“They’re more likely to get in the way,” Dalton said.
“You can’t have it both ways,” Raisor said. “Do you want the help or not?”
“We’ll take them.”
“Be ready to go in two hours,” Raisor said. “We’ve set up the practice range as you requested.”
“Fine.” Dalton was tired. He wanted the blessed relief of sleep.
He turned to Dr. Hammond, who was at her master control station. She looked exhausted, her face drawn, dark rings under her eyes. She’d been on duty practically nonstop since the team had arrived.
“I’d like for all of us to go over at the same time in the next practice,” Dalton told her.
Hammond nodded. “I’m bringing the rest back. We’ll shut down for a couple of hours, then send you all over together with your advanced avatars to practice your weaponry skills and your team coordination.”
“Fine,” Dalton said. Despite his exhaustion, he went to the communications room. He dialed on the secure line.
“Colonel Metter.”
“Sir, it’s Dalton.”
There was a short pause. “Jimmy, I’ve got some bad news. I was trying to get through to you but— ”
“Sir, I know about Marie.”
There was an even longer pause before Metter spoke again. “But it just happened thirty minutes ago. How— ”
“Sir, how is not important. I need you to take care of the arrangements. I had everything ready, you just need to check on it all.”
“I can get you back from there,” Metter said.
“No, sir, I don’t think you can,” Dalton said. “And I can’t come back anyway. I’m needed here. Marie understood.” Dalton leaned against the wall. “I have to go, sir.”
“Jimmy, I’m sorry about Marie.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Take care of the team, Jimmy.”
“I will, sir.”
Chapter Fifteen
Deputy Commander Oskar Bredond slapped the young Chechen with the steel wire butt of his AK-74, ripping four teeth out of the young man’s mouth in the process. The Chechen spit blood at the officer, his arms bound by two sets of handcuffs, ratcheted down so tight on his wrists that his hands were turning blue.
“Fuck you, pig.”
Bredond smiled. “No, I think it is you who will get fucked. A nice young piece of meat like you will be received quite nicely in our prison.”
Bredond wore mottled camouflage fatigues with a thick bulletproof vest buckled over his chest. His men wore the same, along with black Kevlar helmets. They were the elite strike force arm of the Moscow police, known as the Omon, more heavily armed than their western SWAT counterparts and with broader powers of arrest.
There was another way that the Omon differed greatly from police in the West, and that was that they focused only on certain criminals while ignoring others. Moscow, if one took out Mafia-related crime, was one of the safest cities in the world. But whenever the Mafia was involved, the Omon and the rest of the Moscow police turned a blind eye.
Bredond, despite being a deputy commander, took home the equivalent of $250 a month. They all supplemented their income with second jobs. Bredond, seeing the writing on the wall, had chosen the most lucrative and easiest way to supplement his income.
He kicked the Chechen once more. The man was a freelancer. He had come to Moscow from his home state, stolen a vehicle, and driven it home, where he had sold it. Unfortunately for him, the Moscow Mafia was growing weary of freelancers working on their turf. Bredond had been tipped off about this man and his stolen vehicle an hour ago. Bredond, not a stupid man, wondered if the Chechen had been set up.
The cellular phone in Bredond’s pocket buzzed, halting him in the middle of another kick. He walked away, pulling the phone out.
“Bredond.”
“We have a job for you.” The voice on the other end was filled with static. Bredond knew that was because it was sent through several relays and scrambled. Not that the person calling him was concerned about the police, but rather the other Mafia clans listening in.
“Yes?” Bredond waited.
“We want you to pick someone up.”
When Bredond heard the name and address, he gritted his teeth. He knew what that address meant.
“That will be difficult,” he said. There was no answer. He licked his lips and continued. “There will be strong repercussions if we take action in that neighborhood.”
“I didn’t ask you to do this,” the voice said. The phone went dead.
Bredond cursed. He yelled for his men to gear up. They left the Chechen lying in a pool of his own blood, still whispering curses at the Omon as they drove off
At the abandoned airbase, Barsk watched as Leksi’s mercenaries pulled four Hind-D helicopters out of hangars, along with two MI-8 Hips. He was surprised at the number of aircraft, wondering how much his grandmother had paid to obtain them. Even with the glut of military material on the black market, these would still cost quite a few dollars.
The Hinds were combination attack/transport helicopters. They could carry eight combat-equipped troops in the back, while the pods on either side carried numerous rockets, and a 12.7-millimeter machine gun was mounted in the nose. The Hip helicopters could carry twenty-eight men each, and it looked like Leksi had enough men to fill all six helicopters, judging by the number of black-clad men in the hangar. The pilots began walking around, doing their pre-flight checks, as the men loaded magazines with bullets and sharpened their knives.
Leksi interrupted Barsk’s musings on the cost of this operation by slapping a map down in front of him. “You will take the cargo plane, the generator, and the old man, and transport all to here.”
Barsk looked at the map. The location was two hundred miles away from where they were. An airfield next to a large dam.
“What is this?” Barsk demanded.
“It is where Oma said for you to take the weapon. We will meet you there.”
Barsk stabbed a finger down at the map. “But there is a town nearby. The authorities will be notified.”
Leksi shrugged. “It is what Oma has ordered.”
Dalton looked over the other six Special Forces men. They were all wearing the black one-piece suit that fit them like a second skin. Trilly looked like a dog that had been kicked once too often, but Dalton didn’t have time to soothe the sergeant’s feelings. He’d told him to suit and brooked no resistance.
A door on the side of the room opened and three more people walked in, two men and Lieutenant Jackson, the fillers promised by Raisor. The CIA man followed them, also in the black suit.
Eleven altogether. Captain Anderson had ceded command of the team to him without outright saying so. Not out of lack of leadership, but more out of recognition of Dalton’s combat experience and natural authority. It was the strongest and smartest leadership decision the captain could make under these circumstances.
“All right,” Dalton said, now that his entire team was gathered together. “We need to accomplish two things and we don’t have much time to do it. We need to work on developing our avatars and projecting them into the real world, using their weapons. And we need to work on our teamwork.”
He looked at Lieutenant Jackson and the other two RVers. “You have experience in the former and we have the experience in the latter. So let’s all contribute and work together. We only have one shot at getting our act together before we go for real, so let’s not waste any time.” He turned to Raisor. “Where do you want to be?”
“I’ll be overseeing the operation; don’t concern yourself with me.”