Thirty-eight of Hiller’s bullets hit their targets. Twenty-three slugs were on, or within an inch of the bullseye.
The range master couldn’t believe it, and ordered Hiller to shoot the course again. And rather than falter Hiller managed to improve her previous score.
So, the day after Hiller finished boot camp the army shipped her to the army sniper school at Fort Benning, Georgia. There she finished the war-shortened course in five weeks and graduated “Top Gun.”
Then it was home for seven days of leave prior to being shipped to Europe where Hiller participated in the Battle of Prague and killed 17 Russians. Fifteen of the kills were headshots, earning her the nickname “Headshot.”
Now she was on top of a building in the midst of the Gorsky Copper Works, picking a shot for her Russian SVD Dragunov rifle. The obvious choice was the Russian officer who was trying to rally his soldiers. The same soldiers who’d been lucky enough to survive McKenzie’s grenade attack and were hesitant to leave cover.
The trigger gave, the stock thumped her shoulder, and the rifle sent the 7N33 bullet down range. The slug blew half of the Russian’s face away. The force of the impact caused the officer to turn a full circle before slumping to the ground. Not a human. Hiller couldn’t countenance killing humans. But a target. Target eighteen.
***
A cheer went up and Barmi pulled the vault door open. Well, I’ll be damned, Jones thought. Geek boy did it.
And that was when a manhole lid toppled over, a man popped up, and opened fire with a submachine gun. Barmi shuddered as bullets hit his left side and killed him.
Dean shot the man. Twice. But there were more manholes nearby. And more attackers. Three additional Americans died.
Jones clawed for his pistol, pulled it free, and brought the weapon up. What happened next wasn’t part of a plan. It was an opportunity mated with an impulse. He aimed and fired. A blood mist appeared over Flynn’s head as the bullet hit him. Jones shouted, “Medic! We need a medic! The Colonel is down.”
Jones dashed forward and hurried to pull Flynn back out of harm’s way. The body left a blood trail on the concrete floor. Jones had to contain a laugh. It had been easy … So, fucking easy, with bullets flying every which way.
Maybe, back in the States, all sorts of forensic bullshit that would have been used to match the bullet with his pistol. But there was zero chance of that in Kyshtym, Russia.
And Jones knew that, because he’d done the same thing before, only in Afghanistan. His platoon was engaged in a wicked firefight when Jones tossed a grenade into the foxhole where 2nd Lieutenant Aston Fucking Freemont Wilson was busy giving orders. The explosion tore the conceited bastard apart.
Fragging, that’s what Vietnam vets called it, and by all accounts a whole lot of dumb shit officers went home in body bags after they pissed the wrong soldier off. And Wilson sure as hell pissed Jones off.
Doctor Gulin arrived. The front of her uniform was wet with blood as were her hands. She checked Flynn’s pulse in two locations and examined the head wound. “He’s gone,” Gulin said. “Find Major Quinn. Tell her that she’s in command.”
“That sucks,” Jones said. “I’ll tell her.”
The shooting was over by then. The rest of the motorheads were sent out to find manhole covers and put heavy weights on them. Pistol in hand Jones ventured outside, spotted Quinn next to a dumpster, and hurried over. “Doctor Gulin sent me, ma’am. Russians stormed up out of the drains. Colonel Flynn was killed.”
Quinn felt a sense of shock. “The Russians did what?”
“They came up through manholes, ma’am. From the storm drain below. You’re in command now. That’s what Doctor Gulin said.”
Quinn felt an overwhelming sense of shame. She should have gone inside, should have taken a long hard look around, rather than trust others to do it. Yet, in spite of her stupidity, she had to lead.
Quinn turned to McKenzie. “The Colonel is down, Command Sergeant Major. Keep that off the radio for now. I’m going inside.”
McKenzie swore. “I’m sorry to hear that ma’am. Don’t worry, we’ll keep the lid on.”
Quinn entered the building with Jones tagging along behind. Bodies were sprawled in front of the vault. Some were Russians and the rest were members of the 152nd.
