Net Force Part 32

He checked his own weapon to make sure it was ready, then went out to collect his squad and their catch.

Sunday, October 10th, 12:18 a.m. Grozny The three Chechen vehicles skidded to a halt as Howard and his troops piled out of the Huey and spread out, weapons held ready but not locked on targets. The Chechens had the advantage as they bailed from their rides--they could use their vehicles for cover. There were fifteen, maybe eighteen, Chechens in military gear, and they deployed, pointing their weapons from behind the Jeep-clone, the van and the police car.

Howard's men were in the open, and the pucker-factor here was extremely high. A car body would stop a lot of small-arms fire; thin air would not.

"Marcus!" Howard said, quietly enough so he hoped his voice wouldn't carry to the Chechens. "Get the package into the bird and then get out here."

Behind him, the squad hustled Plekhanov toward the Huey. Marcus was the language expert, and as soon as he had the Russian onboard, he hopped back out and came to stand next to Howard.

Sixty meters away, somebody in the Chechen force began yelling in Russian. Howard had a few words and phrases, enough to recognize a "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" query when he heard it.

"What is the name of their secret police force?" Howard asked Marcus, sotto voce.

"Zhalit Kulk, sir."

"Tell them that's who we are. Tell them we're on a secret mission. Tell them to get the h.e.l.l away from here or we'll have their b.a.l.l.s for breakfast." Howard didn't think they'd buy it, but they'd have to think about it. What if it was the truth? Could they take the chance?

"Sir." Marcus turned and loudly rattled off a fast string of Russian.

Howard kept his voice low, but loud enough for his troops to hear over the Huey's twin engines. "Fall back into the transport by twos. Last out, first in."

As the first pair of his troops climbed into the Huey, the Chechen commander yelled something, and his men took more precise aim with their weapons.

"I don't think they want us to leave," Fernandez said.

Howard's belly was suddenly full of dry ice and liquid nitrogen. He nodded. But the longer they stayed here, the more dangerous it got. Somebody might get nervous, his finger might slip, and the first round that went off would trigger a fusillade from both sides.

Slowly and carefully, Howard triggered his com headset, opened the opchan to the second Huey. He hoped they weren't too far away to hear him on the portable. "C2, this is Alpha Wolf."

There was a moment of dead air.

"C2, respond."

"Copy, Alpha, this is C2."

Howard repressed the urge to sigh in relief. "We need a distraction here. There's a big van with a flashing blue light about sixty meters north of our position next to C1. I would appreciate it if you would approach from the north and have somebody lean out and put a couple of magazines of hardball into the roof of that vehicle."

"Consider it a done deal, Alpha. We're coming in."

"Give me an ETA."

"Forty-five seconds, sir."

They hadn't gone far, a thing for which he was extremely thankful at the moment.

"We are leaving, leaving, troops," Howard said, loud enough for his force to hear. At this point, he didn't much care if the opposition heard him. "On my command, by twos, as fast as you can." troops," Howard said, loud enough for his force to hear. At this point, he didn't much care if the opposition heard him. "On my command, by twos, as fast as you can."

He saw a few of the Chechens glance away from their sights, looking up and behind. They'd be able to hear the oncoming Huey's engines--the big Pratt and Whitneys could put out almost 1200 horsepower in a pinch, and at full bore, quiet they were not.

"Stand ready. . . ." Howard said.

In the reflected light from the Chechen vehicles and the yellow sodium lamps outlining the oil tanks, Howard saw the Huey roar in and swing into a drifting broadside turn eighty feet up. After a beat, the rapid yellow-orange flashes of two or three submachine guns blasted from the open doorway.

His troops could shoot. The roof of the van rattled under the jacketed hail.

The Chechens turned to face the new and more active threat.

"Go, go, go!"

Howard's troops piled into the Huey-- The Chechens opened up on the hovering copter-- The last of his troops scrambled into the grounded bird. Only Howard and Fernandez remained outside.

"Get in, Julio!"

"Age before beauty, sir."

Howard grinned, and leaped for the copter. Fernandez b.u.mped him from behind as he cleared the door.

"Lift, lift!" Howard yelled.

The pilot powered up, and the Huey lurched into the sky.

The Chechens realized the attack from the air was a diversion. They turned their fire in two directions. Jacketed bullets chunked into the copter.

"Keep their heads down!" Howard yelled.

Fernandez, closest to the door, opened up, waving his H&K back and forth like a garden hose. The Chechens ducked behind their cover. Bullets hammered their vehicles.

The command Huey canted and fell away at a sharp angle, climbing slowly and spiraling upward. A couple more incoming rounds. .h.i.t and clanged, but a moment later, they were clear.

"C2?" Howard yelled into his mike.

"Right behind you, Alpha."

"Casualties your way?"

"Negative, sir."

"Sergeant?"

"Anybody hit?" Fernandez yelled.

Apparently n.o.body was.

Howard blew out a big breath and grinned. They had done it! Man!

"This is kidnapping! You can't do this!"

Howard regarded the indignant Russian. He felt a cold hatred fill him as he looked at the man.

