by Dave Edlund
Soon there was the muffled sound of the explosion. “Try your radio,” Peter said.
Iceberg turned it on and activated the throat mic. “Boss Man.” Static. “Boss Man, do you copy?” Still static. He shook his head.
“Try again.”
“Boss Man, do you copy, over?”
“Boss Man here. Read you loud and clear. Is the aerosol dispersion weapon deactivated?”
Peter was already bounding up the stairs.
“Give me a minute, sir, still in the stairwell.”
Iceberg was ascending three steps at a time and gaining on Peter. They emerged through the access door together.
The case was no longer there.
It took Peter a moment to find it. The force of the explosion blasted it twenty feet away, but from a distance it appeared intact. Good. Internal explosives—if there were any—didn’t detonate.
Just then the familiar sound of automatic rifle fire split the air, and Peter and Iceberg ducked. “I have to check it,” Peter exclaimed.
“Keep your head down!” Iceberg returned fire, but the enemy was beyond the effective range of his shotgun.
Peter scrambled to the case. One hinge was broken completely, and the lid was askew. On closer examination it was clear that all of the latches were also broken.
He spun the case and carefully lifted the lid. Inside, everything appeared intact. The circuit boards—all three of them—looked fine at first glance, although the tiny LEDs on the boards were not lit. Peter examined the inline fuse between the batteries and the circuit board. It was not blown, indicating the current surge occurred only for a very short duration.
“We have to go!” Iceberg shouted.
Peter closed the lid, difficult with only one functional hinge, and wrapped his arms around the case. Hugging it to his side, he darted back to the access door. A volley of bullets gouged cement dust from the wall next to the access door.
Iceberg was there waiting for him, holding the door open. They passed through, the door clicking shut behind them.
“It worked!” Peter exclaimed.
“Never doubted you,” Iceberg said dryly. “Let’s go. We’ll rendezvous with the rest of the team.” Ever cautious of trip wires, Iceberg grabbed the sprayer by its straps and led the foursome down to the ground floor where they were greeted by Jim and Ghost.
“This way,” Jim said. “We’ve taken up in the library. I’d like to get a look inside that case you’re carrying.”
Chapter 34
Minsk
THE LIBRARY, ONCE A BASTION OF ORDER, looked like it had been ransacked in preparation for a wholesale book burning. In the middle of the floor was a large stack of bound volumes—very large. Ten books deep and two feet tall, the barrier provided a measure of protection much as sandbags would have. Peter, accustomed to test-firing bullets into various media including dry, compressed paper, reckoned that the AK bullets would penetrate no more than five books—about 30 inches—before coming to a halt.
The three copiers were arranged end-to-end in an arc near a windowless corner. Layered with the copy machines were the library tables, turned on end and pressed close to each other, adding another two inches of solid oak to the defensive barrier.
Peter gently set the defunct bioweapon on the floor. He opened the case and removed the three circuit boards, one at a time, examining each carefully. What he found was satisfying—several capacitors and diodes on each board were scorched black, burned out. Most likely, the microprocessor chips were also ruined.
“It’s dead,” Peter concluded. “Electronic circuits overloaded and smoked.”
“It’s still potentially dangerous,” Jim said. “Magnum, check it for an explosive charge. If you find one, disarm it. Colonel Pierson is gonna want to have this examined in detail.”
Magnum hobbled over and tried to sit on the floor next to the case, only to grimace from the sudden sharp pain in his leg.
“Let’s set it up on the stack of books … easier for Magnum to do his job,” Peter suggested.
Peter set the circuit boards in the case lid and, with Jim’s help, moved the open case. Magnum grabbed a chair and made himself as comfortable as possible, then started to methodically disassemble the internal components. It only required two minutes to find a small explosive charge by following the wires that ultimately led to the detonator. The charge was hidden behind a duct and metal container attached to an air blower. Peter, looking over Magnum’s shoulder, suspected the blower was powerful—it would need to be to disperse the virus powder as an aerosol.
