Deep Black (24 page)

49

The three bullets the Russian fired hit Dean almost square in the chest. It was a good thing—the NSA body armor not only kept
them from penetrating but absorbed some of the impact as well, spreading it through its high-tech cells. Still, his breath
drained from him and Dean curled with the pain, just on the edge of consciousness. Two of his ribs felt like they were broken,
and when the Russians jerked him to his feet he stood there paralyzed, nearly in shock.

One of the Marines finally pushed him toward the gate. Dean stumbled forward, his head off-kilter. Though he knew it couldn’t
be true, it seemed like six or seven helicopters were flying overhead, supporting a company of ground troops attacking from
all sides. A dozen Russian Marines scattered in small knots on the other side of the fence, firing toward the surrounding
tundra and nearby town, though Dean knew there wasn’t anything there.

Soon, very soon, the Russians were going to decide he was the cause of all this misery and take a little revenge. Dean tried
to slide his hand in beneath his vest to get one of his hideaway guns, but his ribs screamed with pain. One of the Russians
put his hand on Dean’s back and shoved. As he did, the Hind loomed above, a dark, angry cloud of gunfire. Smoke and dust whipped
into the air. The fence, only a few yards away, erupted. The metal seemed to jump into the air. Dirt, rocks, cement chips,
metal, gunpowder—the air became thick with debris. Dean dived to the ground. In the swirling tornado he grabbed his calf,
fishing for the small Glock strapped there. By the time he found it, he was choking and couldn’t see. He rolled to his hands
and knees and started crawling toward the helicopter.

He’d gone about five yards when he realized it wasn’t the helicopter, which was now somewhere overhead and firing again. Something
moved on the ground to Dean’s left and he rolled again. An assault rifle started firing a few feet away from him—he could
hear it but couldn’t see the muzzle flash.

Turning onto his left side, he began pushing himself through the dirt, away from the gun. By turns the night became green,
then red, then yellow and purple. Shadows furled into immense balls of blackness, then disintegrated. The helicopter came
back, skimming in toward what remained of the gate. Dean saw Karr running toward it. As Dean started to follow, he realized
it wasn’t Karr but one of the Russians.

The Glock made a soft popping sound in his hand, and the recoil was so sweet he wasn’t entirely sure in the chaos that he
had actually fired. He pressed the trigger again, and the man turned.

Dean threw himself to the ground, but the Russian didn’t fire at him. Dean pushed forward, swimming more than crawling. His
hip burned; something had hit him there. He shook his head, trying to wave off the pain. He’d suffered far, far worse.

He had to get out of here soon, or the next thing that hit him would take his head off. But now where was the Hind?

The thing to do, the only thing to do, was get to a clear open space and wait. They would come and get him. They would.

They were kids, but they would come and get him.

Shit. What he really needed was a company of Marines.

He’d settle for a squad. Shit, one guy, Bill Wiley maybe, humping over the fence.

Thirty years ago, maybe. Not now, not here. This wasn’t a Marine show. For better or worse, this was the kids’ game.

For worse, definitely worse. They were blowing it big-time. Them and their high-tech bullshit toys.

But wasn’t it his fault for going ahead with a bullshit plan? He knew it was bullshit and had said so.

Like Vietnam.

Either everybody around him was dead or they were pretending to be. Dean reached as gingerly as he could beneath his vest
for the other Glock. Holding one in each hand, he started walking toward the main road, trying to sort out the battlefield.
The buildings were almost dead ahead, the SAMs and flak dealers up to the right, out of view, though he assumed they were
the source of the flames and black smoke curling through the flare-lit haze. Behind him were the barracks. He could hear vehicles
coming from that direction, or at least thought he did.

Maybe get to the buildings, out on the roof, above all of this shit where they could see him.

So what happened to the stinking locator thing, huh? Where’s my beacon to beam me back aboard the mother ship?

As he started across the road toward the buildings, Dean felt the ground rumble. He looked to his left and saw something crashing
through what was left of the main gate.

It was a BMP, a tracked armored personnel carrier with a cannon and a machine gun, one of the vehicles that had left earlier
to check out the diversions. One of the guns atop the vehicle began firing. Dean dived into the dirt, diving, diving, diving,
swimming down, and cursing himself for being a fool, for being a hero, for being here at all.

Then the ground spit him up. A volcano erupted where the gun had been. Tossed in the air by an explosion, Dean found himself
diving into the dirt near the building where he’d originally been captured.

“All this time, you haven’t moved like two feet,” shouted a voice in his ears.

Where?

“Up! Up!”

Dean looked up and saw the ladder at the side of the building. He grabbed it, started to climb.

“They’re coming.”

