Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (60 page)

Well, they're little girls, Joshua thought. Even so, they mostly make up in gentleness what they lack in physical strength. And their teamwork and coordination are good. Might be a wash. At least on the flat deck of a ship.

The last of the seated men was the hardest. He screamed when they tried to pull him out. At that, the sergeant major went over to help. He was tall enough to get his hands under the wounded trooper's armpits, and strong enough to simply lift. The man still screamed, but this time the screaming was worthwhile.

One of the Romanian girls smiled something at him that Joshua hadn't seen in a very long time. He felt like the smile knocked twenty years of his age. Twenty? Hah! Forty!"

Then the girls were racing off, getting their charges to OR as quickly as anybody could expect. After a brief glance at the twitching posterior of the girl who'd smiled at him, the sergeant major looked up at the windows fronting the bridge. He could see Stauer's outline there and was pretty sure Stauer was watching him. Joshua pointed at himself, then at the plane. The figure in the window nodded. The sergeant major then jumped into the plane and began strapping himself in. In seconds, the CH-801 was roaring down the strip, heading out to pick up another load of the lamed and maimed.

D-Day, Bandar Qassim, Ophir

Gutaale, still on the roof of his main residence, stood alone, still staring at the flames to the east. The scope, the scale, and the sheer ferocity of the attack had him about convinced that he had not only come under the baleful gaze of the United States, but that, for some inexplicable reason, they'd decided the gloves were off.

Would they do this simply over the kidnapping of someone not even of their nation from their territory? That's hard to believe. But who else could do this kind of damage? My new air force; destroyed. My new armored force, bought so dearly from the Yemeni, Yusuf? Off of the air and probably destroyed. My palace by Nugaal; raided and burned, so the rumors say, and everyone in it killed. My personal guard ravaged just west of here.

No word from my parents in Rako and no way to get word to them or from them. My brother under siege in Bandar Cisman and, while him I can communicate with, his message is one of despair.

It's such an overreaction to a mere kidnapping that I just can't believe the Americans are behind it. But who else could be? Certainly no one here is capable of such monstrous mayhem.

One of the underlings of before came in bearing a radio transceiver.

"Chief," he said, "there are some problems at sea."

D-Day, MV
Merciful

The two Hips carrying Terry Welch's much expanded party staggered in under an awful load. They touched down, and heavily, on the PSP flight deck. One landed about fifty meters shy of the bow and the other a similar distance from the superstructure. Cruz and the other pilot didn't even try to line them up with the ship before touching down. Rather, they waiting only until they were centered, albeit crosswise, and then set them down as quickly as practical, causing the things to bounce on their landing gear even more than usual. The blades nearly touched the deck, so heavy was the landing.

The wide-eyed, standing, swaying, utterly terrified cargo didn't try to move inside the bouncing behemoths until they were ordered out. As they left, via the side troop doors, one of Terry's people was there to physically push their heads down out of the way of the rotors. Others were standing by to lead the lines toward the superstructure and then down into the mess deck, where they could be sorted before being billeted. Feeding would probably have to wait, though at least some water could be issued.

Welch had been first off. He walked to a point between the choppers and watched the people unload, then follow their guides sternward. One tall woman from one of the groups burst free of the line and ran to stand before him. It was Ayanna, the ex-slave.

"My . . . English," she began, "not . . . good. I try . . . tell. For freedom . . . anything."

Then she threw herself into a highly embarrassed Terry's arms, and kissed him on the cheek, just in case he didn't understand.

And I will not take advantage of that, he told himself, as she swayed away to rejoin the line. He sighed, Although she's awfully pretty and I wouldn't mind a date . . . or something like that. Haven't had so much chance to date . . . for quite a while now, come to think of it.

Welch forced the image of the girl-all three images, including the imaginary one, the one by firelight . . . without clothing-out of his mind and watched out for the accountant. As soon as he saw Mr. Dayid emerge from the Hip he walked briskly over and said, "Sir, you have a date with our lawyer."

Little by little, as portions of the force began filtering back to the ship or, at least, reporting that the hard parts were done, the almost unbearable stress and anxiety Stauer had been under began to lift. For this, he thanked both God and good subordinates. The news about Buckwheat Fulton was hard to take, but, Mourn later.

