Rebel Blast

by Don Pendleton

  Under orders, they changed rapidly. If they were to avoid detection as much as possible, then this was their best option.

  By the time they had transformed from blacksuit-clad mercenaries to hill men who would blend with the townspeople, the first shell had caused its damage, and had been followed by two others. Down below, the town was now alive. The street lighting, which had been poor and one of their assets in the original plan, was now augmented by lights from buildings that poured, like the inhabitants, onto the streets.

  “Busy down there,” Bolan said, checking the streets with the binoculars. “Mostly toward the end of town where the shells hit. The jail is at that end. Bulgarin, you’re taking that with me. Krilov, Dostoyevsky, you take the theater. Basayev and Vishniev, the hotel. Vassilev, I need you to move toward the tank regiment. There’s going to be a lot of activity on both sides of the line, and I need intel.”

  “That’s why we have radios,” the taciturn Georgian replied. “I always get the good jobs, Cooper.”

  Bolan smiled. “Nothing personal. These guys are Chechen or Russian. Maybe they could have interests in the outcome that go beyond cash.”

  The Georgian returned the smile and nodded. “And I won’t. Strictly neutral, eh?”

  “Got it in one,” the soldier confirmed.

  As they descended around the lip of the ridge, taking the treacherous and steep hillside as fast as the uneven and loose ground would allow, Bolan scanned the area around the town. Several farms were dotted here and there, and although he had no solid information, the soldier had little doubt that the rebels would have placed men at these points to act as scouts—maybe more, if they had the ordnance. He cursed the lack of intel on the rebels, but perhaps that meant they were small, undermanned. Certainly, Krilov had been dismissive. That would, if nothing else, suggest that any manpower they had would be concentrated more toward the area of Argun-Martan that had been hit.

  They moved nearer to the edge of town. Here, the buildings were dark and empty, the people in them having moved into town and toward the conflagration. It made their progress toward the center easier. At this point, they kept together, fanning out on both sides of a street, moving quickly with one man on each side preceding the other two, establishing safety.

  They moved from the functional, wider streets of the Soviet-era buildings and rapidly into the closer, more ornate and much more hazardous streets of the Georgian old town. Here, the buildings crowded together and the streets did not run straight, making reconnaissance a slower process. Here, too, there were more people. Older citizens had stayed in their homes and on hearing activity outside would venture to look out.

  Bolan’s team was able to pass as members of the rebel group because of their dress. Even so, the big American was glad that he had been able to muster some Chechens among his team. Krilov and Basayev were able to speak easily in the native tongue—Bolan had no real grasp, and the Russians and Georgian among them would have accents that gave them away—to reassure the people.

  “Put your head in, Mother, lest these Russian pigs blow it off,” Basayev called to one old woman who yelled incoherently at them. To another, he called, “Do not fret, Father. They will not do to us what they did when the Germans came calling. We will protect you—that’s why we’re here!”

  Where Krilov was brusque, yelling simple exhortations “to get inside,” Basayev was gentle and seemed to have a knack for calming the locals.

  Vassilev was the first to peel away from the group. From the maps he had memorized, he knew that he could run a route that would take him to the farthest point of the town, from where he could establish a recce position to cover both sides.

  They reached the town center. Bolan split away from the others, beckoning Bulgarin to follow. He had chosen to tackle the jail himself, as it would be the most dangerous exit if the survey team was there, but with his lack of language and the fact that most of the population seemed to be rushing to this point, he wondered if choosing to take the Russian with him had been a good move. No matter: the others had been briefed, and there was something about Bulgarin that still rankled, made the soldier want to keep him close.

  With brief acknowledgments, knowing that their time was limited, the other four men turned and headed toward their own targets, routes memorized from the tablet.

  “Just you and me, Cooper, eh?” Bulgarin said with a vulpine grin.

  “It is. Stick to the plan, Bulgarin, and just remember how much they hate Russians around here,” Bolan replied heavily.

  * * *

  “LEAVE THEM HERE,” Orlov snapped as the silence following the first shell was broken by the sound of confusion out in the street. “Viktor, we’re needed. And you—” he directed himself to Acquero “—we will continue this later. You are in no position to make demands.” Turning, he indicated the guard on the doors to move forward and cover them as he strode past, the giant in his wake.

  Inside the old theater, now alone except for one guard who was looking nervous and possibly trigger happy, the Americans cautiously exchanged glances.

  “Does this mean they’re coming for us?” Slaughter ventured in a querulous voice.

  “That’s not Americans or UN.” Dierks spit. “They wouldn’t come in and bomb—besides, no planes overhead. Those are tanks.”

  “How can you be sure?” Freeman snapped.

  “Dieter’s right,” Leonard said quietly. “And keep it frosty, people. Laughing Boy over there may not speak the language, but he understands shouting. He looks too nervous for my liking.”

  “That mad man in the Kremlin is going to make an example of us,” Winters said softly. “Raze the town. He doesn’t like Chechen rebels. I remember Moscow.”

