Deep Black (11 page)

18

The helicopter was a stripped Mi-24W Hind E, in its day one of the most formidable attack helicopters in the world. Unlike
American Cobras, Apaches, or the new Comanche, the Hind had a cargo compartment that could hold at least eight fully armed
men. While vulnerable to even primitive heat-seeking missiles, the helicopter nonetheless had proven itself a fearsome weapon,
most notably during the Russian– Afghanistan War.

This particular model dated from roughly that time period, though it had served with a Polish Army Aviation unit. It had been
stripped by the government for private sale, which meant that when it was sold its nose did not include its nasty chain gun
and the large wing pylons could not operate weapons. It also lacked advanced night navigation equipment and a host of other
gear that would have been considered de rigueur on any of the machines still serving with several eastern armies, including
Russia’s.

A thin coat of gray paint covered its green-shade camouflage; the name Petro-UK, the NSA cover company that owned it, was
stenciled in bright white on the fuselage. Externally, there seemed to be few other improvements from the condition it had
been sold in, but as with anything associated with Desk Three, appearances could be quite deceptive. With some slight adjustments
and the removal of two thin screws, the hard points could host a wide variety of missiles and rockets. The choice was in fact
greater than what was available to the helicopter’s Polish commanders. The navigation system included GPS gear with a comprehensive
CD-ROM topo library of all Russia. The FLIR in the helicopter’s nose could reliably see a mouse on a hot stove at 3,000 yards.

The interior accommodations were more spartan than those of the Hueys and Blackhawks Dean was familiar with. He took a seat
on the thin bench opposite one of the fuselage windows, holding the nearby brace—a painted pipe—as the rotors began to spin.
The engine coughed a few times, then seemed to smooth out, and finally stalled.

Dean looked over at Karr, who was peering through the narrow door to the pilot’s cabin. The team leader turned toward him,
gave him a thumbs-up, then looked back toward the cabin as the rotors once more began to revolve. This time the engines ripped
into a fury. The chopper tipped forward and lifted away in seconds.

“So at some point,” Dean said to Karr when he sat on the bench next to him, “you’re going to lay this all out for me.”

Karr glanced at him. “Basically, we’re going to look at the wreckage, make sure it’s really wrecked.”

“Where is it?”

“Couple hundred miles from here, in a field or a bog near a road. We take a look at it; maybe we pack up some of the wreckage
and send it home with you. Good enough?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess.”

They settled in for a while, Tommy on the other side of the bench, Lia back at the rear of the cargo hold. Dean, exhausted
from the workout at the junkyard, dozed off for more than an hour. When he finally woke, he saw that Lia was watching him.
She scowled, then got up and walked toward him. She held an odd-looking box in her hand; at the bottom was a grip and trigger,
as if the bottom half of a pistol had been melted into the metal. She handed it to Dean, who didn’t know what to make of it.
“Careful, sniper boy; it’s loaded,” she said.

“This is a G11?” he asked, recognizing that it was a high-tech gun.

“Give me a break,” said Lia, turning and going back to the chest.

“No, actually, you’re close,” said Karr, twisting around. “It’s a caseless machine gun designed by H & K, with a little help
from our technical section. That’s a laser dot at the top port there. Depress the sighting trigger on the right.” He reached
to the side of the long box behind the pistol grip, where a large gray button sat. “The targeting laser will stay on, showing
you where to hit. There are two modes. One’s standard op, which means basically that anyone can see the light. The other is
infrared. You need to use it with your glasses. To be honest, I wouldn’t bother with that. Someone sees the light, they’re
dead anyway, right?”

Dean turned the gun over in his hands. It was just over three feet long, a bit shorter than an M16, but a few inches longer
than a G11, which was the first—and, as far as Dean had known until now, only—caseless assault rifle in the world.

The G11 had been designed by Heckler & Koch to answer an age-old army requirement—increasing the probability of a first-trigger
hit. The physics involved in firing a bullet inevitably affect the aim of a gun. While there are many advantages to using
an automatic weapon that can spit a number of bullets with one press of the trigger, some of those advantages are offset by
the natural reaction of the gun. Even in well-trained, experienced hands, an assault rifle will begin to climb as the first
shot is fired, so that on three-shot burst mode there will almost always be a wide spread of bullets—in other words, a good
chance of not hitting what you’re aiming at. True, the fact that you get three cracks at your target with a single press of
the trigger is a definite plus. But an inexperienced soldier in combat—actually, most soldiers in combat—can’t control even
a superb weapon like the M16 sufficiently to guarantee a first-trigger hit.

Examining the problem, the Heckler & Koch engineers decided that the best way to improve first-hit probability was with a
three-shot burst that wasn’t affected by recoil at all. They therefore decided to design a rifle that could fire three shots
before the gun’s recoil could affect them. The design necessitated caseless ammunition, which at 4.7mm was significantly smaller
than the ammunition used in M16s. That led to the G11.

