in various languages, but he already knew the overall topic and didn’t particularly care if he could follow the reasoning or not. Boychenko was talking about the need for international arbitration, the importance of the UN, the need for world peace.
Not that anything being said had meaning. The UN hadn’t enforced a working peace anywhere in the world yet… not until all parties in a given dispute had their own reasons for stopping the fighting. Ukraine would be watching these proceedings with considerable interest, and Tombstone was pretty sure that they, at least, would soon be testing the UN’s resolve. As the speech-making droned on, Tombstone looked away from Boychenko and let his gaze move across the crowd. Pamela, he saw, was watching Boychenko raptly, though he knew that she spoke no Russian either; a battery of cameras, both still and video, were trained on the Russian general as he spoke, and Tombstone could hear the ratcheting whir-click of automatic winders as the cameras fired. There must have been fifty or sixty reporters present, and easily ten times that many other people ? dignitaries, civilians, and soldiers. Tomboy was also in the crowd, over with the civilians and those members of Jefferson’s company who weren’t up on the stage. The seat was uncomfortable, and Boychenko’s droning monotonous. How the hell had he gotten into this situation?
Perhaps because he was watching the reporters instead of Boychenko, Tombstone saw the movement first, a crucial second or two before anyone else was aware. Three men detached themselves from the closely packed group of reporters, advancing toward the stage. They wore long-hemmed trench coats, and each was extracting something hard and metallic from beneath his garment’s open front as he moved. Someone was shouting. A woman screamed. Two of the running men had their weapons out and clearly visible now ? AKMS firing port weapons ? basically AKM assault rifles with folding steel-frame butts to make them smaller and more concealable under a trench coat. The third was waving a handgun; Tombstone couldn’t see what kind it was.
Abdulhalik was leaping forward toward the front of the stage, fumbling inside his jacket for his own weapon. Other security men were also reaching for their guns, but slowly… too slowly. Except for Whitehead, who sat stunned and unmoving, Tombstone was closest to Boychenko. He leaped forward with the suddenness of an F-14 catapulted from the bow of a carrier, his chair flying off the back of the stage; he hit Boychenko low and from behind, driving the man forward into the podium and the forest of microphones, then toppling man and podium together in a splintering crash.
Gunfire cracked, a thundering, stuttering fusillade as the trench-coated assassins opened up with their weapons on full auto. Tombstone heard the bullets snapping through the air overhead or thumping loudly into the heavy podium. Microphones clashed together, and the sound system gave a shrill squeal of feedback that mingled with the steady crack-crack-crack of automatic weapons. Shrieks from the audience rose to a shrill, terror-stricken cacophony mingled with cries of pain.
Everything was chaos, raw and uncontrolled. He was lying on top of Boychenko, one arm thrown protectively over the Russian’s back. Rolling to the side, he looked up, past the toppled podium and off the stage. One gunman was going down under the combined gunfire from Abdulhalik and another security man. The man with the pistol was out of sight at the moment, but Tombstone could see the other assault-rifle-armed assassin clearly as he ran up to the edge of the stage, firing wildly as he ran. Abdulhalik staggered, dropped his weapon, and collapsed onto his back, legs sprawling. Captain Whitehead flailed his arms and fell off the back of the stage, his face a mask of blood. Tarrant was down, too… and Sandoval. The assassins had sprayed the entire front row of VIPS, killing or wounding eight or ten of them in one long burst.
There was the man with the pistol, collapsing under a hail of automatic fire as he exchanged shots with the security guards. But the running man was closer, much closer now, so close now Tombstone could see his bushy mustache, see the wild light in his Oriental-looking eyes. Reaching the stage, he leaned over the railing, aiming directly at Tombstone and Boychenko from a range of less than five feet.
He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
Tombstone was up and on his feet in the same instant, scooping up an overturned metal chair, pivoting, and hurling it as hard as he could. The gray chair struck the gunman and momentarily tangled with his weapon, knocking him back a step and confusing him. Tombstone was in the air right behind the chair, lunging for the man’s throat even as he tossed the chair aside and tried to bring his AKMS to bear once more. He hit the man high, hands lancing toward the throat, his arms held stiff before him; the impact of his legs splintered the frail structure of the railing as he crashed through and knocked the assassin down. The gunman continued fumbling with his weapon, dragging a loaded magazine out from inside one of the capacious pockets of his trench coat. Tombstone battled him for that heavy black magazine, wresting it away from him, picking it up like a flat rock and bringing it down on the side of the man’s head with tremendous force. The gunman raised his arm, trying to block the attack. Tombstone struck him again, and the man’s head lolled to the side.
Tombstone looked up, blinking. People were still screaming, shrieking, and running in all directions as security troops converged on the stage. Half a dozen civilians were down on the grass, faces and clothing smeared with bright scarlet blood. Pamela!..
There she was, apparently all right, kneeling on the grass a few yards away next to the body of her cameraman. She looked up and locked gazes with him, but there was no recognition in her eyes, none at all. She looked like she was in shock.
Then a half-dozen troops arrived, muscling Tombstone aside and pouncing on the semiconscious would-be assassin with an almost gleeful viciousness.
“Don’t kill him!” Tombstone shouted as one soldier hammered at the man with his rifle butt, but he didn’t even know if any of them spoke English. He reached out and grabbed the soldier’s arm before he could strike again. “Nyet!” Tombstone yelled. The soldier spun, face a twisted mask of anger. “Nyet!” he yelled again. Damn, how did you say “Don’t kill him” in Russian? The foreign country guidebooks never gave you the really useful phrases.
One soldier, though ? a lieutenant ? barked orders and cuffed two of the soldiers aside. In a few moments, they’d sorted things out and half dragged, half carried the man away.
Tombstone scrambled back onto the stage and raced to Tarrant’s side. The admiral had taken one round through his chest, up high, and was unconscious.
“Tombstone!” Joyce cried, reaching his side. “My God, are you okay?”
“Fine, Tomboy,” he said. “Fine.” He wasn’t sure he was ready to believe that yet. His knees now, as reaction began to settle in, felt terribly weak, and his breaths came in short, almost panting gasps. He looked at her. Her dress uniform was disheveled and she’d lost her hat. His eyes widened as he saw a bright smear of blood on her jacket.
“It’s not me,” she said, reading his expression.
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah. What about the admiral?”
“Damn. I don’t know. I don’t know!” They needed a doctor. No… they needed a Navy doctor, someone off the Jeff.
Nearby, Boychenko was standing again, staring around at the carnage with an expression as dazed as Pamela’s. Several soldiers, eyes nervously on the building and the milling, panicky crowd, started to urge him away to safety, but he shrugged free and walked over to Tombstone.
“Captain Magruder,” he said, the words heavily accented. He took Tombstone’s hand in both of his, shook it, then pulled the American close and hugged him. “Spasebaw. Thank you, for my life. That was very brave deed.”
“It was nothing,” Tombstone said. “I was running for cover and tripped.”
Boychenko blinked, looking puzzled. He probably didn’t speak enough English to be able to understand more than a word or two of what Tombstone was saying.
“Is Admiral Tarrant?”
“He needs medical help. A hospital.”
“We do what we can.”
One of his security men tugged at the general’s elbow, imploring him with his expression to hurry. Tombstone could understand their worry. There might well have been more than three assassins, should have been, in fact, given the number of Boychenko’s guards.
As they hurried him away, Tombstone moved to the far side of the stage and found Abdulhalik sitting up, one hand clutching a shoulder soggy with blood. “Lie down,” Tombstone told him. “Damn it, get down!”
“Yes, sir.”
