folding metal stock and an expansion chamber on the muzzle to control the gases
when fired. It had a long banana-style clip and an oddly shaped flash hider.
“AKSU. Basically a sawed-off AK-74,” said Karr. “We have to go native. But it’ll do the job.”
Lia had a similar gun in her hand and was piling up clips from a hidden compartment in the truck bed.
“Uses a five-millimeter bullet,” continued Karr.
“Five-point-forty-five,” said Dean.
“Very good. You’ve fired it before?”
“I’ve handled AK-74s,” he said.
“Same thing except different.” Karr turned toward him and smiled. He actually seemed to be paying a little more attention
to the road now and turned his head back before adding, “Gun flies up more when you fire it than an AK-74. But it’s pretty
sweet.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Hopefully, you won’t have to. We want to avoid it, actually.”
“Not to the point of getting killed,” said Lia. She finished stacking the clips, then handed six to Dean. The boxes held thirty
bullets apiece—a lot of lead considering they didn’t want to fire them. Dean put one each in his front pockets, then stuffed
the others in his pants.
“Smoke,” said Lia, handing him two small grenades.
“Flash-bangs would be better,” said Dean.
“Let us run the mission, baby-sitter.”
“We have flash-bangs,” said Karr. “You won’t need them. This is all about subtlety, Charlie. Subtlety. We’re not in Vietnam.”
Under other circumstances, Dean might have told him to go to hell—or he might have laughed at him. Karr sounded like the typical
know-it-all second lieutenant fresh from the States lecturing troops who’d been in the field taking shit for six months.
Dean shifted his clips around to get the grenades into his pockets. The vest did not contain pockets.
“Okay, boys and girls, show time,” said Karr, pulling the truck off the road. A tall fence topped by razor wire stood thirty
yards away; there was a second one just beyond it. Dean reached for the door.
“Hold on, cowboy. Put this on first,” said Karr, reaching to the glove compartment. He took out a small tangle of wires and
dropped it into Dean’s lap. Unraveling it, Dean found that there were ear buds and a mike that clipped to his shirt. A long
wire ran down from it, ending in a micro-plug.
“Where do I plug in?”
“Back of your pants, believe it or not,” said Karr. “Kind of a designer’s in-joke, I think.”
Dean fished around and found a small receptacle on the back side of the waistband.
“Hear me?” whispered Karr. His voice had a slightly tinny sound to it.
“Yeah.”
“It works through our satellite system, but you’re locked off from the Art Room. Sorry about that.” The NSA op reached down
to a panel in the door and took out what looked like a thick set of skier’s goggles. The sides were thick metal rather than
plastic, and they weighed two or three times as much as goggles.
“Starscope,” explained Karr. “Range is a little limited, but you can’t have everything.”
Dean slid it over his head, pulling the rubber strap at the back taut. The interior of the van looked like a gray, washed-out
video feed. The aperture adjusted automatically.
“The image won’t be as bright outside,” said Karr, who took out a similar set for himself. “They auto-adjust. The brains who
designed them probably thought we’d break them if we had a knob to fiddle with.”
“Are we going or what?” asked Lia over the com system.
“Keep your shirt on, Princess.” Karr held up his small computer for Dean, who had to slide the night visor off to see the
screen. “Lia’s point, I’m next, you’re tail. We go over the fence, avoid the minefield, move across, and get to the big shack.”
Karr traced the path with his finger, then clicked on the button in the lower left-hand side of the screen. Displays of the
layout of the facility flashed on, showing each
when fired. It had a long banana-style clip and an oddly shaped flash hider.
“AKSU. Basically a sawed-off AK-74,” said Karr. “We have to go native. But it’ll do the job.”
Lia had a similar gun in her hand and was piling up clips from a hidden compartment in the truck bed.
“Uses a five-millimeter bullet,” continued Karr.
“Five-point-forty-five,” said Dean.
“Very good. You’ve fired it before?”
“I’ve handled AK-74s,” he said.
“Same thing except different.” Karr turned toward him and smiled. He actually seemed to be paying a little more attention
to the road now and turned his head back before adding, “Gun flies up more when you fire it than an AK-74. But it’s pretty
sweet.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Hopefully, you won’t have to. We want to avoid it, actually.”
“Not to the point of getting killed,” said Lia. She finished stacking the clips, then handed six to Dean. The boxes held thirty
bullets apiece—a lot of lead considering they didn’t want to fire them. Dean put one each in his front pockets, then stuffed
the others in his pants.
“Smoke,” said Lia, handing him two small grenades.
“Flash-bangs would be better,” said Dean.
“Let us run the mission, baby-sitter.”
“We have flash-bangs,” said Karr. “You won’t need them. This is all about subtlety, Charlie. Subtlety. We’re not in Vietnam.”
Under other circumstances, Dean might have told him to go to hell—or he might have laughed at him. Karr sounded like the typical
know-it-all second lieutenant fresh from the States lecturing troops who’d been in the field taking shit for six months.
Dean shifted his clips around to get the grenades into his pockets. The vest did not contain pockets.
“Okay, boys and girls, show time,” said Karr, pulling the truck off the road. A tall fence topped by razor wire stood thirty
yards away; there was a second one just beyond it. Dean reached for the door.
“Hold on, cowboy. Put this on first,” said Karr, reaching to the glove compartment. He took out a small tangle of wires and
dropped it into Dean’s lap. Unraveling it, Dean found that there were ear buds and a mike that clipped to his shirt. A long
wire ran down from it, ending in a micro-plug.
“Where do I plug in?”
“Back of your pants, believe it or not,” said Karr. “Kind of a designer’s in-joke, I think.”
Dean fished around and found a small receptacle on the back side of the waistband.
“Hear me?” whispered Karr. His voice had a slightly tinny sound to it.
“Yeah.”
“It works through our satellite system, but you’re locked off from the Art Room. Sorry about that.” The NSA op reached down
to a panel in the door and took out what looked like a thick set of skier’s goggles. The sides were thick metal rather than
plastic, and they weighed two or three times as much as goggles.
“Starscope,” explained Karr. “Range is a little limited, but you can’t have everything.”
Dean slid it over his head, pulling the rubber strap at the back taut. The interior of the van looked like a gray, washed-out
video feed. The aperture adjusted automatically.
“The image won’t be as bright outside,” said Karr, who took out a similar set for himself. “They auto-adjust. The brains who
designed them probably thought we’d break them if we had a knob to fiddle with.”
“Are we going or what?” asked Lia over the com system.
“Keep your shirt on, Princess.” Karr held up his small computer for Dean, who had to slide the night visor off to see the
screen. “Lia’s point, I’m next, you’re tail. We go over the fence, avoid the minefield, move across, and get to the big shack.”
Karr traced the path with his finger, then clicked on the button in the lower left-hand side of the screen. Displays of the
layout of the facility flashed on, showing each
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