The vault was open and Dean beckoned her inside. Quinn saw a pallet load of boxes, one of which had been opened. Dean held a slug of metal up for her to examine. “The rhenium is right where Mars said it would be. And we scored a bonus. Look at this!”
A separate box was sitting on the pallet. And when Dean flipped the lid back Quinn saw that it was filled with gold bars. “They’re kilobars,” Dean told her. “Each one weighs 1,000 grams, or a little over 2 pounds, and they were headed for Moscow. Gold is a byproduct of the copper extraction process. How much do you want to bet that President Toplin is waiting to get his hands on it?”
***
The rhenium was gray. But the gold glowed. And Jones couldn’t take his eyes off of it. The sight filled his mind with longing and fantasies about life somewhere safe.
The reverie was short-lived however. “Jones,” Quinn said. “Find your team. Order someone to bring the pallet jack into the vault and fetch a truck. I want this material loaded within fifteen minutes. And don’t forget to strap the boxes down.”
Jones wondered if he’d been wrong to shoot Flynn instead of the Ice Queen. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll get it done.”
As Jones left Quinn turned to Dean. Their eyes met. “So,” Quinn said. “What now?”
“We switch to plan B,” Dean replied calmly.
“Which is?”
Dean smiled. “You should know, you wrote it. We’ll head for Ozersk, also known as City 40, and spend the night there. Then we’ll drive south through Chelyabinsk to Kazakhstan. And, by the time we arrive, the agency will be ready to pull us out.”
“It won’t be that simple,” Quinn replied.
“No,” Dean admitted. “It won’t.”
“Will you take my orders?”
“For the most part, yes.”
It wasn’t the full throated “Yes, ma’am” Quinn desired. But she understood. Dean’s first responsibility was to the agency. “Take the Tigr and four soldiers and drive to Ozersk. Find a place where we can hole up. Something defensible. The real Spetsnaz will arrive tomorrow. And when they do, they’ll come after us. I want to fight the bastards in Ozersk and defeat them there. We won’t get any stronger than we are now.”
Dean nodded. “I’ll be in touch.” And with that the SOG officer left.
There was a lot to do including collecting the unit’s dead, providing first aid, and scavenging all the ammo they could. Rations too, for the days ahead. Quinn went to work.
***
Though not a member of the 152nd, Dean had been watching its members, and evaluating them. So, it was easy to choose. Mars would serve as translator. Sergeant Mahowski was a tough no-nonsense combat veteran. Corporal Hiller was a one-shot-one-kill sniper. Marcus Da Silva was the best machine gunner in the outfit. And the explosives expert named Dodd had demonstrated his skill on the sliding gate.
The soldiers followed Dean to the Tigr where he took the wheel. Mars rode shotgun, Da Silva took control of the top-mounted machine gun, and the others sat in back.
The first task was to exit the copper plant. That involved navigating around bodies when Dean could, and bumping over them when he couldn’t.
The citizens of Kyshtym were still coping with fires and casualties. Some attempted to wave the Tigr down. Dean ignored them.
All Dean had to do was follow the Ozersk-Kyshtym highway 7 miles to the east. The terrain was mostly flat and unremarkable. Along the way there were signs of the way things had been. Trees huddled around decaying homes. Graffiti covered buildings offered services that weren’t available anymore. And a sad looking Ferris wheel, half obscured by brambles, was all that remained of an amusement park.
Mars translated the
roadside signs which warned of the extreme radiation hazard in City 40, ordered motorists to turn back, and threated trespassers with arrest. Then the fence appeared.
The barrier consisted of steel mesh mounted on metal poles, with coils of razor wire on top. “It looks formidable,” Mars said. “But anyone can enter if they want to. However, because of the radiation and mutants, very few people choose to.”
Dean glanced sideways. “Mutants?”
“Yes,” Mars replied. “From what I’ve heard mutant rats and dogs live in Ozersk. And humans too. Or ex-humans depending on how you want to classify them. And, make no mistake, they can be dangerous. Our defenses must take that threat into account.”
Oh, goody, Dean thought. This has the makings of a true shit show. He braked in front of a double gate. It was secured with heavy chain and the largest padlock he’d ever seen. “Hey, Dodd … Hop out and open the gate.”
