by Dave Edlund
The space had a feeling of immensity given its sheer size and tall ceiling. A large bronze statue of Lenin was off to the right, and a smaller bronze of Alexander Lukashenko, the former president of Belarus with strong ties to Moscow, was on the opposite side of the cavernous room.
Staffers and guards were running about in pure pandemonium. The guards were easily identified by their all-black uniforms and AK-74 rifles. Ghost was blasting away with the .50 caliber, devastating and demoralizing the enemy, taking care not to kill the unarmed staffers, who scrambled to leave what had become a killing field.
The second Humvee with Magnum, Homer, and Iceberg shot up the steps and came to a stop just inside the shattered front doorway. Iceberg manned the heavy machine gun, adding volume to Ghost’s withering fire. Magnum and Homer bailed out of the truck, pausing just long enough for Homer to grab another drum magazine for his AA12 shotgun, and scampered to the lead vehicle. Jim had already exited, using the bulletproof door as a shield.
“Nolty, you stay with Ghost; make sure he doesn’t run out of ammo!” Jim ordered. Just then Magnum and Homer joined up on their commander.
“Magnum, stay with Iceberg. The four of you are going to hold this lobby.”
Homer was clutching his weapon. “You have frags for that?” Jim asked, referring to the explosive 12 gauge rounds.
“Frags and buckshot,” Homer replied.
“Good, you’re with me. We’re taking Peter to the roof. Give me a hand with the gear.”
Peter had already strapped the flamethrower on his back, the sudden stab of pain from his side and his back reminded him again of his wounds, despite the painkiller Bull had administered. He was struggling to lift the heavy duffle bag when Homer arrived at his side and grabbed a strap. With Peter lifting the other loop, they yanked it out of the cargo space.
Firing continued at a steady pace, and quickly the staffers cleared. Peter wasn’t sure where they all went, but suddenly they were gone.
The third Humvee remained outside, taking up station at the base of the steps. Washington parked the vehicle with the front pointed across Independence Avenue, giving plenty of room to turn the truck to gain a better angle on Russian or NPA military vehicles and troops that might attempt to reinforce the KGB Headquarters. Two shoulder-fired Stinger missile launchers lay on the seat within easy reach. Commander Nicolaou had declared any aircraft not bearing U.S. or NATO-alliance insignias to be hostile, and ordered his team to shoot-first.
Inside, NPA guards in their camouflage uniforms were streaming down the stairs, firing their assault rifles as they ran. Bullets were zinging off the Humvees, while the SGIT team returned a devastating barrage.
Two groups of men split and took up positions on opposite sides of the lobby, attempting to flank the Humvees and trap the Americans in a deadly crossfire. They ran for the statues, Lenin and Lukashenko, diving behind the granite and bronze for protection.
“Ghost, Iceberg, get those fifties on them!” Jim shouted to be heard.
Ghost swiveled his gun to the right, Iceberg to the left. Each man fired a sustained burst. The legs of Lenin were cut in half by the large caliber bullets, and the thirteen-foot-tall statue toppled over sideways, smashing marble floor tiles where it landed. Ghost lowered the muzzle, forcing the bullets down, chasing the ducking heads. The stone base with Lenin’s feet was chipped as if a crew with jackhammers were pounding on it. While the enemy ducked under the hail of bullets, Jim flung two grenades that rolled past the base of the statue. They detonated, silencing the NPA guards.
At the same time, Iceberg was shooting through the bronze of Lukashenko. One NPA guard was leaning against the statue for protection. The bullets sliced through the soft bronze easily, killing him before he was able to hit Iceberg. Magnum tossed a grenade that bounced beyond the base and exploded, sending shrapnel into the two remaining guards who were ducked low behind the stone pedestal.
Shooting continued from the front, but it was noticeably weaker.
Jim keyed his throat mic. “Alpha Team. We’re going up the right staircase. Ready… Now!” With Jim in the lead, Homer in the rear, and Peter in between, the three men sprinted forward across the lobby and up the staircase.
