right… that's it, go on.'
He pulled off the goggles and closed his eyes, trying to project the scene like a photograph inside his head: the dark shape of a medium-sized car in the middle of the road, flanked by a couple of human figures. Another man--or woman--standing over by the right side of the road.
'Shit,' Logan said, and opened his eyes and turned around and looked back between the seats. 'Hey. You. Doctor Fong.'
'Yes?' The tall Chinese leaned forward. 'Something is wrong?'
'These people you're meeting,' Logan said. 'They know how many of you there are?'
'Oh, yes.' Reddish light from the instrument panel glinted off glasses lenses as Fong nodded vigorously. 'They know our names and… everything, really. This is certain.'
'What's happening?' Misha wanted to know.
'Three men in sight, back there,' Logan said, turning back around. 'At least one more in the car, operating the headlights. Five men expected.'
'So?'
'So that's not a very big car to hold nine men. You could do it, but it would be a circus act. Which raises some questions.'
'Huh.' Misha digested this. 'What do you think?'
'I think we better find out more.' He thought for a moment. 'All right, here's how we'll do it. Set her down right up here, past that rise, just long enough for me to get out. Then circle around a little bit, like you're confused, you know? Make some noise to cover me while I move in and have a look.'
He tapped the comm unit in the pocket on his left jacket sleeve. 'I'll give you a call if it's all right to land. If I send just a single long beep, come in as if you're going to land and then hit the landing lights.'
'Got it,' Misha said. 'Taking Yura?'
'Of course. Right, then.' Logan undid the seat harness and levered himself out of the right seat. As he clambered back into the passenger compartment, Doctor Fong said, 'Please, what is the matter?'
'I don't know yet.' Logan worked his way between the close-spaced seats to the rear of the cabin, where Yura sat next to the door. 'Don't worry,' he said over his shoulder, hoping Fong couldn't see him getting out the Kalashnikov. 'It's probably nothing.'
Misha brought the Mil down and held it in a low hover, its wheels a few feet above the pavement, long enough for Logan and Yura to jump out. As Logan's boots hit the cracked asphalt he flexed his knees to absorb the impact and almost immediately heard the rotor pitch change as Misha pulled up on the collective to lift out of there.
Yura came up beside him and Logan made a quick hand signal. Yura nodded and ran soundlessly across the road and disappeared into the shadows beneath the trees on the right side. Logan walked back along the road until he reached the top of the little rise and then moved off the pavement to the left.
The cover was poor on that side, the trees thin and scattered, with patches of brush that made it hard to move quietly. Logan guessed it was about a mile back to where the car was parked. Moving slowly and carefully, holding the Kalashnikov high across his chest, he worked his way along parallel to the road. The night goggles were pushed up on his forehead; they were too clumsy for this sort of thing, and anyway he could see all right now. The moon was higher and the clouds had blown away, and his eyes had adjusted to the weak light.
The Mil came back overhead, turbines blaring and rotor blades clop-clopping, heading back down the road. It swung suddenly off to one side, turned back and crossed the road, did a brief high hover above the trees, and then began zigzagging irregularly along above the highway. Logan grinned to himself; whoever was waiting down the road must be getting pretty baffled by now. Not to mention pissed off.
He thought he must be getting close, and he was about to move over by the road to check; but then here came the Mil again, coming back up the road maybe twenty feet up, and suddenly there was a bright light shining through the trees, closer than he'd expected, as the car headlights flashed again.
He stopped and stood very still. As the sound of the helicopter faded on up the road behind him, he heard a man's voice say quite distinctly, ' Ah, yob tvoiu mat'.'
He waited until the Mil began to circle back, so its noise would cover any sounds that he made. A few quick steps and he stood beside the road, pressed up against an inadequate pine. He slipped the night goggles down over his eyes and leaned cautiously out, feeling his sphincter pucker.
There they were, just as he remembered: the two men standing on either side of the car, and another one over by the far side of the road. All three of them, he saw now, were holding weapons: some sort of rifles or carbines, he couldn't make out any details.
He pushed the goggles back up, slung the Kalashnikov over his shoulder, and took the comm unit from his pocket and switched it on and pressed a single key. He held it down for a count of five, switched the unit off, slipped it back into his pocket, and unslung the Kalashnikov again.
The Mil came racketing up the road once more, slowing down as the headlights flashed again. Logan stepped out from behind the tree and began moving quickly along next to the road, not trying to be stealthy; by now these bastards wouldn't be paying attention to anything but the helicopter with the impossible pilot.
It was moving now at bicycle speed, and then even slower. When it was no more than twenty feet in front of the parked car it stopped in a low hover. Logan stopped too, and pushed the Kalashnikov's fire selector to full automatic as Misha hit the landing lights.
The sudden glare threw the scene into harsh contrast, like a black-and-white photograph. One of the men beside the car threw a forearm over his face. Someone cursed.
Logan raised the Kalashnikov and took a deep breath. 'Everyone stand still!' he shouted over the rotor noise. 'Put down the weapons!'
For a second he thought it was going to work. The men on the road froze in place, like so many window dummies. Logan had just enough time to wonder what the hell he was going to do with them, and then it all came apart.
The man over on the far side of the road started to turn, very fast, the gun in his hands coming up and around. There was a deafening blang and he jerked slightly, dropped his rifle, and fell to the pavement.
While the sound of Yura's rifle was still rattling off through the trees the two men by the car made their play, moving simultaneously and with purposeful speed. The nearer one took a long step to one side and whirled around, dropping into a crouch, while the other dived to the ground and started to roll toward the cover of the car.
Logan got the farther one in mid-roll and then swung the Kalashnikov toward the remaining one. A red eye winked at him and something popped through the bushes, not very close; the gunman had to be shooting blind, his eyes still trying to catch up to the sudden changes in the light. Backlit by the landing lights, he was an easy-meat target; Logan cut him down with a three-shot burst to the chest.
The car door opened and someone stepped out. Yura's old rifle boomed again from the trees across the road. Four down.
Logan walked slowly toward the car, the Kalashnikov ready. A man lay beside the open door, a machine pistol in one hand. Logan looked in and checked the interior of the car.
He took the comm unit out and flicked it on again. 'All right, Misha,' he said. 'You can set her down now.'
He walked over to the body of the last man he had killed and studied the weapon that lay beside the body. A Dragunov sniper rifle, fitted with what looked like a night scope. Definitely some professional talent, whoever they were.
He went back and sat down on the hood of the car, for want of any better place, while Misha set the helicopter down. He noticed with disgust that his hands were starting to tremble slightly.
Yura came up, his rifle over his shoulder and what looked like a Kalashnikov in one hand. 'Sorry I was so slow on that last one,' he said. He raised the Kalashnikov and gestured with his free hand at the body on the far side of the road. 'This is what he had.'
'Then for God's sake get rid of it.' Remembering, Logan cleared the chamber of his own rifle and slung it over his back. For the first time in a long time he wished he hadn't quit smoking.
The Mil's rotor blades were slowing, the turbine whine dropping to idle. A couple of minutes later Misha came walking toward the car. ' Bozhe moi,' he said, staring. 'What--?'
'Reception committee,' Logan said. 'Had a nice little ambush set up. At least that's how it looks.'
Misha was looking around dazedly. 'You're sure?'
'About the ambush, not entirely. It's possible they were going to let the passengers disembark and wait for us
