Precipice: V Plague Book 9 (20 page)

The women
were separated once aboard the helicopter.  Rachel began to speak to Katie
but was slapped across the face by Major Buzinsky hard enough to make her ears
ring.  She glared at him, infuriated when he smiled back and wagged his
index finger in her face like she was a child.

“There will
be plenty of time to talk when we reach our destination.  Unless one of
you wants to tell me who Mrs. Chase is.  Hmmm?  Tell me now and I’ll
let you go when we reach Seattle.  All you have to do is whisper to me.” 
Buzinsky made a production of cupping his hand around his ear, all the better
to hear a whisper.

He smiled,
reminding Katie less of the Cheshire Cat than of a Great White Shark about to
take a chunk out of her flesh.  She wouldn’t have blamed Irina or Rachel
for talking, but knew they wouldn’t.  Neither would give up her identity
any more than she would have theirs.

She knew she
had to be patient.  John always talked about waiting for the right
time.  Of course he would caveat that thought by saying that sometimes you
had to create the right time, which always drove her nuts.  Sometimes he
was a little too Zen about the whole warrior thing. 

“Where are
we going?”  She asked before she realized she was speaking.

“Mrs. Chase,
I presume?”  The Russian met her eyes.

“I’m just
wondering where we’re going,” she said. 

“Where we’re
going is unimportant,” he said.  “What happens to you when we get there is
what matters.”

The man
paused, looking around the compartment and meeting the eyes of each of the
women before continuing.

“I shall
make the offer one final time.  Whoever tells me which one of you is the
wife of Major John Chase will be set free when we reach Seattle.  I will
personally ensure you are given a vehicle, weapons, food and water and you will
be free to go where you wish.  If you do not cooperate, you will be shot
when she is identified.  The offer expires the moment we land.”

The smile on
the Russian’s face belied the somber tone in which he spoke.  But the
reiteration of the offer gave Katie some faint hope.  He wouldn’t be
pushing so hard if he really had a photo of her in John’s file.  It also
gave her hope that John was alive and causing problems for the invaders. 
Why else would they want her so badly if not to use as leverage against him?

“You made a
big mistake, asshole.”  Martinez had regained consciousness and though she
looked like she wanted to throw up, her voice was strong and hard.

“Ahhh… Mrs.
Chase?  But no, I don’t think so.  I think you are an Army or Air
Force pilot.  Unusual for a woman, but not unheard of in America. 
And that means I don’t need you.”

As he said
the last the Russian smiled, drew his weapon and aimed it at Martinez’
head.  She glared back at him, anger burning in her eyes.

“You already
killed his wife,” she said, staring down the barrel of the Makarov pistol.

“But you are
all still alive,” he said.

“You fucking
Russians aren’t as smart as you think you are,” Martinez smiled back at
him.  “You didn’t know that Major Chase is gay?  That man you shot in
the head back at the airport?  That was his wife.”

Martinez
raised her hands and made air quotes with her fingers as she said “wife”.

Doubt and
confusion flickered in the Russian’s eyes, the barrel of the pistol momentarily
wavering.  It was all Katie and Rachel could do not to burst out laughing.

“I think you
are too smart for your own good,” he said after a long pause.  “That is
the correct American expression, yes?  You should be smart enough to tell
me which of you is the Major’s wife.  It will save you from further pain.”

He lowered
the muzzle of his weapon a few degrees and pulled the trigger, shooting
Martinez in the leg.  She cried out in shock as the bullet punched through
her flesh.  There was a moment of stunned silence in the helicopter then
Rachel began to move towards Martinez to check the wound.

She had
barely raised out of her seat when Major Buzinsky hit her with a brutal
backhand that sent her sprawling in the opposite direction.

“I did not
say you could move,” he smiled as Rachel reached up and wiped blood off her
mouth where her lip had split open from the blow.  “Tell me what I want to
know and I’ll let you help her.”

Rachel
stayed where she was, sprawled on the hard deck, and glared silently back at
the man.  From the corner of her eye she could see Martinez hunched
forward in pain, hands grasping the bullet wound.  At least it looked like
she was holding the outer edge of her thigh and hopefully there hadn’t been
that much damage to her leg.