  “What happened? What do you mean?” Freeman asked.

  “Chill,” Leonard soothed. “That doesn’t matter. The point is that this may be our chance—our only chance—to escape. The Russians either don’t understand what we’ve found, or they don’t care. But while they’re doing this, and it’s chaos out there, then we’ve got a whole load of people interested in their own skins, not ours, and all we need to do is get past this dude.”

  “What can we do if we manage to get out of here?” Acquero asked with a tone that was less despair, more pragmatic.

  “Not much. Hide in the hills. But at least we can stay alive, and sooner or later the Russians will have to account for us. They find us, then they’re the good guys, right? We stay in town, we get bombed to shit like everyone else.”

  Like most of the survey party, Steffans had been quiet for the whole time they had been in the theater, his fear and foreboding keeping him down. Yet now, as he looked at Leonard, and then at his companions, he could see a ray of light.

  “You know something? I think he’s got a point. If we stay here, we’re dead anyway. At least this way we’ve got a chance.”

  Leonard watched the others as they agreed, some hesitantly, others with the same kind of renewed hope that Steffans felt. He felt his own optimism rise; they might just do it. The only weak link was Simmons, who was still almost catatonic, but there were enough of them to carry one person.

  They would have to. It was that or give up and die.

  * * *

  ORLOV AND ADAMENKO were greeted by chaos when they hit the street. As they exited the theater, the screech and deafening blast of a second shell hit them, the ground beneath their feet shaking less than before, indicating a hit farther away.

  The night was lit not only by the buildings that were coming alive as the citizens panicked, but by the fire of a building ablaze three hundred meters from where they stood. The shell had taken out most of the brickwork, leaving only a skeleton and rubble where once had been a thriving bakery, and now flames from gas pipes set aflame roared into the night, fueled by anything flammable within range.

  As the two rebels s
tood, trying to take in what had happened, the site of the second shell erupted as gasoline stored in an adjacent garage caught. There was barely time to take this in before the third shell flew overhead and hit home. Again, there was an explosion followed by another as the initial blast ignited flammable materials close by. The three fires that lit the night sky and roared above the buildings around were markers for the range of the tanks: a first strike and a warning of what could happen should the tanks advance.

  Around them, people rushed with seemingly no purpose. The shock of sudden attack had caused panic, and citizens who had seemingly settled into a pattern of acting as paramilitaries for the rebels were now frightened people, scared of losing their homes and their lives. The few rebels that Orlov had brought with him tried to rally and direct the populace, but seemed to be fighting a losing battle.

  In the middle of the rush, with people wild-eyed and shouting all around them, Orlov and Adamenko stood still and silent. Both men were, in their own ways, assessing the situation. Finally, Orlov spoke.

  “Viktor, take two men and try to rally the people. They look to you as strength. We need to make placements in the town, and get those fires out. Where is the fire service? Get them over there...”

  “Alexei, there have only been the three.”

  “That’s enough, isn’t it?” Orlov snapped.

  The giant shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. If this was a bombardment, a full-scale attack, then there would be more. This is a warning.”

  Orlov looked at the giant. “Why? I have heard nothing. An ultimatum would surely—”

  “But why a warning at night, Alexei? There is something strange happening here.”

  “Let me worry about that—you go,” the blond rebel said decisively, pushing his companion away from him. “There is too much to be done for us both to worry.”

  Adamenko was a man of action, not thought, and was happy enough to comply with what his friend said. As he moved off to fulfill his orders, Orlov began to barge his way through the crowd toward the barriers his men had erected at the point where the road entered the town. It seemed from the melee as though the entire population had gravitated to this spot, drawn by fear and not knowing, and yet now some of them sought to escape, pushing back against those who still wanted to get forward, to see...who knew what?

  As Orlov reached the last few buildings along the roadside, where his men had dug in emplacements to cover the road, he could see that standing back along the way was a tank regiment. They had fanned out so that they were arced from the crown of the road out over the rocky terrain on each side, bordered by the riverbank on one side and the foothills of the Caucasus on the other.

  Orlov understood. They couldn’t surround Argun-Martan because of its location, but they could steamroller their way through it. They had announced their presence by the warning shots, and made no attempt at concealment. On the contrary, all the tanks were lit by their spots, as if to proclaim their strength in numbers.

  At the defense post that was closest to the tanks, one of his men hunkered down with two civilians. They looked scared—as they should, considering they had little weaponry that would stand against a regiment—but had stood their ground.

  “Sir, I’ve been trying to contact you—” the rebel fighter began, gesturing with his radio. Orlov realized that his radio had been left, useless, in his rooms.

  The rebel leader reached out and took the radio from his subordinate. “No matter,” he grunted before switching to an open channel. Quickly he barked, “Rally all personnel to the bombardment sites. Contain and extinguish fires, secure areas. All civilians not on duty should be forced to return to their homes and wait further instruction. They will be safer there. Viktor is among you, and he has no radio. Update him, take instruction on-site from him.”

  Then he turned to the rebel fighter. “What happened?”

