Born in Blood

by Justin Bell

  Big thanks to Cathy who continues to provide immeasurable support. Thanks too to all the

  folks for their support throughout my work in the Operation: Harvest universe. I have

  to admit, it felt pretty awesome to play in that sandbox once again!

  Born in Blood

  OPERATION: HARVEST (PREQUEL NOVELLA)

  First Edition

  © 2017 by Justin Bell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Out and up into the deep night, the Carpathian Mountains stretched like a mouthful of jagged, uneven teeth, baring themselves at the moon above. Southwest of the Ukraine, the remote mountains looked, for all intents and purposes, like the epitome of wilderness. Rocks, trees, and sloping cliffs concealed any human or animal activity occurring within.

  Buried within one of the lower peaks of the Carpathian range, the Nikora Cold Storage facility sat squat and square, pressed into the dirt and stone, almost as if carved from the unyielding surface of the mountains themselves. The building looked more poured than built. The hard edged, ugly concrete, was a structure far more concerned with function than form.

  Two bare halogen bulbs perched above the front door casting a dim, pale light on the ground below. The sparse, dust covered windows in the building all betrayed the bustling activity of a business that, by all rights, should have been abandoned at this time of night, but was not.

  At every side of the structure, the Carpathians stretched high and wide, bordering the building and creating a natural wall to protect it from the elements and from outside notice, just as its builders intended.

  The front door looked out upon a carved dirt road that was little more than a meandering pathway the width of a horse and buggy, dug into the steep slope of the mountain.

  "Almost here," said Sergei, looking out from under the bare bulbs on the front facing wall. He lowered the binoculars from his eyes.

  "Good. Cold night tonight," replied Fedir.

  "You would rather be in the freezer?" asked Sergei, smirking.

  "I would rather be home with my children," Fedir said.

  "And your wife?"

  "Eh, not so much the wife."

  The men chuckled, a low, hushed sound. Each of them was dressed in dark military cargo pants and wore an equally dark pull over commando sweater. Sergei wore a tight-fitting knit cap while the pale gray of Fedir's hair reflected under the lights of the exposed bulbs. Each man wore a leather strap over his shoulders slung to an AK-9 assault rifle with PSO-1 scope and sound suppressor screwed tight to the barrel. Under the light of the moon above, the dark weapons were strangely shaped absences of light.

  A ways down the single lane path, a pair of headlights worked their way along the curved dirt approach. The Volvo transport truck creaked along the harsh surface of the road as the hoarse, grumbling engine struggled to climb the ever increasing slope of the mountains.

  Another pair of binoculars lowered in the darkness, causing only the briefest shadow to shift in the low light, shrouded by mountain peaks.

  "ETA five minutes," came the low hiss of a gruff whisper. His voice was less of a voice than it was a haggard growl, barely audible in the cool late evening.

  "Acknowledge, Hudson," Strickland replied, his own voice little more than a gust of wind. "Where's Krieger?"

  "Right here, chief," came the low voice of Mora Krieger as her darkened form approached through the tall grass.

  "What's the lowdown?" Strickland asked.

  "Cold storage facility. Two men at the front gate, nobody else at the outside perimeter. There's a large warehouse storage area in the front and what seems to be a walk in freezer at the north side. Eight hostiles in the open area, I couldn't get a picture of the freezer."

  "You think they're holding it in the freezer?" Strickland asked.

  "That makes the most sense. That compound isn't something you want to leave lying around at room temperature for too long."

  Strickland nodded.

  "Everyone remember the game plan?" he asked.

  "Use the truck for cover," replied Kai Lundquist. With his tightly cropped blond hair and rigid jawline, the Swedish ex-special forces operative could have been a male model.

  "Follow it on the approach," Rogelio Cruz continued, the thick Bronx accent blunting his speech. With experience from New York City beat cop to Special Weapons and Tactics, he was the team's expert breacher and developed most of their urban combat operating procedures.

  "Get close to the building, take out the guards, and move in," whispered Blaine Hudson. Another American, his time with the Army Rangers sent him halfway around the world before he decided to go independent.

  "Sound right to you, Mora?" Strickland asked.

  Mora Krieger, the reconnaissance expert, was a former operative for the German Special Operations Command. She was one of the first women to be accepted to a full combat role. She had worked long and hard to beat the German accent out of her speech, but was having no luck doing so.

  "Sounds right, Strick. Only two guards, should be quick and easy, we have eight hostiles directly inside, three along the west wall, two along the east wall, three patrolling between shelving units in the center. Recommend breach, then separate, moving in towards the middle."

  Strickland nodded. "Clear the main area first, then move onto cold storage. We play this carefully, team. We don't want anyone alarmed, and we don't want anything set off accidentally."

  Hudson shrugged. "Pretty remote out here," he replied. "What's the harm?"

  "The harm is a strong headwind," Strickland replied. "The stuff in there is chemical. If el Nino strikes up suddenly, Budapest is coughing their lungs out of their noses."

