The C-5M Super Galaxy was the largest plane in the Air Force inventory. And it, along with a second C-5, was carrying the 152nd and its gear. That was in addition to a tank and tons of supplies for Allied ground forces.
The team had been in the air for more than 15 hours by then, and Quinn was tired of reading, napping, and listening to Captain Andruko snore. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the pilot spoke over the PA system. “Good morning folks … If you had windows, you’d be able to see that we have a French fighter off each wing, and the weather is clear.
“There is a high likelihood of incoming artillery from the east along with enough reciprocal ECM (electronic countermeasures) to fry an egg. We’ll be landing from the south. Once we’re down we’ll taxi to Holding Area Zebra. That’s where you will deplane and prepare to do whatever it is that you’re going to do. And that, judging from the uniforms you have on, will be some weird shit. We’ll be on the ground shortly.”
“Shortly” turned out to be something on the order of 20 minutes. But eventually all five sets of landing gear thumped down and Quinn knew she was back in the war.
Another 20 minutes elapsed as the plane taxied the length of a long runway, stopped, and was hooked to a tractor. Then it was towed into a new super-sized hanger which would keep it out of the weather, facilitate maintenance, and prevent Axis countries from taking pictures of the aircraft from space.
That was when the critical business of unloading began, and more importantly, checking to make sure that the 152nd had everything it was supposed to have. Captain Booker was in charge of that. And, thanks to portable bar code scanners “Moms,” as the troops referred to her, was able to check everything in.
Ceiling mounted lights cast a harsh glare, and the C-5 loomed above the troops, as Command Sergeant Major McKenzie herded them into formation. The CSM had a loud voice. But even he had to shout in order to be heard over the racket caused by the chatter of an impact wrench, an automated safety announcement, and a departing fighter jet.
“Listen up,” McKenzie shouted. “You will check to make sure you have your weapons and your gear. Then you will board one of three blacked-out buses and be taken to a secured location to shower, eat, and rest. The exception being 91B Vehicle Mechanics who will remain here. Are there any questions?”
Cray-Cray Cranston raised a hand. “How come we have to stay?”
Colonel Flynn arrived at that moment. “Because,” Flynn said, “you need to check our vehicles before I sign for them. They’re parked over there,” he said, pointing to a far corner of the hangar. “And they look like shit. What I want to know is, will they run? And if they run, can we depend on them?”
Those were critical questions. And Quinn had to give Flynn credit for being on top of the issue, as she followed the CO and the motorheads across a half acre of scrupulously clean concrete to a row of Russian vehicles. Quinn had done her homework and knew what kind of machines the unit was supposed to have.
The smallest vehicle was a GAZ Tigr which was equivalent to an armed SUV. It would be driven by a Ukrainian with Captain Andruko riding shotgun. If the Tigr was stopped Andruko would attempt to bullshit his way through the checkpoint. If things got dicey, a private would open fire with the light machine gun mounted on the roof, and reinforcements would go forward to support the Tigr.
The second vehicle in the convoy would be a chunky VPK-3927 Volk, which was supposed to have SPM-2:7mm armor, a top mounted heavy machine gun, and would carry Colonel Flynn. His job was to impress the shit out of any Russian officer or noncom who was reluctant to accept Andruko’s fake paperwork.
Two Ural-4320 general purpose off-road 6x6 trucks would follow. One would be loaded with soldiers, while the other would carry a squad, plus a pallet jack, which would be used to take the rhenium out.
Last, but not least, was the Bumerang Infantry Fighting Vehicle (IFV), which boasted a 30mm cannon, a remotely operated machine gun, and a pair of Kornet-Em anti-tank missiles.
That was the plan. But as the group neared the row of vehicles Quinn felt a sudden sense of concern. The Tigr had been in a serious accident, judging from the damage on the left side of the vehicle.
The VPK-3927 Volk appeared to be intact, but lacked a machinegun up top, and was dressed in desert camo rather than green or artic paint. That wasn’t critical, but it wasn’t ideal either, since the discrepancy would make the vic easy to identify as in— “Fire on the tan VPK!”
