Battlefield 3: The Russian

by Andy McNab

  They started to run towards the convoy as one of the Humvee gunners keeled over. Brady pointed up at where it came from.

  ‘Suppressive fire. Now!’

  Montes, Matkovic and Campo fired into the building. The blockage was cleared. Brady was back on the radio to Cole.

  ‘Misfit 2 this is Haymaker actual, I need back up here right now, over.’

  They heard Cole’s reply on their headsets.

  ‘They’re yours, over.’

  Brady pointed at Black.

  ‘You, you’re riding shotgun with me. Climb aboard soldier. Next stop Ministry of the Interior. Let’s go get a piece of Bashir.’ Brady heaved himself behind the wheel, Blackburn beside him. ‘This is Haymaker actual, we’re Oscar Mike to the Ministry, out.’

  ‘Haymaker actual this is Misfit actual, Eagle eye reports personnel running in and out of building. HVT must be secured, repeat secure, copy?’

  ‘Roger, good copy. Out.’

  Brady grinned at Black.

  ‘Let’s go fetch.’

  They rolled past another set of PLR bullhorns, still blasting Al Bashir’s message. Brady swerved into them and laughed maniacally as they were flattened under the Humvee’s wheels. Then, without warning, a car appeared right in their path where the road narrowed. Brady flattened the brakes.

  ‘Ambush! Back up! Back up!’ An RPG whistled over them followed by fresh gunfire. ‘Everyone fall back!’

  The convoy shuddered to a halt. Brady’s turret gunner poured fire into the car and it erupted in flames, but the bullets were still coming from a window above. Precious seconds went by as each vehicle engaged reverse, while fire rained down on them, dust filling the air as tracer rounds ricocheted into the sky. The turret gunner screamed and slumped to one side, his face gone. Brady grabbed Blackburn by the shoulder.

  ‘Get up there! Make it count, Sergeant.’

  The dead man collapsed on to the seat behind Brady as Blackburn took his place and the Humvee roared backwards.

  Brady was shouting into the radio again. ‘Misfit actual this is Haymaker. Encountering heavy enemy fire. Proceeding to target location.’

  ‘Haymaker actual. Secure ground level. Alert for HVT. Birdseye 2 is three miles away, over.’

  They cleared the fire area. Brady yelled up at Black.

  ‘Good work, soldier. Let’s go cut this snake off at the head.’

  The Humvee surged forward down a parallel street to the one they had just vacated. Ahead, smoke billowed from a tall building, a massive crater in its side as if it had been hit by a plane. An Osprey swooped in and hovered above, the rotors’ wash blasting smoke around the building. Blackburn saw the rear hatch open and two gunmen take up position.

  ‘Birdseye 2 on station. Package fast roping in, over.’

  The men spilled out down the ropes on to the roof of the smoking Ministry. Brady slewed the Humvee to a halt and was out before it stopped. Blackburn looked round for Montes and Matkovic, saw them and pointed at some cover behind a stranded bus, but the guns round the building had fallen silent.

  Black waved them towards the entrance.

  ‘We’re with you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Okay you guys: watch for friendlies as you clear.’

  Most of the personnel had either fled or taken cover. The lobby was awash with broken glass and abandoned files and boxes. An attempt to evacuate had failed as the occupants simply ran for their lives. Loose paper floated in the air, whipped up by the downforce of the Osprey. Above they could hear the shouts of the men who had roped down, clearing rooms and floors as they went.

  ‘We have a runner on the stairs.’

  Black rushed forward as a figure exited a stairwell, hesitated and then turned away from them. Brady, distracted, missed the moment.

  ‘Take him, take him.’

  Black threw himself at the man and collapsed on top of him, winding him. A binder shot out of his hands and skidded along the floor. Brady, right behind, thrust the muzzle of his M4 into the Iranian’s ear.

  ‘Let me at him.’ Brady pushed a boot against the man’s shoulder, treading on his insignia. ‘Colonel: good. Prepare to die, Colonel. Your war just ended.’

