The Loyal Nine

by Steven Konkoly

  “Hard left. We’re crossing the river,” said Lazarev, pulling his hatch shut.

  “What? We’re full of holes, sir?” said the driver.

  Lazarev twisted the small wheel above his head, tightening the hatch’s seal.

  “Just do it,” said Lazarev, pressing the transmit switch. “Button up! We’re going into the water!”

  Bodies scrambled behind him, preparing the BTR for an unsure venture into the freezing waters of the Kalmius River. Lazarev examined the compartment, noting the location of the holes. Most of them would take water since the BTR rode extremely low in the water. All he could do was hope they didn’t take on enough water to capsize.

  “Submerging!” said the driver, moments before Lazarev was thrown against the metal dashboard.

  He felt a sudden drop when the BTR sank below the surface of the Kalmius. A bobbing motion quickly replaced the sensation as the vehicle settled on the surface and the rear-mounted propellers pushed them forward through the water. He said a small prayer for the engine, hoping that it didn’t choke on the backflow of water entering the topside exhaust vents.

  “We’re leaking!” screamed one of the soldiers behind him.

  Lazarev took a quick look, grimly noting several steady streams of water shooting across the compartment.

  “Sergeant, get back there and help them jam something in the holes. Anything!” he said, turning to the driver. “How fast are we going?”

  “Eight kilometers per hour. I think we’re fighting the current,” said the driver.

  The soldier was probably right. In addition to the bobbing motion, he felt the vehicle yaw left and right as the water rushed by. He didn’t remember if the river was ebbing or flowing, but he hoped it was flooding. He didn’t want to be pushed anywhere near the demolished bridge.

  Lazarev opened his hatch and checked on their progress. The vehicle drifted upriver, which meant it was a flood tide. Good news, even though it could take them more than a minute to ford the two-hundred-foot distance between riverbanks. Assuming they didn’t sink.

  He lifted himself out of the vehicle, taking a seat on the hatch’s lip. From his vantage point, he searched the trees for surviving BTRs. A smoke trail caught his attention, flying erratically over the barren trees and slamming into the water less than five meters from the left side of the vehicle. A cold spray blanketed the front of the BTR, dousing him with freezing water. Someone had fired one of the Javelins in direct-attack mode, which meant they couldn’t lock onto the vehicle’s mostly submerged infrared signature.

  Unguided rocket munitions poured out of the tree line, skipping off the water or detonating harmlessly under the surface. Lazarev checked again for Russian vehicles before shutting the hatch and sealing it. The river’s waterline had risen significantly against the BTR’s armor in the short period of time he’d been topside. He pushed the latch to open the front windshield’s blast screen, noting that a thin line of water covered the very bottom of the window. His driver glanced through the window, sharing a doubtful look.

  “It’s going to be close,” said Lazarev.

  “And wet,” added the driver. “Very wet.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said the lieutenant.

  They looked into the rear compartment at the same time, and Lazarev grimaced. Six inches of water sloshed around on the metal deck.

  “Get us to the other side. I don’t care if we lodge into the side like a torpedo. Tell me when the water is over the windshield,” said Lazarev.

  “Yes, sir,” said his driver.

  Lazarev planned to open at least one of the top hatches when the water climbed over the window, hoping to expedite the full flooding of the compartment. The concept went against all conventional logic, but the BTR’s hull was airtight when it wasn’t full of 23mm holes. Submerged with the hatches sealed, they wouldn’t be able to force the hatches open until water from the holes filled the compartment, equalizing the pressure. By that time, they’d be at the bottom of the Kalmius. He needed to get them as close as possible to the opposite side of the river before abandoning the BTR.

  He spent the next thirty seconds helping his soldiers plug the holes with wooden plugs supplied from the vehicle’s flooding kit. They sliced their hands on the jagged holes, struggling futilely to block the relentless flow of frigid water. Crouching in the rising bloodstained pool, Lazarev floated a headless body toward the front of the vehicle.

  “Lieutenant, the water’s over the window!” said his driver.