Still no word from Phillie, but the last word from Reilly was that she was doing fine and, "You know, boss, you oughta think about marrying that girl."

Which is pretty much a done deal. Note to self: One of these days, think about what changed you, or her, or the both of you, to finally make getting married seem like a good idea.

See Bridges about a prenuptual agreement? Nah. That's bullshit. If you're not sure about the person you're marrying, you shouldn't get married.

And I've come to be pretty sure about my Miss Potter.

Happily whistling the riff from "Lawyers, Guns, and Money," Bridges was already waiting by a two-station battery of computers, in a semi-lighted container on the deck just forward of the mess deck. He smiled and rubbed his hands together as soon as Terry brought Mr. Dayid in. Lox was there, as well, in case it proved necessary to bypass some IT security system or other.

"Sir," Bridges said, "it's a pleasure to meet you. Now, assuming Terry has explained . . . "

"One percent of everything I recover to me and mine, the rest to you," Dayid said. "I am amenable."

"I see that he has explained," Bridges said, smiling. "Very good. Now if you will have a seat and direct me to our first target . . . "

"We should do this by size and liquidity and work our way down," Dayid said. "If you agree, the largest single liquid account is with Hottinger's, in Nassau." As Bridges began to pull up the already bookmarked website for the bank, Dayid added, "The account number is ABZ305697. The password is 30127. And since you have another computer, I can begin working on other assets of the less liquid sort . . . "

Dayid stopped for a moment, then said, "I feel bad, you know, screwing my chief like this and leaving him vulnerable to the ravages of Khalid who is, I assure you, no saint either."

Bridges shrugged. "Don't worry about that overmuch. Khalid stiffed us in minor ways on the contract. He thinks he owns some assets that he is going to discover he doesn't."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Kill one; terrify a thousand.

-Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"

D-Day, Yemen

As the heaviest, Kravchenko tossed himself shoulder-first against the door, then fell to the floor, weapon aimed out, as the twin leaves burst open. Konstantin and Musin followed the slammed-open door, weapons to shoulders. Inside they found a large room, lavishly rugged and cushioned, with walls gilded in geometric shapes. Fully half a dozen doors opened onto the room, though all of them were closed. Whatever the layout of the place, it must have been well insulated as the sound of firing from outside almost completely disappeared once they were past the door.

Lada followed close behind, stepping over Kravchenko, pointing and shouting, "The bastard sleeps in there."

Following the woman's direction, the major and Musin ran to a closed door. Musin kicked it open while the major rushed in, aiming his submachine gun at Yusuf's head and saying, calm as you please, "Any excuse is a good one."

Musin followed Konstantin in, slinging his submachine gun, jumping on the bed, and rolling both of the girls flanking the Yemeni off the bed with his booted foot. He bent and flipped Yusuf onto his more than ample belly, then dropped down and pinned the man's hands behind him. Konstantin produced some sticky tape he'd gotten from the Americans on the ship and began to wrap Yusuf's hands together. Without a word, Lada went for a laptop lying on a marble table against one wall.

Meanwhile, Litvinov reported via short range radio, "Comrade Major, Galkin's down; dead I think. I'm pinned except that I can probably go over the wall. How far I'll get before they mount the wall and put one in my back I wouldn't bet on."

"Shit!" the major exclaimed, even as he continued wrapping Yusuf's hands. Maybe Galkin was queer and maybe he wasn't. But by God he was our queer and the fuckers are going to pay for that.

From the open central bay, Kravchenko called, "Comrade Major, I have the wog's three sons in tow."

"Shoot them," Konstantin ordered. Immediately, the apartment was filled with a chorus of approximately post-pubescent male voices, screaming, and a cacophony of wailing female ones. "The old man wants this bastard punished." Yusuf began to scream before Musin cuffed and punched him into silence. Of Litvinov, the major asked, "What the fuck happened, Lit?"

"Based on where the guards' bodies are, Comrade Major, I think Galkin saw someone coming for his position. He never said a word, just opened fire. They must have seen him at about the same time-before they went down, anyway-because some of them got a few shots off, too. Right now, as I said, I'm pinned on the parapet."