One of the Ural-4320s had a back canopy, but the other didn’t, which would expose the team’s soldiers to the weather and greater scrutiny at checkpoints. And that was just the stuff Quinn could see. The officers watched Smoker Jones climb up into the first Ural’s cab and turn the key. A grinding noise was heard, but nothing more.
Cray-Cray started the Tigr without difficulty but, judging from the heavy exhaust that shot out of the tailpipe, something was wrong.
Fortunately, the IFV appeared to be new, and ran perfectly. A motorhead named Zoey Segal gave Quinn a thumbs up.
Jones closed the hood on a Ural and came over to join Flynn and Quinn. “All of them have well over a hundred-thou on their odometers except for the IFV, Jones said. “And there’s no way to know what kind of condition they’re in without checking each one.”
“Then do it,” Flynn said. “What do you need?”
“Our personal gear, our tools, and some food. Oh, and an awning would be nice. Those lights are bright.”
Flynn nodded. “I will speak to Captain Booker. You have eighteen hours. Then we’re going to roll whatever vehicles you have onto a couple of Russian planes and haul ass.”
Quinn could see the resentment in Jones’s eyes. He didn’t like taking orders, regardless of how appropriate they might be, or who gave them. That wasn’t Quinn’s personal opinion. That was straight from the mechanic’s fitness report. The one that followed a demotion from sergeant to corporal. On the other hand, the same report referred to Jones as a gifted leader, who could repair “anything on wheels,” and that’s why he’d been selected for the team. Jones managed a tight, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Flynn said. “I’ll look for a Russian machine gun that we can bolt onto the VPK, and a canopy for the Ural. Keep the XO in the loop.” After completing his sentence Flynn stood there with his eyes narrowed. What seemed like an eternity passed before Jones finally rendered a salute.
Flynn tossed one in return and walked away. Quinn followed. Jones, she decided, would bear watching.
***
The Kyshtym, Emergency Airstrip
Mayor Brusilov was sitting in his G-Class Mercedes SUV, sharing a thermos of rum laced coffee with his driver Lev, when the first headlights appeared. “It’s about fucking time,” Brusilov said. “The army is always late.”
“They’re part of the National Guard,” Lev offered.
“It’s the same thing,” Brusilov insisted. “I know this Major Yeltsin. He was a captain in the regular army before a pindo shot him.”
“Was he the one that went after the renegades?”
“Yup. And now they’re dead. As they should be. Call Comrade Zotov, and tell him to get his fat ass out here. He needs to be in on this.”
Lev made the call as Brusilov left the car. The snow had stopped thank God, and the sky was supposed to clear. It was cold though. Damned cold. And Brusilov had every intention of concluding the meeting quickly.
The Ural Typhoon came to a halt not far from the Mercedes. Brusilov watched a man swing his legs out and knew it was Yeltsin. The poor bastard was in pain all the time.
Being a mayor sure beat the hell out of being an army officer. As a government official Brusilov enjoyed more power and less risk. So long as he continued to coddle the apparatchiks (functionaries) upstream from him that is. And that was no small task.
“Good evening, Mayor,” Yeltsin said, his breath fogging the air. “It’s always a pleasure to visit your fine city.”
“Even if you’re freezing your balls off?”
> “Even then,” Yeltsin said, as he thumbed a Zippo. The flame lit his face from below. Yeltsin had a well-trimmed mustache, a slightly bulbous nose, and green eyes. Once the cigar was lit the lighter closed with a click. “So, why am I here?” Yeltsin inquired.
“Two military planes will arrive day after tomorrow,” Brusilov replied. “A contingent of special operations troops will disembark, drive their vehicles to the copper factory, and take control of a special cargo. Then they will return here, board the planes, and leave.”
“Like I said,” Yeltsin replied, as he turned to spit a fragment of tobacco out of his mouth. “Why am I here?”
Brusilov shrugged. “To secure the airport. General Dedov is in command, and he’s very thorough.”
“Evidently,” Yeltsin agreed. “Because if the Spetsnaz are involved, ordering us to secure the strip is like wearing a belt with suspenders.”
Brusilov chuckled. “Here comes Comrade Zotov. He’s in charge of the runway, the terminal building, and the transient barracks. He’ll get you and your men settled in. Here’s my card. Call me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Yeltsin accepted the card and tucked it away. “Thank you. But that seems unlikely.”
