The Soviet Comeback

by Jamie Smith

  His back to the wall next to the window, he waved Gabriel and Milena down onto the floor and behind the bed, and peered sideways through the window. He pulled back the curtain a fraction, as he removed the sniper from his back, holding it in both hands. The room was cold due to the broken glass from the gunshots and his breath rose before him. He closed his mouth and controlled his breathing. He couldn’t afford to give any indication of his location. All was quiet, a blanket of white.

  Unscrewing the scope from the sniper, Nikita gazed through it, taking in as much as he could from the tight angle, before squatting below the windows and moving to the other side. From this angle he could see Klitchkov lying flat on the floor, only the barrel of his gun giving any indication of his whereabouts. He followed the line of the gun and saw two men approaching from the left. They were also clad in white, but were armed also with AK-47s, the staple weapon of every mercenary.

  That accounted for the approach team, but neither of them carried a sniper. Where was the man who had taken down his mother?

  For a moment, Nikita’s thoughts flashed to Klitchkov, but quickly dismissed them. There would be no point in his warning them if he was the shooter.

  Scanning around as best as he could without revealing himself, he located the sniper, about forty feet further up the hill, almost directly above Klitchkov. The shooter was squatting, hood down, peering intently through the scope upon a rocky outcrop. Nikita saw that it wasn’t a man, but a woman with a sheet of white-blond hair falling down one side of her face, the other side shaven. Even from here, Nikita could see the tattoo on her neck just above the grey puff jacket she wore. He couldn’t make it out, but didn’t need to see it to know it was a swastika. He ground his teeth, desperate to take her down.

  Not yet, he thought to himself grimly as he shuffled back across the room. As he passed Milena and his father, he put his finger to his lips and signalled to them to stay where they were. He padded into Milena’s room at the rear of the house and followed the same procedure to check for anybody approaching from the back. He identified three of Pamyat’s henchmen making their way towards them before making his way back to the main bedroom where he squatted down beside Milena and his father.

  Fear was plastered across Milena’s tear-stained face and Gabriel was holding her tightly, whispering that it would be all right. He covered her ears as Nikita began whispering to him.

  “We need to hide her, Father. Is there anywhere you can think of?”

  “There is an attic which is probably the best option,” his father responded. Nikita nodded and picked up Milena who squirmed in his arms, her face pale and her nose running.

  “Come, Milena, we are going to play hide and seek.”

  “I am not an idiot, Nikita,” she said angrily. Gabriel led the way down a corridor to where there was an enclave in the ceiling. Standing on a chair he had carried down the corridor with him, he pushed open the wooden slat covering the square. Nikita passed him Milena, to whom he gave a big kiss before lifting her with ease into the attic.

  “Milena, you must be absolutely silent no matter what you hear, OK?”

  She nodded, looking younger than her years. “Papa, I want to stay with you,” she said, sobbing.

  “Do not fear, my child, I will be back to pick you up very soon!” he said as cheerfully as he could manage. “Hold onto those tears and we can let them all out together later on, OK?”

  She wiped her small face and nodded as Gabriel lifted the wooden slat back into place.

  He and Nikita turned to face each other.

  “Tell me,” said Gabriel.

  “Yes, Father. As far as I can tell we have five of the enemy approaching. There is one I expect to be here whom I cannot see, so I would say there are at least six, in addition to a sniper further up the hill. We have Chairman Klitchkov on the mountainside who can give us covering fire, but as soon as he takes out one of the intruders, he will reveal his location will be a sitting duck and we will lose our only advantage. He will not know where the sniper is as she is above and behind him.”

  “What is your plan, son?”

  “First of all, we need to get rid of the sniper, and fast. The approaching teams are all within two hundred yards, but we have no chance of escape with a sniper able to take us out at any point. I will go now and eliminate that threat.”

  “What will I do?”

  “I do not want to give you blood on your hands, Father.”

