Blades of Winter (13 page)

HAVANA, CUBA—Early this morning, Cuba’s unique New Year’s traditions, which include eating one grape for
each month, carrying empty suitcases for good luck, and opening both the front and back doors of one’s house, were shattered by a devastating series of blasts that ripped through downtown Havana. Dozens of revelers were killed and thousands more fled for their lives only moments after they finished counting down to midnight. Cuba’s New Year’s celebrations have been the target of terrorist attacks before, but this morning’s bombings—credited to the Cuban Liberation Movement—were unprecedented in their scale.

“We knew it could be a serious attack, and we felt prepared,” said Havana’s chief of police, Duardo Guerrero, “but the CLM has deceived more people into their ranks than we thought.”

When asked if the size of the attack was related to the significant anniversary, he immediately said, “Definitely. It’s been exactly twenty years since Castro took power.” But Fidel Castro’s short-lived reign of terror was crushed only four months later by President Eisenhower’s timely intervention.

The Cuban Liberation Movement is actually a loosely knit patchwork of disparate terrorist groups that share the general goal of “liberating” Cuba from the United States, but their lack of coordinated efforts has thus far relegated them to high-profile but unfocused bombings and airplane hijackings.

One of the CLM’s largest subgroups calls themselves La Fuerza Libertad, or “The Liberty Force.” Backed by a network of wealthy Cuban expatriates, Fuerza is one of the few members of the Cuban Liberation Movement to have a presence outside of Cuba. Although Fuerza did not claim credit for the explosions, Cuban and federal authorities are stepping up their pursuit of this dangerous group’s soldiers and supporters.

There’s no dark like the dark you’re falling through at a hundred-plus miles per hour. My fear is moderated by a delicate balance of uppers combined with some sensory blockers to help me concentrate on what Patrick comms me.

“Scarlet, you’re at three thousand feet. Adjust left, five degrees.”

I lean a little to correct my aim. We want me to land at a big bus depot on the northwestern side of Baghdad. It’s a quiet part of the city, mostly warehouses and empty lots tucked between two dense residential districts. From this height it looks like a dark smudge between two lit-up neighborhoods.

My mission is to drop in, catch a ride with our contact, meet with him at his café in downtown Baghdad, and then get the heck out before sunrise. This is deep inside Germany’s half of the Middle East, plus ExOps still hasn’t told anyone that we’re pulling this job, so I need to be really fast. My time on-site will be minimal—a couple of hours, tops. I move faster when I’m alone, so I’m dropping in while Patrick gives me Info support from our safehouse in Beirut. When I’m done with my meeting I’ll swipe a car and light out for the territories. I should be halfway to Beirut before sunrise. Where we go next depends on what I discover tonight.

“Two thousand feet, on target. Confirm, Scarlet.”

“Roger, Solomon, two-k feet, on target, confirmed.” Night insertions are extra challenging because it’s so easy to become disoriented. This is especially true when
you don’t open your parachute until you’re at five hundred feet to avoid radar detection. I dose one more fix of Kalmers and brace myself.

“One thousand feet. Deploy in three, two, one, now!”

I yank the handle and hear a gratifying rush of air and fabric as the parachute’s canopy expands. The chute’s harness digs into my armpits and crotch as I suddenly brake from 120 miles per hour to just under 10. This is still fast enough to slam my legs out my ass if I screw up the landing, so I focus all my attention on getting on the ground in one piece. Five seconds later I land on the packed dirt of a big empty lot next to the bus depot. Two running steps followed by two dazzling rolls and I’m on terra firma. I unbuckle my skydiving harness and shuck myself out of the straps. Then I gather the chute into a big bundle in my arms while my feet happily reacquaint themselves with solid ground.

Trick comms, “Scarlet, someone’s approaching your position from the north. It might be the Greeter.”

“You can’t tell?” I ask.

