Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “Yes. I promise. Please don’t hurt them. Please don’t hurt my husband.”

  “The safety of your children lies solely with you,” he said, pointing at her. Don’t fuck with me on this. I specifically didn’t give them instructions for what to do with you. I’ll leave that to their imagination. Dr. Belyakov, it’s time to go. You’ll need your security card.”

  Her husband froze in place. “Where are we going?”

  “Where’s the card?” the man barked, shifting his pistol back to Tatyana.

  “Just give him your badge,” she said, putting her hands up in a useless gesture.

  The man glanced at her husband and started walking toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  “Maybe it’s in the children’s room,” the man said.

  She reacted instinctively and moved to block him, but one of the other men stepped in and pinned her against the wall, placing the cold barrel of a sawed-off shotgun under her chin.

  “No. It’s in my car. Don’t hurt her,” Arkady whispered.

  “Arkady, don’t mess around with them! Your university badge is in the kitchen,” she said.

  “You have no idea, do you?” the man said to her, turning to Arkady.

  “Start walking, or I’ll just fucking kill them and save my men the hassle. I’m sure they have better things to do right now than guard your wife.”

  “All right, all right. I’m going. I love you, honey. This will all be fine. Y-you’ll see,” Arkady stuttered, moving toward the man.

  “What did we do to deserve this?” she whimpered, as they put a dark canvas bag over her husband’s head.

  “Trust me. I’m doing you a favor,” he said, walking over and putting his face right in front of hers. “Your husband is a very dangerous man. Very bad for the mother Russia,” he hissed and walked away.

  His breath had reeked of tobacco and rotten meat, almost making her gag. She barely registered what he said about her husband. Whatever he had done, she just wanted all of this to go away. When the men finished handcuffing her husband, they pushed him through the kitchen and out the side door. Several seconds later, she heard car doors shut, and her husband was driven away to whatever fate awaited him. She wondered if this had something to do with his job at the university or the faint suspicion she always harbored that he didn’t really work there.

  “Take a seat,” one of the remaining men said, gesturing toward the couch with a sawed-off shotgun.

  She carefully walked to the couch and sat down, trying desperately to make as little sound as possible.

  “How about some television?” the other man asked. “You have satellite?”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Can we just sit here quietly, please?” she offered meekly.

  “Turn the television on. Don’t you watch shows after the kids go to bed?” he said, pointing a mean-looking pistol at her.

  “We usually read books. We have a whole bookcase of them.”

  “Fuck that. Turn the television on.”

  She gripped the remote and pointed it at the flat-screen television with shaky hands. Her kids listened to shows at high volume, and the television defaulted to one of the all-day children’s channels. Turning the television on could jar them out of their sleep, killing them all. She hesitated.

  “Press the button,” he insisted.

  She hit the red button, and the television came to life. Her fingers furiously pressed the volume button in an attempt to cut off the sound. The volume started high, but died immediately, emitting a single burst of children’s mayhem.

  “Not this shit. How about some pay-per-view? Do you have the porno channels?”

  “No. Just the basic lineup,” she said, grateful that they hadn’t upgraded their satellite subscription.

  She couldn’t imagine pornography leading to a good outcome. These guys looked and sounded like ruffians. Probably mafiya. She’d try to find something on network television or some of the Western channels. Anything to keep their minds off killing her children for the next eighty minutes.

  Chapter 46

  9:35 PM

  FARP “Blacktop”

  Southeastern Kazakhstan

  Major Daniel “Boogie” Borelli steadied the helicopter thirty feet above his assigned refueling position, aligning Black Magic “Zero One” with ground-based infrared markers visible to night vision equipment. His flight helmet had been fitted with a Heads Up Display (HUD) integrated L-3 GPNVG-18 (Ground Panoramic Night Vision Goggle) system, giving him a ninety-seven degree field of vision, compared to the traditional forty-degree field offered by dual-tube sets. The HUD integrated L-3 represented a breakthrough in helicopter night-flying technology, merging four separate image intensifier tubes into a wider image and superimposing vital flight information directly into the pilot’s field of vision. The system vastly increased his situational awareness outside of the cockpit, which was critical to the dicey approach he currently faced.

  FARP “Blacktop” had been situated on a small plateau, concealing the equipment from prying eyes, but exposing them to the violent sweeping winds common across the Kazakhstan steppes. The FARP had been arranged according to the prevailing winds and weather predictions to accommodate landing into the wind. Unfortunately, the winds had not cooperated since they arrived, gusting from the northwest, buffeting them with a nasty crosswind. The three helicopters had plenty of lateral space between them to avoid a collision during one of the wind gusts, but setting this clunky bird down in any crosswind posed a considerable risk.

  The designers had traded some of the original airframe’s aerodynamic stability for stealth, which gave these helicopters a certain level of unpredictability during the relatively unorthodox flight maneuvers common to Special Operations missions. They had hovered over the site for five minutes, timing the gusts and gauging their comfort level. There was no room for error here. A disaster at this FARP would leave operators stranded. Even the loss of a single helicopter would seriously jeopardize the team’s chances of exfiltration. He had no idea what the team’s mission might be, but judging from the fact that Washington was willing to send these helicopters anywhere near Russia emphasized the importance of retrieving Blackjack.

