Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “But... but what about the possibility of something going wrong?” Goff asked. “Are you going to just authorize such a dangerous mission without considering all the dangers and ramifications first?”

  “If we had the time, I would. But I presume we don’t have the time to waste. ISA and HAWC are good choices. Get them moving.”

  Goff, still stunned, could do nothing else but nod. The ident nodded and got back to work on his computer. Go headed for the door; then he stopped and said, “This could a very big disaster, Mr. President. Are you sure you don’t want to think about it some more?”

  Without looking up from his work, the President asked, “You haven't been keeping up with your meditation, have you, Bob?”

  Goff shook his head and chuckled. It was Thom's ass on the line, he knew it and he didn’t seem too perturbed by it. “I’ll get the mission moving immediately, sir.”

  FOUR

  Near Zhukovsky Air Base, Russian Federation

  Two evenings later

  “Nasrat f karmun!" one of the hoboes exclaimed as the tranger emerged from the shadows. “Well, well, what do we lave here?”

  The five hoboes under the bridge slowly rose to their feet as he woman in the jogging suit approached their tiny campfire. Dutside, the freezing rain had started again, driven by gradu- illy increasing winds; it would begin snowing soon, and this ;ime they were in for measurable accumulations.

  Even in the dim light the hoboes could tell she was shivering uncontrollably. She may have once looked pretty, but her features were now pale and haggard. Her jogging suit, an expensive imported one, was filthy and encrusted with frozen mud and leaves. “Who might you be, sika?”

  “Pamageetye... pamageetye rtinye pazahalsta. I... I need help, please,” the woman stammered through chattering, blistered lips. “Please ... please help me.”

  “A pretty young thing like you?” the biggest hobo, obviously the leader of the group, responded. “Of course, of course. Anything you want.” He stroked a thick, scraggly beard and licked his lips. “But it’ll cost you. Don’t worry, though. It’ll help you warm up.”

  Linda Mae Valentrovna Maslyukov brought her right hand up, the one holding the police pistol. “Don’t move, asshole,” she said weakly. The hoboes tensed, staring at the gun in total surprise. “All I want is a blanket and some food. We don’t want any police attention.” Two days in the freezing cold, w ith no shelter and no warm clothing, had finally taken its toll. She reasoned—probably correctly—that she was better off trying to get help from these hoboes under the bridge than risk being seen at the tavern. It was either die of hypothermia or risk being caught. ‘ Just give me some food and I’ll—”

  The piece of driftwood came out of nowhere, landing squarely on the back of her head. Already half-conscious from exposure. Maslyukov collapsed in a heap.

  “You huyisos!" the big hobo shouted angrily at the hobo who had been hiding in the shadows and had clubbed Linda from behind. “What did you knock her out for? I’m not going to fuck an unconscious bitch!”

  “Well, then I will!” one of the other hoboes chimed in eagerly.

  “Uyobyva:! Get the fuck out! I get first taste!" the big one said. “You get over to the highway and flag down a cop. This has got to be the bitch the police have been looking for. Maybe we'll get a reward for finding her. Take your time.” He bent dow n, pocketed the pistol, then unzipped the woman's jogging suit jacket and fondled her breasts. “And someone get me some water and some vodka. Let's see if we can wake sleeping beauty up and have ourselves a party before the police get here.”

  “It's her, all right,” the police officer said, holding the photograph up to the face. Even though her face was white w'ith cold, streaked w ith frozen dirt, blood, and mucus, and the hair tangled and twisted, she was recognizable. The officer un, zipped the top of her jogging suit, checked her carotid for signs of a pulse. “She’s still alive. Barely.” He then roughly fondled her breasts. “Wow. Nice big American breasts.”

  “Knock it off, pizdasos," the first officer’s partner said. “Is the only way you can cop a feel with a woman is to find one half frozen to death?” He shined his flashlight over her body, noting the tom pants pulled halfway down her buttocks and the palm prints across her breasts. “Besides, you want any of that after these gavnos pawed her? If she doesn't die of the cold or of any diseases from these animals, she’ll die of shame once he finds out who touched her.”

