Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (14 page)

On the eastern side of the street, approximately opposite the antique shop, two more of Terry men sat in a rental car. Another one of Terry's men, known to his friends as "Pigfucker," also sat in a car, motor running. That car was combat parked, which is to say, tail to the curb, in front of the restaurant and ready to launch out into traffic in front of the police van. The remaining men, one of Welch's, Buckwheat Fulton, and two of Konstantin's stood, all also with red satchels at their feet or in their hands, at three of the other four roads feeding in to the five way intersection. The centermost of these had two missions, one along Insein Road and the other at Pyay Road, both north of the intersection. Each man, to include those in the vehicles, had mopeds standing by. Terry, who would carry Victor off, had a full fledged motorcycle. It was only recently that the ruling junta had lifted a city-wide ban on mopeds and motorcycles, which had been in effect since the driver of one had accidentally annoyed one of the generals who ran the country by running into said general's motorcade.

Somehow, thought Welch, I expect that ban to be back in place within twenty-four hours.

For what little added security it provided, everyone had been given a makeover by Vladimir Galkin, who was Konstantin's disguise specialist, and widely believed to be homosexual. But, hey, if it didn't bother the Russians who worked with him daily, who were the Americans to object?

It's not really a complex plan, Welch thought, fingers still drumming, but it sure does have a lot of moving parts. That said, there's only seven of us here, and we each have discreet jobs. One, Pigfucker, to crash the cops. He could do that in his sleep. Three to expand the traffic jam have very simple jobs. And three to secure the pickup zone have almost nothing to do once Sergeant Musin turns off from trailing the police. It really ought to work. We've even got some inherent redundancy.

Still, if I didn't worry I don't know what the fuck I'd do. Unconsciously, his fingers picked up the William Tell Overture: Taptaptap, taptaptap,taptaptap, tap, tap . . .

All the members of the two teams were on a constant conference call and had been for over an hour. The common tongue was English, since all of Konstantin's men spoke it, while Terry's only had Farsi, Arabic, and Spanish for foreign languages. Besides that, the Burmese police, for the most part, could get by in English, legacy of the long years under the Empire, in case they had occasion to try to explain something away.

Terry had heard Sergeant Musin's report, just as Konstantin had. "Remember, Major," he said, "no local police get hurt. Those were my orders."

"No problem, Terry," the Russian answered. "We don't, my organization doesn't, want any trouble with the Burmese we don't have to have. For one thing, they're potentially very valuable customers."

"All right then. Annnnd . . . " Terry saw the police van moving at no more than ten miles an hour down Pyay Road. Reaching down for his satchel, he ordered, "Pigfucker, get ‘em."

Unseen by Terry, Konstantin started his watch in stopwatch mode.

"Pigfucker"-known to more polite company as Darrell Hammell-was a Tennessee ridge runner from the general vicinity of Knoxville. His answer was an altogether too loudly shouted "YeeHAW" and the screeching of tires as he launched his car forward into the right front fender of the police van, stopping himself almost cold and spinning the van almost halfway around. A taxi which had been following the van perhaps a bit too closely almost immediately struck the van on the left rear, further spinning it. Another vehicle behind the taxi struck that, while a fourth, fifth and sixth added to the mayhem. A symphony of car horns arose to assault the ears.

***

And that's my signal, thought Praporschik Alexei Baluyev. Baluyev, a Great Russian, very tall and very blond and thus terribly noticeable amidst the much shorter and darker Burmese, stood on the southern side of Hiedan Road, west of the intersection. He bent over to his own little red bag and removed from it a smoke pot. Unscrewing the cap, Baluyev gave it a jerk, yanking the cord that ignited the thing. He rolled it under the auto to his front and, crouching still, padded up to the next car. There he repeated the gesture, even as a cloud of dense smoke was pushed into the lanes of traffic by the wind blowing from the southeast. Amidst the sounds of screeching tires, honking horns, smashing glass, and tortured, twisting metal, Baluyev mounted his moped and began trolling briskly to the east, heading to the rendezvous at the island at the edge of the lake. As he crossed the intersection, he saw to his left that a similar cloud had bisected Insein Road to the north, while another was building along Pyay Road to the northeast.

