Chace slid the Volga to a stop beside the Range Rover, jumped out, saying, “Wait here.”
“What—” Ruslan began, almost shouting over Stepan’s screams.
She ignored him, moving to the tailgate. Without the flak jacket, the cold was beginning to eat at her, finding the sweat and blood still wet on her skin and clothes. A wind was starting to rise, light, but enough to make her shiver.
Chace pulled the Starstreak from the Range Rover, switched on the power to the aiming unit and ignition, then hoisted it onto her shoulder, settling her right eye against the monocular. Sweat clung to her eyelashes, stinging her, and she blinked, trying to clear her eyes. A new anticipation swelled in her chest, a strange collusion of fear and excitement, almost arousing. She knew the Starstreak from reports, from technical papers and military analysis. She knew the Starstreak academically, what it could do, how it did it. But she’d never fired one herself, never seen the results in person. She lined up the aiming mark, exhaling slowly.
She depressed the firing stud, the small white button resting below her right thumb.
For a fraction of a second there was nothing, no response from the Starstreak, and her thoughts flashed on the possibility that the unit was dead, that the internal battery was incapable of engaging the first-stage motor and starting the launch sequence. Then, on her shoulder, she felt the tube rumble, the missile hissing, the sound of a kettle just before boil. Thrust drove the launcher hard into her shoulder, pressing her down, and she grit her teeth, fighting to keep the aiming mark steady on target. It all took an instant, and then, just as swiftly, the pressure was gone.
It all came back to her then, all of the clinical data, the briefings, the analysis. Starstreak, designed as a high-velocity extreme-short-range MANPAD, maximum distance five kilometers, minimum only three hundred meters. Composed of a two-stage rocket motor, capped with a three-dart kinetically driven payload guidance system. The electronic pulse delivered via the firing stud engages the first-stage motor, propelling the missile from its canister while canted nozzles on the side of the rocket force it to rotate, the rotation in turn causing its fins to deploy, providing stabilization in flight.
Missile clears launch tube, first-stage motor is jettisoned, second stage is engaged, providing full thrust, and accelerating the rocket to speeds in excess of Mach 4. Missile closes to target, the darts fire, each dart with its own high-density penetrating explosive payload, fuse, guidance system, and thermal battery. Dart separation from missile initiates the arming of each warhead, each dart guided independently via a double laser-beam riding system, controlled by the missile operator via the aiming unit.
That was the clinical, the academic, what she
What she
The missile vanished, and for a fraction, nothing, not noise, not light, nothing.
Then the house exploded.
Chace felt the concussion throughout her body, dropped the launch tube, and turned her back to the flames and falling debris. From the back of the Range Rover, she scooped up the Kalashnikov, the spare magazines, and the blanket, then made her way to the Volga, climbing inside. Ruslan was staring at her, and Stepan, for the moment, had gone silent, held against his father’s shoulder, staring past him, at the ruins of the house.
She started the car and pulled away from the Range Rover.
In the backseat, Stepan said something in Uzbek, and Ruslan responded tartly. In the rearview mirror, Chace could see the man still staring at her. Stepan repeated the word, and Ruslan responded the same way.
“What’s he saying?” Chace asked.
“Again,” Ruslan said. “He wants you to do it again.”
This time, the urge to laugh was too strong, and Chace didn’t bother to fight it.
CHAPTER 23
London—Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room
20 February, 2324 Hours GMT
Crocker came onto the Ops Room floor, shrugging out of his overcoat, demanding, “What’s the latest?”
“Tashkent Station now confirms that there was an explosion at the home of Ruslan Malikov,” Alexis Ferguson told him from the MCO Desk. “Estimates the blast at twenty past three zone. Several dead, several missing and presumed dead. There’s been no indication if Malikov or his kid is among the fatalities. State-run radio has issued a statement, confirming that there was an explosion, and blaming Hizb-ut-Tahir for the blast.”
From his inside pocket, Crocker found his cigarettes, then abandoned the coat and crossed the room, heading for Alexis. “Anything more?”
“Station Number Two has a man inside the police department who reports that there’s been activity at the NSS, and that both the NSS and the police are engaged in a full-scale search for the perpetrators. Apparently there are two different vehicle descriptions being circulated at the moment, one for a blue Volga, late model, the other for an Audi. It seems they’re searching for both cars, though how they’re connected to the blast, the Station Number Two can’t say.”
“The blast, it wasn’t a car bomb?”
“Unclear one way or the other.”
Crocker nodded, then stepped back, looking up at the plasma wall for a moment before lighting his cigarette. From the Duty Ops Desk, he heard Ron stifling a yawn. He empathized, though only slightly; Ron had relief coming on-shift in two more hours. Crocker, who’d been at home and about to head for bed when the call had come informing him of what had happened in Tashkent, doubted he’d be getting sleep anytime soon.
“You think it’s a coup, sir?” Ron asked him.
“No. Not unless someone’s gone after the President and his daughter as well.”
“No word of that,” Alexis confirmed.
“So no, it’s not a coup.” Crocker frowned, then moved back to the Duty Ops station. “You’ve informed the DC, C, and the FCO?”
“As per usual, yes, sir. C hasn’t arrived yet, but the DC is in her office.”
Crocker lifted up the handset on one of the internal phones, held it out for Ron to take. “Inform her I’m coming up.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to face Alexis. “Signal Tashkent, get the Number One on an open line, and tell him to stay there. Inform him that I want updates every twenty minutes, and have him tell the Number Two that I’m especially interested in the pursuit, and any new information about the vehicles, however minor it may seem. Anything they
