“Glad to see everyone survived the night.”
“Could have done better with good bottle of cheap vodka,” grumbled Bear, over a bowl of the canned ravioli that was all he ever seemed to eat.
“We make do, tovarisch.” Unter was sitting next to Pavel on the bed, his arms folded in front of his chest.
“Beats the roach motels I’ve been in,” Mamona said, then shrugged.
John retrieved a small dry-erase board from one of his duffel bags. “All right, listen up, folks. Based upon intel we received recently, we’ve got another Thulian target to go after.” He coughed into his hand, clearing some of the cobwebs from his chest. “It’s suspected that there’s a shippin’ depot in Kansas City that might be a Thulian interest. I say suspected because the information we have is partial, due to some . . . er, complications durin’ the retrieval of this info.”
Bear was the first to pipe up. “What are we supposed to do with this information then, comrade?”
“Simple. We scope out the depot, report back any Thulian presence, and then pendin’ a go-order from the Commissar, raid it.”
“Any support?” Unter had leaned forward, listening intently.
“Just Vickie on the comm,” John said, looking at Unter, “an’ each other, I’m afraid. She’ll work on getting building plans for the area, as well as anything else pertinent to the operation. Anyways, we’ll watch the warehouse for a few days, try an’ feel out anything that’s going on. We’ve got all sorts of techno-wizardry to help us, which you were briefed on ’fore y’left Atlanta. Once surveillance is complete, we figure out where to go from there. Questions?” There were none; the Commissar had seen to it that everyone knew as much as possible before they arrived, which wasn’t very characteristic of her.
“Now for the boring part.”
* * *
“And I am not gettink to show anyone my lunge,” Old Bear complained, miming what he probably supposed was a sword attack. “Not even at United Hut of Pancakes.”
“Is International House of Waffles, dotard.” Unter and Bear were both on stake-out duty, and after seven hours in the cramped conditions of the van, Bear’s manner was beginning to wear on his comrade.
“Same difference. My English is perfect; jealousy does not become you, friend.”
“Bah. Tikho, Staryj Medved. Shut up, Old Bear.” Unter slumped down in the seat with his arms crossed. But his attitude of apparent inattention was just that—apparent. “Nasrat.” He didn’t so much as twitch, but Bear’s attention was immediately transferred to the place Unter’s eyes were glued.
“Poihol. What is Delex truck doing here? Is not Europe.”
“Damn good question,” Vickie said into their ears as the foreign courier truck backed into the warehouse. “According to everything I just pulled up, that truck should be making a delivery in the Czech Republic right now.”
“Record and report it. This may be break we are lookink for.”
* * *
Fifteen hours later, the team was briefed, prepped, and given the go-code by Natalya. Vickie had downloaded them the proper files regarding the building layout, as well as police patrol paths, radio frequencies, and a score of other bits of information.
There had been a slight hiccup in the planning, however; the warehouse was guarded by night security—plain old rent-a-cops. This complicated things, because it meant discretion needed to be used at the outset. The CCCP wasn’t out to hurt regular folk, and John certainly wasn’t bloodthirsty enough to take out a couple of regular Joes pulling in a paycheck. After consulting with the team, John had a flash of inspiration.
The two guards were situated in a small gatehouse booth. They spent most of their time listening to sportscasts on the radio, playing cards, or sneaking the odd drink when the traffic to the warehouse was low. The company that had contracted their security firm kept odd hours, but mostly kept to themselves. Workers and trucks, loading and unloading whatever they stored at the building. It didn’t really concern the guards, so they never really cared to ask.
They were both debating the merits of redheads versus blonds when they heard a terrible keening noise in the distance. A drunk came stumbling around the corner of the building to their right, belting out a truly horrible song that neither of them could recognize. As he came closer, the older guard stepped out of the booth to confront the man and send him on his way; he continued staggering forward, and the guard could smell cheap whiskey on the man’s dirty poncho from a good distance away. “All right, buddy, take it home, or wherever you come from.”
