Afterburn

CHAPTER 16

Tombstone had to admit that there was a tremendously rich symbolism in Boychenko’s choice of a meeting place for the surrender ceremony. The welcome ceremony, he corrected himself wryly. The Russians weren’t thinking of this as a surrender, but as a simple transaction, with the United Nations taking responsibility for the security of the peninsula in exchange for guarantees that the Russian soldiers would be repatriated.

Livadia was a village less than two miles west of Yalta where the czars had begun building summer palaces in the 1860s and where Nicholas II had erected his summer residence in 1912. That sprawling, luxurious building, known as the White Palace, had been the site of the famous ― the infamous, rather ― Yalta Conference of February, 1945, where Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin had carved up postwar Europe and unwittingly launched the Cold War that followed. It was here that yet another era of Russian history was to be inaugurated, as General Boychenko turned over the Crimean Military District to UN control.

A stage had been erected in the broad, level park in front of the White Palace, with plenty of chairs for the various UN and Russian officials and a massive wooden podium already arrayed with dozens of microphones of various types, their cables snaking off through the grass. A large number of people were in attendance, standing in front of the stage in a large, milling throng; though most were civilians from Yalta, the crowd included a generous number of reporters as well. As Tombstone climbed the three wooden steps to take his seat on the stage, he caught sight of Pamela and her cameraman there. He felt a pang as he caught her eye and saw the coldness there, but he pretended not to notice and kept walking. His helmet, the regulation helmet painted baby blue to identify him as a member of the UN contingent, chafed uncomfortably where the canvas circle inside rubbed against his head.

He still felt stunned by Pamela’s change of heart. Not for it suddenness; now that he looked back on it, he realized he should have seen this coming since last summer, or even before. But he’d been so delighted at the chance to see her here… and it seemed a kind of betrayal that a romantic dinner in an exotic setting should turn into the end of their relationship.

In a way, he supposed, it was amusing. Aboard the Jefferson, one of the most common problems among the enlisted personnel, especially the younger kids, was the Dear John letter, the dread correspondence from home explaining that the Stateside partner couldn’t continue this way, that she’d found someone else, that “it” ― whether marriage, relationship, or affair ― was over. Revelations like that could be deadly when the guy was far away from home, alone, vulnerable, unable even to make a phone call to straighten things out. It was, Tombstone knew, one of the problems most frequently encountered by the ship chaplain’s department, as well as by the XOS of both the Jefferson and of the various squadrons.

As he found his seat, a folding metal chair in a line behind the podium, he thought of Brewer, the new XO of the Vipers, and wondered how she coped with the kids who must be coming to her with problems like his every day. Or … He frowned, puzzled. Were they? Admitting that your girlfriend or wife thought you were a jerk and was leaving you didn’t exactly match up with the calculated macho image that most guys tried to present to the women stationed with them aboard ship. He made a mental note to talk with Brewer about that, to see if she needed a hand.

One common way of helping sailors who’d been blind-sided that way ― a technique first employed at the two Navy recruit training centers where new sailors were first separated from the outside world ― was the Dear John board, a large bulletin board in some prominent, public place where those who’d received such letters could post them if they wished. Jefferson kept one in the enlisted recreation lounge aft; there was, Tombstone thought, no better way to find out that you were not alone, that you weren’t the only one who’d had to face this particular problem, as you found space to pin up your own letter amid the forest of similar letters already there.

The other participants in the morning’s UN ceremony were assembling, both on the stage, in the area roped off for the crowd, and beyond, where both Russian and UN troops patrolled the park’s perimeter. Admiral Tarrant and some more members of his staff had flown in from the Jefferson early that morning, and he’d already briefed the admiral on what he’d seen so far in Yalta… especially the crime. UN peacekeepers, whatever their nationality, were going to have their hands full when Boychenko’s people relinquished control.

Tombstone could hear a faint, far-off thunder ― aircraft. Jefferson had put up a CAP of Tomcats, just in case the Ukrainians or anyone else decided to try to break up the proceedings.

“Captain Magruder?”

Tombstone turned and was surprised to see Abdulhalik, his guide and driver from the day before. He was wearing a conservative dark suit this morning. The jacket was open and there was an obvious bulge beneath his left arm.

“Abdulhalik!” Tombstone said. “How’s the spy business?”

“Dangerous,” the man said, not bothering to contradict Tombstone’s assumption. “Especially when the general gives his little speech in a few minutes.”

It was also interesting, Tombstone thought, how the man’s broken English had mended quite a bit overnight. No more “A-okay” slang or dropped articles.

“I need to ask you, Captain, how long the helicopter flight to your carrier will take.

Tombstone looked at the man curiously. “Didn’t the general’s staff cover all of this after their briefing?”