“No, he has to run very dark. The Germans in charge of this province don’t agree with his views about their occupation of his country,” Trick comms back.

“Is he armed?” I ask as I pull Li’l Bertha out of her holster. She can scan Mr. North Guy herself, but Trick’s instruments give him a good top-down view.

“Well, yeah,” he comms. “Isn’t everybody?”

I’m about to make a classic Scarlet-style smart-ass reply when he comms, “Wait a sec. There’s two, no, three of them. All different directions.”

So much for smart-ass
. I tell Trick to find me an exit.

“Maybe they’re ours?” I comm.

Unexpectedly, Cyrus comms in. “No, the Greeter would come alone. Solomon, get her the hell out of there.”

Oh, Christ, and here I am still lugging my stupid parachute. Li’l Bertha’s target sensor displays three amber heat signals in my Eyes-Up display. Amber means she doesn’t know if they’re good guys or bad guys.

I comm Cyrus while Trick listens in. “Almighty, this is Scarlet. Request permission to engage.” This is a complex situation. These may be Germans, Arabic locals, or anybody. Even I know to secure clearance before starting these fireworks. I expect Cyrus will need to call us back.

Instead, Cyrus immediately comms, “Permission granted, Scarlet. Fire at will.”

That was fast. A fresh surge of Madrenaline splashes into the Scarlet Speedball I took before the drop and zoots me up.

Patrick comms in, “Targets recognized.” Li’l Bertha goes from amber to crimson and gyroscopes onto the closest target, the guy to the north. Trick continues, “Scarlet, exit to the northeast.”

I perforate Bad Guy North with some standard .30-caliber rounds. His red dot vanishes from my screen. I turn around and backpedal northeast so I can target the other two bozos. The security lights from the bus depot cast long dim shadows across the ground. The light doesn’t reveal much, though, and the glare actually makes the night seem darker.

Li’l Bertha loads up some small stuff to use as suppression because Bad Guys South and West have turned on their heat blockers. I lay down a fog of .12-caliber pellets as I switch to starlight vision. My aim is rotten because I’m still carrying my partially inflated parachute while I run backward across a pitch-dark semipaved lot. Bad Guy South shadows along to my left while Bad Guy West tries to flank around on my right.

That’s enough of this nonsense
. I throw the chute up in the air and position myself so it floats to the ground between me and Bad Guy West, blocking his view of me. I kneel down and take aim at Bad Guy South. Li’l Bertha senses that my posture is more stable and changes from small-caliber pellets to large-caliber slugs. We blow the top of Bad Guy South’s head off with one shot. Strangely, he falls forward. What’s left of his brains pukes out of
the top of his skull as he hits the ground. I’m glad my night vision shows me light and dark but not color.

Without my chute slowing me down I can really move and maneuver now. Bad Guy West charges and fires his pistol at me. I sidestep his shots as I fly up on him and …

“Scarlet! Do not—”

 … bash his nose halfway into his skull.

“—terminate that asset!”

Bad Guy West flies completely off his feet and lands fifteen feet away from me. He exhales sharply as he lands, but he doesn’t budge after that. It’s like I turned him into wood.

The drugs have settled in nicely now. I’ve got exactly the right balance, and an alert but peaceful sense of calm settles over me. “Solomon, what did you say?”

He pauses, then comms, “I was about to remind you of our protocol to interrogate neutralized hostiles.”

“Neutralized? I must have dodged fifty bullets from this guy.”

“Nine.”

“Whatever. If that’s neutralized, then I’m Miss Piggy.”

Trick pauses again. He’s frustrated now. I’m supposed to use a nonlethal takedown for the final member of a hostile group. I know this in training, but out in the field my excitement gets the better of me. There’s nothing like winning a round of kill or be killed. I try to mollify him.

“Maybe that first guy is alive,” I comm to Trick. I know he’s not. His motion signal vanished after I plugged him. Lucky shot, actually. I barely saw him. Given the circumstances, I think this has gone pretty well so far.

