The Loyal Nine

by Steven Konkoly

  “How are we doing over there?” said Nomad.

  “The barge is moving swiftly upriver. Are you sure it can fit under the smaller bridge?” said Teresenko.

  “People a lot smarter than either of us did the math. The flat-deck barge will clear the smaller bridge by three feet at high tide. They should have five feet of clearance right now,” said Nomad.

  “I’m more concerned with side-to-side clearance. The bridge supports are tightly spaced,” said Teresenko.

  “The drone will be directly overhead for this. They have it under control,” said Nomad.

  “I hope so,” said Teresenko.

  Nomad mentally added for your sake to Teresenko’s comment. He held no illusions about the price of failure on this mission. Teresenko and the three snipers stood one radio command away from trying to kill him. For all Nomad knew, the order had already been issued. He was ready at a moment’s notice to fight his way out of here. Separate transportation had been arranged in the event of a double cross, and Skyfall carried two Hellfire missiles as an insurance policy.

  His satellite radio LED screen displayed a text message. 30 seconds TOT.

  “Thirty seconds until the lead Russian vehicle reaches the bridge. Get your people set,” said Nomad.

  Teresenko warned the various commanders scattered among the buildings lining the northern and eastern edges of the Azovstal facility. From their concealed positions in the structures, they would launch a coordinated attack against the Russians travelling the M14 highway. Most importantly, a small team of Azov Battalion commandos would detonate an explosives-packed train car positioned underneath the M14 overpass at the very northeast corner of the industrial compound. The destruction of the overpass would effectively trap the vehicles traversing the three-kilometer stretch of highway running parallel to the steelworks factory and prevent reinforcements from directly supporting their beleaguered comrades.

  “Fifteen seconds,” said Nomad, watching the lead vehicle pass due north of their tower.

  The sound of automatic small-arms fire broke Nomad’s concentration on the barge passing under the smaller of the two side-by-side bridges crossing the Kalmius River. On the far side of the bridge, men dressed in loyalist paramilitary garb fired at the barge as it vanished under the bridge. They quickly scrambled to the other side, emptying their magazines into the metal beast lumbering through the water. The bullets had no effect on the steel contraption, sparking and ricocheting into the water and concrete bridge struts. A nearby rifle report competed with the automatic fire, one of the snipers attempting a fifteen-hundred-foot shot from the platform below him. Nomad focused on the group of loyalists, catching the bullet’s impact. One of the militia dropped into the river, disappearing behind the unmovable barge. Nomad held his breath as the rest of the barge emerged, headed straight for the second bridge less than a hundred feet upriver.

  They needed the smaller, local-traffic bridge to remain intact for Biletsky’s triumphant return to Mariupol. Reports of the battalion’s withdrawal to Odessa had been accurate in all aspects but one. Soon after the battalion’s arrival in the port city, a dozen Ukrainian-built BTR-94 armored vehicles had been secretly loaded onto a merchant vessel destined to return to Mariupol. Offloaded under the cover of darkness at the Azovstal Iron and Steel Works shipping terminal, they joined Billetsky’s recently arrived shock troops.

  Four hundred ultranationalist militia soldiers, backed by armored personnel carriers, stood poised to retake Mariupol. Only one thing stood in their way—an unsuspecting Russian battalion. Another militia soldier dropped from sniper fire as the top of the lead Russian vehicle came into view at the bottom of his binoculars’ field of vision.

  “Lead vehicle has crossed the eastern edge of the bridge,” said Nomad, squinting in anticipation of the blast.

  The first BTR-82, a long, eight-wheeled armored vehicle, continued one-third of the way across a flat bridge before stopping, the vehicle commander’s attention obviously drawn to the loyalist militia running toward his column from the western side. The barge passed under the center span as a military-style jeep screeched to a stop along the riverbank between the two bridges, its gunner firing a roof-mounted heavy machine gun toward the water.

  “Blow the fucking bridge already,” whispered Nomad, watching the vehicle commander duck into the vehicle and close the hatch next to the driver’s station.

  “What’s happening?” said Teresenko, his voice rising. “Why isn’t that bridge fucking gone?”