***
Brody Airfield, Brody, Ukraine
Quinn had just returned from the hangar where the 152nd’s vehicles were parked. The motorheads were making good progress thanks to the fact that Russian vehicle parts were widely available in Ukraine. And Smoker Jones swore that all the vics would be ready on time.
After dealing with some administrative issues, Quinn went looking for something to eat. The transient barracks was a barebones affair that was furnished with metal bunkbeds, stained mattresses, and half a dozen rickety tables. Since all the mismatched chairs were occupied, Quinn was eating her MRE while sitting on the floor. And that was when the tall civilian appeared.
He had sandy colored hair, a high forehead, and a slight smile. His eyes scanned the room and found hers. Then he came her way. He was holding an MRE. “Hello Major Quinn … I’m Daniel Dean. May I join you?”
Dean was wearing a leather flight jacket minus insignia, khaki cargo pants, and a pair of brown lace-up boots. “You may,” Quinn replied. “Have we met?”
“No,” Dean replied. “But I was a member of the panel that reviewed and approved this mission. And that included the officers chosen to lead it. So I feel like I know you.”
Dean sat down with his back to the wall. And the surety with which he prepped the MRE bespoke years of practice. Quinn frowned. “You’re CIA. I can smell it.”
“No,” Dean said, “what you smell is Menu 4 Spaghetti with Beef and Sauce. That’s my favorite.”
“More than CIA, you are a PMOO,” Quinn said accusingly.
“If I were, I would never admit it,” Dean said, as he began to eat. “Yum, yum. I love this stuff. Especially cold.”
“You love MREs?”
“I love Spaghetti MREs,” Dean answered. “I see you are a Menu 3 Chicken, Egg Noodles, and Vegetables kind of girl. They’re okay, but just okay, in my humble opinion.”
“Which? The meals? Or the girls?”
Dean grinned. “The meals.”
Quinn wasn’t sure what to think. Dean had, if she could believe him, played a role in choosing her for the mission. And he was hitting on her. But no, she must be wrong. No man in his right mind would use spaghetti MREs as a pickup line. On the other hand, who was to say that Dean was in his right mind?
“Well, it was nice of you to drop in and say ‘Hi,’” Quinn said. “As you can see, this shit is about to get real.”
“Yes, it is,” Dean agreed. “But I didn’t drop in to say ‘Hi.’ I’m going with you.”
Quinn frowned. “Why?”
“Well,” Dean said, as he finished the spaghetti. “I can offer advice and request special resources should that become necessary. And, if things get hairy, I’m a fairly good shot.”
Quinn knew that as a PMOO Dean probably worked out of the Special Operations Group (SOG), the CIA group responsible for high-threat, clandestine, and covert operations. And, since Dean had probably served in one of the military’s special operations groups, he’d be an asset, so long as he didn’t get crosswise with Flynn. Quinn offered her hand. They shook. “Welcome to the 152nd. Please remember our motto.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Quod pertinet ad te pertinet ad nos. That which belongs to you, belongs to us.”
Dean laughed. “I love it! Let me know if I can help.” And with that the CIA officer got up and left.
***
The hours passed more quickly than Quinn thought they would. And suddenly it was time to depart. Blacked-out buses took the 152nd to the hangar where two planes were waiting.
The An-124 cargo planes were the Russian equivalent to American C-5 Galaxies. Each aircraft was 226 feet long, had a wingspan of 240 feet, and wore tail numbers identical to planes in the Russian fleet. So, if an official in Kyshtym chose to check, he or she would discover that yes indeed—the An-124s were legit.
Three vehicles had been loaded on one plane, and two onto the other, all staged to roll off in convoy order. Flynn was to ride on plane one, with Quinn on plane two, so that if one of the An-124s went down the command structure would remain intact. Although in that case the mission would no longer be feasible and the surviving plane would turn back. Or try to.
Ammo had been issued to the troops, and each person had a small pack loaded with a sleeping bag, and two MREs plus water. Every soldier had to carry ammo for the crew-served weapons regardless of rank or specialty.