Four loud explosions pushed him upward. Dean knew it was Karr, knew the explosions must be the NSA op’s A-2 firing, but couldn’t
see anything except the suddenly grimy night in front of him. One of his eyes had welded itself shut, and the other was half-blinded
by the flash from the BMP’s explosion. He climbed as best he could, diving onto the roof and belatedly realizing he ought
to make sure it was still there.

It was. He got up and went back to help Karr. But the NSA op didn’t need any help—he kicked his feet over the top of the roof,
saw Dean, and grinned. Then he whirled back and worked his A-2 like a drill hammer, smacking the reinforcements that had been
following the BMP.

When the loud crack of the A-2 stopped, Karr threw down the gun and turned back toward Dean. The roof had started to shake.
The Hind loomed over the side of the building, materializing like a train in thick fog.

Dean reached for the door—it was folded open—but then saw he’d never get it. Instead, he wrapped his arm between the two struts
of the landing gear on the right side, barely holding on as the Hind whipped sideways off the roof. He turned to look back
to Karr, but something kicked him in the side—the kid was dangling on the other strut.

The helicopter dipped down and the air around it seemed to catch on fire. Rockets leaped from the pod on the winglet, so close
the exhaust burned Dean’s cheeks. He knew he was letting go; he knew he was dead. He felt his soul looping around, spiraling
toward heaven.

Then he was sprawled on the ground.

Karr laughed at him, picked him up, and settled him into the chopper, almost gently.

“Not bad for a geezer,” Karr shouted. “You’re doing OK, baby-sitter. You’re doing OK.”

50

Rubens strapped himself into the seat as the helicopter’s blades whipped into a frenzy. The Sikorsky—a civilian version of
the Blackhawk—was detailed to Admiral Brown, who was sitting across the aisle checking his “clean” or unsecure E-mail. It
tipped forward and pulled into the sky, headed back to Crypto City.

Rubens had gotten what he wanted—complete operational control of the mission. It was an important victory, even a historic
one. But it did have certain risks. The CIA could be counted on to harp on any failure. Blanders was definitely on the road
to becoming an ally, but he still had axes to grind, especially on this. And as covert operations of any nature always carried
with them a high potential for failure, there was an enormous downside.

But this was what Desk Three had been established to do. This was the direction they’d been heading in all along. This was
the way wars would be fought in the future. Collins was simply a distraction.

Rubens had boxed her out fairly well, actually. But she would no doubt return another day.

The Russian president was going to owe his life to William Rubens when this was all over. What a deliciously ironic thought.

The most pressing order of business now was to finger the coup leader. Bib and his people had to do better.
Had
to.

Rubens took out his own small computer and pulled up the E-mail program. He’d be spending all his time over the next few days
in the Art Room; best to get the routine driftwood squared away. He’d have to run out to his house, button it up for an extended
absence.

No time. Use the phone program. That’s what it was there for.

Karr and his people—he needed them in Moscow. He shouldn’t have let Karr stay out in Siberia to look for Martin.

Good God,
he’d
completely forgotten about Martin!

Panic overtook him for a moment. What was it Pound had said in the
Cantos
? “I am not a demigod—I can’t make it cohere.”

Rubens took a breath. Of course he could make it cohere. This was why he wasn’t in
banking
or lounging around some silver beach in the Caribbean.
This
was the highest intellectual pursuit possible. He was master of the most powerful forces in the most powerful nation in the
history of the world.

Pound was a schizophrenic anti-Semite and no one read his goddamn poetry anyway.

“It went very well,” said Brown. “A historic moment.”

“Yes.”

“I expect Central Intelligence will be out to scuttle us. That Collins—she seems to have it in for you. There’s a history
there?”

“Yes,” said Rubens, trying to make his voice sound noncommittal. “She was with the Special Collection Service.”

“She ran it, didn’t she?”

“A few years ago—before your time.”

“And she would have preferred if Desk Three were set up the same way, with a CIA officer in charge. Preferably her,” said
Brown. Then he added, “There is a personal element as well.”

Rubens smiled before answering. He was starting to actually like his boss, or at least believe him competent.

“I think Ms. Collins is professional enough to overcome any personal difficulties when dealing with situations as they develop,”
Rubens told him.

“Nice answer,” Brown said. “We’ll hold them off. I expect the DDO will end up working for you.”

“She’d quit first.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“The hearings into Congressman Greene’s death are set to begin next week,” Brown said after checking through a few more notes
on his handheld.

“Yes.”

“They won’t interfere with this.” Brown said it as a statement, not a question.

“Certainly not,” said Rubens.

“I assume you’re doing a little checking into the situation.”

Was it a trap? The death of a puny congressman—what was that next to this operation?

