The Ukrainians were armed with AK-74s, which were slung across their backs, and suppressed PL-14 pistols which were out and ready for use. “All right,” Andruko said sotto voice. “The hotel is directly ahead. Follow me.”
Andruko began to jog. The others did likewise. Would the sentries assume they were Spetsnaz? Returning from the fight? The Ukrainian hoped so.
Andruko saw two greenish figures up ahead, and offered a greeting in Russian. “Ey, pridurki, prosnis’!” (Hey, assholes, wake up!)
To which one of the guards replied with a hearty, “Trakhni tebya!” (Fuck you!)
Andruko was about 15 feet away by then. The pistol produced a soft clacking sound as he shot the left-hand sentry twice. Once in the head and once in the chest.
The body was still in the process of falling when Sergeant Honchar shot the second sentry three times. Andruko was ebullient, until he heard a throaty growl, and two German Shepherds rounded a corner. One snarled and went for Andruko’s throat.
The Ukrainian threw his left arm up as 80 pounds of dog knocked him over. The pistol went flying and the AK-74 was trapped under the officer’s back.
Andruko felt a sharp pain as the dog bit down on his arm. With no other weapon to call upon, the officer drew a Ukrainian made Vendetta knife, which he used to stab the dog over and over. The animal produced a howl of pain, thereby releasing Andruko’s arm, and pulled away.
Andruko was trying to reach his pistol when Honchar shot the dog. The other animal lay lifeless just a few feet away. “Quick,” Andruko said. “Head for the third floor.”
“But you’re bleeding,” Honchar objected.
“I’ll survive,” Andruko insisted. “First things first. Follow me.”
They went in through the front doors. Muddy footprints led across the Soviet era lobby to a flight of stairs. Andruko climbed the curving staircase with his pistol up and ready.
Weapons, boxes of ammo, and dozens of packs lined the inside wall of the third floor. Did the packs belong to the men who’d been sent to attack City Hall? Probably.
A heart-rending scream was heard. Andruko turned in that direction and motioned for the squad to follow. A bloodstained stretcher sat in the hall. The door to room 316 was halfway open and a shaft of yellow light fell across the ancient carpet. Andruko approached with care, stopped just short of the doorway, and took a peek around the corner.
Three men occupied the room besides the poor creature spread-eagled on the blood-spattered mattress. The Russian’s left leg had been taken off below the knee. A tourniquet was wrapped around the bloody stump and an IV was running into his right arm.
One of the men was wearing a mask and surgical gloves. He used a pair of forceps to pluck a shard of shrapnel from the raw wound. The patient screamed again.
“It’s over now,” the man said, as he removed the mask. “We’ll place a pressure dressing on the stump, shoot you full of painkillers, and put you on a plane. Don’t worry, Colonel … They’ll fit you with a new leg, and you’ll be up and around in no time.”
Andruko pulled his head back and whispered to Honchar. “Savvin is in there. Set some security.”
Andruko entered the room with his pistol raised. A Russian clawed for the gun in a hip holster and Andruko shot him. There was a thump as the body hit the floor.
“Don’t shoot!” the man wearing the gloves said. “I’m a doctor … And this man is a medic.”
Andruko nodded. “You can leave. I will warn the men outside.”
The doctor gestured to the bed. “What about him?”
“He stays,” Andruko said.
“You are an American pig.”
“I’m a Ukrainian pig,” Andruko replied. “Go or die. Sergeant Honchar … Two men are coming out. Escort them to the street.”
Once the men were gone Andruko turned back to the man on the bed. Savvin’s eyes were open and filled with pain. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll be with my men,” Savvin replied. “Tell me your commanding officer’s name.”
“Major Katie Quinn.”
A look of astonishment appeared on Savvin’s face. “A woman?”
“Yes.”
“Shoot me.”
Andruko shot Savvin twice. They had a saying at the Hetman Sahaidachnyi National Ground Forces Academy. “If your enemy is worth one bullet, then surely he is worth two.”
