"If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough."
-Mario Andretti.

Dover to Bitburg

Ruzhyo numbly boarded Vladimir's little Piper Arrow in the South of England, after a restless transatlantic commercial flight from Baltimore to Montreal to London. As per their earlier arrangement, Vlad had no need for any help from the agent, so the Chechen slumped in the passenger seat, and closed his eyes.

He vaguely recalled Plenkanov radioing the Dover tower, but nodded off after hearing a few humdrum number-laced exchanges. The need of rest outweighed curiosity. It was no contest, really. Minutes over the Calais or somewhere, Ruzhyo didn't care, his senses completely shutoff. The Russian briefly looked over at his passenger between checks at the instrument panel. His Virgin radio station faded out over some WWI cemetery. Just as well, the sun will be up soon, and traffic will pick up.

He spotted the dawn patrol from Spangdahlem, an F-16c pair on a racetrack pattern in Southwest Germany. There collision lights blinked at him, just so he'd know they were watching. The leader told him they were of the 52ed Fighter Wing, and cautioned him to mind his course. No problem. Plenkanov couldn't help playing up his Russian accent on this occasion.

"Tower, am I clear for landing at the BITBURG runway? Oh," he feigned to realize, "That's a United States Air Force base, no? I'd better scatter from restricted airspace!"

The combat pilot irritably corrected him.

"Negative, flight, Bitburg is your destination."

Vladimir tried conveying his smile across the radio.

"Da, this the former home of your great superpower's mightiest fighter squadron, no? Yet here I am, a Russian aviator, ending a joyride at this airbase. Tell me, who won the Cold War?"

"This is tower, flight. The pattern is clear, you are clear to land," the tower gave him a heading and a strip.

"Acknowledged. I'm putting her down."

Bitburg

Few people and few activities are present these days at Bitburg, not since the 1994 closure. In fact, Plenkanov can't really find many light sources as he and Ruzhyo exit a small flight hangar, and stroll to the ancient staff parking lot. No chauffeurs lounge by the car provided one day before by one of the major continental rental agencies.

Ruzyho naps again after finishing his shuffle to the car. That's fine. Plenkanov exits on Autobahn A-48 toward a little storage rental unit in the base's decaying little host hamlet. Two vicious Rottweilers lunge at the ends of chains behind a fence to the side. The Russian ignores them, and digs out the storage key. He flashes his mini LED flashlight, matching the numbers to his number. At last, not too soon, they're in synchronicity. He works and padlock, and eases the chain clear, then pushes in a slant.

He found the switch and flicked it. Inside was a securely locked gun cabinet. He rotated the dial a few combinations, and removed the twin contents; two lacquered Saiga 12-gauge shotguns with 580mm barrels and folding butt stocks.

"Mikhail, tote the spare magazines and shells out," he called, low enough that no one would hear, over the Rottweiler banshees. The Chechen rubbed both eyes.

"Sure, I'm coming."

Then they resumed running down A-48 at all possible Porsche Carrera GT might. They held course until the car reached the exit at Trier, and Plenkanov shifted again. On the right turn on B-50, they found a McDonalds drive-through.

Crappy intercom: "Welcome to McDonalds, may I take your order?"

"Two coffees, please."

"Would you like fries with that?"

"No, thanks."

The burger-flipper named a price, and cut the com.

They took the steaming Styrofoam cups, exchanged a Euro or so, cradled them in cup-holders, revved the ten cylinder up high, and found the next AUSFAHRT (exit, not a special place to release flatulence, as some newbie Americans believe).

Under an hour later, they found themselves on Autobahn 6, very near Kaiserslautern's Rod and Gun Club.

There's a clearing, an inlet in the woods, where Poliz cars sometimes mask from traffic. Vladimir detours between the ledges of vegetation. He set the parking brake, and glanced at his brooding friend.

"Mikhail?"

The agent lifted his Saiga by the bulging magazine.

"Let's proceed."

He wiped a sweat cluster from his nose, then brushed the back of his hand against his pants. He popped the lid off his coffee cup and downed the last of it.

"Okay."

They both exited, but didn't lock the doors. Mikhail the Rifle fixed some tinted Raybans on his face, and produced a pair of earplugs from his front left pocket.

Sol crested over an unseen hill in the East. It could be in a very inconvenient place when they're ready.

