The Lazarus Moment (21 page)

She
laughed, placing a hand on his arm. “How about we continue this conversation
tomorrow when we’re actually rescued and eating your steak?”

“Sounds
like a good idea.” He looked at the group, ready to go. “I guess we better get
moving.” He flashed her a smile then stepped away to address the group, leaving
her with zero indication he was at all interested.

The
good ones are always taken.

O. R. Tambo International Airport, Gauteng, South Africa

Igor Khomenko stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and nodded
with satisfaction. He looked completely different. He just wished he had hair
to restyle, but his chemo had put an end to that. Instead, he sported a New
York Fire Department ball cap, the brim curved nicely, the dark blue fading
after putting it through a lot of abuse over the past several weeks.
Non-prescription glasses with thick rims distracted from his eyes, gray contact
lenses hid his distinctive green, and a thick, fake mustache completed his
ensemble.

Along
with the FSB provided United States of America passport.

Plan B
was in full effect.

With one
final look in the mirror, he extended the handle on his carry-on and rolled it
out of the bathroom and into the terminal, hundreds of people hurrying to and
from flights. Security was heavy, heavier than when he had arrived, and every
television set in sight was tuned to coverage of the Air Force One crash, which
suited him fine.

Heads
tilted up at a screen would take no notice of him.

Using
one of the automated terminals, he checked himself in, selecting no luggage,
allowing him to bypass the check-in counter and head straight for security. If
he could make it through there, he would probably be home free, though there
was still the risk they might shut the airport down, though at this point he
was certain the authorities had no reason to believe he would be foolhardy
enough to go to the one place with more security than the government buildings.

They’ll
never look for you in the belly of the beast.

The key
was confidence.

One of
the advantages of knowing you were going to die, regardless of what you did, was
that you didn’t care if you were caught. He wasn’t fleeing the authorities
because he wanted to remain a free man, he was heading for home because he
wanted to die in Donetsk, to be buried beside his wife and child, to rest for
eternity gazing out upon the land he had fought so hard for, and lost so much
to, for the rest of eternity.

The
lineup was long but moving well. A group of heavily armed police entered the
area, spreading out, eyeballing the crowd.

People
alone attract attention.

He
glanced at the person behind him and noticed he was holding an American
passport. “What do you think that’s all about?” he asked the man, motioning toward
the additional security with a tilt of his head.

The
American shook his head. “I don’t know, might be related to the President.”

Khomenko
frowned. “I still can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Oh he’s
not dead!”

Khomenko
felt almost every muscle in his body contract. “What do you mean he’s not
dead?”

The man
held up his cellphone, a website too small for Khomenko to read flipping from
portrait to landscape then back. “They just reported on CNN that over half the
people survived, including the entire First Family. Isn’t that amazing?”

Khomenko’s
jaw clamped shut, hard.

“You
okay?”

He
nodded, finally taking a breath. “Yes, I’m just shocked. Relieved, of course.”
He shuffled forward. “I guess I had just resigned myself to the fact they were
all dead. To find out this, well, it’s like a miracle.”

“Yeah,
it’s quite the Lazarus Moment, isn’t it? They swore in a new president and
everything.” The man paused for a moment. “I wonder how that works.”

Khomenko
grunted, his eyes casually scanning the security personnel, he now making a
point of standing beside his new companion, making it look like they had been
together the entire time. He realized the man was waiting for a response. “I
wouldn’t know, I don’t think that was on the citizenship exam.”

The man glanced
down at Khomenko’s passport, clutched in his hand with his boarding pass. “How
long have you been a citizen?”

“Almost
two years.”

“That’s
great. Where you from originally? Your accent sounds East European. Russian?”

“Very
good. You’ve got a good ear.”

“Just a
lucky guess. Your English is very good but I guess you never really lose the
accent when you’re our age.”

Khomenko
smiled slightly. “No, I guess you don’t.”

“I guess
you’re happy to be out of there, what with everything going on.”

Khomenko
felt his chest tighten, his cheeks flushing involuntarily as he prepared
himself for another ignorant American’s opinion of Mother Russia. “Such as?”

“Well,
what that guy’s doing in Moscow, trying to bring back the Soviet Union and
everything.”

“Russia
was never stronger than when it was part of the Soviet Union. A lot of people
long for those days.”

The man
frowned. “It’s been twenty five years since the Soviet Union collapsed and
probably another five before they were a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who
longs for the old days is either too young to remember how bad it actually was,
or too old to accept how much better things are now. To want to go back to that
insanity, is, well, insane.” The man nodded toward the screener. “You’re up.
Nice talking to you.”

Khomenko
nodded, trying to control his rage. “Have a good flight.” He handed his
passport and boarding pass over then lifted his bag onto the scanner. He
emptied his pockets, placing everything into a gray tray then stepped through
the scanner cleanly. Filling his pockets, he grabbed his bag and returned a
wave from the American, then made a beeline for the nearest bathroom.

Thirty
minutes until boarding.

Then he
could breathe easier.

He just
hoped he didn’t run into the ignorant American.

He might
just have to kill him.

His rage
over the idiocy spouted by the uninformed fool wasn’t enough, however, to push
aside his confusion over the news the man had delivered, it so unbelievable he
had to confirm it for himself.

His
heart sank as he read the headline on his smartphone.

President
Starling Alive!

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Red crouched behind a massive tree with the others, their harassment
campaign a success so far. They had easily eliminated half the opposition, yet
the men kept pressing on. The rebels would return fire, usually while running
away, their guns outstretched behind them, then when they realized they weren’t
being fired upon, regroup and continue forward.

