“Uh, oh,” Oliver said, sotto voce. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Falco knew what Oliver meant. He was filthy, and bone tired. The last thing he wanted to do was take part in a new operation. Unfortunately neither of them had a choice. Waya nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. When is this going to end? And that’s a good question. The answer might surprise you! Operation Boomerang, and our part in it, will end when we take control of Nunyamo, Russia.”
The statement was followed by a moment of stunned silence as tired minds struggled to process the news. Then someone said, “Holy shit! We’re going to invade Russia!”
Waya smiled. “Bingo! Give that man a doughnut.”
Falco’s mind was churning. Of course! At some point General Haberman, and or the brass in D.C. had seen the opportunity to turn the situation upside down by using the bridge against the Russians! But it would only work if the Americans could hold onto Wales, and prevent the enemy from securing a beachhead.
Others had arrived at the same conclusion and there was a growing murmur of conversation. “As you were,” a lieutenant colonel ordered. “You’ll have a chance to shoot the shit when the briefing is over.” The talking stopped.
“The initial discussion began shortly after the Russians completed the first span of the bridge,” Waya informed them. “The idea seemed like a pipe dream back then. But General Haberman believed it could be done, and convinced a whole lot of people that she was right. And that , ladies and gentlemen, is why we never used B-52s or B-2s to bomb the bridge. We wanted the Russians to complete the project, but slowly, so we’d have time to assemble the troops, ships, and pontoons required to use the span ourselves .
“And yes, we have newly manufactured pontoons of our own! They will be used to replace those destroyed during the last few days. The replacements will arrive this morning, along with the navy ships required to protect them.
“Once that’s accomplished,” Waya continued, “we’ll fight our way across the strait to Nunyamo, and across the bay to Lavrentiya, where we’ll capture the town’s airfield. Shortly thereafter the newly formed 11th Mountain Division will be flown in.
“Do we intend to push deeper into Russia?” Waya inquired rhetorically. “I have no idea. That’s above my pay grade. But I know this … By invading the Chukotka Peninsula, we will force the enemy to defend the east coast, thereby sucking resources away from the western front. And that alone is enough to make the effort worthwhile.
“All right … That’s the thirty-thousand foot view. Now, get ready to take notes on the operational stuff. This is about to get real.”
Lavrentiya, Russia
General Anatoly Baranov had taken over Yakimov’s office—and was sitting at the colonel’s desk. Baranov was not only exhausted, but depressed, and desperate to turn the situation around. Now even more bad news had arrived. Pindo ships were steaming north … And some of them were towing pontoons! Others were thought to be carrying marines.
It seemed that the Americans intended to not only repair the bridge, but to use it as the means to invade mother Russia. And if that was allowed to occur his name would become permanently associated with a blunder so horrendous it might become synonymous with military stupidity. And his dream of reclaiming Russian lands would end in failure .
That hasn’t happened yet , Baranov assured himself. I still have time. But only if I can keep this mess out of the headlines long enough to turn the situation around. Otherwise President Toplin will send some asshole in to relieve me. I control all of the communications that enter and leave Lavrentiya … So none of Dudin’s recent messages have been sent.
Baranov’s thoughts were interrupted as a Starshina entered the office. “Comrade Dudin has arrived, sir.”
“Good,” Baranov replied. “Send him in, and notify Major Gotov. I want him to join us.”
The noncom said, “Yes, sir,” and withdrew.
Baranov took a moment to review the plan. Once Dudin was in the office Gotov would enter and close the door behind him. Then, while Baranov spoke to the reporter, Gotov would shoot him. After Dudin fell, Gotov would place a pistol by the reporter’s hand.
Soldiers would hear the noise and rush in. That’s when Gotov would point at the handgun and accuse Dudin of attempted murder. Would such a scenario hold up in Moscow? No. But they weren’t in Moscow, they were in Lavrentiya. And it belonged to him.
Once Dudin was out of the way, Baranov would muster what resources remained to him, and fight the Americans to a standstill. “Good morning Comrade General,” Dudin said, as he entered the office. “I brought Colonel Yakimov with me as you can see. I hope you don’t mind.”