  “We could hear them in the distance but not see them. They seemed to be coming for ages, but didn’t get closer or come into view. I couldn’t work out why until they put those lights on. That was when the first shell came over. After the third, they’ve just stayed there.”

  Orlov brooded on that. There had to be a reason why they only fired warning shots, and why they chose to do that now, when a night attack would seem such a ridiculous option. He needed to find out why; he needed some means of communication with the regiment commander. That was him, the idiot he could see standing in the tank dead center. A sniper rifle was all he needed. With one of those, he could stop this now.

  Except they would still come. Maybe more so. He would have to find a way to talk.

  * * *

  GENERAL AZHKOV STOOD in the turret of his tank, watching through field glasses as the three shells hit home. He grunted with pleasure at their detonation and the explosions that followed in their wake.

  “That will wake them up, Daman,” he said with glee, “and when they do, they will realize that the only thing they face is annihilation, unless they listen to what I say.”

  Tankian was rapidly sobering. The president would not be pleased with what had happened. Repercussions for their careers—maybe even their lives—would be severe. Unless... If there was some way in which this situation could be turned around. If Azhkov’s intransigence and drunken mood could be spun into an inspired piece of tactics, then it might be possible to come out of this in one piece.

  “Sergei,” Tankian said carefully, “just what is it exactly that you want to say to them?”

  Azhkov chuckled. “What I want to say to them is that if they don’t give us the Americans, I will shell them into submission but make sure that their leader is still alive. Then I will take great delight in shoving my fist down his throat, grabbing his ass and pulling him inside out by it.”

  Tankian sucked in a sharp breath. “Sergei, I cannot in all conscience tell you that this will help matters—”

  “Relax, Daman. I said that is what I would like to tell them. It is not what I will actually say, if I get the chance. They will be in shock. Attack at night, and you always have the upper hand, mentally. Your enemy starts on the back foot and struggles to get off it. They will be dazed, confused and not know which way to turn. I guarantee you that right now whoever is in charge is wondering what I am doing and why.”

  “I was wondering much the same myself,” Tankian muttered.

  Azhkov shrugged. “I am not surprised. At first, it was vodka and anger, working together, but there was also something else, Daman. I am a soldier. I have always been a soldier. It is not what I do, it is a part of me. It is me. And that me is thinking this—the president wants them dead, and wants a scapegoat to avoid condemnation by the UN. They have the Americans, which they no doubt see as their winning hand. Not even a fool like our leader would sanction the murder of U.S. nationals. They are wrong. He will do this happily, as long as he can shift blame. They cannot win, no matter what they think.”

  “So we need to shake them up, make them realize that they cannot win and come to some agreement.”

  “Exactly,” Azhkov said. “Argun-Martan will be scared, people running wild. If nothing else, this should make our brave rebel leader realize that not all is as simple as he would like. He will have to make a deal if he is to come out of this with his balls still attached. He will have to speak to me. I will speak to him, tell him the truth and offer him a way out. I am not the meathead he thinks, just because I am a solider. I just love my job...and I intend to keep it.”

  “What if he doesn’t take it?”

  Azhkov shrugged. “It is his choice, Daman, and his alone.”

  “There is one thing, Sergei... He thinks we will shoot first, ask questions second. How the hell is he supposed to make contact?”

  Azkhov laughed. “Let him figure that one out himself.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As
Basayev and Vishniev approached the hotel, it seemed empty. Even though it was lit up, there was a quiet about it that seemed in stark contrast to the activity and noise from the other end of town.

  “You think they’ll be there?” the Russian asked sardonically.

  Basayev grinned. “They might have been staying there, but I tell you my friend, if I took over this town I’d put my hostages somewhere dark and shitty. That’s why you have hostages.”

  The Russian laughed. “I was thinking much the same. But still, we will keep Cooper happy....”

  They entered the lobby with confidence, trusting that their dress would disarm any enemies within at least long enough for them to strike first.

  Inside, the lobby was empty, with the reception desk deserted.

  “This is the best Chechnya can offer? Fuck, no wonder we’re in so much shit,” Basayev muttered to himself. “How many stories and how many rooms?”

  “Four, and twenty-four rooms,” Vishniev commented, counting off the pigeon holes behind the desk. “No keys, either. We’re going to have to kick them all in.”

  “Great. Let’s hope we don’t annoy anyone too much,” Basayev commented dryly.

  Before tackling the rooms, the two mercenaries scouted the kitchens and staff quarters behind the desk, and the basement. It was an easy recce as the rooms had been left unlocked or open, with every sign of their occupants leaving quickly when the tanks had opened fire.

  “You would think that the bastard Russians firing would make our job hard—with luck, it will make it easier,” the Chechen commented as they went up through the lobby and then the stairs to the first set of rooms.

  “It may be to our advantage, but remember where I come from,” Vishniev muttered darkly.

  Basayev grinned. “Not all Russians are bastards—I was talking about the ones in tanks... Now tell me you used to be a tank commander.”