Darwin's Blade

25 “Y is for Yaponchik”

Dar’s sniper crawl westward was slow and stealthy and according to the manual. He kept his head down, his mental map of the terrain clear, staying aware of the sun’s position, using every bit of cover and natural camouflage available, his rifle cradled in his arms as he slithered forward slowly on his elbows, belly, and knees. The hundred-yard-per-hour advance would have earned him high marks at Quantico, but Dar soon realized that at this professional rate, he would arrive at the cabin about three weeks after Yaponchik had shot Syd and driven off.

He paused to think about this, using the Redfield to scope the high ground to his right and the clearing to his left, when suddenly a burst of SVD fire and another, much quieter, cough of automatic weapons fire helped make up his mind.

For a second Dar thought that the unmistakable double-cough of the poorly suppressed AK-47 meant that there had been a sixth Russian there, but then he realized that he had underestimated Syd. She may have used up her H&K ammunition, but there were at least three AK-47s in the cabin with her, and the Russians had been carrying extra banana clips out the wazoo. Syd was loaded for bear and evidently she had flushed one.

Yaponchik’s suppressed SVD sniper rifle fired again, soft stutters of three rounds each time, and Dar noted the location. Downhill and to his left about eighty yards. The AK-47 coughed loudly back from the direction of the cabin.

Dar actually closed his eyes a second as he visualized the last few minutes. Yaponchik had gone against Dar’s expectations and had moved downhill—which made sense, Dar now realized. The expert Russian sniper had surrendered the high ground, but had put himself closer to his vehicle while choosing a spot that was probably perfect for picking off Dar as he crept along, paying more attention to the hill above him.

Dar knew that Yaponchik would not have revealed himself to Syd’s view from the cabin doors or windows, which meant that Syd had moved outside the cabin—Dar’s guess was that she had headed out the south door, down the hill, and then back up near the parking lot, probably concealing herself in the boulders there. She must have gotten a glimpse of Yaponchik through the AK-47s optics. Dar realized that he would not have been at all jealous if she had killed the Russian son of a bitch for him, but from the sound of the firefight, Yaponchik was still very much alive.

Dar stood up and ran like hell, crashing through underbrush, tripping and rolling once but never losing his rifle or knife, leaping downhill. He could see the boulder that was his destination and estimated that it was uphill and about fifty yards east of Yaponchik’s position. From there he and Syd could put the Russian in defilade and a cross-fire vector without endangering each other.

Dar slid belly-first behind the boulder as three SVD rounds slammed into the top of it. Yaponchik may not have seen him, but obviously had heard him coming. Good. Dar crouched behind the boulder, ready to fire around its west end if and when Yaponchik returned Syd’s fire. But although the AK-47 coughed twice more, there was no response from the Russian’s sniper rifle.

Shit, thought Dar. He’s disengaging.

There came a burst of SVD suppressed fire from near the parking area, and Dar heard Syd shouting from the distance—“Dar, he’s shooting up our truck and car”—and then more SVD coughs and then silence.

Dar was moving again, sliding downhill, keeping the thicker of the trees between him and the parking area, but trying to flank Yaponchik.

He reached the edge of the cabin clearing and assessed the situation quickly. All of the tires were shot out on the Land Cruiser and Taurus. He could see Syd just west of the cabin, curled behind a protective boulder, but there was no sight of Yaponchik. He whistled once.

Syd saw him and shouted, “He went down the road on foot. I was afraid to come out because I don’t know the range of his weapon.”

“Stay where you are!” shouted Dar. “Keep around the east side of the rock.”

He went to her, moving from rock to tree to rock, sprinting and weaving and dodging through the open areas, hoping that Syd could get off a clean return shot if Yaponchik killed him now.

He made it without getting shot and slid behind the boulder next to Syd. He could see that her face and hands were cut and bleeding.

“You’re hit!” they both said at the same time.

“I’m OK,” they both answered simultaneously.

Dar shook his head and touched Syd’s right arm, looking at the cuts on her wrists and hands. He realized that the lacerations on her face were also much more bloody than serious. “Shrapnel?” he said.

“Yeah. I was behind the door, but there was a lot of steel ricocheting around that corridor when that guy dropped the grenade,” said Syd softly, still crouched low. “There’s blood all over you, Dar.”

