We could hear Freak laying his spiel over the rotor buzz. “It’s binary man, I’m telling you. Think about it. I mean we’re either off or on, right? Shoot – Don’t Shoot. Attack – Defend. Move – Dig In. It’s what soldiers do. We’re strings of code in the world’s carnage and misery.”
The big man, Giant, rumbled something noncommittal and went back to checking his P90s.
I looked over at Widow. “‘Code in the world’s carnage and misery‘. That’s new.”
“Hate to admit, but he sounds more convincing every time.” She blew a lock of auburn hair out of her face, checked the charge on the Falcon Drone Controller for the fifth time since we took off. “We just passed into Russian airspace. I’d guesstimate ten minutes to drop.”
I nodded. Time to refresh the intel. I whistled up everyone’s attention. “Thank you Freak, for reminding us we’re motes in the relentless tide of history.”
Freak bowed. I continued. “Today’s episode of insignificance is brought to you by the Russian Mafia. You know Black Hand extremists have been lusting for their own private apocalypse for years now. They’ve been practically giving blowjobs to anyone who promises them fissionable material. Well apparently seventy million Euro was enough for certain Moscow Bratki to misplace their scruples. They’ve arranged the sale of a cache of U-235. The Dark Room thinks it’s part of the same batch that sprouted legs and walked out of an Atomenergoprom facility six months ago. but we’ll confirm that once we get our hands on it.”
Everyone in the plane was listening now. Which was good because this was serious.
I brought up the holo-map of our dropzone and pointed to a jumble of ugly dilapidated concrete. “The exchange is taking place at the former 5th Armored Guards South Army Group base outside Borzya.”
Bergil raised a hand. “So we’re just shopping for souvenirs?”
I shook my head. “Nope. We have permission to put big holes in vital organs too. ‘Heads on stakes’ was the phrase.”
A nod of unspoken approval went around the room.
“Any Questions? No? We drop in ten.”