by Ian Graham
The brute attacked with another stomp towards Sands' head. Being far smaller in girth, Sands ducked between his legs and drove the heel of his boot into the man's buttocks, causing him to fly forward, his face striking the concrete wall. He screamed in pain as the coarse wall ripped at his flesh. Pulling himself up he threw a back kick towards Sands who took the impact in the shoulder. The Aussie jumped onto Sands, getting his hands around his neck. Holding him back with a raised foot, Sands tried pushing him off, but he was too heavy. Sands knew that he couldn't wrestle the brute forever. The man was twice his size and sooner or later he'd win by sheer strength. Sweeping his arms over the floor of the Humvee, he tried to find one of the fallen pistols. Dunvegan continued to press down on him, choking him, blood from the Aussie's savaged face dripped onto him.
A gunshot echoed. The senator had found Dunvegan's Beretta and fired it over his right shoulder, the bullet passing between them. Using the distraction, Sands pushed his foot against Dunvegan's chest, freeing his other leg and bringing it up to knee the man in the groin. As the pain registered, he grabbed the Aussie's right eye, which had been nearly torn out of its socket by the wall. Dunvegan growled in pain. Sands kicked his face as he brought his leg up over Dunvegan's chest. With a powerful thrust from both legs, the last Torrance Sands saw of Dunvegan was an arm that tried desperately to grab ahold of the Humvee as he dropped over the side and fell away into the darkness.
Taylor looked back and began slamming the Humvee as hard as he could into the walls, sparks flying. Lifting himself into a sitting position Sands looked ahead to see that the tunnel was ending, the slightest crack of sunrise visible through the opening. Taylor turned with the Beretta and fired several shots, almost losing control of the vehicle. Sands dove behind the driver's seat and grabbed the senator's wrist, breaking his arm with a punch to his elbow. The Beretta fell to the floor as the old man screamed. Sands picked up the weapon and hopped into the passenger seat. Per the terms of his contract, the senator was his new target. Nobody got away with stiffing AU. He raised the Beretta just as the Humvee tore out of the tunnel and into the arid morning. The politician's eyes went wide as he looked down the barrel.
"Is this close enough for you?" Sands yelled as he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the old man between the eyes and his head flew backwards, his body going limp. Sands grabbed the steering wheel and pushed him out feeling a bump as the body was run over by the back wheels. Sliding into the driver's seat he brought the Humvee to a skidding stop. He stood and looked back. The compound was easily a mile back and nobody was pursuing him. He eased himself down as the first reaches of sunlight touched the hood. Looking forward to the news reports and the wild speculation that would accompany the senator's death, he drove away. Brief entertainment would be his only compensation for this job.
An Intolerable Evil
Chapter One
6:46am Local Time — Saturday, September 4th, 2004
Comintern Street
Beslan, North Ossetia — Alania, Russian Federation
Machine gun fire rattled in the distance as Igor Dratshev paced across the dust covered concrete floor to thirteen men standing half-heartedly at attention, their morose faces wearing the pain of the last sixty-two hours like muted death masks. Even to Spetsnaz, the toughest of the tough, men forced to endure the most rigorous and unforgiving combat training in the world, the intolerable evil that began with a GAZ 66 troop carrier skidding to a stop outside of a middle school in the North Ossetian town of Beslan would remain lodged in their minds like searing shrapnel, shifting painfully each time they slept.
With his eyes coming to a rest on his deputy commander, Konstantin Rhyzkov, Dratshev knew that he too, battle hardened commander of the Alpha Group counter-terrorism squadron, would never forget the sight of a seemingly innumerable band of terrorists firing hail Mary at the soldiers who charged selflessly towards the besieged school in an effort to draw fire away from the innocent children, parents and teachers being slaughtered by the vile gang of Chechen murderers.
Pacing slowly in front of the remnants of his unit, Dratshev could see the defeat at the corner of their eyes threatening to overtake them. They had all been on their feet for the better part of the last three days, waiting breathlessly for word that the negotiations had succeeded and that the nightmare would soon end. "You have not failed," he said sharply, his voice cracking with emotion. A single tear slid down the cheek of the youngest member of their unit cutting through the dirt and grime still affixed to his face, a man named Alexei, barely past his twentieth birthday.
