go’ to the colonel, Tibbet, the Americans are going to attack the entrance. And, thanks to the Chechen radio report, we now know Freeman and Tibbet have to attack effectively in the next few hours to allow for any hope of success and—” Abramov paused for effect. “—it will give us ample time in which to evacuate the tunnels.”
“Beautiful!” said Beria approvingly, his arms spread out like an angel’s wings. “We get all our technicians out and set one big fuck of an explosion at the entrance. Blow his — what do the Americans call those marines, leathernecks? Yes, Comrades. We’ll blow Freeman and his leathernecks sky high. The snow will be red with American blood.”
“I like it,” said Cherkashin, the mood in Abramov’s office so upbeat it was all but palpable. Cherkashin was beaming. He looked at both the infantry and the tank general. “We’ve got him, Comrades, in the box. Once he’s in, we’ll close the lid. He’s finished.”
Abramov exhaled, the usually taciturn, no-nonsense commander of the Siberian Sixth allowing himself the visceral excitement of anticipated revenge. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s payback time for our nemesis, gentlemen, but a word of caution. Close the entrance’s two blast doors, but don’t leave the outer door unguarded or he might suspect a trap. We’ll load the space between the outer and inner security doors with explosives. We can destroy the enemy without destroying the equipment.” Abramov looked at Viktor Beria. “How big is the outer door, Viktor?”
“Five meters high, ten meters wide.”
Abramov nodded. “And the depth of the space between the entrance’s outer door and its inner blast door?”
“One meter,” said Beria. “Maybe more.”
Abramov sat quietly, thinking. None of the three bothered to go down to the tunnels much; once you’d seen the technicians assemble one MANPAD, torpedo, or missile on the tunnel’s production line, there wasn’t much more to see, and the air, despite the constant roar of the high ventilation shafts, was dank, heavy with the sour smell of perspiration. Abramov, Beria, and Cherkashin preferred being in the ABC H-block, down in its palatially furnished bunker, if necessary, taking care of the consortium’s business, which had never been better since the fundamentalist Muslim terrorists’ decision to carry out bin Laden’s promise to destroy America.
“You know,” boasted Beria, “these boys of mine, guarding the entrance, they might stop Freeman by themselves, without the need for any explosive.”
“Is that a wish or a question?” Abramov shot back as he simultaneously grabbed his landline phone to call the duty officer in charge of the guards at the entrance to the tunnels, asking Beria, “Are you worried about them, Viktor?”
Abramov punched in the duty officer’s number, while answering his own question to Beria. “I wouldn’t concern myself, Viktor. They get their bonuses, same as everyone else here. But look, if they can’t hold, we’ll blow them up with the American bastards. We can’t afford a disruption of production. Ramon and his friends have been unequivocal on this point. And for what his clients pay for our merchandise, you can’t blame him. The Arabs especially are constantly pushing him for product. They want to be the first to use it against the U.S. in the U.S. That’s why they sent El-Hage up here.”
“Yes,” added Cherkashin, “with his blue-eyed boy.”
“Who El Hage sleeps with,” Abramov countered, “is not our concern.”
The duty officer was sorry he’d kept Abramov on hold; he’d been in the bathroom. Abramov fined him a hundred dollars on the spot for not having arranged for someone to man the phone during his absence. “Now,” Abramov continued, “be sure that you seal that second door. Switch off the air flow that’s sucked down from the surface to feed the tunnels. Just have enough air coming in from the intake shafts we have hidden in the reeds around the exit.”
Abramov saw Cherkashin glancing agitatedly at his watch. “I know what I’m doing, Sergei. You look after your anti-aircraft batteries. If this snow stops, you might be busy for a while. The Americans’ll try to use any gunships they managed to put down around the lake. We’ve had BMD patrolling there, but remember the lake is four thousand square kilometers. We’ve been shelling the woods sector in hopes of hitting anything hidden in them, but the snowdrifts have created a lot of hiding places that normally wouldn’t be there on the flats.” Abramov turned to Cherkashin. “Viktor’s right. With such a time limit on them, the Americans are in a box.” He paused, asking his two comrades, “How do the Americans say it? Shooting fish in a barrel?”
Before either man could respond, Abramov advised Cherkashin, “So, Sergei, have your men ready with their MANPADs. Al Jazeera will love it. It’ll be the best commercial we could have wished for. But be thorough. We don’t want to take chances. Seal the exit doors as well in the unlikely event that a few of the bastards escape the explosion in the entrance and manage to make it through the tunnels to the exit shaft.”
“Good,” said Beria.
“Yes,” replied Abramov, “we’ll play it safe.” He couldn’t suppress a smile. “Can you imagine, Comrades, CNN has another special coming up and doesn’t even know it! This’ll be bigger than Katrina.”
“Will there be enough air sucked in from the exit ventilators for our guys in the tunnels?” asked Beria. “I’d say pull them out, but you’re correct. We’ve got a backlog of Al Qaeda and Hezbollah orders.”
“And,” added Cherkashin, “we have Wadi El-Hage here from Hamas, with his blue-eyed boy.”
“What’s the deal with El-Hage?” asked Beria.
Abramov didn’t respond, busying himself with consulting his
“What’s the deal?” repeated Beria.
“Don’t you read my memos?” responded Cherkashin, miffed that Beria didn’t recall all the work he and Abramov had put into securing the deal between ABC and Hamas. “Our agreement with El-Hage is to give him a hundred Igla and Vanguard MANPADs in return for him having Hamas kill the infidel American general.”
“That was a contingency plan,” Beria conceded, “when we first heard that Freeman had been assigned to track down Ramon and his team.”
Cherkashin’s tone was terse with sarcasm. “Well, Viktor, I’d say having Freeman in our backyard is a fucking
“All right, all right,” answered the infantry commander. “I just left it up to Mikhail.”
“You always do,” charged Cherkashin. “You sign off on the memos then leave the unpleasant work to everyone else.”
“What’s got your balls in a trap, Comrade?” retorted Beria.
Abramov’s desk phone jangled. The conversation was short, and as he hung up he rose, tightening his pistol belt, the Makarov 9 mm snug against his waist. “The Americans are starting to move, now it’s stopped snowing. So I suggest, Comrades, that you save all your piss and vinegar for them. Remember what Rommel used to say: ‘If you feel irritable, kill something.’”
“Huh,” griped Beria. “I don’t need to be out of sorts to kill Americans, but I don’t like being accused of laziness. My battalion has always been ready to—”
“Sergei isn’t accusing you of anything,” said Abramov. “He’s upset about El-Hage bringing the boy with him. Sergei’s a prude — either that or some Arab tried to fuck him when he was a boy. Eh, Sergei, is that it?”
“If an Arab had tried to mess with me,” said Sergei, “I’d have strangled the bastard.”
Quite suddenly, Abramov abandoned all levity and punched the air force general affectionately on the shoulder. “So would I, Sergei. I would do the same thing. But business is business, Comrade. Those MANPADs for El-Hage’ll bring five million. Tax free.”
Cherkashin, somewhat mollified by the promise of five million U.S. dollars, nodded in agreement. “The thing is,” responded Cherkashin, “we don’t need a suicide bomber now that we have Freeman in a trap.”
“Added insurance,” said Abramov.
“Are they still at the farmhouse?” asked Cherkashin.
“Yes,” confirmed Abramov, “outside Kamen Rybolov.”
“That’s on the lake,” cut in Beria. “Isn’t that a bit close?”
“
“Americans suck,” said Abramov, and they all laughed at the memory of Ramon’s scroll.