Ahead of Baluyev, two cars were apparently on flame along University Avenue. To his right, a group of armed men had already surrounded one police van-the target, Baluyev correctly surmised-and the traffic cop on duty at the intersection was obviously drawing his sidearm and sizing up the situation even as a wave of pedestrians passed him fleeing the mayhem to the south. Baluyev pulled his cloned version of the American M-18 Taser from his pocket and shot the policeman in the back. The cop collapsed, twitching like a crack addict in sudden, total withdrawal. Baluyev then took the spare cartridge from its holder below the pistol's grip and placed it on the business end of the less-than-lethal weapon. The Taser-clone then went back into his pocket, where Baluyev lightly caressed it before putting the hand back on the handlebars.

Baluyev hurried on, happily whistling Ochee Chyornya.

Even before the police van came to a rest, Terry's team and Konstantin were racing for it, pulling their weapons from their satchels and firing into the air to frighten away any pedestrians who might come to help the police. Terry and the Russian arrived first, and aimed at the policemen in the front of the van. Both, though stunned by the repetitive car strikes, raised their hands overhead immediately. Little Joe and Rattus arrived a few seconds later. They opened the doors and dragged the slight policemen bodily from the seats, flinging them facedown to the ground. Terry's team had come intending to do the mission, or at least to try to, without doing anyone any lasting bodily harm. Thus, in addition to the tasers provided by the Russians, Rattus and Venegas each had a couple of auto injectors filled with a concoction Hampson had come up with. Once the police were on the ground, and covered by Welch's and Konstantin's weapons, Hampson and Little Joe jumped on their backs, removed auto injectors from pockets, took off the safety caps, and slammed the business ends into uniformed buttocks, sending each of the Burmese cops rapidly into Neverland.

Terry trotted away to get his motorcycle as the two men from the other side of the street, former Sergeants Blackburn-"Blackguard"-and Ryan, ran up. These, too, went to opposite sides of the van, opening the doors and pulling out Mr. Naing and Victor Inning.

"Relax, Victor; it's a rescue!" Konstantin shouted, in Russian.

Mr. Naing was thrown to the ground, a bit more gently than had been the policemen. As Rattus pulled out another auto injector, Naing asked, "Is this going to hurt much?"

"Like the devil," Hampson admitted. "Sorry, Mr. Naing, but it beats prison. And it beats us having to rough you up-worse still, shoot you someplace non-vital-to make it look like you weren't in on this."

"Oh, go ahead and do it, then," the lawyer said with a mix of fear and resignation in his voice.

Rattus nodded once and gave him the shot, in his right thigh. The lawyer squealed once, then went into deep relaxation.

Meanwhile, one of the men from the other side of the street turned Victor around. From his satchel he pulled a set of bolt cutters. "We can get the rest of it later, Mr. Inning," he said. "For now, it's only important that you can hang on to Terry. Trust me, hanging on to Terry when he's driving a bike is a major effort."

With a metallic crack the chain on the cuffs parted just as Terry pulled up on his bike. Little Joe and Blackguard, who had the bolt cutters, physically manhandled Inning onto the bike, placing his arms around Terry. Blackguard then dropped the bolt cutters and pulled out a motorcycle helmet. This was a large size, guaranteed to fit Inning's head . . . which it did with only a minor screech from Victor as the helmet twisted his ear downward. Little Joe slapped Terry upside the helmet. "Go, boss, GO!"

Terry, carrying a still stunned looking Inning, took off with a roar, cutting across stalled traffic and heading for the oval island.

Konstantin consulted his watch again. Ninety-seven seconds. You know, we really might just get away with this. He clapped his hands twice, sending the other five scurrying for their mopeds. He, himself, turned likewise and walked calmly to his own, parked in front of the Green Elephant. Equally calmly, he tied his satchel onto the back of the conveyance, then straddled it, pushing the starter button. The thing sputtered to life as Konstantin sat down. In moments he was entering stalled traffic, between cars mostly abandoned, heading for the other side of Pyay Road and eventual safety. As he moved Konstantin heard police sirens, distant but growing closer.

Of course, our big advantage now is that we are vehicle-borne, while the police are going to have to get on foot to get through the traffic jam we've created.

I hope.

Baluyev saw a Burmese policeman walking west, through the halted traffic, waving his pistol and shouting imprecations in his native tongue. Oh, oh. We planned for all the known cops but this one was not in the plan. Probably some poor bastard just getting off duty.