"The events that began at one o'clock yesterday afternoon were not your doing; those events were set in motion by the terrorists holding those people. It was their attack. It was their murders. It was their damnation! Not yours. You are heroes!"
"Yes sir," the soldiers barked back at their commander, each doing his best to stand a little straighter.
"Now we have work to do. There are killers who fled the building during the fight and some are believed to have survived. They are here and they are hiding like the cowardly rats they are. Somewhere out there among this ravaged village are the men who took the lives of our brothers, the lives of Anton, Andrei, Vasily and Pyotr along with countless innocent children. We will not stop hunting until we have overturned every rock low enough to shield such scum!"
"Yes sir," the soldiers barked again shouldering their AK-74 assault rifles, chosen three days before over their larger and more powerful AK-47s in order to limit the penetration of bullets through the walls of the school.
Turning from his men to the battered front door of the abandoned bottling plant they had tried to catch a few hours of rest in, Dratshev knew he was asking a lot of his men. Most had fought late into the night, the distraction of war favorable to the images that would invade their minds if left to idle thoughts. Pulling the heavy, steel door open, Dratshev shielded his eyes as the rays of the rising sun pierced the gloom of the 1940's era factory. In a single file line, the soldiers led by Dratshev and Rhyzkov moved out into the morning. In the distance north of them teams of lab coated medics moved about attempting to identify bodies, white smoke rising into the crisp Caucasian air from the ruins of the school like souls freed from the threshold of hell.
Chapter Two
6:59 a.m. Local Time
Tumanov Farm — Federal Highway M29 — Caucasus Highway
Beslan, North Ossetia-Alania
Pulling the plastic zipper down and taking a seat on a straw bail in the barn he'd sought refuge in for the night, Ruslan Baktayev removed the jacket portion of the navy blue tracksuit he'd changed hurriedly into as the soldiers had invaded. Like several of his brothers-in-arms, he'd chosen to flee the scene instead of standing to fight. After all, returning home had been the plan all along. Unlike the Mujahedeen they'd brought with them over the border of Ingushetia, he and his men had no intention of becoming martyrs. They would return home to celebrate their victory over the Christians. While he was willing to die for the freedom of Ichkeria and martyrdom would insure his place in paradise, his time had not yet come. He had no intention of dying on the foreign soil of the hated Slavic pigs his people had been forced to share their homeland with. He had other plans. Two days before leading the assault on Beslan's Middle School No. 1, he'd dispatched a twenty-four man team in two waves of twelve to the United States. With the aid of a sophisticated network of Al-Qaeda terror cells, North African slave traders, and Mexican drug cartels, the team would arrive in America within a few weeks where they would await his arrival. Together they would stamp their names permanently on the foreheads of those who occupied Muslim lands where it would live forever as a testament to the vengeance of Allah and of his warriors, the Nokhchii.
His escape into the horde of onlookers that had gathered outside of the school in search of their loved ones would have been perfect if not for the wounded child whose stretcher he'd helped carry to cover his escape recognizing him. Now, wounded himself from a bystander's l
ucky shot, he was relieved to be alive and not torn to pieces by the bitter mob. Gingerly pulling away the torn pieces of his blood stained undershirt, he scoffed at the thought of their faces. They deserved this, their willingness to occupy land that was not their own and their acceptance of a god besides Allah had determined their fate.
"It is ready, General," a high voice said with a quiver of fear. The voice belonged to a man Baktayev knew only as Omar, a member of the Mujahedeen who had joined his clan at their home in the mountains above Grozny two weeks prior to their planned assault. He didn't know exactly where Omar had come from but he suspected he was one of the Turkish Muslims that so often cropped up in support of their cause. Most of them were useful as cannon fodder if nothing else but Baktayev suspected Omar was a coward. Unlike the Mujahedeen who had gallantly fought the invading soldiers and honorably accepted their deaths, Omar had survived, which meant he had run.