The Russian
turned his head and looked out one of the windows above the side door.  It
was daylight now, grey clouds obscuring the sun.  He raised his body far
enough to get a view of the ground below them before resuming his seat.

“We’ll be
landing in about two minutes.  Last chance.  Who wants to go free?” 

He looked
around the compartment again, the barrel of the Makarov briefly pointing at
each woman as it moved in sync with his eyes.

“I’m who you
want.  I’m Katie Chase.”

Every head
in the helicopter snapped around to look at who had just spoken.  Irina
looked back at them and took a deep breath as she faced their captor.

“I will
cooperate fully.  Whatever you want, as long as you release all three of
them when we land.”  She locked eyes with the Russian.

Katie was
shocked at first, but as the enormity of what Irina was doing began to sink in
she started to speak.  Rachel’s hand shot out and clamped onto her wrist
before she could utter a word.  Buzinsky’s attention was fully on Irina
and he didn’t notice Katie look at Rachel who shook her head.

The Russian
looked at her for a long moment, leaning back in his seat and laughing. 
He holstered the Makarov and pulled a piece of paper from his breast
pocket.  Unfolding it, he looked at whatever was on it for a few
heartbeats then reversed it and held it up for everyone to see.

The
lettering was Cyrillic and no one other than Irina could read it, but the large
black and white photo didn’t need to be translated.  It was a headshot of
Irina, wearing a GRU uniform cap.  It was a Russian wanted poster.

“I do not
think so, Captain Vostov,” he smiled.  “I recognized you the moment I saw
you.  You and the American Major each have a suite reserved at the
Lubyanka Prison in Moscow.  Unless you assist me, in which case I might
have lost the bulletin ordering your immediate arrest.”

Irina stared
at him a moment then sat back with her mouth tightly closed and arms locked
across her chest.  Buzinsky smiled and turned to face Katie and Rachel.

“That leaves
you two,” he said.  “Both beautiful women.  Both younger than the
Major.  But one of you is his wife.  I am certain.  But which
one?  Which of you would he trade his life to save?”

The smile
fell off his face, replaced by confusion when all four women began
laughing.  It went on for several seconds before Katie spoke.

“You know
nothing about him at all,” she said.

“He is going
to gouge out your eyes and skull fuck your bloody corpse, puto!”  Martinez
laughed as the helicopter touched down.

Cool, damp
air smelling of mildew and other things I couldn’t identify flowed through the
opening when Titus pushed the vault door open.  The door swung out into a
tunnel and was a twin of the one we’d come through the night before.  Once
again I was slightly awed by the sheer size of the door and the work it must have
taken to get it down here and properly installed.

“How much
does that thing weigh?”  I asked, following him through the opening into
the tunnel.

“Little over
twenty tons,” he said, swinging it closed and locking it behind us.  “Got
both of ‘em at a government surplus auction.  Damn things cost less than
the couch you slept on last night.  Our fuckin’ tax dollars at work.”

I suppressed
a snort and focused on what I was doing.  The tunnel we were standing in
was six feet wide and ten feet tall.  The floor, ceiling and walls were
smooth, finished concrete.  There was a gentle slope in the floor from
each wall so that the center was a low spot, creating a channel. 

Every twenty
feet or so there was a six-inch-high row of iron bars that ran from wall to
wall and formed a screen to catch debris.  All of them were clogged with
everything from leaves to small tree branches to plastic shopping bags and even
a couple of shoes.  They were there to pre-filter the largest debris
before the water reached the storage tank Titus had mentioned, and I suspected
there had been a routine cleaning schedule since, all things considered, the
tunnel was relatively spotless.

Hanging from
the ceiling was a steel rack that looked like a ladder.  Several thick
bundles of cables rested on its crossbars.  I couldn’t tell what they
were, only that each of them had a pretty serious layer of protective
insulation around it.

“What are
the cables?”  I asked.

“Power,
phone, TV and some more shit I don’t understand,” Titus said.  “They’s how
I got cameras all over.  Some smart ass little tech from the Air Force
that my son-in-law knew came down here and hooked into them.  Kept saying
sumthin ‘bout using bandwish from the phone company, or some such shit.”

“Bandwidth,”
I said.  “But don’t ask me to explain.  I just know the word.”