  Before he could answer, the view through his binoculars disappeared, followed by a shockwave that rattled the platform.

  “Stay down,” said Nomad, pressing his body flat against the grated steel under him.

  A few seconds later, projectiles peppered the tower, sounding a cacophony of dissimilar metallic impacts. When the last of the zinging sounds whipped past them, Nomad risked a look at the bridge. Large pieces of metal and concrete rained down on both banks of the river, shredding trees and light fixtures lining the roads connected to the bridge. A geyser of water came down with it, obscuring most of his view of the span, but there was little doubt that the bridge was gone—along with four BTR-82s. A quick glance confirmed that the second bridge remained intact, though he had no intention of testing its structural integrity himself.

  A series of smaller explosions drew his attention north, toward the rest of the Russian armor column. Without the help of binoculars, he saw at least three vehicles tumbling through the air, victims of powerful improvised explosive devices (IEDs) planted last night by Biletsky’s soldiers. To the distant north, a rising column of smoke signified the likely destruction of the railway overpass. The bulk of 1st Battalion, 35th Separate Motorized Rifle Brigade was trapped on an exposed section of the M14 highway, sandwiched between Biletsky’s forces and the Kalmius River.

  A fierce gun battle erupted on the near side of the destroyed bridge as Azov Battalion vehicles engaged the confused Russians with their BTR-94s’ twin 23mm cannons, ripping through the thin turret and hull armor. A volley of smoke trails left the buildings below, thrusting rocket-propelled grenades toward the surviving BTR-80s, punching holes through the scrambling vehicles. Another series of explosions rocked the main stretch of highway beyond them, catapulting more vehicles into the air.

  “The ground attack is underway,” said Teresenko.

  No shit. Now for the moment of truth.

  “Time for me to say goodbye,” said Nomad. “I have a plane to catch out of Volgograd International.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have any luck crossing the Russian border, my friend. Not after this,” said Teresenko.

  “Who said anything about a road?” said Nomad, nodding at the wide channel next to the mouth of the Kalmius River.

  The white plume of a fast-moving boat entered the channel, which abutted a series of massive piers used to supply the blast furnaces with raw materials directly from shipping vessels.

  “Sneaky devil. Good luck to you, Amerykans’kyy,” said Teresenko.

  “Amerykans’kyy? I didn’t see any Americans here,” said Nomad, as the tempo of fighting rose to a crescendo along the highway.

  Chapter 9

  December 16, 2015

  Mariupol, Ukraine

  A sharp pain creased Lieutenant Miroslav Lazarev’s right arm, causing him to reflexively drop the wooden flagpole he’d held propped against the vehicle’s hull. The blood-spackled flag momentarily draped across the open hatch in front of him before it slipped down the side of the BTR-82’s armor, pulled to the pavement by the weight of the pole. The sound of distant small-arms fire reached him, jerking his attention to the bridge. A snap passed in front of his face, barely drawing his attention away from the mayhem unfolding more than a kilometer away.

  A massive concussion rippled through the vehicles in front of him, immediately knocking him against the BTR’s remote-controlled turret. The armored personnel carrier screeched to a halt on the road, flinging him forward against
the lip of the metal hatch. The lieutenant’s body-armor kit absorbed most of the impact against his chest, dropping him into the vehicle as metallic chunks pinged off the frontal armor.

  “You’re hit, sir,” said the driver, leaning over to pull the lieutenant’s hatch shut.

  Lazarev touched the bloodied rip in his camouflage-patterned, heavy-weather jacket.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, listening to the discordance of panicked voices squawking on the company command frequency.

  “None of this makes any sense,” said Lazarev, straightening his helmet before peering through the small ballistic-glass windshield.

  Pieces of the bridge fell in the river, chasing a wall of water that raced up the Kalmius, swamping the tree-lined field between the riverbank and the highway. That was a big fucking blast. Ukrainian attack aircraft? The battalion’s arrival in Mariupol was supposed to be unopposed.

  “Shut your blast screen, sir,” said the driver, pulling a latch that slammed a heavy metal shutter down over the ballistic glass in front of the driver’s seat.