  Cruz shook his head. "Dang, Strick. Tell me again why we got stuck with this bullshit op again?"

  "Should I tell you before or after you cash the check, Rogelio?"

  Cruz smirked.

  "Look," Strickland continued, "the United States doesn't want too many folks to know they developed that compound, much less that they lost it. They want us to grab it and bring it back with nobody the wiser . . . off the books to the extreme. You know, the usual shit."

  All around him heads nodded, framed by a pair of headlights creeping up the path. He nodded to the team, and they all moved as one.

  Dressed in black uniforms with thick tactical vests contoured to their chests, the mercenaries kept low to the ground, walking with knees bent and weapons grasped in two hands. Each operative wore a rounded helmet with ATN NVG7 night vision goggles strapped to the top.

  As they moved towards the truck, each one of them lowered the devices over their eyes, pulling a translucent green curtain over the entire landscape. As they moved forward, the truck eased its way past them on their left, wandering up the dirt path.

  Just as it passed them, they turned and fell in line behind it, picking up the pace to match the low speed of th
e vehicle as it navigated over the rocky terrain heading towards the building up ahead.

  William Strickland, team leader, was a ten year veteran of American Special Forces. With a wife and two young daughters at home, Strickland had becoming increasingly aware of the dangers of his life's work. He had retired to spend more time with his family.

  Going independent had allowed him to pick and choose his contracts. When a particular op was too hairy for him to tackle alone, he called on this group of international operatives he'd grown to know over the years for help.

  With the right team, he'd begun to feel considerably better about where he was and how much longer he'd do this before considering full retirement. The government kept calling with five figure contracts. It was getting more and more difficult to turn them away.

  With his black padded gloves wrapped around his hands, and an HK416 automatic rifle pointed towards the ground, Strickland moved in behind the truck, working to stay in the blind spot of the rear view mirrors. Equipped with a powerful D10RS scope, crane stock, and thick sound suppressor, he had 7.62 millimeter stopping power in semi and full automatic.

  Just to his right, Mora Krieger carried the same weapon and the same full kit, familiar to her as one of the primary weapons of the German Special Operations Command.

  Just ahead of both of them Blaine Hudson favored his LaRue Tactical OSR with a SureFire suppressor, Night Force scope, and a Magpul short stock. Lundquist, who brought up the rear, preferred to carry the FN SCAR-H CQC, equipped with an Interceptor suppressor and plenty of horsepower. Falling in just ahead of Lundquist, Cruz carried the same HK416 that Strickland did, kitted with the same accessories and the same punch. As essentially a mercenary group there was no standard load out for the team. They went where they were the most comfortable.

  Twin beams of light extended out from the Volvo box truck, reflecting off of the scattered chunks of rock embedded in the packed dirt of the road leading up to the facility. Hudson veered off to the right and leaned around the truck, catching sight of one of the guards who held up a hand, palm facing out, instructing the vehicle to stop.

  "Get ready," he whispered to the team as he eased himself forward, pressing his back against the rear of the storage compartment.

  "On three," Strickland said, moving up towards the rear of the truck himself. Cruz, Lundquist, and Krieger dropped to low crouches with their weapons pointed at the ground.

  "Sergei, Fedir, all is quiet?" the driver asked as he rolled down the window while the truck was still in a slow motion forward progression.

  The two guards took a few steps forward. Sergei moved towards the driver's side while Fedir coasted over towards the passenger side.

  "Three!" barked Strickland in his low whisper, then was in motion.

  At the other corner, Hudson moved.

  Raising his HK416 to his shoulder, Strick sighted on the approaching Sergei, placing the red laser dot on center mass and squeezed off two quick, silenced shots. Well, as silent as large caliber rifles are. The swift sonic boom of the bullet echoed in the clear night sky as Sergei jerked as if punched and stumbled backwards.

  Strickland drifted left, moving his weapon towards the driver's side window. Krieger crouch-walked straight forward, hugging the side of the truck as Strickland pulled away from it. She reached up, hooked her fingers in the door handle, and yanked it open as she spun away leaving the driver's side wide open.

  Two shots muffled by the long, cylindrical suppressor punched the night air, drilling into the truck driver in rapid succession.

  On the other side of the truck, Hudson fired nearly simultaneously, sending two 7.62 millimeter rounds into Fedir's torso, knocking him down as Cruz darted up next to the truck and swung open the passenger door.

  The driver was the only one in the front seat. As Cruz opened the door, he slumped over sideways across the bench seat. Two light tufts of seat stuffing floating in the air where bullets had struck after tearing through him.

  They all stood still in the dark and chilled mountain night as the echoes of suppressed gunfire drifted away with the wind. With their weapons directed towards the front door they waited, listened, and verified that no alarm had sounded and no rushed reinforcements were heading their way. In six seconds three hostiles were down, but that was the easy part.

  "Get the truck open," said Strickland. "Get the bodies in there."

  The other members of the team spread out and moved towards the prone bodies, laying motionless in the dirt.

