The radio in his headset crackled.
“Nazyr,” a voice said. “Is that you?”
Antoine tried to find where the speaker was located. The driver of the UAZ pointed where they were going.
A big transport aircraft filled the runway, its wing span punctuated by four jet engines. The ramp to the cargo hold was open. The interior of the plane, seven figures in digital camouflage and heavy gear stood out. They were waiting for him.
He cleared his throat to answer the radio.
“Da,” he said.
One word alone would not reveal his true identity. More would.
The driver parked the jeep at the foot of the ramp. Antoine disembarked with his weapon close by. The voice modifier in his other hand still blinked red.
The wind was going strong. He couldn’t feel it in his enclosed suit but he could hear the howling against his helmet.
“Regarding the stealth suits,” Priya’s voice sounded in his ear. “Remember the RFID chips I gave you to tag the bomb? You need to tag the terrorists one-by-one in order for them to show on our head up displays.”
He wanted to nod or send a reply, but couldn’t.
As he moved forward, Antoine thrust a gloved hand into the pocket with the RFID chips. They were the size of rice grains.
The soldier at the head of the group stretched out a hand to welcome him. It was Khabib. His hand grasped Antoine’s shoulder, like a brother.
“Nazyr, old friend,” he said.
Antoine froze.
“One old friend is better than two new ones, right?” Khabib said. Antoine nodded and looked around. Khabib had the bomb in an old military portable bomb backpack strapped to his back, ready for the jump. The other squad members were armed to the teeth with assault rifles, submachine guns and grenades. Their inbuilt HUD goggles glared at him. Equipped with the best technology, they looked like soldiers from the future.
Khabib turned away from the paramilitaries and commanded Antoine to follow him. The rank and file militants saluted as a send off for their brave heroes. Antoine walked behind the seven Spetsnaz. They were loaded like drones. Most of the equipment was needed for the jump. It would be discarded after the landing. But right now they resembled bees lumbered up with dust on their legs.
Antoine walked up the ramp. The voice modifier vibrated in his hand. The light had changed to green. He lifted it to his vocal cords and put it under the balaclava. He coughed slightly to test what effects it would have. The sound coming out of his mouth was strange and not his.
Khabib stopped at the top of the ramp and turned back. He cast a last glance on their base of operation.
Khabib then laid an arm around Antoine’s neck and shoulder. The two were standing at the edge of the hold and looking out, as the plane started rolling.
“Are you ready to write history, Nazyr?” he said. “To become a master or a dead man?”
It was win or lose all.
“I am ready to write history,” Antoine said.
The voice wasn’t his own. It was Nazyr. He looked Khabib into the eyes, returning the hug. “My friend.”
The ramp went up, cutting off the view to the outside world as it closed shut.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
INSERTION
“From any height, into any hell.” - Spetsnaz Motto
Over Russian airspace, Russia
The Spetsnaz sat along the side walls of the cargo hold, facing each other. Everything inside the huge machine vibrated. Emergency lighting came on. The craft convulsed like an earthquake when it reached its maximum velocity. Walls shook. Rivets rattled.
The pilot executed a sharp curve that pressed Antoine into his seat. There were no windows, so all Antoine had was his body’s reaction. He knew they were gaining altitude and changing course.
To perform a high altitude, low opening jump, they would need climb up between fifteen thousand and thirty-five thousand feet. It was a long way to go there, but would be a fast one down, covering most of it in free fall.
“The bomb will go off in the ventilation system of the Kremlin, making the building unusable and killing most of its staff,” Khabib said. “We will go in, plant it and walk out without anyone noticing. That is the power of stealth, power that any terrorist can now buy.”
Antoine caught his breath. Moscow, the Kremlin. It was a two hours flight and that was all the time they had left.
***
Moscow, Russia
It was a mild day in Moscow’s spring, a victory day.
Priya sat down in a cafe across Red Square, her tablet in hand. She took a seat by the window where she could remain in relative isolation. A waiter appeared and took her order, then went away.
Priya turned on her screen. The aerial view of the quadrocopter hovering over the Kremlin flashed up on the display.
“Drone is active,” she said.
She zoomed in on a Dodge Grand Caravan approaching the road inside Kremlin. It was pulling into the parking lot in front of the Political Office building.
The SUV glowed bright from multiple signals.
“I’m getting your readings,” she said.
Guards walked around, examining the fake papers and identification, waving the van through and returning to their posts.
“All is set. We’re through,” Kovac said.
“You’re good to go,” Priya said.
“Let’s move out,” Smith said.
“Just remember what the stakes are,” they heard Rose say over the comms. “With the help of the stealth suits, there would be no trace of the attackers and with Tanya’s connections, it would be easy to fabricate a story of any party being behind it. I don’t need to tell you how it would completely destabilize the balance of power in this region--even the world. There is no room for error. You need to succeed.”
“Ma, I will give my all,” Smith said.
“Always willing to serve,” came the reply from Jason.
“Ya. whatever they said. I’m here right?” Kovac said. “But if this becomes a habit, you’ll have to find a new name for this agency.”