  Gabriel said nothing but stepped back into his bedroom and reappeared carrying a pair of old shotguns. “You forget I endured the Biafran War. Nobody escaped that without blood on their hands. I will have my revenge for what these people have taken from us.”

  Nikita nodded. “I do not have time to argue with you. Cover the rear. If you can take any of those approaching out, all the better. Do what you can to at least keep them at some distance until I am able to tackle them head on.” He looked at his father’s weapon. “Do those rust buckets still work?”

  “You want to be the one to find out?” his father asked with the hint of a smile.

  Nikita smiled grimly in return, before setting his jaw and clasping his father’s arm momentarily.

  Returning to the bedroom, he looked around the room and scoped his angles. He discovered that if he lay on the bed, he would be almost impossible for the woman to spot, but could see her by just widening the crack between the curtains by an inch or two. Dropping to the floor, he began easing the curtain apart, expecting to hear the crack of a weapon firing again, but to his relief none came.

  He climbed back onto the bed and lay flat at an angle, gazing through the scope to find the shooter again. He saw her once more. Her crouched position made it a small target, but one he knew he must hit first time.

  The gun felt cold and clinical in his hands. Such a small thing that could cause so much hurt. For a moment he despised the sight of it, before shaking himself slightly and refocusing.

  She was gazing intently, sweeping her gun slowly back and forth across the house, ready to fire on the slightest hint of movement. Her lip was curled back in what looked like a permanent sneer. The woman who had murdered his mother, the gentlest soul of them all.

  Nikita closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing his mind, clearing it of all emotion and thought. Just him and the target.

  He nudged the telescopic sighting to have her chest front and centre. She was approximately three hundred yards away, and the cold air was still with very little breeze.

  He breathed in, and on the exhale squeezed the trigger.

  The compressor on the barrel of the VSS dampened the noise of the gunshot, reducing it to a quiet phut-phut sound, though the kickback was still hard into the crook of Nikita’s shoulder.

  But it was nothing compared to the discomfort of the target, whose cry echoed across the valley as red spread across her grey coat. She fell forwards off the rocky outcrop and tumbled directly down the hill, coming to a stop right next to the prostrate Klitchkov, who could not help but release a short cry of alarm, amplified by the silent snowy surroundings.

  Nikita could see that the woman wasn’t dead and upon landing had begun grappling with Klitchkov, who leapt to his feet and with a swift motion stabbed her in the throat.

  It was a fatal mistake as all eyes turned upon his previously hidden location and the valley was set alight by the crackle of gunfire, just as Nikita heard the boom of a gunshot echo from the room behind him.

  There was no longer any point in staying hidden, and Nikita leapt up and closer to the window. There were more men than he had bargained for, and now he could also see the one he had been searching for.

  Brishnov was ambling down the track nonchalantly, the huge Desert Eagle clutched in his hand with little in the way of stealth.

  Nikita’s blood ran cold. Vengeance had been his with the sniper who had taken down his mother, but he would not fail to avenge the death of Sarah Chang this time. He squatted and leant the sniper on the windowsill to ta
ke aim at Brishnov, but suddenly the window next to him exploded following a gunshot, and another chipped the stonework just to his left and he was forced back inside, cursing.

  “Father! What is the situation back there?” he shouted over his shoulder. He’d been so focused on Brishnov it was only now he was aware of the booming of the shotgun from Milena’s bedroom.

  “One is down; I think I injured him, and the other two cowards are hiding behind a snowdrift,” he called. “They will begin a fresh attack any moment I think.” He sounded almost invigorated.

  “Ok, try to keep them at bay as long as possible. The sniper is down but I have another four approaching. Klitchkov is under heavy fire.”

  Nikita moved into the adjacent room, an empty guest room, and approached the window to try a fresh angle. There was blood on Chairman Klitchkov, but Nikita was unable to tell if it was his own or that of the sniper. Either way he was taking heavy fire. Nikita again looked through the curtain and spotted two men on the left, both of whom were showering Klitchkov with bullets, rendering him unable to return fire. As carefully as he could, he turned the latch and eased the window open slightly.

