Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

The long shadows of late afternoon washed across the base of the valley by the time they arrived at the airstrip. The narrow dirt landing zone lay at the bottom of a canyon between three high walls of rock. The only approach route was straight up its bore. Sykes looked up the narrow defile. His first thought was, it would suit a helicopter better than any fixed-wing aircraft he could think of. A faded and tattered wind sock hung from a pole set beside a rust roofed stone hut on the north side of the strip.

Sykes turned to Petros, “This must have been one of the strips used to drop off supplies to the resistance during the Second World War.”

Petros scrutinized the area with a practiced eye. “Well, the smugglers wasted no time in taking this place over.” He looked over at the wind sock that hung limply from its pole.

Sykes also looked around. Everything looked disused, but something did not click. It took a good five minutes and a closer look at the ground beside the landing strip before he realized what it was. Every ten feet was a small hide large enough for three or four men to crouch in. The hides were covered by a woven screen camouflaged with scrub to look like clumps of brush. It was pretty obvious close up and in daylight, but at night, they would be nearly invisible.

There was little wind and only a few clouds; that was good. Conditions could change in the mountains at this time of year with sudden violence. Sykes checked his watch; the plane wasn’t due to land for another four hours. He chafed at the delay. They had made good time through the mountains and every hour brought the chance of pursuit that much closer.

The three men gathered by the tailgate of the truck. Sykes climbed into the back. He had time, however unwanted, to satisfy his curiosity. He dragged back the canvas flap on the rear of the truck and tied it up to give himself some light. “I want to see exactly what it is we are smuggling.”

Marc joined him and the two men used the tailgate winch to pull one of the transport cases to the tailgate. The first thing to go was the gun tape patch. Sykes sucked his breath in sharply when the international radiation symbol was revealed underneath.

“What the fuck is this?” He undogged the latches and swung the heavy lid up. Sykes looked at the wide metal cylinder nestled in its hard foam cradle. The only break in the cylinder’s face was an inset plug at what was probably the base end for some kind of computer connection. He reached out and ran his hand over the polished silver finish of the face. It was warm to the touch. Sykes jerked his hand back. This was bad, very bad. He leaned back against the side of the truck, his insides churning. With Sykes out of the way, Marc Reoum got his first good look at the device inside the case.

“Merde.”

Sykes nodded, “Too fucking right mate.”

“This is not good. One would be bad enough. What do they need three of these things for?”

Sykes pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes and held it out to Marc who took one. Sykes lit both with his Ronson. His hands were shaking. He had been in the shit before and his hands had never shook. This was really bad.

“Bulk order, I guess.” Sykes’ attempt at a joke landed flat.

Petros had never seen a tactical warhead before. His partners’ reactions worried him. “What is it? What have we stolen?”

“It’s simple, Petros. Our bloody cargo is three nuclear warheads. Our anonymous employer has made us party to the theft of three nukes.” Sykes thumped his fist in frustration on the side of the truck bed. “Shit.”

Petros knew what his partner was thinking and shook his head. “It was a mutual decision, John. The money was very good. If not us, it would have been somebody else.”

The ex-Marine looked at Petros in disbelief. “I don’t care about these things. What worries me is our employer had me kill the Russians and Burghoff when they were no longer needed. This guy covers his tracks. We’re the next rung in the ladder. What’s to stop him from taking care of us once our part is finished?”

Petros shifted from foot to foot. “I think you are being paranoid. This is not our first time working for this particular client.”

“But it was going to be out last, wasn’t it?”

Petros had no answer to that.

Sykes’ mind raced. “Marc, set up a shooting position. Give yourself a good clean field of fire, covering as much of the airfield as you can.” He turned to Petros and pointed to a clump of vegetation beside the far side of the strip. “You may be right and it’s all on the up and up and I really hope you are. In which case, Petros my friend, you may label me a paranoid but, if this is a trap, it would work to our advantage to have you get in one of those hides. It’ll give you a good angle to pop up and get a few shots off into the side of the aircraft as he turns to set up for takeoff.”

The stares of his two partners were grim. “Best we can do for now. If we end up in the shit, they’ll know they were in a fight.”

The two partners moved into position. If Verkatt had sent a hit team out with the plane, Sykes had little doubts about their chances of survival. Now all there was to do was wait. The Kalashnikov came apart easily in his hands as he field-stripped and cleaned it.

A faint drone in the distance snapped Sykes out of a light doze. He locked and loaded his battle rifle. The safety was off and he prayed the batteries would hold out on his night vision goggles. Two dull flashes of light came from the nose of the aircraft. Sykes answered with two return flashes from an infrared flashlight he carried. They had poured gasoline in two tracks on either side of the strip about half an hour ago. Sykes walked over and lit one of the tracks. A line of orange fire took off down the length of the field. Petros did the same to the track in front of his hide.

The pilot was an expert. Side-slipping to lose altitude, he lined up on the two lines of fire and set down at the far end of the runway, bouncing his way towards Sykes. The roar of reverse pitch on the engines was immediate. The aircraft, a turboprop equipped DC-3, came to a stop fifty feet from Sykes’s position. The pilot dropped the starboard engine back to regular pitch and swung the aircraft about for takeoff.

The two side doors were in a perfect firing position for Petros. The twin radial engines coughed down into silence as the pilot cut power. Sykes cursed himself. Of the three of them, he was in the worst position to do anything. The huge tail of the Dakota was ahead of him, denying him a decent field of fire. The only thing to do was be bold. He jumped into the cab of the truck. Miraculously, it started on the first try. Sykes drove it to the front of the DC-3. He kept the lights off. No need to add illumination to any coming fight.

Sykes moved down from the cab and waited. A small hatch in the bottom of the fuselage just behind the pilot’s station fell open. A tall man dropped to the ground through it. Sykes could see that he, too, wore night vision goggles, but no weapons were evident. It was the first good sign. Still, an armed party could be waiting in the cargo section. He watched the man stretch himself before he walked towards Sykes. This was either a very cool customer or there was no trap. Sykes started to have a little hope.

Harris reached down and gave Addison’s shoulder a push. Sean’s eyes snapped open. He relaxed when he saw it was Harris. “What’s up, mate?”

Harris’s face was grim. He handed Sean a message flimsy. “We’re on our bike. Things are really in the shit.”