CHAPTER 4
Their last mission had entailed long hours trapped in commercial aircraft, pretending to be harmless civilians and getting shuffled around at airports.
This deployment was much the same, except the aircraft were military, or sort of.
“Sort of” meant after a civilian flight from Atlanta, the overseas Rotator flight from Baltimore to Rhein-Main Air Base, Germany, then to Aviano Air Base, Italy, where they’d debark before it continued on to Saudi Arabia. It was an old Lockheed Tristar, contracted to the Air Force from ATA, and all the passengers were military. Most were deploying unit elements on their way to Iraq, Kuwait, or Qatar, who’d transfer to military transport aircraft at some point. Kyle and Wade sat near the front, separated from others by a seat or so each way, and tried to get back into the tactical discussion.
“Pity it’s not Pan Am like last time, with the free beer and that nice chicken,” Kyle said. Though he recalled the chicken being Airline Standard Tasteless. And he didn’t drink, even if there had been beer on this flight. But it was standard to complain. The military ran on complaints.
“True. But there’s one really good thing about flying charter,” Wade replied.
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “We can talk about killing, and terrorists, and weapons, and not be dragged off by TSA.” He met the eye of the passing flight attendant, who smiled thinly back at him. Clearly, she wasn’t happy with the subject, but recognized it as something military and legitimate. It was a plus, but at the same time, they’d have to avoid slipping details that would place their mission to Romania. The other troops would tell tales, and those could become leaks. ComSec, it was called. Communications Security. Never say anything in the presence of those who didn’t need to know.
Still, they could study background from books. Wade had a history of Romania he’d picked up online. He’d often expressed the theory that one could never have too much intelligence, and his schooling had been in sociology. He was engrossed in it when not dragged out to deal with mundane issues.
“Hey, Kyle, listen to this about Prince Vlad Dracula,” he said, eyes wide as he leaned back and read aloud:
“ ‘Some Italian ambassadors were sent to him. When they came to him they bowed and removed their hats and they kept on the berets beneath them. Then he asked them why they did not take their caps off, too. They said it was their custom, and they did not even remove them for the emperor. Dracula said, “I wish to reinforce this for you.” He immediately had their caps nailed firmly on their heads so that their caps would not fall off and their custom would remain.’”
“Damn,” Kyle said, “And I thought the drills in boot camp were harsh about hats under cover."
“And this one: ’He [the Sultan] marched on for about five kilometers, when he saw his men pale; the Sultan's army came across a field with stakes, about three kilometers long and one kilometer wide. And there were large stakes on which they could see the impaled bodies of men. women, and children, about twenty thousand of them, as they said. Quite a spectacle for the Turks and the Sultan himself! The Sultan, in wonder, kept saying that he could not conquer the country of a man who could do such terrible and unnatural things and put his power and his subjects to such use. He also used to say that this man who did such things would be worthy of more. And the other Turks, seeing so many people impaled, were scared out of their wits. There were babies clinging to their mothers on stakes, and birds had made nests in their breasts.' ”
“Damn. Al Qaeda has nothing on this guy,” Kyle said, guts churning. Dear God.
“Sounds like. No wonder he got the reputation he did. But he’s a folk hero to some of the locals, because he kept the Turks out.”
“Yeah. Who’d want to invade? Damn.”
Wade echoed his thoughts with, “And we think the scum we’re fighting are obscene. They’ve got nothing on this.”
“I think we can be happy they haven’t read history,” Kyle said.
“They haven’t learned from it, either,” Wade said. “Which is why we’re here. God bless job security and precision shooting.”
“I think I’d rather be unemployed,” Kyle said, somewhat darkly.
“Me, too. But in the meantime . . .”
“Nothing wrong with enjoying our work,” Kyle finished for him.
“Bingo.”
Both men napped for a while. It wasn’t restful. It seemed all the troops heading for Iraq were nervous—understandably so—and wanted to party as hard as was possible without booze. They were loud and boisterous. The crew seemed used to it, and neither sniper was going to complain about fellow soldiers de-stressing, but it did leave them a bit wired by the time they landed at Rhein-Main, Germany. There was a three-hour layover, just long enough for the troops to find an open German bar in the airport and get soused.
On second thought, Kyle wasn’t sure bars in Germany ever closed.
The leg to Italy was much quieter once they re-planed, but the lavatories were somewhat worse for wear, with one hundred troops times six to eight beers. Still, there were worse things, Kyle thought. Getting shot at. Getting shot. Getting friends shot.
He fell asleep over Poland, and still didn’t get any rest.