Dar looked down at his body armor. “All of this belongs to Zuker,” he said.

“Dead?”

Dar nodded.

“But your side and back,” said Syd. “Turn around.”

Dar did so, feeling the stabs of pain from his right side and the backs of both legs.

“That’s not Zuker’s blood,” said Syd. “It looks like they shot your ass off.”

“Great,” said Dar, feeling suddenly queasy.

Syd actually peeled back some of the rags of his camouflage trousers to look at the wound. “Sorry. It’s a deep graze. The bleeding’s almost stopped. Your ear’s a bloody mess. And what’s with the blood on your side, under your armor?”

“Ricochet,” said Dar. “Just under the skin. Not important. Let’s concentrate on Yaponchik.”

They peered around opposite ends of the boulder, jerking their heads back instantly. No shots. The Land Cruiser and Taurus looked sad sitting there on eight flat tires.

“I think he’s disengaged,” said Dar. “Heading for the Suburban.”

“It’s parked about a half mile down the road…” began Syd.

“I know.” Dar rubbed his cheek, smelled blood, and looked at his hands. He rubbed his right palm against his trouser leg. That did not help.

“If we go after him—” began Syd again.

“Shhh. Give me a second,” said Dar. He closed his eyes, remembering the access road and distances as well as he could. He doubted Yaponchik would be running down the road—the Russian would know that trucks and cars could be driven on their rims, for one thing. Most likely the sniper would be staging a careful, tactical withdrawal, moving from sniper point to sniper point, waiting for any pursuit.

Dar guessed that he still had a few minutes before Yaponchik got to the Suburban. After that, the sniper would be the FBI’s problem. But…

There was one part of the access road visible to the cabin: a hard curve with a steep embankment on the northwest side and no trees on this side. It was about a mile down the driveway, not long before the access road met the highway. A vehicle would be visible in the gap for only a few seconds before turning right back into the trees and then onto the highway. He might have time.

Dar handed his M40 to Syd. “Use this rather than the AK-47 if he comes back.” As he struggled out of his heavy vest, he noticed for the first time that she was carrying binoculars on a strap around her neck. “Where’d you get those?”

“From the Russian whose foot you shot off,” said Syd.

“Is he dead?” The binoculars made sense to Dar now that he thought about it—Yaponchik would want to use as many of his colleagues as spotters as he could.

Syd shook her head. “He’s unconscious and in shock, but I used my belt to tie off his stump. He lost a lot of blood. He’ll be dead unless the good guys get here soon.”

“We can’t call—” Dar began, and then shut up as Syd held up her cell phone. Obviously she had taken time to retrieve her bag from in front of the cabin.

“Warren’s on the way,” she said.

Dar nodded. All the more reason just to hunker down and call it a day. Dropping his heavy flak vest on the ground, he said, “Stay alert. Use my bolt-action if Yaponchik comes back. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Dar ran like hell—learning that it hurt quite a bit to run with a 7.62mm groove in the back of his legs, more so now that the adrenaline rush had receded somewhat. It was especially painful as he slid down the grassy slope just beneath the cabin, ran under the long porch, climbed to find the trail past the sheep wagon, and slid down the steep hill above the gold-mine entrance to get to the ravine. He could feel fresh blood soaking his tattered fatigue pants as he wheezed and panted his way up the steep trail on the east side of the ravine and then jogged just below the rock-rim ledge to his previous sniper’s roost.

Dar had to pause a second above the trough in the stone, not just to catch his breath but to wonder at the number of ricochets that had scarred the stone where he had been lying. The poncho and rucksack containing his handmade ghillie suit were shot to tatters. At least two of the Light Fifty magazines had been perforated like tin cans on a shooting range. His video monitor had been blasted to shards by a wayward ricochet—which ruled out Plan A. So much for watching to see when and if Yaponchik reached the Suburban.

Dar jumped into the slit and pulled the .50-caliber Barrett Model 82A1 out from under the rock overhang. The Light Fifty had not been hit. Dar quickly filled his oversized pockets with both SLAP and regular ammo magazines and then began jogging back along the rim to the base of the ravine.

