Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Kane flattened himself against the building, stomach against the concrete, then transferred his Glock to his left hand. Leaning over he poked the barrel inside and squeezed off an entire mag in various directions.

  The firing stopped on his side.

  Chernov preferred a more destructive route, instead tossing a grenade inside that was greeted with shouts of alarm then a massive concussive force and cries of pain from inside. Charges were set by the Spetsnaz team and the front doors of the command center were blasted open, the Russian platoon charging inside, only a few rounds fired before the all clear was sounded.

  Kane and the Delta observers rounded the corner and Niner whistled.

  “Christ, wasn’t expecting this.”

  Inside was a marvel of Soviet era excess, a massive staging area carved out of the side of the mountain the size of a football field. Abandoned equipment was strewn about, but a dozen modern military and civilian vehicles were clustered around a large steel door about a hundred yards away.

  A large steel door that was slowly closing.

  “Shit!”

  Kane sprinted toward the nearest vehicle, a Russian Humvee equivalent, and jumped inside, counting on it being more likely that the keys would be in a military vehicle than a civilian.

  They were in the ignition.

  He turned the key, the engine roaring to life. He slammed it in gear, hammering on the gas as he eased up on the clutch, the vehicle leaping forward. Cranking the wheel and shifting to second, he aimed for the massive door as the rest of the team realized what he was doing, following him on foot. The door was halfway closed now, and from the sheer thickness of it he knew there was no damned way they were going to be able to breach that without something equivalent to Thor’s hammer.

  Gunfire erupted from the other side, targeting him. He swerved slightly to the right and back to the left, patting himself on the back for choosing the military vehicle which was at least lightly armored against small arms fire. The team behind him opened up on the shooters, taking some of the pressure off him as he floored the accelerator, the door only a third of the way open, but he only yards away.

  It’s gonna hurt!

  He slammed the brakes on just as he reached the massive door, wedging the mass of metal between the frame and the huge swinging door. Scrambling into the back seat, he pushed the rear door open and jumped out just as the front half of his vehicle was crushed, the vehicle slowly compressing as the motors worked against this new obstacle.

  The door seemed to be winning.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Pulling his Glock he hopped on the rear of the vehicle then over the roof, jumping to the other side of the door and into the command center itself. Gunfire greeted him as he hit the concrete floor, rolling as he took stock of what he faced. He pushed up from the floor, still spinning deeper into the complex and raised his weapon, taking a bead on one of the defenders, squeezing off two rounds, the first one missing, the second true, and as he hit the floor, rolling on his shoulder then back, pushing with his arms to keep some of the momentum, he finished by spreading his legs, halting his roll abruptly, firing on the two other targets before they could get a bead on him. Both dropped but not before a shooter, unseen, opened up on him.

  He winced as he took a round to his left shoulder, pushing himself back into a roll as he tried to spot the shooter. More gunfire, tearing up the concrete beside him allowed him to hear where the shots were coming from. As his back hit the concrete, his arms extended above his head. His hands gripping his weapon, he raised his arms toward the ceiling and fired at his attacker crouched on a catwalk overhead. There was a cry followed by the satisfying view of his opponent falling off the catwalk, arms flailing, then the thump of the body slamming into the unforgiving concrete. Kane scrambled toward a small concrete staircase that seemed to go up only half a dozen steps as the rest of the team poured over his commandeered wedge and into the inner sanctum of the command center.

  Chernov appeared first, taking a bead on Kane it seemed, his weapon belching lead as he rushed Kane’s position. Kane rolled to the side, refusing to raise his weapon on Chernov, even if he were firing at him. If he were to die in a friendly fire incident, then so be it, but there was no way he was going to take out a comrade making a mistake.

  But he wasn’t hit, instead he heard glass shattering overhead, and as he rolled he spotted a man slumped over a control panel in a previously unnoticed booth. Chernov rushed up the few steps Kane had taken cover behind only moments before and kicked open the door, yanking the body off the console and tossing it onto the floor. Moments later the door began to open, the vehicle he had used almost sighing in relief as it expanded slightly.

  Dawson grabbed him by the good shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “Took a round to my shoulder,” said Kane, glancing at it. Blood was oozing but not flowing, his fatigues stained, and the pain minimal unless he tried to move it.

  Niner tore open the sleeve and took a look.

  “You call that a wound?” he said with a grin, pushing Kane slightly. “You insult soldiers who have actually been wounded.” Kane took a look and saw that he was only grazed, though still fairly deep. “You’ll need some stitches. I can do it now if you want.” The bobbing up and down of Niner’s eyebrows and the all-too-eager shit-eating grin on his face had Kane turning down the offer.

  “Just tape me up, we’ll deal with it later,” he said as Niner helped him to his feet and began administering to his wound.

  “Got something over here!” yelled one of Chernov’s men. “Looks like an elevator.”

  Kane began to walk toward the voice when Niner held him back.

  “Hey, I’m operating here!”

  Kane stopped, rolling his eyes at a smiling Dawson who was free to explore. Niner slapped the wound.

