Going Dark (23 page)

Leonid moves in to talk me down. “Shelley, my friend—”

But Abaza has caught up with us, and he takes over. “Shelley!” I hear panic in his voice. He’s almost breathless with it. “
Shelley
, please. I have wanted to kill Issam many times—but I ask you not to. He is harmless, and I need him.”

“Let him go, Shelley,” Leonid says. “It was a misunderstanding. Nothing more.”

The tunnel is crowded now with Abaza’s men and the advantage of surprise we might have had a moment ago is gone—but so is the sense of threat that nearly brought us to a firefight.

I holster my pistol. But I don’t let Issam go, not yet. Instead, I push his farsights up, away from his eyes, giving my overlay a clear look at him—and it finally identifies him. It tags him as Issam Salib, an American citizen, born
in San Jose, Stanford educated, with a doctorate in computer science.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I mouth the words more than speak them, but Issam catches on. He gives a slight shake of his head. It’s not so much denial as a gesture of helplessness or hopelessness—and it makes me wonder how deeply he believes in the radical cause.

I let him go and step back a pace. “What the fuck is he doing here, Maksim? Coming up on me like that in the dark?”

Abaza strolls closer. I watch him warily. He’s holding his Lasher 762 casually, in one hand, and he’s looking at Issam, not me. Still, I move back, putting more distance between us.

“No,” Abaza says, turning to me with a hurt expression. “Come.” He beckons me to follow him deeper into the tunnel. “Come, I will show you why he is here, why we have only a few more hours.”

“You have had news from outside?” Leonid asks him. “Bad news?”

Abaza answers in Russian, but my overlay whispers a helpful translation:
Nothing that will concern our work here.

Only a minute ago, Abaza’s furious rant was echoing down the tunnel. He’s quiet now. His anger is under control, but it’s still there beneath the surface. I feel it. I see it in the tension of his muscles—and FaceValue confirms it. The worst move I could make now is to look like I’m afraid of him. Better to look like a jackboot instead. So I grab Issam again, by the arm this time, and drag him with me as I follow Abaza—who looks back, evaluates the situation, and barks a short laugh. I am a man after his own heart.

I pull Issam closer. “What were you thinking when you saw me?”

“I . . . I thought you were here to kill me.” His voice is breathy, pleading. I’ve done a good job of terrorizing him—and Abaza’s okay with it; he’s enjoying it. Issam is not in a good position here—and maybe that’s something I can use.

“Why would I want to kill you?”

Abaza laughs again. “Because you are a hero of the West, and Issam will strike the next blow against your empire of satellites.”

So our intelligence was mostly right. The missile platform is here, but it’s not Abaza who is the intellectual power behind it. It’s Issam. Does that change the equation?

Logan sticks close behind me as we walk into the dark. It’s his light that lets me see where I’m going. I assume Tran is with him, and Leonid. There are others, but I don’t look. It’s Abaza who worries me.

We reach the next chamber. Abaza pauses beside the green glow of the light switch. “I do not trust you, Shelley,” he says. “I trust no one. Not even our friend, Leonid. But I don’t need to trust you, because you cannot betray me. Soon we move out. You return with Leonid, and tell the world what you saw here, what I did here, how I succeeded when they failed in Sudan and failed in Bolivia.”

Abaza. He likes to play the silent tough guy, but it’s an act. Behind that act, he’s a little kid who wants the world to fear and admire him.

Works for me.

I release Issam, expecting him to flee, but he just stands there, rubbing his arm.

I ask Abaza, “What happened in Sudan? In Bolivia?”

“Betrayal. Failure. But it won’t happen here.”

Colonel Abajian had said allied operations were preparing to hit the known locations of two other missile launchers. My guess is that Northern Sword is the last holdout.

Abaza turns the lights on, revealing what I expect: the BXL21 road-mobile missile launcher—and it’s
huge
. I knew its dimensions, but to be there in front of it, to see it filling the chamber with not even a meter of free space on either side—the sight transfixes me with its gravity, its implied power.

The vehicle is backed in, so I am looking up at the glass windows of the cab, with the cargo bed and its four cradled missiles behind. It takes a fleet of wheels to support the combined weight of the launcher, its stabilizing legs, and the YGH-77s. I count eight fat tires on this side alone. The four missiles rest in separate hydraulic lifts that will raise them to a vertical position for launch. They are over twenty feet long but lithe and narrow. Fins flare above the first-stage booster.