Quinn caught a glimpse of Daniel Dean boarding plane one with Flynn. The agent was wearing a Russian uniform and carrying a stubby STR-2 Veresk submachine gun. Just the thing for working a crowd. Then Dean was gone. The man looks good, Quinn decided. But what about the rest of the package? We’ll see.
Once the planes were loaded tugs pushed them out into the night. The timing was no accident. Viewed from the edge of space the Russian aircraft would look a lot like C-5s.
After takeoff it would take the planes roughly four hours to travel the 1,780 miles to Kyshtym, where they would arrive just before dawn. A time when the city streets were mostly empty—and local officials would be in bed.
Quinn pretended to read as her plane taxied into position for takeoff. Some of the soldiers, especially the younger ones, would take their cues from her. And if she looked confident then some of their fears would be put to rest.
Quinn felt the gentle push-back as the plane took off. That was the easy part. What most of the troops didn’t know was that the gigantic plane was going to fly east at an altitude of 3,000 feet for the first 30 minutes in order to stay below enemy radar.
Pinpoint navigation would be required to zigzag between hills and mountains during that period of time. Were the Ukrainian pilots up to the job? Quinn hoped so. And figured they wanted to live as much as she did.
Then, assuming some Allied SAM (surface-to-air missile) site didn’t make the mistake of shooting the friendlies down, the planes would enter Russian airspace. That meant uncontested airspace where the An-124s could fly without fighter escorts.
The planes would then gradually climb to 20,000 feet where they would appear on Russian radars and might trigger some alarms. Quinn could imagine a conversation in which a Russian air traffic controller demanded to know where the blips were going, and why.
The pilots had their answers ready. They were flying a special ops mission into Kyshtym one day earlier than previously planned, in accordance with new orders from the Ministry of Defense. Then they would spend no more than six hours on the ground before flying a special cargo to Moscow.
And because the planes’ transponders had been expertly spoofed, all of the correct data would appear in front of the controller, thereby convincing him or her that the An-124s were legit. Unless an effort was made to confirm the story with the correct people in Moscow.
> But that, according to the Allied mission planners, was highly unlikely. Personal initiative was discouraged in Russia. So, after handling the matter by the book, the controller would consider the issue closed.
That sort of bullshit wouldn’t work during the extraction however, when the escaping planes turned south toward an airfield in northern India. Would Russian fighters chase them? Probably. But Allied fighters would be there to protect them. That was the plan anyway. And Quinn wanted to believe in it.
So, she stared at the page in front of her for half an hour, felt her ears pop as the plane began to climb, and gave thanks. They weren’t in the clear. Not by any means. But the first leg of the journey was complete. And that opinion was confirmed when the copilot spoke over the intercom. The message spoke volumes. “We’ve been cleared into Kyshtym. Our remaining flight time is three hours and fifteen minutes. We’ll keep you advised.”
Time passed slowly. All personal electronic devices had been left back in Brody. But some people played cards, while others read paperbacks, or took naps. And Quinn was one of the latter partly because danger made her feel sleepy. It was a strange reaction but not unique to her. Just prior to combat Quinn had seen all sorts of people yawn.
Whatever the reason Quinn was inclined to take advantage of the impulse, knowing that a strenuous day lay ahead. When she awoke it was to the sound of CSM McKenzie’s booming voice. “Nap time is over people … Pee if you need to. Check your weapons. Make sure they’re loaded with safeties on. Put the personal stuff away. Your pack should be on the floor between your boots. We’re going to load the vehicles in 30 minutes.”
Quinn put her game face on, got up out of her seat, and made her way down the aisle. Most of the soldiers were understandably nervous and Quinn did her best to buck them up. “Hey, Munoz, put that stuff in your pack. This isn’t a yard sale.”
“When’s the last time you shaved, Horenko? Thank God you’re going to wear a mask.”
“What’s the deal Markey? Lipstick? Seriously? You know that’s bullshit.”
And so on. Each comment got a smile, plus laughs from those close enough to hear, and served to lighten the mood. Quinn had performed the act before. She’d seen faces for the last time and mourned them later. How many? she wondered. How many will make it back? And will I be one of them?
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 8
