Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

“Come on Sergei. Where are you?” As if in answer to his plea, a bright spot burst into view. The smugglers working within the confines of the current iteration of Russia (meet the new boss, same as the old boss) had learned important lessons from the military. Instead of using a shielded light that could be spotted by anybody in the area, they used infra-red spotlights stolen from Russian supply depots. These projected a light source visible to only those possessing thermal imaging equipment or wearing IR vision enhancement goggles like Benjamin. The pilot toggled a switch on his console, turning on and off a similar IR set-up mounted in the nose of his aircraft. The other light blinked back in response. Two parallel lines of dim fire flashed out alongside each outside edge of a darkened runway. Benjamin hated flying at night, a grim irony in his line of work. Sergei Smirnoff, the man on the ground, was one of the best operators in the region, but like all drug dealers, he was not to be trusted. The landing and the load were hazardous enough, but the job he needed Sergei’s help with ran a high risk of getting he and his crew killed, just for asking.

He brought the big plane around. For all of her age, she still handled well. Benjamin had replaced the two original Pratt and Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasp radial motors with more modern Pratt and Whitney PT6A-67 Turboprops a year ago. The older but reliable design Gas Turbine engines gave him more power, greater range, reduced the airframe weight and increased his speed. He’d never regretted the upgrade.

He flicked on the cabin intercom switch, “Get ready by the door guys. I’m bringing her in.”

His two kickers strapped themselves into place by the rear door. As soon as the plane stopped rolling, it was their job to get the bricks of Burmese Tar heroin out the door as fast as possible. The two men, both Filipinos, looked at each other in the darkness. The more religious of the two said a silent prayer for the American to get them on the ground once again.

The landing site sat in a narrow, high-walled valley in Russian-occupied Abkhazia. The modified DC-3 bucked and surged as Benjamin fought a hard crosswind and downdraft coming off the ridge of hills to the aircraft’s starboard side. The goggles made it hard to keep one eye on the console gauges. Benjamin fought the urge to tear them off. He lost visual bearings outside the cockpit with every quick glance down. The starboard wing kept wanting to rise up and slide him port side into the rocky valley floor. The plane soldiered its way through the crosswind all the way down to a bumpy landing. Full reverse pitch on the props slowed the DC-3 to a full stop in short order. As soon as the plane was down, the kickers had the doors open and bricks of heroin tumbled into the waiting arms of men who appeared to have sprouted out of the ground.

Benjamin unbuckled his seat harness with shaking hands, and he pulled himself wearily out of the pilot’s chair. Strapped into the copilot’s seat was a briefcase. Benjamin grabbed it as he went to the crew hatch just behind his seat and opened it. Frigid mountain air rushed into the relative warmth of the cabin. It mixed with the sweat he was drenched with and chilled him instantly. He had trouble extending the crew ladder with fingers numbed by the sudden cold. He gave up and kicked at the release. The ladder slid down with a clatter. Benjamin blew on his hands to warm them. It did no good; contact with the freezing metal of the ladder sucked the life right back out of them again. Once on the ground, he turned around and saw the sturdy figure of Sergei shuffle towards him in the darkness. The goggles made the Georgian look like a green and white ghost.

“There is only one man stupid enough to fly here on a night like this.” His thickly accented English boomed. Sergei’s face broke out in a wide, gap-toothed grin. “I hope that it is your ugly face under that contraption, friend Benjamin.”

Benjamin laughed. Sergei was, if anything, a character. “Sergei, you old bastard, don’t you ever tire of this?”

Sergei’s laugh shook his whole body, “Never, my friend. It keeps me and the Checkisti bastards entertained. Besides, games are for old men with nothing better to do with their time. A few more shipments of product and I will be living like the Czars of old.” Sergei produced a bottle of Starka Vodka in his left hand. “I thought you might need a drink after….” He made a motion like a falling leaf with his right hand.

Benjamin nodded and reached out to take the proffered bottle. He pulled the night goggles from his face and clipped them to his belt. The Starka was warm and burned a path of fire down his throat into his belly. He took two deep swallows and let the warmth move through his body a little before speaking. “Verkatt has some local business for you. He needs something only you can get him. The payment is very big.”

“That fat pig of a South African? What could he want out here in my territory? He gets his cut always.”

“Sergei, believe me, you do have something that he needs and it’s worth a lot to him to get your help.”

“What does he want?”

“He needs you to liberate three SCUD warheads.”

He could get those from anybody these days. Why here?

“He’s not after conventional warheads; he’s after the other kind.”

“And by other, I take it you don’t mean chemical.”

“No, not chemical.”

Sergei’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “Yes, well I’ll just have a talk with some of them, then they can run down to the base and ask if they have any spares.”

“Think about it, Sergei. You’d be stealing what they prize most out from under their noses. It would be a revenge well paid for.”

Sergei turned his back to Benjamin and spoke out into the night. “You talk about revenge, Benjamin. You try to bait me with the past. Perhaps you think me just a puppet.”

“And underestimate you? I know who you are, Sergio. I’ve heard of the things you’ve done in revenge.”

Sergei snorted, “Revenge? No, that was business.”

Benjamin kept his voice level. “From what I hear, it was family business.”

Sergei turned back around, his eyes glittered in the darkness. “Amazing how history always finds the guilty.”

“If you look hard enough.”

A dark chuckle rumbled out of Sergei. “Yes, if you look hard enough.”

“I need to know, do I continue or do we end this here?”

Sergei slipped back into sarcasm. “You’ve come all this way; I might as well hear you out.”

“Verkatt heard that you have certain members of a nearby mobile base dependent on your exclusive services.”

Sergei nodded, “There are a few, yes.”

“Sergei, there are many.”

Sergei stepped back, clearly irritated. “Yes, damn you, there are many. Every other day, one of them, sometimes more, overdoses, leaving me and my men stuck walking the pigs round and round, hoping to God they don’t die and start an investigation.”

“How many of them are technical types?”

“Maybe an even dozen.”

This was the first good news Benjamin had received all night. “For this thing to work, Verkatt needs at least three of them. I assume that this dozen are all officers?”

Sergei’s reply was a verbal sneer, “That’s what they call themselves.”

“How bad are their individual habits?”

“They range. Most just smoke themselves into insensibility. They have low-grade habits. Most can hold out payday to payday.”

“How the hell do they function?”

“The same as always: barely.”

“Verkatt needs three of them that have access to the warheads.”

“This is going to cost.”

“Verkatt is aware of that.” Benjamin held up the briefcase in his left hand. “This is three kilos of refined heroin. Verkatt considers it a down payment. Inside is an envelope with complete instructions and a key to a Swiss account containing three million US in Krugerrands.”