Class Fives: Origins (41 page)

The man stopped abruptly, keeping the weapon trained on where the Lieutenant grinned winningly back at him.

“God, I hope you speak English,” the Lieutenant muttered through his wide teeth.

The guard slowly lowered his weapon back onto its sling and stepped over to the large, tracked machine, reaching up to climb atop it, crouching down on the edge of the cab, clinging to the side.

He pointed ahead.

“Okay,” the Lieutenant said brightly, leaning back into the cab and slapping the vehicle into gear.

“Well,” he said to the other man, “I hope to Hell they’ve got a better way out of here.”

The Lieutenant’s mind was already turning over, groping for a suitable Plan B. He had originally intended to get within a reasonable distance from the coordinates he had been given, leaving the vehicle concealed there while he progressed on foot. Once he got to the actual site, he would work out with whoever was to receive the object a means of making the actual transfer in such a way that he would feel secure about his being able to depart this place in one piece. He never went into such situations without watching out for himself. If it required tossing members of his team under the proverbial bus, so be it. But he himself was a natural survivor, and always took pains toward that objective first and foremost. The fact that he had run into what he assumed to be security forces for whatever it was he was making the delivery to, was unsettling. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, was one step ahead of him in his planning.

It took another twenty minutes, winding carefully through the soupy swamp, maneuvering between the jutting, charred tree trunks and avoiding the obstructing stumps that jutted up everywhere, before they at last could see the weird, rounded lump that seemed to rise up out of the utter flatness of the landscape like a blister.

It looked like it had been carpeted with twigs and muck, dredged up from the swamp in which it sat. Only the fact that, as they got closer, he could make out that it was in fact sitting on a perfectly flat, white sheet, erected just above the surface, like a bizarre igloo cut out of the arctic ice and dropped here, indicated it was not natural to this place.

The guard riding just beside the driver’s seat pointed toward the far corner of the huge bulge
,
and the Lieutenant guided the rumbling tracked vehicle in that direction.

A minute later they were pulling to a stop beside another small vehicle, its tracks sunk half into the muck, that apparently acted as some kind of command post in this inhospitable environment.

The officer who had been standing in the low doorway of the other vehicle was already climbing down by the time they stopped.

As the officer approached carefully, the guard hopped down, turned and once again raised his weapon, pointing it at the vehicle’s cab.

The Lieutenant looked over at where the officer approached, and once again switched on the charm.

“Hi there!” he called, cheerfully. “You wouldn’t happen to be Constantine Gvorshin, would you?”

The man stepped up to the cab and stopped, raising his arms to drape his hands on his hips.

“Who are you?” he said, sharply.

“Lieutenant Parker, sir. I have a delivery for you from a Dr. Montgomery.”

Constantine merely stared at him.

“Anywhere you want us to drop it?”

Constantine shot a glance at the guard and gave a tiny nod. Instantly the guard was moving toward the cab. Before the Lieutenant could react, he heard the clump of boots leaping onto the rear of the vehicle and the passenger’s door was yanked open from outside.

“Whoa! Easy there, Geronimo!” the Lieutenant blustered, raising his hands. “We’re all friends here.”

Without a word the guard grasped the shirt of the passenger and half-dragged, half-led him out. Another man in a white coverall and thick gloves appeared in the passenger’s door and gently retrieved the bulging nylon container, easing it over the seat and out the door before turning and moving carefully toward the dome.

The passenger was almost roughly pushed back into the cab, and even before he had settled, the door was slammed shut behind him.

It had all happened so quickly the Lieutenant hadn’t even had the opportunity to react.

“Okay,” he said soothingly. “I guess that constitutes delivery, yeah? So, you got anything I need to sign?”

But the guards were moving away from the vehicle, forming a cordon around it. The Lieutenant took a moment to scan what he could see through the grimy windows. At least six up front, God knew how many out behind. And his only bargaining chip was pretty much useless. This had not gone as he had hoped.

All the plastique explosive he had packed around the inner walls of the vehicle bed and under the floor of the cab were supposed to provide a bit of reassurance that, if he was dissatisfied with any arrangements related to his safe extraction from this place, and the receipt of his final payment for the job, he could always simply take away the thing they’d paid so much for him to acquire, whatever it was.

But that only really worked after he had secured the package in the cab, and left it some distance away while the final reassurances were being given. Actually sitting in the mobile bomb tended to render it useless as a potentially life-saving backup plan.

He turned to look down at where Constantine stood, unmoving.

“So,” he said, finally, “I guess we go now?”

Constantine stared back at him for a long moment, then turned and began moving back toward the other vehicle.

The Lieutenant turned to look at the other man in the cab, who had done so many jobs with him in the past, and had been the only member of the team he’d taken on this mission to get out of it in one piece.

“What do you think?” he said quietly.

“I think we’ll find out soon enough,” the man responded, his eyes fixed on the closest of the guards.

The Lieutenant eased the vehicle into gear, and began to back up slowly. The guards moved to keep a wide circle around the lumbering machine, even as it stopped, then began to roll forward, turning back the direction it had approached.

In the rearview mirror, the Lieutenant felt a bit of relief to see that none of the guards, now falling away behind them, had raised their weapons or were moving to follow.

“I guess that’s it,” he said, a hint of relief in his tone.

So, he thought, another couple of hours back to the road, then another three or four to the little nothing village, and from there, an actual car, not this swamp buggy. And by tomorrow he’d be on a plane toward a well-earned vacation. Maybe retirement. He’d certainly been paid enough for this job. He could make it his last if he wanted. If the need for action didn’t overcome him again any time soon.

And as last jobs go, this wouldn’t be a bad one. Good story to get a free dinner out of, he thought. And he had a lot of good dinner stories.

