Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Read online

  “Sorry,” Quinn replied. “I need Segal here.”

  ***

  The major was hard to read. But Jones thought he knew what was going down. Thanks to bitch Booker, Quinn knew about his relationship with Segal, and was holding Zoey hostage. That was clever in a way. But the truth was that if Jones needed to steal the trucks and run, he’d leave Segal behind.

  No, the real hold that Quinn had over him was the gold, and the fact that it was going to remain behind. Because at some point an unconscious decision had been made. Jones was going to take the yellow stuff and retire. The only questions were when, where and how. He nodded obediently. “Yes, ma’am. No prob. We’ll look for some fuel too.”

  “Good thinking, Corporal,” Quinn said. “Get after it.”

  ***

  As three of the unit’s four vehicles drove east, the rest of the company was hard at work. Dodd and his assistant used the Tigr to crisscross the city and plant explosives in strategic locations.

  Small cameras had been installed on the 15th floor, one for each point of compass, which would allow the unit’s observers to watch from a safer location.

  Vertical firing slits had been opened on the 14th floor so that sharpshooters could fire on the surrounding streets.

  Meanwhile, down on the first floor, and the U-shaped mezzanine directly above it, preparations were being made to repel a full-scale assault on the main entrance.

  Side doors had been blocked and soldiers had been sent down to inspect the basement for manholes. Having been caught by surprise once Quinn wasn’t about to let the same thing happen again.

  But Quinn couldn’t work her troops all night and expect them to fight effectively the next day. So, at 0100 in the morning all the troops, other than those on guard duty, were ordered to get some sleep. Quinn entered her sleeping bag confident that Booker was more than capable of handling any problems that might arise. The wood floor was hard, but not hard enough to keep her awake.

  ***

  East of Ozersk, Russia

  The three-vehicle convoy followed the Ozorsk-Bol’shoy-Kuyash road east. It was pitch black other than the illumination provided by their headlights. There was very little traffic, the terrain was flat and—judging from what Jones could see—largely unpopulated. Lights twinkled in the distance but not many.

  A Ukrainian pilot named Bilenko was riding shotgun with a STR-2 Veresk submachine gun resting across his lap. It had been pointed at Jones until the mechanic objected.

  Now the weapon was aimed at the passenger side door. All of which suggested that Bilenko wouldn’t be very useful in a fire fight.

  Bilenko had other virtues however, one of which was his ability to read Russian road signs, like the one that said “Metlino, 15 kilometers.” And since Jones had no desire to enter a village, he hoped to find a hiding place soon.

  When Bilenko saw the sign for “SoGro Farm 16,” Jones thought they should check it out. The reason for his optimism was that the word zakryto (closed) had been spray painted across the weather-worn sign.

  A partially overgrown road led to a gate which was chained shut. After stopping the vehicle Jones got out, removed a pair of bolt cutters from the VPK’s toolbox, and cut the padlock free. Then he pushed the gate to one side and drove through. The trucks followed.

  The road continued across a field, past a tumbledown shed, and up to some tightly grouped buildings. Jones hit the high beams and turned a circle. The blobs of light revealed what might have been living quarters, two sheds of uncertain purpose, and an open-sided pole barn. And there, crouched beneath the metal roof, was a rusty KAMA tractor.

  “We’ll push that sucker out into the open,” Jones told Bilenko. “Then we can park the VPK and trucks under cover.”

  It was easier said than done. The tractor’s parking brake was not only engaged, but rusted in place. Jones had to use the VPK’s powerful engine to push-skid the KAMA out of its resting place, and into the open area beyond. All of the vehicles fit under the pitched roof but just barely.

  A light snow was falling as the team broke into the musty two-story bunkhouse and went about the business of making themselves to home. There were six bunk frames to choose from on the first floor, plus five filthy mattresses, and some badly worn furniture.

  But the big wood stove was in good shape, and a pile of split wood was stacked beside it. “We can maintain a fire all night, but not during the day,” Jones told them. “A local yokel could spot the smoke and drop in for a visit. And don’t walk in the snow. Your tracks will be visible from above. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Cray-Cray Cranston said. “We’ve got it. There’s no need to get your panties in a knot.”

  Hollis laughed, saw Jones frown, and stopped. The second pilot, a man named Dubek, remained expressionless.

  Jones made the call, wound up talking to Captain Booker, and gave her the farm’s coordinates. Once the contact was broken Jones eyed the rest of them. “Captain Bilenko and I will take the first watch,” Jones volunteered. “Do you know how to play poker, Captain? If not, I can teach you.”

  ***

  The Emergency Airstrip outside of Kyshtym, Russia

  The sun was a yellow smear above the gray clouds. Maxim Zotov was waiting for the cargo jets when they arrived. The first plane swooped in, bounced, and roared down the runway. Snowflakes billowed as the pilots stood on the brakes and made use of the plane’s thrust reversers to stop their plane. It was lumbering off the runway when the second An-124 put down.

  What did the pilots think of the wrecked planes already on the ground? It didn’t matter. Zotov’s goal was to greet the officer in charge, make a good impression, and keep his job.