“Here it is, sir. I’ve clipped the wires and removed the detonator.” Magnum placed the detonator next to the case. “Should I remove the charge as well?”
“No. Leave it for the techs back home. And put everything other than the detonator back in place. They’ll want to document the construction.”
“Do you think there are more of these aerosol machines?” Peter asked.
“Maybe, hard to be sure. I wish we still had Major Leonov—or General Gorev, or another officer to question.” Jim gazed at the open case while Magnum carefully replaced the components. Recalling the photos of infected women and children covered in purple-red welts, some with blood dribbling from their nose and mouth, he felt his anger rising.
“Bull, any word on reinforcements?”
“Fighting at the airport is fierce, but the Marines landed okay and are taking control. A squad in three Humvees is on the way, ETA twenty minutes.”
“Set up direct radio contact with the squad leader. And get word to Colonel Pierson; our primary objective has been achieved.”
Peter joined his father and Gary, who were sitting next to two of the copiers. He sat down heavily on the carpeted floor, his back protesting. The pain was oddly welcome, a not-so-subtle reminder that he was still alive.
“Sounds like we’ll be getting out of here soon, and with a Marine escort,” Peter said, trying to lighten his father’s spirits.
“Think they’ll catch Gorev?” Gary asked.
“He should be put on trial and hanged,” Ian said. “Just like we did with the Nazis.”
“The bigger question is who’s behind the virus aerosol machine. Gorev and the NPA must have had help with that,” Peter said.
“That should be obvious. Over the years I’ve seen ruthless dictators come and go. But the likes of Vladimir Pushkin are rare.”
“Professor,” Gary said, “President Pushkin isn’t stupid. He’d have to know that if he was ever connected to supplying biological weapons to pro-Russian militia, the consequences would be severe.”
“I think Dad’s right. Under Pushkin’s leadership, Russia has sponsored invasions of Georgia, Moldova, and the Ukraine. The only repercussions were sanctions. That didn’t stop him from annexing large swaths of land, including the strategically important Crimean Peninsula.”
“You can add the civil conflict at the hands of pro-Russian militia in Latvia and now Belarus,” Professor Savage said.
“Speculation,” Gary objected. “Irrefutable proof is needed.”
Peter nodded in agreement. “Well, that case,” he pointed to the aerosol machine, “will be the first hard piece of evidence. If we can determine who made it using parts from what countries, then we’ll be well on our way to determining who is behind this plan.”
“Looks like we have company coming for breakfast,” Ghost announced in a low and even voice upon seeing the reflection in the mirror. Homer, Magnum, and Bull snapped weapons to their shoulders. Jim conferred with Ghost who was kneeling behind the stack of books.
“Just a couple heads poking around the far corner of the hallway,” Ghost reported.
“By the lobby?”
“Affirmative.” Ghost kept his eyes focused on the mirror in front of the mine. It was their only means for seeing down the long corridor.
“There’s another entrance at this end of the building. Bull, keep a sharp eye out. I’m betting they’ll attack from both directions.”
Homer made himself busy adding more books to the pile as quickly as he could.
“Peter, Gary, Professor,” Jim called, “help Homer. We need to reinforce this barricade.” The trio rushed to move armloads of books, both lengthening and deepening the literary bunker. Soon, the faculty and staff joined in, wanting to do anything and everything to help. In a matter of just a few minutes, the pile doubled in size.
Peter slipped through the straps of the flamethrower. He figured it might come in handy if the attack arrived. In addition to extending to the right, the hall led twenty yards straight away from the library doors where it forked, the left branch connected to another entrance to the building. If an attack came down this corridor, the enemy would be close enough to engage with the flamethrower.
Gary took a prone position to the side, away from the bunker, positioning the machine gun atop a short stack of books and journals for a clear line of fire. The Professor took a spot next to Ghost and aimed the AK-74.
“You okay with that?” Ghost asked.
“Young man, I’ve done my share of shooting, if that’s what you mean.” Ghost almost smiled, and then he focused again on the mirror.