  "Man, I can't believe that actually fucking worked," Krieger said, shaking her head. Thin tufts of blond hair bobbed out from underneath the backwards black unmarked baseball cap pulled tight over her head. "Another William Strickland special."

  "They don't call me Strick the Slick for nothing, chica," Strickland replied, trying to conceal a satisfied smirk, but failing. "Snag that TOC-100 and get over here."

  Krieger nodded as she drifted away from the group moving towards the bodies. She slung her weapon over her shoulder where the strap caught and snugged it tightly to her back. She fell into lock step with Strickland as they walked towards the building. She fished in a thick pouch on the back of her vest for what looked like a black power drill with a thick coil of cable that extended to about two feet long. The TOC-100 tactical surveillance camera was an instrument typically used by SWAT. The unique fiber optic camera at the end of the flexible steel cable slid under doors to provide some surveillance where nothing was normally available.

  This particular model of surveillance camera came with integrated night vision fed straight to a small LED screen embedded on the rear of the power device now clutched in Krieger's hand. As they neared the door, Strickland gestured, and she dropped in a low crouch, easing towards the door while further extending the cable. She fed the cable underneath the thick, steel door, twisted a dial on the handle, and waited for the dim, green screen to flicker to life.

  Strickland remained crouched next to her with his HK416 clutched in both hands and his eyes focused on the shadowed forms of his team who were pulling the bodies over the dirt to place them in the back of the truck before easing the rear door closed and scuffing the ground with the edges of their boots.

  Moments later Hudson, Cruz, and Lundquist joined the other two in low profile with their shoulders pressed to the walls on either side of the twin doors.

  "Not a great infiltration point, boss," Krieger whispered. "There's just wide open space at the point of entry, and a large main storage area. We have what look like wire shelves along the south and north walls, not packed full, but full enough, with mostly unmarked crates and boxes. I see a set of metal doors on the far west wall that look like the entry to cold storage."

  "Any other doors?" Strickland asked.

  "Tough to tell with the rows of shelves, but I think we've got at least one door on the south wall and one on the north, possibly more. There's movement on both walls as well, between the shelves and the walls. I'm counting at least five hostiles in there, probably more."

  "What about the freezer?"

  "Can't get a feel."

  "No sign of the shit we came to steal back?"

  "Nope," Krieger replied, turning another dial on the handle to twist the camera to the other side of the door, panning around the room soaked in a pale, green fog. "It's probably in the freezer, though."

  "Where that shit is concerned, I'm not sure probably is good enough."

  "We've got the five of us and what we can carry with us, Strick," said Hudson, taking a step closer. "Probably is the best we've got."

  Strickland nodded, staring at the screen. One wrong move didn't just mean disaster for them; it could mean disaster for three hundred square miles. But if they didn't move, and these shitheads decided to use what they stole, the damage would be much, much worse.

  "No choice, really," Strickland said. He turned, looking at Cruz. "You're our breacher, Rog. How do we play this?"

  "Explosive tape on the seam of the doors. Make a big noi
se and bigger light show, then we charge in. We split up. One team takes the south wall; the other team takes the north wall. We clear the room and converge on cold storage."

  Strickland nodded. "Simple. To the point."

  "Not flashy enough for you, Slick?"

  "Long as it works, I don't give a fuck."

  "Well, let's all hope a half hour from now, you don't give a fuck."

  "Half hour?" Strickland asked. "I expect to be at the bar in twenty minutes."

  #

  The moon watched over the rocky horizon like a lone, unblinking eye staring down at them. It was silent save for the low whisper of a breeze cresting the peaks of the Carpathian Mountains, rolling over the uneven ridges like a waterfall, then whipping through the packed dirt valleys. The dusty windows of the single story facility cast pale light on the ground in scattered off white squares.

  The flash was bright and swift, an instant bloom of light scorching up the seam of the twin doors, followed microseconds later by a muffled snap and then a deafening boom. Small chunks of metal shattering out onto the ground, and smoke spun up from the center of the two thick, metal panels. All at once, everything was in motion.

  "Cruz, Hudson, north side!" Strickland barked. "Lundquist, Krieger, you're with me, hitting south!"

  Cruz was first to the door, running low and fast, barreling his right shoulder into the seam of the doors. The broken lock gave way, throwing metal fragments onto the concrete floor inside as he struck the doors and thrust them open in a burst of noise and motion. His foot hit the concrete, his hands moved in unison to lift the silenced HK416, and his eye squinted over the barrel-mounted sight as his night vision goggles brought everything into green tinted focus.

  As the camera had seen, a row of metal shelves with various boxes and crates ran west-to-east near both the north and south walls of the interior. Through the gaps, blurred shapes shifted and moved.

  "I've got movement, two o'clock!" Hudson rasped as the thermal blur in his vision drifted left. Hudson swiveled lightly and squeezed off three shots from his LaRue Tactical. One shot winged off the metal shelving, but the next two rounds punched through thin wood and sent the moving shape behind the crate sprawling and shouting.