"You fools will create an international incident! I have influential friends! You cannot expect to get away with it!"

Howard stared at the man. "We already have have gotten away with it." gotten away with it."

The Russian began cursing, in Russian. Howard recognized a few of those words, too. He was not disposed to listen to them. He held his hand up for silence. The Russian fell silent and frowned at him.

"Mister, you killed a man I liked and respected. If you don't shut up right now, right now, you might accidentally fall out of this thing. At this speed and height, you will bounce like a rubber ball when you hit the ground." you might accidentally fall out of this thing. At this speed and height, you will bounce like a rubber ball when you hit the ground."

The Russian apparently decided he had nothing else to say.

Sat.u.r.day, October 9th, 6:54 p.m. Quantico The phone rang in the conference room. Alone, Michaels grabbed it. "Yes?"

"Sir, patching through Colonel Howard," said the voice.

"Commander?"

"Right here, Colonel."

"Mission accomplished, sir. We're in the air and on the way home."

Michaels felt an immense welling of relief. "All right! Congratulations, Colonel. Any problems?"

"Nothing to speak of, sir. A walk in the park."

Toni came back into the room. Michaels looked at her, pointed at the telephone's receiver and gave her the thumb-and-forefinger sign for "okay."

"We should see you in about sixteen hours, Commander, give or take."

"I will look forward to it. Congratulations again, Colonel. Well done."

Michaels broke the connection and grinned at Toni. "They got him. On the way home. Be here tomorrow."

"I'll give Jay Gridley a call," she said. "He wanted to know how it came out."

"Do that."

"So, now what, Alex? If you're right, we have the man who killed Steve Day, even if we can't prove he did it. The woman who muddied up the waters is dead."

"Back to business as usual, I guess," he said. "If I survive the meeting with Carver when I tell him what I did."

"You will. The Director looks at the bottom line. This is like Bush's Noriega deal, or that Iraqi s.n.a.t.c.hed from Baghdad during the last days of the Clinton Administration. Our current President wanted this guy caught, he's caught. He's the DOJ's problem now."

"After we have a few words with him."

"Of course. But basically, it's all over."

"Yes," he said. "All over. And all in all, we didn't do too bad, did we?"

"No. We didn't do too bad."

They grinned at each other.

EPILOGUE.

Sunday, October 10th, 11:30 a.m. Quantico Ruzhyo, dressed in the fatigues of a United States Marine sergeant, stood outside and next to the chain-link fence that surrounded the Net Force HQ building. He was three hundred meters from the front entrance, but the deer rifle inside the duffel bag on the ground next to his feet was more than accurate enough to make that shot on a man-sized target. The rifle was a Remington, and not a Winchester, but it was also 30-06 caliber, and also a bolt-action, like the weapon he had used in Oregon to kill the computer businessman. The main difference was that the scope was optical and not holographic, with a ten-power magnification, and zeroed in at three hundred meters. He had picked this spot for the shot before he set up the rifle.

There was a bus stop here, still so new there was no graffiti drawn upon it. He could dawdle for a few minutes before anybody noticed him. Even on a Sunday, there were people coming and going in enough numbers so that n.o.body would worry overmuch about another Marine waiting to catch a bus.

If the Net Force Commander did not come out for lunch, Ruzhyo would leave, then cycle back later, to see if he could catch him departing for the day. If he did not spot him then, perhaps he would set up along his route home. There was always somewhere.

A plain white Dodge van with government plates pulled up near the entrance. Ruzhyo had a tiny eight-power Bushnell monocular in his pocket, a device small enough to conceal entirely in one hand. He leaned sideways against the fence and cupped the monocular in front of his eye.

The door to the building opened and an attractive brunette emerged, moved to stand by the van. Immediately behind her was Alexander Michaels, and two men who looked like guards flanked him.

Ruzhyo's luck was good. This would have to be fast. A man standing at the fence aiming a rifle would draw attention, Marine or not. He bent, unzipped the duffel bag. The rifle was ready. All he had to do was lift it, stick the barrel through the fence, which would offer an excellent shooting platform, line the crosshairs up and squeeze off the round. A five-second operation if he hurried, perhaps ten if he took his time.

Smooth movements were the key. Nothing jerky. Just lift the weapon, push it through the link, take the deep breath and hold it, find the target. He moved.

The scope, a Leupold, had excellent optics. The sight picture was clear and sharp.

There he was.

Ruzhyo placed the wavering crosshairs on the man's chest. . . .

At this distance, the scope's circular field was large enough so that Michaels did not fill it. Ruzhyo could see the woman, one of the guards, and a military man in uniform stepping from the van.

He allowed half of his indrawn breath to escape. Began his squeeze . . .

s.h.i.t! Ruzhyo took his finger from the trigger. The military man, a black, held another man by the arm.

The man he held was Vladimir Plekhanov!

Ruzhyo was aware that he had to decide to shoot or not, and he had to do it fast. He could not continue to stand here.

So, for all his skill, they had figured out that Plekhanov was their enemy, and they had not only done that, they had had him. him.

Plekhanov, captured. Ruzhyo had spoken with the Russian only two days ago. Amazing.