  Black turned the Colonel’s head to face Brady. For a second he thought Brady was going to let him have it point blank and got ready to jump clear. But Brady had a better idea. He scooped up the file and calmly started leafing through it as he crouched down beside the Iranian.

  ‘Where did you think you were headed just now, Sir? Not many places left to go out there.’

  The breath hissed between the Colonel’s teeth as Blackburn pressed down on his head.

  ‘. . Pigs, bastards. .’

  Brady kept his tone nonchalant.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s us all over. You want to die now or co-operate and take us to your leader?’

  ‘You attack our defenceless people—.’

  Brady slammed the file down on the Colonel’s head and screamed:

  ‘Time’s up, Colonel! Where’s Bashir?’

  ‘Okay; okay. Not here.’

  ‘Where then?’

  25

  Niavaran, Northeast Tehran

  They had spotted the US ground forces from their position in the hills, so Dima’s team made their descent into Tehran from the northeast, down the Lashakark Road, which led straight to the Police Park. The streets were littered with rubble and tiles. Some had been blocked altogether by fallen buildings. Every Rakhsh APC the Iranian Army owned seemed to be on the streets, each one wearing hastily-applied PLR markings.

  ‘I finally figured out what’s different.’

  ‘Apart from devastation and insurrection?’

  ‘No traffic. Used to be the world capital of traffic jams. A man once died at the wheel of his car. No one realised for two hours.’

  The city was now almost empty. Those the earthquake had failed to scare away had been prised from their homes by the bombardment. In the main shopping streets, looters had tried taking advantage of the chaos: pavements were littered with TVs, dishwashers and other goods, pulled out in triumph and then abandoned, for lack of means to transport them. The Peykans were such an effective disguise they proved to be a magnet for desperate stragglers hunting for transport. They kept their AKs prominently displayed to discourage car-jackers as they made their way to Amara.

  Kroll radioed from the second car.

  ‘The tracker. It’s working! I’m a genius.’

  ‘Okay genius. Get us a grid reference.’

  ‘I’m working on it right now.’

  As they closed in on Amara’s street, the air filled with the sound of AA fire, followed by the shriek and thud of a massive shell.

  ‘Great. Uncle Sam is homing in. Let’s get this done.’

  Kroll radioed again.

  ‘Okay, I’m getting a signal in Central Tehran.’

  ‘That’s nice and specific. How about a street or a building?’

  ‘There’s a lot of interference: that’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Then it’s all down to Amara and the charming Gazul.’

  The house was surrounded by gardens and a high wall, but the street gates were wide open. Shutters and security grilles protected the windows. Gregorin and Vladimir made a full circuit of the perimeter wall and reported the area quiet. Dima called Amara again.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes, please hurry!’

  ‘Come to the door and let us in.’

  ‘How do you know you can trust her?’ hissed Vladimir, as they approached the door.

  ‘I don’t.’

  At what precise moment Dima realised his mistake, he couldn’t remember. He believed he could trust Darwish, but at a time of chaos allegiances can change by the hour. He could have set them up. Amara could have lost her nerve, aroused her husband’s suspicion or even tipped him off. If he was honest, he knew it was high risk to the point of madness, but so was trying to find a bomb in a quake-damaged city under siege.

  They stopped about
five metres from the door. It opened a crack, and then wider. Dima gestured to the others to wait until he could see Amara clearly. She was shaking and tearful, which was to be expected, but otherwise she didn’t move. He looked at her, trying to work out what was wrong. She just stood there, clutching the edge of the door for support. Then after a few seconds she beckoned him forward. The light inside the entrance hall was coming from the right and it was the movement of the shadow she was standing in that made his mind up for him.

  Without raising it from his hip, he squeezed off a short burst from the AK. He hoped his aim was as good as it used to be, so the shots would panic whoever was behind the door into thinking she’d been hit. The slugs would have to skim the air just above her head, close enough for the shock wave to blast her right back through the hallway.

  They fanned out on either side of the door, ready for a response. Gazul Halen was a man who would shoot first and think later, if at all. Darwish was right. The PLR’s Chief of Intelligence — there was an inappropriate title for you — leapt into the doorway brandishing an Uzi like an actor in a cheap TV movie. He sprayed the empty driveway just long enough for Dima to get a fix, so he could put a bullet neatly into his forearm, which travelled on and hit the weapon as well.

