Deep Black

Rubens closed his eyes and saw the list of bases Johnny Bib had given him. None were along the flight path.

“We’ll want a passenger list,” he told Telach. “And a cargo manifest.”

“Yes.”

“CIA is on this?”

“As of ten minutes ago. We alerted them.”

Protocol called for an interagency team to be assembled to report on the shootdown. Rubens would want his own person on the team.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Telach. “Maybe they are OK. Karr’s pretty capable.”

“He is,” said Rockman.

Reports on fuel reserves. Bulky encryptions. Random shootdowns. Wave Three. Laser program.

Hard to find a common thread.

Assume they weren’t random. Assume the laser program wasn’t related to this.

Why would they shoot the planes down?

Protect other data at the lab.

What would that have to do with a coup?

Niente.

Skip the coup. Assume the laser was ready to be used.

Still nothing.

Rubens turned and began walking toward the door.

“Boss?” said Telach behind him. “What do you want us to do?”

“When Karr reestablishes contact, see if he can observe the crash site. We’re going to want information on who goes there, everything we can get on the reaction, who was on the plane, everything.”

“They have the Third Wave wreckage aboard the helicopter.”

“Surely they can deal with that,” said Rubens.

“But—”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest of her objection.

24

Dean followed Karr through the marshy tundra for nearly three miles, once or twice losing sight of him. Water from the boggy soil soaked through his boots and well up his pant legs. The dampness and fatigue began to tighten his muscles, and he felt a massive knot forming between his shoulder blades.

They walked parallel to the highway, for the most part along what looked like an abandoned farm path or perhaps the original road before it was improved and paved. No vehicles passed; Dean realized the area was about as desolate as any he’d ever been in and wondered how much emptier the extremely cold northern stretches of Siberia must be.

Karr finally began angling toward the road, and Dean saw that the terrain rose toward a knoll that would give them a fair vantage point. Sure enough, Lia was already there, watching the wreckage and the Russians who had come to inspect it.

“They’re not helping the survivors,” she said.

“Why not?” said Dean.

Lia ignored him, talking directly to Karr. “They went into the cabin. I haven’t seen them come out. Two men.”

“What kind of chopper?”

“Helix, I think. I can’t tell if it has a star on the tail or not. Could be civilian.”

“Out here?”

“One man in the cockpit. If it was military, there’d be more. Besides, Helixes are normally assigned to the Navy.”

“No way it’s a civilian. Gotta be Army or something.”

“Or something.”

Karr took out a PRC radio to communicate with the Hind. The discreet-burst unit was similar to those used by Spec Ops and downed airmen. Dean went over to Lia and asked for the binoculars she was using.

“It’s polite to share,” he told her.

Somewhat to his surprise, she passed the binoculars to him. “You don’t sound like you’re from Missouri.”

Dean tended to be defensive about his home state; in his experience, most people who brought it up did so only to put it down. But he simply grunted, trying to arrange the binoculars in front of the night gear and get them to focus.

“Hold them directly on the lens, at the exact center of the eyepiece. It’s calibrated to focus.” She pushed them onto the glass. “It takes a second.”

It felt awkward, but it worked well enough for him to see something coming out of the plane.

“Got a bag,” said Dean.

Lia grabbed the binoculars back, taking a step forward on the knoll. “He went in with that.”

“What are they doing?” he said.

“Going back to the helicopter.”

“There’s a kid in the field on the other side of the plane,” Dean told her. “He’s alive.”

“Really?” Her voice was sincere and surprised.

“Little kid.”

“Blades are turning. They’re taking off.”

Dean put his hands on the sides of the glasses, steadying them, as if that would help him see farther. But the helicopter was nearly three miles away, and all its running lights had been extinguished.

“They’re leaving them to die?” he asked.

“They’re probably the ones who killed them,” said Karr. “We’ll follow them once Fashona picks us up.”

“What about the kid?” said Dean.

“What kid?”

“Dean wants to play Florence Nightingale,” said Lia.

“Oh, that kid,” said Karr. “Yeah, Dean, just one fly, OK? You used like four on him.”

“How do you know?”

Karr took his handheld and showed it to him. There were pinpoints of light on a grid — the locations of the small bugs.

“They took the flight recorder,” added Karr. “That’s what they went in there for. To make sure there was no indication who shot down the plane. Probably unnecessary, but they didn’t want to take any chances.”

“We going to help those people or what?” demanded Dean.

Karr ignored him. “Who do you think they were?” he asked Lia. “PVO?”

She shrugged.

“Probably not the GAI or militsiya,” said Karr, referring to police agencies. “They wouldn’t have come by helicopter.”

“Probably not.”

Dean was about ready to punch both of them.

“Closest town is fifteen miles away,” said Karr. “And it’s not much of a town. But maybe that’s our best bet.”

“Well, let’s just do it.” Lia took her satellite phone out from inside her vest.

Dean finally realized that they were discussing how to get help. “You have the number memorized?” he asked.

Lia scowled. The Hind was approaching from the south, its throaty TV3s considerably louder than the engines