Baranov did mind, but couldn’t say so. He forced a smile. “No, of course not. The colonel is always welcome.”
Yakimov will toe the line , Baranov assured himself. What else can he do? Side with a reporter? Never .
Baranov invited the men to sit down. Dudin shook his head. “No, Comrade General, I can’t stay for long. I have a plane to catch. ”
Tomorrow would have been too late, Baranov thought. Here’s Gotov, thank god. He knows what to do.
Gotov entered the office, and was just about speak, when Dudin shot him. Once in the face, and once in the chest, just as the instructors at Russia’s Main Intelligence Agency (GRU) had taught him to do. The weapon was a short barreled OTs-38 double action revolver chambered for the silent SP-4 cartridge. It produced nothing louder than a click when fired.
Gotov collapsed. “Kill the dog first, then the master,” Dudin said. “It’s safer that way. Especially when the master is planning to kill you. You look surprised, Anatoly … Do you believe that President Toplin, Marshal Orlov, and Admiral Zharkov are fools? They sent me to keep an eye on you, and yes, I have a sat phone. So they know about the debacle in Wales.”
Baranov felt a nearly overwhelming sense of shock. Dudin was more than a reporter! Why hadn’t that possibility occurred to him? I was too trusting , Baranov concluded. And too focused on my mission. So it’s over. Or is it?
Baranov looked at Yakimov. The other officer was expressionless. “So you’re part of this, Colonel?”
“Yes,” Yakimov replied flatly. “You’ve done more damage to Mother Russia than the pindos have. We took thousands of casualties, and for what? For your dream. Or was it your ego?”
Baranov had a backup plan of sorts. His right hand was under the top of the desk holding a .9mm pistol. It was pointed in Dudin’s direction. But, since Baranov couldn’t aim properly, he would most likely miss. Still, the shot would cause Dudin to flinch if nothing else. And that would be Baranov’s chance to pull the weapon up and aim. Could he accomplish that before Yakimov drew his sidearm? Yes, he could. Because Yakimov would have to undo the flap that protected his sidearm before he could draw his weapon and fire .
Dudin smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Are you holding a pistol, Anatoly? I think you are.” The revolver produced a series of clicking sounds.
Baranov felt the slugs slam into his chest. They sent his chair rolling backwards. His pistol clattered to the floor. The ceiling was a blur. Russia … My beautiful Russia … Then he was gone.
Dudin circled the desk to check on Baranov’s pulse. There was none. “The General was killed in action,” Dudin said. “And Gotov committed suicide. Both bodies will be cremated later today.”
“Yes, sir,” Yakimov said stoically. “My men will handle the details.”
“I’m sure they will,” Dudin replied, as he reloaded the revolver. “And you will take charge of Baranov’s brigade. The Americans will attempt to capture Nunyamo. Don’t allow that to happen.”
Near Lavrentiya, Russia
A green beret threw up when the Morskaya Rakushka’s (Sea Shell’s) stern rose, forcing her bow down into the cold waters of the Bering Sea. After pausing there for a moment, as if considering a dive to the bottom, the 67-foot trawler’s bow came back up. The soldier barfed the rest of his breakfast into a plastic bucket l
ocated between his boots and wiped his mouth. Falco didn’t blame the man. His stomach felt queasy—and the smell didn’t help .
The fishing boat’s captain was a bushy bearded Russian national named Igor Zukov. He stood with sea boots spread, staring at a dimly lit compass. He was a CIA contractor, and to Falco’s way of thinking, untrustworthy. Was Zukov steering the proper course? Or guiding the Americans into a trap?
But Oliver was down in the cabin, hanging out with the rest of the special ops team, and tracking the boat’s progress with a GPS receiver. And if Zukov veered off the correct course, Oliver would shoot the Russian in the head. Unfortunately none of the Americans had any experience steering a fishing trawler through frigid artic waters. That meant the solution to the problem would give birth to another problem.
Falco sighed. While Operation Boomerang looked good on a PowerPoint, it had all the hallmarks of a grade “A” shit show. Everything had been thrown together on the fly, was generally late, and poorly resourced. The lack of an experienced seaman being a good example of that. And there was more. The “fleet” of ships Waya had promised consisted of two vessels. An aging destroyer called the USS Ramage , and a minesweeper named the USS Scout .
