Puppet Master Page 37

  White’s voice was drowned out by gunfire. Chelsea lowered her head, as if the bullets were here, not a few hundred yards away. Rattled, she tried to focus on the Nighthawks. That was her job, to spot where the enemy was and tell the others. She flipped on the infrared to make it easier to spot the bodies in the field and woods.

  It was starting to get dark.

  Eight Russians left fighting.

  Another truck coming to the intersection—their intersection.

  Turning.

  “Beefy, we have another truck.”

  “Stay here and don’t move!” Bozzone told her, bolting out of the vehicle with his rifle.

  Tolevi got to his knees. The commando nearest him had been thrown back by the explosion. His Minimi lay on the floor a few feet away.

  Just by coincidence, it was the thug who had taken the first cuts at him.

  Tolevi reached the machine gun just as the commando rose. The Russian held his hand out for it.

  “Here,” said Tolevi, leveling it toward the man’s stomach and pressing the trigger. “See you in hell, scumbag.”

  Chelsea watched Groucho 1 rumble up to the front of the house. The building was blackened and pockmarked; a grenade had gone off in the front yard moments before.

  The idea had been for Groucho 1 to explode as a diversion, allowing Tolevi to go out the back; alternatively, it would be used to clear the way for a frontal assault. Unsure how it could be used now, she left it parked in ready mode, waiting for instructions.

  She looked at Groucho 2, which was sixty seconds from its assigned position at the back barn. Then she looked back at the Nighthawk screen, trying to locate the soldiers and radio their positions to the rest of the team.

  Gunfire rattled outside, very close to the van. She ducked down, folding herself at the waist over the control units.

  It’s not supposed to go like this.

  A sharp rap on the front driver’s side door caught her by surprise, and she twisted around, frozen.

  A face appeared at the window.

  A child’s face. One of the kids who’d been playing soccer.

  Crying.

  Oh my God, thought Chelsea, scrambling to unlock the door.

  Tolevi had never fired a Minimi before and wasn’t used to its heft or kick, both of which affected his aim. But he made up for that with the sheer amount of bullets, cutting the commando nearly in half before letting off of the trigger.

  The other man turned, a puzzled look on his face.

  Tolevi fired. Two bullets flew from the gun, then nothing. He’d emptied the magazine.

  Both bullets missed. The other man, still not entirely comprehending, started to raise his own weapon in defense.

  “Damn it!” yelled Tolevi, launching himself toward him.

  He swung the machine gun up, using it like a spear as he struck the Russian. They tumbled back against the wall as the Russian’s gun began spitting bullets. Tolevi’s hand felt as if it was burning—he’d inadvertently touched the barrel—but by this point he was beyond pain, stoked with adrenaline and fear. He wedged the Minimi against the man’s throat, violently mashing it downward as the other man began to cough. The Russian let go of his gun and tried to push Tolevi away. But Tolevi had too much leverage now, and all of his viciousness, all of his anger and desperation, went into his hands and arms. He pushed against the man’s throat with all his might, awkwardly but effectively, until the man stopped struggling.

  One more slam to make sure, then he sprung up, dropping the empty machine gun on the floor. He started to back out, then, realizing a gun would be more than a little useful, he reached down and grabbed the other Minimi.

  He looked up.

  A man was standing on the other side of the room.

  The butcher.

  “You really are his brother, aren’t you?” said Tolevi, surprised at how similar the men looked in real life. “The pictures don’t do you justice.”

  The butcher shook his head. Tolevi realized he’d been speaking in English.

  “I’m here to get you out,” he said in Ukrainian. “Your brother sent me.”

  “My brother?”

  “He’s outside.” A lie, but it was the easiest way to tell Olak that he was on his side. “I’m an American. With the CIA. Working for them. We’re here to rescue you.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. We’ll get out the back.”

  There were two kids there, both boys eight or nine years old. Chelsea pulled them inside, hit the lock button, then pushed them down beneath the dashboard in front of the seats.

  “Stay down!” she told them in English.

  Their confused looks made it clear they didn’t understand, but Chelsea didn’t have time to try and explain. She went back to the control screens as a fresh volley of gunfire raged nearby.

  Beefy!

  “Chelsea, we’re hearing a lot of gunfire from your area,” said White over the radio. “What’s going on down there?”

  “There’s kids, shit,” she said.

  “What? What are you saying?”

  She looked at the screen. Two Russians were running up the side of the road toward the house.

  “There are two guys coming up the road, off on the shoulder,” she told him.

  “OK, OK. Are you all right?”

  “There was another truck—Beefy’s dealing with it. Beef?”

  There was gunfire outside, then silence. Chelsea felt her chest untighten.

  There was a knock on the passenger side door.

  “Open the door, OK?” Chelsea said to the kids.

  They don’t speak English!

  Chelsea looked at the video screen. Nighthawk 1 was on 10 percent battery. It had to land. She decided instead she would use it as a missile—she zoomed out until she found the truck that had stopped near them, then overrode the safety controls to send it into a crash.