Vladimir pored over a map and compass. He didn't trust civilian GPS so close to K-Town, the living space of 34,000 Americans attached to Ramstein.

"Follow me, Mikhail," said he, a little dubiously, "according to my observations of some overheads the other day, the best hunting grounds should be this way."

A few paces into the trek, they met a barbed wire fence. Plenkhanov offered his buddy the shotgun, and negotiated over, taking a low-hanging beech branch, set one hiked-up foot on the top wire, and dropped to the other side. Ruzhyo returned the shotgun, adding his own, and leaped clearly over.

"Olympians," the computer tech muttered, as he returned the second Saiga. He marched on, now holding the piece in a more operational manner.

"We only have a few klicks to go." Another check at the map and compass. He wasn't confident at orienteering.

At one point, he visually relaxed. A hundred or so meters was a landmark recognized from his overhead studies. It was a 'Christmas' cider marred by a revolting sheering dished out by a T-6 pilot with no idea how to prune.

"There's no mistake now."

He doubled the pace, quickly matched by Ruzhyo. Voices, in English, American English. They fell, froze.

"Hey, was that a hare?" One voice called out.

"Well don't scare it, Brice!" A party of hunters. Ruzhyo duck-walked close to his partner.

"Comrade, don't freeze up. I need you to crawl forward, hands and knees, until they are in your sights, yeah? I'm swinging left," he patted Vladimir's back, and broke into a sprint.

The Russian closed both eyes, choked his stomach back down, and moved one elbow before the other.

Vladimir could no longer see the Chechen when the distant Saiga let down a fusillade of buckshot and Magnum shells. MOVE FASTER! Both Saigas had the tested sheet metal ten-round clips. Ruzhyo had his emptied nearly as fast as a semiautomatic allowed. Hurry.

Vladimir crested the hill, and peered down. A hunter in lodencloth (hunter's clothing) lay prone beneath a stump, bleeding but fighting. He had a .300 rifle pointed at Ruzhyo's treeline, snapping back the bolt. Vlad preempted him, streaming 00 scattershot across the jaeger's (lead hunter) green back.

"I'm hit!" He feebly rolled closer to the hill, leaving a thick red trail. Vlad's eyes followed him, sighted, fired again, once more, another time. The gun clicked empty.

A tap on the shoulder.

"Back to the car, go!" Ruzhyo, looking agitated.

"I don't like these heavy gauge guns, even if they look like the AK."


Mikhail had the wheel, (lucky dog), and it was Vladimir who slumped in the passenger seat.

The assassin had the presence of mind to comb the glove compartment for their hunting license (Jagdschein). They were visible. Anyway, in hunting accidents, the police are always to treat the scene as a terrible accident, no reason to harass people over that, right? The roads won't be cordoned. In all the years terrorism has targeted American servicemen in Germany, men have been shot, bombed, kidnapped, and even axed, in the cities, but no Libyan or Bader-Meinhof rogues ever encountered soldiers in the woodlands.

After less than five kilometers on Autobahn 6, he turned onto Autobahn 62, gunned the engine a couple of minutes, then pulled over to the Hochwald Gas Station.

"Keep a lookout, while I pump some premium gas."

"Certainly."

Ruzhyo must have been inside, paying with Euros, because when he returned, he said, "the television isn't streaming an image from a police helicopter, so we're clear."

He jumped in, hit the gas and listened to the engine's rrrrvvvv.

'Man, I'll always love that sound.'

"We'll see if they're on the radio." He pressed play.

"Ah crud, 99 Red Balloons."

He slanted into traffic. He accelerated to a 'T' intersection, took a left, then raced back to Bitburg.

"I hope you can start that plane fast- we need to break out of the coming dragnet."

Vladimir grunted.

"So why was this… slaying, necessary, Comrade?"

The tech checked the mirror.

"Strategically, it won't do much good. Those hunters were probably medical and logistical personnel. As a morale tool, it's a coup. For years, when these paramilitary groups went into a military engagement, even with numerical and tactical advantages, they always came out losing. Heck, when they did win, it was in the form of a hit, a murder, within cities, often when their opponents were unarmed. We entered those woods, however, outnumbered by that hunting party. We had semiautomatic shotguns, and they were similarly armed. We engaged that way, and routed them. That will be huge, but really, I just wanted to evaluate you firsthand. Mikhail, after our stop in Chechnya, are you still going to be my soldier?"


Minor car and coffee work by Viscount.