***
Yeltsin was lying on his back staring up at the dirty brown sky. Something was wrong, very wrong, but he didn’t know what. A chest wound? It hardly mattered. He was a soldier. And he knew his life was leaking out onto the cold ground.
A blurry image appeared and knelt at his side. “I’m a doctor,” she said in Russian. “There’s nothing I can do. I hope you understand.”
A woman! The pindos were so desperate they were sending women into battle! “Da, I understand. Did any of my men survive?”
The shooting had stopped. “No,” Doctor Gulin said.
“Without planes on which to escape, you will join me soon.”
“Probably,” Gulin agreed. “The whole world is dying. Why should I be an exception?”
Yeltsin felt lightheaded. Annika appeared. He was holding her high. “Bol’she papa, bol’she!” (More daddy, more!) Then he was gone.
***
CSM McKenzie threw a protective perimeter around the immediate area, dispatched scavengers to collect everything that might be of use, and organized a burial party. Two pilots and three soldiers had been killed.
The airport’s backhoe made quick work of scooping out individual graves. A dog tag from each dead soldier would be handed over to graves registration after the mission was over. Assuming some of the team survived.
GPS coordinates were recorded as well, and Rooney took photos of the scene, in case a team was sent to recover the remains after the war. Finally, a section of fuselage was put in place to serve as a communal marker.
A can of spray paint had been liberated from a tool shed and used to create an epitaph: “Far from home, and fighting for freedom, Allied soldiers died here. May they rest in peace.” Everyone, other than those standing guard, took a moment to bow their heads and say silent prayers. The Russians would remove the memorial. They knew that. But it would be forever fixed in their memories.
Then it was time for Flynn, Dean, and Quinn to agree on a plan. Rooney shot video of the scene which, according to Flynn, would come in handy when a documentary was produced later. Quinn was amazed by the absolute certainty with which Flynn said it.
“Here’s how I see it,” Flynn told them. “We have three choices: We can surrender, we can follow the surface extraction route south, or we can steal the rhenium and follow the extraction route south. Did I leave anything out? No? So, which will it be?”
“I vote for Option 3,” Quinn said.
“Option 3,” Dean agreed. “I didn’t come all this way to leave empty handed.”
“I agree,” Flynn said. “Three it is. Let’s saddle up and get this show on the road.”
The SUV-like Tigr led the way with Andruko in the passenger seat. The brawny VPK followed with Flynn and Rooney seated in the back.
The K-17 Bumerang was next. And since Quinn didn’t like being cooped up inside K-17, she’d chosen to stand in the rear hatch, where she could see what was going on. The soft-sided Ural-4320 6x6 trucks brought up the rear.
There was a lot to see. That included the fires, the columns of black smoke that twisted up into the sky, and the distinctive profile of a richly decorated Russian Orthodox church.
Quinn hadn’t been privy to the plan to bomb Kyshtym, but understood the necessity. By hitting key targets, the bombers could pave the way for the 152nd, and keep the local authorities busy. Thereby giving the raiders a better chance of success.
Did Dean know about the bombing mission in advance? Probably. The bastard seemed to know about everything. And that was part of his allure.
***
Smoker Jones and his motorheads were riding in a Ural 6x6. Jones took a deep drag from an unfiltered cigarette, blew a stream of smoke into the air, and continued to stew. Captain “Moms” Booker was a bitch. So he and Zoey Segal were getting it on? So what? That’s one of the things airplane lavatories were good for. And, in addition to being an awesome wrench turner, Zoey knew how to fuck. But rather than let people do what people do, Moms was all up in his grill: “You were on duty.” “Segal reports to you.” “You set a bad example.”
Moms said all those things. Then, when the ass chewing was over, she dropped the bomb. “I don’t have time for your bullshit right now, Jones … But when this shit show is over, you’re going back to being a specialist.”
Big deal. As if he cared about being a corporal. No, Jones decided, the army isn’t for me.
As for Moms? Well, every dog has its day. And his day would roll around.