Trick still hasn’t spoken. I’m sure he’s holding his glasses in one hand and rubbing his temple with the other.

“Look, Solomon, pout later, all right? Just get me out of this goddamn area.” I gather my parachute again while he gives me directions and coordinates. I stuff the chute in a big Dumpster behind the bus depot.

“What about the meatbags?” I comm to Trick.

“Leave ’em. The Greeter’s guys will take care of them.”

As I walk past Bad Guy West, I take a good look at him. He’s got a blocky head, pale skin, and an ugly, brutish face. I take his picture and save the image for our files.

“Solomon, this guy doesn’t look like he’s from around here.” I send him my picture of Bad Guy West.

“You’re right,” Trick comms back. “More like he’s from KGB central casting.”

I approach the bus depot from the rear. A streetlight illuminates a road in front. “What’s with all the damned Russians lately?”

“I wish I knew, but it looks like things are even worse than Chanez thought. These guys knew exactly where you were going to land. If they’d been Germans, I’d say they’d simply gotten lucky with their radar, but I’m not sure what to make of this.”

“Jesus, Solomon, only three other people know I’m here!” Our pilot tonight knows he dropped someone into Baghdad, but he has no idea who or why. The Greeter knows he’s retrieving someone, but he doesn’t know who or why, either. That leaves Cyrus, Harbaugh, and Director Chanez. Even Cleo doesn’t know where I am.

Trick comms, “From what just happened, I’d say it’s more than three.”

“Do you think the leak is inside ExOps?” I hate even to think this, but I add, “Could it be Jacques?”

“It
could
be anybody,” Trick replies. “But Jacques has been in this game a long time. He’d do a better job of distancing himself from this sort of thing. I mean, we
just
saw him.”

I comm, “True, but he is a little crazy.”

“I know, Scarlet,” Trick comms quietly. “I’ll keep working on it. Keep your eyes open.”

I run around to the road in front of the bus depot. Headlights are coming up the street.

“Solomon, I have a vehicle on approach.”

“That’s probably the Greeter,” Trick comms back.

“Roger that,” I comm. “I see flashing lights behind him. Two cars.”

“Hang on.” I hang on. Trick continues, “That’s the Baghdad police. I’ve got them on my radio scanner. They’re responding to reports of gunshots near the bus depot.”

“Then why are they chasing our guy?”

“Oh-h, I don’t know. Middle of the night, vehicle speeding toward a gun battle. Seems like something a cop would find interesting.”

“What do I do?”

“Do
not
kill those policemen. Russian mercenaries are one thing, but German cops are another.” Trick pauses, then says, “You’d better prepare for a hot mount.”

Well, la de da
. This is doable but I’ll need some serious uppers. I let the headlights drive closer. It’s a step van like UPS delivery guys drive. When the van is fifty yards away, it slows down a little and edges toward the curb. I turn and run up the road, away from the van. As he pulls up alongside me the van’s driver slows down a bit more, but I still need a giant hit of Madrenaline so I can match his speed. I take three sprinting steps and then desperately leap up and grab the handle on the van’s sliding door as it flies past me.

The door is open for me, but I still have to fight the wind to swing myself inside. I land on the floor of the van with a loud thud, and my momentum pitches me under the passenger seat. My knees and elbows rattle on the floor as my body reacts to all the Madrenaline. I gulp a few deep breaths and bump a heavy dose of Kalmers to balance out again. All these drugs make my scalp feels like it’s on fire.

I look up at the Greeter. He’s driving like a maniac but still manages to run his eyes over me and howl, “Whoo-ee! If I knew more girls who could run that fast, I wouldn’t be Lonely Rashid anymore!” I don’t know what he means, but he must, because he laughs uproariously.
It’s like I’ve been picked up by Jacques’s Arabian brother. “You’d better hang on,” he shouts as he swerves onto a side road.