Abdulhalik gave Tombstone a narrow, inscrutable look. “I feel safer sometimes if I can… confirm information I have been given.”

Though he hadn’t been in on the original planning, Tombstone had seen the day’s schedule, worked out item by item by UN and Russian personnel several days earlier, and approved by both him and Captain Whitehead yesterday. Boychenko would make his speech, followed by a speech from Special Envoy Sandoval on behalf of the UN, and another by Admiral Tarrant. There would be a brief opportunity for questions from the press, and immediately afterward, Boychenko and his senior staff officers, along with Tarrant and his staff, would be taken to a CH-53 Sea Stallion waiting on the east side of the White Palace grounds. The group would be flown out to the Jefferson, where Boychenko would officially request asylum.

As CAG, Tombstone had been consulted on the aircraft timetables, especially in regard to the CAP that would cover the helo on its flight back to the Jefferson. Tombstone had assumed that the necessary information had been passed on to Boychenko’s security personnel. Apparently, though, Abdulhalik wanted to make sure that the information he’d heard was the same as what Tombstone had provided.

Which suggested the possibility of informants or worse within Boychenko’s own planning staff. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

“Well,” he said, “the Jefferson’s about one hundred nautical miles out right now. If the helo pilot goes flat out? Call it thirty-five, maybe forty minutes. You sound like the general’s going to need a quick getaway after his speech. You’re afraid of critics?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Abdulhalik nodded gravely. “Just so. We have word that a large part of the navy does not approve of the general’s plans. They might try something to block them.”

“I know. I was making a joke.”

Abdulhalik did not look amused… but after a moment he cracked a thin smile. “I see. You will forgive me if my sense of humor is lacking this morning. It has been a long night.”

“Just who are you working for, anyway? The FBS?”

Abdulhalik considered the question for a few seconds before answering.

“Actually, I am on the general’s personal staff. Security. At the moment, the Federal Bureau of Security is the opposition.”

“I see. Why were you keeping an eye on me last night, then?”

A shrug. “If the general is to have his ‘quick getaway,’ as you call it, it is important that nothing happens to you. Yes?”

Tombstone considered telling him about the knife-wielding mugger in the stairwell, then thought better of it. Abdulhalik looked like he had enough on his mind already without having Tombstone bother him with irrelevant might-have-beens.

A stir in the crowd and a rising murmur of conversation marked the appearance of General Boychenko, Admiral Tarrant, and Special Envoy Sandoval at the front of the White Palace. Boychenko was tall and silver-haired, with a beaklike nose that gave him the look of a bird of prey. Sandoval was shorter and dark-haired, with a sketch of a mustache and a self-important air. Tarrant looked businesslike and matter-of-fact, even a little bored. Accompanied by several aides and a small army of security troops, the three made their way up the steps and onto the stage. Captain Whitehead stood to greet Boychenko and shake his hand. The others stood until the VIPS took their places behind the podium, then sat down with a creak and scrape of chairs on wood.

The speech was in Russian, and Tombstone understood not a single word.

Not that he was particularly interested in the content. Had he wanted one, there were translations available in various languages, but he already knew the overall topic and didn’t particularly care if he could follow the reasoning or not. Boychenko was talking about the need for international arbitration, the importance of the UN, the need for world peace.

Not that anything being said had meaning. The UN hadn’t enforced a working peace anywhere in the world yet… not until all parties in a given dispute had their own reasons for stopping the fighting. Ukraine would be watching these proceedings with considerable interest, and Tombstone was pretty sure that they, at least, would soon be testing the UN’s resolve. As the speech-making droned on, Tombstone looked away from Boychenko and let his gaze move across the crowd. Pamela, he saw, was watching Boychenko raptly, though he knew that she spoke no Russian either; a battery of cameras, both still and video, were trained on the Russian general as he spoke, and Tombstone could hear the ratcheting whir-click of automatic winders as the cameras fired. There must have been fifty or sixty reporters present, and easily ten times that many other people ― dignitaries, civilians, and soldiers. Tomboy was also in the crowd, over with the civilians and those members of Jefferson’s company who weren’t up on the stage. The seat was uncomfortable, and Boychenko’s droning monotonous. How the hell had he gotten into this situation?

Perhaps because he was watching the reporters instead of Boychenko, Tombstone saw the movement first, a crucial second or two before anyone else was aware. Three men detached themselves from the closely packed group of reporters, advancing toward the stage. They wore long-hemmed trench coats, and each was extracting something hard and metallic from beneath his garment’s open front as he moved. Someone was shouting. A woman screamed. Two of the running men had their weapons out and clearly visible now ― AKMS firing port weapons ― basically AKM assault rifles with folding steel-frame butts to make them smaller and more concealable under a trench coat. The third was waving a handgun; Tombstone couldn’t see what kind it was.