***
The airstrip was only a few miles northwest of Kyshtym. So, it was only a matter of minutes before the convoy entered the city. The bombs hadn’t been intended to level Kyshtym, so much as to destroy key targets, and keep the local authorities busy. That meant the bomb craters and fires were widely dispersed.
Quinn kept her head on a swivel as the convoy rolled through a residential area. Trouble could come from anywhere at any time. Most homes were shabby one – or two-story affairs fronting dirt roads and surrounded by weather-worn fences. Trees, nearly all of which were in dire need of pruning, crowded in around them. And that was consistent with an average per capita income of $12,500 per year.
The raid had been scheduled for a Sunday, when most of the copper plant’s workers would be at home. Some chased the convoy wearing little more than pajamas. They waved their arms and pleaded for help. From their perspective, the military convoy meant that the government had arrived to restore order, and bring whatever relief was available in the middle of a war. And, if the trucks were carrying supplies, the locals wanted their share.
The Gorsky Copper Works appeared in the distance. Quinn knew the concrete structures were home to pieces of equipment like blending bins, rotary steam dryers, cyclone collectors, and more.
The rhenium was, according to CIA HUMINT, stored in Building 26. So that’s where the task force was headed. Brake lights appeared as the convoy slowed to a stop. From her perch atop the K-17 Quinn saw a man emerge from a shack and slip into the VPK. That’s him, Quinn thought. That’s Agent Mars. He’s been here, deep inside Russia, since before the war started. Talk about courage.
The convoy came to another stop one mile later. A well-maintained sign arched over the main gate. The lettering was in Cyrillic which Quinn couldn’t read. But it seemed safe to assume that she was looking at the plant’s name.
Russian soldiers were visible at the checkpoint ahead. What did they think of the men wearing skull masks? Not that it mattered so long as they opened the gate.
Andruko got out of the Tigr and went forward to speak with a soldier. A noncom? Or an officer? Quinn couldn’t tell. She saw Andruko hand a sheaf of papers to the soldier, all of which were fake, but identical to the permissions he should submit.
Forms were the lifeblood of Russia. “I do not rule Russia,” Nicholas II said. “Ten thousand clerks do.” And that hadn’t changed since he and his family were executed in 1918.
Fifteen seemingly endless minutes passed while the Russian soldier went through the papers page-by-page, made a phone call, and delivered a salute. That was the signal it seemed, because the gate slid out of the way.
Andruko returned to his vehicle and climbed inside. The Tigr led the rest of the vehicles into the sprawling maze of buildings. Because it was Sunday, very few workers were on duty. But those who were turned to look as the convoy rolled past. And, when a man waved, Quinn waved back.
Then the convoy arrived at a second gate. It was manned by nayemniki (mercenaries) rather than soldiers, all of whom had been declared unfit for military service, thanks to the bribes paid by the oligarch who owned the plant. A sure sign that he harbored doubts about the army.
The mercs wore blue uniforms, black tac gear, and cradled Chinese-made Type 05 submachine guns. All of them sported spade-style beards and looked tough.
Quinn watched Andruko raise his hands, as if disgusted by what he’d been told, and turn back to the Tigr. Quinn could hear his voice via the company tac freq. “He told me t
hat we aren’t due here until tomorrow. And, when it’s tomorrow, we can return. Over.”
“This is Six,” Flynn said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Over.”
Then, while looking up at the gunner standing on the seat next to him, Flynn gave the order. “Kill them Corporal … All of them.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gorsky Copper Works in Kyshtym, Russia
The Russian mercenaries thought the confrontation was over as Andruko turned away. That meant they were caught flat footed when what they believed to be a Russian army unit opened fire on them. The vehicle-mounted general-purpose machinegun could fire 250 rounds per minute. And mercs jerked spastically as a hail of 7.62x54mmR slugs tore into them. All six were dead in seconds.
The moment the firing stopped Andruko hurried to open the gate. The Tigr lurched from side to side as it bounced over a couple of bodies. It was followed by the VPK, the Bumerang, and the trucks. Was Agent Mars guiding them in? Quinn assumed so.