Our only assignment was to locate this facility and confirm the presence of the missile launcher. We have done that. We could depart with that knowledge and call this mission a success, but it’s not truly done until this device is destroyed. Colonel Abajian has promised to do that, but in war, nothing is certain. The least chance could be the difference between success and failure.

I flinch as Abaza puts his hand on my shoulder. “The balance of power is shifting. The BXL21 is not part of our deal, but the stock you are buying will be worth even more because of it. There will be a time of chaos as the world rights itself. You will grow rich.”

I don’t give a fuck about Abaza’s scrapyard collection of military artifacts.

And I don’t want to walk out of here leaving the missile launcher intact. Abaza might need less than an hour to roll the platform outside and set up. Issam might have a hundred targets lined up for him to choose from. There’s a good chance that Colonel Abajian’s cruise missile strike will come too late.

I don’t think the BXL21 would be all that hard to destroy right here, where it sits.

An idea is brewing in my head. What if the rockets can be ignited here, inside the UGF? The warheads they carry are nonexplosive—kinetic weapons designed to destroy their target with mass and momentum alone—but why should that matter? They carry their own oxygen in the propellant mix. If I could ignite all four rockets, surely they would dump enough heat energy to blow this place apart?

Colonel Abajian gave me a free hand to determine how best to serve the goals of this mission. Destroying the BXL21 while ensuring that this UGF could never be occupied again would more than satisfy the mission goals.

Leonid’s manufactured enthusiasm erupts into what has become a suspicious silence. “Maksim!” He pushes past me. “You
are
part of it.” Like he’s so amazed, so impressed. “I wondered. I wondered at the reason you had agreed to sell. I knew it was something big.” He steps around an obstacle on the floor: a mattress with a sleeping bag. Issam must sleep here. An outsider among Abaza’s people.

Leonid begins to circle the vehicle, inspecting it, his eyes round with wonder as he lays down the shit so thickly, I can’t believe Abaza doesn’t shoot him in disgust. “You amaze me, my friend. Your determination, your cleverness, to bring this huge, intricate device here, and no rumor of it anywhere.” He pauses as he reaches the rear of the vehicle. “But Maksim . . . Maksim, my friend, you must know that after this, they will never let you rest. They will hunt you without mercy.”

“It won’t matter,” Abaza snaps. “Not if we cripple them.”

Leonid nods somberly. He passes out of sight behind the vehicle. We all wait in silence, listening to his footsteps as he returns, unseen, on the other side. When he
steps into sight again, he looks at me. “You are making an excellent investment, Shelley, but only if we move quickly.”

“They will not find us,” Abaza says. “Not in time. In a few hours, we will go. Three will stay with Issam to serve God.”

I turn to look at Issam, wondering how a Stanford-educated genius stumbled into shit this deep and sticky. He returns my gaze. FaceValue confirms his quiet panic. He wants out. He wants me to get him out. He knows no one else will. “I’ve kept us hidden from the Red,” he says, turning his farsights over and over in his hands.

“You’ve studied the Red?”

“I needed to get outside its reach. I went too far.”

“You went where God intended,” Abaza tells him. “You will do as God intends.”

“Yes, of course. That’s why we are here.” Issam turns his vulnerable, dark eyes to me. “Do you want me to show you how it works? It’s really cool, I promise. And God-level scary.”

I am being flirted with, enticed on a date. Leonid sees it too and tries to interfere. “We need to finish the inventory.”

“No.” I shift my gaze to Abaza. He has to know I’m recording everything I see—and that means he can’t afford to show me fear or doubt or weakness. So I dare him. “I want to see it. Not often I get to see a gun this big.”

He draws himself up, puts on a stern expression. “This is more than a gun, Shelley. This is God’s will.”

Issam touches my arm. “Come sit in the cab. You won’t believe it. It’s like you own the world up there. You own the skies, anyway.”

“You own nothing,” Abaza says. “The driver is just a driver and it does not matter who sits in the cab, because the missiles are not controlled from there.” He reaches
out, catches Issam behind the neck; pulls him close as a lover, even as Issam shrinks back. “Shelley is a handsome man.”

