Net Force - Tom Clancy [126]
Howard turned away. Status, Sergeant?
Julio stood behind three TacComp Specialists, who sat on stools in front of a bank of five field computers set up on their own telescoping legs. They were opened like big suitcases with the monitors in the hinged lids. The systems were also ugly-looking-lean-mean-GI-green-but when it came to this kind of hardware, pretty was as pretty did. These were state-of-the-art 900-MHz machines, with the new FireEye bioneuro chips, massive amounts of fiberlight memory, and fourteen hours of active battery power if the local plugs didnt work.
Sir, our squads GPS sig puts them here. He pointed at a map on-screen. There was a tiny red dot flashing in the approximate middle of it. Two kilometers from their destination.
Report?
Their coded signal-bounce three minutes ago stetted a continued ASG-all systems green.
Good.
One of the TCS operators said, We got on-line vid from the Big Bird spysat footprinting the locale. Check this out.
A ghostly phospor-green image of a truck rolling along a dark street from above appeared on one of the screens. As they watched, the truck made a right turn. It passed under a streetlight, and an image appeared on the trucks roof. The TCS op laughed.
Whats funny? Howard asked.
The TCS op touched controls. The image freeze-framed, and increased in size. A little unsharp mask thus, the op said. Look here. A message from the squad.
A crude hand-drawn image on the trucks roof sharpened enough that Howard could make it out. It was a hand, holding up the two-finger sign for the letter V.
V for victory. Howard smiled.
You owe me five, Sarge, the op said.
Howard raised an eyebrow.
Fernandez said, We had a small wager as to what the unit would draw on the truck roof, sir. I believe TCS Jeter here must have gotten to them with a bribe.
What were you betting it would be? Howard asked.
An, uh, illustration somewhat like, uh, this one, sir. Slightly different.
One that featured one finger, sir, the TCS op said. He kept his face deadpan.
Howard grinned again. No matter where they were, no matter what they were up against, soldiers always found some way to relieve the monotony-or the tension.
Carry on, Howard said. He walked back to the window.
Saturday, October 9th, 11:23 p.m. Grozny
Plekhanov was getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth, when the doorbell to his house rang. His house was small, but nicely appointed, and in a neighborhood of such houses. Soon he would have one twice as big in a much better neighborhood. Everything in its own time.
The bell rang again. It had an insistent quality.
It was awfully late for someone to be calling. This could not be good news.
He rinsed his mouth out, dried his face, then put a robe on over his pajamas. He stopped at the small writing table near the entrance, opened the drawer and removed from it the Luger pistol his grandfather had brought back from the German front in 1943.
Pistol in hand, he peered through the fish-eye lens into the door.
A very attractive young woman stood on the stoop. Her hair was in disarray and her lipstick smeared. Her dark blouse was pulled out of her pants, unbuttoned and wide open, revealing her unfettered breasts; her pants, blue jeans, were unzipped, and she held them up with one hand, clutching a wadded bra in the other hand. She appeared to be crying. As he watched, the young woman rang the bell again. He saw her sob.
Goodness. A rape victim?
Plekhanov lowered the gun and opened the door. Yes? May I help you?
A man appeared from out of nowhere. He also wore jeans, a dark T-shirt and a blue Windcheater. He pointed a gun at Plekhanovs face. Yes, sir, you can help us. He spoke Russian, but it wasnt a local accent.
The gunman reached over and gently relieved him of the Luger. Nice gun, he said. Probably worth a lot.
A moment later, two more men joined the woman and the gunman. They seemed to materialize from the bushes and