Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  That impression was confirmed when Quinn got out and felt an empty bottle break under her right boot. How many were there? Dozens probably. All concealed beneath the snow.

  Quinn made her way to the relay station. A steel door hung open and a drift of snow lay beyond it. What light there was came through eight slit-style windows, two on each side.

  Empty equipment racks had been shoved here and there, and broken glass crunched underfoot. But none of that mattered. Quinn opened her mike. “This is Six. The vehicles parked at the checkpoints will remain there, and be relieved in two hours. The rest of the column is cleared to climb the hill. Over.”

  Quinn went outside, made her way around to the driver’s side of the VPK, and waited for the soldier to roll the window down. “Park nose in so that you’re ready to leave. And make sure the machinegun can sweep the slope below.”

  The driver nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was getting dark and Quinn was on hand to greet each vehicle as it arrived. She placed the Vodniks where their machineguns and 30mm autocannons could cover sections of hillside below. The utility trucks were positioned at the center of the parking area, noses pointed at the access road, ready for a quick departure.

  In the meantime, a squad was put to work cleaning the debris out of the concrete building, plugging the broken windows, and hanging lights. Metal racks had been stacked to create a waist-high operating table and medics were wiping them down.

  Gulin had arranged for a small amount of ether to be included with the unit’s medical gear. It was a pleasant-smelling colorless liquid which, though effective as a general anesthetic, was extremely flammable.

  Despite this volatility, ether was useful in many situations because it could be administered using the simple drop method. This involved dripping carefully calculated doses of the ether onto a special face mask—a method still common in some third world countries.

  As Rooney was carried into the makeshift surgery all nonessential personnel were told to leave. And that included Quinn, who took the opportunity to make the rounds, and visit both checkpoints.

  The Vodniks were positioned to fire on open stretches of highway, and pull back if necessary, to join the rest of the unit. Quinn returned to find that an OP had been established on the building’s roof where Captain Andruko and a couple of spotters were glassing the countryside with night vision binoculars.

  And that’s where Quinn was when Captain Booker arrived. The expression on the XO’s face said it all. Something was wrong. “What’s up, Kristen?”

  Booker looked away, and back again. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “It’s Rooney, ma’am. He didn’t make it.”

  Quinn gave Booker a hug. The news came as a shock. Rooney had been a fixture in the unit. An omnipresent figure who was determined to complete the task Flynn had given him. “How’s the doc?”

  “She blames herself,” Booker replied.

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “I told her that. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  Quinn followed a flight of metal stairs to the ground. Gulin was holed up in the back of the Vodnik that served as both an ambulance and a medical supply truck.

  Quinn opened the back doors, saw Gulin sitting in a pool of yellow light, and climbed inside. After closing the doors Quinn went forward to perch on a crate.

  Gulin was slouched in a folding chair with her boots on a box. She had a plastic cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Droplets of blood decorated the front of her disposable gown. “Hello, Major … Would you like a shot of Jim Beam? I keep a bottle handy for emergencies.”

  “Yes, I would,” Quinn said, as she reached for a cup.

  “The bottle’s on the floor,” Gulin said.

  “I see that,” Quinn replied, then poured herself a shot of bourbon.

  “I suppose Kristen sent you,” Gulin said, as she blew a column of smoke toward the roof. “Good old Moms. She’s everywhere.”

  “She told me what happened,” Quinn admitted.

  “No, she didn’t,” Gulin replied. “Because I didn’t tell her. Not in any detail. I found the bleeder. I clamped it. I tied it off. And then, just as I was about to close, Rooney went into cardiac arrest. We tried. We really tried … But the worthless bastard went AWOL on me.”

  There weren’t any tears. But there was no mistaking the despair in Gulin’s eyes.

  Quinn understood. She’d been to that place, and recently too, after Flynn’s death.

  Quinn took a sip. She didn’t like straight bourbon. But it was warm going down. “I’m sorry, Doc. All we can do is try. And you tried. Rooney would be the first to recognize that.”

  “He had a crush on you,” Gulin said. “You know that.”