Ghost and Iceberg continued to fire the heavy machine guns in short, effective bursts. Occasionally, Nolty and Magnum fired their weapons at targets of opportunity.
A center elevator chimed, and the steel doors slowly opened. Iceberg swung the smoking barrel of the .50 caliber. The doors parted no more than a foot when gunshots burst forth from within. Iceberg fired the remainder of the belt, about 25 rounds, through the doors. The perforated steel panels opened to reveal a charnel house inside the elevator.
“Reloading!” he shouted as he opened a new box of ammunition and slapped the belt in the breach.
An eerie silence pervaded the lobby. At least for the moment the shooting halted—there were no more KGB or NPA guards left standing.
s
The two grand stairways extended only from the lobby to the second floor. The higher floors were accessed through a central box-like stairwell with landings at each floor connected via a doorway to the interior corridors. Given the secrecy surrounding the building, Lieutenant Lacey was unable to email any interior plans to Jim. The best she could offer was a slightly dated satellite photo of the roof showing what were believed to be two access points—one at the front and one at the rear of the massive stone structure—numerous large air conditioning units, and a clock tower. The latter was of sufficient height that it was probably visible from any location in the city center.
Peter made it to the second floor landing when he started to slow, breathing deeply, gulping in air. His side was burning, and he thought he may have torn the stiches. Homer relieved him of the duffle bag, noting its considerable heft.
Jim kept moving upward, rifle raised and ready for any assailants. Just as he was closing on the third floor, the door opened abruptly and five NPA soldiers turned to descend the stairs. Jim immediately fired before the NPA soldiers even knew he was there, killing all of them before they got a shot off.
Above the third floor the stairs narrowed considerably. The men continued to ascend, though notably slower and more cautiously. They passed the fourth floor without incident, and the staircase narrowed even more in the last flight that connected to what Jim hoped was the roof access door. Behind them, the door at the fourth floor opened, and more NPA militia entered the staircase, not realizing that their enemy was above them.
Jim placed his index finger to his lips, looking at Peter. Homer already knew to be silent. Then he shifted his eyes to Homer, who had two grenades clipped to his load harnesses. Jim pointed to the grenades, and then indicated with hand motions to drop them down the stairs.
Homer silently placed the duffle bag down and slung his weapon. With one grenade in each hand, he extracted the safeties and then popped the pins. Leaning over the railing, he saw the NPA soldiers almost at the third floor landing. They slowed as the bodies of their slain comrades came into view.
That’s when Homer threw both grenades down, aiming for the landing where the NPA soldiers were about to step off the staircase.
The grenades landed right in front of the enemy, and they looked around in startled confusion. Some wanted to push forward, others to go back. They had one second to figure it out—not enough time before the explosives detonated.
The concussion instantly killed those within ten feet of the detonation. The men further away were less fortunate as shrapnel tore through their bodies leaving ragged, bloody wounds that none survived.
The boom was still echoing in Peter’s ears when Jim shot the lock off the access door and they emerged onto the roof. He was followed immediately by Homer. Both soldiers scanned the roof for any guards. There was no one in sight.
Jim turned back to the stairwell. “It’s clear. You can come up.”
Chapter 42
Minsk
THE EXPANSIVE ROOFTOP was dotted with
ten large metal industrial boxes that housed the air conditioning units. Black tar had faded to a shade of weathered gray, except for places easily spotted where leaks had recently been patched.
Gone was the earlier rain. Although the sky was still cloudy, it looked promising to clear within a few hours. Peter felt a gentle, cool breeze as he stepped onto the flat roof. Homer and Jim were 30 feet ahead.
Jim turned to address Peter. “The aerosol machine could be anywhere.”
The three men reached the closest AC unit. Standing about five feet tall and six by six feet at the base, it had metal louvered grills on all four sides. Peter studied the construction, noting that the louvers were door panels. He turned a latch, but it was locked. Quickly, he moved around and tested the other panels—also locked.
