by Dale Brown
Since his sudden arrival, GAMMA quickly had plenty of skilled, highly effective men and women working in various operations, mostly involving direct attacks on security forces belonging to large corporations—men and women who weren’t afraid to get their hands bloody. They were much different than the usual “treehuggers” who belonged to GAMMA: they knew explosives, sabotage, intimidation, and even darker arts, but they seemed to be genuinely dedicated to the cause and devoted to Zakharov and, therefore, to Jorge Ruiz and GAMMA. They also brought extremely useful, incredibly detailed, first-class, near-real-time intelligence information. Many were Russian, but men and women of action from all over the world followed Zakharov. The leadership of GAMMA did not change, which suited the membership fine. Jorge Ruiz stayed in control and was forever the spiritual and inspirational leader, but Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov quickly became second in command and the man in charge of direct action operations.
There appeared to be a great deal of excitement and energy on the ground as the helicopter set down in their encampment, a remote clearing in the forest about sixty kilometers from Cascavel. The men and women were busy breaking down the camp and packing up, ready to scatter and head to their temporary base, but something else was definitely stirring—Ruiz could feel it, even before they touched down. He looked at his trusted friend Manuel Pereira with concern. “I like seeing our people happy after a successful mission, Manuel,” he said on the interphone, “but this is rather unusual.” Zakharov glanced at him and smiled but said nothing and continued idly checking his rifle.
“They could not have heard about Cascavel, Jorge,” Pereira said. “We are under strict comm security. Something else has happened.”
“I could use some good news,” Ruiz said cheerfully. Pereira glanced at Zakharov; he nodded but offered nothing else.
They were being congratulated and thumped on the back and shoulders from the moment the chopper touched ground. Ruiz wanted to ask what had them so excited, but a stern glare from Zakharov scattered the crowd. “I want the camp ready to roll in ten minutes—that’s how long it will take for the first PME helicopters to arrive if they successfully tracked us,” he told his aide in Russian. A tall, powerful, steel-blue-eyed former Russian army captain by the name of Pavel Khalimov, he barked an order in Portuguese.
Zakharov led them to his tent, which was always the last to be taken down and the first to be set up in a new forward operating location. He poured a shot of chilled vodka for each of them—despite their austere living conditions when in the field, Zakharov always had chilled vodka—offered them a slice of salted cucumber already prepared beside the bottle, then raised his glass. “Za vashe zdarov’ye!” he said, and downed the vodka in one gulp, chasing it with the cucumber. “Another successful mission. Well done!” Ruiz did the same.
Pereira took a tiny sip, nibbled at the cucumber, then took a big drink from his canteen. “Something has happened,” he said, looking at Zakharov carefully. “The men are jubilant like I have never seen them before. A few are scared.”
“Yes, something has happened,” Zakharov said casually. He cast an amused glance at the Brazilian ex-soldier. “But would it kill you to drink to our success like a man and not a sissy, Sergeant Pereira?”
“And the PME pigs that betrayed us said something about being too close to the dam and never having seen one before,” Pereira went on, ignoring Zakharov’s request. “They weren’t talking about watching a few satchels of Semtex go off.”
“Who cares what those traitors were saying, Manuel?” Ruiz asked curiously. He hated to see any discord between his senior officers, but he wondered what in hell Pereira was trying to get at. Zakharov didn’t look perturbed or worried—but then again, he never did. “They were getting ready to arrest us and turn us over to TransGlobal’s storm troopers—they were just blathering.”
“Were they, Zakharov?” Pereira asked. “Or were they talking about something else?”
Zakharov hesitated, adopting a faraway expression as he poured himself another shot of vodka. Now Ruiz was getting very concerned. “Yegor…?”
“Harold Kingman has been very seriously hurt today, tavarisch,” Zakharov said, a satisfied smile on his face. “We have won a major victory and advanced our cause tremendously.”
“What are you talking about, Yegor?” Ruiz asked.