CHAPTER TEN
Ozersk, Russia
It was pitch black. And Mayor Nicholai Brusilov was imprisoned in a wire mesh cage which, judging from the pile of dusty suitcases heaped in one corner, had been used to store luggage long ago. There had been noises earlier. Hours ago? A day? Brusilov’s watch had been confiscated, so he wasn’t sure. But the Lenin hotel was silent now. Silent except for the drip, drip, drip of water from a leak nearby, and the occasional groan typical of old buildings.
The question was why? Did Colonel Savvin think he had committed a crime? If so, what crime?
Or, and this was the possibility that Brusilov feared most, had he been imprisoned on orders from the President? The notion of blaming him for the bombings and the pindo raid was ridiculous. But it wasn’t impossible. Scapegoating politicians was a time-honored tradition in Russia, and had been since the time of the Czars. And, as the Mayor of Kyshtym, he was the perfect fall guy.
Brusilov took a moment to listen again. There! The clang of a door. “Hey!” Brusilov shouted. “Can you hear me? I need light. I need food. I need water.”
There was no reply other than what might have been the scrape of a shoe. That was when Brusilov remembered the mutants that lived in City 40. They were degenerate things that ate rats, and each other, when the opportunity presented itself.
Fear drove Brusilov into a corner where he got down on his hands and knees to hide behind some trunks. Now, thank God, the lock on the cage would to protect him.
The scraping sounds came closer. And suddenly a light came on! The beam from the handheld torch swept across the cage, found Brusilov, and stopped. The voice was gravelly. “Konfety?” (Candy?)
Brusilov recognized the sound of it. The Scarecrow! A high-functioning mutant, who’d been entrusted with a police radio, and been willing to report trespassers in return for Alenka chocolate bars. Brusilov stood. “It’s me! Mayor Brusilov!”
The Scarecrow handed the flashlight to a crone dressed in rags. She’d been invisible until then and Brusilov felt a stab of fear. How many of them were there?
Now, thanks to the light from the torch, Brusilov could see The Scarecrow. He was wearing a tac vest and carrying an AK-74. All taken from a dead soldier.
Brusilov saw that the mutant was armed with something else as well. A bolt cutter! It took less than five seconds to cut the padlock off. It fell to the floor. Hinges squeaked as the crone pulled the door open. “Konfety?”
“I don’t have any candy,” Brusilov replied. “But, if you release me, I will return with more candy than you can eat.”
That brought the mutants to a halt. The Scarecrow shook his head. “No. You give meat instead.”
Brusilov was about to say, “I don’t have any meat,” when he realized that he was the meat. The Scarecrow drew a pistol from his waistband and aimed it. Brusilov said, “Please,” but it made no difference.
The Scarecrow fired. The slug hit Brusilov in the shoulder and threw him against the mesh. The mutant fired again. The second bullet punched a hole through the Russian’s throat. Blood spurted. Brusilov tried to staunch the flow with his hands. The crone laughed. No, Brusilov thought. This can’t be happening. The blackness took him in.
***
The sky was gray, the air was cold, and Quinn could see her breath as she heard the sound of a siren in the distance. She was standing in front of City Hall as her soldiers carried supplies, weapons, and ammo out to the street where, under Captain Booker’s steely eyed gaze, each item was allocated to a carefully labeled pile. All ready for loading onto the vehicles.
Medical personnel were escorting the walking wounded to the second utility truck. Two soldiers were listed as “Critical,” and were carried out of the building, and loaded into one of the captured Vodniks. One of them was Corporal Al Rooney. The noncom had been filming the battle when a bullet struck him in the chest. And, because Rooney wasn’t wearing his body armor, the projectile was lodged in his chest.
Dr. Gulin and her team were able to remove the bullet during the night. But Rooney was still in bad shape and moving him was almost certain to make a bad situation worse. Quinn was sorry, but had to get the 152nd out of City 40, before the unit was trapped there.
The police siren was louder now. So much so that CSM McKenzie was yelling at people. “Heads up! Grab your weapons.”
But, when the source of the shrill sound appeared, Quinn knew there was no cause for alarm. It was a police car alright, complete with flashing lights, but of no danger to anyone. The windshield was missing for one thing, and all three of the 152nd’s vehicles were following along behind.