The latter had been charged with the dangerous mission of removing mines from the approaches to Nunyamo, while the Ramage was tasked with providing fire support. That made the destroyer Falco’s most important weapon until American planes could claim air superiority.
The Sea Shell heaved, spray flew back to splatter the windows, and the Russian made a small course correction. “We enter bay soon,” Zukov said. “Calm there. You leave.”
“That sounds good,” Falco said, knowing full well that the team wasn’t going to release Zukov or the Sea Shell until Lavrentiya was secured. The trawler wasn’t much of an escape plan. But it would give them something to run to should the shit hit the fan .
As the hours of darkness came to an end, and the sky began to lighten in the east, Falco could make out the dim outlines of headlands to his right and left. True to Zukov’s word the wave action decreased moments after the Sea Shell entered a tiny bay.
Falco had studied the maps, plus satellite photography of the area, and knew that the town of Lavrentiya was located five miles to the north. Would the Russian military notice the fishermen coming ashore? No, Falco didn’t think so. But anything was possible.
As the light level continued to improve, Falco was able to make out the two fishing boats already anchored in the bay. Half a dozen ramshackle buildings were arrayed at the top of a steeply sloping beach. The only building of any size was the remains of a Russian Orthodox church.
Zukov put the fishing boat’s single screw into reverse for a moment prior to switching neutral. “You go now,” Zukov said. His eyes widened as a pistol barrel made contact with the nape of his neck. Sergeant Nathan Kirby had recovered from his seasickness by then, and had a businesslike demeanor.
“There’s no reason to be concerned,” Kirby assured the Russian in his own language. “We won’t harm you. But we need to maintain an escape route. So you, Corporal Smith and I are going to remain here, and make sure that the Morskaya Rakushka is ready for sea. Now, clasp your hands behind your neck. I’m going to pat you down. Then we’ll go forward and drop the anchor.”
Falco accepted the pistol and two knives that were hidden beneath the Russian’s clothes. He tossed the weapons overboard on his way to the stern, where the rest of the special operations team was wrestling a gray RIB boat into position. The group consisted of Oliver, a marine Joint Fires Observer by the name of Staff Sergeant Sam Purdy, and two green berets. Larry Yussef was going to accompany the JTACs, while Corporal Milo Smith had been assigned to stay, and help Kirby guard Zukov.
All were dressed like the fishermen they were supposed to be, and looked the part, as they swung the RIB boat out over the water. Falco eyed the beat-up outboard mounted on the stern—and hoped that it was in good working order. The beach was a long way off, and there weren’t any oars.
Yussef went over the side and entered the boat once it was in the water. The duffle bags that Oliver lowered down to him were old and frayed, just like the ones fishermen might have. Falco turned to Smith. “You know the frequencies. Monitor them. And, if things go south, haul ass. That’s an order.”
Smith nodded. “Yes, sir. But they won’t.”
Falco went to the side, threw a leg over the bulwark, and lowered himself into the waiting boat. The motor was making a steady putt, putt, putt sound. Yussef had the tiller. “Take us in,” Falco ordered. “And remember … No English. Purdy will do the talking.”
Like Kirby, Purdy spoke Russian, albeit with a Ukrainian accent. But something was better than nothing.
The trip went smoothly. Waves rolled in to push the boat along, sea birds wheeled overhead, and a man emerged from a building that fronted the beach. He was brushing his teeth. A muted roar was heard as a pair of jet fighters took off from the airfield to the north. Falco eyed his watch. Six a.m. straight up … The battle had begun and it was important for the team to reach the airstrip as quickly as it could.
Yussef opened the throttle all the way, cut power, and brought the engine up. The inflatable surged forward, and rocks rattled as the bow pushed up onto the beach. “Everybody out,” Falco whispered, knowing that voices could carry. “Let’s take the boat up above the tideline.”
With two men on either side, they carried the boat up the steep slope and put it down. The man with the toothbrush spit a mouthful of water onto the ground, and made use of a hairy forearm to wipe his face. He was dressed in a stained tee shirt and a pair of baggy pants. He said something in Russian. Purdy responded in kind. “What did he say?” Falco inquired, as the fisherman disappeared into the building.
