Chapter 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 al-most certainly die, their performance would be note-worthy. 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 head-sets. 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 - al-though 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 Wers-bowski, 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 un-likely. 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 addi-tional 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 car-ried platoon A were two others, disguised as U. B. C. S. ; there were six already planted in Raccoon - three sci-entists, 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 "bor-rowed" 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 multimil-lionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of ef-fort, 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 Watch-dogs, 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 replay-ing 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 obvi-ously 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 ques-tion. "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 ap-preciate your, uh, concern, I've really got to get going. " "Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fad-ing. "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 abili-ties. 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 grape-vine 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 chemi-cals 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 con-trol. 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 fight-ers, way more important in combat. They even looked ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces deter-mined -
- 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 nod-ded absently at him and looked away. Just another sol-dier 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.