“But, mistah, y’sure y’don’t got some change fer a vet’ran?” The man tripped over his own feet, lurching forward into the guard. The guard caught him, gasped, and then sank to the ground, unconscious. Just as the second security guard saw the glint of a needle in the drunk’s hand, his entire body locked up. Suddenly, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and was barely able to breathe. Every muscle had gone rigid, and he felt himself topple helplessly over sideways, stiff as a log, into the side of the little guard shack. There he lodged, like a mannequin. He watched with wide eyes as the stranger, obviously not drunk at all, strolled up with a needle in his hand.
“Sorry, fella,” the man murmured as he bent down. There was a sting, and then there was sleep.
“They’re down. Unter, bring the team up.” The battered van across the road from the warehouse opened up, three figures dressed in nondescript coveralls exiting. John nodded to Mamona as she came to a stop in front of him; her powers did something weird to a person’s nervous system. It’s what they’d used to shut down the second guard long enough for John to stick him with the knockout drug they’d been supplied with. “Get ’em both set in the guard booth, and shut the door. We breach the service door in two.”
The others did so, stripping out of their coveralls as John removed the poncho; it stank of alcohol, and he could see Bear looking forlorn at the hint of a drink. Each member of the team was outfitted identically, with much the same equipment that John had used on the previous mission. Bear was the exception, due to his mechanical body; he still had a load-bearing vest carrying everything he needed, strapped around his shoulders and waist. He also had rubber slip-on caps for his feet, so that he wouldn’t make any noise while walking.
“You have five minutes till the next cop car, ten before the rent-a-cop on the next warehouse makes his rounds, there’s nothing on the scanners and no alarms went out.” That was Vickie, working her electronic wizardry.
“Roger. Let’s move it.”
“Remember, if you need magic, I have to have contact with something natural. Wood, dirt, anything but metal and plastic. That means your bare skin on it. Brick will do. Concrete is iffy.”
“Gotcha, Sammy. We’ll letcha know when to twitch yer nose.”
“If you think you’re a wit, you’re half right.”
Mamona was studying the door, casually, but professionally. “Ah think Ah can handle this, y’all.” Mamona was an Atlanta street kid, and had a variety of useful skills besides her metahuman abilities.
“Can the chatter and do it, comrade.” John was starting to like this new gal’s spirit, but he had a job to focus on. Still, he recalled that even when he last did things like this professionally, the best of the best horsed around constantly. It reminded him of a story a friend had told him about two artillery teams. One was completely by the book and clean-cut, and the other was full of jackasses. The two teams decided to have a competition to square away in preparation for a fire mission. The clean-cut team did everything right, but the goofs did everything better, and faster. And had time to throw rocks, while half-naked, at what they described as a “lizard-thing.”
Mamona bent down next to the lock, pulling a lock-pick kit from a pouch on her vest. It contained several dozen different picks, jimmies, and other assorted instruments that John couldn’t immediately identify. Even with her apparent skill and impressive tools, it took her several minutes to crack the lock; Vickie had
given John updated timetables for the police cruiser and security guard that were due on the scene as per their schedules.
“Dammit. Okay, JM. I’m gonna have to make a diversion. Everybody, get flat. I don’t want any shadows in that doorway.” She repeated it in Russian. “Vse ujditeiz polia zrenia. Mne ne nuzhny teni v prohode.” John went prone after a moment’s hesitation; he didn’t like being given vague instructions, but he knew enough that complying was in his best interest.
“Okay. You look good on the camera. Count of five. Piat’ . . . chetyre . . . tre . . . dva . . . e . . .” An alarm went off down the street, if John was any judge, about three city blocks down the street. “That was me. Wait for the cops to get past you.” A police cruiser, as if on cue, came around the corner of the street at that moment, followed shortly by another. Both had their roof lights on, and completely bypassed the team as they sped towards Vickie’s distraction.