  Without thinking, Lazarev did the same, catapulting the front compartment into darkness. He pulled the rotating viewport down and leaned into the binocular-style eyepiece, hoping to make some sense of the bridge’s destruction. With the cold metal pressed against his cheekbones, he searched for signs of the bridge, finding nothing but jagged concrete and twisted metal where M14 once crossed the river.

  “I hope we didn’t have any vehicles on the bridge. It’s gone,” said Lazarev, not sure if the battalion commander had reached the first span when the explosion occurred.

  “What’s gone?” said the driver, hunched forward to peer through the semicircle of fixed viewports.

  “The bridge!” said Lazarev, twisting in his seat to switch the radio to the battalion command frequency.

  Confusion reigned on the battalion net, with multiple stations trying to contact the battalion commander. Lazarev raised his handset and gave it a try.

  “Liberator, this is Liberator Three One. Over.” No response.

  He wasn’t sure if his request had transmitted over the net. Too many voices competed over the single frequency.

  “Everyone has lost their shit—and we have zero situational awareness,” said Lazarev, kneeling on his seat and raising the commander’s hatch.

  “That’s not a good idea, sir!” protested the driver.

  Lazarev raised his helmet-protected head far enough to see beyond the lip of the hatch.

  “There’s nothing going on out—”

  The BTR-80 directly ahead of them disappeared in a blast of dirt, smoke and asphalt—emerging moments later in a midair spiral toward the riverbank. Dust and fragments pelted the front of Lazarev’s vehicle as the young lieutenant dropped into his seat.

  “Get us out of here!” screamed Lazarev.

  The vehicle lurched forward and turned left, stopping a few seconds later.

  “We don’t have anywhere to go!” yelled his driver.

  “Hold on!” said Lazarev, poking his head through the hatch against his better judgment.

  Bullets ricocheted off the turret and hull of his vehicle while he scanned the road ahead. Several vehicles lay shattered on both sides of the road, their hulls pouring thick black smoke. To his left, Lazarev spotted muzzle flashes in the upper floors of the rusty, four-story industrial buildings.

  “Gunner!” he screamed into the hatch. “Targets bearing left. Upper levels of the buildings. Engage!”

  As the turret traversed to find the targets in the buildings, two smoke trails launched from the ground floor of the building closest to the bridge, arcing skyward after clearing the windows. For a brief moment, the lieutenant didn’t understand what he’d witnessed, until the missiles reached the zenith of their flight paths a few hundred feet above the buildings—and dove into the vehicles on the highway. Only one type of guided antitank missile on the world market conducted a top-down attack—the FGM-148 Javelin, an American missile.

  Consecutive explosions gutted two BTRs a quarter of a kilometer down the road, showering the highway with smoking metal debris and burning fuel. Several smoke trails appeared simultaneously from the buildings running parallel to M14, leaping skyward to gain altitude. Any one of the missiles could be targeting his vehicle’s infrared signature. Once again, his training kicked in. He pressed the transmit button for the intravehicle communications net linked to his helmet.

  “Smoke screen! Smoke screen! Missiles inbound,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the arcing Javelins.

  Just above his head, the turret’s three starboard-side 81mm smoke grenade launchers fired a spread of grenades that exploded in midair twenty meters from the vehicle. Combined with the three grenades fired from the other side of the turret, they created an instantaneous, infrared-opaque smoke screen that rapidly drifted over the vehicle. As the noxious cloud enveloped him, the Javelins reached their targets—Liberator Three One was not one of them.

  The turret’s 30mm gun fired a short salvo through the thinning smoke, its high-explosive rounds tearing chunks out of the concrete next to one of the windows used to launch the missiles. Lazarev wasn’t sure what to do next. The grenades fired by the “Tucha” 902V system generated a chemical cloud capable of obscuring the infrared seeker used by the Javelin missile—but the smoke would clear his vehicle in several seconds.

  “Turn hard right and get us into the trees next to the river. We’re going back the way we came,” he said, feeling the fifteen-ton vehicle respond.

