that had powered the other helicopter.
“She’s calling home,” explained Karr. “They’ll handle the details.”
“We have to help that kid,” said Dean.
“Charlie, we’re going to have to take our chances on that one.”
“It’s his chance, not ours.”
Karr slapped his back and nodded grimly, but he’d made up his mind.
They lost the helicopter somewhere near Sym, a city that passed for large in the central area of Siberia on a tributary to the Jenisej. Running low on fuel, they finally set down about a mile from a hamlet called Sitjla, a good hundred or so miles due north of Tomsk.
“Run the engines dry,” Karr told Fashona.
“No way, man,” he replied. “We’ll never get them started again.”
“I don’t want the helicopter stolen if we have to leave it.”
“Who the hell’s going to steal it?”
“It’s worth more than the whole damn village.”
“Shit, they won’t fly it. They’ll take it apart and sell it for scrap.”
Fashona finally convinced him that leaving only three or four minutes of fuel in the tanks was good enough. He killed the engines the second the gear plopped onto the ground. It was still night, and Karr decided they’d take shifts standing guard and napping until morning. He left Dean conspicuously out of the rotation. Dean said he’d take a spot, but Karr told him not to worry.
“Age before beauty,” Karr told him. “Just sleep.”
Dean, angered by the reference to his age, told Karr to screw himself. He just laughed his usual laugh.
“Don’t be stubborn,” said Lia a while later when she saw Dean wasn’t sleeping. “You’re going to be sorry later.”
“Right,” he snapped, but he did bed down and fell asleep for a few hours.
The next thing he knew, Fashona was tugging at his feet. “Time to hit the road,” said the pilot. “Let’s go check out the big city.”
Dean, his muscles knotted and stiff, followed Fashona unsteadily. The sun poked through some of the mist rising from the ground, shafts of yellow swirling in the humid air.
Karr and Lia had just finished stowing the team’s gear away from the helicopter, hiding the A-2 guns and some of the high-tech equipment in the nearby field. They took a GPS reading, then returned to the aircraft. The first order of business, Karr told the others, was to find some food. They were no longer using the com system to communicate with the Art Room, relying on the sat phones instead for periodic updates.
“Hey, Charlie,” said Karr as they started to walk. “Your kid’s in a hospital. Fair condition.”
“Good,” grunted Dean.
“Don’t sound so enthused, tough guy.” Karr laughed. As they continued to walk toward town, he told them that the Art Room had changed their mission priorities.
“They want to know about the Helix,” he told the others. “So that’s our gig.”
“What about the trash in the chopper?” asked Fashona.
Karr shrugged. “They want it eventually, just not right away.”
“What about him?” Lia jabbed her thumb toward Dean.
“I think they forgot about you, Charlie,” said Karr. “Didn’t even mention you.”
“Then I’ll just walk home.”
“Go for it,” said Lia.
“So how come with all their satellites and other gadgets they lost track of the Helix helicopter?” said Dean. “How come they can’t just push a button and find out about it?”
“Man, you’ve been hanging around Princess too long,” said Karr.
“Don’t blame him on me,” said Lia. “He was whining when I found him.”
“Truck,” said Fashona.
It made no sense to hide — the helicopter was clearly visible, and in a place like this, the fact that it had landed would undoubtedly soon be common knowledge. So Karr turned and waved.
The truck looked like it had been made in the 1950s or even earlier. The driver stopped; it took less than a minute for Karr to talk him into giving them a ride into town. It wasn’t particularly hard, the op explained as they climbed into the back; the fifty rubles he offered the driver amounted to more money than the man would make that week and perhaps that month.
Downtown Sitjla consisted of a dirt road bordered by a trio of sheds, a few piles of bricks that had possibly once been houses, and a two-story building covered by the large asbestos tiles common in the States during the 1950s. The building’s facade, off at a slight angle to the street, had a wooden door and no windows. It proved to be a combination restaurant, inn, and meeting place for the local inhabitants. A collection of trailers sat about a half- mile farther down the road, but there were no oil derricks or factories or anything else nearby that showed why anyone would live here.
A large woman in her early twenties met them inside the open hallway of the cement building. It was difficult to tell from her appearance whether she was the manager or a cleaning lady. She wore a thick polyester dress that didn’t quite reach her bulging knees, but her hands were covered by rubber gloves and her hair pulled back in a scarf that looked like a dust rag. Karr did the talking for the group, explaining in Russian that they were Westerners working for an oil company whose helicopter had broken down and would need repair. The woman smiled, frowned, shook her head, and finally said something about providing food, impressed by either Karr’s patter or, more likely, the wad of rubles he produced from his shirt pocket. Within a half hour, they were sitting at a tin folding table in a whitewashed room sipping a very hot and very bland red-tinted water that may or may not have been vegetable soup. Dean was so hungry he asked for a second bowl, which seemed to make the woman think he was flirting with her. About midway through the meal, Karr excused himself to go to the rest room.
“Olive says there’s a bus due soon,” he told them when he got back. “Fashona and I are going to take it to Tomsk. We should be able to buy fuel for the helicopter there. If not, we’ll be able to make other arrangements.”
“How long’s that going to take?” Dean asked.
Karr shrugged. “The bus was supposed to be here this morning. Sometimes it’s a whole day late. They stop a few more times along the way south. In theory it’s a four-hour trip. My guess is we’ll be back by tomorrow night.”
“We can get some sleep, at least,” said Dean.
“Actually, no,” said Karr. “Desk Three wants you two to find that helicopter ASAP. I was talking to them in the men’s room. They have some leads.”
“What?” snapped Lia.
“Olive says we can rent a pickup from her brother-in-law. There’s only three places the helicopter can be, according to the Art Room,” he added.
“What’s my cover?” asked Lia.
Karr shrugged. “Whatever you feel like, Princess. Far as I’m concerned, you can use the traveling prostitute bit. Dean can be your pimp.”
“Screw yourself, Tommy. Just screw yourself.”
Fashona was suppressing a smile. Olive — her actual name was something like Olenka, which would be Olga in English — returned, offering tea. This proved to be a green liquid that tasted as if it had been made from moss. Fashona and Karr downed theirs, but Dean tried only half a sip.
“Look, if you have a better idea, talk to them,” Karr told Lia when Olive had retreated. “You know the number.”
“Hardy-har.”
“She can’t just hear them talking in her ear?” said Dean derisively.
“Not too well. The Russians are picking up their jamming. They’re really getting obnoxious,” said Karr.
The communications system had high-orbit stationary satellites that provided coverage in important areas. The rest was supplied with low-earth, purpose-launched satellites that tied into the system. Partly for security purposes and partly to keep them small and disposable, their range was fairly limited. Jamming by the Russians
