Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  Banich nodded briefly, hiding his relief. If the FIS officer hadn’t taken their vodka bait, things could have gotten messy fast. But Soloviev had been reasonably confident the ploy would work. Despite years of official antidrinking campaigns, alcoholism was still a major killer among Russian men. Even more important, underlings in rigid hierarchies take their cues from their superiors — and Kaminov and the men around him were all hard drinkers.

  The American climbed down out of the truck cab and signaled Hennessy and the others in the second truck. “Everybody out! We’re taking a short break. Move it!”

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw Soloviev leading the FIS officer around to the back of that second truck. His pulse accelerated. Any second now.

  Banich began walking toward one of the machine-gun positions, stretching and twisting as though he were shaking loose the knots wound up by an uncomfortable journey. Fear, not fatigue, made him yawn once and then again, deeper and longer. With an effort, he shut his mouth and moved closer.

  The two FIS guards manning the PK machine gun ignored him. Like their commander, they were more interested in the contents of the trucks. He saw one of them nudge the other and grin. Maybe they thought this Captain Vorisov would share the results of his “inspection” with them.

  Phut. Phut.

  The sound of Soloviev’s two silenced shots spurred Banich into action. His right hand darted inside his uniform jacket and came back out holding his own silenced automatic. Everything around him slowed as adrenaline altered his time sense.

  One of the startled gunners saw the weapon in his hand and opened his mouth to yell a warning. Banich squeezed the trigger — firing again and again. Hit by two or three rounds apiece, both FIS men crumpled. One screamed and fell forward over the machine gun with a huge, red-rimmed hole in his back. He shuddered once and then lay still. Struck in the stomach and head, the second guard sprawled back against the sandbags, staring up at the sky with unblinking eyes.

  The American turned rapidly, scanning for new targets. There weren’t any. The other checkpoint guards were already down and dead or dying. He tugged the partly empty magazine out of the Makarov and snapped in a fresh clip. Hennessy, Teppler, and Soloviev’s two Russian officers were doing the same thing with their own silenced weapons.

  Soloviev himself came around the side of the truck, dragging the dead FIS captain by his arms. “Don’t stand there! Move! Haul those corpses off into the trees! We haven’t much time.” He dumped the guard officer out of sight and turned around, looking for the lieutenant who had driven the first truck. “Pasha! Clear those vehicles off to the side of the road. Hurry up!”

  It took several minutes of frantic effort to restore the checkpoint to a semblance of normal order. While Banich and the others hauled the bodies of the guards they’d killed out of sight, Soloviev scrambled up into the lead truck’s cargo bay and began unloading the long, narrow boxes he’d commandeered from the militia headquarters armory — boxes containing RPG-16 antitank rocket launchers, ammunition, and more AK-74 assault rifles. As each man came back from his grisly task, the colonel handed him a weapon and a pair of gloves.

  All of them started when the sentry box phone rang — shrill in the eerie silence hanging over the checkpoint. Soloviev jumped to answer it. He listened briefly, answered in a gruff voice, and then poked his head back out through the open door. “Get ready! The French delegation is leaving now. Kaminov and the rest will follow shortly.”

  Three big black official sedans came barreling around a bend just minutes later. Tiny French flags fluttered from the hood of each car. The cars braked, waiting just long enough for them to pull the tire spikes off the road and shoulder the barricade aside. Then they accelerated again, whizzing past the checkpoint without stopping. With a treaty signed, sealed, and in hand, Ambassador Sauret and the rest of his negotiators were evidently in a tearing hurry to get back to Paris.

  Once the last French limousine disappeared around another curve, Soloviev, Banich, and the others exploded into action. Hennessy, Teppler, and the two junior Russian officers replaced the barricade and tire barrier, grabbed loaded assault rifles, and trotted up the access road toward the dacha. Banich and the colonel both scooped up an RPG-16 launcher and a pack containing extra rounds and followed their men — staying well inside the trees lining the road.

  They’d gone only a hundred meters or so when they heard the sound of several engines rumbling closer, but that was far enough to lose sight of the deserted checkpoint past a curve in the winding road.