  The pounding at the door continued, more desperate, she thought.

  “I’m coming, Beef,” she said. She left the control unit and scrambled forward. There was no one there.

  “Damn,” she said. She pushed open the locks, then glanced at the children cowering in the front. “Come in the back with me,” she told them. “Come on.”

  She grabbed hold of both of them, urging and pulling. They had just reached the back of the van when the rear door opened.

  “Beefy, I was so wor—”

  She stopped midword. A Russian commando was pointing a rifle at her.

  104

  The box, Boston—about the same time

  “They’ve already started,” said Johansen as Massina entered the box.

  “You should have called me.” Massina stared at the sitrep screen, trying to make out what was going on.

  We’re going to make some huge improvements, he thought to himself. I want to see things in real time, up close, and without relying on their satellites and feeds. It’s going to be easy to ID our people. We’re going to have more bots and devices on the ground. UAVs. It’s going to be our operation.

  “Where are they?” he asked Johansen.

  “They’re at the house.” Johansen’s tone was even sharper than usual. “Still two or three guerillas to take care of. Then they have to get out.”

  “Where are Chelsea and Bozzone?”

  “They’re in their command truck, in the south. It’s out of the frame.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess they’re concentrating the feed on the house. The vans are too far from the action. Don’t worry. Just a few more minutes, and everyone will be fine.”

  105

  North of Donetsk—about the same time

  The UAV struck the Spetsnaz truck with a loud crash. The commando at the door of Chelsea’s van jerked back, looking to see what had happened. Chelsea reached for Peter’s control, hoping to tell the robot to grab the Russian.

  The commando got to her first, pulling her out of the vehicle and throwing her on the ground. He yelled at the children, who la
y frozen in fear on the floor of the van. Then he pointed his gun at them.

  Chelsea jumped up.

  “No! No!” she screamed.

  He tossed her down again. Then he reached in and dragged out the first child. The other followed meekly. The commando shouted something at them, waving with his hand. He wanted them to move.

  Chelsea’s body trembled. Her brain froze.

  And then her father spoke to her, as he had so often before, voice calm but firm.

  Protect the children. Keep your head.

  “Grazhdanskiy,” she said, trying to tell the soldier they were civilians. But either her pronunciation was so bad he couldn’t understand her, or else he was too concerned with getting away from the now smoldering Gaz that he didn’t pay any attention. Chelsea grabbed the children to her, shepherding them up the road.

  One of the kids smelled; he’d wet himself from fear.

  The soldier yelled, then pointed off the road. Chelsea thought of bolting for a moment, then saw that there was another commando sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had a gun cradled in his lap; his pants were red. Obviously he’d been wounded.

  Where was Bozzone? Watching, she hoped. Ready to come to their rescue.

  Or dead.

  There was a building beyond, an outbuilding that belonged to the neighboring farm. The soldier who’d captured them pointed to the building and reeled off a command that could only mean, Inside!

  Chelsea stooped toward the wounded man, intending to try and help—and maybe get his gun. But the other soldier ran up and pushed her away, shoving her toward the children.

  With no other option open, she put a hand on the back of each child and helped them inside the building.

  Tolevi grabbed the butcher by the arm and tugged him to the back of the house. The kitchen window had been shattered. Outside, two Russians crouched by the van he’d been in the first night. One was firing into the woodline—aimed shots, so obviously he had at least a vague idea where his target was.

  The other was looking back at the house.

  “You know how to work this?” Tolevi asked the butcher. “I don’t know how many bullets are in the magazine.”

  “Give me.”

  “Here. I’m going to see if they have other weapons.” Tolevi handed the gun over, then started to leave.

  “American!” yelled the butcher.

  Tolevi looked back. The bastard was holding the gun on him.

  “What?”

  “Hands up or I fire,” said the butcher.

  Tolevi started to raise his hands. The butcher pressed the trigger anyway.

  Borya, thought Tolevi. Borya!

  Nothing happened. Either Tolevi had picked up the wrong gun in the confusion, or both magazines had been emptied.

  I’m nothing if not lucky, thought Tolevi, rushing the butcher.

  106

  The box—about the same time

  The Nighthawk was flying in a circular programmed pattern. The robots were all on standby.

  What was going on?

  Massina tried to make sense of the confusion on the ground. Where was Chelsea? Why wasn’t she moving the mechs toward the knot of enemies on the road? The Grouchos could have taken them out easily.

  Chelsea, aren’t you seeing this?

  Something was very wrong. Massina backed out the image. The control van was empty.

  Damn it.

  He pulled over the keyboard and began typing the override sequences he’d need to take control of Groucho 1 and 2.

  107

  North of Donetsk—about the same time

  By now, Tolevi was so bashed and bruised that he didn’t feel any pain at all as he slammed into the butcher.