Constantine watched the vehicle disappear into the tangle of charred tree trunks and turned to mount the low steps from the oozing muck to the white platform. He stepped through the small opening into the air lock and closed the outer door. Punching the button to equalize the pressure, he waited a moment until the low hiss had stopped before opening the inner door and entering the enclosed space.

It was gloomy in here, he thought, and the air was chilly and dry. In the distance he could hear the steady, low roar of the pumping system, constantly flooding the huge space with air, keeping it inflated and taut.

Once the camouflage went on it had grown considerably darker inside the huge space. A few small lights had been installed, but it was mostly a wash of deep shadows and hollow, distant sounds.

He looked down to where the two technicians were carefully unzipping the bulging nylon sack to reveal the container, gleaming glass and silver.

A shiver ran up his spine at the sight of it.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew about radiation. Everyone born within a thousand miles of Chernobyl knew about that murderous, invisible monster. And he had been assured that this container, whatever it was, was perfectly harmless, no more destructive than holding a large magnet in your hand.

Constantine had been sure to tell the bald American who had recruited him that radiation might kill certainly, but it also did so slowly, leaving more than enough time to settle any scores or betrayals. The American had merely nodded, and something in his eyes had told Constantine he understood very clearly.

Now, standing here, looking down at the strange, hard container that seemed to be pushing everything away like a petulant infant, he wasn’t quite so sure.

He would get himself checked, just in case, the moment he got back to Moscow. And if he had been lied to, then God help the bald American bastard and his Dr. Walter Montgomery.

For now, he would see the container placed exactly, perfectly within the open circle at the center of the dome, directly beneath the device suspended high up at the bulging roof, and oriented correctly.

Then he would gather the rest of the crew, thank them for their efforts, and execute them, leaving only the security staff within a hundred kilometers of this place.

And once that was done, he would call Dr. Montgomery and inform him that everything was at last in readiness and he could, at any time he wished, give the order to begin cycling up the power station.

As the two technicians carefully lifted the container from the nylon bag and gingerly extracted it from the surrounding mesh, he nodded toward the open spot at the center of the dome. In a few moments they were all moving in that direction.

The thickness of the dome, the soggy camouflage that coated it and the low, steady sound of the inflation pumps masked the distant sound of the rocket-propelled grenade being launched.

The long, sizzling hiss of its primitive engine was too low to even register. But the blast, when the shaped charge of the grenade warhead struck the rear of the retreating vehicle, and the almost instantaneous detonation of the plastique explosives lining the walls of the machine, sent a booming crack through the air that penetrated to where Constantine was following the carefully treading technicians in a kind of solemn procession.

Constantine had to smile. He so disliked Americans.

14

Prelude

John jolted awake suddenly as the gun slipped from his lap and clattered to the floor of the car with a dull thud.

He jerked up quickly, leaning to look out of the windshield, casting a quick glance at his watch. A bolt of ice shot through him. Half an hour. And White wasn’t here.

He felt the eruption of tingling panic boiling up from his gut and snapped his head around, scanning the darkened street.

Shit, he thought. I just closed my eyes for a second. I wasn’t that tired, was I?

A moment later the garage door of the small white house began to rise, spilling light out into the evening. The long, black car slid slowly down the drive.

It was him, John thought, his mind screaming. The guy. And he’s leaving.

The car reached the cul de sac, turned and began to roll forward toward where John sat.

Quickly he dropped over, flat onto the front seat, craning up to track the headlights as they flashed by, moving off down the street.

John straightened, whipped around to claw at the door handle and managed to pop it open, then just as he pushed himself from the seat, remembered the gun and turned to scoop it off the floor of the car. His eyes caught sight of the blocky little radio on the seat and he snatched that as well.

He shoved the door closed and began to move, quickly, toward the now open and abandoned garage.

He jogged up to it and instantly saw that the inner door also stood ajar. He paused, then gritted his teeth, stuck the gun out in front of himself and tiptoed toward it, pausing to scan the room within before creeping forward.

The house seemed deserted. The room on the other side of the garage door looked like some kind of den at the rear of the building. He saw the hallway leading toward the front of the house and leaned to look down it.

The door at the opposite end was wide open, a single light flooding the room. He crept down the hallway, the gun extended as far in front of him as he could manage, and finally reached the door.

He jerked to a halt. He didn’t have to go any further. He didn’t want to.

There was something on the bed to the left of the door. He saw a bare leg, a rope around the ankle, and the thick smear of blood that even now was dripping lazily onto the floor.

His whole mind seemed to seize up and go blank. Whatever that was, whoever it was, it was dead.

He turned, clenching his stomach muscles against the bubbling heat in his gut, and moved back down the hallway. That was when he noticed the small hole in the large back window, surrounded by its spiderweb of cracks.

He moved to the glass door that led to the side of the structure and pushed it open, almost mechanically. He stepped down and moved, in spite of himself, to the rear of the building.

White lay, crumpled on the dark grass, his arms and legs jutting at strange angles.

John felt the urge to run, to get the Hell out of there. To flee, screaming.

But before his instinct could fully grip him, he stiffened, balling his hand into a fist.

No, he snapped at himself, don’t do this. No time for this. Just think. What can you do? How can you help? How can you be useful?

It came to him easily, dragging a kind of calm resolution with it to wrap around him.

He shot a glance at his watch.

Four minutes since he’d awakened. He had time.

He couldn’t save the gray haired man, he’d slept too long for that, but he could –

He turned, reentering the den and stepping down into the garage. He moved quickly to the rear corner, placed his back against a tall, rough tool cabinet, and jumped.

The garage door was closed and the light was off.

Through the opposite wall he could barely hear the faint edge of a tortured female scream, muffled by something.