  Nikita raised the sniper and got the target in his sight. He didn’t have anything to lean the weapon on, but took his time to steady his hand. He breathed deeply and released the trigger. This time his aim was true and the man crumpled instantly. Nikita locked and loaded and took another shot at the other man, who had admirably not stopped firing at Klitchkov despite the fall of his comrade.

  The shot buried itself in the snow just in front of the shooter and Nikita cursed. It did, however, do enough to force the shooter to take cover and give Klitchkov a moment’s respite.

  Nikita didn’t pause, swinging around to see where the other gunmen were. More importantly, to see where Brishnov was.

  He heard a crash of broken glass from behind him and a yell from his father. “Father!” Nikita cried.

  “I’m OK. They are coming though.”

  Nikita cursed again, and as he turned back to the window it exploded in a shower of glass. Shards covered him, with several cutting tiny slices into his face, one ripping the eyelid on his right eye.

  He dropped to the floor and shook the glass off himself. He reached up and pulled some snow from the windowsill, rubbing it over his face and grimacing as some of the deeper cuts protested. His eyelid was flapping over his eye, blood dripping down into it. Nothing he could do about it right now.

  Three down in total. Five to go. Their odds of survival were improving.

  Nikita returned to his parents’ bedroom to try and get a proper view of the situation. Klitchkov had taken down the shooter that Nikita had missed. Four to go. But one of them was Brishnov. Nikita saw him now, crouched behind some low scrubs, talking to the remaining soldier on that side of the house. An impossible shot from this angle. He looked across at Klitchkov, a visible red beacon now. He signalled that he had eyes on the enemy but no clean shot. Nikita returned the same signal.

  At that moment he heard a call from his father. “I am almost out of ammunition, Nikita. They are upon us.”

  Nikita signalled to Klitchkov that he was going to check the rear and dashed to his father. Peering at the window he saw two men clad in black combat gear. They had spread out and were approaching from opposite sides, darting behind low scrubby bushes and snowdrifts.

  “Father, you are hurt,” said Nikita, noticing Gabriel’s hands were covered in blood.

  “It’s nothing,” his father murmured, brushing Nikita’s hands away, his eyes focused on the men. Then he noticed Nikita’s bloody face. “You’re hurt too; what has happened to your eye?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Nikita with a half-smile. “Here, take this,” he said, handing his father the VSS Sniper and a handful of the brass bullets.

  “Why, where are you going?” his father demanded, taking the gun.

  “To give those two something else to think about.”

  “What about the front?”

  “There are two remaining; we must trust in the Chairman for the moment,” he said, walking away before his father could argue. “Keep your eyes open for me; please give some cover,” Nikita added as he ran downstairs, drawing his two Makarov pistols and going through the kitchen to the side door, staying low. He needed to draw the men away from the house, away from his injured father.

  His back to the door, he looked around the kitchen and saw what he was looking for on the counter. A bottle of methylated spirit stood next to the small stove. He grabbed it, along with a rag from the cupboard beneath the sink. Holstering one of the pistols, he also grabbed a mason jar full of rice and emptied it out, then filled it with the methylated spirits. He soaked the rag before pulling it taut over the top of the jar and screwing it into place. Snatching a lighter from the kitchen counter, he moved out.

  He opened the door at the side of the house and looked out. He led with the Makarov in his right hand, the Molotov cocktail clutched in his other. All was clear, but one thing was certain; these men were thugs and not trained soldiers. To leave an exit without cover in a hostage situation was unforgivable in the KGB playbook.

  Nikita dropped to the ground and commando crawled to the rear of the house, keeping his face low and his hood up to stay as camouflaged as possible. Upon reaching the corner of the house he allowed himself an upwards glance. He could see the thug approaching from the right-hand side straight ahead of him. He was staying low and out of sight from Gabriel’s vantage point, his eyes fixed on the windows.