  “We’re too heavy for the riverbank!” said the driver.

  “This thing is amphibious! Just get me into the trees. We’ll run parallel to the highway with a little natural cover,” said Lazarev, bracing himself as the vehicle trampled the guardrail.

  Tracers and rocket-propelled grenades followed them into the sparse row of trees, exploding branches and kicking up the grayish-brown river water beyond the eastern bank. The 30mm turret continued to fire during the maneuver, the remote gunner seated behind him doing his best to keep the gun engaged against targets of opportunity. When they reached the trees, the vehicle turned sharply northeast, putting the thinly spaced tree trunks between the incoming fire and their half-inch-thick armor.

  Smoke screens floated off the highway, passing through the trees ahead of them, as more of the battalion’s vehicle commanders came to their senses. A quick glance at the road revealed five burning vehicles in his company of twelve, including the company commander’s vehicle, which had been flung into the air like a toy right in front of him. Before he finished the mental count, a retreating BTR exploded in flames; its rear wheels lifted several feet off the ground before bouncing against the frozen dirt next to the highway.

  “Enemy vehicles crossing the rail yard, bearing two o’clock. Engaging,” said the gunner through his headset.

  “How many vehicles?” said Lazarev, peering through the smoke.

  “Two Ukrainian 94s. Where the fuck did they come from?” said the gunner.

  Lazarev didn’t have an answer for the sergeant. They had been assured safe passage by the Ukrainian government and the psychotic ultranationalists operating in the region. Obviously the cease-fire was bullshit.

  The 30mm automatic cannon fired as they navigated the trees, its outbound projectiles shredding the barren trunks in a desperate attempt to reach the approaching BTR-94s first. Despite the fact that the 30mm cannon packed a more effective punch than the BTR-94s’ twin 23mm cannons, caliber effectiveness played little role at this range. Both calibers would tear right through each other’s thin armor, and the twin 23mm cannons could fire twice as many projectiles in the same time as Lazarev’s gun. Sergeant Bilikov’s skill as a gunner would decide their immediate fate.

  Lazarev spotted the first Ukrainian vehicle as one of Bilikov’s salvos connected with its turret. Sparks and metal pieces erupted, followed by a premature detonation of a turret-mounted smoke grenade. Mission kill. One more to go.

  Multip
le supersonic cracks passed overhead, forcing Lazarev to duck inside the vehicle. He turned in his seat to address the gunner when jagged holes punctured the far right side of the vehicle’s hull—shearing limbs and exploding body-armor-encased torsos. Blood sprayed the tight compartment, covering the hull with a thick layer of crimson gore. A second burst of 23mm projectiles struck just behind the gunner’s station, dismembering a young soldier firing his AK-74 through the forwardmost gun port. A few explosive rounds struck the turret’s hydraulic mechanism, adding a fine mist of hydraulic fluid to the panicked interior.

  Lazarev pulled the shell-shocked gunner forward, anticipating another burst of 23mm cannon fire from the Ukrainians. The vehicle jolted and swerved for a few seconds, without taking more hits. Frantic moans filled the armored personnel carrier as the wounded survivors recovered from the initial shock of the attack. There was nothing he could do for them right now, besides get Liberator Three One to safety. He pushed the gunner back into his seat and squeezed next to him.

  “Is the turret down?” said Lazarev.

  The gunner gripped the controls and checked the digital targeting display, which appeared undamaged. When he tried to move the turret with the thumb switch, the hydraulic spray intensified, and the turret gears failed to turn.

  “Down hard, sir!” said the gunner.

  “Fuck!” said Lazarev, returning to the commander’s seat. They were out of the fight.

  He stuck his head out of the hatch and scanned for the Ukrainian BTR, finding it in flames on the highway between two of the battalion’s burning vehicles. Someone had saved them. But who? He didn’t see many surviving Russian BTRs. A quick count through the trees accounted for ten of his company’s vehicles; all destroyed. He needed to get them out of here. They were easy targets, even in the trees. He quickly assessed his options, coming to a grim realization. They had one option left, and it wasn’t a good one.