  A heavy gust swayed the helicopter, breaking his alignment with the IR markers. He fought his urge to overcompensate, instead making dozens of minor adjustments to the cyclic and anti-torque pedals to keep him from drifting horizontally. Once the gust abated and the heavy dust cleared, he repositioned the helicopter over his landing zone and gave his task force the order to land. They should have at least another forty seconds before the next gust.

  He eased up on the collective, and the helicopter slowly descended. A member of the Combat Control Team aided the descent by signaling his proximity to the ground. The night vision goggles gave him decent depth perception, and the aircraft’s radar altimeter was spot-on accurate, but adding a third, subjective component reduced the chance of mishap to nearly zero. Boogie felt the landing gear settle and locked his controls into place. He stared through the starboard side window past the copilot to confirm that the other helicopters had landed without obvious incident. Everything looked good, and the Combat Control Team hadn’t reported a problem.

  “Welcome to the middle of fucking nowhere. Let’s shut her down,” he said into the helicopter’s intercom.

  As the copilot started to shut down the aircraft, he opened the encrypted frequency used to communicate with SOCCOM.

  “Control, this is Black Magic. The package arrived intact at Blacktop, over.”

  A few seconds passed before the satellite communications system brought the reply.

  “This is Control. Copy, Black Magic intact at Blacktop. Radar and electronic surveillance aircraft reports a clean ride. Refuel and stand by to commence run to Holding Area Alpha. Break. Clarified rules of engagement follow. Do not depart Alpha without clearance from Control. Once cleared to depart Alpha, under no circumstances will Black Magic cross the border or engag
e hostile forces located across the border. If hostile forces cross the border in pursuit of Blackjack or employ weapons to engage Blackjack from across the border, Black Magic will maintain a two-kilometer standoff distance from hostile forces. How copy, over.”

  “This is Black Magic actual, copy and understand rules of engagement, over,” Major Borelli said.

  “Control, out.”

  “What kind of bullshit is that?” asked Captain Graves, his copilot, over the internal circuit.

  Before he could answer, his crew chief, Sergeant First Class Papovich, chimed in over the system. “Cover-your-ass bullshit. That’s what.”

  “D.C. does not want to lose one of these helicopters on Russian soil,” the major said.

  “I get that,” Sergeant First Class Papovich said, “but the two-kilometer standoff crap is pure political horseshit. If the Ruskies are in hot pursuit, they’ll never open the distance to two kilometers. I wonder if Blackjack is aware of this.”

  “I’m sure they are. These birds aren’t configured for a fight. Blackjack will slip quietly across the border, and we’ll extract them without incident. In and out, undetected. That’s what we do. That’s why they picked us,” the major said.

  “You don’t really believe this is going to be quiet, do you, sir?” Papovich asked.

  “Not really. We’ll work within my interpretation of the rules, as usual.”

  “Then I recommend some mental stretching while we wait, sir, because I get the distinct feeling that this mission is going to test the limits of your ability to interpret the ROE.”

  “You and me both,” the major replied.

  He raised his night vision goggles and stared out into the sheer darkness. A thin, dark blue line on the western horizon broke the black veil beyond the cockpit, but that was the extent of what his eyes could perceive. He wouldn’t be able to see the flurry of human activity around his helicopter for several minutes, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He sat there and contemplated Papovich’s words, wondering just how far he would have to push the limits of his rules of engagement tonight.

  Chapter 47

  10:38 PM

  State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology (VEKTOR)

  Koltsovo, Russian Federation

  Jared Hoffman (“Gosha”) pointed a suppressed semiautomatic pistol at Arkady Belyakov, contemplating the man’s fate. The scientist had given them absolutely no trouble since his handoff from the Solntsevskaya mafiya. In fact, he’d nearly tripped over himself to be helpful up to this point, offering practical advice about approaching the parking lot this late at night. He clearly had no idea that this was a one-way trip for him. Belyakov was on the short list of personnel Reznikov had identified as critical to the bioweapons program. The rest on the list had already been killed by the Solntsevskaya crew. Belyakov was still alive because of the biometric fingerprint scanner in Building Six.

  “You’re not Russian,” Belyakov said in decent English.

  “What makes you say that?” Gosha replied, in a seasoned Moscow accent.

  “Something,” Belyakov answered.

  Misha held up a fist from the driver’s seat, which was barely visible by the light cast from a distant street lamp.

  “Quiet time,” Gosha said.

  Misha listened for a few moments, then spoke into his headset in clear English. “Copy. We’re moving. Black Magic is at the FARP. We’re up,” he said to Gosha.

  “I knew this wasn’t an internal operation,” the scientist said. “Even the Russians wouldn’t use mafiya scum.”

  Gosha didn’t respond. The SUV lurched out of its hiding place in a shadowy corner of the parking lot adjacent to a darkened three-story apartment complex. The town of Koltsovo, on the outskirts of the Vektor complex, had shown few signs of life when they arrived forty-five minutes earlier, shortly after dusk. Koltsovo served mainly as a feeder community for the sprawling scientific facility and a few nearby industrial businesses, but contained few amenities like grocery stores or restaurants. Beyond nine o’clock in the evening, there was very little reason for anyone to be out on the streets, which suited their plan well.