Two members of the team got out of the car. Priya watched them through the camera on her drone. Jason went back into the direction from where they had come, towards three cathedrals. His pace was slow and relaxed as he gestured to one of the guards.
Smith walked over to the office building. He was carrying a toolbox and stood in front of the guard watching the building. Public access to the Kremlin was restricted to these premises.
The others waited behind in the van.
Smith had to talk to the guard. Priya, Mini, Kovac and Jason listened over their comms. No one dared to speak. They all waited with bated breath.
Jason stood in front of Tsar Bell.
Smith was let into the building. Restoration work meant that handymen were allowed to enter. With his disguise, Smith fit right in.
Smith entered the building and Priya switched to infrared view. She lowered the drone below rooftop height and pursued his heat signal through the windows.
Smith was led through the lobby of the Kremlin Presidium, surrounded by several guards. Smith’s figure was only a distant shimmer behind the walls. It lit up once he reached a corridor at the outer side of the building, shining through windows every time he passed one.
Priya followed his life sign, like a torch into the night. Only one other light was with him. The guard showed Smith to his work area.
Priya turned her attention to the rest of the team. They were retrieving and handing out weapons from their hiding place in the car’s false floor.
Priya’s coffee was served. She swiped her arm and swayed the camera over to Jason’s position. He looked left and right before entering the bell through the split in its side.
Smith and the guard entered an empty office space on the top floor of the building, overseeing Ivanovskaya square. He nodded to the guard who left him and closed the door behind, then went over to the window. This was a good vantage for his Nesika Ta
ctical Rifle. He opened his box of “tools” and started to assemble the weapon.
The door behind Smith opened again.
He froze, his rifle half put together and not ready to use. Smith covered the weapon with his body.
“Oh sorry I thought this room was free,” Priya overheard a female say in Russian through Smith’s mic and watched the heat signature leave.
Priya wiped over the surface of her tablet. The screen changed to satellite view. A percentage number displayed the progress in tracking Antoine’s position. His signal was incoming from the south-east. He was reaching Moscow fast.
“Standby, the package is coming,” Priya said.
***
The Spetsnaz entered Moscow’s airspace in the late afternoon.
“We are reaching the drop zone,” the pilot told them.
“Don’t try to get into hell ahead of your fathers,” the deck officer said. “Stand by for jump equipment check.”
They got up in lines of two, inspecting each other’s gear, making sure that everything was in place and packed correctly. Parachute, rip cord and a second emergency chute.
Antoine put the RFID patch onto the man behind him while checking his equipment.
He got two more, and then went on to Khabib.
“No need to check, Nazyr,” he said, stopping his hand before he could reach him. “When I jump out of an airplane, I don’t want to be a hundred percent sure that chute opens.”
The leader laughed and slapped Antoine on the shoulder.
Antoine gripped the RFID patch tight in his glove. It was as small as a grain of rice. But he couldn’t get back to Khabib without raising suspicion.
He walked to the other Spetsnaz and gave each a pat on the shoulder, checking their chutes while putting the RFID patches in place.
Antoine returned to the front and locked his breathing mask in place. The ramp opened to a small slit, letting in a ray of light. It lowered like the jaws of a big whale. Antoine stared out onto the world below and a sea of clouds.
“Stealth suit checks,” Khabib ordered.
One after the other they activated their cloaks, disappearing, as if they had melted into thin air. Their silhouettes flickered like ghosts.
“Camo active,” one of the Spetsnaz confirmed.
Antoine looked down at himself. Even his gun was shielded and nearly invisible. He held up his hand in front of his face and could almost look through it, blurred like through a kaleidoscope. Their parachutes were made of the same material and would practically be invisible. The shape of his team members lit up in his HUD, so that he could see them.
“Get ready for insertion,” the deck officer said. He waved them forward, tightly crowded together in a group.
“Remember comrades,” Khabib said. “We have five steps before we get our millions. First, jump.”
They all laughed.
“Second, make our way to the basement of the Senate. Third, Abukhan, you stop the engine for the ventilation system. Dzhalal, you make sure we can get this bad boy into the shaft. Four, I have the honor of placing our motherland’s uranium into the system. Five, get out through the west-gate where Abdulbek will be awaiting us in a red van.”
“Don’t you mean six?” Dzhalal said. “Kicking our legs back and watching the government suffer.”
“The tale is told quickly, but the job is done slowly,” Abdulbek said.
Easier said than done.
Antoine stepped onto the lowered ramp, finding footing in the slots of the metal floor.
Khabib gave Antoine a tap on his shoulder. That was the sign.
“The strongest wins,” he said. “If we will be alive, we will not die.”
Antoine’s fingers grasped the splint of his hand grenade. If he drew it now, he could take out a big portion of them on their way out the hatch, but not all of them. The others had parachutes too.
It wasn’t the right time.
Would it ever be the right time?
Antoine stepped forward and dove into the open. Seven men followed.
They fell, descending in formation.
