Countdown_ The Liberators Part 13

"Three quarters of a million Yuan, for the lot of you, not counting whatever you make for this job," Ed replied. "Plus the same when the mission is completed. With that, you should be able to put a down payment on a boat."

"It is most fair, Captain," the Chinese agreed, bowing his head slightly. "And, since you have hired us, I promise that we are your men for the duration. And since we are your men, those cradles you're having us build? Three of those are obviously for landing craft, LCM-6s if I'm not mistaken. They're too narrow to be for LCM-8s. But the fourth and fifth?"

"One is for a patrol boat," Kosciusko said. "The other's for a small submarine. Don't worry about the sub; it comes with its own cradle. We just need something to hold that."

"I thought so about the patrol boat. The submarine was within the realm of the possible. But we have a problem, skipper."

"Which is."

"We need more exact dimensions for both, patrol boat and minisub cradle, or we risk damaging their hulls if . . . when . . . we hit bad seas."

"I don't have them yet."

"Then, Captain, we need a lot more lumber and some hardware and we need to redesign the cradles to allow us to tighten them down on the things they're supposed to hold secure. Also some tires we can chop up."

"You have an idea?"

"As it so happens."

I don't know, thought Kosciusko, whether I ought to be insulted this guy knows my job-parts of it, anyway-better than I do, or pleased that he does.

"And we need some additional structural steel, I-beams, Captain," Chin added, "W10x22s. Mmmm . . . say . . . two hundred and forty meters' worth in twelve meter long sections."

"What for?" Ed asked.

"Helicopter landing pads off of the main deck. And you need a lot of paint stored. And sprayers, and . . . "

"How are we going to get you and your people out of here?" Kosciusko asked. "If your departure would be a security concern . . . "

"I am the only real problem. Well, myself and my wife, Kai-ying. Most of my people and their families can be smuggled aboard. For us, we'll have to meet you somewhere on the water. I . . . we . . . have a small boat. It wouldn't do to take us out very far to sea, but it would do to link up with you somewhere past, say, Lamma Island."

"That should work," Kosciusko agreed. "a.s.suming, of course."

"Yes, a.s.suming."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Forbid a man to think for himself or to act for himself and you may add the joy of piracy and the zest of smuggling to his life.

-Elbert Hubbard

D-112, Mae Hong Song Province, Thailand

Outside the hut in which the former Special Forces and Spetznaz men rested, Mike Cruz and Artur Borsakov supervised as their ground crew repainted the helicopters from World Food Bank colors to new ones, with the words "Exploratory Mining and Drilling Support, Inc."

Inside, with the snores of his rescuers droning in his ears, Victor Inning was mildly insulted. Not a word, not a blessed word. Here I am, the most notorious arms dealer at large in the world and the b.l.o.o.d.y Burmese never even announced my escape. Oh, maybe they told their neighbors, on the sly, but as far as a public announcement goes, nothing. What's the use of smuggling arms to half the countries in the world, and every continent, when no one appreciates you for the master of the trade you are? Why, it's almost enough to make me give up the calling. What's the use of smuggling arms to half the countries in the world, and every continent, when no one appreciates you for the master of the trade you are? Why, it's almost enough to make me give up the calling.

He snorted softly. Nah. This is too much fun. Where I'm going to come up with everything on the requisition list, however . . . ?

Inning stopped scribbling in the note book in front of him and asked Welch, "This patrol boat your people are picking up in Helsinki, how big is it?"

"Good size," Welch replied, "eighty feet and change. Why?"

"Well . . . for reasons best kept to myself, I've got a number of equipment and supply sets stashed in various places. They're generally set up to equip a squad, or a platoon, or a company. One of these, for a small platoon, is near Tallinn, Estonia. So they'd have little trouble picking it up with a big enough boat, sailing from Finland. But."

"But?"

"It's a twenty-four man set. Has everything. Arms-suppressed submachine guns, Kalashnikovs, PKs, Dragunovs, and RPGs, in this case-plus ammunition, night vision-yes, with batteries-individual equipment, body armor, uniforms. Even combat rations, though they may not be to taste."