The siren stopped in mid-squawk as the column came to a stop and Corporal “Smoker” Jones got out of the police car. The mechanic had a big grin on his face and Quinn couldn’t help but be amused. Jones was annoying, but he was useful, and had a habit of coming through in a pinch. Yes, the unit could make do with the captured Vodniks, but the larger trucks could hold more.
Jones made a show out of walking up to Quinn and saluting. “The vehicles have been fueled ma’am. The tanks aren’t full, but I know where we can get more gas.”
Quinn returned the salute. “Well done, Sergeant.”
Jones frowned. “Sergeant?”
“Yes,” Quinn replied. “I will tell Captain Booker to make a note.”
A look of surprise appeared on the mechanic’s face. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You earned it,” Quinn replied. “Try to hang onto the third stripe this time. You buried Bilenko?”
“Yes ma’am. Captain Dubek has Bilenko’s tag, and agreed to write the location up.”
Quinn nodded. “Good. And the policemen?”
“I have one of them in the car. I made the other drive a truck.”
“So you could drive the police car.”
Jones smiled unapologetically. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Put them in the car and tell them to go home,” Quinn told him. “Then check to make sure that you and your people have your gear. We’re pulling out in 20 minutes.”
It was more like 45 minutes before the Allied column got underway. The VPK led. It was followed by two captured Vodniks, the first of which was fitted with a snow plow that might be called upon for use, depending on the weather. Two 6x6 trucks and a third Vod brought up the rear.
Quinn chose to ride in the VPK. The scenery was little more than a blur. Her thoughts were on Dean, as well as the force that would be sent to find, and destroy her command. Where was it? And when would it catch up with them?
Kazakhstan was only 260 miles away. No more than a four hour drive back home. But there, deep inside Russia, it seemed like 1,000 miles.
***
Near Bolshoy Kuyash, Russia
The Tigr SUV broke down east of Bolshoy Kuyash, but short of the M-36 highway, which ran south to Kazakhstan. Had Smoker Jones, or one of his motorheads been present, perhaps he or she would have been able to fix the SUV. But Haddad and Dean lacked the necessary expertise. So they were forced to abandon the Tigr and proceed on foot.
Both men wore multiple layers of clothing including knee-length jackets. Their packs were loaded with first aid kits, MREs, and sleeping bags.
Dean was carrying a pistol, plus a PP-2000 submachine gun, which he could hide under his coat if necessary. Haddad was armed with the pistols he’d been carrying when captured. The decision to let Haddad have a gun, much less two, had been difficult. Especially since Dean didn’t know if he could trust the college student.
But after weighing the pros and cons Dean decided in favor of arming the youth because, if push came to shove, the extra firepower could make a difference.
As the light continued to fade Dean had two problems to contend with. First, anyone who saw two Russian soldiers walking along a highway was bound to take notice. And that could attract trouble.
Secondly, they needed to find a place to take shelter and stay the night. Dean kept his eyes peeled as they trudged along the edge of the highway and, after a mile or so, saw a building off to the left. No lights were visible, which was a good thing. “Let’s check it out,” Dean said as he pointed to the structure. “That could be what we need.”
Haddad followed Dean off the highway and onto a snow-covered driveway. There weren’t any tire tracks and that was encouraging.
It took ten minutes to reach what turned out to be a one-story summer cabin. It was positioned on a rise with views of Ozero (Lake) Kuyash. The lake was covered by a layer of ice. Lights twinkled in the distance. There weren’t any cars.
Dean spoke three languages, but Russian wasn’t one of them. That’s why he ordered Haddad to knock on the front door. “If someone answers, tell them our vehicle broke down, and we’re looking for a place to stay.” But the knock went unanswered.
Dean didn’t have any tools. So he broke the window that was set into the door, stuck his arm inside, and felt for the knob. The door opened smoothly, and Dean turned the lights on.
The cabin was simply furnished. A cast iron stove sat in a corner. The kitchen consisted of a sink, hot plate, and a tiny refrigerator.
A pair of single beds stood against the east wall, and a pair of overstuffed chairs were positioned to look at the lake. “I’ll start a fire,” Dean said. “See if you can find something to plug the window with.”
