“What about the satellite images?”
“Inconclusive.” She made the face of a woman who had just tasted the world’s most sour grapefruit. “It absolutely burnt to a crisp, but the bastards at the CIA are sitting on the goddamn analysts and telling them not to sign off. That’s what the problem is.”
Rubens nodded. Petro-UK was one of the shell companies Desk Three had established for operations in Russia and the Middle East. It was thought by most intelligence agencies, including Russia’s, to be a front for the Chinese.
“I’d hate to lose the Hind,” said Rubens.
“Hopefully it won’t be compromised, but we seem to be star-crossed on this one.” Telach told him what had happened at the auto yard.
“They should have used a Bagel,” said Rubens, referring to a small UAV surveillance system.
“They didn’t have one with them,” she said.
Rubens said nothing, realizing it was counterproductive at this point to criticize or second-guess. The UAVs were cached in kits the ops referred to as S-1s and were rather bulky to transport; having one with them increased their security concerns, especially in a place like Siberia, where even a pickup truck stood out. Besides, the Space Platform/Vessel system had been designed exactly for that type of operation in a relatively remote area.
“How’s Mr. Dean doing?” Rubens asked.
Telach shrugged. “He hasn’t gotten in the way. Karr seems to like him.”
“Tommy likes everybody,” said Rubens. “What does Lia think?”
Telach gave a snort. “She hasn’t castrated him yet. That’s a plus.”
“Well, see that she doesn’t.”
“Karr wants to know if it’s OK to implant him.”
“Is that necessary?”
Telach shrugged. “We’re having some difficulties with communications out there anyway. It’d probably just be a waste of time.”
“Then don’t. He’s not ours.”
Rubens glanced at the board in the front of the room, which showed a large map of north-central Siberia. The team’s position and target were marked by blipping lights, blue and red respectively. They were nearly two hundred miles apart.
“They’re on the Hind?” Rubens asked, noting that the blue light was moving.
“Yes. Just refueled.”
“Tell them not to break it, will you? It cost a fortune.”
18
The helicopter was a stripped Mi-24W Hind E, in its day one of the most formidable attack helicopters in the world. Unlike American Cobras, Apaches, or the new Comanche, the Hind had a cargo compartment that could hold at least eight fully armed men. While vulnerable to even primitive heat-seeking missiles, the helicopter nonetheless had proven itself a fearsome weapon, most notably during the Russian— Afghanistan War.
This particular model dated from roughly that time period, though it had served with a Polish Army Aviation unit. It had been stripped by the government for private sale, which meant that when it was sold its nose did not include its nasty chain gun and the large wing pylons could not operate weapons. It also lacked advanced night navigation equipment and a host of other gear that would have been considered de rigueur on any of the machines still serving with several eastern armies, including Russia’s.
A thin coat of gray paint covered its green-shade camouflage; the name Petro-UK, the NSA cover company that owned it, was stenciled in bright white on the fuselage. Externally, there seemed to be few other improvements from the condition it had been sold in, but as with anything associated with Desk Three, appearances could be quite deceptive. With some slight adjustments and the removal of two thin screws, the hard points could host a wide variety of missiles and rockets. The choice was in fact greater than what was available to the helicopter’s Polish commanders. The navigation system included GPS gear with a comprehensive CD-ROM topo library of all Russia. The FLIR in the helicopter’s nose could reliably see a mouse on a hot stove at 3,000 yards.
The interior accommodations were more spartan than those of the Hueys and Blackhawks Dean was familiar with. He took a seat on the thin bench opposite one of the fuselage windows, holding the nearby brace — a painted pipe — as the rotors began to spin. The engine coughed a few times, then seemed to smooth out, and finally stalled.
Dean looked over at Karr, who was peering through the narrow door to the pilot’s cabin. The team leader turned toward him, gave him a thumbs-up, then looked back toward the cabin as the rotors once more began to revolve. This time the engines ripped into a fury. The chopper tipped forward and lifted away in seconds.
“So at some point,” Dean said to Karr when he sat on the bench next to him, “you’re going to lay this all out for me.”
Karr glanced at him. “Basically, we’re going to look at the wreckage, make sure it’s really wrecked.”
“Where is it?”
“Couple hundred miles from here, in a field or a bog near a road. We take a look at it; maybe we pack up some of the wreckage and send it home with you. Good enough?”
Dean shrugged. “I guess.”
They settled in for a while, Tommy on the other side of the bench, Lia back at the rear of the cargo hold. Dean, exhausted from the workout at the junkyard, dozed off for more than an hour. When he finally woke, he saw that Lia was watching him. She scowled, then got up and walked toward him. She held an odd-looking box in her hand; at the bottom was a grip and trigger, as if the bottom half of a pistol had been melted into the metal. She handed it to Dean, who didn’t know what to make of it. “Careful, sniper boy; it’s loaded,” she said.
“This is a G11?” he asked, recognizing that it was a high-tech gun.
“Give me a break,” said Lia, turning and going back to the chest.
“No, actually, you’re close,” said Karr, twisting around. “It’s a caseless machine gun designed by H & K, with a little help from our technical section. That’s a laser dot at the top port there. Depress the sighting trigger on the right.” He reached to the side of the long box behind the pistol grip, where a large gray button sat. “The targeting laser will stay on, showing you where to hit. There are two modes. One’s standard op, which means basically that anyone can see the light. The other is infrared. You need to use it with your glasses. To be honest, I wouldn’t bother with that. Someone sees the light, they’re dead anyway, right?”
Dean turned the gun over in his hands. It was just over three feet long, a bit shorter than an M16, but a few inches longer than a G11, which was the first — and, as far as Dean had known until now, only — caseless assault rifle in the world.
The G11 had been designed by Heckler & Koch to answer an age-old army requirement — increasing the probability of a first-trigger hit. The physics involved in firing a bullet inevitably affect the aim of a gun. While there are many advantages to using an automatic weapon that can spit a number of bullets with one press of the trigger, some of those advantages are offset by the natural reaction of the gun. Even in well-trained, experienced hands, an assault rifle will begin to climb as the first shot is fired, so that on three-shot burst mode there will almost always be a wide spread of bullets — in other words, a good chance of not hitting what you’re aiming at. True, the fact that you get three cracks at your target with a single press of the trigger is a definite plus. But an inexperienced soldier in combat — actually, most soldiers in combat — can’t control even a superb weapon like the M16 sufficiently to guarantee a first-trigger hit.