"Give it to me," Baktayev said. Slowly, trying hard to steady his quavering hand, Omar handed over the hypodermic needle. The general gripped it greedily. Already he was beginning to feel the effects of the withdrawal his body would soon enter. Fatigue, depression and hunger were not things he could deal with now. In order to complete his escape across the smuggling routes east of Beslan, he would need a strength and alertness only the new amphetamine he and his men had created could supply. Holding it between his teeth, he secured a shoelace around his left arm, pulling it tight until the veins in his arm were exposed. He injected the needle all the way to the syringe and depressed it, pushing the drug into his blood stream with a ravenous look in his eyes.
"That is too much," Omar cried. "You are using it all. It is the only one we have!"
Baktayev hissed at him as the last of the bluish white liquid left the syringe.
"Now what will I have," the Turk asked indignantly.
Closing his eyes and tilting his head back, Baktayev groaned audibly as ne felt the amphetamine begin its work like the bite of a venomous snake. He closed his fists and rested them in his lap increasing his grip tighter and tighter, his knuckles turning white as he began to pound his fists against his own legs. "Arghnhhh," he yelled, pounding his chest violently as he stood and looked about, his eyes wildly ablaze.
Omar retreated to the opposite side of the barn.
"Ahh," Baktayev breathed as the rush began to slow. A satisfied smile stretched across his skinny face as he cracked the bones in his neck with a purposeful twist of his head, the varicose veins across his bald head swelling as his eyes rested on Omar. "Give me your knife."
"Why?" the Turk protested.
"Give me your knife!" Baktayev exploded, pounding his chest with one fist and advancing towards the terrified Turk. Withdrawing the commando style blade hidden within his forest green tracksuit, Omar held it in front of him, his back against the wall as he pointed the end of the blade at the crazed Chechen. "Stay away, stay back!"
Striking fast with a renewed strength, Baktayev launched his hand in a wide circle and struck the Turk's inner wrist, causing his grip to loosen and the knife to fall away into the straw covered floor. Pushing his right fist through the air, he connected first with the Turk's stomach and then with the side of his face, the severity of the blow causing the weathered boards of the barn to vibrate as the Turk's body was thrown against them. Omar fell to the floor in a heap where he lay sobbing.
Leaning over, Baktayev picked up the knife and flipped it over in his hand, scoffing at the fallen Turk. "You were barely worth the effort," he spat. Looking about, his eyes rested on an acetylene torch in the far corner of the barn, its once yellow painted tank now covered in rust. He strode towards it, picking it up and checking the attached hose to see if it was intact. After seeing that it was, he shook the tank to find it still had fuel. A distinct hiss filled the air as Baktayev opened the valve and the gas began to flow from the tip. Striking the self-lighting mechanism on the torch, a flame burst forth, changing the hiss of air to the roar of flame.
Holding the torch in one hand and the knife in the other, he ran the flame over the blade in a smooth motion until its surface was glowing hot. Turning off the torch, he pushed the tank away and pulled back the torn pieces of his undershirt to reveal a jagged wound on his side. Moving the knife to his other hand, he steeled himself and reached across, pressing the heated blade against his flesh. "Arghhhhh!"
The air filled with the sickly smell of burning dermis, the sound of scalding rising as he held the blade to the wound as long as he could before releasing his grip and allowing it to fall to the floor where smoke began to rise from the straw. He pounded his chest triumphantly as the pain began to reside and become bearable. He was lucky the bullet hadn't entered his body, but only grazed him as he ran from the carnivorous mob of Ossetians.
"Fools," he breathed, spit flying from his mouth.
Omar struggled to his feet. "We have to get out of here," he said. "Someone will have heard all of this noise. The soldiers will come looking."
Baktayev nodded. Bending down again, he picked up the knife. "When they get here you can tell them General Ruslan Baktayev sends his greetings."
Omar wrinkled his face in confusion. The drugs were making the Chechen general mad, his words no longer made sense. Omar waved him off and walked towards the small backpack he'd managed to hold onto as he fled the school. As he arrived and bent down to pick it up, Baktayev glided to his side. As the Turk stood, Baktayev placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him in place with a vice like grip on his collar bone.