  “Done.”

  Kane winced, rolling his shoulder to test it out, then nodded.

  “Good work.”

  “I do my best under fire,” replied Niner repacking his med kit. “Now let’s go create some wounds of our own!”

  The discovery proved to be a large elevator, the doors big enough to fit a good sized sedan through, with only two lights above, one indicating the Russian Cyrillic equivalent to Ground, the other of Basement. Chernov pressed the button.

  There was a ding and the doors opened, revealing an elevator definitely big enough to fit a car, the design obviously meant to be able to transport a large number of people in a single load in the case of the ultimate emergency—nuclear war.

  Chernov ordered the weakened first platoon to hold the ground as the rest boarded the elevator, Kane hitting the button for the basement, the doors closing moments later as Chernov’s men left behind spread out, he had no doubt disappointed they wouldn’t be about to get their revenge.

  But Chernov was right to leave them above. They desperately needed intel, and trigger happy soldiers on a revenge fueled adrenaline rush were more likely to fire blindly, no matter how well trained they were, especially since they had no actual personal investment in the outcome. After all, these bombs were exploding on American soil, their traditional enemy. What did they care if a few more went off?

  The elevator began to move, picking up speed rapidly.

  “They’re going to know we’re coming,” said Chernov. “My men will lead. As soon as the doors open, we’ll pop smoke, exit, breaking left and right, finding cover and incapacitating anyone who resists. The goal is to take prisoners, and not damage the equipment, so be careful with your aim.” He readied his Makarov as the elevator began to slow. “Masks.”

  Everyone pulled down their masks and goggles to protect themselves from the smoke, Chernov already popping one of the grenades and leaving it on the floor, the elevator quickly filling with smoke. Kane heard several more pins pulled as the elevator halted.

  A ding and the door opened, the sounds of boots on metal advancing, gunfire already slamming into the rear of the elevator. Ka
ne advanced at a crouch, stumbling over a body. He felt a hand pull him back to his feet, shoving him out of the elevator. He rolled to his left, the smoke clearing enough for him to seek cover.

  “Activate the failsafe immediately!” echoed a voice over a speaker.

  “Shoot anybody at a control terminal!” yelled Kane, jumping up and firing at the first person he saw, their head slumping into a keyboard. Shots erupted from around him, bodies dropping as those able to execute the order were quickly eliminated. Kane spotted Levkin running for a door at the opposite side of the control center, the smoke clearing to reveal massive projection screens and a dozen modern computers, this not the abandoned site the world was led to believe.

  Kane raised his weapon and shot the man in the hip, dropping him to the floor, several Spetsnaz operators rushing to secure him.

  “Are we too late?” asked Dawson as they all turned toward the screens.

  Kane felt his stomach flip, his mouth water as his mind interpreted what was shown. A map of the world with dots spread across the globe, the vast majority in the United States, turning green, then down in the bottom, a countdown timer showing less than two minutes.

  “There’s hundreds!” exclaimed Niner. He pointed at the countdown. “Does that mean they only have two minutes before detonation?”

  An automated voice sounded, and in Russian, a female voice announced, “Two minutes to self-destruct.”

  “Everybody out!” yelled Chernov as he grabbed Kane by the shirt, pulling him toward the elevator. Kane didn’t need any urging, but broke free of the grip, pulling out his phone and taking several pictures of the displays before spinning on his heel and sprinting toward the doors as everyone, including a carried Levkin, boarded the elevator. Chernov held the door open, the button already pressed for the Ground floor, and as the last man cleared, he stepped back and the doors slowly rolled closed.

  “Jesus, I hope this damned thing is as fast going up as it was coming down,” said Niner, his sentiments silently agreed with.

  But the elevator didn’t seem to want to listen. It slowly began to rise, the speed increasing, but Kane couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or reality that had him thinking things were going far too slowly considering the timeframe they were dealing with.

  Chernov was already on his comm, the signal successfully traveling up the elevator shaft to the men above, ordering the choppers into position for an emergency evac, telling the men guarding the elevator doors to fallback and board the choppers as soon as they touched down.

  “Umm, anybody think to synch that countdown with their watch?” asked Niner.

  “Fifty-three seconds,” replied Chernov.

  Kane began a mental count in his head, the elevator finally slowing down at forty-five. The doors rolled open at forty.

  The team guarding the door was gone, having followed their orders, and outside they could hear rotors thumping at full power as the Hinds awaited their cargo.

  “Go! Go! Go!” yelled Chernov, Kane not needing any urging as they burst from the elevator and into the inner chamber. They raced for the massive door, it now wide open thanks to Chernov’s good thinking earlier, otherwise they all would have had to climb over the now crushed vehicle Kane had commandeered.

  The group sprinted across the massive assembly area toward the blown open doors, the morning sunlight spilling through the entrance as if signaling a paradise on the other side awaiting their blessed arrival.

  Kane did a shoulder check and saw Dawson and Niner flanking him and Chernov bringing up the rear, four men carrying the injured and angry Levkin, each holding a limb.

