Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  He looked up at the massive stone construction, considering what they'd find when they went inside.

  Plenty of troops, for sure, strongpoints maybe, and men with machine guns to protect the jealously guarded secrets of Pamyat.

  The greatest of which was the Putin file, locked inside a jeweled box that was a remnant of the Tsars.

  No matter which way they looked at it, the fortress headquarters of Pamyat was formidable. He began harboring serious doubts about their ability to complete this job. Then he thought of Abigail.

  "We've seen enough. We're due to rendezvous with Dragan at his Moscow warehouse. It's about three klicks from this place. Let's go. We don't want to attract attention."

  "It may be a little late for that," Elena said, moving toward them, "Have you seen the street we came in on?"

  They swung around. A BTR, similar to the one they'd fought in the forests near the Finnish border had blocked the street. Except this was the more modern variant, the BTR-90. Armed men were stepping out of the hatch, and they looked as if they meant business.

  "Is there another way out of here?" he asked her.

  She shook her head. "Only back the way we came."

  "In that case, I guess we're fucked."

  They weren't the only enemies of Pamyat in the area. Two men watched from above.

  Chapter Five

  Roman Korolev and two of his trusted men were in the apartment they'd secretly rented for the duration, overlooking the Pamyat headquarters. They were Svoboda soldiers belonging to the Ukrainian Nationalist party. Svoboda was closely allied to the philosophy of the defunct German Nazi Party. Their aim was to secure absolute power in Ukraine and freedom from Russian influence. They'd almost got their hands on the means to achieve that aim, the Putin file, until Pamyat got there first.

  His two men, Marko and Anatoly, had both served in the Security Service of Ukraine, in a Special Forces anti-terrorist force known as CSO. Any similarity to conventional Special Forces units of Western countries, however, was accidental. Put simply, they were brutes. Thugs, trained to break heads, to show no quarter to their enemies, and to slaughter them out of hand. And Pamyat, the organization in the building opposite, was their mortal enemy.

  "What's happening down there?"

  Marko and Anatoly were watching the street while Korolev sat on the sofa, reading the Svoboda magazine and sipping a glass of vodka. It was one reason to come to Moscow; the vodka was normally the best you could buy anywhere in the world. Other than when the Mafiya distilled anti-freeze to cheapen the product, in which case the Russians were welcome to it. He was careful where he bought his vodka, and only in sealed bottles.

  "They've blocked the street, Mr. Korolev. With a BTR."

  "Why?"

  "A crappy old truck just drove up and parked. Some men got out and took a look around, four of them. A girl, too, she looks pretty."

  He bounded up from the sofa, stared down at the scene in the street below, and smiled.

  So they've come.

  Their informer had warned him of the Americans, and now they were here. His instructions were clear. On no account were they to be impeded; not until they'd completed the task they'd come here for, the recovery of the Putin file. Afterward, they'd take the prize away from them. It was a brilliant plan, devised by his boss, Mikhail Antonov. Let the foreigners do the dirty work, and then relieve them of the file.

  We’ll have to kill them, naturally, but so what? They can disappear, just a few more bodies in the Moscow River.

  "What's happening now? What're they doing?"

  They didn't reply at first. He watched the foreigners climb into the ancient Zil truck. He made a few rapid calculations.

  "If the armored car opens fire on the truck, they'll rip it to shreds," Marko warned.

  Which meant they had to do something, and do it fast. There was only one solution. The dark-green painted metal case on the floor of the room.

  "Destroy it."

  "The truck?"

  "The BTR, you damned fool! Use a missile, and make sure you don't miss. After the launch, we'll have to abandon this place, but we have everything we need. We know the file is there, and the Americans have arrived. That's good enough."

  Anatoly looked puzzled. "We can't be certain about the file, Mr. Korolev. I mean..."