From Aviano, Italy, they took a plane to Rome, then boarded one for Bucharest. The constant changing of planes did mean a chance to stretch and unkink. But it also meant no sleep. They switched to civilian passports in Rome, and took a few minutes to wash and clean up. The sodas aboard had been useful as time wasters, and slightly refreshing, but Kyle wanted a bottle of water. He needed replenishment, and his military training insisted on water, not sugary snacks. Wade downed another ginger ale, and Kyle wondered how he did it. They’d both had four sodas before reaching Aviano, and that was Kyle’s limit for the day and then some.
It was 8 P.M. local before they arrived in Bucharest, and they’d been awake more than twenty-four hours with all the movement. A few minutes of naps here and there hadn’t done much for their metabolisms.
Otopeni airport was as modern as they’d been told, at least at first glance. It was also small. It wasn’t what Kyle thought of as a hub. He’d seen regional airports Stateside that were bigger. Yet this was the main international center for the entire nation. The fixtures were older desks in metal; there were guards with submachine guns and, then there was the drab, rundown effect that followed the former Eastern Bloc like a bad smell and took years to fade.
Going through customs was straightforward; they showed passports and visas, and declared their cameras and gear. The agent they dealt with was a woman who might be attractive except for a severe uniform of white shirt and blue pants, hair tightly pulled back and square-rimmed glasses that made her face look humorless. She spoke good if accented English.
“What is the purpose of your visit?”
“We’re doing a historical background segment for a documentary. Poenari, Bran, and then across into Turkey.”
“Ah, the history of the Walachia?”
“Yes, at least this segment is.”
“You’ll be seeing at Tirgoviste?”
“I don’t think so. All we have is a list of places, and our specialty is getting good photos. The actual analysis is left to the experts on Dracula.” He grinned.
“Ah, I see. Well, if you have time, do enjoy yourselves also,” she said as she stamped their passports.
“We’ll try to,” Wade said. “Lots of travel, not much free time.”
“Yes. Let me see in your camera bags, please?”
They opened the bags, which contained only a small betacam, a professional digital video recorder, two digital still cameras and a digital audio recorder.
She gave them only a cursory glance. “Very good, gentlemen. Enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you.”
They headed for the restroom, which was modern but in need of cleaning, and took turns in a stall. A quick drain was called for, but the main reason was to dig deep into their personal checked luggage and get out necessary accessories—folding knives, flashlights, and Kyle’s SOG Powerplier pocket tool. These were the very useful items one carried everywhere, in Kyle’s opinion, but couldn’t carry aboard planes anymore. They went in one at a time, Wade slipping in after Kyle was done. Kyle watched the bags while Wade gathered his Kershaw Boa knife and Gerber tool. They’d rather have firearms, but that was not yet an option. But with the basics in pocket and on belt, they were ready to face the world again.
Outside the doors, they sought a Romanian taxia.
“There’s supposed to be one meeting us here,” Kyle said, looking along the ranks of dull vehicles. They ranged from slightly worn to decrepit, as did their drivers. One nearby car started toward them. “ ’Otel?” he called firmly.
“Yes, hotel. Which one?” He wanted to make this man identify himself.
“Marriohtt,” was the reply.
“Yup, that’s it,” he nodded to Wade. He motioned with his head and they started walking.
It was a worn but serviceable old Fiat, technically a four-seater but tiny by American standards. The driver tossed their bags casually into the trunk and they piled into the back, knees against seatback and heads brushing the liner. They clutched at the doorhandles—there were no seatbelts—as he took off and wove into traffic. There was no radio—the hole in the dash where it would go held a hastily mounted two-way for operations instead.
“You have cameras? Sightseeing?” the driver asked. He was about thirty, dark and swarthy with hollow cheeks, and not heavily built.
“Cameras, news,” Wade said.
“Ah, very good,” the driver grinned, nodding much. Perhaps he hoped for a quick image to make him famous. “Very good,” he said.
He zipped through traffic quickly and agilely, shaking fists and shouting an occasional colorful curse at other drivers. The radio chattered, and he picked up a microphone and chattered back. He turned, right and took them onto a long, straight street. They were quite some way from downtown, and it seemed there might be time for a nap.
Kyle leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the buzzing, rattling exhaust and occasional swerves. The radio chattered again and the driver replied.
It took a moment, but then Kyle opened his eyes. He tried not to move too fast, and eased forward again.
“Wade, I think I overhear something bad,” he said very softly.
“Yes?” Wade prompted, conversational and smiling.
“This stuff is almost like the other speech I speak, and I hear something about ‘setup’ and ‘bring the cars’ and ‘they’ve got cameras, could be something . . . er .. . worthwhile.’ ”
Wade laughed as cover. “Oh, that’s good. Got another one?”
“Yeah,” Kyle said, grinning back. “An interception. They fumble, we recover. Pity it can’t be at the forty-five yard line. Or the nine in your case,” he said, hoping it would be cryptic for the driver. He might know some English, after all, and while it was technically a West Germanic language, there were enough words borrowed from Latin that the driver might recognize one word in five. Kyle chose his vocabulary carefully to avoid language, valuable, and any other word that would have a Romance language analog. Never thought I’d want to thank Mrs. Howarth for those weeks of etymology in eighth grade, he said to himself.
