Dale Brown - Act of War

“I said go!” Amaral shouted. “Marco! Jose! Onde estão você? Vindo aqui…!”

“Judge Amaral, I have information that one of Jorge’s lieutenants, a man by the name of Zakharov, engineered the nuclear attack in the United States,” Kristen said quickly. “I don’t believe Jorge knew about this attack beforehand. I believe this man did this under the name of GAMMA without Jorge’s knowledge or authorization. I don’t know why he would do this, but…”

“I know nothing of this Zakharov!” Amaral cried out. “Jose! Marco…!” He peered into the darkness, obviously wondering where his men were. “Vindo rapidamente! Eu necessito-o…!”

“Espera, pai,” they heard in a soft voice. Kristen turned…and saw Jorge Ruiz himself appear out of the darkness around a corner of the farmhouse.

“Jorge, nao…”

“Todos endireitam, pai,” Ruiz said. He clasped Amaral on the shoulder and gave Amaral’s wife a kiss on the forehead, then turned toward the others. “Kristen Skyy from SATCOM One,” he said in a soft, almost accent-free voice with a tired but sincere smile. “Nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“I’m glad to see you’re alive, Jorge,” she said. “Why did you call Judge Amaral ‘father’?”

“Because he is my father, my natural father,” he replied. “He used his position to keep the adoption records secret, but he shared them with me after my adoptive parents’ murder.”

“And he used his position as a federal judge to get this land when the government seized it,” Kristen said, “knowing he could protect you and tell you when the PME had it under surveillance?”

“Sim,” Jorge said. “But after the attack in the United States, the whole world will have this place under careful watch. It is too dangerous for them to be here. I came back to warn them to leave.”

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Kristen said. “You are in serious danger. A Russian by the name of Khalimov was ordered to assassinate Manuel Pereira in Santos. I believe he’ll be after you next.”

“Is Manuel dead?” Kristen looked at Ariadna, then feigned a disappointed expression; Ruiz immediately interpreted it as a “yes.” “I am so sorry,” he said. “He tried to warn me about Zakharov and Khalimov. I thought it was just competição, Zakharov being a colonel and Manuel only being a sergeant. I thought…”

“Zakharov is a colonel?” Kristen asked. “A Russian colonel?”

“The questions can wait, Kristen,” Ariadna said. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulled the walkie-talkie from her jeans. “I hope you guys can hear me…”

“Now, who might you be talking to, menina?” a strange, heavily accented voice asked. Out of the darkness behind Ruiz walked Amaral’s two farmhands, Jose and Marco, with their hands on their heads, their shotguns nowhere in sight, followed by two men with silenced automatic pistols aimed at their heads. They were followed by a huge barrel-chested, square-jawed man in a dark hunting jacket, dark pants, and gloves, carrying an immense sniper rifle. “We must get acquainted. I insist.”

The Policia Militar do Estado Jeep approached the SATCOM One News jet in its isolated spot on the parking ramp at Abaete Regional Airport and stopped beside the outer perimeter guard, driver-to-driver as cops on patrol did all around the world. If the inner guard stationed by the jet had been paying any attention, he might have noticed two bursts of light inside the second Jeep, but he was standing behind the tail of the jet, a few meters away from the little blue vinyl tent erected there by the American engineers working on their device, having a cigarette and staring out across the ramp toward the terminal building, wishing he was inside having a beer.

The oncoming Jeep shut off its headlights, then briefly flashed its amber parking lights a few moments later, not enough to get the inner guard’s attention. Unseen by the lone guard, a man dressed completely in black, hidden in the brush just outside the airport perimeter fence, slipped through a cut already made in the chain-link fence, lay flat on the ground at the very edge of the tarmac about fifty meters from the jet, and raised his sniper rifle. The scope’s light-intensifying optics showed the lone guard in clear detail in the sniper’s crosshairs, his body illuminated only by his cigarette…

A few moments later, one of the men in the oncoming Jeep heard “Dal’she” in Russian in his headset. “The last guard’s been eliminated,” he told the driver. “Let’s go.” They dismounted from their Jeep and walked toward the vinyl tent quickly, trying not to appear rushed or excited, their Beretta M12 submachine guns with sound suppressors affixed slung behind them, readily accessible but out of sight. There was a dim light on in the cockpit, probably from a reading light. The entry door was open, and there appeared to be a light on somewhere inside the cabin. There was a powerful light on under the blue vinyl tent in the back of the plane, and they could see some instrument with blinking red lights and an occasional electronic tone, and what appeared to be a lone individual sitting on a chair inside.

The two men drew their weapons as they approached the jet. One crouched beside the open entry door, covering the interior, while the other stepped quickly around the left wing tip, his weapon trained on the tent. Once he was in position, the first assailant near the entry door said in English, “This is Sergeant Cardoso, Policia Militar do Estado, Minas Gerais. I need to speak with the pilot, please.”

“Just a sec,” a voice said from inside. “He’s in the lavatory.”

“It’s important,” the first assailant said.

“Okay. Stand by.”

The second assailant crouched low so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside through the windows and followed the trailing edge of the left wing, ready to fire. He had strict orders not to shoot the plane itself because the boss was going to fly it out of there tonight, so he didn’t want to fire toward the left engine, which was partially obscured by the tent. He could see and hear the jet moving as someone stepped down the aisle. Now he was almost at the fuselage, and he could see enough of the engine out the tent’s front opening that he knew he wouldn’t hit it. The footsteps behind him were louder—the pilot or whoever was inside was almost at the entry door. He could see the blinking test equipment, the canvas camp stool, and now the open baggage compartment door…

…but there was no one underneath. “Huyn’a!” he swore in Russian into his headset. “Poostoy!” He moved toward the tent—no one there at all. There was a duffel bag on the camp chair with a jacket placed atop it to make it look like a person sitting in the chair! “Bayoos shto nyet!” He dashed around it toward the tail, aiming his rifle back at the entry door, waiting for whoever it was to come out…and then realized that his comrade was gone.

He heard a rustling sound and quickly aimed his rifle at the sound. It was the lone PME guard who had been stationed near the plane, the one he thought had been shot by his sniper, kneeling beside the unmoving form of the sniper out at the edge of the pavement! The guard got to his feet and started looking around, unsure of which way to run. The Russian aimed at him and set the fire-select switch to three-round burst…

…when suddenly his Beretta submachine gun flew up and out of his hands before he could squeeze the trigger. He turned and saw a massive dark figure standing beside him…then a blur of motion, just before he felt the blow to the side of his head. His vision was obscured by a curtain of stars, then nothing.

Jason Richter, inside CID One, destroyed the Beretta submachine gun with one quick twist of his robotic hand as he made his way to the entry door. “Captain!” he shouted. The pilot appeared from behind a seat, a pistol in his hands. “Get this thing ready to fly! If anyone else comes near this plane, kill them!”