Antoine entered the cloud layer. It felt like he was drowning in mist. He remembered to focus on his breathing. Fatigue and anxiety could lead to hypoxia, lack of oxygen. He clung on to his conscious with all the will of his mind.
Moscow unfolded beneath him. In his HUD, target markings for their landing zone appeared. Antoine approached them at terminal velocity.
Antoine reached the two-thousand feet mark. If the parachute failed to deploy at this height, there would be no time for the back-up chute.
He pulled the ripcord. The chute skidded out of his backpack and unfurled above him. It broke his fall. He looked up to check if his chute had properly deployed, but there was nothing to see. The stealth-technology had worked its magic.
Crossing the Moscow river, Antoine had the Kremlin right in his landing approach. It was a fortress comprised of government buildings and cathedrals, encircled by a red wall and towers, too high to climb. That was why they were going to land inside, in the very heart of Russia.
They drifted over the battlements, silent and invisible. They landed in a garden beyond the wall. It was a park with trees, big enough to hide their parachutes.
Antoine hit the ground. He rolled off and unbuckled his chute before regaining his feet. He hoped the stealth-suit would hold up, otherwise it would turn into a straight out gunfight.
A guard stood at the edge of the park with his back to him. Several gardeners were vacuuming leaves west of his position. He was receiving signals from the other Spetsnaz, scattered throughout the area. Antoine heaped his chute together and hid it behind a tree. Time was of the essence.
“Form up on me.” Khabib’s voice whispered over Antoine’s helmet speakers.
The signals began to move, converging on their leader at the edge of the park.
Antoine aimed his weapon. “Hostile on the right, he has an assault rifle.”
“Weapons hold,” Khabib said.
They sneaked past him and crept around the last tree line separating them from the street and walkway.
Khabib pointed forward.
“Another hostile to the front, assault rifle.”
On the opposite street side, in front of the Kremlin Presidium a guardhouse with another watchman awaited them.
Behind it, across the whole length of Ivanovskaya square, lay the Senate. A line of parked cars sat between them, providing some cover on the way.
“Where are you, friends?” Antoine said in a whisper.
Khabib gave the sign for moving out, only visible because they were close and Antoine knew where Khabib was.
“We’re moving.”
They spread out into a wide line, spanning the width of Ivanovskaya square and made ready. On his word they got up and broke into a stride, crossing the sidewalk and the broad street. Even then, it took longer than Antoine wanted.
The parked cars would offer some protection. Ahead was a field of black diplomatic vehicles with tinted windows and light delivery trucks. They’d nearly made it to them, when one of the vans’ doors slid open.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHOWDOWN
“Grasp all, lose all.” - Russian saying
Moscow, Russia
“Contact front,” Khabib said.
Out of the blackness of the van’s hold, two workers emerged in blue overalls, except that they weren’t workers. Star shaped muzzle flashes illuminated the interior and the faces behind them. The staccato sound of automated weapons rang in the square.
Antoine’s agency didn’t care about the silence and stealth the Spetsnaz were bringing to the table. They knew they were there. They saw them.
“They’re onto us, open fire!”
A Spetsnaz beside him went to the ground.
Antoine threw himself on the ground and rolled over to a car. He saw Khabib and three or four others skid on their knees to the cover of parked cars.
“Ugh, I’m hit,” one s
aid.
Two of their team were struck down while crossing the street, one of them seeming fatal. Antoine could see from their response that they were pros. They moved with near superhuman speed.
“Get everyone into cover,” Khabib said. “Suppressive fire, go.”
Khabib got out of cover and opened up on the van. Two of his squad mates followed suit. Only the click clack of breech locks and the patter of brass cartridge casings betrayed the location of their silenced weapons. Bullets clanked against the van’s door as they tore holes into its sheet metal.
A shot hit the window of a car close to Antoine. Another hit a wheel. The car went lopsided as the tire lost air.
A red splash covered the car’s windscreen. A Spetsnaz fell against it, his limbs going limp.
“Sniper. Unknown position.”
“Frag out,” Dzhalal said.
He lobbed a grenade over the car roof. Abukhan and Abdulbek took precision shots at the guards they’d left behind them.
“Six o’clock, threats neutralized.”
The watchmen in the park and the guardhouse slumped to the ground.
Antoine heard shouts from the back of the van. Its driver hit the pedal. The wheels spun and smoked as it started to move. Dzhalal’s grenade exploded in a gust of black smoke and splinters, in front of the van, showering the windshield with debris.
“Flank them left,” Khabib said. “Get that van.”
Two of Khabib’s team broke out and redeployed to the left flank, near Ivan the Great’s bell tower. The old bell was big enough to grant cover for two men.
The two appeared only as blurred shapes on Ivanovskaya square, but the van was chasing them. They sprinted their last steps to the bell and threw themselves into cover, bridging the last meters in a slide.
“Goddamn, they see us,” Antoine heard their voices.
Assault rifle fire rained down over their heads, ricocheting off the huge bell with brassy clanks.
Love Is for Tomorrow Page 14