Issam stares at a spot above Abaza’s shoulder. He makes no answer.

“I know what you are doing. You want to beg him to take you with him—back to America! So go. See what answer he gives you.”

He shoves Issam backward, directly into me. I could step out of the way, but I don’t. Instead, I catch him by his shoulders and hold him close. I’m not sure if Abaza is jealous of Issam or of me, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way gives me what I want: a few minutes in the quiet of the cab, to hear what this desperate American expat has to say.

“Show me, Issam.” I pitch my voice low, like a lover, just so I can see the flush of anger in Abaza’s face. “I won’t have a chance like this again.”

•  •  •  •

I climb up behind him into the cab. He slides into the driver’s seat, his shoulders hunched, chin dropped, a submissive posture. “Close the door.”

I slam it behind me and lean forward to look at the console—a posture that hides my face from the watchers below. I turn to Issam. He is eyeing me with an appeasing smile. It’s an attitude not reflected in his voice as he speaks swiftly, his lips barely moving. “There are no listening devices here.” FaceValue tags it as truth. “You are safe to speak. Did the Red send you here?”

“What do you know of the Red?”

“Enough that I kept this facility secret for seven weeks. Twice as long as the last time I ran a cover. The method works.”

“What method?”

“It’s a system using locally integrated AIs. Complex. It would take more time to explain than we have, but it works. It
can
work, to affect local goals. Did Maksim invite you here?”

I nod. “I thought Maksim would be the one controlling the missile launcher.”

“Maksim? Maksim couldn’t point his finger up his ass without help. He’s an idiot. A vain, psychotic idiot.” Issam gives me a helpless shrug and then mimes pointing out the gauges on the dash. “I thought it was over when I saw you, our security cracked, this site no longer hidden—but I guess he just gave it away.”

“You’re sorry?”

“
No.
It’s just . . . intellectual pride. The only pride I have left. Maksim didn’t lie to you. I’m begging you. Get me the fuck out of here. I will give you all my work. Everything I know.”

“Ten minutes ago, you thought I was here to kill you.”

“What else could I think? I know how the Red operates. If it can’t observe or influence a local system, it sends in a physical manifestation to reformat it.”

“A jackboot to kick in doors.”

“Hey, I’m not criticizing. Look who’s holding my leash. But everyone knows you’re a soldier of the Red. Abaza knows it. He has to, but he’s vain. He wants to share your fame.”

I sit up again and look below. Leonid is talking to Abaza, distracting him. I see Logan out the side window, walking with Luftar around the platform.

“Maksim wants to show the world that he defies the Red. That he doesn’t fear it. But he should fear it. You know it. I know it.”

Down below, Leonid gestures at Damir, who trots
toward the base of the ladder on my side of the cab. Tran intercepts him. Takes over as messenger, while I imitate Issam, speaking quickly, with only a slight movement of my lips. “Why are you here?”

“Because I am a fool! And a coward. They beheaded my friend with a fucking sword! And he was one of them! They decided he’d betrayed the cause. He was a troubled man, but not a bad man. I’m only here because I listened to him, followed him, and now I’m trapped in this circus of murderers. I don’t want to be here, Shelley. I want out. I want you to get me out.”

I hear the thump of Tran’s boot on the first rung of the ladder and speak quickly. “The entry gate is locked. We need Abaza to open it.”

“There is a back way out.”

“You know that? For sure?”

He nods. FaceValue shows no deception.

“You’re able to reprogram the launch, aren’t you?” I ask. “Set it to go off at any time?”

Issam studies me. His focus shifts to the screen of his farsights. Probably scanning the notations of his emotional analysis app. It’s telling him that I want this very much. “Yes. I have full access. No one else understands how to program a launch.”

I slide closer to the door, getting ready to go. “You might have only a minute.”

“Time enough.”

I nod, envisioning incandescent fire. It’s a miracle that I remember to ask him, “Is there anything else here? Any WMD?”

Tran pops into sight outside the window. I give him a thumbs-up.
Coming.

“No. No nukes. No bio. This is just a conventional cache. Can you get me out of here?”

“Maybe, but it’s going to take a new plan. Be ready for anything.”