Or did Brown think Rubens was somehow responsible?

Preposterous.

Though of course if he had truly wanted Greene dead, well, then he could accomplish it, surely.

“I have been, well, somewhat busy with this,” said Rubens noncommittally.

When Brown didn’t say anything else, Rubens decided to change the subject. He hadn’t had a chance—more accurately, he hadn’t
taken the opportunity—to inform the admiral that Martin might still be alive. He did so now.

“I thought we were sure he and others died,” Brown said.

“Reasonably sure,” said Rubens. To him this was a major distinction, though the admiral frowned. “But we picked up a voice
and we’re looking into it. If he is alive, we’ll try and recover him.”

Brown’s brow knotted. The compartmentalization of the agency and the operating rules for Desk Three gave Rubens the authority
to proceed on the mission without informing Brown; nonetheless, the admiral’s expression made it clear he would have preferred
an earlier update.

“Can we get him back?”

“Certainly. If it’s him,” said Rubens.

“He’ll have compromised Wave Three,” said Brown.

“To some extent,” admitted Rubens. “We had already begun to revise the program as a precaution, however. One way or another,
we have to assume it was compromised.”

“Powers survived the U-2 hit,” said Brown. “Despite everything.”

He was referring to the infamous shootdown of a U-2 flown by Gary Powers on May 1, 1960. According to agency lore, the U-2
(which was part of a CIA program at the time doing NSA work under the Green Hornet program, which captured radio and signal
intelligence) had been rigged with explosive gear that was supposed to make it impossible to survive a bailout.

“We’ll debrief him thoroughly,” said Rubens. “If it’s him.”

Brown nodded, though it seemed a very reluctant gesture.

51

By the time they reached their destination on the bank of the Ob River, the sun had started to rise. Dean sat curled over
the back of the Hind’s seat the whole time, sunk deep into sore fatigue. He’d loosened his bullet-proof vest to take some
of the pressure off his bruised ribs, but didn’t bother looking at his hip; it hurt enough already.

Too old, too slow
: Dean thought about what had happened in the compound. His body had done all right—his reactions had been slower certainly
than when he was young, and he hurt a hell of a lot more, but overall he’d done all right.

What hadn’t done well was his head. For one thing, he hadn’t properly checked the roof coming out. Worse, his head had scrambled
in the middle of the fight.

That was a fatal problem. He’d seen it happen to a very good captain in Vietnam, early in his tour there. The man led them
into an L-shaped ambush, tried to flank the enemy through the thick jungle, lost a quarter of the force in a crossfire.

Time to quit.

Karr and Stephen Martin stood against the side of the helicopter, peering through the smallish windows. Karr had just finished
grilling Martin about what had happened, how he had escaped the plane, how he had been captured, what he had said.

Dean hadn’t heard it all, but he could piece together the highlights. Martin had crawled through a small access hatch with
a parachute he wasn’t supposed to have and left the plane after pressing the destruct sequence. He assumed the others had
gone out as well. He hit his head when he landed but apparently managed to walk some distance before two men with guns appeared
in the darkness not far from a road. He’d spent some time in a police station or military office—he believed it was the former—before
being blindfolded and taken to the base where he had been rescued. He’d been questioned every day since but hadn’t told them
anything.

Even Dean knew that must be a lie. Martin’s fingers shook and he kept blinking; the Russians had obviously broken him.

“OK,” said Karr, turning back from the door. “We’re landing.”

The Hind dropped precipitously a few seconds later; Dean thought his head would hit the ceiling. Karr slammed the door open,
then prodded Martin out. Dean, legs shaky, felt like he was falling to the doorway. He jumped lightly onto the ground; the
shock reverberated up his side, jostling his ribs so badly he winced.

“Go,” Karr ordered, pointing toward the riverbank a good distance away. Then he jumped back into the helicopter, leaving Martin
and Dean alone.

“They leaving us?” asked Martin.

Dean shook his head, though in truth he wasn’t sure. He started walking through the high grass. Martin eventually followed.

Just as they reached the shore the Hind’s engine roared. Dean turned and saw the helicopter jerk upward into the air—and then
burst into fireball. It skittered about fifty feet ahead, then, still burning, keeled over and went into the ground.

“Jesus,” said Martin. He took a step toward the black smoke of the wreckage, then stopped. “What the hell?”

Dean stared at the fuselage, feeling as if he’d been hit in the back of the head. He checked his gun, took the safety off—whoever
had shot the Hind down was nearby.

Three figures came out of the smoke, running toward them. Dean started to level his gun.

“Is it them?” said Martin.

