Cyborg Strike (14 page)

Muzik glanced sharply at the other man.
“Still sealed?”

The man looked slightly insulted. “Of course.
We’re not amateurs.”

“Sorry. We’re not field agents –”

“Obviously,” the man said drily.

“– but we’re the best at our own jobs, so how
about we lose the attitude?” Muzik stared at the man’s eyes in the
rear-view mirror until he looked away.

“Right. Well, we have a couple of hours to
drive. Everybody like Abba?” Olsen reached for the music
player.

Two hours and a couple dozen oldies later,
after a lovely drive through pastureland and evergreen-covered
hills, they arrived at a nondescript farmhouse on the outskirts of
Kouvola. Inside its barn a standard intermodal shipping container
stood. Repeth and Muzik exchanged glances, remembering the last
time they had seen one up close – from the inside, when it had
contained the mini-sub with which they had hijacked the USS
Nebraska
.

“Funny lock,” Olsen remarked, and he examined
it closely. What held the door closed looked different from the
usual: two keyholes and a number pad, and it was no padlock.
Rather, it was installed within the door.

“Yes…” Muzik pulled a key out on a chain
around his neck, while Repeth did the same.

“At least we’re not…” She almost continued,
“
launching nuclear missiles again
,” when she realized that
those words were not something she wanted to bandy in front of a
stranger.

Muzik nodded to show that he understood, then
stepped forward with his key. Together they inserted them and then
punched in half of the number sequence. The door opened. He looked
inside for along moment with a pocket flashlight, then shut and
locked it again. “We’ll get some sleep, and then we’ll gear up at,”
he checked his watch, “2000 hours. At that time, sir, you need to
have that boat trailer in this barn.”

Olsen nodded, questioning no further, and
left.

Repeth looked around the inside of the
structure. Two draft horses moved restlessly in stalls, and a dozen
bales of hay were stacked against the wall, with more in the loft
four meters above. She took a deep breath of farm smell, and then
went over to make friends with the equines. A measure of oats each
from a nearby bin was all it took.

That task done and the horses settled, she
flicked her eyes upward, then jumped to the top of the ladder
leading to the loft above.

Landing crouched in the attic-like space, she
examined every bit of it. “Look for a root cellar or anything on
the ground, will you, Mister Stein?”
I may not be a CIA field
agent, but I know how to check security.

Pressing a spot on her inner wrist, she ran
her hand along the floor, walls and ceiling, checking for bugs or
other electronics. All she found was one electrical wire that fed
the bare bulb above, and a lot more hay. She looked out of the
upper window, seeing little but farms for miles. All seemed quiet.
Murphy is nowhere in sight...for now.

“Nothing down here,” Muzik called.

“Good. Let’s rest up for a bit.”

“You don’t want to check out the
vehicle?”

“No,” said Repeth. “I’m sure it’s exactly how
we packed it, and I’d rather sleep first and then kit up than the
reverse. If by some bizarre chance something happens, I’d rather
not have a few million bucks worth of illegal stuff scattered
around for some Finnish sheriff to stumble over on a random
visit.”

“I don’t think Finland has sheriffs.”

“Constables, then. Whatever. Besides, I think
Olsen’s just a little too curious. I bet the quality of spook in
the Agency has fallen off somewhat in the last few years…or
something’s amiss.”

Muzik looked thoughtful. “You think there is
something wrong?”

“No. If I did, I’d have everything broken out
and we’d push up the timetable to throw any opponents off. I just
get a funny vibe off the man.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He jumped up into the
loft with her holding a couple of horse blankets. “Might as well
start our snooze. You first?”

“Fine.” She grabbed the coverings and lay
down in the hay while Muzik took first watch. She slept
immediately.

Three hours later they switched, and three
hours after that Repeth found her vague fears unjustified.
Precisely on time, Olsen backed the SUV with a heavy marine trailer
into the barn and up to the container. Hopping out, he asked,
“Okay, what now? You got a boat in there I presume?’

Muzik just grunted, and waved Repeth over.
They opened the container and then folded the hinged sides down,
pulling large pieces of packing foam away.

“Damn,” Olsen breathed.