"Praporschik Baluyev?" Konstantin called.

"Here, Comrade Major. Situation is nominal. I am in good position to cover Litvinov if he can run for it."

Konstantin switched radios. "Falcons?" he called.

"Here, Major," the senior of the helicopter pilots answered.

"Things have gotten complicated," Konstantin said. "A ‘quiet' withdrawal is no longer an option. Come get us. I'll fill you in on the situation on the way."

"Roger. Ten minutes," the pilot answered. However surly a bastard he may have been before, once action had begun his voice and tone went entirely businesslike.

"So long?"

"Have to get the birds started and warmed up," the pilot said. "Remember, we didn't have, couldn't carry, enough fuel to both keep them running and make our rendezvous . . . not and carry all your equipment, all of you, and a minimum of our own ordnance."

"Understood. Please hurry."

"Wilco, Major."

"I've locked the women and very small children in one of the apartments-it actually looked more like a dungeon-Comrade Major," Kravchenko said, entering the room.

Lada followed. "It was a dungeon," she said. "Yusuf's sexual preferences were a bit . . . odd." She didn't elaborate.

Konstantin ignored the detail. In matters sexual he was very pedestrian, so much so that he really didn't like to even think about some of the strange turns human sexuality took. Besides, I've got more important shit on my mind.

He took his own pistol from a shoulder harness and started to toss it to Lada. He thought better of this, put the pistol away, then took Kravchenko's submachine gun and handed her that. "Can you use this?" he asked.

She examined it for all of a half second and answered, "Of course." She dropped the magazine with one hand, then jerked the bolt back and locked it to the rear. She lifted the weapon to inspect the chamber before replacing the magazine and releasing the bolt.

"Very good. Krav, put the wog on your shoulder. Sergeant Musin, lead."

"Where to, Comrade Major?" Tim asked.

"The roof. We're not getting out of the compound by ground and the roof's flat enough and big enough for the helicopter to come in."

In order-Musin, Konstantin, Kravchenko, and Lada-they lined up at the main door, better than half closed at the moment.

"Wait, Sergeant Musin," the major said. From a bag he took a grenade, pulled the pin, released the spoon, and bounced it through the slit between the door panels and off the far wall. The grenade flew from that wall to the covered area to the right of the branch corridor. Konstantin shifted position and aim. Another one followed the first, this time bouncing to the left. There was heard another twin chorus of frightened shouts and screams before first one, then the other, exploded.

Hot on the heels of the blasts, Musin pushed the door the rest of the way open and bounded forward. As he reached the end of the branch corridor he turned left and fired several bursts into the men, mostly laying and bleeding, though two were standing, swaying and stunned, in the long corridor to the left. Konstantin did the same, only to the right.

"SERGEANT MUSIN, LEAD!" Konstantin reminded. He had to shout. The grenades he had used, RDG-5s, had an unusually large explosive filler, nearly a quarter pound. But for the half closed door the blast would have deafened them all. As it was, except for those protected by earpieces, their eardrums throbbed while everything heard through them seemed to come from a great distance. Lacking a radio, and with one hand on the submachine gun and the other on Yusuf's laptop, both of Lada's ears hurt terribly.

"YES, SIR!"

People, more than a few, quartered in the rooms along the corridor, opened their doors. These were cut down instantly and without compunction. Most were men but two overly curious women died, too. Konstantin said a small prayer of thanks that no children had stuck their heads out. It was the kind of circumstance that really didn't permit a lot of time for close judgment calls.

At the door out which they'd come earlier, Musin stopped. "I CAN'T HEAR IF THERE'S ANYONE ON THE OTHER SIDE."

The major pushed him out of the way, then emptied a magazine through the door. He threw his own shoulder against it-I am too fucking old for this!-until it flew open. He briefly took out the earpiece and listened with his good ear. Yes, there was a commotion below. He replaced the earpiece and shouted, "GRENADE!" at Musin, pointing downward to indicate the direction.

While the major dropped and changed magazines, Musin nodded and pulled a single RGD-5 from his own bag. Arming it, he let it drop straight down the opening between the flights of steps. They didn't hear it hit bottom but they did hear and feel the blast. More screams followed that, one of which went on and on.