  He nodded at the driver before turning to the infantry sergeant next to him.

  “Tell your men to remove their body armor and helmets. We might have to swim ashore,” said Lazarev.

  The sergeant stared at him for a second before barking orders. Within moments, the five surviving soldiers started to rip the Velcro latches securing their body armor. Lazarev opened the centermost hatch, peering outside. They were less than sixty feet from the western bank, drifting rapidly upriver. He felt hopeful until he saw a thin film of water break over the top of the hull. We aren’t going to make it. They’d submerge too far from the river’s edge.

  “Sergeant, get your men topside! We’ll ride this thing as far as it takes us, then swim the rest of the way,” he said, wading through the water to get to his driver.

  “Dmitry,” said Lazarev, “open your hatch and gun the engine for the western shore. We’re going topside. I’ll pull you up when it’s time to jump.”

  “No. I can’t swim,” said the driver.

  “Dmitry, I’ll swim your ass to shore. Point this bitch west and gun it. I’ll be right back,” said Lazarev, returning to the rear compartment area.

  After he pushed the last soldier through the hatch, he scanned the interior for any wounded soldiers that could be moved—finding nothing but partially submerged bodies. Water poured over his head, warning him that it was time to go. Lazarev squeezed through the hatch as a one-foot wave of water washed over the BTR. The muddy water rushed through the opening, creating a hissing vortex of water over the hatch.

  He climbed over the turret, splashing to the deck next to the driver’s hatch. Already submerged below the waterline, water poured violently through the oval hole, obscuring the driver’s head. Lazarev dropped to his knees and reached both hands into the vehicle, grabbing his driver by his tactical vest. Coughing and spitting, Corporal Dmitry Kaparov surfaced from the whirlpool, squinting in the bright light. The lieutenant quickly removed Kaparov’s tactical vest, discarding the heavy body armor over the side of the vehicle. By the time he finished, the water tugged at their thighs, as the driverless vehicle lost its direction and turned with the current. Time to go.

  When Lazarev hit the water, clutching his driver, the cold knocked his breath away like a gut punch. He submerged two feet below the surface, momentarily wondering if it was worth the effort to kick for the surface. The excruciating cold squeezed his exposed head and hands in a painful embrace, adding to the hesitation. Kaparov’s muffled underwater screams brought him back from the dead, and he started frog kicking. He broke the surface seconds later, taking a frozen breath before pulling for the shore. The sinking BTR scraped against them, headed wherever the tidal flow commanded it. Lazarev and his men were at the mercy of the river—and his weakening limbs.

  Lazarev’s feet scraped the riverbed after a momentous fight to keep Kaparov from drowning. Several times during the thirty-foot swim, he considered releasing him to the Kalmius River. Each time he cursed himself for the thought and pulled harder. When his feet found solid purchase under the water, he lurched toward the brown shoreline, dragging Kaparov until he could stand in the river. A quick count of his men confirmed that everyone had made it ashore. Six soldiers, including him. Five swallowed by the river.

  On shore, a few of the soldiers gasped for air, shaking uncontrollably from the swim in the icy water.

  “Keep moving,” uttered Lazarev. “They can still range us.”

  The soldiers, on the verge of hypothermia, h
esitated for a few seconds—until bullets started to kick up dirt and water along the shoreline. The disheveled and exhausted group clumsily shuffled into the nearby tree line, lying flat behind thick tree trunks. Lazarev examined the far side of the river, disgusted by what he saw. A Ukrainian armored personnel carrier, trailed by militia fighters, drove up to a squad of Russians huddled near the riverbank—firing point blank into them with its 23mm cannons. Similar atrocities occurred up and down the eastern shore, as the last of the surviving Russians were corralled and murdered while trying to surrender.

  Lieutenant Lazarev’s anger grew until he started muttering. He had no idea what he was saying until Kaparov patted him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Division will turn this whole place into a smoldering ruin by tomorrow.”