Within stood a submersible. Smaller than the
one with which they had boarded the nuclear submarine so long ago,
it was made of carbon fiber and was large enough to fit two
uncomfortably. Everything they needed nested within, out of
sight.

“Let’s get it loaded,” Repeth said, and Olsen
reeled off the hook and cable from the trailer’s winch. Soon it
inched slowly up onto the padded rails.

“That’s going to be a bit conspicuous,” Olsen
remarked.

“Not when we get through with it.” Repeth
climbed onto the craft and opened the hatch, pulling out a flexible
frame. A gas cylinder inflated it and soon the skeleton of what
looked like a boat surrounded the submersible. The next thing to
come out of the hatch was a series of snap-on custom tarps. In ten
minutes, what sat on the trailer resembled a large fishing boat
covered up for the weather. It wouldn’t stand a close inspection,
but they did not expect to be subject to one.

“Let’s go,” Repeth said, swinging into the
truck’s passenger seat. She took one last deep breath of hay and
horse before shutting the door. “Nice country, this.”

“Yes it is. Thinking of retiring here,” Olsen
responded.

So…that’s all I’m sensing. Olsen’s gone a
bit native. Probably has a local girl tucked away somewhere, and is
having second thoughts about his work
. “Olsen,” she spoke up,
“We’re not supposed to tell you anything about this op, but if it
will help you sleep at night, it’s nothing to do with Finland, and
shouldn’t backfire into here.”

Olsen licked his lips, then nodded, relaxing
slightly. They drove in silence from then on, except for the
radio.

Three hours later they approached the Russian
border near Simpele. Soon they turned off onto a rutted track
heading southeast, and slowed down. Olsen engaged the four-wheel
drive. “Poacher’s road,” he remarked. “Hunting is strictly
controlled in Finland, so a lot of them sneak into Russia for good
unregistered game. If they get caught on that side, they just pay
off the officials.”

The sun was just going down in this far
northern latitude, a half hour until midnight. Ten minutes later
they turned onto an even tinier track that led to a cabin two
hundred meters back. “All right, then this is as far as I go.”
Olsen retrieved a stout walking stick, a backpack and a flashlight
from the back of the SUV. “I’ll be staying here until you get back,
up to a week. Just rejoin the main track and keep heading
southeast.”

Muzik held up a map in a plastic case. “Got
it. Hopefully we’ll see you in two days. Just monitor your secure
radio. Thanks for everything.” Muzik hopped out and took the
driver’s seat.

“Right. Good luck.”

Fifteen minutes later they reached Russia,
but this area was so sparsely populated there wasn’t even a sign,
just a tumbledown shack that looked like it had last been used
during the First Cold War. Twilight deepened but Muzik declined to
turn on the lights until they broke out of the trees and onto a
marginally paved road.

“Okay, it’s about twenty kilometers to
Elisenvaara, then another twenty to Kurkiyeki. From there we just
have to find the inlet.”

An hour of slow travel later – the road was
terrible, and Muzik did not want to jostle the submersible too
badly – they arrived at the fishing village they sought. Only a
couple of lights burned in what looked to be a public house, and
they quickly passed through, ignoring the few witnesses in the
dark, driving out of town to the southwest. Two minutes later
Repeth directed them onto another tiny road and into some heavy
woods.

“This one should run right across a low
bridge a long ways from any habitation.” She checked the satellite
imagery in her hand with her dim flashlight once more. “Just up a
couple of minutes.”

Soon they broke out of the trees and saw the
bridge they expected in front of them. Pulling carefully off the
road, they got out in the dim light of the false sunset and
examined the lay of the land.

“Damn. Bank’s too steep. There’s no way we
can back this trailer down it.”

Muzik looked at the water, the sheer
five-meter drop-off, then at the truck. “We winch it down. It only
weighs a ton or so. Then we float it out a bit, ditch the trailer,
hide the truck and swim back out to it.”

“All right. Deflate the hide frame.” Soon
they had the trailer back up to the edge of the short embankment
and carefully slid the thing off the trailer and down to the
water’s edge. At the bottom, they grasped the handles, two on a
side, and braced their feet. “Ready? One, two,
three
.”