  At a hand signal from Soloviev, the rifle-armed men faded back into cover, hunkering down in the shadows under the trees. Their two leaders did the same. The Russian glanced at Banich. “The first vehicle, understand?”

  Banich nodded impatiently. “I know.” He settled the RPG on his shoulder after making sure he’d remembered to remove the safety pin from its antitank warhead.

  “Just checking.” Soloviev surprised him by grinning. “Take away the trees and this could be Afghanistan all over again… only I would be on the other side, of course.” He clapped the American on the shoulder. “Don’t miss!”

  Then the Russian was gone, cradling his own rocket launcher as he hurried forward — dodging tree trunks and patches of sunlight. The engine noises grew louder.

  Banich stayed absolutely still as the first vehicles came into view. The convoy was organized exactly the way Soloviev had said it would be. A GAZ-69 jeep with a light machine gun in a pintle mount was in the lead. The driver, machine gunner, and two passengers, both officers, all wore the blue shoulder flash of the FIS. Three armored limousines came next — each an identical black and with tinted windows that hid their occupants from public view. He tensed. Kaminov, the high-ranking officers who were his closest subordinates, and their personal bodyguards were riding inside those three vehicles.

  An eight-wheeled BTR-80 armored personnel carrier with a turret-mounted heavy machine gun brought up the rear. Like the four-wheel-drive Blazers the U.S. Secret Service used as “war wagons” to carry extra agents, commo gear, and heavy weapons, the BTR was a formidable fighting machine. The FIS troops it carried rode up top, helmeted heads poking through open fighting hatches on the BTR’s deck. One man near the rear carried a shoulder-launched SA-16 for protection against air attack.

  God. Banich blinked away the sweat trickling into his eyes. Odds that had sounded awfully high when Soloviev first outlined his hastily formulated plan now seemed insurmountable. This was not going to work. His hands started to tremble. Oh, Erin…

  The jeep leading the convoy rolled past his position. Now! Banich stood up, all fear buried beneath the overriding need to make his shot count. He squinted through the rocket launcher’s sight, steadied on target, and fired.

  Whummph.

  The RPG round flashed across the intervening distance, slammed into the dashboard on the driver’s side, and detonated. Five pounds of high explosive tore the open-topped vehicle apart in a searing ball of flame. It flipped over and landed sideways across the road.

  Through the smoke, Banich saw Soloviev rise, take careful aim, and fire a HEAT round directly into the BTR-80’s thinly armored flank. The APC exploded. Sheets of bright red fire flared out through every open hatch, fed by fuel and ammunition stored aboard. Pieces of burned bodies arced out from the exploding vehicle.

  In that single horrifying instant, all hell broke loose.

  Caught traveling just meters behind the jeep Banich’s warhead had mangled, the lead armored limousine roared ahead and crashed into the flaming wreckage at thirty kilometers an hour. The massive grinding impact threw both vehicles across the road and into the trees in a shower of sparks and shrieking metal. When they stopped spinning, both were locked together — completely blocking the access road.

  The second black sedan skidded wildly, sliding sideways as it braked, narrowly avoiding the collision just ahead. But then the driver of the last car, less alert or maybe distracted by the blinding flash in hi
s rearview mirror, smashed head-on into the side of the fishtailing vehicle. Broken glass, crumpled metal, and torn rubber flew outward from the impact point.

  The world seemed to stand still for a moment — frozen at a lone point in time. Both ends of the narrow road were barred. Kaminov’s convoy was cut off — unable to go forward and unable to go back.

  Car doors popped open, shattering the stasis. Dazed-looking men began scrambling out of the wrecked limousines, clawing their way past others who couldn’t move because they were too badly stunned or injured. A few, younger than the rest, clutched snub-nosed AKR assault carbines — staring wildly in all directions at the woods around them. Kaminov’s bodyguards, Banich realized.

  He knelt down, pawing through the satchel in front of him for another RPG round.

  With their targets out in the open now, Mike Hennessy, Teppler, and the Russian lieutenants opened up from the treeline, firing on full automatic. Men jerked wildly, spun around and ripped apart by the dozens of hollow-point bullets hammering the area around the wrecked cars. Panicked screams rose above the gunfire and then faded away.