  Quinn frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

  “After the colonel died, Rooney spent a lot of time photographing you,” Gulin said.

  Quinn knew, as all female soldiers knew, that men looked at them. Most of them were horny, and no more than that.

  But some, and Rooney might have been one of them, had deeper feelings. Or what they believed to be deeper feelings. Not that the women concerned had a responsibility to sort that out. Quinn’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She tossed the rest of her drink back and put the cup down. “Enter!”

  A door opened and McKenzie climbed into the Vod. A fender served as a seat. The normally unflappable noncom stared at the floor. “I screwed up, Major. I screwed up big time.”

  Quinn couldn’t imagine what sort of mistake would cause McKenzie to say such a thing. “Shoot, Mac. I don’t know what the problem is, but we’ll find a way to fix it.”

  McKenzie forced his eyes to meet hers. “The truck assigned to Checkpoint Alpha is missing.”

  Quinn frowned. Checkpoint Alpha was off to the east. Just short of the intersection with highway M-36. And, if she remembered correctly, it was … Holy shit! The rhenium was stored in that vehicle! Plus the gold!

  At some point during the last couple of days Quinn had come to regard the precious metals as so much luggage. And had given them very little thought. That was her fault not McKenzie’s. The feeling of shame threatened to overwhelm her. It was all Quinn could do to keep her voice level. “So, it was captured?”

  “No, ma’am,” McKenzie said dispiritedly. “I don’t think so. After cutting deals with the other soldiers, the motorheads managed to get themselves assigned to that watch, and to that truck. And I failed to grasp what they were up to.”

  That was when Quinn realized that Smoker Jones had been planning the heist for a long time. And, as part of that effort, had played her like a fiddle. And played McKenzie too.

  One thing didn’t make sense though. “Okay, Jones has the rhenium, but how does he get it out of Russia?”

  McKenzie looked away. “Dubek is with him. Along with Cranston and Hollis.”

  It took a moment for the significance of that to sink in. Dubek! Captain Dubek. Quinn barely knew the pilot. That was on her. But in retrospect it seemed as though the Ukrainian was intentionally opaque. And Jones, master manipulator that he was, had been able to suborn the Ukrainian. And, with Dubek at the controls, the motorheads planned to leave Russia in a plane. But what plane?

  Quinn got to her feet. “I’m going to need the VPK and a team. A good team. Make it happen. I’m going to have a word with Captain Booker. She’ll know where the nearest airport is. And you can bet your ass that’s where Jones is going.”

  ***

  West of Kainkul, Russia

  The tiny village of Kainkul, and its airstrip, were located a few miles east of Highway M-36. Getting there should have been a lead-pipe cinch. But it wasn’t.

  If someone was in charge of snow removal in the area, he or she was goofing off, because the layer of snow covering the secondary road was nearly a foot deep. The Vod’s headlights bored twin tunnels through the darkness as Jones struggled to adjust the dozer-type plow on the front end of the truck.

  The fact that the gold had been loade
d onto the only truck equipped with a dozer blade was no accident. Lieutenant Salazar had been in charge of loading, and based on input from Jones, made the call. It wasn’t that Jones knew the snow would continue to fall. He didn’t. But the possibility was there and Jones had a million good reasons to control every variable he could.

  As Jones tried to master the levers that controlled the snow blade, he felt a rising sense of panic. The Ice Queen knew the truck was missing at that point. And Jones knew she would pursue him with a vengeance. The fear began to abate as he found the right combination of adjustments. “There,” Jones said, as he lowered the blade into place. “Let’s do this thing.”

  The Vod was in low gear with four-wheel drive engaged. The truck lurched ahead as Jones fed it some gas. Snow curled away from the blade and fell to the right.

  Dubek was in the passenger seat. Cray-Cray Cranston and Hollis were seated in the back. All of them were worried. What noise there was originated from the engine, the slap, slap, slap of the windshield wipers, and the heater’s fan.

  A light appeared in the distance. It seemed to shimmer. Then there was another and another. All spaced widely apart. Homes? Yes. “There’s the village,” Jones said. “Are you sure we can take off in the snow?”

