Cold War

Chapter 16

The plywood targets were cut to roughly humanoid shape and painted with pictures of the alien predators, but done entirely in a dull blue that was almost invisible in the dimly lit shooting range. Schaefer guessed that this was supposed to make the targets resemble the effects of the things’ invisibility field.

It didn’t. The invisibility field had made the damn things invisible, not just hard to see; with that and how fast they moved, you were lucky to catch so much as a faint shimmer in the air before they ripped your head off.

Schaefer didn’t bother mentioning this. Instead he watched silently as the four big men with self-satisfied grins cut loose with heavy-caliber automatic weapons and reduced three of the sheets of plywood to splinters.

The fourth target had one side ripped out, but remained largely intact.

”This team is the elite, Schaefer,” Philips said. “Culled from all three services. What do you think?”

”I think you’re wasting a lot of good plywood,” Schaefer replied.

Philips didn’t respond. He had a horrible suspicion that Schaefer was right.

The six men ambled down toward the other end of the range-the shooters to inspect their handiwork, and Schaefer because it seemed to be expected. The four men who were supposed to be his students or teammates carried their weapons with them-that would be a violation of safety rules at an ordinary range, but here it seemed to be expected. Schaefer watched the way the four walked-self-assured, cocky, supremely confident.

Not good. Overconfidence got men killed, and until you’d gone up against your enemy and knew what you were facing, any sort of confidence was overconfidence.

”What’s the matter, Wilcox?” one of them asked, pointing at the surviving target. “Forget your glasses?”

Wilcox frowned. “Hell, I figured I’d leave something for the rest of you, that’s all.”

Schaefer looked at the target. It had been made with one arm raised in a threatening gesture; the artist had included the wrist blades the aliens used, though he’d gotten the shape of the curve wrong. Given that unless the artist had been there on Third Avenue last summer, he’d never seen one of the creatures, he’d done a damn good job getting as close as he did.

Wilcox had blown away the other side of the target; that hand raised to strike was still there, and Wilcox was standing directly in front of that arm, trading insults with the other men, ignoring the target, ignoring Schaefer.

Too cocky, definitely. If these bozos expected to survive an encounter with those hunters from outer space, they had to learn not to ignore anything. Schaefer reached over and gave the target a shove.

It swung around, and that upraised arm slammed into the side of Wilcox’s head. He fell sideways at the impact and landed sprawled on the floor.

Philips winced at the sound.

Wilcox didn’t drop his weapon, Schaefer noticed. That was good, anyway. The weapon wasn’t any sort of rifle or gun Schaefer recognized-he supposed it was some sort of special top-of-the-line equipment.

Schaefer stepped over toward Wilcox. “Guess you didn’t expect it to hit back,” he said. “Get used to it. These boys play for keeps and follow their own rules.”

”Who the hell are you?” Wilcox demanded, pointing his weapon at Schaefer’s chest. “And give me one good reason I shouldn’t blow your damn head off!”

Schaefer stepped forward and to the side, past the muzzle of the gun, so that Wilcox couldn’t swing it around to follow. He bent down and offered Wilcox a hand up.

”The name’s Schaefer,” he said. Wilcox gripped Schaefer’s wrist, and a second later was upright again. He transferred his weapon to his left hand and reached out to shake Schaefer’s hand…

Schaefer had turned away. “As far as that ‘blow my head off’ business goes-well, son…”

Wilcox glared at Schaefer’s back in disbelief, the son of a bitch had knocked him down without warning, and now he thought he was too good to shake hands and make up? He hefted the heavy-assault rifle in his left hand, then grabbed the barrel with his right and swung the weapon like a club, aiming for the back of Schaefer’s head. Let the arrogant bastard have a taste of his own medicine!

”… you wouldn’t want to do that,” Schaefer said, ducking under Wilcox’s swing-he had clearly expected it. He pivoted on the ball of one foot and brought his fist up under Wilcox’s jaw, driving upward from his crouch.

Fist met jaw with a solid thump, and Wilcox went over backward.

”Especially,” Schaefer said as he stood over the dazed trooper, “seeing as I’m unarmed.”

”All right, Schaefer,” Philips said, stepping forward. “You’ve made your point. Come on, all of you-the briefing room, right now.”

It took a moment before anyone moved, but then the group filed out of the range and down the hall.

Schaefer looked straight ahead as he walked; most of the others looked at Schaefer. Wilcox glared at him with outright hatred; the others’ expressions ranged from mild curiosity to open hostility.

Philips tried to hide his own unhappiness behind an angry frown. Lynch had done his best, but without supervision it hadn’t been enough. These men were good fighters, but still undisciplined, with no real sense of who they were, what their job was. Schaefer had picked up on it immediately, pulling that stunt with the target-the men weren’t focused on their enemy, they were focused on themselves.

That was bad-but there wasn’t time to do anything about it.

He led the group into a briefing room and gestured for Schaefer to join him up front while the others took seats on a few of the dozen folding chairs. A man wearing captain’s bars was standing at the front, hands clasped behind his back; Schaefer ignored him and lounged comfortably against the blackboard, facing the men.

Philips stood between Schaefer and the captain and announced, “All right, now listen up!”