  "Why do you think they have the place sewn up tighter than a duck's ass, you idiot? Unless you think they're expecting the Moscow Power Company to turn up and disconnect their electricity supply. It's the file. It can't be anything else. Before they stole it from the American woman, they only had a single man on watch. Now look at it."

  Marko was already unsnapping the case. He took out the long, tubular shape of the missile launcher and picked up a rocket to load in the tube, an RPG-7, a shoulder-launched, single-shot, smoothbore recoilless anti-armor missile. It was a simple and inexpensive weapon, yet it could destroy a modern tank. The RPG-7 was a true one-man artillery piece. He carefully loaded the rocket and moved to the open window.

  "Wait!" Korolev snarled, "I don't want to risk killing the Americans. Not yet. Their truck is too close to the APC. Wait for them to move."

  "But there's no way out, why would they move the truck?" Marko said, "Best to hit that iron monster first and make sure."

  "I said wait. It'll move."

  He heard a muttered 'fuck you,' from Marko but ignored it. He'd considered all the angles, and there was only one way out of the trap. Would the Americans act the way he expected them to do? They'd told him the men were clever and resourceful, former Navy SEALs. Which meant they'd work it out. They wouldn't need a map.

  "Wait."

  * * *

  "There's only one way we can get out of here," Raider said, as they watched and waited next to the Zil truck. "If we drive toward the museum building and turn around, nice and easy, they won't suspect anything. Then we go flat out and hit the APC on the sloping side at speed. With any luck, our wheels will go right over her, and we're free and clear."

  "You're not serious," Waite murmured, "We'll overturn. This ain't some American made thing. It's a heap of scrap, barely holding together. You hit the APC at speed, and it'll fall apart."

  "You have any other ideas?"

  He looked up and down the street. "We could abandon the truck and walk out."

  He ignored Elena's hard glance. "We could, but if they've brought up an APC to block our exit, I doubt they'll sit back and let that happen. You know what those autocannons can do."

  They looked back toward the squat, deadly turret, with the mounted 30mm Shipunov cannon. The weapon had a capacity of five hundred cannon shells, enough to destroy a medium tank.

  "You think they'd use an autocannon in the center of Moscow?" Joe gaped.

  "You want to bet they won't?" He shook his head, "We'll do it my way. At least if it doesn't work, we'll scratch their paintwork."

  "That should worry them," Waite snorted.

  They climbed back into the rear of the truck. Elena didn't object when he told her he'd take the wheel, and to crouch in the footwell, away from any lead that flew their way. Although 30mm rounds would slice through the hood, engine block, and bulkhead like it was made of cardboard. At least she wouldn't see it coming. He drove forward past the museum and turned at the end of the street. He was facing the BTR-90, only two hundred meters in front of them. It was going to be tight. The Zil was like a lumbering whale, and to push the wheels over that angular steel hull looked to be a formidable task. He shrugged to himself.

  Either it’ll work or it won't.

  "Can you do it?" she called up from where she was huddled on the floor in front of the seat.

  He considered his answer for less than a second. To lie, when the chances were they'd all die in the next couple of minutes, didn't seem ethical.

  "I don't know. The chances aren't good. When they see us coming, they may open fire and riddle us with cannon rounds. Or we may not have enough speed, in which case we'll just collide with the APC."<
br />
  "Are they the only problems we're facing?"

  Her voice was light, and he smiled at her attempt at humor. "Not really, no. The BTR-90 has a coaxial machine gun, a 7.62mm PKT. In addition, they have an AT-5 Spandrel 30mm automatic grenade launcher, and then there's the troops. They'll be waiting behind cover, armed with assault rifles."

  "But apart from that..."

  "Yeah, apart from that, we're good. Here goes."

  He gunned the engine, and the ancient truck began to move. It picked up speed, but slowly, much too slowly. Armed soldiers stepped out from cover and watched as he came on. One of them hooted with laughter and said something to his companions. A couple of them doubled over with mirth.

