“Pretty much,” Dean said. “And you aren’t the first person to tell me that.”
“It’s time to go,” Kasimov said. “Mount up!” Then, after turning to Dean, “I assume you know how to ride?”
While learning the Kazakh language Dean had been required to study Kazakh culture as well. And he knew that the ancient Botai people, who inhabited modern day Kazakhstan, depended on horses for both transportation and food. Evidence of which had been found in ancient corrals. So a lot of Kazakhs knew how to ride. “No,” Dean said. “I grew up in a city.”
“Well, you’re about to learn,” Kasimov said heartlessly. “Amir! Give the American the most docile mount you have.” There was a good deal of snorting, whinnying, and farting as the Kazakhs climbed onto their animals and Dean tried to emulate them.
The fact that Kazakh saddles had stirrups was fortunate, as was the saddle horn located in front of him, and the cantle behind his butt. Amir gave Dean a handful of reins and a piece of useful advice. “Don’t try to guide her … She will follow the other horses.”
Dean said, “Thank Allah for that,” and Amir laughed.
Bodyguards led the way and the rest of the party followed. The river was about 50 feet away. And as the horses splashed into the water a flare lit the scene.
The water was about a foot deep and flowing north. That was enough to keep most of the refugees from using the tributary as a road. And Dean had to give Kasimov’s staff credit for choosing a sensible route. The fact that the horses were walking against the current, with loose stones under their hooves, made the situation more difficult.
Dean had decided to name his mount “Trigger,” after the horse that Roy Rogers rode. He discovered that Amir was mostly correct about the mare. She was willing to follow the other horses, for the most part. There were exceptions however, especially when Trigger spotted something to munch on, and lurched over to get it.
Dean tried pulling the reins in the opposite direction, applying pressure with his knees, and swearing at the animal. Nothing worked.
Fortunately, Amir was riding directly behind Dean, and would come forward at such moments to grab Trigger’s halter, and haul her back on course. And so it went.
Gradually, as time wore on, the pain from Dean’s wounds grew worse. That was bad enough. But then his knees started to ache. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it other than grit his teeth and hang on.
Finally, after an hour or so, the moon rose—and threw a silvery glow over the land. Shortly thereafter the lead bodyguard turned to the right, kicked his horse’s flanks, and urged it up onto a low bank. The rest followed. Then it was Trigger’s turn.
The maneuver began with a lurch, that nearly threw Dean to the ground, followed by a clatter of stones as Trigger’s rear hooves sent them flying. Upon exiting the river, the riders were allowed to pause for a bio break.
After tying Trigger’s reins to a tree, Dean sought some privacy, and found himself gazing north at the city of Karabalyk. He could hear the planes circling, and saw a flash of light as a bomb exploded, followed by a soft rumble. It seemed safe to assume that the city would be in government hands by morning.
Unseen planes could be heard crisscrossing the night sky, but none appeared to be interested in the small group of horseback riders, and for that Dean was grateful.
Dean ate the nut bar that Abdulov gave him, chased it down with water from his bottle, then undertook the painful job of getting back into the saddle.
What followed was both painful and beautiful. The moon arced across the starlit sky. And, when dawn came, what looked like ectoplasm appeared to leak out of the ground. It shivered with each passing breeze.
There were fields. And distant columns of smoke. But no other signs of people. Dean had seen this phenomenon before. Whenever trouble was afoot farmers would disappear into the folds of the land to wait, as their forefathers had before them, for peace to return.
The group was crossing a fallow wheat field when Abdulov dropped back to ride beside him. “Look,” Abdulov said, as he pointed to the horizon. “Do you see the hill? That’s the City of Stones.”
“Really? I see a hill. Or what Americans would call a mesa. But no city.”
“That’s because the city is inside,” Abdulov responded. “The hill consists of limestone. The people who lived there more than a thousand years ago carved homes out of the rock. When enemies came, they would seal the entrances.
“The fort includes a hand dug well, hundreds of storerooms, and places to keep animals. It was a tourist attraction back before the war.”
“Is it bomb proof?”