“We clear, Vic?”
“One sec . . . okay. The guard’s gone to see what’s up, too.”
John switched over to a private comm line to Vickie. “Just gimme a little more heads-up, if’n ya can.” He didn’t wait for a response, clicking back over to the team channel as they waited for the all-clear.
“Okay. The cops are inside making an eyeball check of the warehouse, and I fried a circuit in there to account for the false alarm. The guard’s back on his rounds but he skipped your side of the building to make up for the time he spent rubbernecking. Go.”
“Roger. Mamona, wrap it up. We’re still on the clock.” The team recovered from their prone positions, watching all the areas of approach while Mamona went back to her job.
“Good work takes time, y’all.” As an Atlanta native, her accent was deeper and more pronounced than John’s. Some of the Russians had trouble understanding her. Sooner than John expected, she gave a gasp of surprise, and the door gave an even quieter click. “We’re in.”
“All right, stack up, and let’s do this.” The team formed two separate lines on opposite sides outside of the door. Each member of the team was equipped with an AKSU-74, so they could share ammunition magazines if necessary; it was a favorite of Spetsnaz teams, especially with the affixed sound suppressors that John’s team had the good fortune to be issued. Pavel was the odd man out, with his ever-trusty PPSh-41.
Mamona was the only one without a gun; not that she objected, but she hadn’t been trained on the AKSU yet. It was something that bothered John, but he had his orders, and there wasn’t anything to do about it now. She had knives that she clearly knew how to use, and use well, and she had her powers. John was reminded of a quote from Star Wars, as well as an old axiom about knives and gunfights. He shook his head to clear it and focus on the task. John was on point for himself and Mamona, while Unter was in front of Bear. John took what looked like a dentist’s mirror to peer under the door, and quickly assessed that there were no immediate threats or traps of any sort. With a quick nod, he pulled the door open. Unter and Bear both button-hooked through the door, while John and Mamona did so simultaneously. John’s job was to clear the rightmost corner of the room; it was a reception office, and was completely empty. Once the entire team was inside and had made sure there were no enemies, they closed the door behind them, and regrouped for the next door. This one would take them inside of the warehouse proper, if Vickie’s building plans were correct.
“You sure you’re right on the money for this, Vic?”
“No guarantees, but there was a fire inspection a month ago. Mandated after the invasion. No one wants people trapped in buildings under fire with chained exits and rooms you can’t get out of.”
“Roger. Stack up.” The door here was smaller than the one to the street, so the entire team had to line up on one side. “Status?” Everyone on the team signaled, “Up,” which indicated their weapons were loaded and their gear was checked. Unter took the lead this time, opening the door. The rest of the team flooded in, crouching to stay low while keeping their weapons trained in front of them for any potential targets. John was the last person through the door this time, and what he saw almost literally took his breath away. We should’ve brought more guns.
“Uh. I think you need a bigger boat,” Vickie said quietly as her “eyes” on John took in what he was seeing. The warehouse couldn’t have been bigger than the plans said, but what filled it made it look much more massive somehow. The armored suits. Hundreds, maybe a thousand of them, standing in ordered ranks, waiting for bodies to fill them. They gleamed with a soft sheen under the dim lights. There were terminals that John immediately recognized as being of Thulian origin. The screens were an eye-burning yellow, the lettering red, the keyboards had never been meant for human hands; they were too broad and had too many keys, and they were kidney-shaped. You’d think that an advanced alien race would have more ergonomic tech. There were dozens of technicians and workers standing around; several resembled the Thulian soldiers John had fought in person recently, while others looked as human as could be. John noted that, filing it away in the back of his mind.
John triggered his throat mic. “We’re here for a sneak and peak. Let’s snatch some more intel, then scoot the hell outta this joint.”
Unter’s eyes burned with hatred. “We can take them.”
