Winston grabbed the Tabaris and wheezed all the way to the overpass. This time, though, he hid the backpacks in the brush, stood upright — as erect as he could — and tried to catch his breath, but it was becoming harder and more labored. He checked his watch.
“Ten minutes,” came a low voice from behind.
Winston jumped and turned.
“Why the fuck you always gotta do that?” Winston asked, “sneaking up on people an’ givin’ ‘em heart attacks.”
The soldier who stood before him wore a Russian uniform.
“Please, keep your voice down. I’m American.”
“Yeah, I figured that from your impeccable English.”
“Ya mog by govorit’ po-russki?”
“English is fine.”
“I’m here to help, Sir. You have two left and the truck will be here in nine minutes. I’ll move these, but we need those last two.”
“Three. There’s three left.”
“I understand. I’ll try to meet you at the fence line.”
“Now we talkin’. Don’ know why nobody thought a that before,” Winston shook his head in disgust and jogged back to the fence. Like before, he waited until the all clear, retrieved the last two Tabaris from the crate, leaving only the black army backpack inside, planning to retrieve it when he returned. He scooted out the window and saw the soldier awaiting his arrival on the other side of the fence. Winston tossed one and then the other over. The soldier caught them both, and they saluted each other.
As the soldier disappeared into the night, Winston found his way back to May’s slumbering side, this part of the mission complete as far as he was concerned. He checked his watch — it was 3:03 a.m. He checked her dressing. The wound still seeped blood and the gauze was almost soaked through, but he was optimistic that she would recover fully — though he was somewhat concerned because her leg was hot to the touch and starting to swell. He hoped his own throbbing chest would calm down by 4:00 a.m. for the next part of his mission, and that he wouldn’t fall asleep and miss it. Suddenly, a ruckus brewing at the edge of the driveway alerted Winston, and he peered out the forward slit.
The young “Russian” private who had assisted Winston was ordered to do so by the commanding officer, a veteran army ranger lieutenant, who was in the passenger front seat of their stolen Russian Tigr troop transport, anxious to engage in his role as a Russian officer. The Tigr appeared as if it had just come out of battle — the engine block spewing steam, the armor replete with manufactured armor-piercing bullet holes. The forged damage was indeed a work of art.
He, the driver, the roof-mounted gunner, and two infantrymen waited inside a carwash bay at Calef’s while their young compatriot retrieved the nukes. At precisely 3:07 a.m., the driver guided the Tigr slowly down the road toward the Sparrow encampment, and stopped the truck between the power station fence and the overpass, its ass end positioned right where Winston had crossed over and into the field. The driver opened the hood, signaling to passers-by that the truck had broken down.
The private lumbered quickly over the one eighth-mile distance from where Winston hid the Tabaris, and back to the truck, carrying two of the backpacks. While he placed them into a false floor compartment in the rear of the truck, another “Russian” soldier ran back, grabbed two backpacks, and this continued until all but three of the Tabaris were secured. The operation was scheduled to take twelve minutes.
As expected, though only a little more than midway through the mission, the big spotlights at the edge of the Sparrow driveway lit up and illuminated the Tigr. One of the American “Russians” remained in the shadows to wait for further instructions for securing the three remaining Tabaris.
Three Russian PLA soldiers, their automatic rifles cocked and trained, cautiously approached the Tigr. The American “Russian” major stepped out and greeted them while calculating the risks of taking them out. Chances were that they wouldn’t make it five miles before all twenty Tabaris blew and wiped Georgia off the map if they engaged. The next minute or two would prove to be pivotal to the success of the mission.
“We understand you have a very talented mechanic stationed here, Comrades,” he said in Russian.
The suspicious Russians stopped ten feet from the truck.
“What is wrong with the Tigr?” one of them asked.
“American rednecks had some antitank munitions. Caught us off guard, south of McDonough. Here, look at the damage,” he waved, “but we got the fuckers. Ten of them.”
One of the Russian soldiers lowered his weapon to take a closer look at the damage.
“See?” the American “Russian” said, as he placed an index finger through the hole, “it has the circumference of Sergei’s dick.”
“Fuck you… Sir,” the American “Russian” Sergei, responded from the driver’s seat.
The American “Russian” commander laughed, turned to the Russians, and said “Sergei is very sensitive about his dick.”
They all laughed, the ice broken and trust established. The other two Russians moved closer. One moved to the rear of the truck, which was open, and peered inside. All of the soldiers, both faux Russian and PLA, nodded politely to one another.
“It is unfortunate. Our mechanic had an accident and lost his head,” a Russian soldier said, and then smiled widely, “quite literally.”
“He was very talented.”
“Did you call this damage in?” the other Russian soldier asked.
“Our radio is damaged,” the American “Russian” commander said, and motioned to the radio inside the truck, and to another “bullet hole” in the door.
“Damned American hillbillies are the ones we must keep in check,” the Russian said.
“Agreed,” said the American “Russian,” “though they have long been somewhat of an ally to us. Oh, how they keep the American government busy with pettiness over statues and obsession with the Germans.”
“It must be tiring constantly fighting a domestic enemy.”
Another Russian asked, “does it run?”
Sergei, the driver, said, “yes, but we must drive slowly,” and turned the engine over. The Tigr started up, and black smoke bellowed from the rear end, choking the soldiers standing back there.
“We hear there’s a good mechanic due west, in Palmetto. That’s where we’re assembling in the morning.”
“I know where that is. Thank you, Comrade.”
“We will let them know to expect you.”
The Russian soldier memorized the truck’s military identification number.
“That would be ideal,” said the American “Russian” commander as he and his men got into the Tigr. Sergei closed the hood, hopped back into the truck, turned it around, and headed slowly back the direction they had come, leaving behind one frightened American soldier (still hiding on the ledge), and four armed Tabaris. The operation had failed. Like the three Tabaris that had leveled McDonough, four Tabaris detonating would leave Johnsonville and the surrounding area razed and uninhabitable, collateral damage. It was now the American “Russian” unit’s sole objective to get the sixteen Tabaris in their possession twenty miles away from the master controller in Johnsonville that controlled the nukes. The American “Russian” major radioed both the stranded soldier and Sergeant Duffy to advise them of the situation. Duffy informed them that the operation would carry on as planned — the Russian Tigr crew to continue toward its objective twenty miles due south. There was no way to get word to Winston that the operation had failed. He’d soon be opening the door, expecting Dong-joo’s head to explode. If Winston opened the door and startled Dong-joo, the North Korean soldier was just the type of man who would pull his finger out of the Tabari. That’s why Dong-joo was chosen.