  “I hope so, Kaparov. I truly hope so,” said Lazarev. “These Ukrainians can’t be trusted. I hope Division destroys the whole place.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter 10

  January 5, 2016

  100 Beacon Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge stretched his chest on the way out of the bedroom, leaning into the doorway while grasping the doorframe with both arms. He’d pushed it a little too hard at the gym, but physical conditioning was important to him, and he never felt satisfied without adding more to each workout. He glanced through the spacious windows running the length of his residence, catching a glimpse of the snow-covered Charles River. The sidewalks lining Storrow Drive looked equally blanketed by the latest blizzard’s fury. Running is not an option today. I have enough on my plate anyway.

  Satisfied with his assessment of the outside conditions, Sarge visited his favorite coffee shop, the Keurig K-cup machine, for a freshly brewed Gevalia mocha latte. Sipping the frothy goodness, he turned to survey his loft. The apartment measured nearly 4,000 square feet, divided into two bedrooms, two and a half baths, his study and a 2,400-square-foot great room dubbed “The Great Hall Overlooking the River Charles.” Sarge’s residence on the top floor of the prestigious 100 Beacon address was opulent, one of the perks that came with the position of power and leadership bestowed upon him by his benefactors.

  As part of his daily routine, Sarge closely monitored the news. Getting a true picture of world events required monitoring several news networks at once. Each mainstream media source had an agenda, delivering tailored news content to those who patronized their advertisers, leaving bits and pieces of the real story to be reassembled. Sarge picked up his tablet and opened the uRule app. Centered in the room was a two-story, fourteen-foot-wide fireplace surrounded by six wall-mounted televisions—a decorator’s nightmare.

  One by one, Sarge powered up the fifty-five-inch LG flat-screens, featuring talking heads from CNN, Bloomberg, FoxNews, BBC, CNBC and Al Jazeera. MSNBC used to be included in this group, until its format was changed to all sports following the consistent decline in its news ratings. Sarge was fascinated at what news stories took precedent across the political spectrum of the various networks. FoxNews might spend a considerable amount of time on the latest administration scandal, which was barely mentioned on the other five networks. CNN might cover the latest scandal of a congressman with his hands caught in the cookie jar, but the story was barely given a mention on FoxNews because it involved a Republican. The news Sarge received from BBC and Al Jazeera always piqued his interest, because these networks focused on other parts of the world.

  He smiled. In the news business, there was an old saying—if it bleeds, it leads. At least they still had one thing in common, he mused. Images from Ukraine continued to dominate the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Sarge unmuted the BBC television to listen to News at One anchor Matthew Amroliwala report the latest from the war-torn region.

  “Fighting has intensified today between pro-Russian rebels and Ukrainian government forces in the strategic town of Volnovakha in Donetsk Oblast. This small town of twenty-four thousand is of particular significance because it serves as the capital of the Volnovakha District of Donetsk Oblast, and is a key transportation hub. If the pro-Russian separatists take control of the area, the town of Mariupol to the south will be cut off from Ukrainian reinforcements deploying out of Donetsk. The Russian stronghold in the east of Ukraine will be too much for the Ukrainian government to overcome, and Russian forces will advance unimpeded to their ultimate goal of the Crimean Peninsula.”

  Images of elderly Ukrainian civilians wandering through the streets of Volnovakha flashed across the screen, followed by a Reuters-supplied video of pro-Russian rebels launching short-range surface-to-air missiles from their 9K35 vehicle launch system. Jane Hill, Amroliwala’s co-anchor, broke in with a question.

  “Matthew, what prompted the flare-up in Ukraine after a negotiated cease-fire had been reached such a short time ago? It appears hostilities have been taken to a new level,” said Hill.

  “Jane, eastern Ukraine has returned to a full-scale conflict, and now the façade of Russia’s lack of state-sponsored intervention is completely removed. Ukraine and the separatists agreed upon a cease-fire, the latest of many, but it never held entirely. Both sides used the lull to rebuild and resupply their forces.

  “During the weeks following the cease-fire agreement, President Putin worked behind the scenes to secure a land route from Russia to Crimea. NATO and its members seemed to acquiesce to the route, allowing humanitarian aid to the Crimean people,” said Amroliwala.