He had forgotten how heavy and unwieldy this so-called Light Fifty was. The ten-power telescopic sight did not make it lighter. While in the Marines, Dar had always pitied the radio men and heavy-weapons guys humping their monsters—PRC-77 ass-kicker scrambler/descrambler radios, or their M60 machine guns or M79 “thumper” 40mm grenade launchers. He wondered if all of them—all of them who survived—had ended up with bad backs later in life.

By the time he scrabbled up the last slope from beneath the porch and joined Syd behind her boulder, he was not only bleeding freely again from both wounds but was soaked with sweat. At least he’d had the presence of mind to take the twenty-five-pound body armor off.

“No movement,” reported Syd. “I’ve been using the glasses rather than the scope on your rifle.”

Dar nodded his approval. “No sounds?”

“I haven’t heard the Suburban start up…but then it’s way the hell down the road.”

“But you’re sure it hasn’t passed that open spot?” said Dar.

“I said no movement, didn’t I?” said Syd a bit crossly.

Dar took the Light Fifty and jogged to his left, down the slope a bit, keeping out of line of sight with the woods or road nearby, moving toward a flat-topped boulder just above the last little stand of fir trees before the hillside became grassy pasture. When he had successfully crossed the space without drawing fire, he gestured for Syd to join him.

Dar had set up the Light Fifty on the flat top of the boulder and was lying prone, reading the mil-dot scope reticles and adjusting the wind and elevation settings. The wind was a minor factor today—even out here in the open—with only slight gusts below three miles per hour. But at this distance, Dar knew, even the slightest factors had to be entered into the equation.

“You’re shitting me,” said Syd, staring at the distant patch of open road through her borrowed pair of seven-by-fifty binoculars. “That has to be at least a mile away.”

“I estimate about one thousand seven hundred yards,” said Dar, still working with his settings. “So a little less than a mile.” He tried to get comfortable with the weapon again, getting the spot weld of his thumb and cheek around the stock and slowing his breathing. In the far distance, they heard a V-8 engine roar to life.

“Good,” said Dar. “Unless he’s coming back here, we know where Yaponchik is now. And he has about half a mile to drive to that curve.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of—”

“Spot me,” interrupted Dar. “I only have time for a couple of practice shots.” He peered through the M3a Ultra scope. “I’m going to aim for that boulder on the cut just where the road turns right again.”

“Which boulder? The dark one or the light?”

“The light,” Dar said, and squeezed off a round. The unsuppressed blast and gas recoil made Syd jump.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see the hit point.”

“That’s all right,” said Dar. “I think I missed the whole fucking hillside. Spot me.” He fired two more rounds.

“I see the second strike,” said Syd, excited now. “About thirty meters short of the road. Shall I use meters or yards?”

“Shit,” said Dar, making more adjustments. “It doesn’t matter—meters is fine,” he said, sighting again. He had two rounds left in this clip and he knew that the Suburban would be appearing in seconds. He fired off the last two rounds, made no effort to spot their impact, ejected the clip, and clicked in another magazine of SLAP rounds.

“They both hit the cut,” said Syd, working hard to keep her binoculars steady. “One about a meter to the right and the other about a meter and a half high and to the right of the light boulder.”

“Got it,” said Dar, making final adjustments. “Close enough for government work. Now I’m going to keep my eye in the scope, so you tell me as soon as the hood of the Suburban appears.”

“You’ll only have a second or two to—”

“I know,” said Dar. “Don’t speak until it appears. Just say ‘now.’”

Syd was silent, looking through her optics while Dar blinked away fuzziness in his right eye, found the correct eye relief—that is, the perfect distance of about 2½ inches between his eye and the glass of the scope—forced his left eye to stay open, and concentrated on the crosshairs. At this range he would have to lead the truck, and to do that, he had to estimate its speed. The road was bad and the curve was sharp, but Dar doubted if Yaponchik would be driving slowly to save wear and tear on the Suburban’s suspension. If he were Yaponchik, he’d try to take the turn at thirty-some miles per hour. There would be a lot of dust as the Suburban braked to make the curve.