Haddad found a cardboard box filled with clothes in a closet, dumped them onto the floor, and cut a piece of cardboard large enough to cover the hole. Tape held the repair in place.
Dean had a fire going by then, and the previously clammy room started to grow warmer. “Let’s see what’s for dinner,” Dean said, as he opened a cupboard. “I’d like to save the MREs for later.”
Haddad helped take inventory. “Tushonka is stewed meat. Here’s some pearl barley kasha. We have two cans of condensed milk … And this is a can of minced liver meat. It’s pretty good.”
“You can have my share,” Dean said. “I’ll try the stewed meat and the kasha.”
Dean tried to draw Haddad out over dinner, but discovered that the young man was either shy or scared, and not much of a conversationalist.
Once the meal was over it was time to consider security. Dean would have preferred to stay awake 24/7. But that was impossible. “I think we should hole up here for 24 hours,” Dean said. “We’ll leave tomorrow night. And, thanks to our night vision gear, we’ll be able to move freely. Meanwhile we’ll rest up and get ready for a long walk. I’ll take the first six-hour watch.”
Haddad unfurled his sleeping bag on a bed, slipped inside, and soon started to snore. That left Dean to sit at a tiny table and teach himself how to disassemble and reassemble the PP-2000. The big surprise was the fact that a spare 44-round magazine was stored at the rear of the gun where it served double duty as a stock.
Dean ventured out from time-to-time to take a pee in the frigid outhouse, and to perform a slow 360, but without spotting anything. Then he returned to sit by the fire and listen to it crackle.
Prior to waking Haddad at the end of his six-hour nap, Dean hid the gold bar and the submachine gun between his mattress and the innerspring below.
Why? Because as Andrew Grove, who escaped Nazi Germany, famously said, “Only the paranoid survive.” The pistol went under his pillow.
Then it was time to wake Haddad and give him a simple set of instructions. “Check outside every once in a while. And don’t fall asleep. Got it?”
Haddad said, “Yes.”
Dean was used to sleeping with one eye open. In fact, after years spent in the military and the CIA, it was hard not to.
&n
bsp; Dean slipped into his bag with his clothes on, wrapped his fingers around the butt of his pistol, and ordered his subconscious to wake him if anything out of the ordinary occurred. Then he closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly.
He was dreaming about Quinn, who was wonderfully naked, when she ordered Dean to “Wake up.” Which he did. That was when Dean noticed that he had a hard-on, the room was cooler than it should have been, and the lights were off. “Hakeem? Are you there?”
No answer. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Dean was out of the bag in a matter of seconds. And, sure enough, Haddad was gone. Dean had been asleep for two hours. So much for his ability to sleep with one eye open.
You are a fucking idiot, and lucky to be alive, Dean told himself. Come to think of it, why are you alive?
Because, Dean decided, Haddad didn’t want to kill you. He wanted to dump you. You can confirm that when you kick his worthless ass.
Dean checked to make sure that the gold bar and the submachine gun were under his mattress, took pleasure in the fact that they were, and hurried to make a mug of instant coffee. That along with a bowl of oatmeal equaled breakfast. He gobbled the goo down.
Then it was time to rummage around in the closet. Big though it was, the black overcoat was barely large enough to fit over Dean’s other clothes, and hide the submachine gun. It would add another layer of protection from the cold and make him look like someone other than a soldier. The gold bar weighed two pounds, but that couldn’t be helped. He put it back in the pack.
Dean didn’t have time to clean up, but he did take a moment to close the door securely behind him, and give thanks for the night vision gear. Snow had begun to fill Haddad’s tracks but the depressions were still visible. How much of a head start did the jerk have anyway? An hour? Or less? There was no telling.
I should get Quinn on the horn, and tell her what a fucking idiot I am, Dean thought. But that would be bad for my image. Dean smiled, and began to jog.
The situation sucked. But if Dean was forced to run, he preferred to chase someone, rather than be chased. Haddad’s prints led straight to the highway, where they took a sharp left, and went east. Toward the north-south highway.
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 15