  The BBC then flashed images of the destroyed bridge crossing the Kalmius River and numerous Russian BTR-82 armored personnel carriers smoldering along Highway M14 leading into Mariupol. Hill reported on the imagery.

  “Matthew, for the benefit of our viewers, we are providing images of the destruction wrought upon the Russian battalion on December 16 as they entered Mariupol. This attack caught the Russian Army off guard, to be sure,” said Hill.

  “It certainly did. The Russian battalion came under an unexpected, seemingly unprovoked attack by Ukrainian ultranationalists, who were clearly well-trained and armed with advanced weaponry. The Russian ambassador to the United Nations immediately cried foul and produced evidence that American-made Javelin missiles were an integral part of the attack. The ambassador further asserted the Ukrainian government conspired with the United States to deceive Russia, allowing for the ambush of their convoy of humanitarian aid to Crimea. As a result of these events in Mariupol, President Putin considers Russia to be formally at war with Ukraine. The question becomes—what will NATO do, if anything?” asked Amroliwala rhetorically.

  Indeed. The United States and its NATO allies conceded the land bridge to Putin, as a form of appeasement, obviously under the impression that a permanent cease-fire might result. The surprise attack on the Russian forces in Mariupol made little sense to Sarge. It reeked of CIA—and his “friends”—involvement.

  He turned his attention to all of the networks and hit the pause buttons. Al Jazeera proudly displayed another ISIS-related video. BBC conveyed images of the Ukraine war. Bloomberg and CNBC covered the continued sell-offs in the global equity markets—down fifteen percent in the last two weeks. CNN reported on its favorite topic—racial injustice in America and the Black Lives Matter movement. Finally, FoxNews covered, in depth, the trauma suffered by American children resulting from the new low-calorie school lunch programs. My fellow Americans, do you realize how fragile our way of life really is? Sarge, staring intently at his six wall-mounted televisions, took another sip of his latte. He pondered this question until the sound of his K-cup machine roaring to life once again snapped him back to reality.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” said Sarge, turning to the kitchen.

  “Damn straight,” replied Steven.

  His brother, Steven, stood shirtless in front of the coffee maker, with his back to Sarge, waiting on a cup of his patented motor oil. Folger’s dark roast, on the strongest setting—times two per cup. Simple, but effective. He couldn’t help notice Steven’s chiseled figure. The two bro
thers were similar in many ways, both staying in peak physical shape, but his brother took it to the next level. He didn’t really have a choice. His life frequently depended on it. Sarge understood one day his might as well, but there was a difference between understanding and knowing. Steven’s body differed from Sarge’s in more than one way—it had seen battle. Toned, tanned and covered in scars, Steven had skirted death and endured torture time and time again, always emerging victorious. He once bragged his seven quarts of blood had been recycled several times. Sarge worried about his brother, but knew a life of complacency would be the death of him. The world was a dangerous place, and Steven was the guy Sarge always wanted by his side. Apparently, his brother was the guy everyone wanted by his side, which explained his string of “absences.”

  “So, I gather you enjoyed your belated Christmas gift?” asked Sarge.

  His brother turned his head and smiled.

  “Fuckin’ A! Be sure to thank Santa for me,” exclaimed Steven.

  On cue, a leggy blonde emerged from the guest room, wearing nothing but one of Steven’s long-sleeve shirts. As she stood on her toes and reached around Steven’s waist to give him a kiss, Sarge caught a glimpse of what she revealed underneath the shirt. Fuckin’ A is right.

  “I need coffee,” said another woman, a well-endowed brunette strolling out of Steven’s lair, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Double D Fuckin’ A. The girls giggled as they tried to operate the Keurig.

  “Where did you find these two frog hogs?” asked Steven, using the slang terminology for Navy SEAL groupies.

  He took a sip of motor oil and admired his conquests.

  “They are on retainer by our friends,” replied Sarge, nodding toward the east and downtown Boston. “After your latest vacation, I thought you needed something to get the blood flowin’.”