They turned left, right and left again. Building 24 appeared on the right, followed by Building 25 on the left, then Building 26 on the right. The convoy came to a stop. “This is Alpha-Six,” Flynn said over the radio. “The A Team will take charge of security. The B Team will form on me.”
The B team included an army Demolitions Specialist named Dodd, a Cyber Operations Specialist named Barmi, and a master locksmith named Foley. The mission planners had assumed that opening the room-sized vault would require a variety of skills. The specialists were unloading their tools as Quinn jumped to the ground. She was in charge of the A Team.
Dean arrived with Agent Mars. The local operative had heavy brows, sad eyes, and a nose which, judging from appearances, had been flattened in the past. Two – or three-days’ worth of gray stubble covered his cheeks. “Andre, this is Major Quinn. Major Quinn, this is Andre Mars.”
Mars nodded. “Welcome to Russia, Major … I understand you’re in charge of security. It’s safe to assume that the soldiers at the first gate heard the machinegun fire. And at this point they know the mercenaries are dead. Army reinforcements will arrive soon, along with the off-duty nayemniki. It’s my guess that it will take some time to open the vault. So, I suggest that you take advantage of what time you have.”
Quinn shook the agent’s hand. “Thank you, Andre … I look forward to getting acquainted later.”
The A Team consisted of experienced combat troops drawn from Ukrainian and American forces. They were formed up and ready to go. “Captain Andruko,” Quinn said. “Put your platoon on the surrounding roofs. Who’s your best sniper?”
“That’s Corporal Hiller. Troops call her ‘Headshot.’”
“Excellent. Let Headshot choose the position she prefers.”
“Lieutenant Salazar … Keep Sergeant Mahowski and one squad here for force protection. Use the second and third squads to block both ends of this street. Once they’re in position, add heavy weapons as you see fit.
“And remind your soldiers that we’re wearing Russian uniforms. So, they’ve got to make positive IDs before they fire. Semiauto only. Try to conserve ammo. Got it?”
The officers nodded, and said “Yes, ma’am,” in unison.
“Good. Hit it.”
With the exception of Mahowski, and his squad, the rest of the soldiers took off. Mahowski was a combat vet and a man the soldiers looked up to. “Find the backdoor to this building,” Quinn told him, “and secure it. And the side doors if there are any. Block them with anything you can lay your hands on. The heavier the better. And keep me in the loop.”
Mahowski turned to his soldiers. “You heard the Major … We’re going to lock this place down.” The squad departed at a trot.
That left Quinn free to deploy the company’s vehicles. She sent the Bumerang to the west end of the street, and the heavily armed VPK to the east, where they could provide Salazar’s people with fire support. That left the Tigr and the large trucks. By parking them between buildings, noses out, Quinn hoped to preserve them for a successful getaway.
Then it was time to pause and think. Had she missed anything? If so, she couldn’t think what it was. A crow cawed. A siren moaned in the distance. Then a blanket of silence fell over the complex. The waiting had begun.
***
Jones lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and savored the smoke. And why not? Moms had assigned his team to load and transport the rhenium after the nerds opened the vault. If they opened vault. In the meantime, the mechanics were free to stand around and watch.
The vault consisted of a steel reinforced concrete room which could only be accessed via a steel door. A key pad was visible on the front surface of the vault, along with a chromed wheel, which would be used to retract the side pins once the correct password was entered.
But before that could occur the nerd squad had to deal with a sliding gate. It consisted of two-inch thick vertical iron bars.
Jones figured that a cutting torch would take care of the problem in a matter of minutes. But, despite his suggestion, the 152nd didn’t have one. “A torch would force us to haul tanks around,” he’d been told. Even though it was okay to transport a large pallet jack. Well, fuck them.
It looked as if one of the techno geeks, a kid named Dodd, was getting ready to blow the gate. After fastening a charge to the old-fashioned lock, and attaching a wire, he backed away. Then he yelled a warning, and boom! Pieces of lock flew every which way.
Jones was impressed. Maybe there was hope for Dodd. Anyone who knew how to blow things up was cool. But could the kid open the vault? Jones didn’t think so.