Schaefer didn’t see any change in the seated audience, but Philips seemed satisfied and continued, “This is Detective Schaefer, NYPD. He’ll be going with us on the mission. He was directly involved in the New York incident, and he has firsthand knowledge of these creatures. He also speaks fluent Russian, which means we don’t need to worry about sending along some half-assed translator or teaching a phrase book to any of you apes.”

”Jesus, you’re bound for Siberia and you didn’t teach any of ‘em Russian?” Schaefer asked.

Philips turned and glowered at him. “You said it yourself, Schaefer-it’s cold in Russia, and those things like it hot. We’ve got Lassen there who knows Arabic, Wilcox speaks good Spanish, Dobbs has some Swahili-we thought that would probably cover it, and we couldn’t teach them every damn language on Earth!”

Schaefer nodded. “Fair enough, General.”

Philips turned back to the others. “Detective Schaefer’s got an attitude, but hell, so do the rest of you. Take it from me, he knows what he’s doing, so damn it, listen to him if he tells you something about these creatures. Have all of you got that?”

No one answered, but Philips didn’t allow himself to notice. He turned and barked, “Captain Lynch-I want Schaefer combat-briefed on all our equipment and ready to go by 0600 hours. Is that clear?”

”Crystal, sir,” Lynch replied smartly.

”Good. Carry on.” Philips took a final look around, smiled, and then marched out of the room.

”Lassen, you’re with me,” Lynch called. “The rest of you, pack up-you heard the general, 0600.”

The men rose and scattered; a moment later only Schaefer, Lynch, and Lassen remained. Lynch waited a few seconds, then leaned over close to Schaefer. He grimaced, producing what Schaefer thought might have been intended as a conspiratorial smile.

”Look, Schaefer,” he said, “this squad’s been training as a team for six months. We don’t need some second-rate gumshoe telling us our jobs. The general wants you along, you come along, and maybe we’ll use you as a translator if we need one, but otherwise, you just stay safely out of the way and everything’ll be fine, okay?”

Schaefer stared coldly at him.

”You’re a civilian,” Lynch said, trying to explain himself. “You aren’t being paid to risk your neck.”

”I’m a cop,” Schaefer replied. “You think I’m not paid to risk my neck?”

”Yeah, well,” Lynch said, “so I phrased it badly. Siberia’s still outside your jurisdiction, okay?”

Schaefer stared at him for a second longer, then said, “You know, I’ve always heard that it’s up to the officers to set the tone for the whole unit. Maybe that’s why your men are all assholes.”

It was Lynch’s turn to stare angrily, fighting to keep control of his temper. Finally he wheeled away and shouted, “Lassen! The general wants this man briefed; brief him, already!”

”This way, sir,” Lassen said quietly, pointing at a side table that held a variety of equipment cases.

Schaefer ambled over and watched as Lassen opened case after case and lifted out various items.

”Type 19D Ranger-wear snowsuit,” Lassen said, holding up a shiny light-brown jumpsuit. “Thin and practical, with none of the standard bulk to inhibit movement. Tested to fifty below zero.”

Schaefer crossed his arms over his chest.

”The suit is warmed by high-pressure, thermally charged fluid pumped through the fabric by an electrical unit worn on the belt,” Lassen explained.

”Cute,” Schaefer said. “Does it come with matching pumps and a purse? And if it’s meant for the snow, why the hell isn’t it white?”

Lassen ignored the questions and set the bodysuit aside. He picked up an automatic rifle.

”M-16S modified ice-killer,” he said. “Nice piece of work-you won’t find one of these at your local sell ‘n’ shoot! The barrel and firing mechanism have been crafted out of special alloy steel, perfect for cold-weather firing-again, down to fifty below. It’s a…”

He stopped in midsentence; he’d lost his audience. Schaefer had turned away.

”Hey!” Lassen called. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

”Toys ‘R’ Us,” Schaefer answered. “They have a better selection of toys.” He turned at the doorway.

”Listen, I don’t blame you, Lassen,” Schaefer said, “but you’ve been brainwashed by this high-tech crap. You and the others think this stuff makes you superior to those things, ready to handle anything they throw at you. You’re wrong; you don’t know them, don’t know what they’re like. You’ve heard the stories, but deep down you don’t believe them, you still think you’re the toughest thing going, with your American know-how and guts and your fancy equipment.” He shook his head.

”That’s not how it is,” he said. “When it comes right down to it, it’s going to be you against walking death, just you. And when it gets to that point, all the fancy knickknacks in the world won’t mean shit, and how tough you think you are won’t matter. What matters is whether you’re ready to do anything to take ‘em down. I killed one of them once, Lassen, and you know how I did it?”

Lassen shook his head.

”With a big pointed stick,” Schaefer told him. “I had guns and lots of other toys, and so did it, but it was a wooden stake through its heart that punched out its lights once and for all.” He waved an arm at all the cases. “This crap won’t matter. You’ll see. It’ll probably just make you overconfident and get you all killed.”

”No, I…” Lassen began.

Schaefer didn’t stay to hear what the soldier had been going to say; he marched out, intent on getting a hot meal and a little sleep before they shipped him off to the arctic.