  They were at the edge of the river, several meters upstream rom the bridge abutment where the hoboes lived. They had ound the woman facedown in three inches of snow. The first jfficer shined his flashlight under the river overpass and saw i few faces. “Disgusting pigs. How in hell could you give those inimals any money?”

  “Shto ty priyibalsa ku mn'e? We’ve been working double shifts for two days trying to find this kurvathe second officer said. “If they hadn’t come forward, we’d still be working to find her, and you know we're not going to get paid any overtime. A few rubles is cheap goodwill for handing her over to us alive. If they killed her. I’d make sure they all got their balls handed to them. Now stop copping a feel and call it in. The faster you leave her tits alone and have the MSB collect her, the faster we can go get a drink,” While the first officer pulled out his portable radio to call in their discovery, the second officer searched the woman, then covered her with his coat to keep her from dying of exposure.

  “Ambulance and an Interior Ministry unit are on the way,” the first officer reported. “ETA twenty minutes.”

  “Christ, she might be dead by then,” the second officer said. “We better take her to the hospital at Zhukovsky.” The two police officers picked her up and had carried her several dozen meters through the brush and rocky riverbank toward their car parked just off the bridge, when they heard the heavy rotor sounds of an approaching helicopter. “Well, they got here fast. We’ll stay put.”

  “Sounds like a heavy chopper—must be army,” the first officer said. The helicopter flew out of sight, but they could hear it hover, then land nearby. It did not use any lights for landing—a very remarkable feat, considering the poor weather. A few minutes later, they heard a rustling of branches, but could see no one. “Where in hell are they? What’s taking them so long?”

  “I’ll go and—” But just then, their flashlights spotted a figure dressed in what looked like a bulky flight suit or battle- dress uniform, wearing what looked like a flying helmet. “That looks like the pilot. Where’s his crew? Or is he by himself?” He raised his voice and shouted, “Vi zhdyotye kavoneebood? Are you waiting for someone? Get over here!"

  Suddenly, they heard a voice say directly behind them in terrible, electronically synthesized Russian, “Ya plokha gavciryoo parooskee, tovarisch. I don’t speak much Russian, comrade. Neither does my friend over there.” They turned and saw a figure dressed in a dull-gray bodysuit wearing some sort of space-age full-face helmet with bug-eyed electronic sensors.

  "Who in hell are you?" the first police officer shouted in Russian.

  As if in reply, there was a flash of blue-white light, and bolts of lightning shot out from small electrodes on the figure’s shoulders. The first police officer screamed, stiffened as if he had touched a high-tension wire, and fell flat on his face in the snow, twitching as if every nerve ending in his body was firing uncontrollably.

  “Yop tvayu mat!" The second police officer swung his body, flinging his submachine gun hanging on its shoulder strap from behind his back around into his hands, and he fired a three-round burst from his hip from a distance of no more than fifteen feet. At that range, he couldn’t miss ... but to his amazement, the stranger didn't go down, only staggered back a few steps. “Ya nee paneemayoo ... ?”

  “Spakoyniy nochyee, dude,” the stranger said, and he hit the second officer with another bolt of energy. Sparks of electricity leapt from the officer’s body to the gun until the officer finally fell unconscious to the ground.

  The stranger quickly bent down to
examine Linda Maslyukov. “It’s her, Chris,” he told his partner via short-range datalink. He hefted the woman over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “I’ll take her. You cover us. Make sure our grimy friends behind us don’t try to get too brave.”

  “Roger. Follow me,” the second stranger responded, and he headed out back toward where the helicopter had landed.

  But they had not gone too far when they heard the sound of several sirens approaching fast. “Well, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into this time, Ollie,” the strangely costumed figure carrying Maslyukov said in an electronically synthesized voice. His helmet-mounted electronic displays showed a two-dimensional depiction of the vehicles, including their speed, direction of travel, and an electronic guess of the vehicle type, based on the strength of the millimeter-wave radar return. “Aces, I’ve got a couple visitors at my three o’clock, three hundred and twenty yards, two inbounds. One armored vehicle, maybe a BTR,”

  “Copy, Tin Man,” a voice belonging to Duane Deverill, mission commander of an EB-IC Vampire bomber Hying nearby, responded. Seconds later, there was a tremendous explosion, and the armored personnel carrier disappeared in a ball of fire.

