“What’s up?” asked Dean.
“Gomers are moving on us. There was a crossroad back about a mile, wasn’t there?”
“Yeah.”
They sped down the road toward it, fishtailing onto its barely packed surface. Karr charged down the road about five hundred yards, looking for a rise or some other vantage point from which to observe the approaching caravan. He finally spotted what looked like a trail leading to a hill on the right; twenty yards in, it turned into a bog. He jammed the brakes too late to avoid skidding about hub deep in the water but managed somehow to get the truck backed up onto more solid land.
“Out,” he told Dean, jumping from the truck with the motor still running.
Dean followed through the water and mud to the rise. By the time he got there, Karr was on his belly, watching the trucks with his binoculars.
They were close enough that Dean didn’t need the glasses. Twenty-three KAMAZ 5320 6X6s passed, doing about forty miles an hour. The backs were covered and it was impossible to know how many men were in each truck, but it was obvious there were plenty; Dean saw a few hanging off tailgates as the convoy passed.
“So, what’s that tell us?” asked Karr, turning over when the procession had gone by.
Dean shrugged. “They’re deploying somewhere. They have no heavy weapons. Twenty-three trucks, could be as many as two dozen guys in a truck. Five hundred men. Two whatever those were at the end, like Land Rovers. Company commanders, maybe.”
“Good, baby-sitter, right up until the end. You’re thinking in U.S. terms. That’s just about an entire Russian Marine battalion we watched go by. Maybe the whole thing.”
“Five hundred men is a battalion?” Dean asked.
“Marine battalions are bigger than the Army battalions,” said Karr.
“An American battalion is over a thousand guys, and once you start talking about support—”
“This ain’t America. In theory, the Russian Marine brigades have close to a thousand men, but I don’t know of any force in the country that’s at more than fifty percent strength, so I’m guessing that was the whole shooting match, give or take.”
“If that was a full battalion, there’d be more support, more gear,” said Dean.
“Maybe they left their ships home,” said Karr. “We’ll find out soon. Come on, before our truck sinks into the swamp.”
A second convoy passed them as they drove, this one with only five trucks, all of them much older Zils. Dean told Karr these probably included backup gear and extra supplies for the main group.
“Could be, baby-sitter,” he said.
“You ever going to stop calling me that?”
Karr just laughed. They drove for another two hours before coming to the town where the base was. It was still heavily guarded, and there didn’t seem to be an easy way of looking inside or even examining the perimeter without being seen. The small settlement nearby offered no cover. There was a long stretch of fence near the highway; Dean saw a stake and a ribbon flag and guessed it was a minefield.
“We’ll have to get the latest satellite download, then wait for Fashona and the Princess,” said Karr. He gunned the truck off the muddy path they’d been on back onto the main highway. “There’s some sort of old building up the road about two miles. Satellite pic shows it’s deserted.”
“Looks like your satellite’s a little whacked,” said Dean as they approached the building. Two dozen small tents were pitched near the cement-block structure; several campfires burned. “Maybe somebody should go up there and clean the lens.”
“Could be we’re hallucinating,” said Karr cheerfully. Slowing to a stop, he rolled down the window and gazed at the small city for a moment, then turned off the engine. “Let’s check it out.”
At least a dozen men were staring at them. Dean couldn’t see any rifles, but their ragged clothes could easily hide a myriad of weapons.
“Be a little safer to leave the engine running, don’t you think?” said Dean. “One of us stay in the truck?”
“Don’t be paranoid.” Karr shut the door behind him nonchalantly.
Dean pushed out reluctantly, adjusting his pistol under his belt. Two of the men who’d been watching them walked toward Karr as he shambled forward and did his hail-fellow-well- met thing. Dean came around the back of the truck slowly. Something flashed on the left; instinctively he drew out his gun, dropped into a crouch, and yelled a warning.
In the next second, he realized it was simply a glint of light bouncing off a steel fry pan.
“Lighten up, baby-sitter,” said Karr.
He said something to the Russians and they laughed. A few eyed Dean apprehensively, but they seemed to take his suspicion in stride. He slid his pistol back into his belt and tried smiling, but it was a weak effort at best.
One of the Russians walked up and offered him a drink from a water bottle. Dean, who hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast, took it.
And nearly choked on the homemade vodka.
“Don’t spit it out,” said Karr, pounding him on the back.
“That’s a big-time insult.”
“Tastes like gasoline,” managed Dean.
“White lightning, with a vodka tint,” said Karr. “Never accept a drink in Russia. Once you do, you have to swallow it all and ask for more. Otherwise they’ll think you’re a wimp.”
The man who had offered the bottle to Dean was now gesturing that he should have more. Dean tried giving him back the bottle, but the man waved him off. Dean tried to insist, but the man waved him away, his expression starting to cloud. Karr saved the situation by grabbing the bottle and taking what looked like a huge swallow, which elicited a happy remark from the Russian. Karr answered and they bantered a bit.
“Says I’m drinking my weight,” the NSA op explained finally. “At least I think he is. Can’t get the hang of their accents.”
“Why are they here?”
“Yeah, good question.” Karr scratched the side of his head. “They’re some sort of gypsies. I think they’re native people who got into some sort of argument with someone a lot more powerful than they are. I’m not going to get deep into it. Here, pretend you’re drinking.”
“Don’t you think you ought to figure out what the hell they’re up to?”
“Not good to act too nosy, baby-sitter.” He took the bottom of the bottle and pushed it up, as if urging him to drink.
“What you do is put your tongue on the opening, choke it off. Let it dribble down your cheek if you want. They won’t notice after a while.”
“Burn a hole in my tongue.”
“Better than in your stomach. Keep them amused, OK?”
“How?”
“Show ’em your gun. I told them we’d trade it for food, if they can rustle up anything less than a week old. I’m going to mingle.”
37
“They’ll take Kurakin out,” said Collins, helpfully keying a picture of the Russian president onto the data screens around the conference table in the White House situation room. “They’d have learned their lesson from the aborted Yeltsin coup, and they’d take him out right away.”
“Possibly,” conceded Rubens. “I would point out, however, that we have no intercepts on it, and no evidence.”
“There are no direct intercepts on the coup at all,” she volleyed back — a not-so-subtle suggestion that the NSA wasn’t doing its job.
