ELEVEN
??Captain, don’t let them fire,” said Lakota from the other Husky. “Check it out. We’re rolling up on another neighborhood. Collateral damage.”
Brent couldn’t deny the fact that civilians could be injured or killed should one of those choppers go down into the homes. Of course, the Russians didn’t care if the American gunship crashed into a residential neighborhood; they just wanted that aircraft out of the sky.
And it was true that firing on them would no doubt draw a response. Those Russian choppers, identified in Brent’s HUD as KA-65 Howlers, noted as being one of the most armed and armored helicopters in existence, could tear their little trucks to shreds in all of ten seconds. And it was Brent’s job to reach Sandhurst.
He cursed and hollered into his boom mike: “All right, stay on the guns but hold fire for now. Be ready in case they turn on us.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“Now that’s the sane choice,” said the driver.
“Shut up, Brit. That pilot’s going to die. We’ll honor him with our silence. And is that as fast as you can go?”
The driver swore under his breath and accelerated even as in the far distance, Brent watched the American gunship get double-teamed by the two Russian helicopters, while yet another Russian chopper, a troop transport, followed behind. A missile flew, and within a breath the American bird vanished inside an orb of white light. Below that orb, in an eerie slow motion, debris appeared and began tumbling down toward the rooftops of residential homes. The two choppers broke formation and wheeled back around to the north, while the third troop transport continued southward, ahead of them.
The driver got on his radio and called in his report, while Brent was interrupted by word from George Voeckler: They were just a couple of minutes away from the target location.
Brent issued a voice command to his Cross-Com, bringing up camera images from both George and Thomas Voeckler in separate windows of the HUD. He took a deep breath and waited as their car raced up a narrow suburban street.
“Looks like a police checkpoint,” said Chopra, his mouth going cotton as he eased on the brakes.
The barricade lay about two blocks ahead as they were passing through the rural village of Flexford, according to the car’s GPS. The Snow Maiden had ordered him to keep off the main highways, and this was the first barrier they’d come across. It was comprised of two police “smart” cars parked at forty-five-degree angles on either side of fluorescent red cones spanning the road.
The roadblock appeared about as dangerous and imposing as a little old man armed with a water pistol, and Chopra doubted it would pose much trouble to the woman in his backseat.
“All right, calm down,” said the Snow Maiden. “Drive right up and speak to them.”
“What do I tell them?” asked Chopra.
“The truth.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said the truth.”
He wasn’t sure what this crazy woman had in mind, but he decided he would do just that.
As he drew closer, he saw two bobbies armed only with short, wooden truncheons. The Snow Maiden, he suspected, could dispatch both of them with barely an effort.
“Chopra, don’t do anything stupid,” said Hussein. “Just hand over your identity and tell them we’re going to Dover. The truth. Just like she said.”
He looked back at the Snow Maiden, who nodded.
With a deep breath he brought the car to a stop before the cones and tapped the button to lower his window. One bobby came up to him as the other went around the other side of the car. They were both middle-aged men, a little thick around the center, and setting up this roadblock was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to them in weeks.
“Good morning, sir. Your identification, please?”
Chopra had already withdrawn his wallet and was about to hand over his ID when a thump made him flinch. The bobby fell back, away from the car.
She’d shot him right over Chopra’s shoulder.
Before he hit the ground, the Snow Maiden wrenched open her door and ran around the other side, toward the second bobby, who’d ducked at the sight of seeing his partner drop.
The Snow Maiden’s gun went off twice more. She reentered the car and slammed the door. “Go. There’ll be another car waiting for us in Chilworth.”
Chopra threw the car in gear and floored it, crashing through the cones and leaving the bodies of the two men behind. He glanced at them in the rearview mirror, then raised his voice. “You see, Hussein? You see who you’re dealing with? A thug. A murderer. Nothing more. And when she’s done with us, we’ll be shot like dogs, just like them.”
“You didn’t have to kill them,” Hussein told the Snow Maiden.
“No, I didn’t. I wanted to.”
“You really are just a killer.”
She gave a big snort. “And it’s all for my own entertainment pleasure — not yours.”
Brent didn’t realize that he was clutching the seat with both hands until a sudden bump broke his grip. George and Thomas had just left their cars and were charging up on the house, and he was watching it all in his HUD, the images piped in from the trident goggles worn by each Splinter Cell. The two spies found the body of a man lying at the far end of the driveway, near the side door. At that point, they split up, with George taking the side entrance and Thomas falling back to hold off in the yard, in case anyone tried to bolt as George entered.
No, Brent wasn’t fond of a single operator entering the house and attempting to clear room after room, but this was the best they could do, and posting Thomas outside to tag potential runners was a smart move. Bringing in a team of local police to back them up would’ve been too obvious and noisy; however, sending in George was, admittedly, not conducive to the Splinter Cell’s health. Then again he’d served in the Marines and had been well trained. You had to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The images came in from George’s goggles.
Bodies in the kitchen. Damn.
“You seeing this, Captain?” George asked.
“She was there,” said Brent. “We might be late. Now all we do is follow the trail of bodies…”
Thomas began cursing over the channel until his words turned into a warning: “Russian chopper landing in the street! Troops coming out! George, get out of there!”
With a start, Brent realized that troop transport they’d just seen had been en route to Sandhurst.
George rushed to the window, and Brent saw what the spy saw: At least a dozen darkly clad soldiers — Spetsnaz troops — were hopping down from the chopper, and the last man out was their old German friend from the Seychelles, that blond-haired bastard Heinrich Haussler.
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. The Voecklers are on the target zone but so are the Russians, along with Haussler. We’re too far out right now. We need some CAS for them, if you got it.”
“Negative, Ghost Lead. Close Air Support unavailable. They’re all tied up in London.”
“Then some kind of evac. Anything!”
“Negative.”
Brent swore and switched channels. “Romulus, this is Ghost Lead. You’re on your own for now.”
“Just another day in paradise.” George bounded up the staircase.