  “Good shooting. Aces,” Briggs said. “C’mon, Sarge, let’s move.”

  “For Pete’s sake, sir,” the strange figure’s partner responded in his microphone with an exasperated voice. The big commando, his face a death’s mask in black and green camouflage makeup beneath his multifunction combat helmet, turned toward his partner, his mouth curled in a sneer. The U.S. Marine Corps veteran looked like some sort of monster beetle—along with the oddly shaped helmet with large electronic “eyes,” the commando wore a battle-dress uniform composed of thin ceramic armor plates, a web harness with several devices and pouches attached to it, and a utility belt with as many computer modules and sensors attached to it as weapons. “It’s Stan, not Ollie. Oliver Hardy would say that to Stan Laurel. And it’s not fine mess, it’s nice mess. ‘Here is another nice mess you’ve gotten me into, Stan.' You keep on mixing them up like that, sir, and I’ll have to waste you.”

  U.S. Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, the man carrying Linda Mae Maslyukov, shrugged his shoulders, which only accentuated his very unsoldierlike appearance. While his partner. Marine Corps Master Sergeant Chris Wohl, looked unusual in his insectlike exoskeleton, his commanding officer looked even stranger. Hal Briggs wore a sleek, dark gray body suit resembling a scuba diver’s wet suit, with only a thin backpack, bullet-shaped shoulder-mounted devices, and a utility belt with several small modules attached. His helmet, too, had large bug-eyed electronic sensors, but it was a full-face helmet that completely sealed the outfit. He wore all-terrain boots with thick soles and strange extensions on the backs of his calves.

  “Stan. Ollie, Sergeant Chris Wohl—they’re all just a bunch of old farts to me,” Briggs quipped. He ignored Wohl’s dark scowl. Through his electronic visor, he could see the exfiltration helicopter in the distance. “Follow me.’’ Staying close to whatever cover he could find, but not really bothering to use proper cover techniques, Hal Briggs dashed off in the direction indicated on his visor's navigation display. Wohl followed closely behind, taking a bit more care to keep himself concealed but not wanting to lag behind.

  Air Force Major John “Trash Man” Weston swore he could feel the heat from the exploding Russian armored personnel carrier through the cockpit of his MV-22 Pave Hammer special operations transport, even though he was a couple miles away from where the vehicle suddenly exploded, at night, in the dead of an eastern European winter. “Check in, Tin Man,” Weston radioed. “Was that explosion yours?”

  “We’re on our way. Hammer,” Briggs radioed back. ‘That was our guardian angel helping out. Our ETA two minutes.” Weston and his six-man crew were part of a team called “Madcap Magician,” a secret cell of the Intelligence Support Agency. The ISA was composed of a series of such cells, unknown to each other, deployed all over the world to assist the CIA in high-value rescues, high-risk attacks, reconnaissance, intelligence-gathering, or other missions considered too “hot” for field operatives and too politically sensitive for the military.

  This was by far the riskiest operation Weston’s crew had ever flown as special ops crews: deploy from the U.S. Special Operations Command detachment based at Batman Air Base in eastern Turkey across the Black Sea and the Republic of Ukraine, refuel at low level with an MC-130P aerial refueling tanker over eastern Ukraine near Char’kov, then fly another five hundred miles across southwestern Russia to the outskirts of Moscow itself.

  But that twelve-hundred-mile trip was only the beginning of Weston’s extraordinary mission. Dodging civilian and military air defense radar coverage around Moscow and Zhukovsky Air Base, Weston and his crew had to search four different contact points around Zhukovsky Air Base, looking for a single agent who was probably in hiding. The MV-22’s infrared scanner was the primary search sensor; if the sensor showed any individuals in the area, Weston would drop off Briggs and Wohl, who would search the area near each contact point for the agent. They had less than an hour loiter time to find her before fuel would run low and they’d be forced to return to the MC-130P Hercules tanker flying in northeastern Ukraine to refuel. They had enough daylight for only two such searches before they’d have to return to Batman Air Base before sunrise.