The image in Dar’s scope was blurred by near-vertical, shimmering waves. Dar knew this phenomenon as a “boiling mirage” which was created by heat waves rising across the great distance; it helped him figure wind velocity. If the parallel ripples had been leaning just a bit more to the left, Dar knew that on a day with eighty-degree Fahrenheit weather such as this, the wind would be moving the mirage waves at a speed of three to five miles per hour. Since they were almost vertical, it meant that there was no appreciable wind at that instant. Also, Dar knew instinctively that the higher temperature was going to increase the muzzle velocity of the Light Fifty slugs—already leaving the barrel at a minimum velocity of twenty-eight hundred feet per second—and that meant that each bullet would strike a bit higher than usual on the target. But the day had turned muggy—Dar guessed about 65 percent humidity—and the added moisture made the air denser, which offered more resistance, which would slow the bullet some. Dar added these factors into his elementary equation of the range—1,760 yards was his final estimate, all the while wishing that he had his Leica with the laser range-finder back—times a wind velocity of 1.5 miles per hour, divided by fifteen. He made a half-click adjustment to his elevation sights and waited.

In the second or two left before engagement, Dar realized the absurdity of the situation. At this range, with this ammunition, factoring in for gravity alone meant that his aiming point was more than sixteen feet above the window level of the vehicle. The target would be moving almost at right angles to Dar’s field of fire—which was good—but if Yaponchik was braking to only thirty miles per hour for the sharp curve, Dar would have to lead the moving vehicle by twenty-some feet. Dar had already estimated that he only had about thirty-five feet from the time the Suburban became visible before it would pass his aiming point. He could not track this target, so he would have to “trap” it—which meant that the Suburban and the SLAP rounds had to arrive at the aiming point at the same time. Luckily, the Suburban was one big fucker. All right, factor in the time it would take for Syd to give the warning and—

“Now!” said Syd.

Dar was just at the end of his breathing cycle and now he held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger once. Trying to ignore the recoil while resetting the crosshair of the reticle on precisely the same part of the boulder, he fired again, sighted, fired again, sighted, fired again, sighted—something dark entering his peripheral field of vision now—and fired again.

“Hit!” said Syd.

“Just one?” asked Dar, jumping to his feet and using the Redfield scope on the lighter M40 for his own viewing.

The Chevy Suburban had lurched to the right and embedded its right front quarter panel in the road cut just beyond the boulder that had been Dar’s aiming point. Through the scope, it looked to Dar as if he had missed the cab but put two armor-piercing rounds into or through the massive V-8 engine block. The hood had been blown off and the windshield was a mass of fracture lines. A third slug appeared to have shredded the left rear wheel—and probably the axle beyond, as well, Dar guessed—and there was the shimmer of fire rising from the back of the truck. There had been no massive and instant explosion, but Dar knew that if he had ignited the Suburban’s gargantuan fuel tank, the truck would burn very nicely.

The flames became visible then. Dar kept the scope on the passenger-side door, knowing that the doors on the right of the big truck were wedged against the dirt-and-rock cut.

For a moment Dar was certain that Gregor Yaponchik was going to burn to death—black smoke was already rising into the morning air from the now freely burning back of the vehicle—but then the door opened and Yaponchik stepped out casually. He was carrying a weapon, but the shape did not look right—not even through the mirage shimmer and distortion—to be the suppressed SVD he had been using above the cabin.

“He has a rifle,” said Syd just as Dar dropped to his knees, lay prone, and used the ten-power Ultra scope on the Light Fifty to get a better look.

“Shit,” Dar said very softly. Yaponchik’s face was still a blur through the mirage ripples, but Dar could recognize the make of the rifle by a glimpse of its unusual five-round rotating-spool magazine. “Scharfschutzengewehr Neunund-sechsig,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” said Syd, lowering her binoculars.

“Austrian-made SSG 69 sniper rifle,” said Dar, watching the Russian walk off the road and down the steep hillside toward the near mile of field that separated them. “Much better than the Russian rifle he was using near the cabin. This baby is accurate to more than eight hundred meters.”

Syd looked at him, and out of the corner of his eye, Dar saw the concern on her face. “But your fifty-caliber has a better range, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Dar, standing again and studying the advancing man through his Redfield scope. He was a tiny figure rippled by heat waves.

“You can kill him long before we’re in range of his rifle, right?” said Syd.

“Right,” said Dar. Yaponchik had entered the sunflowers and high grass of the meadow and was walking straight toward them across the broad, brown expanse. Dar began slinging his M40 rifle to a proper support. He emptied his pockets of everything but three magazines of 7.62mm ammo and jumped off the boulder. He began walking down toward the field.

