Yuri nodded as Grigor looked them over. They knew it might be hopeless. Yuri doubted that any of the poorly paid security guards would stand up in any kind of shootout, leaving him to alone to face any attack on the building entrance.
“Clips? Extra ammo?” Grigor barked. It caught them by surprise – an obvious action, before things went hot. Even Yuri was caught short. He'd lived here in the US too long, losing his edge and reflexes. Soon all of his Spetsnaz would be as useless as the civilian guards. His flock of security guards looked at each other, like village idiots in a bad Russian Comedy, each thinking the other one should run off for more ammo. Everyone wanted to crouch down and hide or run deeper inside.
Finally Yuri stepped forward, yelling at two of the most reliable security guards to follow him. They raced off for the large armored doorway next to the control room where cans of ammo and bandoleers of clips, along with automatic rifles hung on the walls. Grigor called after them, “Carry as many as you can, and bring gas masks, hurry.” The remaining security guards either looked at him blankly, or returned weak smiles, trying to curry favor. All of them carried automatic pistols. When the shooting started he was sure they'd accidentally hit each other as often as they hit their attackers when they started blazing away.
“I want all you to go to the back, to guard the fire exit door, go, hurry.” Grigor waved at the white shirted guards, most of them had fat bellies or were lean, with deeply tanned skin and heavily wrinkled faces, from living in the sun all day. It made them look like they'd been hired off a nearby street corner, stripped of their sign begging for spare change and dressed up in their simple uniforms – homeless men given a shower, haircut and a loaded gun. American security at its finest.
They were worthless here, a distraction to his men and better used as cannon fodder if an explosive breach was made on the door in the back or used as the first wave a counter attack to drive out attackers in the front. Untrained men were always used this way, to protect the few who could make a difference. In the Big War in his country, the untrained were often not armed, only given a few bullets, then told to link arms and run at the enemy. If they lived, they'd look for a rifle to use against the enemy. If dead, they'd done their duty.
Grigor's his luck was holding. It was only one shot, maybe that would be it, a warning, harassing fire. The opposition's numbers and dispositions were still unknown. Minutes ago terror had turned his blood to ice as he'd jogged around the sky blue concrete walls, finding out what had happened then rapidly setting up his one man defensive perimeter. His weakness was pathetic, not someone who fooled himself in these kinds of situations. He hated the unpredictability of these Americans, compared to his own people who would have shot at anyone who came out of the building, guards or workers, until their gun barrels melted or they ran out of ammunition. What did the Americans say, oh yes, 'let God sort them out'. Their Russian saying showed their people's different attitude, 'give the wolves a feast'. He felt a deep depressing dread only a Russian is capable of feeling, then it began changing into a blind rage to win and kill them all.
Once back inside control room he counted his remaining men, one older, a Russian like him, sent over from the office, probably a relative of someone higher up. He suspected he was also paid more than him, but he'd served in the Russian Army. His combat experience dated back to the 1980's, when they'd invaded Afghanistan, which was the only plus in his favor. He'd be useless on the roof, in terrible physical shape, so Grigor left him here to scan the screens and relay information up to him. The other two were a mixed bag, One Spetsnaz, loyal to to him and an American he'd learned to trust over the last two years.
One, the Russian, was a decent fighter, the other too young to have much ability in a fight that would require fast thinking combined with utter ruthlessness and a cool head. But two and a half well armed men was still good odds against one, no matter how skilled he was.
Grigor returned to pace back and forth in the control room, his mind filled with conflicting images and potential responses, searching for the best answer for his current problem. The meth was speeding him along like a cosmonaut blasting up into space. His mind wouldn't slow down. Grigor had sniffed the stimulant powder an hour earlier, using a supply he kept in his locker at work. Not particularly for emergencies like this, it was more for times when he felt extremely tired, from lack of sleep. It was a fallback he relied on rarely but today had needed earlier to stay sharp. His grandfather had told him they'd used stimulants in the Great War, dispensed from large bottles, as many as you wanted before a big fight, along with Vodka. It had made them fight like crazed madmen for days, gobbling down more of the pills until they were killed or wounded, falling to the ground, their limbs still quivering with energy. It explained the waves of men shouting 'Hurrah' without a care about survival or injury, running into lines of fire that mowed them down in heaps.