Laminated bones and polymerized muscles
creaking, they lifted the micro-sub and carried it heavily into a
meter of water or so, feet sinking a foot into the soft lake bed,
then set it down and slid it further out until it floated.

“No current. It should be fine.” They
scrambled up the bank muddy and dripping, and then detached the
trailer. Carrying it fifty meters down the shore on the other side
of the bridge, they lifted it together and launched it as far as
they can to fall into the water. Fortunately, it was deep enough to
cover the flat shallow thing.

Next the SUV itself went into the woods, with
the boat tarps covering it first, then some cut branches. Hopefully
no hunter or fisherman would stumble across it in the next days.
Worst case scenario, if it was stolen or damaged they could hoof it
back across the Finnish border to the cabin.

Returning to the bridge, they suddenly
stopped short. A man stood upon it with a fishing pole and a tackle
box, looking the other direction in the dim light.

Staring at the sub.

“How’s your Russian?” Repeth whispered.

“Decent, actually.”

She looked at Muzik in surprise.

“What, you think ‘Muzik’ is a good English
name like yours? Grandpa came from Slovakia after the war. He made
us learn Slovak and Russian.”

“All yours, then.”

“For what?”

“We can’t let him report this.”

“I’m not going to kill him, but if we knock
him out, he’ll inform the police and they will find the SUV and the
trailer. Not to mention he’ll tell them about the sub.”

“Dammit.” Repeth thought for a moment, hissed
and pointed. “Do something. He’s going down to get a closer
look.”

Muzik swore in response, then stood up and
walked toward the bridge on the road. Once on the low bridge, he
called out something Repeth could not make out. She crept up along
the road’s embankment, staying out of sight.

Switching her vision on her left, cybernetic
eye to infrared, she watched and listened as Muzik held a long
conversation, not understanding a word. After almost ten minutes of
tension, the two men shook hands and the local walked away down the
road to the west.

Moments later, Muzik explained as they waded
to the submersible and pushed it farther out into the water.
“Name’s Rasmus. His Russian was worse than mine. I got him to admit
he was a Finn living here illegally. I think he’s probably wanted
in Finland.”

“Why won’t he report what he saw?”

“I gave him the cash I had on me, and
promised him more when we return.”

Repeth climbed carefully through the narrow
hatch. “I hope that’s enough incentive. There’s a lot that can go
wrong.”

“We’ll worry about that when we get back.
Five-meter targets.” He climbed in after her and sealed the hatch.
“I’ll drive first, okay boss?”

“Sure.” Repeth stripped off her civilian
clothes in the back as Muzik settled in to the control cockpit in
front, powering up the vehicle.

Soon ghostly lights glowed – screens with
readouts and a few old-fashioned gauges, and a low hum filled the
cylinder as the electric motor began to push them through the
shallow water. An inertial navigation system provided them with
reasonably good direction, especially at the start of their
journey. Such devices grew progressively less accurate if not
updated with a solid positional reading, but all this had to do was
get them to within sight of the lights of Salmi and they could
pilot in manually from there.

Once she had changed into her skinsuit,
Repeth lay down on the one narrow bunk to sleep. Waking up several
hours later, she used the tiny facility, ate and drank, and
switched positions with Muzik, squeezing past him on one side of
the seat as he exited the other.

“We’re running fine at one meter depth, with
at least a hundred meters under the keel,” Muzik reported as he
changed his clothes. “Inertial says we’re well out into Lake
Ladoga, and it’s the middle of the night, so now would be a good
time to run up the snorkel and use the generator. Sonar shows
nobody around.”

“Right.” They had a compact diesel generator
to recharge the batteries, but of course that needed air and a
place to put the exhaust gases. A touch of another control deployed
the dual pipe arrangement and soon the generator rumbled. It should
be nearly silent on the surface, with just a ten-centimeter conduit
poking up.

An hour of this and the batteries were full
again. By that time the sun was starting to come up, around three
in the morning.

By midday they had arrived outside Salmi
harbor, and slowly, carefully bottomed the craft in fifty meters of
water.