Barsk turned his attention back into the plane as they descended. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”
Vasilev, despite being dressed now in a one-piece black jumpsuit borrowed from the mercenaries and despite having been given a good meal on the flight, still looked rough. Barsk slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey!”
Vasilev slowly rubbed a hand along the gray stubble of his beard. “What?”
“This Chyort— the demon that is helping my grandmother. Why is he doing it?”
Vasilev gave a laugh that bothered Barsk. “He is trying to get back at those that use him.”
“To what end?”
Vasilev stared down the length of the plane along the gleaming steel tube that filled it. “So we will all go to hell.”
“One hundred million dollars.”
Oma steepled her fingers and peered over the top of her reading glasses at the young man sitting across from her who had just spoken. He wore a tailored three-piece suit and his Russian was flawless, without an accent. He was of the new breed of international broker, representing the interests of the United Nations, using economic leverage and payoffs instead of force.
The young man smiled, revealing very white and straight teeth. “Half now, half upon delivery of the warheads.”
“I do not have any warheads,” Oma said.
“Not yet. But I believe you plan to come into ownership of some shortly. I thought coming here before you finalized some other deal to, shall we say, dispose of them, would be best for all involved in case you are successful in your endeavors.”
“Your NATO already has thousands of nuclear weapons among the various members,” Oma noted.
“And we prefer not to have to use them,” the young man said. He leaned forward, his false friendliness gone. “Listen. I know who you are. I know what you do. I know you’ve been putting feelers out for buyers of nuclear weapons. That tells me you either have them or are planning to get them shortly. I’ve also heard that you are promising delivery of those weapons anywhere in the world along with detonation. You must be a fool to think you can get away with that. We have dealt with people like you before. We will never let you get a warhead out of the borders of Russia. And we will squash you like an irritating bug.”
“Then why are you offering me money instead of squashing me?” Oma asked.
“We are trying to be civilized.”
“If you are so smart and informed,” Oma continued, “you would know that one hundred million dollars is one tenth of the price I am asking.”
“You have to be alive to be able to enjoy your money. I’m offering you life and one hundred million. That’s better than lining your coffin with a billion dollars.”
“I could have you killed for five dollars on the streets,” Oma said. “That would leave me with a considerable profit margin.”
“I am only a representative,” he answered. “Killing me will not make your problem go away.”
“Actually,” Oma said, “I believe you are the one with the problem. You came to me.”
The man said nothing, simply staring across the desk at her.
Oma waved her hand, signaling the meeting was over. “I will consider your offer.”
The young man stood. “Do more than consider.” He flicked a card onto the desk. It was blank except for a cell phone number.
Leksi was standing behind the two pilot seats in the MI-8 Hip, watching through the windshield as two of the Hind gunships swept over the field a half a kilometer ahead of them.
When both gunships turned and commenced to circle, Leksi ordered the pilot of the helicopter to land there. They swept in to a landing in the tall weeds. Leksi could see two fuel trucks in the treeline, exactly as Oma had told him there would be. The FARP, forward arming and refueling point, had cost them over five hundred thousand American dollars to have ready, but it was worth it. All the choppers would be topped off and fully armed, prepared for the upcoming action.
As the blades of the MI-8 began slowing, Leksi exited the chopper and walked to the side of the clearing. The other MI-8 came in for a landing, followed by the Hind gunships. As the sound of the rotors and engines began winding down, Leksi stretched his back.
He looked to the west where a range of high hills loomed. On the other side of those hills was a river. And along the thin level space between water and mountains ran a rail line.
Leksi shivered, not from the damp chill in the air, but from excitement, almost a sexual feeling. His right hand slid down to the butt of the nine-millimeter pistol strapped to his thigh and the fingers flexed around it, feeling the cold plastic and metal. He looked at the watch strapped to his left wrist.
Two hours.
Chapter Nineteen
Colonel Verochka walked quickly from the back ramp of the BMD to the left side door of the MI-14 transport helicopter. As soon as she was inside, the door was swung shut by the loadmaster.
She checked her watch. It was time. She gave a thumbs-up signal to the loadmaster, who relayed the order through his headset to the cockpit, and the helicopter took off.
Other than the loadmaster, who sat down across from her, she had the spacious interior of the cargo bay to herself. She set the metal case down between her feet, making sure that the chain wasn’t tangled. She twisted in the seat and looked out one of the small glass portals as they gained altitude. She saw one Havoc gunship about fifty meters away, and she knew the second was on the other side. She also knew that four Mig-24 jet fighters were taking off at this moment and would provide overhead cover.
She leaned back in her seat and relaxed for the first time since she’d signed for the metal case.
The lights were off, leaving only the dim reflection from the half-open door to illuminate the room. Dalton was sitting on his bunk, back against the cold wall, listening to the nervous rustlings in the room. Some of the men were asleep from sheer exhaustion, but he knew most were awake, unable to sleep. No one had taken Hammond’s sleeping drug, not wanting to have anything in their system that could interfere with their ability to operate. There was slightly under ten minutes before they had to go to the experimental chamber and prepare to launch.
Dalton turned his head as someone slipped in the door. He recognized the slender figure of Lieutenant Jackson. She wove her way through the bunks until she arrived at his location. Dalton slid over, giving her room to sit at the foot of the bed.
“You okay?” he asked in a low voice.
“No.”
Dalton smiled in the dark. “Me neither.”
Jackson’s head came up. “But you’ve been in combat. Don’t you get used to it?”
“You never get used to it,” Dalton said. “Plus, this is different than anything else I’ve ever done. One time I sat down and figured it out. I’ve fought on every continent except Australia and Antarctica. I guess I should be grateful there’s no native population in Antarctica and we haven’t gone to war with the Aussies, or I’d be seven for seven. Vietnam. El Salvador. Lebanon. Somalia. Panama. Antiterrorist work in Berlin. Other places. Other times. Each one a little different, each one pretty much the same.
“I’ve jumped in, walked in, been flown in, swum in, ridden in— you name it— I’ve gone into combat every way I thought was possible. And now here’s a new way.”
“I’ve never fired a shot in anger,” Jackson said.
Dalton chuckled. “Hell, neither have I. I’ve fired a heck of a lot in fear, though.” He stretched his legs out. “It feels strange to be this close to infiltration— I guess we can call it infiltration— and not be doing something. Usually we would be cleaning our weapons, loading magazines, sharpening knives, memorizing call signs and frequencies and doing radio checks. But we’re just sitting here waiting.”