Abdulov shrugged. “The rock is thick. But who knows?”
The mesa grew larger as the group drew closer. And that was when Dean could see the ruins of what might have been a fortress on the summit. There were hundreds of narrow windows on the north face of the hill, and a jumble of stones surrounding the elevation’s flanks.
It was apparent that the stone blocks and supporting columns had been the component parts of buildings, temples, and baths at one time. All clustered around the fortress which citizens could flee to when necessary. The City of Stones.
Riders galloped out to meet the travelers and escort them to the city. A huge opening led into the hill. And judging from the look of things, a good deal of work had been done to bring the fortifications up to 21st century standards. That included an empty blast room, built to contain the effects of a truck bomb, or a similar device.
Steel doors provided access to a large parking area in which a menagerie of vehicles was parked. The collection included Toyota gun trucks, some towed artillery pieces, civilian freight trucks, a clutch of motorcycles, and some construction equipment. A Chetra bulldozer drew Dean’s eye. That would be perfect for clearing a landing strip, Dean thought. I wonder if it’s functional?
More doors opened into an area which, despite dozens of slit style windows, smelled of animal feces. And no wonder since the place was home to goats, sheep, and horses.
The Kazakhs got down off their mounts seemingly no worse for wear. Dean’s wounds hurt, his knees ached, and his butt was numb. He practically fell out of the saddle. And, if Abdulov hadn’t been there to catch him, he would have collapsed.
“There you are,” Doctor Serikova said, as if to a truant child. “Come. I will arrange for a bath. Then we will apply fresh dressings.”
Dean allowed himself to be led through a maze of hand-hewn corridors to a sign that read: “Baths. Men.” An attendant was present and listened carefully as Serikova issued orders. “This man is to bathe. Put his clothes in the garbage, send for new ones, and give him a robe. Once those things have been accomplished call the infirmary and request an attendant. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Serikova turned to Dean. “The attendant will take you to an examining room where a nurse will apply fresh dressings. Then you will eat and rest.”
“Thank you. And the Caliph?”
“The Caliph will send for you when, and if, your presence is required.”
The doctor turned as if to leave, then turned back again. “The Caliph is a busy man,” she explained. “Hundreds of people died in the attack on Karabalyk. And the government is trying to assert martial law in every city where Sin Jol officials hold office.”
Serikova paused to look around. Then her eyes came back into contact with his. “Eventually they will come here,” Serikova said fatalistically. “I will be busy then.” Dean watched her turn and walk away.
The bath attendant led Dean into a changing room where he was asked to shed his clothes. And, judging from the man’s expression, they didn’t smell good.
Doctor Serikova’s dressings were still in place. One was stained with blood. Dean knew, based on past experience, that removing a dressing could open a wound. So, he left them in place.
Rather than leave his weapons and knapsack behind Dean insisted on taking them with him. The next stop was one of the sto
ne bathtubs that were positioned along one side of a pool. Except for a man floating on his back, the rest of the facility was empty.
The water in the tub was so hot that Dean had to ease his way in. But, once he did, it did wonders for his aches and pains. And, thanks to a wash cloth and a man-sized bar of soap, Dean was able to scrub layers of grime away.
It was tempting to lie back and go to sleep. But the presence of the attendant, plus the need to get an audience with the Caliph, was enough to force Dean up and out of the water.
A towel was waiting for him, as was a set of brand-new clothes which, much to his surprise, fit well. The outfit consisted of a khaki shirt, pants, and underwear. The boots were his—but had been cleaned.
A second attendant appeared. He had the long face and manner of an undertaker. His English was quite good. “Good morning, sir. My name is Wali Umarov. You may call me Wali.”
“Thank you Wali. Please call me Dan.”
Wali nodded. “Please follow me.”
With the pack on his back, the nine in its shoulder holster, and the PP-2000 in hand, Dean followed Wali through a maze of hallways to the end of a five-person line. “Wait here,” Wali told him. “A nurse will see you shortly.”