  Nikita put his head back down and began to commando crawl again, this time at a right angle directly outwards from the house and away from the approaching attacker, before looping around behind him. Shots began to ring out from the window in the direction of the man approaching from the left, providing good cover and distraction for Nikita. It averted his target’s eyes and Nikita saw his opportunity. Jumping to his feet, he sprinted rapidly and silently over the powdery snow and was upon the man before he knew he was coming. The man let out a yelp and tried to throw a punch at Nikita, who sidestepped him and threw a punch to his temple. The man fell down, dazed. Nikita landed on him and with a swift motion from behind, twisted his head rapidly, feeling the neck break under his hands. He dropped the man to the ground before dropping back down himself to keep his cover. The whole attack had lasted no more than twenty seconds.

  Three to go.

  He paused to consider his options, wiping the blood from his face. He could barely see out of his ragged right eye, but in the distance, he could hear gunfire from the front of the house. Trust in the chairman, he thought to himself with some trepidation. He needed to eliminate this final threat from the rear to secure his fathers’ safety, at least for the time being. It would not take much for Brishnov and Veselovsky to break past the bloodied Klitchkov and enter the izba, and there was no clear shot at the remaining shooter. Time to take some risks, Nikita decided. Pulling the hood down low over his face, he rolled over the top of the snowdrift into the open space. If the other shooter saw him, he was a sitting duck.

  Nikita glanced up at the window and saw his father look at him wide-eyed. Nikita firmly signalled to him to look away but it was too late. A bullet missed Nikita by inches and he rolled to the side, leaping to his feet and zigzagging away from the shooter. Seeing the threat, Gabriel began firing the sniper at the shooter, forcing him back down as Nikita turned and sprinted as fast as he could towards him. Thirty yards from the man, Nikita dropped to one knee and lit the rag of the cocktail and threw it in the direction of the neo-Nazi, just as a tell-tale click of an empty chamber echoed across the tundra from the direction of the window. The shooter swung back out to shoot at Nikita, but had spun right into the path of the petrol bomb which hit him directly in the face.

  A bloodcurdling scream echoed from his mouth as the man, who Nikita could see was barely more than a teenager, snatched at his face trying to put the flames out as his skin melted. He thrust his head into the snow but it w
as too late, his screaming dying as his voice box burst. Nikita walked over and shot him in the head, looking down with great pity. The young man had probably been brainwashed, falling in with the wrong crowd. As so often was the case, he was too young for war, but old enough to die. Nikita searched the body for any form of identification or anything that may prove useful, but there was nothing to glean.

  Nikita looked up at the window but Gabriel was no longer there, presumably having gone to find more ammunition or an alternative weapon. He was relieved. No father should see his son do what Nikita had just done.

  He covered the ground cautiously back to the house, thawing snow dripping uncomfortably down every crack in his clothing. As he sidled along the house, he heard a commotion from the front.

  When he reached the corner, he peered around the front of the izba to gauge the situation, and his heart leapt into his mouth.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER 29

  In front of the house, forty yards away, Brishnov and Veselovsky stood over their two captives. Chairman Klitchkov and Gabriel Allochka were both on their knees in front of them, heads bowed, faces bloody.

  Brishnov and Veselovsky had guns pointed at them — Brishnov at Klitchkov and Veselovsky at Gabriel, and they were laughing.

  Klitchkov looked heavily wounded, blood dripping from several places, clearly visible in his white overalls.

  Gabriel’s clothes were torn, his face bloody from what looked like a pistol whipping, his eyes unfocused and concussed.

  Nikita threw himself back behind the wall, the breath driven out of him. If he took out one of the enemy, then either his father or Klitchkov would surely die. He cursed himself for dealing with the rear, his attention should always have been on Brishnov.

  “I shall enjoy this, Chairman,” he heard Brishnov say.

  “Then get on with it. I do not want to waste my time bandying words with a traitorous dog,” Klitchkov snarled.