Pusherman

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

The rats run into the shadows under palettes in an airplane hanger. The smell of diesel lingers in the air. The distant sound of a distorted guitar rings out under the gray day — endless, monotonous droning guitar growing louder and louder. The crash symbols come into existence as a black, unmarked van pulls onto the tarmac. Tinted windshield. Windows down.

In front of the hanger stands Wassily in black leather work boots, black jeans, black jacket, black beanie. He wears a cigarette on his lip. He watches the van move across the airfield. Closer. Closer. The music, louder.

It comes to a stop beside Wassily. The driver stares forward, his gaze unbreakable. The sliding doors open. A man with a beard and polarized glasses steps out. Fleece vest. Camo hat. This is Richards, and he is smiling at Wassily.

“Just like old times,” Richards shouts over the music coming from the van.

“Just like old times.” Wassily smiles. “Except last time the money was a little dirtier.”

“A Eurasian ground war isn’t dirty enough for you?”

“Eh. I’ve seen worse.”

Richards extends his large, weathered hand out in front of him. Wassily waves his hand away and embraces his old contact. Richards can smell the vodka, cigarettes, and cologne.

“You haven’t changed since Estonia.”

“Why would I,” Wassily says.

Richards points at the hanger over Wassily’s shoulder.

“Is this the place?”

With the droning death-metal playing them off, the two men walk toward the darkness of the hanger, the massive door just opened a sliver. The rats watch from the darkness of the shipping palettes. Everyone can taste iron on their lips, on their tongues. It’s hanging in the air. Death.

Wassily leads Richards out of the light and into the interior. Wassily flicks a maglight on and scans the hanger. Stacks and stacks of wooden crates with Cyrillic writing stenciled onto them.

“I still don’t get why DoD wouldn’t trust your ol’ pal Wassily.”

“We just gotta be careful these days.”

“Packouz?” Wassily asked.

“That dumb fuckin’ kid ruined the whole business.”

“And then he got rich thanks to that Rolling Stone writer. What was that movie called?”

“The one with the fat kid and the jazz drummer?”

“Yeah. Battle Dogs — or something.”

“Sounds right.”

“So what changed at the DoD? They signed off on doing sketchy deals with Soviets again?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Wassily, but we got a war to win.”

Richards’ satellite phone rings. He picks it up and steps out of the beam of light from Wassily’s torch. Richards explains on the line that the drop is real. The cache is real. At least a half-million rounds of 7.62 ammunition. Soviet-era. Still in good condition.

“Wassily,” Richards places a hand over the phone receiver. “Can we get a few pictures?”

Wassily nods and the two of them walk towards a case. Richards ends the call and pulls out a digital camera from his back pocket. Wassily grabs a rusty nail bar on top of a case. He wedges it between the lid and the crate. Lifts, pushes, and wiggles the nail bar back and forth. The lid pops off.

Richards brushes the straw off and reveals the boxes of ammo. Wassily lifts one out and places it atop another box. He pops the latch and shines his light on the rounds. Twenty rounds per box. Neatly lined up like cigarettes, like the spear tips of a phalanx, like tiny rockets ready for flight. Fifty boxes per crate. Hundreds of crates in the hangar.

“So are we good?” Wassily asks.

“I’ll have my guys call your guys.”

“Just like old times.”

“Some things never change.”

“Always money to be made.

Wassily turns his flashlight off. The flick of a zippo and Wassily’s face, distorted by the shadows and flames, emerges from the darkness. A new cigarette on his lip.

The doom metal plays on. He flicks the zippo closed. All is black.