Syd ran after him.

“Go on back to the boulder,” Dar said softly.

“Fuck you,” said Syd, although without heat. “What is this, some sort of machismo bullshit?”

Dar was silent for a second. Then he said, “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe Yaponchik is just coming this way to surrender. He could have run into the woods going west, you know.”

Syd looked at Dar as if he had turned into an alien life-form. “So you think he’s bringing along this SSG 69 or whatever rifle to aid in his surrender? To give you as a victory gift, maybe?”

“No,” said Dar. “I think he wants to get in range so he can kill me.”

“Us,” said Syd.

Dar shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the Russian walking toward them. Yaponchik was about fourteen hundred yards away now. “Go on back to the rocks, please, Syd.”

“I said fuck that,” repeated Syd. “Shall I get the AK-47?”

“It’s useless at these ranges,” said Dar.

Syd shook her head. “If I knew how to adjust the sights on that fifty-caliber up there, I’d blow Yaponchik’s head off. He killed Tom Santana.”

“I know,” said Dar softly. He turned and continued down the slope to the field, pausing only when he realized that Syd was still coming with him.

“Please, Syd.”

“No, Dar.”

Dar sighed. “All right. Will you be my spotter?”

“What do I do?”

“Just what you did up on the rock. Stay about three paces behind me and to my left. Keep him in your glasses. Let me know where my shots are hitting.”

Syd nodded grimly and the two slid down the steep and pebbly slope to the beginning of the meadow. Dar lifted his old M40 and gauged distance through the Redfield reticles. His guess at Yaponchik’s height had been about five eleven, so that would put his current range at twelve hundred yards and closing.

He and Syd began walking through the high grass. The brown stalks slapped softly against their legs and left seeds on the cotton of their trousers. Dar reached a point about fifty yards from their boulder and stopped.

“We’ll let him come to us,” he said softly.

Syd was watching the Russian through her glasses. “That’s a nasty-looking weapon,” she said.

Dar nodded. “The Steyr Company developed it for the Austrian Army,” he said. “Synthetic polymer stock…It has a customized butt made adjustable with spacers.”

“I always wanted one of those,” said Syd.

Dar glanced at her, astounded at her grace under pressure. “I think he’s mounted a Kahles ZF 69 sight on it,” he said at last.

“Is that important?” asked Syd.

“Only because the ZF 69 sight is graduated for very accurate firing out to eight hundred meters,” said Dar. “So we might expect him to take his first shots about then.”

“What’s his range now?” asked Syd, looking through her binoculars again.

“About a thousand meters.” Dar raised his M40, slung it tight, and began clicking the elevation settings.

“He’s coming slow enough,” said Syd. “He’s sure as hell in no hurry.”

“It’s a nice day,” said Dar, seeing Yaponchik’s face clearly for the first time.

At that moment Yaponchik lifted his SSG 69 to port arms and then raised it to sight through the oversized scope. He was still walking.

“Turn sideways,” said Dar. He glanced behind him. “No, not to the left…I have to stand this way because I shoot right-eyed and right-handed, but you turn the other way, so your right side is to him.”

Syd did so, but said, “What the hell is this, some eighteenth-century duel? Is the idea that my ribs are going to stop the black-powder pistol ball?”

Dar had nothing to say to that. Yaponchik had stopped and was ranging them. Dar checked the reticles in his sight and figured the range at about one thousand yards.

Syd said, “Tell me that your rifle is a far superior piece of American engineering than his, Dar.”

“My rifle is a Vietnam-era piece of shit compared to his,” admitted Dar. “But I’m used to it.”

“OK,” said Syd in a tone that said all banter was over for the day. “Ready to spot you.”

Dar adjusted his eye to the sight again. He could see Yaponchik’s face at this range. It should not be possible, he knew, not from a thousand yards, but he could swear that he could see the Russian’s cold, blue eyes.

Yaponchik’s muzzle flashed.

There came a ripping sound from the grass five yards in front of Dar. A puff of dust rose. An instant later two loud cracks echoed across the wide field—the sonic boom of the bullet and then the second part of a double clap, the unsuppressed sound of the rifle firing. Dar watched as the older man smoothly operated the bolt action. Dar could actually see the spool magazine rotate as the next bullet was chambered. How many rounds did a Steyr SSG 69 spool magazine hold? Five or ten? Dar knew that he would find out. He watched as Yaponchik removed the spent cartridge by hand and carefully set it in his trouser pocket just below his black body armor.

