“And will they have guards to protect the shipments?”
“Impractical,” Dmitri said. He waved away his cloud of smoke. “These will be unremarkable vehicles. Neither new nor old, big enough to carry a few launchers and warheads apiece, but not so large as to draw attention. Thus, no guards, no convoys.”
“How do you get these to America?”
“Missiles are not so much larger than drugs.”
Len took that to mean that they would use the same border crossings.
Dmitri laughed. “Americans are so predictable. If a smuggler is white with a nice haircut and a cross dangling from his rearview mirror, he can move anything across the border. You’ll notice there’s no talk of a fence across the Canadian border.”
“That’s because Canadians are happy to be in Canada.” They chuckled together.
“About the new guards who showed up this morning,” Len said, shifting back to business. “Where do they come from and how much do they know? They don’t speak much to me or the rest of my normal staff.”
“That is because I told them not to,” Dmitri explained.
“I’ve heard them speak among themselves, and they don’t sound Russian.”
“They are not Russian,” Dmitri said. “They are not Canadian, they are not American, and they are not Kenyan, although I believe that some were born in each of those countries. Their loyalty is to the man who is paying them today.”
“Mercenaries.”
Dmitri shrugged. “If you wish.”
Len didn’t wish. In his experience, mercenaries were merely well-paid thugs and murderers, fine for taking down a rival warlord, but useless for strategic thought.
“I can read your mind, Comrade. You do not respect such men.”
“No one respects such men,” Len said. “They don’t even want respect as far as I can tell. They’re all about fear.”
“Fear and respect are very close cousins.”
“But who are we trying to intimidate?” Len let the question hang in the air, and then he saw his own answer. “You no longer trust me, Dmitri?”
The other man exhaled a cloud and tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ash tray. “If I didn’t trust you, you would be dead now,” he said. “But I worry about how much you have changed. I worry that as we close in on victory, you seem to be pulling away.”
“I will be loyal,” Len insisted.
“I’m sure you will. But what was it that Comrade Gorbachev’s best friend told the world? Trust but verify. Think of my little army as a form of insurance. Now, didn’t you say something about food?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Boxers clearly was pissed to be consigned to firearms instruction while Jonathan checked out the aircraft, but even he knew that it was the best choice. Despite the fact the Big Guy didn’t particularly like people — or perhaps because of it — he was a terrific instructor when it came to shooting. In the few hours that he would spend with David and Becky and the First Lady, they would know how to operate a Colt M4 and a Beretta M9 pistol with their eyes closed. That wouldn’t necessarily make them good marksmen — that was a skill that took years to develop — but they would know enough to keep up a steady stream of fire without shooting each other.
Or, even better, they would know to keep the safety engaged until there was no choice but to shoot.
Carl led Jonathan through the snow across the expansive lawn toward the barn-hangars.
“How many aircraft do you have?” Jonathan asked.
“In total?” Striker looked toward the sky as he considered the question. “Right now, as we speak, I’ve got six on hand, but not all of them are in as good working order as the others.” His cane seemed to be particularly important to him in the knee-deep snow.
“Where do you get them?” As he asked the question, Jonathan tried to modulate his tone to be conversational, when in fact the line about not all being in as good a shape as others had spooked him.
“All kinds of places,” he said. “You just need to know where to look.”
“Such as?”
“Company secret, Dig. A good businessman never shares company secrets.”
Their trajectory was taking them directly toward the UH-1 Jonathan had seen poking through the door on the way in. “We’re not taking a Huey, are we?” Jonathan asked.
“One of the best choppers ever made,” Carl said.
“With all the stealth of a brass band,” Jonathan countered.
Carl chuckled. “That sound scared the shit out of the Viet Cong back in the day.”
In fact, the Viet Cong called that distinctive wop-wop sound “muttering death.” Even battle-hardened NVA were known to dump their weapons in a ditch when they heard the sound, unaware of the swarm of copper-jacketed bees that were on their way.
“Well, you know, this mission of yours is a tough nut,” Striker said. “You want to fly a heavy load, yet you want to be stealthy, and you have a lot of people.” They arrived at the front door and Carl pulled on the left-hand door.
“Need me to pull the other one?” Jonathan offered.
“Nope, just need enough space to get through.” He led the way inside.
Jonathan followed. The difference between the snow glare and the darkness of the hangar’s interior left him momentarily blind. Reflexively, he moved his hand closer to his .45. Blindness was never an advantage.
“Easy there, cowboy,” Carl said. “Weapons down. How long you been out of the unit?”
“A while,” Jonathan said.
“You guys always were quick to draw down.” Carl chuckled. “I remember flying some of you guys into some Golf Foxtrot and as we touched down, one of your Unit brothers pickled a round past my ear and out through the windscreen to kill a skinny who was running right at us. Scared the shit outta me and saved my life all at twenty-three hundred feet per second.”
Jonathan knew exactly who that unit guy was. He stared back at him from the mirror every morning. “You’re welcome.”
Now that Jonathan’s eyes were adjusting, he could see Carl just well enough to note the smile. “No shit, that was you?”
“It was,” Jonathan said. He reminded him of the exact location on the world map.
“Well, then hell yeah. Thanks. Anyway, we’ve got this logistical problem of invading a friendly nation, snatching some good guys, and getting out without getting tagged.”
Jonathan could make out the developing silhouettes of the various aircraft.
“For quiet, you can’t beat the Little Bird,” Striker said, patting the skin of the MH-6 that lurked just behind the Huey. “But you’re talking a two-fifty roundtrip with a heavy load. If she’s got it in her, it isn’t by much, know what I mean?”
“You don’t want to break your record of zero crashes.”
“Exactly. And even the Huey you’re worried about. While it can handle the mileage and the load with change on both ends, look at the size of the son of a bitch. You need half a football field just to set her down. Plus, she’s got some serious gray in her hair.”
Anything that made Striker nervous scared the living shit out of Jonathan.
Carl wandered to the front wall and flipped a switch, igniting some intense floodlighting. “Given all of the variables, I think this bird is our best bet.”
The two-handed reveal pose Carl struck reminded Jonathan of a television model from The Price is Right. The chopper he presented looked like a Little Bird that had taken a deep, deep breath. It still had the pregnant-mosquito look, but this one took up twice the footprint.
“European Helicopter?” Jonathan guessed, naming one of the world’s most respected chopper-makers.
“The EC135,” Carl said.
Jonathan planted his fists on his hips. “That’s a new aircraft, isn’t it?”
“This one is looking forward to her eighth birthday.”