“More heads poking around the corner,” he said. “Now three of ’em stepping into the hall—they’re moving forward.”
“Weapons?” Jim asked.
“AKs. Not seeing any RPGs.”
“Let ’em come. Everyone stay sharp. When they come, they’ll be real close.”
“They’re getting brave. Now I count eight, possibly twelve. Tight group,” Ghost said.
“Let me know when they’re about 40 meters out,” Jim said.
Suddenly three NPA soldiers appeared directly ahead. Two dove to the floor, sliding to a stop. In unison they opened up with their rifles, firing into the library. Bullets plunged into the book barricade as well as the far wall.
Gary was ready, finger on the trigger, and he was the first to fire. The machine gun chewed through the short belt of ammo in two seconds, and when the echo of gunfire faded, the NPA soldiers were dead.
“I’m out,” Gary announced.
“Here!” Jim handed his Para Ordinance Super Hawg .45 pistol to Gary.
“Still coming! About 60 meters.”
“Shout out when they’re at 40,” Jim said.
Another wave rounded the corner and came head on at the library. The SGIT team opened up, supported by Gary and Ian. Dozens of bullets buried deep in the stack of books.
“Forty!” Ghost shouted.
Jim stopped shooting and slammed his hand down on the remote detonator. For an instant, the world came to a standstill while the space immediately in front of the library doors was filled with an explosion that vaporized the mirror.
Instinctively the SGIT and NPA soldiers ducked, bringing a temporary halt to the firefight. With the mirror destroyed, Ghost was blind, unable to see down the long corridor to the formation of men ripped apart by the shrapnel from the MON-50 antipersonnel mine.
“Grenade!” Jim shouted as two metal spheres lobbed into the library. One stopped just inside the door, a lucky break for the defenders. The other made it further, resting against the pile of books.
Peter dove over a desk, holding the sprayer nozzle out so as not to roll over the flaming nozzle and extinguish it. Everyone else ducked down, as low as they possibly could.
Jim knew that as soon as the grenades detonated, the NPA soldiers would rush and overtake their position.
Time seemed to halt––then the grenades exploded.
Chapter 35
Minsk
THE GRENADE EXPLOSIONS were even louder than the mine. Peter was certain he couldn’t hear anything other than the intense ringing in his ears. The stack of books had been demolished by the explosion. He looked over at his father—half buried under books—and then to Gary. Although both appeared unhurt, neither was moving.
“Dad!” Peter was sure he shouted, but it sounded so faint and distant to his ears. He saw Jim and Ghost trying to shake off the books. Jim was frantically looking at the doorway, struggling to bring his rifle to bear. They seemed to be moving very slowly, as if they had leaden limbs.
Peter swiveled his head to the opening just as the first militiaman reached the doorway, knowing none of the SGIT team could possibly get a bead on the attacking force. He pointed the flamethrower and depressed the trigger. Instantly an intense yellow tongue of fire shot forward, engulfing the enemy soldier.
Screams emanated from his writhing body. Weapon no longer in his hands, he dropped and rolled for a few long seconds, and then he laid motionless, dead.
Peter didn’t stop to watch or grieve. He bellowed like a primal beast as his inner rage drove him onward, forward past the desk, to the doorway. Like a dragon of lore, the jury-rigged flamethrower was spitting an inferno that engulfed everyone in its reach. Peter advanced methodically, torching everything—and everyone. Soon, the corridor for fifteen meters in front of the library entry was aflame. Fire clung to the concrete-block walls and tiled floor and bodies, and the smell of burning flesh was nauseating.
Finally, Peter released the trigger. There was nothing else to burn, although his fury still smoldered.
By now Jim and Ghost were behind Peter, training their weapons down the long hallway that connected to the lobby, searching for targets. There were none—only bodies of the NPA guards torn to pieces by the mine Jim had set.
Bull joined them. “Everyone’s okay,” he reported, thankful that none of the civilians appeared injured.