Abdulhalik was leaping forward toward the front of the stage, fumbling inside his jacket for his own weapon. Other security men were also reaching for their guns, but slowly… too slowly. Except for Whitehead, who sat stunned and unmoving, Tombstone was closest to Boychenko. He leaped forward with the suddenness of an F-14 catapulted from the bow of a carrier, his chair flying off the back of the stage; he hit Boychenko low and from behind, driving the man forward into the podium and the forest of microphones, then toppling man and podium together in a splintering crash.

Gunfire cracked, a thundering, stuttering fusillade as the trench-coated assassins opened up with their weapons on full auto. Tombstone heard the bullets snapping through the air overhead or thumping loudly into the heavy podium. Microphones clashed together, and the sound system gave a shrill squeal of feedback that mingled with the steady crack-crack-crack of automatic weapons. Shrieks from the audience rose to a shrill, terror-stricken cacophony mingled with cries of pain.

Everything was chaos, raw and uncontrolled. He was lying on top of Boychenko, one arm thrown protectively over the Russian’s back. Rolling to the side, he looked up, past the toppled podium and off the stage. One gunman was going down under the combined gunfire from Abdulhalik and another security man. The man with the pistol was out of sight at the moment, but Tombstone could see the other assault-rifle-armed assassin clearly as he ran up to the edge of the stage, firing wildly as he ran. Abdulhalik staggered, dropped his weapon, and collapsed onto his back, legs sprawling. Captain Whitehead flailed his arms and fell off the back of the stage, his face a mask of blood. Tarrant was down, too… and Sandoval. The assassins had sprayed the entire front row of VIPS, killing or wounding eight or ten of them in one long burst.

There was the man with the pistol, collapsing under a hail of automatic fire as he exchanged shots with the security guards. But the running man was closer, much closer now, so close now Tombstone could see his bushy mustache, see the wild light in his Oriental-looking eyes. Reaching the stage, he leaned over the railing, aiming directly at Tombstone and Boychenko from a range of less than five feet.

He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

Tombstone was up and on his feet in the same instant, scooping up an overturned metal chair, pivoting, and hurling it as hard as he could. The gray chair struck the gunman and momentarily tangled with his weapon, knocking him back a step and confusing him. Tombstone was in the air right behind the chair, lunging for the man’s throat even as he tossed the chair aside and tried to bring his AKMS to bear once more. He hit the man high, hands lancing toward the throat, his arms held stiff before him; the impact of his legs splintered the frail structure of the railing as he crashed through and knocked the assassin down. The gunman continued fumbling with his weapon, dragging a loaded magazine out from inside one of the capacious pockets of his trench coat. Tombstone battled him for that heavy black magazine, wresting it away from him, picking it up like a flat rock and bringing it down on the side of the man’s head with tremendous force. The gunman raised his arm, trying to block the attack. Tombstone struck him again, and the man’s head lolled to the side.

Tombstone looked up, blinking. People were still screaming, shrieking, and running in all directions as security troops converged on the stage. Half a dozen civilians were down on the grass, faces and clothing smeared with bright scarlet blood. Pamela!..

There she was, apparently all right, kneeling on the grass a few yards away next to the body of her cameraman. She looked up and locked gazes with him, but there was no recognition in her eyes, none at all. She looked like she was in shock.

Then a half-dozen troops arrived, muscling Tombstone aside and pouncing on the semiconscious would-be assassin with an almost gleeful viciousness.

“Don’t kill him!” Tombstone shouted as one soldier hammered at the man with his rifle butt, but he didn’t even know if any of them spoke English. He reached out and grabbed the soldier’s arm before he could strike again. “Nyet!” Tombstone yelled. The soldier spun, face a twisted mask of anger. “Nyet!” he yelled again. Damn, how did you say “Don’t kill him” in Russian? The foreign country guidebooks never gave you the really useful phrases.

One soldier, though ― a lieutenant ― barked orders and cuffed two of the soldiers aside. In a few moments, they’d sorted things out and half dragged, half carried the man away.

Tombstone scrambled back onto the stage and raced to Tarrant’s side. The admiral had taken one round through his chest, up high, and was unconscious.

“Tombstone!” Joyce cried, reaching his side. “My God, are you okay?”

“Fine, Tomboy,” he said. “Fine.” He wasn’t sure he was ready to believe that yet. His knees now, as reaction began to settle in, felt terribly weak, and his breaths came in short, almost panting gasps. He looked at her. Her dress uniform was disheveled and she’d lost her hat. His eyes widened as he saw a bright smear of blood on her jacket.

“It’s not me,” she said, reading his expression.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah. What about the admiral?”

“Damn. I don’t know. I don’t know!” They needed a doctor. No… they needed a Navy doctor, someone off the Jeff.

