I retrieve the second corpse and repeat the procedure. More bones for the bone yard. Right. More food for the swamp.
I turn and stalk toward the hostile camp. Every second counts now and I've got to locate Anton Zorin. Assuming he's present. I shift ahead through trees and palm fronds and spongy ground keeps my footsteps quiet. I cover fifty paces without issue. So far and so good.
There's sudden motion to my left. A darting shadow. I hit a crouch and swing the UMP toward whatever's moving.
There's nothing to alert me. No man-shapes rushing in my direction. No shouts of warning or alarm. It might've been a rodent or swamp bat or some other critter. I'll never know and I need to move ahead. I have to reach the camp undetected. Surprise is critical.
I cover another fifty paces and reach my destination. I'm a few yards from the camp's main perimeter and I stay inside the treeline for concealment. I scan the camp's structures. From one I hear the hum of a diesel generator that supplies electrical power to the camp.
Several Bravda guards appear and tread past my position but they don't spot me. Other figures populate the compound. They enter and leave the Quonsets. Some carry weapons and some carry duffel bags or other items. I don't see the man I've come to locate. I don't see Anton Zorin.
I shift toward a looming cypress and crouch at its base. Waiting. Watching.
I track the walking patrolmen and memorize the pattern of their movements. I learn the specific angle of their motion from one point to the next. Their discipline and precision make these guards predictable. I can time their maneuvers down to the second.
I can use that timing to plan my attack. But first I need to launch a deep probe. I need to get inside the Bravda camp and confirm my primary target's presence. Until that job's accomplished I'll save my weapons as a last resort.
That said I need to prepare for doomsday. My fighting gear includes five SLAMs. That means Selectable Lightweight Attack Munitions. Each SLAM contains a dozen ounces of RDX. It's a powerful explosive. It's hell on earth.
I can detonate the bombs by VHF radio control. The signal's encrypted and that prevents jamming. Enemy troops might discover the SLAMs. Sure. But they're tamper-proof. If anyone tries to move them or disarm them they'll blow on the spot.
I count on the SLAMs as insurance. If it goes to hell the bomb explosions will divert the enemy's attention. SLAMs aren't anti-personnel weapons. They're meant for demolition and don't kick out significant shrapnel. But their concussion and flame ought to nail any guards trapped in the blast zone.
I circle the camp's land-side. At regular intervals I stop to place a SLAM and arm it for detonation. I cover each bomb with dead leaves to hide its position. I return to my starting point and prepare for my next move.
I let two more Bravdas pass me in the dark and watch them step ahead and out of range. Timing's critical and there's no margin for error.
I double-check my flanks and kick off toward the camp in a fighting crouch. The UMP's locked in my fists with its safety off.
I pass the droning generator shed and shift on toward the radio shack. There's no opposition. I pause and scan for danger. There's nothing. My timing's dead-on. So far at least.
I study the shack's satellite dish and stout radio antennae. A rig like that's powerful enough to contact Moscow. Most likely SMERSH HQ. That's Russia's notorious network of covert assassins. Zorin gets weapons and hitmen from SMERSH and in exchange he sows havoc on American soil.
I grit my teeth. Zorin's eluded me so far. Granted. But here in the middle of the swamp I might have a fighting chance to claw him down. If he's present. If I find him. If I get a clear shot. If. I mean to try. Damn right.
Elimination of the Bravda honcho will send a message to SMERSH and the Kremlin. America will defend itself. America will fight fire with fire. Project Brimstone. Right.
I proceed in the darkness. Gut instinct tells me to investigate the nearest Quonset. It's larger than the others and closest to the radio shack. Doubtless it's the camp's command post. If so it might be Zorin's personal shelter. Might be. I have to scope it out.
Dull red light shines from the Quonset's only window and there's motion. Someone's moving inside.
I push off and after a moment I'm crouched beneath the window. Its night-light bathes me in a blood-red glow. I'm exposed in my present position but I have to accept the risk. I need intel on who's inside the Quonset but I can't risk standing upright and gawking.
I pull my SpyScan and extend its semi-rigid camera wire. The tip of the wire's right-angled and that allows the camera lens to face through the Perspex pane.
I ease the camera into position at the corner of the pane. The lens is small so anyone inside the Quonset won't notice they're under surveillance. My bigger worry's the appearance of a roving guard.
I scan the open ground on my flanks and verify no one's approaching. All's clear. I activate the camera's 4K view screen and probe the Quonset's interior.
A figure crosses a private office and sits at a desk with a laptop PC. The stark glow of the laptop illuminates his face.
It's Anton Zorin. I can't mistake those dark slitted eyes and that black hair swept in a widow's peak. I can't mistake that broad slab of black mustache that gives him a Joseph Stalin look.
I retract the SpyScan and stow it. My gamble's paid off. Sure. My luck's running strong and the odds are rolling in my favor.
A sound hits my ears and it's a scuffle of footsteps drawing closer. I peer in the direction of the footsteps. There's rapid motion. Someone's advancing toward me at a swift pace.