Peter dropped the sprayer from his shoulders, wincing as the metal canister slid against his battered and bruised back, setting it aside gingerly, like it might break if handled roughly. He turned and walked back to his father.
“Dad?”
Ian Savage moaned as he sat upright.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked again.
“You mean other than having a stack of books dropped on my head?” He rubbed the back of his scalp.
Relief washed over Peter at the sudden realization that his father was fine. Peter smiled. “Your head’s too hard for a few books to cause any damage.”
Ian looked up at his son. “You might think you’re funny, but…”
He stopped at the sight of blood at Peter’s side.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
Peter’s expression conveyed his confusion.
“Your side—you’re bleeding.”
Bull was there, raising Peter’s arm even before the sensation of pain fully registered in his mind. But as his arm was raised, the pain flared. “Oww!”
“Hold your arm up and let me have a look,” Bull said. He expanded the tear in the shirt. The flesh was cut, but it didn’t go deep.
“Looks like you were grazed by shrapnel. Lucky though, it didn’t puncture your lung.” Bull squeezed and poked a bit, confirming his diagnosis. “Boss Man, I need to put a few sutures in this laceration. Might as well stich up Magnum at the same time.”
“Okay, but do it quick.”
s
While Bull was busy treating his patients, the radio squawked. “Ferryman, this is Ghost Rider, do you copy?”
Everyone heard the tinny voice; it was coming from somewhere within the rubbish pile of tomes and loose papers. “Ferryman, this is Ghost Rider. Do you copy? Over.”
Jim pushed aside debris until he found the radio. “Ghost Rider, I read you. ETA?”
“Authenticate, Ferryman.”
“Bravo bravo tango one zulu one. This is Boss Man; transmission is secure.”
“Roger, Ferryman. Authentication complete. Thank you, sir. We are closing fast, no opposition so far. ETA three minutes.”
Jim confirmed the GPS coordinates for their current location and briefed Ghost Rider on the recent battle. He closed with a caution that the NPA had control of the BSU campus buildings and Ghost Rider should expect resistance.
“Roger, we’re coming in hot. Ghost Rider out.”
Jim spent the next tw
o minutes talking to the former hostages, preparing them for the departure. He didn’t know exactly where they would be taken, or how they would get there. All in due time. But Jim was certain that the BSU campus and many of the neighboring buildings—the seat of Government and the KGB Headquarters—would be the scene of intense fighting over the next several hours as the Marines evicted the NPA.
Despite fatigue and fear, the chatter was upbeat, until once again, the sound of heavy gunfire entered the library. A moment later engines were heard revving to high rpms.
“Fifty cal,” Homer said.
“And Humvees. I think the Marines are about to arrive.”
BOOM! The deep, thunderous crack from an explosion sounded like it was just outside the library walls. But the experienced soldiers knew better. Attempting to ease the concern evident in so many faces, Jim explained, “Marines are coming for us—Force Recon troops from the Black Sea Rotational Force. Sounds like they’re driving multiple Humvees armed with heavy machine guns and TOW missiles. What you just heard was probably a missile busting through a wall or maybe an armored vehicle.” Then he added, “Nothing to worry about—these guys are as good as they get.”
“I can’t wait to get a hot shower and sleep in a real bed,” Gary said.
“Soon enough,” Jim replied. “The next faces you see will be dressed in Marine uniforms.”
Peter busied himself closing the aerosol machine and securing the lid in place with an electrical cord he cut from one of the copy machines. Then he sat next to his father.
“What are your plans?” Peter assumed his father would have a difficult transition with Dmitri Kaspar dead.
“I’m ready to come home.”
“You’re welcome to stay at my place in Bend, if you’d like. Ethan and Jo always enjoy spending time with you.” Peter paused before continuing. “I do, too.”
Professor Savage gazed into his son’s eyes. What Peter saw was a portrait of sadness and grief. Before the Professor answered, Bull entered with a Marine officer. “Sir, this is Captain Diaz.”
Boss Man kept the introductions short and then got down to business. “We have eighteen civilians to evac. What’s your plan?”