“Da, but that ain’t what we’re here for tonight. We don’t have enough personnel, and sure as shit not enough ammo. We figure out what’s goin’ on here, and then we’ll burn the joint down tomorrow night.” He looked to each team member in turn. “All right, stick together, and keep quiet.”
“No way they can empty all that shit out overnight, people.” Vickie didn’t have to whisper, but she was doing so anyway. It was a funny habit that John had noticed about tense situations. The team crept forward, using shipping crates, weird metal containers, and even armored suits for concealment. The Thulians continued going on about their business; it looked like they were preparing several of the Nazi suits for transport in the Delex truck that the CCCPers had spotted earlier.
“This looks to beink major catheter of transport for the fashista, comrades.”
Mamona piped up. “Pavel, where’d y’all say you learned English again?”
“Watching Ricky Lake and E.R., of course. Is not where all Americans learn?”
“Could be worse,” Vickie said on JM’s private channel. “Coulda been Springer.”
John could almost feel Unter’s mental face-palm.
A new voice came in on the channel. “Comrade Murdock,” Red Saviour said crisply. “Please to be remembering your orders. Once intel is secure, I will to be organizing proper immolation party.”
“We’re on it.” The team crept forward, keeping adequate spacing between each member. “Our goal is the foreman’s office, in the southwest corner of the building. We get in there, snag anything of importance, and then get the hell out.” John absorbed as much about his surroundings as he could in as little time as he could manage. The big thing was to make sure he had his area of responsibility covered; with Vickie looking through her set of “eyes” on him, there was an ongoing recording, and anything he missed, she should catch, or would get later when the home team looked through the record. The lighting was dim, orange sodium bulbs that always seemed to make the shadows look deeper. The Thulians moving through the warehouse looked almost androgynous and identical, lemmings following one another and going through the same mechanical routine.
Mamona was sweeping her eyes over her sector when she caught the guard; a roving sentry on an upper catwalk that was sneaking a cigarette in a corner, away from the prying eyes of his superiors, she guessed. He spotted the team of CCCPers in the middle of taking a drag on his smoke; the burning coal reflected from the lenses of the odd goggles he was wearing, lighting them up like a crazed devil’s pupils. He was just about to exhale when Mamona flipped one of her blades over, paused for a moment to gauge the distance, and threw the knife.
Sailing end over end, the blade connected with the Thulian gua
rd, catching him in the throat. John’s altered hearing heard the man’s dying gurgle, and he immediately centered his rifle at the source of the noise. Another few milliseconds to assess the threat, and John pulled the trigger twice; two suppressed rounds from his AKSU-74 hit the guard’s head. As if in slow motion, John noticed that the guard already had a weapon drawn from a hip holster; the gun looked like something fresh from a Commando Cody: Sky Marshal of the Universe episode. A reflex action moments before John had fired, the gun was pointed towards the ceiling, and fired. It didn’t have much of a sound signature; kind of like a bug zapper with the volume turned down. What was very obvious, however, was the bright blue-white glow it gave off, lighting up that entire corner of the warehouse. All of their damned weapons fire that blue raygun crap.
The muzzle blast and light from the weapon’s beam perfectly and unfortunately outlined the team. The Thulians scattered throughout the warehouse all immediately turned to see what the disturbance was.
“Soldat! Was machen Sie?” came a barked query.
Untermensch was the first to orient himself and fire at the Thulian that had spoken. The alien crumpled as the bullets struck him. The team dispersed and took cover behind crates and boxes; it seemed as if everyone was shooting almost immediately. The suppressed rifles cracked the air like some sort of maniacal sewing machine, while the Thulians’ weapons fizzled and burned through the air. Wherever the blue beams impacted, the impact area melted, splattering gobs of concrete and metal in all directions. John barked into his comm, “Vic, we’ve got trouble! Any help?”
“I”m gonna send a big surge through their electrics.” Saviour repeated what Vic said a second later in Russian, “I sobirajus’ poslat’ moshnij impul’s cherez ih elektroprovodku.”
Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle Page 8