I pull Black Thunder with its suppressor attached. A figure emerges from the shadows and it's a Bravda guard. He's deviated from his patrol route. Why? It's possible his shift's ended or he's detected my position. I can't know for sure.
I grip Black Thunder and hold it ready. The Bravda turns toward one of the camp's chemical toilets. He opens its door and disappears inside.
I choose to stay put. I'm betting when the man leaves the toilet he won't notice my presence and he'll return to his post. I have to take the risk. If I reposition now I could blow my cover.
The toilet door opens and the guard emerges and pivots toward me on a hard collision course. He spots me and freezes in shock and his mouth gapes in disbelief. He reaches for his AK and swings it up but he never makes his shot.
Black Thunder coughs once and spits death. An FMJ slams through the Bravda's nose and he staggers and falls and drops his AK.
The rifle spins and hits the ground muzzle-first. Then it goes boom. The shock of impact must've caused a malfunction. It's a mystery to me but there's no time to play gunsmith.
I stow Black Thunder and raise the UMP. The crack of the gunshot's put the camp on Red Alert. There's frantic motion and warning shouts all around.
I put Zorin out of mind and focus on the ice-cold mechanics of survival. There's no damn choice. I hate to retreat when I'm so close to nailing the bastard. But I won't turn this into a suicide mission. That's not my style.
If Zorin escapes tonight I'll pursue him. I'll never quit hunting. He's America's number one enemy and I mean to claw him down.
I need deeper cover and I bolt toward the camp's portable toilets. They're placed in a tight ring. As I move an enemy guard steps into view and he's less than ten feet away. An AK's slung across his chest and gripped in both hands.
The UMP spits a Black Talon salvo that vaults the Bravda off his feet. I register the kill and I dart inside the ring of plastic crappers. It's not Fort Knox but it's a degree of shelter from incoming fire.
A rancid odor of urine and feces hits my nostrils. That's a minor inconvenience compared to death.
I assess my situation. I've lost the critical element of surprise and it's a worst-case scenario. I've got at least twenty hostile troops hunting me and they're primed to kill. Confusion and darkness grant me a few more seconds until I'm spotted and swarmed.
I activate my wrist-mounted SLAM radio detonator. I'm inside the bom
bs' fire-zone but there's no other choice. It's a desperate move in a desperate situation. I hunch low and key the detonator. Around the camp's perimeter there's a string of rapid-fire explosions. Five in total.
Red-orange fireballs erupt and roar into the night sky. Heat bakes my skin and shock waves rock me on my feet and I squint and gasp. The squat boxes around me wobble and shudder as they absorb the brunt of the incoming blast.
Meantime flaming bodies hurtle overhead. One slams into a Quonset and crumples into a smoking heap. Three others tumble into swamp water and don't resurface. Camouflage netting near the explosions bursts into flame and melts into molten globs.
I spring upright and shove off. The UMP's in my fists and primed to fire. I spot the radio shack twenty feet ahead. I decide to hit the shack and shut down its comm gear.
I reach the shack and blow its door with a flying kick. Inside a Bravda radioman spins on his swivel chair to face me. He's wearing a bulky headset and jabbering into its mic.
He reaches for a Skorpion machine pistol but it's too late. A Black Talon salvo drills his chest and he slumps with dead bulging eyes. I grab the Skorpion and sling it over my shoulder. It's another weapon for my arsenal.
I have to silence the comm gear. I waste no time and hit the equipment with .45 autofire. Radio consoles and computer monitors and CPUs explode into smoking fragments.
I can't say who the radioman reached before he died and there's no point guessing. If he called for reinforcements I'll deal with them when they arrive. At least I've stopped any more SOS calls from beaming out.
I pause inside the comm shack's open doorway and peer into the camp. Firelight illuminates the darkness and shadow-men run and there's harsh shouting. It's all in Russian and I can't decipher a single word. It might as well be dogs barking in the street.
Nobody's shooting because they can't find a valid target. Likewise no one's approaching the comm shack and that's a surprise. But the sudden radio silence will register soon and troops will show up.
As if on cue a pair of Bravda hitmen emerge and close on the shack. I brace the UMP and draw its trigger. Black Talons sweep both targets aside like broken scarecrows.
It's time to move. I grit my teeth and bolt from the comm hut in a determined rush to escape. I'm covered by leaping shadows cast by the firelight. I'm aiming for the camp's motor pool.
As I move a Bravda thug stumbles into my path. Before he can recover I punch him sideways with a Black Talon burst. The UMP locks back on empty and I reload on the run. I snap a new mag into the weapon's hot receiver and hit its bolt release.
I pass the generator shack and contemplate zapping it with a grenade. I scrub the notion. It's all about momentum now and I've got to keep going. I can't stop or slow down for any reason.
The motor pool looms ahead. I reach it and dive toward the Tacoma pickup truck I spotted earlier. I yank the driver door open and slide behind the wheel and reach for the ignition. There's no key.
I curse. I was counting on luck to see me through. I gambled and lost. I bail out and pull my Bushmaster and slash the Tacoma's fat off-road tires. Each tire bursts and sags with a wallowing hiss.