"Wh… what are you doing? We have to leave."
"We aren't going anywhere," Baktayev said as he slowly brought the tip of the knife to the Turk's throat and pushed, inserting the hot blade into the man's neck with a searing sound.
Omar sniffed and gasped as he felt the blade enter, his eyes growing wide with terror. The gasp turned quickly to a gurgle as the Chechen pressed the knife further in. Omar's limbs began to shake violently as he struggled to breathe, his hands reaching out to struggle against his killer. Baktayev moved the knife forcefully back and forth opening a chasm, blood running over his hand. «Mmmm» he growled as he watched the Turk's eyes roll back into his head. Pulling down sharply on the knife, he tore it loose and released his grip on the body, allowing it to fall to the floor with a thud. "We aren't going anywhere," he repeated.
Chapter Three
7:11 a.m. Local Time
Tumanov Farm — Federal Highway M29 — Caucasus Highway
Beslan, North Ossetia — Alania
"Papa, papa!"
The sound of the cries rising in the distance caused Pavel Tumanov to turn suddenly from the cattle he was tending in the field behind his farm. He looked to his son, Grigory, with a question on his face. Had Grigory heard it as well or was his imagination playing tricks on him? The last three days had been stressful. Perhaps fear from the nightmare his family had narrowly avoided as they had walked towards his daughter's first day of school was still prodding him from within.
"Papa, papa!"
There it was again, and this time Pavel was sure it was the voice of his youngest daughter, Nika. He tossed down the cattle prod he'd been holding and moved quickly towards the cries, Grigory following behind him. They broke from a jog into a run as they saw six year old Nika running towards them with a frightened look, a velveteen teddy bear in hand bouncing along by its arm and struggling to keep up.
"What is it girl, what is it?" Pavel asked, coming to a stop on one knee and talking the curly haired girl by the shoulders. "What are you doing out of the house?"
"I heard voices in the barn, men's voices."
"What were you doing at the barn?" he scalded. "I told you to stay in the house. You know there are soldiers around!"
The girl began to cry. Pavel looked from her to his son, who looked into the distance towards the tattered barn that stood on the edge of their farm, its rough wood turned black with age.
"It's okay girl, what happened?" Pavel asked.
"
I'm sorry I left the house papa."
"Don't worry about that. What happened?"
"I heard men shouting inside and I ran away."
"Alright, come with me to the house," he said standing up and turning to his son. "Grigory go to the town and find the soldiers. Tell them to come quickly."
"Yes papa," the fifteen year old said as he turned and ran through the tall grass towards the town of Beslan that sat barely a half mile east of their home. Peter scooped up his daughter and moved hurriedly towards the one story stone farmhouse on the other side of the field. His family had lived there for three generations, a century of nearby warfare failing to separate them from the land. Carrying his daughter in his arms, he held her tight, glad to have her safe with him. Had province not shined on them three days earlier and made them late to the Day of Knowledge festivities, she'd have been locked in a building with the evil men whose war had too often spilled over into their serene home at the base of the Caucasus Mountains.
Arriving at the house, he pushed open the door with his foot and entered to find his wife in their tiny kitchen. Irina Tumanova looked up with a start as they entered. "What's happened?" she demanded. "Men in the barn," Pavel answered, setting Nika on the stone floor at her mother's feet.
"Where is Grigory?" Irina asked, looking towards the door when the boy didn't enter after his father.
"I sent him to the town to get the soldiers."
"Soldiers? Why? Whoever they are they will clear out as they always do."
Pavel knew she was referring to the Vodka smugglers that occasioned by. It was a fact of life in the Caucasus. So many were forced to scrape out a living in the production factories that a good measure of the product went out the back door to smugglers who paid them far more than the facility's management ever would. Many of the men Pavel knew, they had paid him for the use of the barn since it was nearby to a track of dirt road that stretched west past the border of North Ossetia into Ingushetia.