  “Yes,” Dubek said. “After you plow the runway.”

  Dubek wasn’t as deferential as the motorheads were. Maybe that stemmed from the fact that he was an officer. But, for whatever reason, the Ukrainian rarely spoke.

  In fact, after listening to Jones explain how they could steal the gold, all Dubek said was, “Da. That’s a good idea.”

  Why Dubek was willing to participate, and what he planned to do with his share of the loot, was a mystery. “No worries,” Jones replied. “I’ll take care of that after we transfer the gold from the truck to the plane.”

  The plane was the element of the plan that worried Jones the most. While interrogating the policemen at the SoGro farm, Jones asked them for information regarding the local airports. Both cops agreed that a plane was parked at the Kainkul airstrip most of the time.

  However, the words “most of the time” were worrisome. What if the plane was elsewhere? That, more than anything else, was the essence of the gamble they were taking.

  A sign said “Aeroport,” and an arrow pointed to the left. Jones completed the turn, rolled past a warehouse, and spotted the terminal off to the right.

  And there, parked under a snow-clad roof, was a bright red biplane! Jones felt a tremendous sense of relief, and gave vent to a loud, “Hooah!”

  “I trained on a plane like that,” Dubek said. “It’s a An-2. It’s big enough to carry the gold, but we’ll have to leave the rhenium behind.”

  “No problem,” Jones said, as he stopped near the plane. “The rhenium would be difficult to sell anyway. Let’s see if you can fire that thing up.”

  Dubek made his way over to the plane, put a boot on the tiny step, and hoisted himself up. The door opened easily. So far so good. But would it start? Jones waited anxiously to see what would happen. He heard the starter grind, saw a puff of smoke, and felt a sense of jubilation when the engine caught. Hell, yes! The plan, his plan, was going to work.

  Jones turned to Cranston. “Strap some eyes on, take a rifle, and go out front. Who knows? The noise could bring trouble. Keep your head on a swivel. And let me know if you see anything. Got it?”

  “Got it boss.”

  A thought flashed into Jones’s mind. After the gold was transferred, and after the strip had been plowed, he along with Dubek and Hollis could depart without Cray-Cray. Did that make sense? Or was it a bad idea? You’ll know when the time comes, Jones thought.

  Each bar of gold weighed two pounds, and there were 49 of them, which meant they had to move almost 100 pounds of metal from the Vod to the plane. Unfortunately, the task took ten minutes. And the Ice Queen could be closing in on them.

  The prospect of that scared the hell out of Jones. Quinn was a whole lot of things—including smart, introverted, and beautiful. Yet he’d been able to play her.

  But that could work against him now. Because, if Quinn caught up with the motorheads, payback would be a bitch. A remorseless bitch.

  Jones didn’t know how long the airstrip was, except to say that it was longer than he wanted it to be, and hadn’t been plowed in days. And, according to Dubek, they were going to need every inch of it. So, all Jones could do was get to work and hope for the best. I’m so close, he told himself, so fucking close. Luck, don’t fail me now.

  ***

  Northwest of Kainkul, Russia

  Quinn was seated in the front passenger seat of the Vodnik, seething with barely contained fury. Unless Jones and his accomplices were already in the air, bound for some destination to the south, the mechanic was going to pay.

  If they were airborne, thin slices of gold could buy the help the thieves needed to reach their ultimate destination, where they could sit out the war in comfort.

  A sign that said “Kainkul” appeared. “Take the next left,” Quinn ordered.

  CSM McKenzie was driving. And if Quinn was pissed, McKenzie was even more so, because the army was his religion, and Jones was an apostate. McKenzie braked, put the wheel over, and made the turn.

  Quinn saw fresh tire tracks in the snow. Had they been left by the renegades? Probably. A short slope took the Vodnik up and over the raised railroad track that ran parallel to the M-36. Then it dipped down onto level ground. Bare pavement appeared and Quinn laughed. The sound had a harsh quality. “They plowed the road for us! Now that’s what I call service.”

