri-Lee pulled up anchor and slowly beat her way around the island, fishing lines trolling from her stern
“Just her mother—every Christmas a card and a long letter,” said Jim, watching the island slip by as he sipped his beer. “The rest of her family considers me the evil giajen spy responsible for her death. Last I knew, though, Eddy, Tamiko was married to a salariman—some senior bank officer a bit older than her.”
“Those tired looking guys you see in the bars every night? Drinking too much? Laughing too loud?”
“Don’t forget dying too young. Yeah, those guys.”
Eddy laughed, shaking his head. “Tami and a salariman!? Ah, the Good Lord keep the girl! And him, too.”
“There it is,” called Musashi from the wheel, fifteen minutes later, as they anchored off of a small cove. No more than a hundred yards across, the cove was flanked by fifty-foot cliffs. Even from a quarter a mile out, Jim could see the white explosions of spray where the rolling combers crashed and broke against the jagged teeth of half-submerged boulders. The only beach was a thin pebbly strand between the ocean and the base of the cliffs.
“You can get a boat in there?” asked Jim skeptically.
“Yes,” said Musashi, staring at the shoreline. “I can get a boat in there, though not this one. We’ll go in a Zodiac—a light inflatable. We’ll bring this boat back and launch from here.”
“Where’s the cave?” asked Eddy.
“See that big pile of boulders, to the right?” said the Japanese, pointing. “Just at the high tide mark?”
“Yeah,” said Eddy. The rocks lay in a tumbled heap along the beach, half-submerged beneath the breaking waves.
“The cave entrance is just to the left of those rocks.”
“Great place to hide stuff,” said Eddy approvingly as they stared at the shore.
“For sure,” said Jim. Even at high tide there should be room to hide the Zodiac behind the rocks.
“When do you think?” asked Jim. “Tonight?”
“Not tonight,” said Eddy, shaking head. “Gotta line up some help. Get a boat. Unless you have a Zodiac?” he asked Musashi.
The Japanese shook his head.
“Probably going to want one of their bigger inflatables,” said Eddy. “Say an FC470 like the SEALS use.”
“How much do they cost?” asked Jim, touching his ever-shrinking money belt.
“I’ll buy,” said Musashi. “Eddy just needs to locate one and go with me to arrange transport.”
“Deal,” said Eddy.
“Weapons?” said Jim.
“I was thinking some Uzis, a few pistols, lots of ammo,” said Eddy.
“No, I mean, where do we get them?” said Jim.
“No problem,” said Eddy.
“No later than tomorrow night,” said Jim. “Schmidla’s not waiting on us.”
“Agreed,” said Musashi. “They’re probably being held in the fort.”
“We’re not leaving without them,” said Jim. “Not matter where they are. Are we all agreed?”
“Why do you even ask me that, Jim?” said Eddy. “Kaeko’s my little girl, too.”
“Sorry, Eddy,” said Jim, clapping him on the back. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah,” said Eddy, eyes watching the tops of the cliffs.
“And you? How committed are you?”
“Totally,” said the Japanese flatly. “Believe me, my back’s to the wall as much as yours.”
“Just what wall is that, Tennu?” asked Jim.
Smiling slightly, Musashi also turned to look toward the island.
“We’re being watched again,” said Eddy, spotting the sun glinting off a pair of binoculars atop the cliff, just above the cove. Turning, he snapped the cooler shut.
“We’ve seen all that we can,” said Musashi. “We know where we’re going, it’s doable and I can navigate back here at night. Let’s return to the harbor. You guys pull up those fishing lines, I’ll get the anchor.”
Jim’s cellphone rang as they pulled into the pier. “D’Artangan here. Trouble.”
“You never call with good news.”
“Our friend Lokransky’s been reinforced.”
“How? And how many?”
“Off a freighter, anchored in the harbor’s outer roads. They disembarked at least a hundred men at first light. Assume they’re from Lokransky’s old unit and armed to the teeth.”
“Great.”
“It gets better. DCI Rourke’s put a Black Brigade battalion over in South Weymouth, just across the harbor at the old abandoned Naval air station, plus a squadron of Apache gunships. It’s supposedly under joint Army-FBI command, with Freddy Kessler’s calling the shots. Word is something’s going to happen real soon on your favorite island paradise and Kessie’s going to be sent in to clean up the commies, The Good Doctor, the weirdoes and all.”
“Clean up?”
“The Big Sleep, Jim.” said D’Artangan. “The Black Brigade’s our Sandman.”
Jim snapped the phone shut. Weighing his options, he chose the one he least liked. “Bad news?” asked Eddy, reading Jim’s face.
“Let’s go see Tennu.” They joined him by the wheel. Jim quickly briefed them, concluding, “So, even if Schmidla doesn’t kill them, the Feds may.”
“Why do the Feds want to waste everyone on that island?” asked Eddy.
“They’re terrified,” said Musashi. “Of Potentials actually attaining their potential. It would change everything.”
“What the hell’s a Potential?” asked Eddy.
“Later. It’s a long story,” said Jim. “I’ve got to get inside that fort,” he added. “Now.”
“Get inside, like in get caught?” asked Eddy.
“Like in give myself up.”
“What good’s that going to do?” asked Eddy. “You’re just giving them one more prisoner.”
“But a well-trained one,” said Musashi, cutting the engines so that they were just holding their own against the current. “Which the other three are not.”
“Come on, Jim,” said Eddy. “One guy won’t make any difference.”
“I disagree,” said Musashi, delicately adjusting the throttle, setting the Merri-Lee in perfect balance against the current. “If I believed that, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah?” said Eddy. “So where would you be?”
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“Enough,” said Jim looking at the shoreline. “I’m going in. They won’t kill me until they get the roster.”
“Roster?” said Eddy, looking between them. “Give me a clue, guys.”
“Names of the men who crewed a World War Two ship,” said Jim. “The guys who have Kaeko want it real bad.”
“They’ll probably promise to release everyone if you give them the list,” said Musashi.
They all laughed.
“But once you’re in there with the prisoners, Dee can always find you.”
“She can?” said Jim, feeling a sudden surge of optimism.
Musashi nodded. “Once someone with her talent has read your mind—which you say she has—they can locate you, provided they’re near enough.”
“You weren’t bullshitting me!” exclaimed Eddy, turning red. “She was reading my mind!”
“I’m sure she’s seen worse, Eddy,” grinned Musashi.
“Maybe,” said Jim.
“Yeah and what if Dee doesn’t want to go on this little raid with us?” asked Eddy.
“Oh, she’ll go,” said Jim. “Dee’s a fighter.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Jim said. Back in the North End condo, he sat across the small kitchen table from Dee, slowly stirring milk into his coffee. Outside the sun was setting, casting long shadows down the narrow old streets. One by one, the gas lamps were flaring to life.
She looked at him over her own mug, sipped, and put it down. “As I understand it, this wouldn’t work without me. Correct?”
“May not work at all. Depends on how lucky we are.”
“On a small island, with a hundred or so enemy soldiers and us with no idea of where the prisoners are, you think you need luck?” She shook her head. “You’d need a miracle. I’m your miracle.”
“It gets even better,” said Jim. “There’s a CIA Special Operations task force a few miles from the island, ready to roll when they get the word. Army Rangers, Apache gunships, the whole nine yards.”
The Eldridge Roster Page 22