Inside the lead truck, Soloviev leaned forward, peering out through the windshield while studying the forest off to the right side of the highway. He nodded to himself and turned to their driver, a young Russian lieutenant wearing a private’s uniform. “The access road is just ahead, Pasha. You’ll see it when we come around the next bend.”
The lieutenant bobbed his head nervously.”Yes, Colonel.” He tightened his grip on the big URAL’s steering wheel.
Soloviev glanced at the man sitting on his right. “The checkpoint is only a few hundred meters up the access road. You know what to do?”
Alex Banich nodded. “Yes.” He checked the automatic lying in his lap one last time, making sure the silencer screwed on its barrel was secure and that he had a full clip. Then he slipped the pistol back inside his uniform jacket and settled back, trying to fight off the doubts crowding in on him.
What had seemed so necessary and so possible back in the militia headquarters conference room seemed more and more insane the closer they got to the isolated, wooded enclave surrounding Kaminov’s dacha. If this wild-eyed scheme of Soloviev’s backfired in any way, he thought, Russia would have a perfect excuse to act against the United States — a ready-made casus belli handed them by yours truly.
Banich shook his head grimly. Now, there was an unpleasant thought.
The truck wheeled off the main highway and turned onto a narrow, winding road heading west. Pine trees lined both sides, and the overarching branches broke the track ahead of them into a dappled stretch of alternating sunlight and shadow. Birds, frightened by their growling engines, took flight — screeching and wheeling through the clear air above the forest before fluttering away.
“There it is, Colonel.”
Banich looked up at the driver’s muttered warning to Soloviev. He squinted through the dust-streaked windshield.
The checkpoint was just ahead.
A wood barricade dotted with reflectors and painted a bright orange and white closed off the road, but a set of tire spikes pulled across the road behind the barricade was the real vehicle stopper. Two soldiers with AK-74 assault rifles lounged near a wooden sentry box on the left. Blue shoulder patches marked with a sword and shield identified them as uniformed members of an FIS security unit. Four more FIS troopers manned two sandbagged machine-gun nests — one sited on each side of the access road. An officer wearing a peaked cap was just stepping out of the sentry box, yawning and adjusting his pistol belt.
Banich frowned. This was going to be tricky. They were facing seven men with only six — Soloviev, Banich himself, Hennessy, Teppler, and the two young Russian Army officers the colonel had been able to round up at short notice. The trouble with the democratic conspiracy inside Kaminov’s government, the Russian colonel had remarked wryly, was that it had far too many chiefs and far too few Indians. Ostensibly, that was why he’d jumped at the chance to recruit Banich’s team. In the back of his mind, the CIA agent also had the sneaking suspicion the Russian planned to use the Americans as fall guys if anything went wrong. Soloviev struck him as a survivor, not a martyr.
The truck slowed and came to a complete stop within meters of the barricade. Their second vehicle stopped right behind them. The FIS officer, a captain, stepped forward smartly. “Your papers, please.” He recognized Soloviev sitting in the middle and started. “Colonel Soloviev? What are you doing there? Where’s your staff car?”
The Russian colonel shrugged. “Broken down about five kilometers back up the highway, Vorisov. Whichever idiot checked it last missed something pretty big. I must have been leaking oil since leaving Moscow.” He laughed sourly. “If I hadn’t been escorting these boys here, I’d have had to hitchhike.”
“Damned mechanics.” The FIS captain shook his head in sympathy. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “But why are you here now, sir? Didn’t they tell you? These big hush-hush meetings are over. Everyone’s supposed to be heading back to the city any moment now.”
Soloviev chuckled. “So I hear. But you know the high brass. The marshal asked me to bring down some extra ’supplies.’ Cases of them.” He winked and tossed off an imaginary glass of vodka. “Seems they’re having themselves quite a party.”
Banich clamped down on a grin. Marshal Kaminov was an old-fashioned Russian — the kind of man who would insist on celebrating the birth of this new Franco-Russian military partnership with a liberally poured vodka baptism. And, from the look on the guard captain’s face, Soloviev’s story had struck a receptive chord.
“Supplies, eh?” the man said slowly. He rubbed his jaw, obviously debating with himself. But with temptation and duty both on the same side for once, the struggle was over quickly. “I suppose I should inspect those cases before I pass you through… just to be safe.”
Soloviev showed his teeth. “Ivan Andreivich, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll even help you.” He glanced at Banich. “In the meantime, Ushenko here and his boys can have a little stretch or take a leak. Right, Captain?”
Banich nodded briefly, hiding his relief. If the FIS officer hadn’t taken their vodka bait, things could have gotten messy fast. But Soloviev had been reasonably confident the ploy would work. Despite years of official antidrinking campaigns, alcoholism was still a major killer among Russian men. Even more important, underlings in rigid hierarchies take their cues from their superiors — and Kaminov and the men around him were all hard drinkers.
The American climbed down out of the truck cab and signaled Hennessy and the others in the second truck. “Everybody out! We’re taking a short break. Move it!”
Out the corner of his eye, he saw Soloviev leading the FIS officer around to the back of that second truck. His pulse accelerated. Any second now.
Banich began walking toward one of the machine-gun positions, stretching and twisting as though he were shaking loose the knots wound up by an uncomfortable journey. Fear, not fatigue, made him yawn once and then again, deeper and longer. With an effort, he shut his mouth and moved closer.
The two FIS guards manning the PK machine gun ignored him. Like their commander, they were more interested in the contents of the trucks. He saw one of them nudge the other and grin. Maybe they thought this Captain Vorisov would share the results of his “inspection” with them.
Phut. Phut.
The sound of Soloviev’s two silenced shots spurred Banich into action. His right hand darted inside his uniform jacket and came back out holding his own silenced automatic. Everything around him slowed as adrenaline altered his time sense.
One of the startled gunners saw the weapon in his hand and opened his mouth to yell a warning. Banich squeezed the trigger — firing again and again. Hit by two or three rounds apiece, both FIS men crumpled. One screamed and fell forward over the machine gun with a huge, red-rimmed hole in his back. He shuddered once and then lay still. Struck in the stomach and head, the second guard sprawled back against the sandbags, staring up at the sky with unblinking eyes.
The American turned rapidly, scanning for new targets. There weren’t any. The other checkpoint guards were already down and dead or dying. He tugged the partly empty magazine out of the Makarov and snapped in a fresh clip. Hennessy, Teppler, and Soloviev’s two Russian officers were doing the same thing with their own silenced weapons.
Soloviev himself came around the side of the truck, dragging the dead FIS captain by his arms. “Don’t stand there! Move! Haul those corpses off into the trees! We haven’t much time.” He dumped the guard officer out of sight and turned around, looking for the lieutenant who had driven the first truck. “Pasha! Clear those vehicles off to the side of the road. Hurry up!”