“Sure,” Wade agreed. “That was a great game. Who’s the referee?”
“I am. Unless you see the ball first.”
“Got it,” Wade said, nodding and grinning a broad mouthful of teeth. Kyle grinned also, though he didn’t feel cheerful. Fights were never fun, and if it were to be a knife fight, he’d prefer his Ed Brown, which was tucked safely away, he hoped, in the embassy, awaiting their arrival.
But starting a firefight on the streets of Bucharest would be bad anyway. Ideally, they’d talk their way out of trouble, or intimidate or punch. Gunfire would not be discreet. And it wasn’t an option, yet.
They were definitely not getting closer to downtown, and the traffic was getting lighter. “I think we were told about this in passing,” Wade said.
“Seems to be. Oh, well.”
Shortly, another car pulled in front of them. Then they turned onto a smaller, darker side street. It was rough and gravelly in spots. Here comes the pitch, Kyle thought. He kept a bored look on his face.
Then another car pulled in behind. Still he stayed reticent, and so did Wade, even though alarm bells were jangling in his mind.
The two cars were pulling in close. Kyle nodded, but played along so as not to lose the advantage of surprise the enemy thought they had. “What’s happening, driver?” he asked. “They’re too close!”
The driver said something noncommittal with a shrug attached, and slowed. It was a bit too rehearsed for Kyle’s taste; they’d obviously done this before.
But not to two Army Rangers ready for it, you sons of bitches, he thought with a grin he kept concealed. It was time for a lesson in manners.
He and Wade locked eyes for just a moment and nodded readiness. They turned back to their individual sectors of fire, Kyle to the left, Wade to the right.
Then all the cars stopped and men were piling out. They were quiet, which wasn’t a good sign. Quiet meant professional. Professional thugs rather than soldiers, granted, but not amateurs. They moved quickly, they and their shadows darting around the car, clothes and hands brushing against the glass and metal, making whispering sounds that would add to the fear a victim would feel.
Kyle and Wade weren’t victims.
A hand clutched at the door next to him, and Kyle followed it back with his eyes. The man attached to it was skeletal, swarthy and had a broad moustache and long hair around deep eyes. His garb was drab, a jacket and pants with a dark shirt underneath. He held what looked like a tire iron in his other hand.
As the door started to open, Kyle kicked it as hard as he could with his left foot, then stuck both legs down to the ground as he twisted and braced the door with his shoulder. He didn’t crave having it slammed against his shins. His antagonist staggered back as the door hinges crunched from being pushed beyond their limits. It was a light door, and he’d kicked hard. Next to him, he heard Wade grunt with exertion as he did something. There was no time to look, and Wade didn’t sound too bothered, so Kyle kept his attention forward where it belonged. One can’t do the other guy’s job in combat. One has to assume the other guy will do his job properly, even if he’s an idiot.
But Wade was no idiot, and Kyle was perfectly comfortable with him flanking, or backing up, or even leading. They’d meshed quickly as a team during the first mission, and that was carrying over.
Kyle was out the door and standing tall. Crouching would give him better cover, but he was several inches taller than these punks, and meant to use that imposing height as a psychological weapon. See the big American who doesn’t back off? See the big American as he clutches your friend’s tire iron and pulls him in close? See him punch your friend in the face?
It was a close, dirty brawl, and rules hadn’t even been considered. That was fine with Kyle. He could play dirtier than these jerks. His hand hurt like hell, but his attacker, now his victim, went down with his face pulped and gushing dark blood from nostrils and lips. And Kyle had the tire iron.
He was in front of the door, and a younger man, teen really, from the rearguard car was closing from behind. So he kicked the door again, backward, to smack this new threat in the hip. The kid gasped, his eyes popping large above his scraggly beard as he stumbled.
He could hear sounds from the other side that indicated Wade was holding his own, and grinned. In a way, this was fun, a training exercise or warmup for a real fight. But another man was starting to swing the pipe in his hand, and Kyle found himself unable to move. The driver had leaned out the window and clutched him around the waist.
Snarling and trying to do two things at once, Kyle reached in two directions. He tried vainly to get hold of the driver’s fingers and break one, but the man had clutched his hands together. No luck. And that club was raised and close. Ideally, Kyle should just shoot him with 230 grains of persuasion, but that was not an option. He realized he should have had his knife out and ready and gone to town earlier. Rules? What were rules? Except Kyle had been thinking traditionally. He needed to think like a coward and be vicious at once.
It was time for another kick. He raised his right leg and threw his weight behind it. It went straight, the incoming thug ran into it gut first, dropped his pipe, dropped to the ground, and spewed vomit onto the road. Kyle dropped a booted heel on the back of his head, then kicked sideways into his exposed face. That last one wasn’t very effective, but it should leave scrapes and dings.