“It means, Jorge, that he went ahead and did what he said he could do—he attacked a TransGlobal plant in the United States itself,” Pereira said ominously, carefully watching Zakharov for any sign of evasion or contradiction. “He has been telling our soldiers that he could attack Kingman on his own soil, in his own backyard, with weapons of mass destruction—apparently now he has done so.”
Ruiz looked first at Pereira, then at Zakharov. “Is this true, Yegor?”
“What I have done is take the fight to the enemy,” Zakharov said easily. “I showed that Kingman and his lackeys in Washington are not immune to attack in their own land.”
“You mean…you attacked a TransGlobal facility in the United States…?”
“You did not expect us to just keep on attacking facilities in South America, did you, Jorge?” Zakharov asked with mock surprise. “Harold Kingman cares nothing for the people of other nations, least of all in South America. You are just sources of cheap labor and land to him. If you want to get the attention of men like him, you need to hit him where he’ll really feel it and where more people will be able to witness his defeat—and there is no better place to hit a man than right where he lives.”
Ruiz was stunned. He knew of course that he would one day have to take his fight to his beloved America—he fully expected to die there, either in a gunfight with American police officers or killed while in prison by one of TransGlobal’s hired assassins, perhaps a prison guard or another inmate. And Yegor Zakharov had always said that he was going to get Kingman where he lived—Ruiz always believed he was just bragging, although he also knew that if anyone could do it, Zakharov could. But attacking Kingman in the United States was something Ruiz only prayed he’d live long enough to do.
“Well,” he said a bit hesitantly, “I think congratulations are in order.” He raised his shot glass, and Zakharov refilled it. “Za vashe zdarov’ye.”
“Spasibo,” Zakharov responded, draining then refilling his glass. Without looking, he said to Pereira, “You still won’t drink with us, Sergeant?”
“I would like a debriefing on the attack in the United States, Zakharov,” Pereira said.
“And I would like you to show a little more respect, Sergeant…”
“I am not a sergeant any longer, Zakharov, and from what you have told us, you are no longer a Russian colonel, either,” Pereira said acidly. “So shall we stop with the military lingo?”
“Very well, Pereira,” Zakharov said. “But I don’t appreciate this treatment I’m getting from you. I’m sorry about those PME turn-coats, but there was nothing I could do about them—once a traitor, always a traitor. I came to cover your withdrawal, and I’m damned glad I was there when they pulled guns on you.”
“So are we,” Ruiz interjected, trying to defuse this suddenly tense situation.
“I am not talking about Cascavel, Zakharov,” Pereira said, “although I have many questions about that incident as well…”
“Oh, really? Such as?”
“Such as how you happened to be there at the exact moment those soldiers tried to capture us.”
“I was covering your withdrawal, Manuel, I told you,” Zakharov said. “We back each other up on every mission…”
“You weren’t planned to be at Cascavel.”
“What difference does it make, Manuel—he rescued us, we’re still alive, and that’s it,” Ruiz said, more forcefully this time. “If he was working with the PME, why would he have killed all three of them? Why would he even have risked his life to go to Cascavel?”
Pereira fell silent. Zakharov smiled broadly. “Two good questions, eh, Manuel?” he asked. “I could have m
ade a deal with those PME soldiers and split the reward money with them. There is a reward of one million reals for you two, you know—dead or alive. Does that not deserve even a little ‘thank you,’ Pereira?”
“Thank you, sir,” he said quickly. “Now, about the attack in the United States…?”
Ruiz shook his head and started to speak, but Zakharov raised a hand to him. “It’s all right, Jorge. Manuel is a volunteer, a good fighter, a dedicated member of our cause, and a senior member of the GAMMA leadership—he has earned the right to ask questions.” Zakharov put down the vodka and took a seat. “I had been planning an attack in the United States for many months. I assembled a corps of loyal soldiers, helped procure disguises, vehicles, materials, and false documents, and executed the plan when I determined that the conditions were most favorable. It appears that the operation was successful.”
“Which was?”
