Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  Roughly one minute later, Tischenko watched Alpha One’s shadowy green profile start to change as the massive helicopter banked left and disappeared behind the adjacent valley’s rocky spur. He would execute the same turn and line up on Alpha One as soon as he was clear of the same tree-covered outcropping. He expected all hell to break loose when they accelerated into the hidden valley.

  A few more seconds passed, and he could tell that his own helicopter had crossed into the secondary valley opening. He caught sight of Alpha One’s infrared taillights through his night vision and adjusted the cyclic to put the helicopter into a sharp left turn. He steadied on Alpha One with a clever manipulation of his pedals and watched as the lead helicopter picked up speed, seconds away from inserting its team.

  His copilot flashed the troop compartment lights twice in rapid succession, and Tischenko felt the helicopter jolt as the doors on both sides of the modified special operations helicopter slammed open, ready to disgorge their human cargo. He felt the crisp mountain air rush into the cockpit and fill his helmet. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, as Alpha One flared, and two thick ropes dropped from each side of the hovering black beast. Once the helicopter settled a few seconds later, figures started to rapidly slide down the ropes, and Tischenko tried not to count them. He needed to focus on the narrowing gap between his rotor blades and the trees, since reconnaissance photos and survey maps indicated a tight squeeze before the valley opened up into the perfect hiding place for a high value insurgent base.

  He found his helicopter approaching Alpha One too quickly and reduced the forward cyclic, waiting for the lead helicopter to dip forward and speed away. Once Alpha One started moving forward, he would move Alpha Two into position for his turn. Given the tight fit within the valley and the limited flat ground near the insurgent base, mission planners had decided against trying to fit two helicopters into the LZ at one time, especially at night. One miscalculation could be catastrophic. Alpha One’s miniguns started firing, sending continuous streams of green tracers into the darkness on both sides of the helicopter.

  “There he goes,” the copilot said eagerly, before Tischenko could process the fact that Alpha One was speeding away.

  He generously pushed the cyclic, and the helicopter lurched forward. His copilot continuously called out the distance to the final Assault Point using the GPS system, which was accurate to one meter. Tischenko was a skilled pilot and brought the Mi-8MS “Hip” right into position, flaring at the last second to completely stop the helicopter’s forward motion. As the helicopter settled, the first thing he noticed was the unmistakable sound of small arms bullets clanking into his helicopter. He couldn’t hear the source of the gunfire, but one of the lower cockpit windows spider-cracked, followed by the window immediately to his left.

  “Stable at Assault Point. Deploy Alpha Team!” he yelled into his helmet microphone.

  “Alpha Team deploying,” he heard.

  His own helicopter’s miniguns barked like buzz saws, spitting hundreds of 7.62mm bullets per second back into the insurgent positions. Through his peripheral vision on both sides, he saw thick streams of green tracers float away from his helicopter. They had a full-scale battle on their hands in this shitty little valley. Alpha One had warmed them up and escaped untouched. Lucky motherfuckers, he thought momentarily, before he immediately regretted the thought.

  Alpha One had cleared the LZ and just started its ascent from the valley, when at least two flashes caught Tischenko’s attention. The flashes came from the left side of the valley, and his mind didn’t have enough time to process more of the scene before his night vision flared bright green, blinding him. He held the controls steady, as every natural instinct programmed into his body fought against him. The Spetsnaz team had already commenced fast-roping to the ground, and he could not break his hover. Any sudden changes to the aircraft’s stability could hurtle one or more commandos fifty feet to their death. He had to settle himself and wait for the “all clear” from his crew chief, who was directing the fast rope operation. He pivoted the night vision goggles out of his face and took in the scene. What he saw gave him little hope of ever seeing his wife and daughter again.

  Alpha One had activated its decoy flare system, which fired eight blinding magnesium flares into the air behind it, rendering his night vision equipment useless. The flares landed on the ground and completely illuminated the entire valley, including his own helicopter. He couldn’t see Alpha One beyond the burning flares, but a crunching explosion and a billowing orange pillar of fire didn’t leave much to Tischenko’s imagination. He needed to get out of here before the insurgents could reload their rockets.

  “Chief, how much longer?” he yelled into the helmet microphone.

  “Half of the team is out. We’re doubling up on the ropes. Five more seconds,” came the abrupt reply.

  One of the cockpit window panels above his copilot’s head shattered, and a bullet ricocheted through the cockpit. Several more bullets struck the reinforced glass around them, which miraculously held. The miniguns belched sustained bursts of withering fire back at their targets as Tischenko counted the seconds aloud. Seven seconds later, his crew chief screamed through the headset that they were “all clear.”

  He decided to skip the low level egress route chosen by Alpha One and pushed the cyclic and collective together, favoring the collective. Alpha Two rushed forward, ascending rapidly. His IR missile sensors started to flash and a harsh tone blared in his headset, but he resisted the impulse to launch his own flares, knowing they would likely rain down on Alpha Three. The missile threat never materialized, and Tischenko’s helicopter rose above the valley, racing for an adjacent range of hills. He could see enough without the night vision goggles to keep them safe for now, until they were inevitably called back into the valley to pick up the Spetsnaz.