We began
moving slowly, careful of our footing around the debris traps.  The tunnel
extended as far as I could see in each direction.  At odd intervals in the
top of the walls there were narrow slits where rainwater drained in off the
streets.  It was apparently sunny today as light was coming in each of
these, providing enough illumination for me to see quite well once my eyes had
adjusted. 

“All of the
tunnels just like this one?”  I asked.

“Yep. 
Surprised the hell out of me first time I came down here.  Seems like a
good three-foot pipe would have done the job, but I ain’t no engineer.” 
Titus said.

We walked
about a hundred yards down the tunnel, reaching an intersection.  The
cross tunnel was an exact duplicate of the one we were standing in.  I
looked up when Titus pointed at the ceiling.  A large, iron ring was set
in the smooth concrete, a cast iron manhole cover resting in it.  Light
was visible through two small holes that would be used to lift it out of the
way from above.

“That’s the
way in and out,” he said.  “There’s one at every intersection and usually
at least one, sometimes two, between intersections.”

“That the
only way?”  I asked, standing directly under the manhole and craning my
neck to look it over.

“Nope, there’s
a couple of dozen grates at floor level scattered around.  They had to
build some channels to direct runoff and they kinda slope down into the ground,
so they put a big iron grate at each one.  Look like a jail cell door if’n
you ask me.”

I was
relieved to hear the news as I didn’t see any way to get out through the
manhole.  It was ten feet over my head and probably weighed at least a
hundred pounds.  Even if it was removed ahead of time I wasn’t sure I
could jump high enough to grab the lip of the hole.  These openings were
used by guys who took the covers off at street level and had their own ladders
to get in and out.

“Where’s the
closest one?  I’d like to get a look.”

“This way,”
he said and turned down the cross tunnel.

I fell in
behind him, glad he was moving quietly.  Even though we were hidden from
sight, there were plenty of openings to the streets above.  Making a lot
of noise at the wrong moment could draw the attention of a passing foot
patrol.  Or infected.  I didn’t need either taking an interest in
what was going on beneath their feet.

We walked
for half an hour.  I was hopelessly lost after ten minutes.  But
Titus seemed to know exactly where he was, so I put my trust in him and kept on
going.  Finally, we turned into another intersecting tunnel and after a
few minutes the light began growing brighter.  Soon I could see an opening
ahead, covered by heavy, iron bars.

Beyond the
security grate the tunnel continued on above ground, without a covering roof,
becoming a flood channel.  Carefully stepping up to the bars I peered
through, making sure there weren’t any Russians or infected in sight.  I
could hear an orbiting helicopter, but no other sounds.

There was a
wide gate, set into large hinges, that would swing in.  It was locked with
a thick, iron bar secured by a massive padlock.  I looked it over then
moved to check the hinges.  They were secure.  I wouldn’t be lifting
the gate off of them.

“Don’t
suppose you have a key,” I mumbled to Titus.

“Yep. 
Son-in-law came up with it somehow.”

I turned to
look at him in surprise and he smiled for the first time since I’d met him.

“Where does
this go?”  I asked, gesturing at the flood channel on the outside of the
grate.

“That’s
north,” he nodded his head in the direction.  “We’re on the edge of town
and it’s flat grasslands sloping all the way up to the Interstate.  ‘Bout five
miles of nothin’.”

While we
were standing there the sun suddenly dimmed and we both pressed our faces to
the bars and looked up at the sky.  Clouds were moving in.

“We’d better
get back,” Titus said, turning and heading down the tunnel without waiting to
see if I was following.  “It starts raining, these fill up in a hurry.”

I moved fast
to catch up with him.

“What do you
mean “fill up”?”  I asked.  “How full?”

“Big storm
and they’ll be running at least half full of water.  Average rain and
there’s maybe one or two feet of water runnin’.  Still enough to take your
feet out from under ya if you ain’t payin’ attention.”

It took us
another half hour to reach the vault door.  There wasn’t nearly as much
light in the tunnels and I was pretty sure it was still cloudy.  I was
hoping for rain.  Not enough to prevent me from escaping through the storm
water system, but rain at night is a wonderful camouflage.  It would be
much easier to evade the Russians if the weather cooperated.