I stow the machete and sprint toward the treeline. I keep the UMP braced and ready.
There's motion dead-ahead. I hit the UMP's trigger and a Bravda thug screams. Blood spills from three ragged holes in his chest and he topples. I leap over the crumpled corpse and hit the treeline and dive inside.
I glance toward the camp and scan for Zorin but in my gut I know it's hopeless. I bet he's well-hidden at this point and shielded by trusted guards. It's too much to hope he died when the SLAMs exploded.
In any case I won't return to the camp. I won't resume my hunt. Not tonight. Instead I need to leave. As a rule quitting's not in my plan but in this situation it makes sense to retreat. I'll come back swinging when the time's right. Hell yes.
There's brand-new motion. Troops race to secure the camp's smoking perimeter. They level their weapons and scan for targets.
I turn and press deeper into the wetland jungle and check my GPS on the move. I'm heading toward my Zodiac boat and I can reach it unopposed if I tread with caution. I stick close to drooping foliage and sprawling ferns.
My camouflage garb and warpaint blend with my surroundings but I'm not invisible. Any man-made light can expose my position. With luck and caution that won't happen. I'm on track for a swift and stealthy getaway.
I take another step and my left shin hits something taut. A tripwire. So much for luck and caution and stealth.
There's a metallic click but no high-explosive blast. Instead a projectile shoots from a PVC pipe attached to a tupelo. The object lofts two hundred feet into the sky and bursts open and releases its brilliance. A warning flare. I've stumbled into a trap meant to detect intruders.
The flare's white light illuminates my position and there's not a damn thing I can do to stop it. There's brand-new motion and shouts from the camp and gunfire crackles overhead. I go prone behind a cypress trunk and let enemy bullets pummel trees and foliage around me.
The flare dies and the swamp goes dark and again I'm cloaked in shadow. I know it's a temporary respite. Doubtless the Bravdas are on my trail and they want revenge. I can't blame them. Not one bit.
I push up and slog ahead for thirty paces and reach waist-high water. I'm thankful it isn't deeper.
Mud and slimy peat sucks at my boots with every step I take. I can't move as fast as I want and I curse. It's a struggle to maintain my balance and I'm in danger of slipping and going under.
I hold the UMP above the water. I know it can survive a dunking but there's no point taking chances. Better to keep the subgun and its ammo dry for as long as possible. Likewise the rest of my gear.
The water grows deeper and darker as I progress. A sound hits my ears. The rumble of an outboard motor.
I glance across my shoulder and spot a fast-moving shape. It's the Marauder dinghy from the camp and it's crewed by four Bravda gunmen. One man tends the motor while the other troops use rifle-mounted lights to probe the swamp.
I shift behind frond leaves and hanging Spanish moss. It's far from solid cover but there's nothing else in close reach. I stow the UMP and raise my captured Skorpion subgun and aim at the oncoming boat. The Skorpion's fitted with a fifty-round ammo drum.
I bend my knees and tuck my elbows inward to improve my shooting stance. The dinghy moves closer and I'm immobile and silent behind the fronds and hanging moss. If I'm spotted I'm dead. It's three guns against one at close range plus the motorman if he's fit for action.
The dinghy's thirty feet out and closing fast and I hit the Skorpion's trigger. I empty half its magazine in three seconds flat. One man on the Marauder screams and lurches from sight. Another man spews blood and flops into the water and sinks without a trace.
The Marauder's pilot hits his throttle and pulls a hard evasive turn. The action kicks up a wall of murky foam and it sprays in my direction.
I keep my sights on the dinghy and draw the Skorpion's trigger and empty the weapon's magazine. Bullets core the dinghy and both men on deck. The dinghy jumps ahead unguided and stands on its nose and tips inverted.
I toss the empty Skorpion and pull my Tanto knife and wade out and reach the nearest surviving Bravda. He floats faceup on the water with three ragged bullet holes in his chest. He's fading fast. I let him drift away and move ahead.
The final survivor's scrambling onto the wrecked Marauder. Blood leaks from a thigh wound but otherwise he's intact and a pistol sprouts from his fist. I close behind him with the Tanto and slit his throat. He twitches and gurgles and drops the pistol and slips underwater.
I'm out of time and I need to move. I stow the knife and check my GPS and turn toward my waypoint. I slosh through muddy water and curse at the noise but there's no way to avoid it.
I reach a swath of saw grass and it slashes at me as I push through it. I won't complain. I count on the grass to help conceal my advance. It's a grea
t deal better than moving in plain sight of my opposition.
I clear the grass and reach a towering cypress and use my Nitefinder to probe for snakes and gators. I see none. I sweep the Nitefinder's red beam left and right and search for more tripwires. I see none.
I stow the Nitefinder and settle behind the tree trunk. A winged swamp roach lands on my face and runs down my cheek and scuttles inside my collar. I ignore the bug and narrow my eyes and check for enemy troops. No one's visible but instinct tells me they're coming.
I stow the UMP and pull Black Thunder with its suppressor attached. I crouch and use the lumpy cypress bole for cover and as a gun rest.
Hard Target Page 9