“Shortly” turned out to be 20 minutes. The nurse was male, competent, and anything but gentle. The dressings were wet, and came away easily. The underlying sutures were intact. But one of the gunshot wounds was leaking pus, which the nurse was determined to expel, prior to applying an antibiotic ointment. The process hurt like hell.
Then it was a matter of applying fresh dressings and taping them down. The nurse finished by asking Dean if he needed something for pain.
“That would be nice,” Dean replied, and wound up with a packet that contained five aspirin tablets. The Kazakhs were tough. Or running short of painkillers. Or both.
A third attendant led Dean to a communal eating area where he ate two bowls of porridge and drank three cups of piping hot tea. The people at the surrounding tables stared at him. A man with an unkempt beard launched into a diatribe about foreign pigs, but stopped when Dean took the nine out of its holster, and placed the weapon on the table next to his bowl.
The attendant was waiting, and led Dean to a cavern in which jail-cell like cubbies lined both sides of the passageway. Some were occupied, judging from the belongings stored in them, and some were empty. Each nook had a number. They stopped in front of cube 19.
“This space has been assigned to you,” the attendant explained. “Please enjoy your stay.”
That was when a 2,000-pound bomb hit the top of the hill, exploded, and caused dirt to shower them from above. The City of Stones was under attack.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Railway Tunnel 2460, north of Chelyabinsk, Russia
After destroying a Russian helicopter, and decimating the troops who’d been lying in wait for them, the unit couldn’t exit the railroad tunnel without being attacked by the second gunship. Quinn was standing outside the north end of the tunnel as the Havoc rounded the hill. She was reminded of a vulture circling a dying animal. In this case the 152nd.
What’s the bastard waiting for? Quinn wondered. Is he out for revenge? Or, is he trying to pin us down, so a reaction force can attack us? We’re screwed if that happens. He will eventually run low on fuel. But how long will that take?
There had been a couple of close calls. Moments when the Havoc pilot came in to hover over the tracks, and fire weapons into the tunnel, only to come under attack from the unit’s RPGs. But thanks to a combination of skill and luck the pilot escaped each time.
A lot of that had to do with the fact that heat seeking SLMs were nearly useless when fired head-on due to the decoy flares that were designed to draw them away.
RPGs were more effective. But RPG rounds were designed to self-detonate at 1,000 yards, a fact that the Russian aviator was clearly aware of, because he was careful to keep his distance. Quinn needed to overcome that paradigm. But how?
An idea popped into her head. A crazy idea. Quinn turned to McKenzie. “I know Corporal Hiller is the best sniper we have. Who’s the second best?”
“That would be Melnik,” the CSM replied. “He acts as Hiller’s spotter most of the time. But he’s a crack shot in his own right.”
“Perfect,” Quinn said. “Send for them.”
***
Lieutenant Sergi Garin eyed his fuel gauge. The needle was creeping into the red. That was bad. But Shagol Airfield was only minutes away, and he could land in a field if necessary.
Ideally, had things been the way they were supposed to be, Garin would have called on other Havocs for backup. But two of the four helos sent to Kyshtym had been shot down the day before. And, in the wake of Yuri’s death, his was the only attack ship left.
So Garin continued to circle. Yuri Yermolov had been his best friend. And the still smoking wreckage of the other pilot’s Havoc was clearly visible.
The prospect of returning to base without avenging Yuri was an anathema to Garin. And if he left, the pilot knew the pindos would escape.
Garin’s gunner, a lad named Kozar, was getting antsy. “How’s our fuel, Lieutenant? Are we good?” That was as close as Kozar dared come to asking his pilot to break the mission off.
“No worries,” Garin lied. “We’re fine.”
The tunnel had two openings. A north entrance and a south entrance. So, in order to keep the enemy penned up, Garin had to circle the hill. And, as the pilot completed the latest circuit, he felt his heart leap with joy. Planks had been put in place. And the enemy was trying to back a Vodnik off the remaining flatcar! “Get ready Kozar. We’re going to kill some pindos.”