“The destruction of TransGlobal’s oil and natural gas transshipment facility and oil refinery in Houston, Texas.”
“ ‘Destruction?’ ” Ruiz asked. “Are you saying you destroyed the facility? You destroyed an oil refinery?”
“How did you do this?” Pereira asked immediately. “That would require tens of thousands of kilos of high explosives, with dozens of trained men to plant them over a long period of time. And Kingman City is one of TransGlobal’s largest and most secure facilities in the United States—approaching that plant with the manpower it would have taken would be almost impossible…unless…” And at that, Manuel Pereira stopped and looked aghast at Zakharov. The Russian’s expression told him that his guess was true. “Nao…nao…impossivel…inacreditavel…”
“What is it, Manuel?” Ruiz asked. “What are you saying? Why does it matter how Yegor pulled it off? It is a great victory for our cause! A major refinery and shipment facility right in the United States—striking at the heart of the global multinational corporation’s organization has always been our biggest objective. He has…”
“Do you not see what Zakharov has done, sir?” Pereira asked incredulously. “He has ensured that the wrath of the entire American law-enforcement machine and probably their military as well will rain down on us!”
“I’m not afraid of them, Manuel,” Ruiz said confidently, although casting a puzzled glance between his two closest comrades. “The more they fight, the more attention will be drawn to our cause. They will know that…”
“You do not understand, Jorge,” Pereira said in a low, fearful voice. “Zakharov used some sort of a weapon of mass destruction in Kingman City.” He stared accusingly at Zakharov. “What was it? A firebomb? A tanker truck loaded with explosives? A…?” He saw Zakharov’s eyes glitter, and his eyes widened in shock. “Nao…you used a nuclear weapon?”
“Is…is this true, Yegor?” Ruiz asked, after turning a stunned expression toward the Russian.
“You are being a bit overdramatic, aren’t you, Manuel?” Zakharov asked with a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Overdramatic? You destroy an American petroleum complex with a nuclear weapon, and you accuse me of being ‘overdramatic’?”
“We have discussed this many, many times in the past,” Zakharov said, his voice becoming a bit edgier. He poured himself another shot of vodka. “We explored the use of weapons of mass destruction—weapons developed and produced by the very companies we are seeking to hold accountable!—in our attacks. I told you I might be able to get one or more of these weapons and that I would do so, at my own expense, if the opportunity presented itself and if it was operationally safe to do so. I believe the reason you accepted my offer to assist you in your struggle was precisely because I know how to procure and use such devices.”
“We never spoke about using one in the United States of America…!”
“We most certainly did, Manuel, and precisely for the reasons you just outlined—it would be impossible to attack any facilities in the United States and do any significant damage without high-yield weapons of mass destruction,” Zakharov argued. “Now, whether you actually did not believe that we would ever accomplish such an attack is your failing, not mine. Do not punish me because I took the initiative, based on our discussions and goals. The cause is just, the reasons adequate, the opportunity clear, and the losses and consequences acceptable; so, I acted. That is what a good soldier does. Is that not correct, Sergeant?”
“Stop calling me that, Zakharov!” Pereira snapped. “And stop trying to include me in this insane scheme of yours! I had nothing to do with it.”
“Wait, Manuel, just wait a minute!” Ruiz interjected. His head was still swirling in confusion. “We have got to think about this. We need to…”
“Comrades, the deed is done, the enemy engaged,” Zakharov said casually. “You wanted the fight taken to the doorstep of the enemy—I have seen to it. In the end, the method doesn’t matter one bit. Yes, the Americans and perhaps the world will shriek and hide with horror and call us monsters, but it will also call attention to our cause.” Pereira remained defiant, angrily staring at Zakharov; Ruiz still looked confused and frightened. “Is this not what you wanted, Jorge? Do you want to strike out at the company that murdered your wife and children, or not?”