  “You need to redesignate helicopters, Captain,” the copilot said.

  “Standby,” he said and opened a channel to the ground force commander and the other helicopter.

  “Redesignate call signs. Flight Hotel Victor Four Three Two is now Alpha One. Flight Hotel Victor Four Three Three is now Alpha Two, over,” he said.

  “This is Alpha Command. Out.”

  “This is Alpha Two. Out.”

  Tischenko enjoyed a few more seconds of peace, hovering in what he hoped was safe airspace.

  “Alpha One, this is Alpha Command…request close air support in vicinity of Assault Point. Alpha Strike units will designate targets for your gunners using IR pointers, over.”

  Shit, this was going to be the longest—or possibly the shortest—night of his life. At least he wouldn’t need his night vision goggles. The flares and burning wreckage had transformed the valley into an inferno.

  “This is Alpha One, thirty seconds from commencing gun run. Mark targets in two-zero seconds,” he said.

  “This raid better be worth it,” he muttered, as the orange glowing valley reappeared ahead of them.

  Chapter 3

  6:45 AM

  Strigino Airport

  Nizhny Novgorod, Russian Federation

  Anatoly Reznikov squeezed the armrest tightly as the Hawker 800 business jet floated above the runway for two seconds, then abruptly dropped onto its landing gear. He felt the airbrakes decelerate the sixteen-thousand-pound aircraft from one hundred and sixty miles per hour to less than twenty in fewer than five seconds, pressing his abdomen uncomfortably against the lap belt. It wasn’t the smoothest landing he’d ever experienced, but he understood why the pilots had chosen to sacrifice comfort on this particular approach.

  Cross winds from a massive storm system north of Nizhny Novgorod had plagued the small aircraft since the pilots started their decent, and had intensified as they lined up with the runway. Reznikov had considered requesting that the pilots divert the flight to a different airport, but his arrangements for a hassle-free transfer had been made for Strigino Airport and couldn’t be guaranteed anywhere else. He was carrying a suppr
essed pistol and two stainless steel cooling cylinders, a combination of items unlikely to pass through even the most cursory security checks typically associated with private business travelers, especially if special monetary arrangements were not already in place.

  The aircraft slowed further, and Anatoly loosened his safety belt. The first person he expected to see upon exiting was Gennady. The man had already been paid half of a very generous fee to personally ensure Anatoly’s uncomplicated transfer to a rental car. He had met Gennady once before, immediately prior to arriving in Kazakhstan to begin work for his former “friends.” Knowing that he would not be theoretically allowed to leave the laboratory site again until the work was completed, he had made all of these arrangements in advance. All Gennady needed was a phone call, and he could have a business jet flown from Novosibirsk to Semey within four hours, all at considerable cost, of course, which was why Anatoly expected to see Gennady himself personally standing at the bottom of the Hawker’s cabin door stairs. Gennady’s absence would signify a considerable problem, one that could only be solved with the pistol readily accessible in his black backpack.

  He glanced through the rain-splashed cabin window at the scene unfolding on the edge of the runway. The private terminal area loomed ahead, and shadows of the runway crew hurried through sheets of rain to prepare for the jet’s arrival. The shiny concrete was illuminated by massive terminal lights, which dimmed with each passing rain squall. The sun had risen a half hour earlier, but the heavy rain clouds shielded the airport from any signs of dawn. Now that the aircraft was still, he could hear the rain pummeling the aircraft’s thin metal shell and feel the wind buffeting the aircraft’s frame.

  After a few minutes, the jet moved forward into its final position in front of the terminal and stopped. Waiting at a safe distance, several airport personnel converged on the aircraft, disappearing underneath the cabin. He heard the usual assortment of sounds associated with post-flight maintenance and spotted a fuel truck speeding toward the aircraft. The jet would undoubtedly be back in the sky within the hour, headed toward its next thirty-thousand-dollar passenger. It was money well spent on his account. The flight had put him within a reasonable three-day driving range of his target. Unfortunately, his budget didn’t allow for another flight like this one, or he would have flown all the way to St. Petersburg. From St. Petersburg, he’d face an easy, one-day drive to the Kola Peninsula.

  One of the pilots stepped back into the cabin. “Sorry about the landing. I wanted to get this thing down as quickly as possible in those winds. We’ll have you on your way in a few minutes. Feel free to empty the minibar. The company stocks premium liquor, and it’s a little known secret that everything is included in the price of the flight,” he said, tipping his pilot cap.

  “Thank you. I think I might take a few bottles for the road.”

  Reznikov unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way over to the minibar near the front of the cabin. Upon opening the small refrigerator, he smiled. Indeed, they’d spared no expense with the liquor selection. He placed several miniature bottles of vodka in the side pockets of his backpack and secured the straps. A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.

  “Don’t forget to take this. Glen Ord, thirty year, single malt. $300 a bottle,” the pilot said, pulling a bottle out of the cabinet above the minibar.

  “Now I understand the cost of the flight,” he said, accepting the bottle and then handing it back. “I never developed a taste for Scotch. Vodka is my poison.”

