Dirty Little Wars 01: Moscow

FLIGHT

The AN-2 is a monster, the world's largest and ugliest single-engine bi-plane. It boasts a nine-cylinder, 1000-horsepower, radial engine that blasts smoke through the cowling scoops on start-up and will give you a nosebleed once it spools up.

Sasha owns four of them. Three are used for parts, and the one aircraft that actually flies is the worst looking of them all.

It sits outside the hangar, its wings dark against the grey sky, and its ponderous weight pressing down on heavy struts and cartoonish round tires. Its nose is angled skyward, snowy light reflected in its glasshouse-style cockpit panes.

The fuselage is dirty white, stained with oil grime along the panels, and scarred with thick black streaks of exhaust from the scoops.

Sasha appears beside it; a big man with a flattened nose, red cheeks, and small blue eyes set under bushy red eyebrows. He's dressed in stained coveralls with a drab padded jacket, and a lumpy grey sheepskin ushanka with dirty earflaps.

He waves as we approach, but his attention quickly diverts to the three mechanics currently heaving the Ninja up through the AN-2's cargo door.

"Stronger!" he yells. "Are you little girls?"

They're village kids, well-fed and aloof. I can't complain about how quickly they arrived at the hotel, or how efficiently they loaded the Ninja and the helmets into Sasha's van. They don't appear to be slowing down now, and why would they? Sasha's not known for his nurturing managerial style.

Lucjan is standing close beside me, loosely concealing a stubby Bizon submachine gun given to him by one of his security guards.

"A crop duster?" he mutters, eyeing the plane.

I shake my head. "The A-N-Two is a venerated machine with an excellent safety record. Thought you were a statistician."

"A mathematician."

"It's a safe plane."

"And the pilot?"

"A safe pilot is the last thing we need."

I imagine him glaring at me, but I don't turn to look.

The Ninja disappears into the hold, and I walk toward Sasha. He laughs and spreads his heavy arms as I get close, catching me in a bear hold and lifting me off the ground. He squeezes me just enough to force the air into my lungs. My bruises instantly sting.

"Zoshinka!" he purrs. "Hello, hello. Still just like a doll."

I wait for it to end because there's nothing I can say until it does. He sets me down on the ground and casts a skeptical gaze at Lucjan, his attention drawn to the dark business suit, and the slung Bizon.

"There's no time for introductions," I tell him.

Sasha grins, because dollars always matter more than names or causes, especially between pirates. "Who needs them? I am only waiting on you. The boys will come with us, in case we have problems with this Mercedes... or the plane. The plane could be bad too."

I nod, focusing on the open cargo door. It occurs to me that this is another one of those point-of-no-return moments, and there is no way of knowing what is going to come at us once this winged tank leaves the runway. I think of Irusya, her fire and her fragility, the way her eyes always seem to reflect some better version of me... the woman she wants me to be.

Hang on, kotku...

I climb into the cold metal cabin, past the three young mechanics and the bike. I move into the dank murk of exposed pipes, round windows, and jump seats.

There are a few toolboxes tied down to the shelves in the aft, along with a ripped cardboard box filled with skydiving jumpsuits, and boots, and harnesses hanging from hooks. I reach down and sift through the box, finding a suit and a pair of boots about my size.

Lucjan climbs into the cabin and chooses a seat under a window, watching as I shrug my jacket off, slide my feet out of my shoes and place my gun on the floor. I step into the jumpsuit, shimmying it up over my hips and adjusting my bra under my opaque club shirt as I pull the heavier clothes over the impractical ones. It's a rushed dressing exercise, and far too awkward to be sensual. Still, he seems unable to look away.

I zip the suit up to my chin and instantly feel a bit warmer.

Reaching down, I search the box for a suit about his size. Most are smaller, but one seems like it will do. Also, there are a pair of boots that seem about right. I toss it all onto the seat beside him.

"Do we have a plan?" he asks, inspecting one of the boots.

"Find them. Find her."

"And...?"

"Get her to the plane, no matter what it takes."

"No matter what it...?" He laughs, though it's not an encouraging sound. "Maybe we should go over some scenarios?"

The door shuts, and Sasha pulls himself up into the cockpit, his bulk settling restlessly into the pilot's seat. "We go get the white car. This is a good scenario."

Lucjan rolls his eyes.

Sasha starts to adjust levers and dials, provoking clicks from the innate machine. He flips the engine start switch then the magneto switch, and a hard whine pierces the cabin, rising to a torturous howl before he engages the clutch and the propeller sputters to life.

Power sings through aluminum, smoke coughing from the scoops outside.

"Prepare for take-off," he yells.

I pick up my gun and my jacket, taking the flat seat opposite Lucjan.

He looks at me and shakes his head. I finally notice how uncomfortable he is with the Bizon. His hold on it is too precise, too aware of the trigger, as if it could blast away at any moment with the safety on.

"Not much target practice at The Farm these days?" I ask, referring to the CIA Camp Peary training program where all the new operations officers are forged. I've heard it's a white-collar boot camp these days, a barely relevant ritual with a mock kidnapping and torture session scheduled at the end... not exactly the James Bond Institute of Urban Combat and Exotic Weapons Training. So, it should come as no surprise that he's not much of a special operator.

In the normal day-to-day, officers like him don't carry weapons. If they need a weapon, they've fucked up. If they're caught with a weapon, they've fucked up. They rely on being smart. Clearly, getting on a plane with me is not that. It does highlight, however, the risks he's willing to take to protect his assets.

"I can hold my own," he says calmly.

I nod, hoping that's true.

To be fair, most of the gun violence I've seen happened too far too quickly for me to be able to judge who the experts were. It doesn't always make a difference. The violent things I've done, well... none of it was masterfully executed. In retrospect, it all seems like a string of blurred hyper-threat responses, fear, and a shit ton of dumb luck, and maybe that's all it ever is.

Since I don't know Lucjan's actual history, it's impossible for me to gauge whether he would agree with that assessment or not. Perhaps there are CQC incidents that he will never tell me about, just as there are decades of my life that I will never discuss with him. We're both forced into a position of blind trust here, relying on each other's capabilities when we have no idea what they actually are.

I watch him for a moment, wondering if anyone in our business is truly knowable. Considering the nature of things that I keep secret, I suppose it's comforting to think that we're not.