  Yeah, laugh yourself to death, motherfuckers. If this doesn't work, I still have an assault rifle tucked next to me, and you'll be the first to go.

  One of the soldiers aimed his rifle at the Zil, and several shots peppered the cab. The windscreen starred as some of the rounds went through, but they missed him by a few inches. Then his heart chilled as the turret of the APC began turning toward them. Suddenly, he was looking into the maw of the 30mm cannon. Each shell weighed almost a pound, he reminded himself, and he knew they'd have several hundred in the magazine.

  He jerked the wheel over, and a dozen cannon rounds tore through the air where a second before the cab of the Zil had been. Two of them hit the roof, tearing great holes in the ancient bodywork. He hit a steep curb, and the truck rose up on two wheels. He kept it angled in the air, trying to confuse the gunner. A few shots from the assault rifles peppered the vehicle, and he realized his mistake in not having one or two of the men in the cab, and able to return fire. Except how can you trade shots with a BTR-90? Twenty-one tons of heavy steel, eight big wheels, and more than enough weaponry to destroy any unarmored enemy.

  I must have been crazy to do this. There must have been another way.

  The cannon fired again, and almost a score of heavy shells tore through the roof of the cab. He watched the barrel lower a fraction, and he knew the next burst would be the end.

  Sayonara. I'm sorry, Abigail, but I tried. It was always going to end this way, but it shouldn't end like this, not for you, not for Elena. In another world, well, I'd...

  "Elena..."

  "Yes."

  He didn't get the rest of the words out. He'd seen movement in the upper floor of an apartment block close to the APC. A flare lit up the night. It looked strangely familiar, like something he'd seen before.

  Jesus Christ, someone's fired a rocket!

  The missile struck the armored vehicle forward of the turret, on the roof of the driver's compartment. The explosion was massive; first, a dull roar as the warhead ignited, and then an enormous secondary blast as the ammunition exploded.

  Something spun through the air, hit the Zil a glancing blow on the hood, bounced off and skidded along the street. To his horror, he realized it was the head of the gunner, blown from the turret when the missile struck. The explosion had shoved the vehicle partly aside, and he was able to steer into the narrow gap between the burning wreckage and the adjacent building. Several of the soldiers had been sheltering in a nearby doorway, and they staggered out, concussed by the blast. They still gripped their assault rifles, bringing them to bear on the Zil, and he felt little compassion as he squeezed through the gap. There was a soft impact from the body of their truck crushing bodies against the building, and a long, loud, chilling cry.

  "That screaming; was it from the explosion?" Elena shouted up to him.

  He didn’t answer her but swung the wheel around to reach the open road. He had only one priority, to put distance between them and the devastation they'd left behind. His mind was a whirlwind of questions. Chief among them was who had fired that missile. It could only mean there was someone else in the game. Whoever it was, he couldn't work out why they would help them.

  It could have been Putin's man, Malenkov, staking out the museum and waiting for a chance to retrieve his master's incriminating documents. Or it could be Svoboda, the Ukrainian nationalists, but again, why would they help a rival?

  He looked across at Elena and went through the list of possible organizations they were up against. Maybe someone had followed the old maxim, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'

  "But who?"

  "I've no idea," she replied, "How would I know?"

  He knew he was using her as a sounding board and could hardly expect a vet from Nowheresville to have a line on the murky depths of Moscow politics, although she was a Russian and had lived in Moscow for much of her life.

  "Could it have been the Russian Mafiya?"

  "How the hell would I know, Raider? Yes, they're capable of firing a missile in the center of Moscow. It wouldn't be the first time."

  "Understood. We need to get out of here and find somewhere safe while we wait for Dragan to arrive. Then we'll work out how to get inside that museum. I don't suppose you have any ideas, somewhere we could hide the truck and stay out of sight for a day or two?"