He kept walking quickly back and forth, his nervous energy rubbing off on his men. Then their surveillance cameras and building power suddenly went off line a second time – turned off, or worse, sabotaged by someone on the roof. It was the only thing that made sense because it was what he would do in this situation – kill outside power, then the backup supply – the diesels on the roof!
He'd confirmed the transformer explosion was an initial gambit, not a full fledged fight. Now they were going for the throat, his diesels that had kept the damned computers alive and running. Grigor looked up at the ceiling. The enemy was on top of him, in control of his fully exposed, absolutely critical resource – electrical power!
“Gobno, gobno, gobno!” Shouting the Russian word for 'shit', Grigor made it clear to his men the real attack had begun!
Chapter Fourteen
When shooting in the dark, it is a good idea to use a machine gun
Craig Bruce
Grigor knew the idealistic American wouldn't ruin the backup power supply like he would, if their roles were reversed. A Russian attacker would destroy them completely, making sure they could never be turned back on. Americans hated to take that final step of complete devastation – wounding their enemies instead of killing them, preferring surrender as well. That's how Americans operated, worldwide, content with half measures – playing nice at war, then, absurdly expecting the other side would notice and operate the same way towards them. Madness in a Mad world.
In War, one side maximizes its advantage, like the Germans had in their war with Russia, taking this concept to insane levels, murdering millions to make a point, that their system was superior, that it could do anything it liked to the people it conquered. For that massive slaughter and show of force, they inherited the massacre that swept over their country and devastated their people, including the most vulnerable. Officers encouraged looting and for every female found, rape followed by death or suicide. Pay them back! In that conflict, war returned to its most basic elements and ideals, something Grigor could respect to this day along with many in his country. Hate can be both pure and purifying.
Americans had fought the Germans in the same war but abhorred the facts it revealed about humanity in desperate, unbound conflict. Because of this blindness, they, as a people, were never absolutely ruthless, or fully able to do whatever was needed to win completely – intimidate and conquer – enslaving their enemies, taking what they wanted, lands, resources, and people. His attacker, this Jabo, would soon find out how Russians fought to win, to master their opponents and humble them.
“You two come with me, we'll grab some things before we head for the hatch. Sergei, stay, call me if anything happens, anything!” The older man nodded, secretly happy he wasn't going to be part of the assault team, knowing Grigor would consider them all expendable. Here, in the bowels the concrete fortress he'd have a good chance to live through the coming fight, like he had all the others before this. Hopefully Grigor and the others would be killed, so he could claim the credit when it was all over – the last living hero, almost a Russian tradition.
“We're goin
g up on the roof, where the generators are, to get them running.” It sounded so easy – walk up, flip a switch, then everything would be fine again and they'd survive the night.
Jabo waited on the roof feeling very alone. He thought back to his ancestor, laying in bed, waiting for the invading Mexican soldiers to overcome the Alamo's defenders then break into his bedroom. When it came to that he'd lay, wounded, still full of fight – taking as many as he could with him. It never crossed Jabo's mind that this was a bad idea, fighting present day people who'd tried to wipe out the Bowie clan a second time. Some things can't happen – not in Texas – without a fight to the death.
Jabo's men were on station and wouldn't fire until he gave the final, 'weapons free' release code, either by light or using his phone he still hadn't turned on. They all knew to hold fire and let him handle any attack on the roof by himself. This was as personal as it gets. Jabo wanted to do all the killing himself.