***
Corporal “Headshot” Hiller was lying prone next to the east side of the track, and Private Melnik was positioned to the west of her. They were concealed by camo netting, with their weapons resting on their packs, waiting for the helo to take the bait. Melnik heard Quinn’s voice through his headset. “Helo in from the north. Fire when ready.”
It took a moment to acquire the Havoc on his scope. But once he had the target in sight Melnik could “ride” it with miniscule adjustments to the rifle as he waited for the range to close. In the right hands Melnik’s SVD Dragunov could hit a bullseye at 875 yards.
The enemy gunner generally fired from about 1,200 yards out from the tunnel. And after taking positions 500 yards out from the tunnel the snipers were well within range.
That was the good news. The bad news was that they would be shooting at a moving target no larger than a garbage can lid. And making the task even more difficult was the fact that the Havoc’s windshield was impervious to 7.62mm bullets like those that Melnik’s rifle fired.
But Major Quinn had a way to overcome that. Or thought she did. “I have him,” Melnik murmured into his mike. “Standby.”
Melnik heard Hiller click her mike twice. The Havoc was coming in low, just as it had before, as it prepared to fire. Then the gunship flared into a hover. Rockets and thirty mike-mike cannon shells flashed over Melnik’s head as his crosshairs settled onto the windshield. He fired three times in quick succession. The plan was to shatter the windshield with a quick flurry of direct hits. If the attack was successful Hiller would finish the job with one of her famous headshots. But would it work?
***
Hiller was staring through her scope as Melnik’s slugs smashed into the helicopter’s windshield. One, two, three … Shit! The canopy was milky in places but still intact.
All Hiller could do was fire, and keep firing, as Melnik did the same. And, as Melnik’s rifle ran dry, the windshield collapsed. And a bullet found its target.
The results were instantaneous. With no hands and feet to control the Mi-28, it tilted sideways, fell, and came apart as rotors thrashed the ground. Pieces of helicopter flew every which way … And one of them landed only five feet from Hiller. “Asshole, down,” she said. “Over.”
***
Quinn felt a grim sense of satisfac
tion. The 152nd was free … But to go where? Were Russian soldiers closing in? No, Pruitt would warn her. Still, it made sense to find out what was going on around her.
Captain Andruko had taken a patrol west and troops were loading their gear aboard the much abused Vod as Quinn went looking for Pruitt. The UAV operator saw her coming. Her gear occupied a makeshift desk about 50 feet inside the tunnel. “I have a bird up, Major … But I need to pack or Moms will kick my ass.”
Quinn grinned. “As she should. Can you give me a quick peek? I want to see the area south and west of us.”
“Can do,” Pruitt said. “You can look over my shoulder.”
A map was spread out next to the computer. Pruitt put a grimy forefinger on a town called Dolgoderevenskoye. “We’re just north of this place,” Pruitt said. “As you can see, the M-36 jogs west, and circles around it. Then the highway turns south to Chelyabinsk. Shagol Airbase is over here.”
“Show me the airbase,” Quinn said.
“Roger that,” Pruitt replied. “But my bird will need 10 minutes to get there.”
Quinn took the hint, left, and returned 10 minutes later. “Here you go,” Pruitt said, as the UAV circled high above the airstrip.
A number of things were apparent. First was the fact that the American B-2 bombers had done a very efficient job of reducing 75% of the base to rubble. And that was consistent with the reports Quinn had received earlier.
The second thing was that the airstrip, which was the most important part of any airbase, had been repaired. Debris had been pushed off onto both sides of the strip. Bomb craters had been filled and the runway had been levelled. Not to peacetime standards, but that wasn’t necessary.
Quinn felt a rising sense of excitement. She knew, based on past experience, that an American C-17 could land and take off from a strip like Shagol’s. And the four engine cargo planes were designed to operate from unpaved runways. What if an American plane could fly in, and take the unit out? Problem solved.
Whoa, Quinn thought. Look at the rest of it. Look at the troops, the weapons pits, and the defensive berms. The Ivans aren’t going to hand the place over. You’ll have to take it. And, once you do, a planeload of Russian troops could land while you’re waiting for a C-17 to arrive.
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 22