Dar suddenly realized that he was not wearing his own vest. Fuck it, he thought, and sighted.

The Russian began walking forward again.

Dar waited. Shooting at a moving target smaller than a Chevy Suburban was rarely a good idea at such a range. When Yaponchik stopped and raised his rifle again, Dar stopped his breathing and squeezed the trigger.

“I didn’t see it hit,” said Syd from her place behind him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see the—”

“Did you see a puff of dust anywhere ahead of him?” asked Dar as he worked the bolt action, retrieved the cartridge, and set it in his blouse pocket.

“No.”

“Then I was high,” said Dar. Yaponchik’s muzzle flashed again.

Dar heard the whine of the slug passing his right ear before the double-crack of the shot itself. Dar had to admit that Yaponchik was ranging him fairly well. And the Russian did not require a head shot since Dar had no vest.

Dar banished the thought and concentrated on vision and calculation.

Yaponchik fired again. The bullet struck halfway between Dar and Syd, throwing pebbles and dust four feet in the air. Dar kept his stance, blinked away shimmers, and lowered his aim slightly. He had to be impressed by the professional fluidity with which Yaponchik worked the bolt action, pocketed the cartridge out of old habit, and resumed his perfect sniper stance without lifting his face from the ZF 69 sight.

Dar fired. The recoil made him lose Yaponchik for a second.

“Short—” cried Syd.

“How much?”

But Syd was already providing the information. “About a meter short. Right on line, though.”

Dar nodded and lifted his sights. He heard rather than saw the wind come up as the grass rustled and his torn blouse lifted slightly in the breeze. He adjusted his sight two clicks to the left.

Yaponchik had already squeezed the trigger. Only one bullet left in that magazine, thought Dar. I hope.

The slug threw up a geyser of dust a foot in front of Syd. She did not flinch. Luckily there had been no rock for the bullet to ricochet from.

Dar heard and felt the breeze strengthen slightly, saw the rippling mirage lines tilt a little farther to the left and then a little more, not quite horizontal but close to it. He estimated the wind at six and a half miles per hour, gave his elevation screw another half click left, reached his exhale spot on his breathing cycle, held his breath, and fired.

“Hit!” cried Syd. “I think…”

Dar did not have to think. He knew it had not been a clean head shot—he could still see Yaponchik’s face and cold blue eyes staring—but there had been a spray of red mist.

The instant seemed to drag on for long minutes, although only a second or two elapsed. Dar had time to action the cartridge out and chamber the next round, his eye never leaving the sight, before Yaponchik fell.

Unlike the movies in which humans are thrown violently backward for many yards from even a pistol shot, Dar had never seen a shooting victim do anything more dramatic than crumple. That was what Yaponchik did now, still holding his sniper rifle at port arms.

“Neck, I think,” said Syd, her voice thick.

“I saw it,” said Dar. “Right at the base of the throat. Just above the vest-line.”

They began walking toward the downed man, Syd removing her 9mm semiautomatic from its holster, when Dar suddenly stopped.

“What?” said Syd, sounding slightly alarmed.

“Nothing,” said Dar. He had slung his M40 over his shoulder. Out of curiosity, he extended his right hand. Then his left. There was no shaking whatsoever. “Nothing,” he said again, feeling a great hollowness rise within him and threaten to carry him away. “Nothing.”

They began walking again. Yaponchik’s crumpled form did not stir.

Syd and Dar were only thirty yards away and could actually see the red spray of arterial blood on the grass and the Russian’s head tilted back at an impossible angle when the skies above them filled with noise.

Both stopped and looked up.

Two of the helicopters had Marine markings and the third one had “FBI” lettered on the side. The FBI chopper landed between them and Yaponchik’s body.

Dar turned, ripped the Velcro off Syd’s vest, lifted the Kevlar over her head, and held her in his arms. All around them, the grasses swayed wildly from the madness of the rotors’ blast.

“I love you, Dar,” said Syd, her words lost in the engine roar, but perfectly understandable.

“Yes,” Dar said, and kissed her softly.