He owed it to his Grandfather who'd passed on the most important traditions of his famous ancestor who'd been born in the 'West' of the early United states, the land beyond the Appalachians, the frontier of the late Seventeen hundreds. A young man, full of energy and big ideas, he'd moved further West from Kentucky, settling for a time in Louisiana before he moved to Texas, some said not entirely voluntarily, but frontiers and the people who choose to live in them are like that – rambunctious, living outside polite society's control. A businessman, old Jim was always willing to take a risk to win a large reward, what others would call gambling, or worse, a near con man plying his trade in questionable goods. But the family preferred to remember him as a man who sought to make money from risky, or what others would call huge opportunity investments.
Life doesn't last forever, and starting from nothing, like the previous Colonel Bowie, Jabo had built up his resources, mainly himself. His wealth was in the things he'd learned and mastered doing his unique job in the Army. He was proficient in every weapon he'd ever touched, and, except for electronics and computers, nothing withstood his mind. He was an old fashioned fighter, not much different from old Jim himself, or so he was told.
Almost proud of his disdain for technology, Jabo was barely able to use the iPhone he'd bought on a whim, to see what all the fuss was about. To him it was a phone, made of glass and steel, nothing much beyond that, hardly revolutionary. He much preferred the large custom 'Bowie' knife sent to him by an anonymous admirer who'd looked him up on the internet, tracing his family tree to find him as the last generation and now, the last of his branch of that famous family name. He'd carried it into battle and used it, finding it a short sword more than a fighting knife, giving him a deeper appreciation of his progenitor and how he fought. He had it now, ready to use.
When things started the hatch would flip back, providing a shield for the people who'd emerge, but there was no cover on either side, only behind it, so Jabo was willing to give them that – a false sense of security, he hoped. But any bodily exposure outside the metal rim could be hit by the high power rounds he'd be shooting through his fully assembled heavy assault rifle. He intended on using this weapon's iron sights, since the distance between any two locations on the roof was less than two hundred feet. Open sights made acquiring a target far faster, damn near automatic. Many times before, in fights like this, the first round was the only one that mattered.
The hatch made a clanking sound then flipped open. He could sense a man creeping his head up to take a look, a scared soul hoping his forehead wouldn't be highlighted against the backdrop behind him. Nothing happened for a full minute then a smoking canister flew out, quickly followed by a second that arced through the air, flying in his direction.
“Smoke canisters,” he muttered softly. They were dangerous on a tar and composition covered roof like this, since they could produce heat high enough to start a fire. But that wasn't his problem, yet. The chemical clouds were in two colors, a purplish pink and a light green, making an odd gray mixture as the two clouds rose – fat sinuous cobras in the still night air – drifting slowly toward him and away from the hatch.
Moments later he heard someone's boots hit the solid surface of the roof next to the hatch. His safety off long ago, he started shooting in the general location of the roof access, full auto, spraying back and forth, hoping he'd hit someone through the smoke – pleased he'd kept his rifle pointed at the center of the hatch when the distracting smoke had billowed up, ready for the opening round. A man screamed. Satisfied, Jabo picked up his two bandoleers of ammo he'd retrieved from the tool box, quickly crisscrossing them over his chest, like men from the time of his predecessor.
He couldn't stay in one position. This was a fight of one against many. His primary defense was to keep moving, stay unpredictable and shoot only when he had the drop on someone. He'd left everything else from his extra drop bag behind, hidden inside the backup power building in a small cabinet, just inside the door. It was time to go, exiting the power house he'd hid inside until the fight started, moving outside quietly. He was going to hunt them all down until he was the only one alive.
Pushing the steel door to the power house closed, he stopped before it latched, leaving it ajar, like he was hiding inside, peeking out. Crouching down, he ran for his number two point, a large metal exhaust duct, the one his tool box had hit when he landed, when it slid then tumbled across the roof.
Like the crenelated top of a castle wall, built to provide cover in a siege, the short concrete wall that lined the edge of the large building's roof was only eighteen inches tall and could work the same way if required. From his second position the outer wall of the roof was ten feet away, a fallback and last resort exit that let him feel safe hiding behind the large metal duct. No one could work their way around the edge of the roof and get behind him without his notice. Anyone coming from the center would die before he'd see Jabo, barricaded behind the heavy steel box. He was ready for a two front war.