While Dodd got ready to blow the gate Dean quizzed Mars about the city up ahead. “We’re looking for a building we can defend,” he said. “What comes to mind?”
Mars frowned. “I’ve been inside City 40 once. That was to meet with a very reclusive contact. From what I remember there are three possibilities. There is a train station that has thick walls.”
“How tall is it?”
“One, maybe 2 stories.”
“Go on.”
“Then there’s City Hall. It’s pretty tall. Maybe ten or twelve stories. I don’t remember exactly.”
The conversation was interrupted by a loud bang as the C-4 went off. The lock fell free and took a length of chain with it. Dodd pushed one side of the gate open and motioned for the Tigr to drive through. Then he got in the back. Dean put his foot on the gas. “And the third possibility?”
“That would be the hospital,” Mars said. “It’s three or four stories high. And sturdy.”
With Mars as a guide, Dean took a quick look at all three, but the final decision was easy. “City Hall is our best bet,” Dean said. “I counted fifteen stories. And the top floor of the central tower is the perfect place for Hiller and some observers. They’ll be able to glass the entire city from there. What’s your opinion Corporal?”
Dean could see Hiller in the rearview mirror. The sniper’s hair was so blond it appeared to be white, and cut so short, that she looked like a recruit. She had blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Had she been a model prior to the war? There was no telling. The draft swept up all sorts of people. “Yes,” Hiller said. “The Ivans will expect us to be up there. But we need to hold the high ground. That leaves us with no choice.”
“It’s settled then,” Dean said, as he parked in front of the building. “Stay with the vehicle Da Silva. If something leaves the building shoot it. The rest of you come with me. We’re going to climb to the top of the tower and clear the building. I hope you like stairs.”
They entered City Hall the way a squad would enter any enemy installation, weapons at the ready, and with night vision gear on. What might have been a pigeon fluttered across the enormous lobby.
The once elegant stairway was littered with trash. Dean saw empty vodka bottles, yellowed documents, pieces of clothing, a spooky looking doll, empty shell casings, and there, on the third-floor landing, a message had been spray-painted onto the wall: Ostav’ poka mozhesh. “It says, ‘Leave while you can,’” Mars explained.
Dean had been a lot of places, and seen some nasty shit, but even he felt a sense of foreboding as they continued to climb. They passed many floors, and countless rooms, any of which could serve as a hiding place. But, by starting at the top and working their way down, Dean planned to clear the building.
After a quick inspection of the very top floor, where the 152nd’s OP (Observation Post) would be situated, Dean led them back to fourteen. “If it moves shoot it,” he told them. “And if you think a room might be occupied, toss a grenade inside. We don’t have time to say ‘Pretty please.’”
The 14th, 13th, and 12th floors were trashed—but clear. But, after arriving on the 11th floor, and following a hall towards the east side of the tower—Dean heard a door slam. Rats don’t slam doors, and dogs don’t slam doors, so that left only one possibility.
The SOG officer proceeded carefully, submachinegun at the ready. Then he came to the pile of bones. Animal bones from the look of it. All heaped up next to a door with Cyrillic lettering on it. The smell was horrible. “I have a likely,” Dean murmured into his mike. “I’m about to fire. Over.”
Dean fired a burst at the lock, kicked the door open, and saw something emerge from a closet. Rat bones were woven into its bushy hair, it was dressed in an ankle length cloak, and armed with a fire axe. Dean shot the creature in the chest and saw it stagger. But then, rather than collapse, it charged. Body armor! The creature had body armor!
Dean aimed for the thing’s head which exploded like a ripe watermelon and sprayed red pulp in every direction. Mahowski arrived in time to see the creature collapse. “Holy shit, what was that?”
“A mutant,” Dean answered. “Keep your head on a swivel. There could be more.”
And there were more. Although none were especially threatening. Pitiful was more like it. As was the case with the old crone who looked like a living skeleton, a dog with three eyes, and rats that could walk across ceilings.