  “A true Russian. Not many of us left these days. In that case, try this instead. I like to make these bottles disappear from time to time.”

  He reached into the cabinet and removed a bottle of Rodnik Vodka, which Anatoly knew for a fact would cost nearly $500.

  “If I flew this jet, they would all go missing. Many thanks, comrade. I have the perfect occasion in mind for this bottle.”

  “Ground is ready for you to disembark, Mr. Pavlenko,” the copilot said, sticking his head into the doorway.

  The pilot turned to the door and pulled a small handle to the left, breaking the door’s airtight seal. Reznikov watched him lower the door, which served as the staircase, slowly to the tarmac. A gust of wind whipped rain inside the cabin, and Reznikov hiked the backpack over his shoulders. He stepped forward and saw Gennady standing at the bottom of the stairs struggling to hold an umbrella, a useless gesture given the sideways rain. It was a good sign, nonetheless. The money paid to Gennady had left an impression. Wasting no time, he walked down the stairs.

  “Put that ridiculous thing away, and help me with my bag.”

  “Your bag is already taken care of,” he said.

  “Then, let’s get the fuck out of this rain,” Reznikov said, still holding the vodka bottle as Gennady led him to a door reserved for “special” customers.

  Once inside the door, Gennady turned to Reznikov with a worried look. They stood in an abandoned, poorly lit reception area outfitted with a couch and table set. The room opened into a hallway that led further into the terminal and likely emptied into a discreet area where certain customers could disappear without any official fanfare.

  “We have a problem. Two gentlemen arrived about an hour ago asking questions about you. They had basic flight information and used the name Reznikov.”

  “Russian?”

  “Barely. I’d guess Chechen by the looks of them. Filthy, dark-skinned Muslim mongrels. Out of Moscow probably. They had rough details and a picture of you. Unfortunately, they were spreading money around, and people here were talking.”

  “So much for a private terminal,” Reznikov said.

  “The money was just a formality. Everyone here knows what they are, and nobody wants to be dragged out behind the terminal for a private conversation,” he said.

  “Where are they now?”

  “Waiting inside the terminal for you,” Gennady said.

  “Where is my car?”

  “Already checked out and waiting for you in the private parking lot.”

  “I need you to do something for me. I want you to tell them where my car is and suggest that they wait for me in the parking lot.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Just do what I say, then get back to Novosibirsk.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this. I don’t need the Chechens on my ass. And what about the rest of my payment?” he said.

  “I can transfer the rest to you in Novosibirsk, or you can collect it here…but only after you convince the men to wait for me in the parking lot,” Anatoly said.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Then don’t get paid. It’s your choice.”

  “I need a kicker for doing this. Fucking with these people is serious business,” Gennady said, “and you never mentioned they were involved.”

  “They weren’t. This is a simple job for them, nothing more. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not fucking with them unless you double the remaining fee,” Gennady said.

  “Double? I’ll give you one and a half times the remaining fee,” Reznikov said.

  “You have it here?”

  “Yes. You’ll get it after I deal with these guys. I have your cell phone number. I’ll call you when it’s done and I’ll drive around to the terminal to meet you,” Reznikov said.

  “You better not fuck me over on this,” he said.

  “Gennady, this has all gone very smoothly so far. I’ve paid you as agreed, and you’ve delivered the goods. I just need you to help me get out of here. You’ll get your money, and then you can disappear to Novosibirsk. It’s a win-win situation. No blood on your hands.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll call you when they’re on their way to the parking lot. Until then, stay right here,” he said and walked briskly down the hallway.

  When Gennady closed the door, Reznikov took the suppressed GSh-18 pistol out of his backpack and thumbed the safety off, sliding it back into the cushioned compartment normally reserved for a laptop. He
would need to access the pistol quickly. He removed a second eighteen-round magazine from a smaller compartment on the backpack, and stuffed this into one of his coat pockets. He left the top of the backpack open and stood up, straightening his coat. He walked down the hallway to the same door used by Gennady a few minutes earlier and opened it.

  He found himself in a sparsely furnished, windowless office with an access door to the outside. The room’s only source of light came from a small, translucent window on the door, which barely cast enough light to see into the furthest reaches of the room. Fresh rain pooled on the floor just inside the door, and he could hear the rain drive against the outside walls. If Gennady betrayed him, they would come for him through this doorway. There would be too many witnesses on the tarmac for the men to enter through the runway door.

  He closed the door leading back into the hallway and positioned himself behind the desk, which sat in the darkest corner of the room to the right of the hallway door. He kneeled down below the top of the desk and took out his cell phone, switching it to vibrate. After returning the phone to an inside pocket, he reached into the backpack and withdrew the semiautomatic pistol, holding it steady in his right hand.

  Five minutes later, his phone buzzed. After the third extended vibration from his coat pocket, he heard a crash beyond the hallway door and was glad he had trusted his instinct regarding Gennady. He knew the man wouldn’t have the balls to go through with his plan. He wondered if Gennady had intentionally turned on him, or if the Chechens had simply given him no choice. Either way, it didn’t matter. If the men sent to the airport were indeed Chechen mafia, then Gennady couldn’t return to Novosibirsk.