Halting his moped and glancing to his left rear he saw what had to be, from the size, shape and color of the bike, and the fact that there were two big men mounted on it, the American, Welch, and Victor Inning. Apparently the cop saw them as well, as he pointed both himself and his pistol in their general direction, raising his left hand to order a halt.

Baluyev twisted the handlebars to the left and leaned that way as well, laying the moped down on the asphalt. He extricated his left leg and got up to a crouch, even as his right hand pulled out the Taser. Once the cop took up a deliberate firing stance, Baluyev hesitated not a nanosecond, but fired his two leads into the policeman's side. The cop began a twitching descent to the ground.

Trotting over, Baluyev bent down and patted the policeman's cheek. "No offense, officer," he said, in English, with a New York accent. Once upon a time,
Praporschik
Baluyev had been part of a very highly trained team, oriented to doing some very nasty things in the American northeast.

A motorcycle raced by, its wind and smoky exhaust assailing the Russian. He then scooped up the cop's pistol which he saw was an old Browning. This he stuck in his belt before racing back to his moped.

Terry, riding down the now abandoned sidewalk, saw the cop preparing to shoot and was, himself, a couple of nanoseconds from dumping the bike to try to get himself and Inning out of the line of fire. Just before he did he saw the policeman begin to twitch and fall. He recovered the bike to full upright and gunned it past the fallen constable of the peace without a backward glance. He continued east on the University Avenue sidewalk for another five hundred or so meters before cutting left, just inside the smoke screen still bisecting the road. Here Terry had to slow to weave through the stopped autos. He got as far as the westbound lane before he ran into a series of crashed cars so extensive that he thought he might make better time on foot. He stopped the motorcycle and turned around to shout to Victor, "Can you run?"

"Stop this thing and I'll fly!" the Russian shouted back.

"Come on then." Terry took a folding stock assault rifle Victor instantly suspected was from his own stocks and tossed it, shouting, "Shoot to intimidate, and only if necessary. Do
not
shoot to wound or kill." Then Welch took his own Taser-clone pistol from his pocket. Leaving his helmet on his head and grasping his satchel in hand, Terry took off at a gallop, Victor trailing close behind. They passed school buildings on the left of the gently curving road, mansions galore-in both senses-on the right. Further to the right, past the irregular line of monuments to conspicuous consumption, a Russian-built helicopter could occasionally be glimpsed between dwellings and through trees, as it came in low over the waters of the lake.

"I see your purple smoke," Artur Borsakov said, his helmet mounted microphone transmitting the message in a warble to the man on the ground below, the one who had announced, "I am popping smoke."

I know I've picked that man up before, somewhere, somewhen, thought Borsakov.

"Affirmative, that's us. Enemy situation is negative at this time, but everyone's not here yet."

Borsakov keyed his mike to internal only and asked Cruz, "What do you think, Mike, land or take a turn around the lake?"

"Land, I think, Artur. After all, the LZ is cold."

"Fair enough." Rekeying the microphone, Borsakov said, "We're coming in."

"Roger," answered Tim from the ground. "Be advised we do not have our principle target here yet."

The months of enforced inactivity, at least of cardio-vascular inactivity, had taken their toll. Inning was flagging, however manfully he tried to keep up. Terry had already had to slow to something he considered a crawl, and still the Russian was falling behind.

They heard an almost comical toot-toot behind them and stopped. It was just too silly a sound to be dangerous. Looking to the rear, Welch saw the Russian he knew as Baluyev smiling broadly as he pulled up on his moped.

"Get on, Victor," Baluyev said. Welch immediately began forcibly pushing his charge onto the little vehicle's seat. Once he was there, and his arms placed around Baluyev's mid-section, the former took off again smartly. Terry resumed his foot-gallop.

A number of mopeds belonging to the two teams passed Terry. Though numerous high-pitched horns sounded, nobody offered him a ride until Buckwheat Fulton came to a stop a few feet ahead. Without a word, Terry jumped on back, facing to the rear, his ass on a metal frame and his satchel clutched in his lap. Fulton gunned the thing, if "gunned" was the right word for an engine that measured roughly 3.1 cubic inches and achieved under four horsepower.