Then it was time to plunge down into the pitch-black basement. And as the team left the stairs, and entered a hallway, someone fired two shots at them. Both bullets missed. That wasn’t surprising given how dark it was. But the Americans had night vision gear, and could see their antagonist. Dean fired, saw the figure drop, and yelled “Cease fire!”
Was the thing dead or alive? Dean didn’t know, but wanted to interrogate the creature if possible. He said, “Drop your weapon! We won’t hurt you.” Mars translated the words into Russian.
“My shoulder,” a voice said in Russian. “You shot me in the shoulder.”
“We’ll give you first aid,” Dean promised. “But don’t point anything at us. We’ll kill you if you do.”
Mars translated. The man moaned and continued to hold his shoulder as the team closed around him. Mahowski had a flashlight. And there, blinking into the bright light, was a perfectly normal young man. “Who are you?” Mars demanded.
“My name is Hakeem Haddad. I am a member of Sin Jol.”
Mars translated and Dean frowned. Sin Jol’s avowed goal was strikingly similar to the one Isis was striving to achieve. And that was to establish an Islamic Caliphate, implement Shariah Law, and rule the world.
So, what was Haddad doing in Russia? A country which had a very hardcore approach to Islamist extremism. “Slap a dressing on that shoulder,” Dean said. “We’ll have the doctor examine Mr. Haddad when she gets here. Who knows? He might come in handy.”
***
Gorsky Copper Works in Kyshtym, Russia
Three members of the 152nd had been incinerated in the Bumerang. That left four bodies that had to be dealt with. And given all that had transpired, Quinn had no reason to believe that the Russians would provide her troops with a respectful burial.
So, the bodies were placed on four stacks of gasoline-soaked wood pallets. With the exception of those assigned to force protection, the rest of the company gathered around.
Unit Supply Specialist Wendy Howard had been an office worker prior to the war, but loved to sing, and was known for her beautiful voice. And, after Quinn delivered a short eulogy, Howard began to sing.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
T’was blind but now I see.”
Once the song was over, Quinn turned to CSM McKenzie, and nodded. He rolled a Russian white phosphorous grenade in under the pallets. When it exploded the wooden pallets disappeared into a conflagration so hot that the bodies were cremated in minutes. A column of greasy smoke rose to drift across the sky.
After a moment of silence, and w
ith the fire still burning, McKenzie came to attention and rendered a salute. The rest of the soldiers did likewise. Then, upon turning his back on the funeral pyre, the CSM led the other survivors to the trucks.
Quinn closed her eyes. She could feel the warmth of the fire on her face. I’m sorry, Colonel, she thought. I fucked up.
Quinn heard the click-whir-click of a camera and opened her eyes to discover that Rooney was taking pictures of her. “The Colonel is dead,” Rooney said grimly. “But we have a documentary to finish.” And strangely enough, those were the words Quinn needed to hear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ozersk, Russia
The orange-red sun was low in the sky, as the VPK led the Ural Utility trucks through the wide-open gate, and into City 40. Since City Hall had already been secured by Dean’s team, the rest of the unit could take immediate possession of the building.
And that was important because the sun was about to set, and there were a lot of things to do, not the least of which was to move the precious metals inside.
There was no underground parking facility. So the boxes had to be carried into City Hall one at a time.
And there was another problem too … What to do with the unit’s vehicles? If left on the street the Russians would confiscate or destroy them. That would leave the 152nd without transportation if it managed to win the impending battle.
Once darkness fell the soldiers had to use headlamps and night vision gear to move their equipment into the building. Quinn sent for Corporal Jones. He looked his usual self—which was wary and resentful. “I have a job for you,” Quinn told him. “We expect the Russians to attack us tomorrow—and we don’t have a way to protect the vehicles.
“The Tigr will stay here. And we’ll probably lose it. But I want you to take the rest of the vics east and hide them. You’ll need to choose a place where they can’t be spotted from the air. Then, when we’re ready, I’ll call you back. Your team will consist of Cranston, Hollis, and the Ukrainian pilots. That will allow you to post two guards around the clock. Do you have any questions?”
“Yeah,” Jones said. “Can I take Specialist Segal with me? Just in case we run into trouble?”
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 11