  Their only advantage: they knew that the agent would be at one of those four contact points.

  The thirty-two year-old aircraft commander, married and father of two, had been briefed on the importance and dangers of this mission, but he had volunteered anyway. As shitty as he felt his job was sometimes, being a spy for the United States government had to be an even shittier job If he had the skills to attempt to save this spy's life, he had an obligation to use them. And with the MV-22E Pave Hammer I special operations transport, he definitely had the gear to do the job. The MV-22E was modified with more powerful engines and stronger wings for low-level flying; an air refueling probe for extended range; rugged landing gear for landing on unimproved surfaces; ultraprecise satellite and inertial navigation systems, night vision, forward-looking infrared scanners, and terrain- and obstacle-avoidance radar for treetop-level flying in any weather, day or night; and threat countermeasures equipment such as radar jammers, radar warning receivers, and decoys to protect the crew from hostile antiaircraft fire.

  Of course, Weston would never ask his family the question about whether or not he should go. His wife was especially accustomed to the bliss of ignorance that surrounded her husband’s job. The ISA deployed year-round to every comer of the globe. The wives and families never knew any details. The cell’s rotation came up, they were gone, and sometime later— days, weeks, months later—they would return. The families watched the news and speculated about whether their husbands or wives were involved in that particular crisis, but they never knew for sure. The only indications that they might have been involved in something horrible were the faraway stares and wandering attention at the dinner table.

  Sometimes, they didn’t come back. Instead of reunions with loved ones, there were condolences, tears, and a flag folded up into a triangle. If they were lucky, they got the body back. Even then, no explanations. Never any explanations.

  Quite unabashedly, Weston believed one other thing: the ISA picked the right guy for the job. John Weston, an ROTC cadet and high school chess champion from Springfield, Illinois, was pretty much a book-loving stay-at-home-with-the- kids ex-farm boy nerd most of the time, but he did have one quality absolutely no one disputed: he could make an MV-22 Pave Hammer transport plane dance.

  Right now, however, he wasn’t sure if all the dancing in the world could get them out of this mess. “How’s it look, Flex?” Weston asked.

  “Like shit, boss,” Master Sergeant Ed “Flex” Fratierie, the senior loadmaster, responded. The big amateur bodybuilder and Air Force special ops veteran was standing in the port-side doorway of the MV-22, strapped to the interior of the fusel
age with a safety harness and wearing night-vision goggles. “I don’t see Tin Man. But I do see more heavy military vehicles coming down the road, ETA about five minutes.”

  “Tin Man, Hammer, we’ve got company,” Weston radioed. “Four minutes out. Better hustle.”

  “Exfils inbound from the southeast and east, crew,” Fratierie radioed on the secure intercom channel, watching Briggs and Wohl through his NVGs. “Identity confirmed.”

  “Security out!” Weston ordered. Fratierie directed his three commandos to deploy around the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt- rotor as guards during the evacuation. “Get ready to—”

  “Heavy weapons fire west!” one loadmaster shouted. “Coming from one of the inbound vehicles. Range four klicks!”

  “Aces will be coming in hot in twenty seconds,” Deverill reported. “Can you catch him, Tin Man?”

  “Roger,” Chris Wohl responded. “I need a range and bearing to the inbound, sir,”

  Hal Briggs stopped, then turned to the west and scanned the area with his helmet-mounted sensors. He pointed away down the highway. “Three point five K meters, Stan,” he radioed. “Fast-moving, big—might be a wheeled APC.”

  “Finally got it right, sir,” Wohl said. He raised a large weapon that resembled a cross between an M60 machine gun and a ray gun, sighted through a large electronic multispectral scope, aimed, and Fired toward the highway. A hypervelocity projectile about the size of a cigar, but traveling five times faster than a bullet, hissed out of the weapon’s muzzle with a sound resembling a loud buzzing cough. There was no recoil— the same electromagnetic impulses that sent the projectile on its way also dampened out the tremendous recoil.