Nearby, Boychenko was standing again, staring around at the carnage with an expression as dazed as Pamela’s. Several soldiers, eyes nervously on the building and the milling, panicky crowd, started to urge him away to safety, but he shrugged free and walked over to Tombstone.

“Captain Magruder,” he said, the words heavily accented. He took Tombstone’s hand in both of his, shook it, then pulled the American close and hugged him. “Spasebaw. Thank you, for my life. That was very brave deed.”

“It was nothing,” Tombstone said. “I was running for cover and tripped.”

Boychenko blinked, looking puzzled. He probably didn’t speak enough English to be able to understand more than a word or two of what Tombstone was saying.

“Is Admiral Tarrant?”

“He needs medical help. A hospital.”

“We do what we can.”

One of his security men tugged at the general’s elbow, imploring him with his expression to hurry. Tombstone could understand their worry. There might well have been more than three assassins, should have been, in fact, given the number of Boychenko’s guards.

As they hurried him away, Tombstone moved to the far side of the stage and found Abdulhalik sitting up, one hand clutching a shoulder soggy with blood. “Lie down,” Tombstone told him. “Damn it, get down!”

“Yes, sir.”

Sandoval was lying nearby, his eyes wide open in death. Whitehead was dead as well. Damn… damn!

The security man complied and Tombstone used a length of cloth torn from the man’s sleeve as a pressure bandage on Abdulhalik’s wound. It looked as though the bullet had smashed through his chest, high up near his shoulder, shattering his scapula but, so far as Tombstone could tell, missing his lung. At least there was no blood in his nose or mouth, and he seemed to be breathing okay.

“Tatars,” Abdulhalik said, his voice weak.

“Sorry?”

“Damned… Tatars. Descendants of the Mongols. You know Genghis Khan?”

Tombstone kept working, tying the packing in place with more strips of cloth. “Not personally. I never met the man.”

“Think… Crimea is their… homeland.”

“It is, from what I’ve heard.” He’d read the history in a guidebook several days ago. Before the Russian Revolution, the first revolution in 1917, the Crimean Peninsula had been settled largely by Tatars ― as Abdulhalik had said, descendants of the Mongol hordes that had swept across southern Russia in the thirteenth century. Crimea had been their final stronghold in Russia until the time of Catherine the Great, and they’d still been a significant part of the population well into the twentieth century. After the Communists had taken over, Crimea was redesignated as a Tatar Autonomous District.

Then had come the Second World War, and the invasion by Hitler’s legions.

Crimea had been occupied, then liberated, but with liberation came persecution. Stalin accused the Tatars of collaborating with the Nazis and used that excuse to exile all of them to central Asia. The ban against their return to Crimea had been lifted in the 1980s, and they’d been returning ever since, in larger and larger numbers. Many were now demanding that the Crimea be returned to them, as an autonomous district or as a free homeland.

Those demands, Tombstone reflected, would muddy the waters a bit but had no chance at all of being realized. Neither the Russians nor the Ukrainians were willing to relinquish the embattled little triangle of land, and for damned sure they weren’t going to turn it over to the Tatars.

Looking up, Tombstone watched as soldiers picked up one of the bodies of the would-be assassins. “You think they tried to kill the general to get their homeland back?”

Abdulhalik tried to shrug and winced with the pain. “Ah! Well, it makes sense, yes? There are several radical Tatar independence groups. Any could have done this to further their cause.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean they did it.” He shook his head. “What would they achieve by killing Boychenko? Besides getting themselves stepped on, I mean?”

Abdulhalik didn’t answer. He was unconscious. Tombstone finished his bandaging job and signaled for a stretcher team as they approached the stage. Joyce joined him a moment later.

“You look thoughtful,” she said.

“Hmm. Abdulhalik thinks this was the work of a Tatar nationalist movement.”

“Terrorists?”

“Yeah. But it just doesn’t make sense.”

“Terrorism doesn’t make much sense.”

“No, I mean, this is really far-fetched. What could they hope to achieve with this? If I were a terrorist group who wanted the Crimea back, but with no chance in hell of seeing my aims realized…”

His voice trailed off as he followed the chain of logic.

“Come on,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“The helicopter. That’s probably where they’re taking Boychenko, and I want to get there before they take off.”

“Why? Are you hitching a ride back to the Jeff?”

It was a tempting thought, though Tombstone and the other Navy personnel ashore, except for Tarrant’s staff, of course, were all supposed to remain in Yalta while the UN people took charge. But Tombstone had other ideas.

“No. I want to get on the radio. I think we may have problems.”

She had to hurry to keep up with his long pace as he strode toward the east side of the palace. “What kind of problems?”

“I think Boychenko was only one of several targets,” he told her. “And I’m afraid the Jeff might be next on their list!”