putting down a series of rapid, well-aimed three-round bursts. It sounded pathetic compared with the heavier caliber opposing fire; these weapons were not designed to be used at long range. Even sixty feet was a long way for an SD.
'Stoppage!'
The boy needed to change mags. I watched as he gripped his outer glove in his teeth, keeping his eyes on me. The moment the glove was off I saw a white silk touch glove in the headlights. The empty magazine went down the front of his white smock and, producing a new mag from his belt kit he slapped it into place. He then hit the release catch, which told me these guys were the newer version of the SD-even more indication that these were official. It was all very slick; I wasn't going to escape just yet. He had a bolstered P7 and his weapons drills were so good that even with him under fire there was no way I'd have time to do anything. I kept my head down and lay still.
Vehicles screamed past me with skidding wheels, the tree-loving one in the lead, glass smashed and holes in the body work revving far too fast, trying to gain speed. Our vehicle group must have been giving covering fire while they moved out of the danger area.
The New England voice was back in earshot. 'Move on, move on. Come on, let's go, let's go, let's go!'
The guy covering me got up, still pointing his weapon at me as he moved forward. He jumped into the wagon, ramming his heels down into my back and the weapon into my neck. The barrel was very hot and I could smell cordite and the oily odor of WD40. He'd probably smothered it in the stuff to protect it from the weather and it was now burning off the weapon.
The last thing I had a chance to see was him getting hold of the hood then pulling it back down over my head.
All the others were now jumping back in, making the vehicle rock with their weight. I felt the gearshift being engaged and we started to move off faster than we should, the tires slithering and sliding as we turned back on line to move up the driveway.
The doors were slammed shut and I was hit by a rush of air from above.
The electric sunroof was opening; a moment later I heard dick-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud and a yell of, 'Get some, get some, get some!' as New England fired through the open aperture. I couldn't hear any reply from the Russians.
One of the others turned and opened fire through the rear window, adding more holes to the safety glass.
Click-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud.
Empty cases hit the side window with a metallic ping-ping-ping, then fell and bounced off my head.
Freezing cold air blasted through the roof, then the motor whined and the rush of air stopped.
'Anybody down?'
'I didn't see anyone.' That came from the rear. 'If there is, they'll be in the wagons. No one was left.'
I got a heavy slap around the head. 'Fuckin' Russians! Who do you think you are, man?'
The front passenger was, without doubt, the commander. His WASPy accent sounded as if he should have been standing on a soapbox fighting an election for the Democrats in Massachusetts, not trying to sort out a gang fuck in Finland, but thankfully he seemed to be sorting it out rather well. I was still alive.
There was a short pause, maybe while he marshaled his thoughts, then, 'Bravo Alpha.' He had to be on the net, listening to his earpiece. 'Situation?'
There was silence from the others. Well-trained operators know better than to talk when somebody's on the net.
The Wasp let out a cry. 'Shit! They have Bravo's vehicle.' He got back on the net, 'Roger that, did you total the kit?'
There was five seconds of silence before he replied in a low, depressed voice. 'Roger that, Bravo.' He addressed the vehicle crew. 'The sons-of-bitches have some of the hardware. Shit!'
There was no reply from the crew as the Wasp composed himself before getting back on the net.
'Charlie, Alpha-situation?'
He checked through all his call signs. There seemed to be four of them: Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo. How many people at each call sign I didn't know, but there had seemed to be loads of them at the house. It seemed the whole thing had been a gang fuck for everyone.
Me getting caught; Tom, well, I didn't know; the Americans and Maliskia each only getting part of the hardware they wanted; as for the three Tom lookalikes from the house, they must be more pissed than all of us put together.
The radio traffic had been in clear speech, which indicated they were using secure and probably satellite com ms not like my Motorolas at the Intercontinental. As they transmit, these radios skip up and down through dozens of different frequencies in a sequence that only radios with the same encryption fill, fluctuating at the same rate and frequency, can hear. Everybody else just gets an earful of mush.
He must have got a message from Echo. 'Okay, roger that, Echo. Roger that.' He turned toward the bodies in the back. 'Bobby has gotten hit in the leg. But everything's fine; it's cool.' There was a sigh of relief from the back.
I felt the fabric press against my face as he turned. 'Is that asshole still breathing?'
My cover answered, 'Oh yeah.' He gave me another dig with his heel and a muttered insult in Texan drawl.
I moaned in deep Russian acknowledgment. The commander's ass swiveled again and my head moved with it. He got back on the net. 'All stations, this is Alpha. We're still going as planned. My group will take the extra paxes. Acknowledge.'
I imagined him listening in to the other call signs on his earpiece.
'Bravo.'
'Charlie, roger that.'
'Delta, roger.'
'Echo, roger dee.'
It seemed that I was the extra 'paxes.' Whatever happened to me now, it would be down to the Wasp.
We drove in silence for another twenty minutes, still on the paved road. By my estimation we hadn't gone far; we couldn't have been traveling that fast because of the heavy snow.
The Wasp got back on the net. 'Papa One, Alpha.'
There was a pause while he listened.
'Any news yet on Super Six?' More silence, then, 'Roger that, I'll wait.'
'Papa One and Super Six' didn't sound like ground call signs. Where possible these are always short and sharp. It stops confusion when the shit hits the fan or com ms are bad, factors which normally go hand in hand.
Ten minutes later the Wasp was back on the net. 'Alpha.' He was obviously acknowledging somebody.
There was silence, then, 'Roger that, Super Six call signs are no go. A no go.'
After a pause of two seconds, he announced, 'All stations, all stations. Okay, here's the deal. Go to the road plan; the extra paxes still goes with me. Acknowledge.'
Nothing more came from him as he got the acknowledgment from the other call signs. At least these guys were having a shit day too. The Super Six call signs must have been helicopters or fixed wing aircraft that couldn't fly in these conditions. In better weather we would have been flown out of here by people who worked for their Firm. Nine out of ten times these are civilian pilots with background jobs as commercial fliers, so they have solid cover stories. They'd fly in on NVGs, maybe pick us all up, or at least the kit, injured, and prisoners, and scream back out of the country to a U.S. base. Or maybe, if they were helis, they'd land on an American warship in the Baltic, where the computer equipment and its operators would be sorted out and moved on to whoever was so anxious to have them. If I didn't sort my shit out soon and escape I'd land up with them in one of the Americans' 'reception centers.' I'd been shown them in the past; the rooms ranged from cold and wet 3x9 foot cells to virtually self-contained suites, depending on what was judged the best way to get information out of 'paxes' like me. No matter how you looked at it, they were interrogation centers, and it was up to the interrogators CIA, NSA, whoever they were whether you got processed the easy way or the hard way.
Fuck the pizza boys; I didn't care what happened to them. But now being one of the Maliskia, I'd be checking