Each
time it cost them maybe ten or fifteen minutes, and each time they seemed to
recover quicker, now taking to randomly spraying gunfire out ahead of their
advance.

Which
was why the team was positioned to their left flank.

“Lucky
we’re not facing trained soldiers,” said Jimmy as the first of the hostiles
came into view. “If they just pressed their numerical advantage, we wouldn’t
stand much of a chance.”

Jagger
nodded, taking a bead on a target. “Yup, I love amateurs.” He glanced at Red.
“Shall we?”

Red
nodded, motioning for them to spread out as one of the rebels emptied a mag
into the jungle ahead of him.

Jagger
took up position on the opposite side of the tree, Jimmy and Wings taking up
position to their left and right, behind trees of their own. Red activated his
comm. “On three… two… one… execute.”

Red
squeezed the trigger, eliminating one of the targets in his arc, then twice
more, another two down, but this time they reacted differently. Instead of running,
they all dropped to the ground and opened fire, mostly in his team’s direction.

Red was
already bugging out using the massive tree for cover, Jagger directly behind
him, the others on their flanks. He heard Jimmy yelp to his right and he looked
over, the operator still running at full tilt, whatever had caused him to cry
out obviously not enough to put him out of commission.

The
gunfire stopped behind them and they immediately slowed, not wanting to give
away their position by snapping any branches. They broke left, to head back in
the direction of the crash site and get ahead of the group again. He looked at
Jimmy who was examining a tear in the left arm of his shirt. He held up his
fingers.

Blood.

Jimmy
shrugged. “I guess I spoke too soon.”

“You
okay?”

He
nodded. “Yeah, just don’t tell my mom.”

“If I
did I’d have to kill her, and none of us wants that.” Jimmy didn’t say
anything, instead examining his wound as they continued forward. “Right?”

Jimmy glanced
up. “Huh?”

Red
laughed, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s get a little ahead of our friends
then we’ll take a quick look at that.”

Jimmy slapped
it then glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m more concerned
with their response to our last attack.”

Red
nodded. “Agreed. I think they’re getting tired of being killed off twelve by
twelve.” He looked at Wings. “What do you figure? Thirty left?”

Wings
stepped around a tree. “At most. I can’t see them wanting to stick around much
longer.”

Wings
was right, but the question was
how
much longer. They had hit them four
times, eliminating almost fifty of them, yet they continued to advance, either
through incredible courage or a greater fear of what might happen to them if
they were to retreat. He had dealt with these types before, and failure wasn’t
an option for them. Quite often they had taskmasters back at their base that
would kill one or more of them as an example, terrifying those left alive
enough never to consider retreating again.

It
usually meant a high body count, though it also sometimes meant victory.
Casualties that might send some forces scurrying in retreat quite often only spurred
these extremely motivated soldiers forward, which could be very dangerous when
the opposition was few in number.

Like
today.

“They
seemed to have grown some balls,” he said, “which changes things. We’re going
to have to switch things up.”

Wings
stepped over to a wincing Jimmy, tearing his sleeve apart. “What have you got
in mind?” he asked, cutting off Jimmy’s protest with a look.

“I think
it’s time we stopped taking it easy on them.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Spock had zero doubt now that he was hearing MP5s battling an
assortment of AKs. It was clearly a delaying op, the MP5s firing single rounds,
almost overlapping, never more than three bursts, all within seconds.

They’re
thinning the herd.

It must
be a vastly superior force, at least in number. He doubted even government
forces in this area would be anything to reckon with if it were an even fight,
rebels even less so, especially rebels out of practice. If he remembered his
briefing on the area properly, the RENAMO rebels were technically at peace, now
part of the government, though not all had laid down their arms. If that’s who
they were dealing with, whoever was harassing them wouldn’t be dealing with
much skill, but they also might be dealing with men who had nothing to lose and
nothing to live for.

There
could be no doubt what they were after. The President. Or at least the plane.
Whether they knew what plane had crashed or not was moot. A jetliner meant a
huge payday just from the luggage alone.

And if they
knew there were survivors, the ransom they had probably been promised would
fuel their greed enough that they wouldn’t care how many of their comrades died
in trying to reach the crash site.

As long
as it wasn’t themselves.

He
glanced up, trying to get a bead on the sun through the thick trees, it getting
lower in the sky as afternoon turned into evening. It would be getting dark
soon, which would make it not only more difficult to find what he assumed was
Red’s team, but more dangerous.

He
pressed forward, hoping to get in behind them so he could see his friends
coming, rather than stumble upon the rebel group, painfully aware he had no
weapon.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Dawson stared up at the treetops, it clear the sun was getting lower
in the sky, the daylight that managed to cast a dim glow from above through the
canopy, dying. They could still see fairly clearly, but someone ahead snapped
on their flashlight, followed quickly by the others.

He
wasn’t going to bother reminding them about preserving the batteries. Either
the rebels or the rescue team would be on them long before they’d have a chance
to run out, and if it were the former, the last thing they’d want would be
flashlight beams giving away their position.

They had
barely travelled a mile, the going tough. The small group on the other side of
the river had asked if they could move ahead but Dawson had refused, it more
important for the two sides to stick together. The other group had no wounded
to contend with and he could understand their desire to put some distance
between themselves and the rebels, though according to the last update, both
the rebels and rescue party were on this side of the river.

And
apparently Red and the boys were thinning the rebels out extremely effectively,
to the point there might be none left soon, which would take the pressure off,
allowing them to actually set up camp and wait for the rescue team. That
obviously would be the ideal situation, he not wanting to travel in the dark.
They only had half a dozen flashlights, which meant too much opportunity for
someone to twist an ankle. And one twisted ankle could be even slower than two
people carrying a stretcher.