Examining the problem, the Heckler & Koch engineers decided that the best way to improve first-hit probability was with a three-shot burst that wasn’t affected by recoil at all. They therefore decided to design a rifle that could fire three shots before the gun’s recoil could affect them. The design necessitated caseless ammunition, which at 4.7mm was significantly smaller than the ammunition used in M16s. That led to the G11.
“A hundred and two rounds,” said Karr. He pointed to the front of the box. “This slides back by turning the piece here. It’s not easy under fire. That’s the main drawback. You’ve used the G11?”
“No,” said Dean, still examining the gun. “I heard of it.”
“This is pretty similar, except you can select five-shot bursts as well as three- and full automatic. Even full there’s almost no recoil. Seriously. They call it an A-2, but I don’t know if there was ever an A-1. Pretty loud. The bullets sound like they’re one long cannon shot. I’d leave it on three-shot unless the entire Russian army comes over the hill. Very, very accurate. If you’re any good, all three bullets right into the dot at three hundred yards. If you’re terrible, the spread’s maybe a half an inch. Give or take.”
“I only need one bullet.”
Karr grinned. “Yeah, but you have to fire three. Guess they didn’t figure NSA dweebs would be much good at shooting.”
“They got that right,” said Lia.
“Does the small caliber stop anybody?”
“Well, you won’t stop a tank,” said Karr. “But it’s close to a NATO round and you get a muzzle velocity out near nine hundred, nine hundred thirty meters a second. That’s better than an M24. Right? And it’s three bullets, on the dot.”
Dean grunted. The kid did know a few things about guns, at least. Dean held the A-2 up. The laser danced around the interior of the helicopter.
“Would have made more sense to activate the laser by touching the trigger,” he said.
“I gather the trigger assembly is tricky,” said Karr. “Besides, it’s not a sniper weapon; it’s an assault gun.”
Dean wondered what they might give a sniper these days — probably radio-guided bullets. The A-2 felt more like a toy than a gun. He put its muzzle down and clicked off the sighting device.
“Don’t shoot unless you have to,” Karr said.
“I never do.”
The helicopter began to bank. Karr got up and went to the cargo door, looking through the large window at the top. Lia, with a binocular and one of the guns in her hand, came and stood beside him. The helicopter took a wide circuit, orbiting around their target area. Karr wrestled with the door mechanism, pounding a few times with his fist before rearing back and kicking. The door unfolded downward with a thick
The front end of the helicopter suddenly pushed forward and down. It rammed hard against the ground and Dean found himself sprawling on the floor. He rolled to his feet, expecting to see a fire or smoke or something, but the cabin was empty; the others had hopped out. Apparently the jolt was nothing more than a routine landing, as the rotors were still spinning and the helicopter seemed intact.
Which was more than could be said for the aircraft sprawled along the ground in front of him.
Not that it looked like an aircraft. Twisted sheets of metal lay in different jags in the mushy tall grass. Odd wires, shards of glass, and toothy spars that looked like chewed-up I-beams dotted the ground. Dean walked along the trail of metal, gradually catching up to Karr and Lia, who were standing over what looked like a black shroud about twenty feet long. Karr appeared to be talking to himself, but Dean realized he must be using his com device to talk to the NSA support people in what they called the Art Room. Dean adjusted his ear buds and mike, calling to Lia to make sure his unit was working.
“You’re supposed to be watching the road,” she told him.
“Why don’t you watch it, Princess?” Dean told her.
“Don’t
Dean hung back near the road as she circled the wreckage area. Most of the ground was solid, but there were large patches of muck and deep mud. In one or two places water puddled in shallow pools a few feet wide. Dean walked down toward the road a ways, checking to see if there were any parts here. He’d heard stories about people finding intact luggage, wallets, shoes, and clothing at crash sites, and wondered if he would find any.
He also wondered if he’d find anything more gruesome.
“Here,” said Lia, calling to him. Dean trotted over, thinking she’d found something, but she was pointing to empty grass.
“What?”
“One of the engines was here. They saw them from the road, see?” She pointed.
“OK.”
“The other one they took — there.” She pointed again. This time the marks were more obvious — there was a gouge in the dry earth. The tail fin had probably lain right next to it.
They checked around but found nothing else. Lia straightened suddenly, said “OK,” and began jogging toward the helicopter. Dean watched her, thinking again how pretty she was. As he stared, she got into the Hind and it lifted off.
Karr slapped him on the back as he watched it go.
“I want you to work from this side over,” said Karr, handing him what looked like an oversize electric tester with a microphone instead of a set of probes. “Tell me if the needle moves.”
“What am I looking for?”
“That’s a sniffer. If it detects certain chemicals, the needle will move.”
“So what am I looking for?”
“Human remains. Preferably incinerated.”
19
When he reached his office, Rubens found a note on top of the blanket he routinely threw over the desktop to cover any classified material inadvertently left there. It was from Admiral Brown, in his usual shorthand—“Me ASAP.”
It meant Rubens should see him immediately. Rubens folded the note and then inserted it into one of his shredders; it was an unnecessary reflex.
There was a whole list of calls to make, projects to check; each was undoubtedly more important than whatever his superior wanted, in Rubens’ opinion. But demanding an immediate audience was his superior’s prerogative, and so Rubens left his office and went down the hallway, sticking his head through the portal so the admiral’s administrative assistant could see him.
Connie Murphy had served under three different directors and probably knew more about the agency than anyone else. She also was pushing seventy, at least.
“Mr. Rubens.” Connie sounded like a third-grade teacher nipping off trouble in the back row. “We’ve been waiting.”
“I just saw the note.”
“You were paged.”
“I was in the Art Room.” The security precautions prevented the paging system from reaching him there; the system would have automatically rerouted to his voice mail.
“Yes.” She picked up the black handset on her desk and tapped on the intercom.
“How’s the bingo?” asked Rubens, waiting for the admiral to pick up the line.
“Proceeding,” she said. “Five cards yesterday evening.”
Rubens wasn’t sure whether that meant she had won on five cards or merely played them. “Is that good?”