  They burst through the entrance and out into the sunlight, Kane blinking rapidly as he tried to regain focus, three Hinds appearing through the haze, the dust their blades were churning up not helping his eyesight. Kane broke to the right, heading for the farthest chopper, leaving the closest free for those in the rear carrying their prisoner. He jumped aboard, immediately seeking out the deepest corner and took a spot, out of the way as he pulled out his secure phone, quickly entering a message then transmitting it along with the photos he had taken should they not escape in time.

  Levkin activated all weapons.

  He looked up from his phone to see Dawson and Niner and several other Spetsnaz operators surrounding him as the gunship rose from the ground. He looked out, his mental count lost while he concentrated on his message.

  But Niner hadn’t.

  “Five seconds!” he yelled over the roar of the straining engines as the massive bird painfully gained altitude, tilting forward to slowly increase speed.

  Massive thumps sounded over the blades, and Kane looked down to see the entire area vibrating, the dust rising off the ground everywhere as a shockwave from below raised the surrounding earth several inches, then flames erupted from every opening, every building, as the explosion found any available escape it could.

  Along with any hope of using the complex to deactivate the weapons.

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Leroux almost jumped out of his chair as the klaxon sounded and the Defense Condition display updated to the brilliant red of DEFCON 2 indicating the Armed Forces were ready to deploy within six hours.

  And the United States was only one step away from nuclear war.

  But who the hell are we going to attack?

  There was no doubt now that it was Russians behind the attacks, but the question was whether or not the attacks were condoned by the current government, and if they weren’t, did they have knowledge of the attacks? From the mood of the now crowded Operations Center 3 it was obvious all wanted to strike back at somebody, but there was division on whether or not a retaliatory attack on the Russians was justified.

  “I say hit a few of their naval task forces. They’re military targets, on the open seas, with no risk of civilian casualties. They need to be punished now to send a message to the world that we won’t be messed with!”

  “Enough!” yelled Morrison, ending all discussion instantly. “We’ll worry about striking back later. Right now we need to figure out how to stop these bombs from going off!” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Now, how much time have we got?”

  “From the pictures our agent transmitted, it appears they activated a failsafe mechanism that triggered a self-destruct on the facility, and transmitted activation codes to the remaining weapons,” said Don Eppes, one of their experts on the Russians, fluent in the language.

  “What does the map show?” asked a voice over the speaker.

  “At the moment of the picture being taken, it showed over five hundred devices around the world, about half of them green, a quarter red, the rest black. We’re assuming that green means activated, red means that the activation failed, and black means dead weapons.”

  “How many of these are on our soil?”

  “Almost four hundred, with half of those green.”

  “Two hundred weapons,” muttered Morrison.

  It was mind numbing. Too much for Leroux to listen to. Instead he tried to block the question and answer session. It was a waste of time, either repeating things they already knew, or asking the wrong questions. It didn’t matter whether it was ten or ten thousand weapons, the only question that mattered was how to stop them.

  “Have we notified our allies?”

  “Yes, the photos have been transmitted along with the microfilm intel, and a note that the intel had been in the possession of the French since 1982.”

  “That should go over well.”

  Already the petty bickering is taking over.

  Something was nagging at him. At first he thought it was why they didn’t just control the weapons from their command center in Russia instead of the RV here, but after pondering it for only a few seconds, he realized they couldn’t risk any transmissions being tracked back to Russia since they were trying to frame Islamists for the attacks.

  It was something else. Something that had been said earlier,
a possible solution to their problem. They had bombs ready to detonate, with no indication of how long their countdowns would be, but they had to assume they were short. Thanks to the intel from the microfilm they knew some of the radio frequencies they were using, so if they could get the others to somehow transmit, they could locate the transmission, then use the general coordinates they had from the microfilm to cross-reference the deactivation code, and transmit back on the same frequency to deactivate the weapon.

  But how the hell do you get them to transmit back?

  “What’s the status on the deactivations?” asked Morrison.

  Conway turned from his terminal.

  “We’ve transmitted the deactivation codes that we have radio frequencies for and all weapons that were indicated green on the photos have signaled back a code. We’re assuming that code is an acknowledgement that they have deactivated. Recovery teams have been dispatched to all locations to deactivate the pinpointed weapons, and to evacuate any areas that we can’t deactivate.”

  “But we have no idea how long their countdowns are.”

  “Affirmative. We have to assume fairly short though.”

  Morrison looked up at the ceiling, his hands on his hips.

  “Kane, can Levkin talk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to know how much time we have.”

  “Understood.”

  A scream blasted through the speaker before the transmission was cut off, the room silent for only a moment before speculation rampaged freely again.

  And a thought continued to nag at Leroux. The deactivation codes were working when sent on the proper frequency. They couldn’t risk just blanketing all frequencies with all of the codes as failsafes were probably built into the devices against such a thing and were liable to set off the weapons. The idea had been suggested early on and thankfully dismissed just as quickly.