TWO
THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST
under an hour.
Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his
squad would do well - better than the rest, anyway. The
nine others that made up squad B respected him; he
had seen it in their eyes, and although they would almost
certainly die, their performance would be noteworthy.
After all, he had practically trained them
himself.
There was no talking in the helicopter that carried
platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among
the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore headsets.
It was too loud for the troops to hear one another,
and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or
Cryan - or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was
their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It
was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor
lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.
I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog,
and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will
have to deal with, whether they like it or not.
Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside.
When the time came, "they," the men who controlled
Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that
they'd underestimated him.
He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one
wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar
throb of the transport. The very air was charged with
tension and heavy with the scent of masculine sweat;
again, familiar. He had led men into battle before - although
if everything went as planned, he would never
have to again.
He let his gaze wander over the taut faces of the
troops, wondering if any of them would survive more
than an hour or two. It was possible, he supposed.
There was the scarred man from South Africa, in
Cryan's group ... and on his own squad, John Wersbowski,
who had taken part in an ethnic cleansing a
few years back, Nicholai couldn't remember which
one. Both men had the combination of deep suspicion
and self-possession that might conceivably allow them
to escape Raccoon, howevef unlikely - and it was unlikely.
The briefing hadn't prepared any of them for
what was ahead...
Nicholai's own private briefing, two days earlier, had
been a different matter; Operation Watchdog, they
called it. He knew the projected numbers, had been told
what to expect and how to most effectively dispatch the
unclean, the walking diseased. They'd told him about
the Tyrant-like seeker units that were going to be sent
in, and how to avoid them. He knew more than anyone
on the transport.
But I'm also readier than Umbrella can possibly
imagine ... because I know the names of the other
"dogs."
Again, he suppressed a smile. He possessed additional
information that Umbrella didn't know he had,
that was worth a great deal of money - or would be,
soon enough. On the surface, the U.B.C.S. was being
sent in to rescue civilians; that was what they'd been
told, anyway. But he was one of the ten who'd been
chosen to gather and record data on the T-virus carriers,
human and otherwise, and on how they fared against
trained soldiers - the real reason the U.B.C.S. were
being sent in, aka Watchdog. In the helicopter that carried
platoon A were two others, disguised as U.B.C.S.;
there were six already planted in Raccoon - three scientists,
two Umbrella paper pushers, and a woman who
worked for the city. The tenth was a police officer, a
personal assistant to the chief himself. Each of them
probably knew one or two of the others that Umbrella
had handpicked as information collectors - but thanks
to his well-developed computer skills and a few "borrowed"
passwords, he was the only one who knew
about all of them, as well as where each was supposed
to be to file their reports.
Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they
failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one
Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for
the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it
amazing to think that a man could become a multimillionaire
if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of effort,
and a few bullets?
Nine people. He was nine people away from being
the only Umbrella employee to have the information
they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die
quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watchdogs,
to take their data and end their miserable lives.
This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The
mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one,
a true test of his many skills ... and when it was over,
he was going to be a very wealthy man.
In spite of the cramped seating and the dull roar of
the 'copter's engines, Carlos was only faintly aware of
his surroundings. He couldn't get his mind off of Trent
and the decidedly weird conversation they'd had only a
couple of hours ago, and he found that he kept replaying
it, trying to decide if any of it was useful.
To begin with, Carlos had trusted the guy about as
far as he could toss him. The man had been way too
happy; not outwardly so much, but Carlos had gotten
the definite impression that Trent was laughing about
something just beneath the surface. His dark eyes had
fairly danced with humor as he'd told Carlos that he
had information for him, stepping back into the alley
he'd emerged from as if there had been no question
Carlos would follow.
There hadn't been really. Carlos had learned to be
very careful in his line of work, but he also knew a few
things about reading people - and Trent, though obviously
strange, hadn't been particularly threatening.
The alley had been cool and dark and had smelled
faintly of urine. "What kind of information?" Carlos
had asked.
Trent had acted as though he hadn't heard the question.
"In the shopping district downtown, you'll find a
diner called Grill 13; it's just up the street from the
fountain and right next to the theater, you can't miss it.
If you can manage to get there by" - he'd glanced at
his watch - "say, 1900 hours, I'll see what can be done
to help you."
Carlos hadn't even known where to start. "Hey, no
offense, but what the hell are you talking about?"
Trent had smiled. "Raccoon City. It's where you're
going."
Carlos had stared at him, waiting for more, but Trent
had seemed to be finished.
God knows how he got my name, but this bato ain't
playing with a full deck,
"Uh, listen, Mr. Trent..."
"Just Trent," he'd cut in, still smiling.
Carlos had started to get irritated. "Whatever. I think
you might have the wrong Oliveira ... and while I appreciate
your, uh, concern, I've really got to get going."
"Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fading.
"Understand, they won't tell you all you need to
know. It will be far, far worse. The hours ahead may be
dark ones, Mr. Oliveira, but I have faith in your abilities.
Just remember - Grill 13, seven o'clock. Northeast
corner of the city proper."
"Yeah, sure," Carlos had said, nodding, backing
away into the daylight, wearing a somewhat forced grin
of his own. "Good deal. I'll make a note of it."
Trent had smiled again, stepping out after him. "Be
very careful who you trust, Mr. Oliveira. And good
luck."
Carlos had turned and started to walk quickly away,
throwing a glance back at Trent. The man had watched
him, hands in his pockets again, his stance casual and
relaxed. For a nutbag, he sure didn't seem crazy...
... and he seems a lot less crazy now, eh?
Carlos had still made it to the office a little early, but
nobody seemed to have heard anything off the grapevine
about what was up. At the short briefing presented
by the U.B.C.S. platoon leaders, they'd all been told
what few facts there were: a toxic chemical spill had
occurred earlier in the week in an isolated community,
causing hallucinations that bred violence. The chemicals
had dissipated, but regular civilians continued to
be harassed by those who'd been affected; there was
evidence that the damage could be permanent, and the
local police hadn't been able to get things under control.
The U.B.C.S. was being sent in to help evacuate
the citizens who hadn't been affected, and to use force,
if necessary, to protect them from harm. Top secret all
the way.
In Raccoon City. Which meant that maybe Trent
knew something, after all ... and what did that mean?
If he was right about where we're going, what about
the rest of it? What didn't they tell us that we need to
know? And what could possibly be far, far worse than a
mob of deranged and violent people?
He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.
He'd first picked up a gun at the age of twelve to help
defend his family from a band of terrorists, and had
gone pro at seventeen - for four years now, he'd been
paid to put his life in danger for one cause or another.
But he'd always known what the stakes were, and what
he was up against. This was not at all cool, the thought
of going in blind. The only consolation was that he was
going in with over a hundred experienced soldiers;
whatever it was, they'd be able to handle it.
Carlos looked around, thinking that he was with a
good group. Not good men, necessarily, but adept fighters,
way more important in combat. They even looked
ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces determined
-
- except for the B squad leader, who was staring off
into space and grinning like a shark. Like a predator.
Carlos was suddenly uneasy, looking at the guy,
Nicholai something-or-other, cropped white hair, built
like a weight lifter. He'd never seen anyone smile quite
like that...
The Russian met his gaze, and his grin widened for
just a moment, in a way that made Carlos want to sit
with his back to a wall, a gun in hand -
- and then the moment was over, and Nicholai nodded
absently at him and looked away. Just another soldier
acknowledging a comrade, nothing more. He was
being paranoid, that meeting with Trent had him on
edge, and he was always a little skitchy before a
fight...
Grill 13, next to the theater.
He wouldn't forget. Just in case.
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