  Thanks to the bare pavement McKenzie could go faster. They saw lights after a bit, followed by the directional sign that said “Aeroport.” Here’s hoping, Quinn thought.

  ***

  Cray-Cray Cranston thought he had a cushy assignment at first. All he had to do was stand around while the rest of them did the heavy lifting. But it was cold, and guard duty was boring. So, it wasn’t long before the soldier began to get antsy.

  Cranston was about to check on progress when the headlights appeared. And that’s all he could see: Headlights. There was no way to know who they belonged to. Cranston spoke into his radio. “Headlights approaching from the west. Over.”

  When Jones spoke, he was breathing hard. “Shoot the bastards. I cleared the runway, and I’m coming in. I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave. Over.”

  Cranston took cover behind a snow-heaped car, propped the bipod mounted AK-12 on the hood, and began to fire. The rifle was fitted with a 96 round drum magazine which made him feel like a one-man army. Cranston chose a spot just above the headlights and began to trigger short bursts.

  ***

  “I have him,” the Vodnik’s gunner said. “Requesting permission to fire.”

  “Smoke him,” Quinn said, as bullets splattered against armored glass. McKenzie took evasive action and the Vod swerved.

  The 30mm autocannon was loaded with HE red tracer. The path of the outgoing shells seemed to bend due to the motion of the vehicle but found the target. That included both Cray-Cray and the vehicle he was hiding behind.

  The red-orange explosion lit the entire area for a moment as chunks of Cranston flew in every direction. “Tango down,” the gunner said laconically.

  Quinn turned to McKenzie. “They’re still here, Mac. But they’ll leave if they can. Get us onto the runway.”

  ***

  True to Dubek’s instructions Jones left the Vodnik parked on the runway where the high beams lit roughly half of it. Which, according to the pilot was, “Better than nothing.”

  So, Jones was jogging toward the terminal when Cranston called, and the gunfire began. When the firefight came to an abrupt stop, he knew Cray-Cray was dead.

  Jones was just starting to consider that, when he heard two shots followed by the roar of an engine. Dubek was in the plane. That would allow them to …

  Then Jones saw the An-2 taxi out and turn toward the far end of the runway. That was
when he understood the truth: Dubek was stealing the gold!

  And the shots? It was safe to assume that Hollis was dead.

  Jones coasted to a stop. There was no point in running. He couldn’t catch up to the plane. All he could do was stand there and watch the gold take off.

  ***

  McKenzie rounded the warehouse just in time for Quinn to see the biplane start to taxi. “Stop the truck! Put a SAM on that plane, Austin … And I mean now.”

  The Strela-2, shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile had been a last-minute addition to the team’s armament, and as the An-2 turned onto the runway, Quinn gave thanks for it.

  Austin was a twenty-something kid who’d been an IT tech before the war. As such he had a natural affinity for all things electronic, and that included SAM launchers.

  To Austin’s credit he was out of the Vod in a matter of seconds with the tube on his right shoulder. Quinn hurried to join him. “There won’t be enough time to reload,” she cautioned. “So, take your time. Then, when you’re sure, fire.”

  Austin’s attention was centered on the plane. It had arrived at the far end of the strip by then, turned, and was preparing for takeoff. Once Austin acquired the target in his sight, he pulled the trigger halfway back, causing the seeker to track.

  Would the snow cause a problem? Quinn felt a terrible tightness in her abdomen. Then she heard the telltale beep. That meant the missile was locked onto an infrared target and ready to take off. Rather than select the automatic mode, Austin chose a manual engagement, and pulled the trigger all the way back.

  Having detected a strong signal, the seeker launched the missile for him, which caused the rocket sustainer motor to activate. The missile was in the air, and traveling at 960mph, as the An-2’s wheels left the ground.

  Quinn held her breath, but not for long. The warhead scored a direct hit on the biplane’s engine and detonated. The force of the explosion sheared the front end of the plane off and caused it to crash upside down.

  Quinn waited for the flames to appear. They didn’t. Her breath fogged the air. “Major,” McKenzie said, as he and his team materialized out of the falling snow. “Look at what we found.”