The Rock

SOUTH AFRICA

"Do you have a plan?" Tuskin asked as the plains of southwest Africa flitted below.

"We land right on top of where the prisoners are being held and grab them."

"Great detail," Tuskin muttered as a walled compound appeared in the distance ahead, rapidly growing closer. "Did you spend a lot of time coming up with that?"

"As much as you did with your plan back at the dacha," Hawkins replied.

The Russian grabbed his plasma projector as the skimmer lifted slightly and cleared the outer wall. Surprised guards in desert camouflage fired a few scattered shots at the strange vehicle as it settled into a small parade field in front of the garrison headquarters.

Hawkins led the way out the door and down the ramp. "The building on the left," he called out to Tuskin. Immediately he felt the slam of bullets into his chest as a South African paratrooper fired his R4 assault rifle at the two strange figures. Hawkins cleared the way to the prison using the projector, sweeping away the opposition with blasts of energy. He felt detached from emotion as the soldiers died under his merciless barrage.

The door melted under Tuskin's fire and they made their way to the basement cells where the intelligence Hawkins had stolen out of Lamb's files indicated that Lona and Nabaktu were being held. The last guard disposed of, Hawkins blew off the lock and entered the cell. The two prisoners were gaunt and barely conscious, lying on bunks against the wall of a small, dingy room.

Hawkins threw the woman over his shoulder while Tuskin gathered in the man. Staggering under their loads, they made their way back up the stairs and onto the parade field. The opposition was still disorganized as they headed toward the skimmer. A machine gun suddenly roared out of a window in the headquarters building and tore a row of puckered dirt toward Tuskin, the rounds rising and hitting the Russian on his left side, knocking him over onto the ground. He rolled to his feet and reached down to pick up Nabaktu and then halted. The African's head was a mass of blood and brain where one of the rounds had torn through it. Tuskin turned and fired in short arcs at the large building, blowing walls in, silencing the machine gun as Hawkins made it into the skimmer. The Russian turned and followed, the ramp sliding in and the door shutting.

The ping of rounds off the side sounded dimly within as Tuskin ran to the cockpit and activated the controls, getting the aircraft out of the compound and a safe distance away. By the time he was done and had rejoined Hawkins in the cargo bay, the American had the young black girl conscious and was examining her wounds.

"How is she?"

Hawkins pointed out the various injuries as he continued to work. "They used electricity on her nipples and vagina. The soles of her feet have been beaten. Three broken fingers on the right hand. I think she has a couple of cracked ribs. I don't think the lung was punctured. Some burn marks."

Tuskin nodded-the usual crude methods used by police states to gain information or simply to punish with the goal of supporting a regime of fear.

"I thought new people were in power," he commented.

"New people, same old shit," Hawkins replied. "Intertribal fighting is just as fierce as interracial."

"Who are you?" The words from Lona's swollen lips were barely audible. Her eyes were straining, trying to make sense of what she could see. "Where is Nabaktu?"

Tuskin was regarding her impassively, his hand already straying to the knife at his belt. "I don't think you'll need that," Hawkins said quietly. "I think she's already broken." He looked at her. "We need to know about the bomb."

"The bomb," Lona repeated numbly. "I told you about the bomb. I told you it was the only one. There are no more."

"There is one more," Hawkins said.

"No more," Lona repeated. "We only had the one."

"I know you only bought one. But the man you bought it from acquired two using your gold. We need to know who he is."

"I told you-he was a Russian."

"Tell us everything about him. Did you actually see him?"

Lona slowly nodded. "We met him once. In Angola. When we paid. He promised us the bomb later and he delivered. I did not want to trust him, but Nabaktu said we had no choice." She raised her head painfully, looking around the stark interior of the skimmer. "Where is Nabaktu? Where am I?"

"What did the Russian look like?" Tuskin asked, leaning over her.

"He scared me. His eyes were dead. I've seen those eyes before-the workers in the mines look like that after six months under the earth. But his were worse. He would as easily have killed us as talked to us. I don't know why he delivered the bomb-he had our gold. Nabaktu said it was because he was a professional. A man who kept his word."

"What did he look like?" Tuskin repeated, his hand caressing the handle of his knife.

Hawkins gave her a sip of water and she closed her eyes in concentration. "Tall. As tall as you. White haired. Thin. Very thin. His face was leathery-a man who spent much time in the outdoors." Her eyes opened as she suddenly remembered. "He had a large ring on his right hand. A black stone with some symbol etched into it."

Tuskin knelt down next to her, his eyes alert. "What kind of symbol?"

"It looked like a bird of some sort."

"A hawk with talons outstretched?" Tuskin asked. "Done in red on the black stone?" He held out his own hand and pointed. "Like this?"

The girl nodded. "That's it."

"Shit," Tuskin muttered, and then looked at Hawkins. "I know who it is." He held up the ring. "This ring is worn only by men who have been in Spetsnatz more than twenty years and served honorably. There is only one man who wears that ring and fits that description. And he is the one man who could have done what he did."

"Who?" Hawkins asked.

"Colonel Ivan Sergot. He was my Spetsnatz commander when we went into Kabul. An old friend and comrade."

"Why does your old friend and comrade want a nuclear bomb?" Hawkins asked.

Tuskin was nodding as he thought about it. "It all makes sense now. It's about his son."

"His son?" Hawkins asked, confused.

"His son was a helicopter pilot in the army. He died of radiation poisoning from flying missions over the power plant at Chernobyl, pouring concrete on the main reactor. They buried him right there. Just dumped a load of concrete on the bodies of the helicopter crews because they were too hot to put anywhere else."

"Jesus Christ," Hawkins muttered.

"Ivan went crazy for a while. He was removed from command and then retired a year ago. Last I heard he was living down near the Black Sea."

"You sure it's him?" Hawkins wanted to know.

Tuskin stood, ignoring the girl at his feet. "There's one way to find out." He moved to the front of the skimmer. "Let's land and get her out and then head north. If my guess is right, I think I know where he might have gone."