***
When the Russians came, they came hard. A T-72 main battle tank led the way. The engine roared. Bogey wheels screeched and tank tracks scored the road.
T-72s were ancient compared to the T-90s that came later, never mind the T-14s that prowled the western front. But the T-72’s 125mm smoothbore gun was more than a match for the Bumerang’s 30mm cannon. And the tank’s armor was thicker too.
The Bumerang’s crew put up a valiant fight but it was over in less than two minutes. A loud BOOM echoed between the surrounding buildings as an armor piercing shell found the Bumerang’s reserve ammo bin and triggered a massive explosion.
Shrapnel flew in every direction, blew divots out of the concrete walls all around, and took Private Lilly’s head clean off. His body remained standing for a moment, blood spurting, before he collapsed.
Metal screeched as the T-72 pushed the fiery wreckage out of the way and rolled forward. That was when the 125mm cannon spoke again, sending a shell straight down the street. The VPK was the intended target. But the shot was high and struck a building. The explosion blew a hole through the concrete wall.
Quinn witnessed the moment from her makeshift command post, located next to a steel dumpster. She was about to give an order but Andruko spoke first. “This is Bravo-Six. We know this tank. It’s called ‘soft tops.’ You watch. Over.”
Quinn was reminded of the tank on the east end of the ponton in Worms, Germany. And the extent to which tanks were generally vulnerable from above.
Quinn took a peek around the edge of the dumpster and saw a figure appear on the roof of a building north of the tank. The soldier couldn’t miss. The RPG fin-stabilized rocket lanced straight down, struck the deck aft of the tank’s turret, and went off with a loud boom.
A pillar of fire shot up out of the newly created hole and, as ammo began to cook off inside the tank’s hull, the vehicle shook as if palsied. “See?” Andruko demanded. “I tell you so. That for my country.” There was no time in which to reply, as Russian troops surged around both sides of the burning tank, and charged up the street.
***
After blowing the gate, the B Team was hard at work on the vault. Jones wasn’t part of the nerd squad but, based on the decision to let Barmi tackle the electronic lock, it seemed reasonable to assume that the brainiacs didn’t think that a C-4 was the way to go. Maybe they were worried about destroying some or all of the rhen
ium.
Whatever the reason Barmi was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, typing on his laptop. Jones couldn’t see any wires. So, he figured that Barmi was trying to hack the plant’s Wi-Fi system and access the lock that way. Did the Crypto genius have some sort of top-secret app for busting passwords? Probably.
Jones heard two muted explosions, followed by the sustained rattle of gunfire, and knew that some serious shit was going down. Meanwhile Jones and his posse were safe. Maybe Moms wasn’t so bad after all.
***
Quinn was lying on her stomach peering through the six-inch gap between the dumpster and the street. She waited for Russian boots to appear and fired.
The Val was suppressed, which meant that it produced a gentle clicking sound rather than loud reports, as sub-sonic rounds tore into ankles and feet. Two enemy soldiers fell and she shot them again.
The Russians were armed with AK-74s. The rifles were extremely loud. Bullets clanged as they hit the dumpster. CSM McKenzie had a solution for that. The noncom had a KBP AGS-17 30mm automatic grenade launcher which could fire 5 rounds in seconds.
But before McKenzie could trigger the weapon, he had to belly crawl out into the street where a Russian corpse offered a little bit of cover. Bullets kicked up chunks of asphalt around the noncom as he fired 5 rounds, dumped the magazine, and fired 5 more.
The explosions brought the Russian advance to a halt as half a dozen men fell. When the volume of return fire dropped off McKenzie took the opportunity to elbow his way back to safety. There was a grin on his face. “Howdy, Major … Fancy meeting you here.”
***
Corporal Dawn Hiller had been a vet tech before she was drafted. Along with her wife, she had lived a peaceful life in a Denver, Colorado house filled with plants, cats and dogs.
All that changed when she went to boot camp, marched four miles while carrying a 40-pound rucksack, and performed 25 pushups when the company arrived at the firing range. That’s when the newbies were ordered to engage 40 targets with 40 rounds of ammunition.
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 10