  She didn't answer first, and then she climbed up to sit in the passenger seat. "I do have an idea; the Museum had a warehouse in the suburbs. They used it for storing non-valuable items, exhibition stands, and other equipment. I doubt Pamyat are using it for anything. Take the right turning at the next intersection, and I'll give you directions for the rest of the route."

  The warehouse was next to a landfill site, and it looked as if the building and those surrounding it were in line for the wrecking ball. The double doors guarding the entrance to the building were rotten, as if a good kick would start the process of demolition. He stopped the Zil, and Waite climbed down to open the doors. A chain and padlock held the doors closed, but he yanked it, and it crumbled immediately.

  The doors swung open, and he drove in. Waite closed the doors behind them and propped them shut with a sheet of corrugated iron. The metal sheet appeared to have fallen from the roof and left a rectangular hole, which at least allowed light from the stars to enter the dingy interior. The vast warehouse space contained scores of exhibition stands, old, broken partitioning, office furniture, and metal filing cabinets. All left in untidy heaps, as if someone had abandoned them in a hurry. She saw him looking at the devastation.

  "Pamyat did this. When they cleared the museum, they brought the stands and office equipment to this place to get it out of their way."

  "And the exhibits?"

  She smiled. "Sold to the oligarchs. I'd imagine many of them went overseas. Perhaps you will see them one day on display in the Smithsonian."

  He didn't reply. She was probably right. This was Russia, Putin style.

  She glanced across at him. "What next?"

  "Next, we wait for Dragan to call, and while we're waiting, we'll work out how to get into that museum."

  She stared at him. "You're kidding. There's no way you could go back there. It's guarded like a fortress, even more so after that fracas we just escaped from."

  He grinned as he climbed down from the truck. "Fortresses are our specialty."

  They grouped next to the truck and finished the last of their supplies as they discussed the operation. Raider regretted his macho remark to Elena. She was in fact correct, getting in would be more than difficult. Suicidal would not be an unreasonable assessment of their chances.

  Joe glanced at him. "Dragan should be in Moscow by now."

  "I'll call him."

  He switched on the satphone and called the number. He answered after a half-dozen rings.

  "Dragan."

  "Raider. We need you. When are you due to arrive in Moscow?"

  He sounded surprised. "Moscow? We're already here. I came with Andy and David Brackman. We're in my Moscow headquarters. Did you know you're headline news; it just came through. People are saying terrorists have attacked a former Moscow museum."

  "Do they know it was us?"

  "No. Right now, they don't know who's to blame. The Kremlin says it's Svoboda, the Ukrainian nationalists,
but people are suggesting the Chechens are back in town, and they mean business."

  Raider explained about the missile strike. "We were only there to take a look around, but the Pamyat people tried to block us. Someone launched a missile, and we were able to escape."

  "Svoboda, it can't be anyone else. What's your plan to retrieve the file?"

  He felt like cursing the Ukrainian billionaire. Tears of rage and frustration gathered at his eyes, and he had to make a constant effort to keep himself under control.

  Her life could be measured in days, and all these people can think about is their precious fucking file! But I have to stay calm, for Abigail.

  "Elena is still with us, and I'll talk to her and try and get a good idea of the layout, find the weak points."

  "Whereabouts are you now?"

  He explained about the warehouse.

  "I'll be with you in ten minutes."

  He ended the call, and he told them what had been said.

  "He says he's on his way. We need to wait."

  Fifteen minutes later, the door scraped open. They all aimed their assault rifles, but it was Dragan. He was accompanied by his assistant, Andy Lorak, together with Lorak's gofer, David Brackman, who they knew was a CIA liaison. They shook hands, all except Lorak, who stood back close to the doors. He eyed them coldly, like a viper checking out its prey. He'd started wearing rimless glasses, and they somehow made him look shiftier than ever. He looked like a man trying to avoid something unpleasant. Fortunately, Brackman was more cordial. He grinned and swapped a couple of jokes with Joe, who he'd handled on behalf of his other employer. CIA.