Konstantin made a ugly face, which earned him a dirty look from Inning. "Well, Jesus, Victor," the major said, "the meat in the things is fifty percent fat. Okay to make a soup with, maybe, but straight out of the can it's vile," he further explained to Terry. "I'd strongly recommend that your people stock up on canned or smoked meat, cheese, and fish in Finland."

"What's so bad about it?" Welch asked.

"Ever have a dog?" Konstantin answered. "Well . . . think of what you fed your dog."

Other than the dirty look, Victor ignored him. "Plus one 60mm mortar and eighty rounds, mixed, HE, HC, and illuminating. Also one 30mm automatic grenade launcher. One heavy machine gun. There's a demolition kit, plus another two hundred kilograms of SEMTEX. It even has scuba-actually rebreathers-since it's near the sea, and two rubber boats, big enough to carry a dozen men each, with small engines. But if I crack it, it's gone to me. It either all goes or none of it does. You people will have to buy the whole set and guarantee to move it all out."

"Wherever did you get 60mm mortars?" Welch asked. "The Soviets never made them."

"Portugal via Mozambique," Victor said, further explaining, "They're short range commando types. Eight hundred meters range, max."

"Cost?" Terry asked. "For the set, I mean."

Victor seemed to consider that for a while, possibly subtracting from his initial asking price the value of one rescue from a Burmese h.e.l.l hole. "One hundred and eighty thousand USD. Trust me; it's a bargain."

"Where do you hide something like that?" Welch asked.

"Baltiyski. The locals call it Paldiski. Or did you mean specifically? That you won't know until the money transfers."

"Don't be silly, Victor," Konstantin said. "They're not going to stiff you over such a measly sum when they need you to get them ever so much more."

Inning considered that. With a shrug, he answered, "On the grounds of the Orthodox Church. I have the priest on retainer. And, believe me, he needs the money."

"I'm not familiar with the place," Welch said.

Konstantin spoke up. His voice seemed mildly tinged with embarra.s.sment. "It was a Soviet naval base for training nuclear submarine crews. Had its own reactors-two of them-and a mock up of a submarine. Those, and the usual c.r.a.ppy socialist living arrangements. Estonians weren't, for the most part, allowed in. Barbed wire, guard towers. Now that the navy's gone, it's practically a ghost town, some Estonians and a few thousand Russians abandoned by the motherland."

"Sounds lovely."

"Anyway," Victor interjected, "do you want the package, the whole package, or not?"

Welch nodded. He had authority from Stauer to commit a lot more funds than that. "How do our people get the goods? Just pull into port, knock on the priest's door, and say, 'Hi, we're from Victor and we want all the weapons you've been hiding?'"

Inning smiled at the sarcasm. "It's a little more complex. There's a code phrase. Once your people give it to the priest, he'll turn over the stuff readily enough. And I can download a map to the church for you to forward."

Welch put a palm across his mouth and drummed his fingers against his left cheek. "All right," he agreed. "The price seems reasonable, even if we don't need all of the equipment. I'll have my boss make the transfer-you do have an account you want the money sent to, yes?-later today.

"Now what about the other materiel?"

"All the small arms and smaller items I have or can get. But for the armored cars I'm going to have to go to South Africa. And Israel."

"South Africa I can see," Welch said. "I've been told they had a huge stockpile of the things. But why Israel?"

Inning c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "There's a company in Tel Aviv that more or less specializes in rebuilding armored cars, especially Panhard AMLs and the South African version, the Eland."

"I don't think we have the time to move the things to Israel, get them built, then move them to Brazil, in time to train crews."

"Good point," Inning agreed. "Israel first then. We'll steal them and then fix them in South Africa before sending them on to Brazil. Or maybe even fix them up at sea on the way."

Victor closed his eyes for a moment, in deep concentration. When he opened them he wrote a series of words, in English, on a piece of paper. He then drew a simplistic map below the word. "This is your code phrase, and how to find the church. I suggest your people go in during the daytime. Night would be more suspicious in a place like that than day. They can move the cache at night. I will notify the priest."

"What if your cache doesn't have what the team needs?" Welch asked.

"Then I can't help you in time," Victor answered. "What's there is what's available within a reasonable time. Still, I think your people will be pleasantly surprised."