  Those few who survived the first murderous fusillade turned and tried to run, stumbling away into the trees. They didn’t get far.

  Hennessy and the others stalked across the road and went after them, firing aimed three-round bursts on the move. When the firing stopped, silence fell over the ambush site — a silence broken only by the crackling flames consuming the destroyed jeep and APC.

  Soloviev stepped out onto the corpse-strewn road, still carrying the rocket launcher he had used. “Pasha! Take Vanya and bring that second truck up here! The one with the dead Frenchmen inside. We’ll leave them here, by our weapons.”

  The young lieutenant nodded sharply, slung his rifle, and signaled his counterpart. Both took off down the access road at a run. At the same time, Hennessy and Teppler came back from their hunt looking pale. They understood the need to make sure no one survived the ambush, but that didn’t mean they enjoyed butchering men who weren’t even trying to fight back.

  Banich came out of the trees to join Soloviev by the second smashed limousine. He grimaced, trying to control his nausea as he surveyed the carnage. “Why waste time planting Duroc and his men, Colonel? No investigator in his right mind would tie them into this!”

  The Russian looked up at the smoke billowing above the trees before glancing down at him. “We still have ten minutes or so before the first patrols will arrive here, Mr. Banich. As far as any investigation is concerned…” He shrugged. “In America, the truth may be of paramount importance, but in Russia, the truth is always what is convenient for those in power. And once the dust settles from this day, it will be very convenient to blame the French for this butchery.”

  He shrugged again. “It makes a compelling story, you understand. Outraged by the heroic Marshal Kaminov’s refusal to stab Poland in the back, renegade French security agents took their revenge here and then fled in panic — leaving a few of their fallen comrades behind.” Soloviev nodded toward one of the corpses lying at Banich’s feet. “An old and tired story of foreign treachery, I agree — but one familiar to many of my older countrymen. It will make that man’s death easier for them to understand and accept.”

  “I see.” Banich stared down at the corpse in front of him. The bulletproof vest the old man had been wearing hadn’t been good enough to stop high-velocity rounds fired at point-blank range. A faint breeze eddied across the road, stirring the thin wisps of white hair above a strong, square-jawed face now smeared with blood. He looked up. “So that’s Kaminov?”

  The Russian nodded grimly. “Yes. That was Marshal Yuri Kaminov.” He turned away from the body of his former leader. “You and your men had better head back to the city now, Banich. Take one of the trucks, but leave the other for us. Those identity cards and uniforms should serve you long enough to find shelter or make your own way back to your embassy.”

  “What about you, Colonel? What will you do now?”

  Soloviev glanced dispassionately at the mass of burning wreckage and tangled corpses. Then he looked back at the American. “I have more work ahead, Mr. Banich. This was only a beginning.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Razor’s Edge

  JULY 1 — SPECIAL GUARD DETACHMENT, THE PRESIDENTIAL DACHA, OUTSIDE MOSCOW

  “Major!”

  Irritated by the shouted summons, Major Pavel Zubchenko of the FIS tossed his newspaper aside. He fastened his tunic collar and stepped out onto the dacha’s front porch. “Yes, Sergeant? What the devil is it now?”

  The hatchet-faced noncom who had yelled for him pointed toward the forest. “That smoke’s still rising, sir. And they’ve got helicopters out now.”

  “What?” Zubchenko came to the railing and squinted into the distance, shading his eyes against the bright noontime sun. He frowned. The man was right. There, ten or fifteen kilometers to the west, several plumes of dark black smoke were still visible, climbing into a cloudless blue sky. And those small specks orbiting slowly around the rising smoke were definitely helicopters.

  He chewed his lower lip, suddenly worried. The first time the sergeant had called his attention to the smoke curling up from an area near Kaminov’s country house, he’d dismissed it as unimportant. Foresters burning deadwood. Or maybe the old marshal’s overzealous security detail conducting yet another exercise or realistic drill. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Zubchenko turned on his heel and went back inside. Russia’s civilian President, kept isolated and under virtual house arrest with his family, had the run of the dacha’s second floor, but his FIS “protectors” had commandeered the whole first floor for their own offices and living quarters.

