Jay Lake - Last Plane to Heaven

“Snipers my ass.” I was less confident than him on that. Not much less, but a careful troopie lived to see chow call. “Only you can prevent forest fires.”

“Smokey the fucking Mongolian bear!”

Then the Antonov was overhead, growling out of the dust in a reek of fuel and old metal, the pilot looking for the windsock.

Say what you want about Sov technology, the shit they built just keeps working. That old An-17 had probably been flying, badly, when I was playing kill-the-ragheads in the Oregon forests as a kid. It was still flying badly now. As the fly-guys say, any landing you walk away from is a good landing.

The south Gobi is a series of very shallow valleys bordered by low ridges a half dozen klicks apart. The desert is sort of like prairie gone bad, with stubby, dried grasses, the odd flower, and a hell of a lot of gravel. If you look up and down the valleys, you can see the edge of the world.

The strip here was a windsock stuck in the hardpan. Every now and then someone got tired of the planes bouncing in their wheel ruts and replanted the windsock fifty yards farther east. There was an archaeology of occupation and warfare written in the tracks of old landing gear.

Most of the Westerners in the ’stans were like Nichols. Smart enough, and stone killers in a firefight or on a silent op, but pretty much baboons otherwise. A million years ago they would have been the big apes throwing shit from the trees. Now they’re out here capping ragheads and steppe weasels. I guess that beats breaking elbows for money back home.

I tried explaining Temujin to Nichols one time as we were burning some idealistic kids out of an eight-hundred-year-old temple. Blue-faced demons crisped to winter ash while their ammo cooked off in a funeral cantata. He’d just laughed and told me to go back to college if I didn’t like it here.

It’s a beautiful country, Mongolia. All the ’stans are beautiful in their way. Xin Jiang, too. Nichols was wrong about this being the asshole of the earth. God had made these countries, all right, to remind us all how damned tough the world was. And how beauty could rise from the hard choices and broken lives.

Then God in His infinite wisdom had chosen to people these lands with some of the toughest sons of bitches to ever draw breath. These people could hold a grudge for a thousand years and didn’t mind eating bullets to avenge their honor.

Fuck you very much, God, for Your beauty and Your terror. Not to mention Sov aircraft to dust us off to the brothels of Ulan Bator every once in a while. Nothing expressed God’s love for His world like warm North Korean beer and elderly Chechen hookers.

“Yo, Allen, get in here!”

It was Korunov. His head bobbed out the weathered orange door of the ger that served as our HQ. Ex-KGB counterintel guy. He’d spent a lot of time at the USA-Canada Institute, back when that was still cranking, and spoke with the damnedest accent. His voice was part Alabama cornpone and part Ukrainian street hustler, squeaking out of a two-hundred-kilo butterball.

Hell, he must have been thin once. Nobody starts out life that kind of fat.

Korunov considered himself a man of the world. He was also the paymaster of our little unit, so when he yo’d, I ho’d.

Nichols and Korunov were crowded into the ger along with Batugan—our Mongolian controller back in UB and the only man to get off the Antonov upon arrival. As always, the pilot remained on board to keep his points hot. Plus Hannaday was there. He was an Agency cowboy I’d last seen on the wrong end of a Glock in Kandahar two years earlier. Whipcord thin, still wearing the same damned Armani suit.

How the fuck had that spook gotten into the camp without me seeing him? My legs still ached whenever it got chilly. I briefly considered firing off my Stinger inside the ger, just punching the warhead into Hannaday’s chest, but that would have pretty much toasted us all.

“Stow it,” growled Korunov. Two hundred kilos or not, that man could and did snap necks.

“What’s he doing here?” I wouldn’t meet Hannaday’s gaze. “He’s worse trouble than the insurgency.”

Batugan gave me his oily smile. I don’t think he had any other kind, truth be told. “Mr. Hannaday has bought out your contracts.”

“My contract wasn’t up for sale to him.”

Korunov got too close to me. “Sit. Listen.”

I laid the Stinger against the tent walls, loosed the holster on my Smitty, then pulled up one of those little orange Mongolian stools. I never took my eyes off Hannaday’s hands. “Listening, sir .”

“You should be—” Batugan began, but Korunov interrupted. “Not your show anymore, Genghis.”

The fat man’s voice dropped, sympathy or perhaps an attempt at camaraderie, as he turned to me. “Our financial backers have pulled out. Batugan flew here to cut us loose.”

Cut us loose here? We were a training cadre. They brought in kids with attitude, we ran them through some high-fatality training, they pulled them back out to go fight the bad guys. There was no way out but by plane. That way the kids wouldn’t run off. And no one ever came around asking inconvenient questions about the row of graves on the far side of the ger camp.

You could make it out by truck. Damned long haul, though, and you had to pack along enough water and fuel. Didn’t matter anyhow. There weren’t any trucks in camp right now, just a couple of old Chinese-surplus BJC jeeps.

Not a lot of landmarks in the south Gobi. Sure as hell no roads.

“So?” I wasn’t a decision maker. Why were they telling me?

Korunov chose his words carefully. “Mr. Hannaday here is bankrolling airfare back to Los Angeles or Frankfurt, plus a generous kill fee.”

I finally met Hannaday’s eyes. They gleamed that same eerie blue as back in Kandahar. His smile died there.

“I don’t care what he wants. I’d rather walk than take his money.”

“That’s why we need you, Mr. Allen,” Hannaday said. “The unit listens to you.” There was something wrong with his voice—it grated, almost fading out.

With that clue, even in the shadowed ger, I could make out a scar seaming his throat. It was a glossy trail just above the crisp Windsor knot of his tie. I’d lost my best knife in that throat, the day he shot me.

“You don’t talk right, I don’t walk right.” Which was why I trained instead of killed these days. “I think we’ve done enough for each other.” I stood, grabbed my missile rack.

“Allen.” It was Korunov.

I owed him. Lots. I stopped to listen. “Yeah?”

“We don’t have seats on the plane. None of us. Not without Mr. Hannaday.”

I had eleven guys outside who were real good at knocking over airplanes, Nichols chief among them. But I also had eleven guys outside who weren’t going to be happy about hiking out of the south Gobi.

“We got return bonds, Sergei,” I told Korunov softly.

He shrugged, his face impassive. “If we were elsewhere, we could cash them. Mr. Hannaday bought the air transport contract from Batugan before he bought our paper.”

I had my Smitty out and two rounds in Batugan, one in each thigh. The Mongolian fell off his stool sobbing, curling to clutch at his legs. Neither Hannaday nor Korunov moved. Neither one drew down on me.

“So I am worth something to you, you son of a bitch.” Careful not to point the weapon at Hannaday, I holstered the pistol. “What the fuck do you want, airplane man?”

“Like you, I’m—”

“You’ll never be like me, you fucking Langley suit.”

“Please,” Hannaday said. One hand stroked the knot of his tie. I hoped like hell the scar ached as bad as my legs. “Fort Meade. And, like you, I’m a contractor now.” Without looking, he leaned over slightly and slapped Batugan hard. The Mongolian quieted his blubbering.