At that Konstantin snorted. "Oh, I imagine. Except for the food, of course. Once they sniff that swill they'll wonder why we didn't get rid of the reds long before we did."

Which earned him another dirty look from Victor.

D-111, Paldiski, Estonia

It had been about a four hour trip, Helsinki to Paldiski. And that was without really straining the engines for more than was required to test them and the hull. Even at that, the time zone change made it only a three hour time difference.

Biggus d.i.c.kus Thornton was singing something about a "three hour tour" as he twisted the patrol boat's tail hard aport to ease it into the completely unguarded small harbor west of the town. They'd considered naming the boat after President Kennedy, what with PT-109 and all, but since that one sank, it was perhaps a bad omen. Calling it the Mary Jo Kopeckne had similar issues. But since one person, and a close relative of President Kennedy, to boot, had proven well night unsinkable, in any sense, the PT boat now bore upon its stern the name, The Drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d, or b.a.s.t.a.r.d for shorts.

High gray cliffs arose on the right, towering over questionable docks with a few fishermen seated on them. Biggus d.i.c.kus cut power and eased in to the docks. One of his team members, a short, dark sort named Michael Antoniewicz, nicknamed by his team mates "Eeyore" because he could carry a house on his back and would sink into the earth before bending under the strain, leapt across the water, rope in hand, to tie the boat off.

There was a gray haired, heavily bearded, ca.s.socked priest there waiting at the dock, as well. The priest walked over and said something in Russian to Antoniewicz. The sailor just shrugged. Despite the Eastern European name, he had not a word of Russian or any other Slavic language.

Pointing at Biggus, Eeyore said, in English, "See him. He has what you need."

The priest held up thumb and forefinger a couple of millimeters apart and said, "I spik leetle Englizh." Then he shrugged, himself, and went to stand by the boat from which Biggus jumped with the grace of a much younger man.

"Father Pavel?" Biggus asked.

The priest nodded as if solemnity was in his very nature.

"Victor sends, 'Saturn-Concert-Bagration.'"

The priest nodded again and said, "You come." He then turned and began to lead the group up the crumbling stairs that led up the cliffs and toward the town.

"Simmons, guard the boat," Biggus ordered the biggest and meanest looking of his crew, barring only himself.

"With what?"

"With your d.i.c.k. And, while we're gone, get us an update on the position and schedule of the George Galloway."

At Pakri street the group turned away from the sea. Off in the distance was a white painted, stone church tower. "Lut'eran," Father Pavel said, pointing. Biggus' eyes glanced left and right continuously, not searching for threats, but in wonder at the nearly complete ruin of a naval town. There were apartment buildings, crumbling, not just empty of people but empty of wooden doors and gla.s.s windows as well. On the plus side, off to the east, there were at least eight power-generating windmills in sight.

"My name is Ozymandias," the chief whispered, despite the windmills. A few modern artifacts couldn't overcome the wreck of the city. Biggus' eyes glanced at a hand painted sign, in both Cyrillic and Latin letters. "Welcome to h.e.l.l," said the bottom half of the sign, in English. "I believe it," Biggus agreed. Below that, someone had added "Gays." Thornton couldn't imagine, Why the h.e.l.l should they be worrying about gays, given everything else?

"You know, Chief," Antoniewicz said, "it's odd. I haven't seen a cop yet."

"What's to steal?" Biggus answered, reasonably.

"My truck if not keep gun," Father Pavel answered.

The stash turned out to be hidden under the crumbling concrete of a ruined building next to Saint George's Orthodox Church. The church, itself, was one of the very few buildings they'd seen since arrival that was not a complete and utter wreck. The Lutheran church was another. Biggus commented on that to Father Pavel.

"Victor generous," the priest answered. "Finns . . . Swedes more generous to own peeples." He pointed with a finger at a particular section of concrete chunks and said, "You move this. Bring out material. I get truck."

"You heard the man, boys," Biggus said.

Eeyore looked down at the ma.s.s. "How the f.u.c.k do we move all this s.h.i.+t?"

"The usual way, Michael," the chief answered. "One piece at a time."