  “I’m here to rescue you, asshole. God,” he said over and over as they rolled on the floor, punching and kicking.

  A good three-quarters of the blows by each man missed, but that still meant plenty of punishment for both. They finally fell apart, exhausted. Tolevi jumped to his feet; the butcher slid away, then spun around, revealing a handgun.

  “Listen, you idiot,” said Tolevi. “I’m here to get you out. I’m taking you to the West.”

  “I’m not going west,” snapped the butcher. “Put your hands up and shut your mouth.”

  Chelsea jumped as the door slammed behind her.

  Be calm for the kids.

  The building was a small shed, barely large enough for a tractor; it was completely empty, save for some empty seed bags on the floor. There were two windows, both partially boarded, one on the left and one at the back.

  The children ran to the back window.

  “No, no, get away from it,” she said, going over to them. “Get back!”

  Both boys pointed outside. There was another child outside.

  “Is he all right?” she asked the children inside with her. But they didn’t understand. She waved her arms at the child outside, trying to get him to duck; he just stared at her, dumbfounded by everything that was happening.

  I have to tell the others where I am, she realized. She reached for her radio, then realized that the earbuds weren’t there. She’d lost the headset back near the van somewhere; without it, the radio was useless.

  Break the window and escape.

  It was very narrow, too narrow even for her.

  The smaller of the two kids might make it, though, if she broke the glass.

  She put her elbow next to the bottom of the pane and smacked it through. The glass was surprisingly thick and stubborn—it took three blows before she broke it.

  Hands up, Tolevi moved reluctantly to the door.

  “If we go out there now, we’ll get caught in the cross fire,” he told the butcher. “And we don’t want that, right?”

  “Open the door and let’s go.”

  Chelsea boosted the first boy up. He wiggled into the space, pushing himself back and forth, but he was just too big, and the window was too small. They finally gave up; he slid to the ground.

  “We need your friend to go get Peter,” she told him. “Just the controls, I mean, I dropped it. Can you tell him?”

  The boy gestured apologetically with his hands. He had no clue what she was saying. She tried miming it out, but that was useless as well.

  Translation app, she thought.

  Great idea if she had one.

  “Video game,” she tried. “Control.”

  The boy hesitated a moment. “Videohra?”

  Close enough, she decided. “Controls.” She gestured with her hands. “Back there.”

  The boy went to the window and said something to the kid outside. He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, far too soon to have gotten the controller.

  But he passed something inside.

  A cell phone.

  This is no good to me, Chelsea thought.

  Call Smart Metal. Have them get a translator.

  She started to dial. How long would it take them?

  Borya can speak Ukrainian. And she’s a kid; I can give her the phone and have them talk to her.

  Chelsea hit the Kill button, then punched the country code for the U.S., hoping she remembered Borya’s cell number correctly.

  108

  Boston—a few seconds later

  Borya looked at her cell phone, vibrating on the kitchen table as she did her homework.

  A strange number came up on the ID. It looked very odd.

  Probably someone trying to sell her a credit card.

  She spun the phone around on the table. Homework sucked. She needed a break.

  “Yes?” she said in a funny voice, answering the phone.

  “Borya, this is Chelsea. I dropped the controls to Peter by my van, and I need you to tell these kids to get it.”

  “What? Chelsea? Where are you?”

  “I dropped the controls to Peter and need these kids to run and get it,” said Chelsea. She was out of breath. “Can you tell them?”

  “Um . . . OK.”

  “You have to do it in Ukr
ainian.”

  “OK.”

  “Do you remember what the controller looked like?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do it! Try! Please!”

  Medved checked the address. Tolevi lived in a damn nice house, far nicer than he deserved.

  He was a slime. Clearly, Stratowich was right about him squealing to the FBI—that’s why Stratowich was in jail right now.

  They’d get Stratowich next. The foreign service didn’t like to take risks, which was why they used him in the first place.

  His car was in the driveway. So he was home.

  “Ready?” Medved asked the man alongside him.

  “Just about,” he said, screwing a silencer onto his gun.

  “We get the information first. And my money.”

  “Talk to him all you want. Just as long as he’s mine in the end. No witnesses.”

  “No shit.”

  109

  North of Donetsk—about the same time

  The kids thought it was a game.

  That was one way to deal with it, thought Chelsea as they giggled, passing the phone back and forth. Then the smaller of the two, the one who’d gotten stuck in the window, tiptoed to it and told his friend outside to go get the controller.

  “And tell him not to get caught,” said Chelsea.

  Outside the house, Tolevi slid to the ground, next to the commando who’d been watching the house. The commando still thought he was on his side.

  And apparently he trusted the butcher. None of this was making a lot of sense. Tolevi expected it to implode any minute.

  “They’re coming in the front,” he told the Russian. “Watch this one,” he added, pointing to the butcher. “He’s nuts.”

  The commando waved at him, then turned his attention down the hill, firing at something moving in the brush.