“Makes sense,” Alex said, smiling for the first time in days. “We’d need a pilot though. One of the 747’s pilots had a Russian name; let’s assume him hostile. We can’t count on him. I’d rather count on Blake’s pilot. And we’re also assuming that the 747 can still be used.”
“Yes,” Lou agreed, “we’re assuming that the Boeing is still airworthy, and has enough fuel to get everyone back to Japan. But we need firepower, serious firepower.”
“Why?” Blake asked.
“The UNSUB has enough people to control 441 hostages,” Lou replied. “We’re talking about anything up to potentially fifty armed forces, maybe even more. They could have air support, heavy weaponry, surveillance, advanced recon, who knows? We have to be prepared.”
Alex fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Umm… and I’m not… I can’t be counted on, you know, I’m no special ops material,” she struggled to say, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I am coming with you, of course, but I’m not that great in a battle. I’ve never been in one.”
“Nope, that’s not true,” Sam said. “I’ve seen you in action. You’re cool under pressure, you keep your head well-bolted to your shoulders, and you don’t hesitate. I’d have you watch my six anytime.”
“Same here,” Lou said. “I’ve trained you and I’ve seen you in simulations. I’ve also seen you in the field; you’re a great shot. Just remember your training, and you’ll do fine.”
She looked at them both, then took in a deep breath and said, “Then we’re set. But we’re still not enough, the three of us. We need some serious help.”
“Four,” Blake said. “I’m coming too.”
“Blake, that’s not a good idea,” Alex replied. “We can’t watch over you while we’re out there. You’re better off waiting for us here, where it’s safe.”
“I won’t need you to watch over me. I’m a damn good shot, and a Desert Storm veteran. Give me some credit, will you? I can’t stand waiting one more second, so I’m coming with you. That’s decided.”
Sam nodded, and Lou whispered, “Welcome to the exfil team then.”
“I’m repeating myself here,” Alex said. “We need help, serious help. Where do we find it?”
“I’m thinking mercs,” Lou replied, “military hired help.”
“I’ll make some calls,” Blake offered.
“No, not this time,” Lou replied. “Let me make the calls, I’ll know better what to ask for.” He paused a little, gathering his thoughts. “We can’t hire them in the States, though.”
“Why?” Blake asked.
“They’ll need to bring a lot of gear with them, including choppers. We’re pretty sure we’re gonna find that plane, only we don’t exactly know where and when we’ll find the passengers. I’d rather have the four of us do the initial groundwork, stealth. With a dozen mercs or so in tow, and their equipment, they’ll see us coming from miles away.”
“Then they’ll need to be located in Japan,” Alex said. “It’s the only friendly area that’s close enough to our op zone.”
“See? What did I tell you?” Sam asked with a chuckle. “You’re already mastering this game. The only thing, just don’t call them mercs; they hate that. Even if they are guns for hire, that doesn’t mean they don’t have principles and a code of honor.”
“Oh… What should I call them, then?”
“Military contractors is better.”
“All right, let’s find us some Japan-based military contractors to help us.”
…36
Myatlev gave his half-smoked cigar a disappointed, frustrated look, as he rolled it between his thumb and index finger. A wave of humid heat had taken over Moscow, and the polluted, stinking haze ruined his smoking enjoyment, bringing a faint smell of gasoline exhaust to the otherwise perfect Arturo Fuente cigar.
He flicked the cigar over the terrace railing and leaned back in his lounge chair, thinking, letting his mind wonder, reliving the bear attack. He could have delayed taking that shot just a few seconds, and it could have been no more Abramovich. No more unstable, moody, arrogant bastard to order him around and tell him what he could and couldn’t do. No more having to go to work in his office at the Ministry of Defense. No more fear of having the president’s favor turn into persecution, and no more threat of Siberia looming over his head. It would have been an easy, clean kill, brought to him as a peace offering from destiny itself. Abramovich’s life, offered to him on a silver plate, and he chose to save that life.
Yet, in the heat of the moment, he’d chosen to pull that trigger and save the bastard, and he didn’t regret it. Despite his unpredictable stubbornness, Abramovich was worth more to Myatlev alive than dead. The possibilities were endless, his to explore, materialize, and reap benefits from.
Even if that meant, every now and then, yielding to the bastard’s will and doing what he was told.
“Tvoyu mat,” he muttered under his breath, then called out, “Ivan!”
Ivan instantly appeared out of nowhere.
“Da?”
“Blow up that 747, Ivan, and do it soon,” he said, feeling his jaws clenching at the thought of it. Such a waste… a senseless, stupid, cowardly waste. But blatantly disobeying a direct order from Abramovich and irritating him wasn’t an option.
“Sir?”
“Yes, yes, you heard me,” Myatlev confirmed. “And you heard Abramovich yesterday. It has to get done. ”
Myatlev stood up, straining, feeling a pinch under the right side of his ribcage. Maybe it was time to give his liver a checkup. So much stress wasn’t good for anyone, and the vodka didn’t help, but he wasn’t going to stop living before actually dying.
“Send someone you trust, Ivan,” he continued. “Tell him to pack it with C4 and blow it up.”
“Yes, sir,” Ivan acknowledged. “Consider it done.”
“Route a satellite over it and record the explosion, in case Abramovich wants to see some proof.”
Ivan nodded, getting ready to leave.
A cunning smile appeared on Myatlev’s lips. “Tell your man to collect some of the plane’s debris after the explosion, and take that out to sea. Tell him to throw that debris in the water near where they said it crashed. This way they’ll stop looking.”
Ivan smiled widely.
“Consider it done,” he repeated before leaving.
…37
A feverish sense of anticipation anxiety crept up on all of them, as they watched the hours slip by and counted each hour obsessively, waiting for DigiWorld’s call to come in with a possible location. They responded to that anxiety in different ways, suited to their individual personalities.
Sam smoked, playing with the smoke as it left his lungs, at times competing with Steve in the art of blowing the perfect smoke ring. Was cigarette smoke better than cigar smoke when it came to smoke rings? They debated that for almost forty minutes, driving Alex crazy.
Blake analyzed the news, as he did with every chance he got, looking to the media for any new information about the missing plane. By the bleak look on his face, there was nothing new in the press.
Tom had started heating up the grill, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, but that was Tom’s stress relief; he liked to cook.