“If the aerosol machine is hidden in one of these utility sheds, it’ll take some time to force open the locks and search all of—”
Gunshots cut Peter off as bullets perforated the louvers where he was standing. He ducked and dashed to the opposite side of the shed while Jim and Homer hastily returned fire and then joined Peter behind the safety of the structure. With their backs to the louvered panel, they were facing Independence Avenue, which meant that most of the flat roof extended behind them. It was impossible to search while under fire.
“They’re coming up the other staircase,” Jim said.
More bullets punched into and through portions of the shed, causing Peter to flinch and scrunch lower. Jim cautiously peeked around the corner and saw a large number of enemy soldiers pouring out of the far roof access doorway.
“They’re spreading out across the roof,” Jim said. “We can’t stay here.”
A blur of motion caught Jim’s eye. He reflexively swung his rifle even before he recognized the four KGB guards exiting the opening that they had used only minutes before.
Black uniforms… heads swiveling, seeking the enemy… rifles at the ready…
Jim’s brain processed the visual information in a fraction of a second, because that brief interval of time was often the difference between life and death.
He pulled the trigger, and a stream of bullets cut through the three KGB guards just as they located the two SGIT men and Peter.
“Empty!” Jim shouted as he expertly ejected the spent magazine and rammed home a fresh one. Homer split his attention between the near roof access door and the enemy spreading out across the far side of the roof.
Jim activated his throat mic, enabling his communication with the SGIT team downstairs. “Bull, I need a sitrep.”
“So far, pretty quiet out here. No activity.”
“Okay. Tell Diaz I need you to cover our back. Cross through the lobby and double-time up the staircase. Take a defensive position on the fourth floor landing. There’s a narrow staircase there that connects to the roof. No one is to access the roof up those stairs. Clear?” Jim knew that as long as Bull was alive no one would get past him.
He looked around the side of the shelter and fired off several shots, taking down two NPA soldiers. Homer was firing from the opposite side, sending a volley of buckshot into an AC shelter where the soldiers appeared to be clustered.
“We can’t stay here,” Jim said. “Soon they’ll flank us and we’ll be caught in a crossfire.”
Homer nodded.
“Ready?” Jim said, and Homer rose to a crouch. Then Jim leaned around the corner of his cover and fired controlled, short bursts at the KGB and NPA scampering for position. His fire was enough to cause the enemy to duck for cover. Homer dashed to short distance to the next AC shelter. He took up position on the far side, just as a pair of NPA militia broke out onto the open expanse of roof and charged his position. Homer leveled the shotgun and fired, dropping the militia in their tracks.
More gunshots and more bullets peppered the shelter Peter and Jim were hiding behind, a few passing all the way through the metal near the top where there wasn’t any machinery to stop them.
“We have to move,” Jim said to Peter. “And I don’t see how we can search the roof for the aerosol machine.”
Peter knew Jim was very close to aborting the mission, but he didn’t want to give up, not yet. He was replaying Leonov’s words in his mind—something odd about his statement. Time. It is not on your side. Peter looked up and saw the clock tower with new meaning.
He stood and peaked around the side of their shelter, across the roof to the far side, drawing more gunfire. All he saw were more of the AC sheds, and they weren’t even close to the height of the clock tower.
“That has to be it,” Peter mumbled.
“What?” Jim said.
“Leonov. Remember, when we were interrogating him, he said, ‘Time. It is not on your side.’ Seemed strange at the moment, nonsensical. But I was wrong.”
“We don’t have time for riddles, Peter.” Jim’s admonishment was punctuated by the rapid, booming staccato from Homer’s shotgun.
With quickening pulse, Peter pointed to the clock tower off to the left. “That’s the highest location on the roof. That’s where the weapon is located.”
Two pairs of eyes focused on the tower, trying to discern every detail, large and small. The tower was square, about twenty feet on each side, with a pyramidal cap to shed rain and snow supported by posts at the four corners. The peak of the tower was 40 feet higher than the flat roof of the KGB Headquarters. A narrow ladder was fixed to the wall of the tower providing an access pathway from the roof, but small windows suggested maybe there was an internal staircase as well. An open platform, or terrace, wrapped around the tower with the clock face on three sides of a cube located at the terrace level. At night, floodlights illuminated the three clock dials, which faced to the front and sides of the stone building.