“Zakharov, do not…”
“Yes…yes, I do,” Ruiz said weakly. “I have dedicated my life to seeing that corporate murderers like Kingman and TransGlobal Energy are destroyed. But to use a nuclear weapon…my God, I never believed it would ever happen. The devastation must be horrible, absolutely horrible…”
“Trust me, Jorge, the devastation is the same with a high-explosive device as with a small nuclear device,” Zakharov assured him with a fatherly pat on the shoulder that Pereira thought completely emotionless and insincere. “Look at the effects of American firebombing campaigns in Germany and Japan and their napalm attacks in Southeast Asia: millions killed or maimed by nothing but gasoline and incendiary devices. A cluster bomb the size of a baseball, or a bullet the size of a pea, kills just as surely and just as gruesomely as a nuclear device. Are we going to cease our campaign and surrender because we happen to use a weapon that creates ‘more bang for the buck’? I think not.” He looked at Pereira and added smugly, “Or maybe I am wrong, Manuel? Do you think I was wrong?”
“All of our attacks have always been discussed, planned, and coordinated in advance,” Pereira said. He had to grudgingly admit that Zakharov was making a good point here: what exactly was the difference? Dead is dead, no matter how it happens. But it infuriated him to see Zakharov’s smug expression as the Russian realized that Pereira was weakening. Zakharov was just too clever and too…efficient was the only word. Pereira went on. “We prepare leaflets and broadcasts to warn innocent civilians to leave the area; we try to minimize the impact of our attacks to the environment and the land. We are not murderers, Zakharov—at least we were not until today! We are supposed to be defenders of the oppressed, not slayers of them!”
“Come down from your heavenly perch in the clouds and join the real world, Manuel,” Zakharov said. “All of our attacks have killed innocent persons—the only way not to do so would be to expose members of our group to capture. But I will have you know that the brave patriot who executed the operation in Texas did send a warning message to a local radio station and did in fact try to warn men and women around the TransGlobal facility away—he even tried to warn a TransGlobal security officer of the attack.”
“How in hell do you know that, Zakharov?”
“I kept in constant communication with our man and monitored his movements at all times,” Zakharov responded. “After all, he was carrying a very valuable weapon, one not easy to replace, and I wanted to make sure he carried out his assignment exactly as planned. He did a superb job. He had befriended several security personnel at the facility and got to know them personally, so before he set off his device he tried to warn them to get away from the area. They did not, of course—Harold Kingman would have had the man skinned and boiled alive if he had left his post an
d survived when others left behind perished. Our man was under orders not to try to give such a warning if he felt it would jeopardize the mission, but I left it up to him. He both issued a warning and accomplished his mission. As for the taped radio message, I do not know. He was supposed to have delivered it the same day as the attack, but it was a weekend and perhaps the lazy Americans didn’t bother to open it.”
“All right, all right, everyone relaxe,” Ruiz said. He was obviously relieved that his two comrades were starting to find a middle ground here, which allowed Ruiz to focus on the ramifications of this very unexpected, horrifying news. “There’s nothing we can do right now. We’re all tired, and we need to rest and think.” Zakharov didn’t look tired in the least, and his rather exasperated expression confirmed it, but he said nothing. “I suggest we all go to safe houses as planned while our camp is broken down and moved, then meet in a few days’ time after we get a chance to assess the American reaction to the attack and decide how it will affect our future operations.”
“Let’s make it one day,” Zakharov said. “We need to best decide on how to capitalize on this successful event.”
“Let’s make it a month,” Pereira spat. “You think you can just march into another American city now, after an attack with nuclear weapons? Every soldier and law-enforcement officer in the country will be out looking for us. The Brazilian government will hand us over or kill us just to show they’re cooperating with the United States.”
“Everyone will be running scared,” Zakharov said confidently. “Yes, law enforcement will be mobilized—they’ll scoop up all the usual suspects, make a few hundred arrests, and declare victory. After a short time, things will return to normal, except more Americans will stay in their homes, watch the world from the comfort of their television sets, and fret over the losses in their investment portfolios.”
“Easy for you to say,” Pereira said. “Anyone with colored skin will be considered a suspect.”