Meanwhile, he pulled at his left pocket until he got his Kershaw automatic clear, clicked it open and ran the razor sharp blade along the driver’s left arm, from knuckle to mid forearm. He used the curve where the point met the straight edge, and it cut easily.
The driver howled and let go, flinging the black drops that beaded along the wound off to Kyle’s left, the front of the car. That left one more man standing, considering his move.
Which was when Kyle threw the tire iron at him. It smacked into his head with a dull, ringing thunk, and down the guy went. A step to the side cleared Kyle from the driver’s reach. The youth he’d caught with the door was trying to get into position for a rush, and Kyle rushed him instead.
Then the driver cursed and started to drive off.
Most of the thugs were scrambling backward, stumbling to their feet and beating a hasty retreat. Three other cars squealed away, but Kyle was only concerned about the one that held their luggage and very expensive cameras, which Wiesinger would try to make him pay for, no doubt. Also, that he and Wade would be in the ass end of Bucharest with nothing but cell phones and a long wait for backup, “long” being defined as “enough time to get killed.”
He turned to see if Wade was okay, then ran to help when he saw what was happening.
Wade’s legs stuck out from the passenger side of the taxi. He was obviously entangled with the driver and the steering wheel. The vehicle was rubbing against the broken curb. Then it was on the curb. Then it bumped a building front, scraping metal and bouncing to a stop.
Kyle vaulted onto the trunk, then the roof, feeling the metal give under him. He reached carefully into the open window with a sharp knife and said, in Spanish, “Llévenos reservado al hotel o le mataré. Muerte. Comprende?” Take us quietly to the hotel or I will kill you. Dead. Do you understand? He added the basic verb because he wasn’t sure mataré would translate. But muerte should be universal.
There was no argument as the driver replied, “Da, domnule!” in a squeak.
“I’m remembering that as ‘Yes, sir,’ Kyle said. “ ‘Da’ like Russian and dominant something. If not, we’ll deal with him. Let’s go.”
In moments, they were back inside, Kyle behind the driver with the point of his knife against his neck. Wade let his show in the mirror.
Wade looked like hell. His face had taken a beating, and still had a crease where it had been pressed against the steering wheel. He had some blood on him, but a quick check didn’t show a wound. It was the driver’s. Kyle had bruised knuckles and a sore shin, but was otherwise okay. He didn’t remember banging his shin. The driver’s arm wasn’t critical, just superficial and running blood. “Véndelo y conduzca.” Bandage it and drive. The driver nodded agreement, grabbed a rag from the front passenger footwell, and stuffed it up his shirtsleeve. He gingerly took the wheel and started off again, carefully and as directed.
“Want to call our friend now?” Wade asked.
“No, let’s get to the hotel first. I don’t think our boy here is going to cause any more trouble.” This was, after all, a military problem. Unless it became political, Kyle wanted them to deal with it firsthand. Calling for help over minor issues would give the impression they couldn’t handle the job. As long as they were in control, they’d stick to the existing plan.
“Fair enough,” Wade agreed. “Are we giving him a tip?” He indicated the driver.
“Yeah. Don’t fuck with Rangers. That’s a good tip for anyone.”
The streets were getting better lit and better traveled. There were some gorgeous buildings, reminiscent of old Colonial architecture in America, and Turkish, and old Soviet. Bucharest was big, over two million people, and was old enough that the streets were a confusing maze. But the driver made no further attempts at subterfuge. He’d been totally cowed.
Thirty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Marriott. It was new, white, stylish, and a very welcome sight. Kyle let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Things could have gotten bad again.
The driver was sullen as they took their bags from the trunk and piled them on the curb. A bellman in Marriott uniform came to meet them. “Checking in, gentlemen?” he asked in English.
“Yes, reservation, Monroe,” Kyle said.
“Yes, sir,” he agreed. “You came in this?” he indicated the taxia with a concerned and curious wave. Then he stared at Wade’s abused face.
“Eventually,” Kyle said. He slammed the trunk and said to the driver, “Tenga buena noche, OK?” You have a nice evening, okay?
The driver muttered something under his breath and spun tires as he left.
The bellman looked quizzically at them, but led the way inside.
Twenty minutes later, they were upstairs and unloaded, sprawled on the beds and taking turns in the shower.
TV had nothing of real interest; it was all in rapid-fire Romanian that Kyle almost understood. He settled for a mindless game on the laptop until Wade came out, then went in to let hot water beat him senseless and ease some of the bruises from the fight. His hand hurt like hell and was going to be stiff for days. And it was his trigger hand, too. He’d have to be careful.
Within the hour, they were each crashed out asleep atop a bed. Neither one bothered with covers.