  The facility’s lights appeared ahead of them, less than a kilometer down the access road leading from the edge of town. Misha used Belyakov’s security card to pass through the unmanned vehicle gate and proceeded to the empty parking lot in front of the Virology compound, choosing a space offset to the right of the main entrance. Once they were in place, Misha turned in his seat.

  “Dr. Belyakov. You and I are going inside—”

  “At 10:40 in the night? They will be highly suspicious. They’re probably watching us right now, calling for reinforcements,” Belyakov said.

  “No. They can’t see us here. This is a blind spot for their cameras. We’ll approach together. You in front, me in—”

  “This won’t work. Each person has to swipe a card to gain access to the building. If you try to step inside with me, they’ll trigger the alarm and my family will die,” Belyakov pleaded.

  “I have another card that will work. I just need to get inside without them setting off any alarms. Keep thinking about your family, Dr. Belyakov. If anything goes wrong, they die along with you.”

  “I understand,” Belyakov said.

  “All right,” Misha said. “Showtime.”

  “Lower all of the windows,” Gosha said.

  He wanted unrestricted fields of fire for the short period of time he would be stuck in the car. Once Misha and the scientist were on their way to the entrance, Gosha wrestled his primary weapon from a large duffle bag in the rear compartment and settled into the back seat of the SUV. He rested the suppressed AK-107U in his lap and actively scanned the lighted parking lot for any signs of activity. His orders were to engage and neutralize any security patrols that approached before Misha neutralized the main security station.

  ***

  Vasily Rusnak watched the two men dressed in civilian clothes approach the main entrance and huffed. He didn’t recognize either of the men, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d worked the overnight shift from the very beginning of his employment at Vektor nearly seven months ago. Nighttime entry to the Virology complex was rare, unless there was a national epidemic or pandemic emergency. They had been extremely busy in April, when rumors of some kind of epidemic in Monchegorsk had kept scientists and government officials running in and out of the building at all hours of the day. All of that had died down by now, leaving him to read books and sleep most of the night. He really hoped this wasn’t an emergency.

  His hope dwindled when the first card was swiped in the external lobby. He examined the picture that appeared on his security monitor above the man’s basic information. Arkady Belyakov. Senior Research Scientist. P4/A. The “A” stood for “all access,” which meant that he was important. Vasily quickly matched the face on the camera to the monitor.

  “Straighten up,” he said to the guard next to him, “This guy’s a senior scientist in Building Six. Might be the beginning of a long night.”

  “Shit. Not again,” the other guard said, finishing up a text and pressing send.

  The second card swiped eliminated any doubt that they would be in for a series of long nights. Pyotr Roskov. Research Scientist. P4.

  Rusnak sighed. “Another P4. We’re screwed.”

  “Should we give the team outside Building Six a heads-up?” the other guard asked, standing up to straighten out his uniform.

  “Not yet. Maybe one of them had some kind of brilliant flash of genius that they needed to work on right away. Who the fuck knows with these guys?” he said, taking a second look at Roskov’s digital photo.

  “This guy needs to update his security picture…” he started to say, before stopping in midsentence.

  It wasn’t the same man at all. He looked up from the monitor, catching three 9mm armor-piercing projectiles in the face. His body hadn’t begun to sway in its chair before his partner’s head absorbed a similar burst.

&nb
sp; ***

  Misha turned to Belyakov, keeping his suppressed PP2000 submachine gun trained on the door leading into the main facility from the security station. The senior scientist stared off into the middle distance, his face frozen in place by the unexpected act of violence. He snapped his fingers in front of Belyakov, breaking the trance.

  “Have a seat in the waiting area. One wrong move, and you end up like them. Go,” he said.

  While the scientist scurried to a small seating area to the right, he passed word to the rest of the team through the specialized communication system under his clothing. They had opted to use a modified throat microphone system, which sat lower on the neck than traditional systems and could be worn with a collared shirt or mock turtleneck. The earpiece was affixed to the inside of the ear with a natural resin that could be detached using the right chemicals, but would stay in place and function under water. Best of all, the entire system operated wirelessly, communicating with a transmitter/receiver that could be placed anywhere.

  This convenience eliminated the need to run wires through their clothing, which became problematic if they had to shed outfits. The CIA had express-mailed the gear to Viktor when it became apparent that the Solntsevskaya Bratva wasn’t familiar with the technology. Based on what Misha had seen, they didn’t seem to be big on technology at all. It was clear that they had outsourced the assembly of the computer network he had used in their warehouse. Nobody could answer a single question about it.

  Gosha arrived at the door, which he had jammed open with a small backpack. He carried a similar submachine gun under his brown leather jacket, the suppressor visible along his right thigh.

  “Can you bring that bag?” Misha said.

  Gosha removed the bag, and the door pneumatically hissed behind them. He tossed the backpack over the security counter to Misha, who had just kicked the dead guard out of the chair. He barely caught it, giving him a momentary scare.

  “Take it easy with this shit,” Misha said.