“A hundred and two rounds,” said Karr. He pointed to the front of the box. “This slides back by turning the piece here. It’s
not easy under fire. That’s the main drawback. You’ve used the G11?”

“No,” said Dean, still examining the gun. “I heard of it.”

“This is pretty similar, except you can select five-shot bursts as well as three- and full automatic. Even full there’s almost
no recoil. Seriously. They call it an A-2, but I don’t know if there was ever an A-1. Pretty loud. The bullets sound like
they’re one long cannon shot. I’d leave it on three-shot unless the entire Russian army comes over the hill. Very, very accurate.
If you’re any good, all three bullets right into the dot at three hundred yards. If you’re terrible, the spread’s maybe a
half an inch. Give or take.”

“I only need one bullet.”

Karr grinned. “Yeah, but you have to fire three. Guess they didn’t figure NSA dweebs would be much good at shooting.”

“They got that right,” said Lia.

“Does the small caliber stop anybody?”

“Well, you won’t stop a tank,” said Karr. “But it’s close to a NATO round and you get a muzzle velocity out near nine hundred,
nine hundred thirty meters a second. That’s better than an M24. Right? And it’s three bullets, on the dot.”

Dean grunted. The kid did know a few things about guns, at least. Dean held the A-2 up. The laser danced around the interior
of the helicopter.

“Would have made more sense to activate the laser by touching the trigger,” he said.

“I gather the trigger assembly is tricky,” said Karr. “Besides, it’s not a sniper weapon; it’s an assault gun.”

Dean wondered what they might give a sniper these days—probably radio-guided bullets. The A-2 felt more like a toy than a
gun. He put its muzzle down and clicked off the sighting device.

“Don’t shoot unless you have to,” Karr said.

“I never do.”

The helicopter began to bank. Karr got up and went to the cargo door, looking through the large window at the top. Lia, with
a binocular and one of the guns in her hand, came and stood beside him. The helicopter took a wide circuit, orbiting around
their target area. Karr wrestled with the door mechanism, pounding a few times with his fist before rearing back and kicking.
The door unfolded downward with a thick
clunk
. The helo completed two more turns, then settled into an unsteady hover. Dean gripped the bottom of his seat, worried that
he might spill forward. Lia pulled a small digital camera from one of her pants pockets and began taking photos.

The front end of the helicopter suddenly pushed forward and down. It rammed hard against the ground and Dean found himself
sprawling on the floor. He rolled to his feet, expecting to see a fire or smoke or something, but the cabin was empty; the
others had hopped out. Apparently the jolt was nothing more than a routine landing, as the rotors were still spinning and
the helicopter seemed intact.

Which was more than could be said for the aircraft sprawled along the ground in front of him.

Not that it looked like an aircraft. Twisted sheets of metal lay in different jags in the mushy tall grass. Odd wires, shards
of glass, and toothy spars that looked like chewed-up I-beams dotted the ground. Dean walked along the trail of metal, gradually
catching up to Karr and Lia, who were standing over what looked like a black shroud about twenty feet long. Karr appeared
to be talking to himself, but Dean realized he must be using his com device to talk to the NSA support people in what they
called the Art Room. Dean adjusted his ear buds and mike, calling to Lia to make sure his unit was working.

“You’re supposed to be watching the road,” she told him.

“Why don’t you watch it, Princess?” Dean told her.

“Don’t
ever
call me that,” she hissed.

Dean hung back near the road as she circled the wreckage area. Most of the ground was solid, but there were large patches
of muck and deep mud. In one or two places water puddled in shallow pools a few feet wide. Dean walked down toward the road
a ways, checking to see if there were any parts here. He’d heard stories about people finding intact luggage, wallets, shoes,
and clothing at crash sites, and wondered if he would find any.

He also wondered if he’d find anything more gruesome.

“Here,” said Lia, calling to him. Dean trotted over, thinking she’d found something, but she was pointing to empty grass.

“What?”

“One of the engines was here. They saw them from the road, see?” She pointed.

“OK.”

“The other one they took—there.” She pointed again. This time the marks were more obvious—there was a gouge in the dry earth.
The tail fin had probably lain right next to it.

They checked around but found nothing else. Lia straightened suddenly, said “OK,” and began jogging toward the helicopter.
Dean watched her, thinking again how pretty she was. As he stared, she got into the Hind and it lifted off.

Karr slapped him on the back as he watched it go.

“I want you to work from this side over,” said Karr, handing him what looked like an oversize electric tester with a microphone
instead of a set of probes. “Tell me if the needle moves.”

“What am I looking for?”

“That’s a sniffer. If it detects certain chemicals, the needle will move.”