After another minute the smoke was getting thicker in the area between the hatch and the power building. As he stared into the thick fog Jabo heard another two canisters join the ones thrown a minute before. For now it was a standoff. Working on his next tactic, he'd have to move soon to finish this successfully, drawing them out to kill before the cops arrived to end his fun. Staying quiet, in one place for now, he was ready for whatever happened next.
Grigor smiled. It had cost him one man, not badly wounded but worthless for anything but static defense where he lay, if that. It was a small price to get three of them spread out around in a defensive ring, centered on the hatch. It was only a minor leg wound he left his man to tie off with his belt to slow the bleeding. His wounded man would stay behind protecting the hatch, guarding their exit and denying it to his opponent. It gave his men a safe way to retreat, a nice benefit if the bleeding man didn't pass out from shock or blood loss.
But it did mean his assault team was dwindling, reduced to one man and himself to work this asshole out of his prepared position, where ever it was, 'out there'. The disabled man gave him a look that showed he knew he was expendable, something Grigor had seen many times before.
Smoke worked against both sides, blinding both equally. Grigor was very experienced with it's subtleties, having used it against deadly, often suicidal Muslim fighters from the Southern border of Mother Russia – Chechens and sometimes Persians from Iran, smuggled into bolster their numbers. Poorly trained, their first reaction was to hide behind cover and shoot wildly through the fog it made. It revealed their location like the man opposing him had – with his lucky burst of fire. Grigor explained to his remaining man he wanted him to circle around, get behind the spot the firing had come from, while he would work his way forward. This way they'd catch their attacker in a crossfire.
The flash from Jabo's rifle had pinpointed his location. Luckily it was in the same general direction of the diesel generators, allowing him to capture them as he drove his attacker off. No one was better than him, one on one. Getting the backup power onli
ne was his priority and killing the intruder who'd shut them down was a secondary goal. Once he had them going he could take his time and kill him, slowly, make him pay for his impertinence and over confidence. Grigor was at ease fighting at night in relatively close quarters like this. Like Jabo, he preferred fighting alone, so anyone he came across was fair game. The smoke swirling around, and the confusion of battle were his allies. The other man was as good as dead.
He sent his last man, his worst fighter and the youngest, to circle the perimeter of the building. “Move along the edge of the roof. Keep pitching the smoke cans to the center, one every minute until you run out,” he saw the man nod, not the sharpest but he'd do exactly what he was told. Anxious, his fear insured he'd shoot first at anyone who appeared out of the smoke. That meant Grigor had to stay in the middle, hidden in the fog, using it as his cloak, forcing his opponent to the periphery where his man would shoot him the second he appeared.
“Do not walk toward the center of the roof. If you're not sure who you see, call out, 'Kulak', from cover. Understand? I'll say 'Suka' back.” His man grinned at the easy passwords, something their opponent wouldn't comprehend or easily parrot. “If you see someone and he doesn't say 'Kulak' or 'Suka' the instant he sees you, shoot him, understand?” Again the somber faced man nodded then looked at the edge of the roof then back to Grigor, silently asking if he should start moving. Grigor nodded, watching his man fade into the smoke and disappear. Maybe he was smarter than he'd first thought. His bodily movements had a deadly intent, like he'd stalked men before.
His plan was based on a guess his attacker would be hiding behind one of the many objects on the roof, none as stout as the hatch, nor as important as the power plant building. Forced to defend the steel building and it's diesels, using it as bait at the same time, he'd be close, ready to shoot anyone who approached them. Where the intruder might be was impossible to narrow down, until he shot again, which Gigor doubted he'd do unless he couldn't miss. Nothing he'd done so far suggested he was an amateur. America had lots of ex-soldiers like him with battlefield experience fighting the damned Arabs. His opponent would try to ambush them as they made their initial approach to the power building, nothing else made sense. That was what Grigor would have done if the roles were reversed, so he'd play this like a chess game against himself.
Hell To Pay Page 31