“He asked if his friend Igor is okay. I told him yes, assuming that a really bad hangover is ‘okay.’ ”
“Good work,” Falco said. “Let’s grab the gear and get moving. Keep those MP5s handy.” Each man had an easy-to-conceal submachine gun hidden under their jackets.
The road meandered north. There was no vegetation to speak of. Just rocks, patches of unmelted snow, and occasional streams to cross. The track followed the coastline for the most part, but was forced to swerve inland, whenever an inlet blocked the way. But never for very long.
Falco caught the occasional glimpse of waves breaking over rocks off to the right and gave thanks for the bay where the Sea Shell was anchored. He figured that the men and women who cleared the trail hundreds of years earlier had a good reason for living along the coast. Their food came from the sea—and the search for it never ended.
A sonic BOOM rolled over the land, and a pair of antiaircraft missiles streaked across the sky, where they disappeared into the clouds. The air war was heating up. Was Parker up there? Falco feared that she was. “Uh, oh,” Oliver said, as a vehicle topped the rise in front of them. “Here comes trouble.”
Judging from the top mounted LMG the boxy 4 X 4 was military, and probably on patrol. “I want everyone on the west side of that truck,” Falco said. “And be ready.”
The men understood. If they stood on both sides of the vehicle, and a firefight began, they would wind up firing at each other.
The truck bounced through a gully, growled upslope, and jerked to a stop. It carried three soldiers. A driver, a top gunner, and a passenger who might be a noncom. The man certainly acted like a noncom as he dropped to the ground, and gave what sounded like an order.
Purdy answered in Russian but, judging from the noncom’s expression, the soldier didn’t like what he’d heard. Not only that, but the gunner was bringing his weapon around. “Kill them!” Falco said, as he brought his submachine gun out into the open.
His first priority was to shoot the gunner. The initial burst of bullets was too low. But the Russian jerked spastically as Falco walked his fire up to the correct height.
Meanwhile a hail of machine gun fire from the other team members took care of the nonc
om and his driver. The entire incident lasted less than ten seconds. Had anyone heard? That seemed unlikely. “Hide the bodies,” Falco ordered. “Check the truck. Can we use it?”
They could, and Falco decided that the team had to take it, even though the vehicle could attract the wrong sort of attention from both sides. Because if the Russians happened across the shot-up 4 X 4 all hell would break loose.
Once the bodies were hidden behind a pile of rocks Falco ordered his men to get aboard. Oliver was at the wheel. “Turn it around,” Falco ordered. “We’ll drive it a few miles up the road, look for an inlet, and push it in.”
The plan worked perfectly. The narrow bay was both deep, and open to the sea, which sent waves rushing in to explode against the rocks. After the truck hit the water it disappeared without leaving a trace. Falco felt confident that although someone would discover the bodies eventually, the 4 X 4 would never be found.
They were within a mile of Lavrentiya by then, and the sounds of distant fighting could be heard. Falco led the men off the road. “Over there,” he said, pointing west. “On the high ground. That’s where we’ll set up. ”
The airstrip was visible in the distance. Engines roared as a Russian transport lumbered down the runway and took off. It was flying low and headed out over the strait to avoid the air-to-air combat above. Were VIPs on board? Escaping to safety? Or did the flight have another purpose? Falco would never know.
The rocky slope led up to the top of the low lying hill. A fifteen-foot tall granite obelisk stood atop the high ground and pointed at the sky. There was a plaque, but it was in Cyrillic. Broken vodka bottles, cast off candy wrappers, and used condoms lay on the ground at the foot of the monument. A place to party then … When the weather allowed.
. “Yussef will provide security,” Falco said, “while you guys set up.”
“Roger that,” Purdy replied.
Falco removed a small pair of binoculars from a pocket. He began the scan on the far west side of town. A Buk Missile system stood ready to defend Lavrentiya from American planes. Troops were visible, but not many. Most were on the other side of the bay, trying to defend the bridgehead.
Red Ice Page 27