  The Uzi jumped out of Gazul’s hand. As he convulsed on the floor Dima launched himself forward, slamming one boot down on his injured hand and kicking the Uzi away with his other.

  ‘Gazul Halen? Nice of you to have us over.’

  He thrust the muzzle of his AK hard into the prone man’s groin.

  ‘We’re in somewhat of a hurry so we won’t bother with tea this time. The Russian government wants its nuke back.’

  He glanced at where Amara had ended up. She wasn’t moving. He nodded to Gregorin to go and check.

  Gazul writhed around like a gored bull, rage, dismay and agony sweeping over his features like bad weather. Dima kept his foot on his hand.

  ‘We want Kaffarov as well. You’re going to take us right to them.’

  Gazul seethed and hissed. Eventually he managed a response.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Vladimir put his boot on his good hand.

  ‘No, you’re not going to be doing any fucking. You’re going to watch while we each fuck your wife — alive or dead. Or you can take us to Kaffarov. Can you work out the better option?’

  Vladimir leaned on the hand a bit harder. Dima had seen this many times over the years: a man, cornered, nowhere to go but surrender, no options and nothing to bargain with, his brain jammed in pride mode, unable to do the sensible thing. Men who held high positions, who were used to controlling others by fear, were the worst: cowards one and all. He glanced at Amara, who was still motionless.

  Gradually the seething and the hissing stopped. Gazul’s bottom lip started to quiver and the tears of rage turned into tears of self-pity and fear. His face was pathetic as he looked up at Dima and nodded.

  ‘Okay.’

  26

  Both Peykans had been great team players, but they knew that one of them would have to be sacrificed.

  ‘Really they should be allowed to draw straws,’ suggested Kroll.

  Dima, binding Gazul’s wrecked hand, rolled his eyes.

  ‘They’re cars, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Where I come from, we say a car is a man’s best friend.’

  ‘That’s because you ate all the dogs. Get on with it, will you?’

  ‘Goodbye old friend.’ Kroll patted the hood as Gregorin and Vladimir climbed in. They had volunteered to hunt down a Rakhsh APC.

  ‘A nice clean one: PLR markings, no punctures, and while you’re at it get the crew’s uniforms. Remember to strip them off before you shoot.’

  Vladimir batted Dima’s instructions away.

  ‘We have actually done this before — Dad.’

  Fifteen minutes later a Rakhsh APC screeched into Amara’s drive. Out stepped Gregorin and Vladimir in full PLR battledress.

  ‘Taxi for Mayakovsky party.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  He patted his new steed.

  ‘Rakhsh means stallion.’

  ‘Well, you live and learn.’

  To Dima’s relief, Amara was now conscious. Dima’s aim was still good enough to have left her with no more than a scorch mark and a small bald patch on her crown. He prepared her a shot of morphine: it would serve the double purpose of dulling the pain and calming her fears. Whether she had tipped her husband off or been found out, they didn’t know. It shouldn’t have mattered: they had got what they needed, but Dima had an obligation to her father.

  He laid her on a couch by the grand staircase. She was still terrified and tearful, clutching the wound on her head.

  ‘I have to leave you here for a while. But don’t worry: it’s just a surface wound. It will hurt a bit because of the number of blood vessels in the scalp, but it’s not serious, okay? If and when we find what we are looking for and get out in one piece, we’ll take you home to your father. .’

  Her face changed from terror to self-pity, contorted into rage, in an echo of her husband. She smacked Dima hard across the face. ‘You shit. Bastard. My father, he’s a prick as well. He always had it in for Gazul, never paid the dowry and now he’s turned my beautiful man against me with his scheming. I hope he dies. I hope the house falls on him in the earthquake and crushes him to death.’

  He touched the side of his face, which was stinging with pain.

  ‘Okay, well, I’m sorry if I’ve interfered with your marriage, I’m just trying to stop a nuclear war.’

  ‘You men, always excuses. You expect me to believe that? Get out of my house, you scum! Now!’