  Moving faster now that his men couldn’t see him, the major went straight to his desk and picked up the direct phone line to Moscow. Nothing. He jiggled the receiver hook impatiently. Still nothing.

  Zubchenko turned pale. The line was dead.

  “Sir!” Another shout from the front porch brought him outside in a hurry.

  He was just in time to see a column of armored vehicles — eleven wheeled BTR-80s — turning onto the long gravel drive leading to the dacha. He could see helmeted soldiers riding with the hatches open. There were regular army troops aboard those APCs, a full-strength motor rifle company at least. The major swallowed hard. “Call out the guard, Sergeant. But no one opens fire without my direct order, understand? These men may be reinforcements for us.”

  “Yes, Major.” The noncom sounded unconvinced. He turned and began bellowing orders that brought the thirty-man security detachment onto the porch or into position at the dacha’s doors and windows. Most of them were only half-dressed, roused from their off-shift slumber by the surprise alert.

  By the time the last yawning FIS trooper stumbled outside, the BTRs were practically right on top of the building.

  A tall, fair-haired colonel jumped down out of the lead vehicle and strode arrogantly toward the porch. To his astonishment, Zubchenko recognized the man. He was Kaminov’s personal aide. Colonel… Soloviev. Yes, that was it.

  Zubchenko came down the front steps to meet him halfway. “What the bloody hell is going on, Colonel?”

  Soloviev’s pale blue eyes stared right through him. “I’m afraid I have terrible news, Major. Marshal Kaminov and all the senior members of the Military Council are dead.”

  Stunned by what he’d just heard, the FIS man felt his mouth fall open. “What? How?”

  “They were ambushed. Shot to pieces on the compound road. No one survived.” Soloviev grimaced. “I’ve just come from there.”

  Zubchenko believed that. He could smell the smoke and sweat on the man. “Ambushed?” he repeated. “By who?”

  The colonel shrugged. “We don’t know… yet. But we found several dead men near the scene — apparently killed by the marshal’s bodyguards. One of them was the head of the French security force.”

  “Mother of God!” After that first shocked outburst, the FIS man
stammered, “But I thought the French…” His voice trailed off. “Then why are you here, Colonel?”

  Soloviev arched an eyebrow in mock surprise. “I would have thought that was obvious, Major. I’ve come to escort the President back to Moscow.”

  Although he’d been half expecting that, the announcement still rocked Zubchenko back on his heels. He cleared his throat, unsure of what he should do next. He desperately wished he could contact someone at his own agency’s headquarters. “By whose authority?”

  “Authority? With Marshal Kaminov dead, our nation is leaderless and on the brink of war. Just whose authority do you think I need?” Soloviev asked flatly. He stared down at the FIS man in contempt. “Which are you, Major? A lawyer? Or a patriot?”

  Zubchenko stiffened. “I know my duty, Colonel. I cannot allow the President to leave this compound without written orders from someone in legitimate authority!”

  “The President himself is the only legitimate authority we have left!” Soloviev growled. He stepped closer, speaking lower so that only the FIS man could hear him. “Think carefully, Major. Are you really prepared to fight the first battle of a new civil war right here and now? A battle you will lose?”

  Zubchenko felt cold. By training and temperament, he was more a policeman than a professional military officer, but he knew how to count rifles. More important, he could read the iron determination in Soloviev’s voice and eyes. If he tried to resist this man and his soldiers, he would only be signing his own death warrant. He looked away from the colonel’s steady, unnerving gaze, turned to his sergeant, and said through gritted teeth, “Let them through.”

  Soloviev pushed past the ashen-faced security officer, marched into the dacha, and took the stairs to the second floor. Russia’s tall, barrel-chested President came down to meet him before he was halfway up. Ironically, eight months of enforced seclusion seemed to have restored the man’s vigor. He looked rested and even a little younger than he had in the days before the generals forced him to declare martial law.