The question probably saved their lives. Belatedly Dean realized that the NSA ops had blown up the helicopter, rigging it
hastily to look like it had crashed. The wreckage probably wouldn’t fool an expert, but the odds were that no one would care
enough to send an expert to investigate.

Why didn’t he realize that’s what they were doing?

“Get the lead out,” said Karr, trotting up like a maniacal JV football coach on the first day of practice. “We got to get
moving.”

Martin fell into a jog, but Dean, his hip burning and his ribs aching, simply walked. A small boat was hidden about fifty
yards farther up the riverbank. It was very small and settled near the gunwales as the first four members of the group boarded.
Dean looked at it doubtfully.

“Come on, baby-sitter, there’s room,” said Karr. “Sit next to Lia in the stern.”

Dean’s boots sank into the mud as he reached for the boat.

“Push us off first or we’ll be stuck.” Lia was holding the engine up out of the muck at the shore.

Dean splashed clumsily into the water as he leaned against the side of the Vessel. He managed to get in without swamping it,
falling to the bottom with his pants sodden, while Lia slapped down the engine. She cursed and pulled the rope starter, getting
a few coughs but no ignition.

“Choke it,” said Karr.

“Yeah.”

“Come on, like you’d do to your boyfriends.”

“Fuck off,” said Lia, wrapping the starter string around her wrist and pulling harder. The motor ripped to life, then died.
It took three more pulls before she got it going.

“What happened to your leg?” she asked Dean as they began slowly moving against the current.

“Bullet got my hip.”

She put her hand down on it. Dean winced, trying not to cry out with the pain.

“Bullet’s in there?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you look?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t think it went in. It didn’t feel that bad.”

“You’ve been shot before?”

“Not really.”

He was lying, actually; he’d been hit twice in Vietnam but for some reason now didn’t care to admit it. Old news—or an admission
of being old, washed-up.

“Let me see it,” said Lia.

“It’s OK.”

“How do you know?”

“I do.”

“If you haven’t looked, and you’ve never been shot—”

“I suppose you have,” said Dean.

“Three times,” she said.

“She has that effect on men,” said Karr.

“Screw yourself, Karr,” snapped Lia.

Karr threw up his hands as if he’d touched a hot plate, then went back to scouting the riverbank. “Don’t beach us, Princess.”

“Screw yourself.” She looked down at Dean. “I’ll look at it in the van.”

“Is that where we’re going?” asked Dean.

“We have a van—or should have a van—about two miles up the river.”

“It’ll be there,” said Fashona behind him.

“We requisition vehicles in case we need them,” said Lia.

“What do we do if it’s gone?”

“It’ll be there,” said Fashona.

“Karr will carry us,” said Lia.

The van was waiting, as Fashona had promised, and unlike the outboard engine, it started on the first try. They drove it about
five miles to the outskirts of a village, where a Mercedes truck sat near the road.

Dean, sitting on the floor next to the rear door, heard Karr tell Fashona to keep going.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lia, leaning over the space between the driver and passenger seat.

“Tire marks in the dirt,” said Karr.

“We can scan it,” suggested Lia. “Probably it was just someone looking to steal it.”

“Not worth the risk,” said Karr. “We’ll just drive this to Surgut.”

“Fuel tank is just a regular tank,” said Fashona.

“So we stop,” said Karr.

“A long haul,” Lia said.

“Well, you can click your ruby slippers anytime you want,” he told her.

Lia slid around and plopped down on the floor. “How’s your hip?” she asked Dean.

“It’s all right.”

She frowned at him, then pushed along the metal floor to look at it.

“Pull down your pants,” she ordered.

“Yeah, right.”

“Oh, don’t be a sissy,” she said, reaching for his waist.

Dean let her undo the button at his waist and leaned over to make it easier for her to slide the top of his pants down. Her
hands felt warm.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, really,” he said.

“You’re burned and cut up a bit,” she said. “You’ll live.”

“Gee, thanks, nurse.”

She let go of his leg abruptly. Now that he had it exposed, Dean figured he might as well clean it and asked if they had anything
to do so. She seemed almost reluctant to get the first-aid kit, which was under the passenger seat. Dean took it from her,
using the hydrogen peroxide to clean the wound. It burned and frothed immediately, which he took as a sign that the stuff
was doing something. Then he daubed Mercurochrome on the wound.

“That shit doesn’t do anything, you know,” said Lia.

“It’s an antiseptic,” said Dean.

She waved at his hand. “You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“I didn’t know you wanted sympathy.” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“You guys might as well try and get some sleep,” said Karr from the front. “As soon as we get to Surgut, we’re taking a plane
to Moscow.”

“Then home,” said Dean. He lay back on the truck floor, feeling very old and very tired, glad the mission was over.