  He stuck in the hypodermic.

  27

  Central Tehran

  The Metropolitan Bank pre-dated most of the buildings around it. And unlike them it appeared to be unscathed by either the quake or the bombardment. In fact, it had been built with the express intention of withstanding a nuclear attack. Whether the architects had designed it to contain a nuclear warhead was another matter. Gazul, who was proving a lot more co-operative than his wife, told them that in the event of an attack Al Bashir’s emergency plan was that only he and his closest aides would take refuge there.

  From the forecourt of the building next door, the Iranian Federation of Enterprise and Commerce, a PLR T-60 tank was moving into position. They surveyed the scene from inside the Rakhsh.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to rob a bank,’ mused Vladimir.

  ‘In the middle of a war?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gregorin, ‘it creates a diversion.’

  The plan was breathtakingly unsophisticated. Dressed as the PLR, Dima, Vladimir and Zirak would rush up to the bank with the injured Gazul, shouting for them to open up. The sight of their wounded Chief of Intelligence ought to be enough to get them through the door. Once in, they would don their facemasks, lob in a few cans of teargas and get working.

  It went like a dream — almost. They hurried past the tank crew, straight up to the door. Gazul obliged them with a plea to be let in. As soon as his name was heard one of the huge bronze doors swung open. Dima expected the next part would be messy: whoever was in their path would have to be neutralised. The place had to be cleared of personnel for the bomb to be found. But none of them, not even Gazul, anticipated what was waiting for them behind the bronze doors.

  At least a hundred soldiers and civilians, maybe more, had taken refuge in the lobby. It was a sea of khaki, interspersed with the bright colours of women and children. How could four of them get the better of this lot? All hopes of a stealth operation melted away. Even if they drove most of them out through the doors and shut themselves in, they would still have the tank to contend with. All of this was running through Dima’s mind as he surveyed the crowd. But then he fixed on a familiar face. He couldn’t put a name to it. Later he would remember that it was Hosseini.

  Dima pressed the point of his knife a little further into Gazul’s back.


  ‘Warn them there’s a bomb in the vault — be very, very convincing.’

  Gazul obliged. ‘There’s a bomb in the vault below! Run! Run now!’

  No one moved. Some of the men turned and looked at each other. Dima shouted,

  ‘Do as he says! Open the doors and get everyone out! It could go off any second!’

  Zirak and Gregorin held the doors open, urging people forward. Gradually they started to take the hint. A trickle rapidly became a torrent and then there was a furious crush around the doors, which spilled out on to the forecourt. Dima watched, keeping a firm hold of Gazul, the point of his knife close to his kidneys. Hosseini came towards them, saluted Gazul and narrowed his eyes at Dima. Hosseini was a former student of his — one of the zealots who had joined the Revolutionary Guard’s own Intelligence Unit: Iran’s Gestapo.

  Hosseini pulled his gun from its holster and took aim.

  ‘They’re not PLR, Sir. These men are Russians.’

  28

  Downtown Tehran

  Brady drove, with Blackburn in the rear, Campo on the other side, and the Colonel in between, giving directions. He perched on the edge of the seat, head bent forward because of the zap strap which bound his wrists behind him.

  ‘Jafari? You sure that’s your name?’

  ‘You shitting us, Colonel, you will surely die. Comprendez?’

  Jafari, his pride all that was left, nodded slowly. Brady radioed for an ID check and it came back positive. Pumped with the excitement of snaring the HVT, Campo wouldn’t shut up.

  ‘Why does Al Bashir hole up in a bank? Does he think he’s going to bribe us with his shitty little rials? I mean if I was him I’d be on the next plane to Saudi or Yemen or some other safe haven.’

  ‘Can’t see why we don’t just drop a two thousand pounder on it. Smokin’ Bashir would solve a whole heap of trouble, ’stead of having him winding up on trial somewhere shakin’ his dink at us.’

  Black turned to the Colonel.

  ‘How big is this bank?’

  He looked at them scornfully.

  ‘Very. The biggest in Iran.’

  ‘Great, so we have to search every room and floor. .’