“So what am I looking for?”

“Human remains. Preferably incinerated.”

19

When he reached his office, Rubens found a note on top of the blanket he routinely threw over the desktop to cover any classified
material inadvertently left there. It was from Admiral Brown, in his usual shorthand—“Me ASAP.”

It meant Rubens should see him immediately. Rubens folded the note and then inserted it into one of his shredders; it was
an unnecessary reflex.

There was a whole list of calls to make, projects to check; each was undoubtedly more important than whatever his superior
wanted, in Rubens’ opinion. But demanding an immediate audience was his superior’s prerogative, and so Rubens left his office
and went down the hallway, sticking his head through the portal so the admiral’s administrative assistant could see him.

Connie Murphy had served under three different directors and probably knew more about the agency than anyone else. She also
was pushing seventy, at least.

“Mr. Rubens.” Connie sounded like a third-grade teacher nipping off trouble in the back row. “We’ve been waiting.”

“I just saw the note.”

“You were paged.”

“I was in the Art Room.” The security precautions prevented the paging system from reaching him there; the system would have
automatically rerouted to his voice mail.

“Yes.” She picked up the black handset on her desk and tapped on the intercom.

“How’s the bingo?” asked Rubens, waiting for the admiral to pick up the line.

“Proceeding,” she said. “Five cards yesterday evening.”

Rubens wasn’t sure whether that meant she had won on five cards or merely played them. “Is that good?”

“Better than would be expected.”

The admiral finally picked up on the other end. She said one word—“Rubens”—then looked up at him. “You may go in,” she said.

Inside, he found that Brown already had someone in his office—Collins of the CIA.

Rubens was too well practiced to reveal his true feelings to the DDO, though she undoubtedly knew what they were. He bowed
his head graciously to one side.

“Ms. Collins, so nice to see you today. Admiral.” Rubens helped himself to a chair. As a gesture of strength, he pushed it
so close to hers that it nearly touched. She repositioned her legs—which were in rather ordinary blue pants—as he sat.

“The CIA has a theory,” said Admiral Brown. “The deputy director came here to explain it in person. They believe a coup is
being planned in Russia.”

Here was a dilemma. Rubens and George Hadash had discussed the possibility of a coup just a week ago when analyzing the frustration
of the hard-liners in the Russian parliament. Rubens thought it not only possible but perhaps even probable; in fact, he had
had a team sifting the tea leaves for evidence that they were right.

Evidence that had thus far eluded them.

To admit this, however, could be interpreted as saying that the agency not only was correct but also had beaten him to the
punch. On the other hand, denying the possibility of a coup would be arguably worse, most especially if his own people did
come up with evidence.

The straight play was to admit everything. But he dared not do that with Collins until he fully understood her agenda.

Rubens straightened his shoulders, then moved his legs, momentarily brushing Collins. He felt her jerk back.

“Hard evidence?” he asked.

“There are . . . indications,” said Collins.

“Hmmm,” said Rubens.

They had nothing more than guesses, he decided.

Or was she being coy?

“We’re going to the president with an estimate tonight,” she added.

“Of course,” said Rubens, who now had to assume that they did have evidence. “Can we see it before then?” The estimate would
be a high-level intelligence summary of the situation.

“It’s not ready. The team is working very close to deadline. I’m here to ask for more help.”

“If it’s in my power, it’s yours,” said Rubens. He couldn’t help but sweep his arms.

“Thanks.” There was just the slightest twinge of sarcasm in her voice. “Amy Gordon and Bill Kritol are with the Sigint and
Collection people.”

“Sounds like you have it under control,” said Rubens.

“I do.” She rose. “Mr. Director, William, thank you for your time.”

Rubens watched her leave. Whatever her age, she had the hips and butt of a twenty-year-old swimsuit model. Even in pants.

“Pretty cold,” said Brown.

You’d be surprised, Rubens thought. But he simply nodded.

“What do you think?”

“It has been a concern. I discussed it with George Hadash last week in an offhanded way.”

Brown’s eyebrow shot up involuntarily.

“It was purely theoretical,” added Rubens. “We are, however, looking at intercepts. The normal thing.”

“Collins was practically gloating,” said Brown. “She thought she had stolen a march on you.”

Rubens smiled. Anyone else would have denied it, shaken his head, said, “Absolutely not.” But the feigning humility was considerably
better. It was a gesture people remembered and valued.

“She may have beaten us,” said Rubens, confident that Brown would think exactly the opposite. “Did you two have a long chat?”

“Hardly.”

There was no subtle way to get him to elaborate, and so after a suitable pause to make sure the admiral had nothing else to
say, Rubens rose and said good-bye.

“Is she always that . . . frigid?” Brown asked, having trouble finding the right word.

“Not always,” he said. “Not nearly.”