“When Leonov spoke of time not being on our side, he was referencing the clock tower,” Peter said.
“Even if you’re right, we can’t get there, not with NPA and KGB Guards holding us tight. It’s 30 meters from here to the ladder. Anyone not shot running across the open will be shot dead on the ladder.”
Another volley of bullets impacted the shelter and Jim returned fire, conscious of his ever dwindling supply of ammunition. Homer continued to fire at will, effectively blocking any flanking maneuvers.
Peter’s countenance was hard and cold. He’d been here before. Knowing that he had every reason to expect to be killed, perhaps those around him as well. But also knowing what had to be done—for a greater good. To Peter, he wasn’t making a choice any more than waking up in the morning was a choice. It’s simply what he had to do.
“You’re right, Jim. We are not going to climb the ladder; I am. You and Homer can hold them off. Give me cover until I’m on the terrace.”
Peter shifted his shoulders, adjusting the lay of the flamethrower on his back. He grasped the worn web handles of the duffle bag, measuring its heft while ignoring the sharp stab of pain. Then he placed his head and an arm through the straps, suspending the bag across his shoulder, freeing his hands to scamper up the ladder. He looked across the flat roof to the ladder, imagining each stride as he would dash for the tower, jump up to the second rung, and then, hand over hand, scurry up the ladder, finally dropping onto the platform surrounding the clock. Seeing it in his mind’s eye almost made it real, but he knew it wasn’t.
With no better plan to offer, Jim agreed. He activated his throat mic and said, “Homer, load up that drum of frags.”
“Yes, sir.” In two seconds Homer’s practiced hands had the magazines swapped on the shotgun.
Jim inserted a full mag into his H&K 416 assault rifle and then reached out, stopping Peter. He unlimbered his sidearm, handing the Super Hawg .45 to Peter. He hefted the weapon, visually ensured the safety was engaged, and then stuffed it inside his waistband.
“Ready?”
Peter nodded, and Jim and Homer opened up with a murderous volley. The piercing roar of gunfire was terrifying, but superimposed on the reports were the explosions from the fragmentat
ion rounds Homer was shooting into every obstacle thought to be hiding the assailants. Sheet metal was rent and pieces thrown into the air to be scattered across the roof. The doorway marking the other access stairway was also targeted and ripped off its hinges, the doorframe shattered. NPA soldiers and black-clad KGB guards rose from the mounting pile of corpses, scattering across the roof as they sought protective cover.
Peter never looked back as he dashed for the ladder. At any moment he expected to meet up with a bullet. He jumped, landing on the second rung and started climbing, sucking in air, blocking out the hellish battle behind him, pushing away the fear of being shot in the back.
He grabbed the top rung and yanked himself up and over the ladder, landing on the platform surrounding the clock. Only now could he see that a low stone wall, about two feet high, surrounded the platform. He ducked below the edge. From his position, Peter could not see the other three sides of the cube. To his left was an open hatch in the deck. He looked inside, into a dark shaft with a steep metal stair similar to the type used on ships.
Peter gripped the pistol and silently advanced around the cube, still crouched low. The sharp cracks and deep booms had ceased now that he had reached his goal. As he rounded the corner, there was Gorev. He was behind the aerosol machine in rapt concentration, and didn’t acknowledge Peter’s presence.
“Stop whatever you’re doing, Gorev,” Peter ordered with the pistol pointed at the General.
General Gorev looked up, but did not remove his finger from a button on the top of the case—a button that Peter believed was part of the manual timer.
“You are too late, my comedic friend.” Gorev laughed. It was short and mocking.
“I disabled the last machine. I’ll disable this one too. Now, stand aside.”
“Put down the gun, or I’ll press this button and activate the device.”