  Zotov got in his car and drove to the spot where soldiers had begun to exit plane one. A man stood all alone. His gloved hands were clasped behind his back. The commanding officer? Zotov thought so. After exiting his car, the airport manager waddled over to greet the man who, according to the insignia on his uniform, was a colonel.

  The officer’s brows were knitted into what might have been a permanent frown. His nose had a beak-like appearance and his mouth was little more than a horizontal slit. “Good morning, sir,” Zotov said cheerfully. “And welcome to Kyshtym. My name is Maxim Zotov. I’m in charge of the airstrip.”

  “Colonel Savvin,” the man replied brusquely. “Tell me what happened here.”

  Zotov launched into a mostly factual account. “Enemy planes came and dropped bombs on the city. A lot of bombs. Then two An-124s arrived. I spoke to a pilot. He told me that Spetsnaz troops were aboard, and said they were one day early, due to a bad weather forecast.”

  “He spoke Russian?”

  “Yes,” Zotov replied. “But looking back, I realize he had a Ukrainian accent.”

  “That makes sense,” Savvin said, as if to himself. “Then what?”

  “The planes landed. But, when I told Major Yeltsin what the pilot told me, he didn’t believe it.”

  “Major Yeltsin?”

  “He was in charge of the local Guard unit assigned to protect the strip.”

  “I see,” Savvin said. “And a good man from the sound of it. What did he do?”

  “He told me to get on the radio, and check with the Special Operations Command, to see if the pilot was telling the truth. Special Operations said, ‘No.’

  “I told the Major, and he attacked the planes. You can see what’s left of them over there. But the imposters were on the ground by then. There was a fight. The enemy soldiers won. They buried their dead and left.”

  “To go where?”

  Zotov shrugged. “I don’t know. May I ask a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “I put in a request for planes or helicopters but none came. Why?”

  “The pindos bombed Shagol air base,” Savvin answered. “All of the aircraft stationed there were damaged or destroyed. Two-hundred and fifty-seven people died.”

  Zotov’s eyes grew wider. “I see.”

  A soldier shouted
a warning as a Mercedes sped down the runway. Zotov turned to look. “Don’t shoot! That’s Mayor Brusilov.”

  The car skidded to a halt, and Brusilov got out. A bloodied bandage was wound around his head and his left arm was resting in a sling. He hurried forward. “Thank God you’re here! They attacked the copper plant, and stole the rhenium!”

  If Savvin was surprised he gave no sign of it. “Where are they?”

  “They’re in City 40. One of my policemen is watching them.”

  “Good,” Savvin said. “As soon as we’re ready we’ll enter Ozersk and kill them.”

  ***

  Ozersk, Russia

  The 152nd’s headquarters were located on the 2nd floor of City Hall in a windowless storage room. Shelving units loaded with cardboard file boxes had been removed to make room for Captain Booker’s staff—which included communications specialists, drone operators, and a medical response team member. All of which were functions that would be critical during the upcoming battle.

  Tables and desks had been rearranged to form a U-shaped command and control area equipped with laptops, surveillance monitors, and radio gear. All of the electronics were powered by a quiet 15-pound, man-portable, Solid Acid Fuel Cell system that could run off a single propane cannister for two weeks.

  Plus, the building was equipped with an ancient generator which, much to everyone’s amazement, Zoey Segal managed to refuel and start. And now, thanks to the electricity it provided, a single bulb glowed overhead.

  Quinn paused to chat with each soldier, before heading down the hall to the office which had been chosen to serve as a chow hall. Daniel Dean was seated at a library table with an MRE open in front of him. “Don’t tell me,” Quinn said. “Let me guess. You’re eating spaghetti.”

  Dean smiled. “Cold spaghetti, the breakfast of champions.”

  Quinn made a gagging noise. “How is the psyops effort going?”

  “Pretty damned well,” Dean replied. “Thanks to our friends at the NSA (National Security Agency), we have a full roster of the assholes who are about to attack us.”

  Quinn was making tea. She looked up. “Get serious.”

  “I am serious,” Dean replied. “Here, have a piece of bread. And some strawberry jam.”

  Quinn said, “Thank you,” and sat down on the other side of the table. “So, how do you plan to use the roster?”

  “City 40 was a cutting-edge place back before the big boom. Government officials used a citywide PA system to cheer the proletariat on. I’m sure the proles looked forward to the daily ‘You can work harder’ pronouncements, not to mention music on Stalin’s birthday. We ran some tests and about half of the speakers still work.

  “Once the Ivans arrive Agent Mars is going to read the list over the speakers that still work. And make up something for each soldier. Stuff like, ‘Have a nice day, Corporal Garin … Too bad it’s going to be your last.’ It’s corny, I admit that, but potentially effective nevertheless. Because if we know each soldier’s name, then what else do we know?”

  “I love it,” Quinn said, as she finished the bread. “Maybe spooks have some value after all.” Dean offered a middle finger.

  Quinn was about to reply, when a com tech entered the room. “Captain Booker told me to tell you that the enemy is here.”

  ***

  The Russian convoy consisted of 15 identical GAZ Vodnik high-mobility vehicles. Each 4x4 could carry 10 Spetsnaz, plus two crew members. The top mounted turrets were fitted with a 14.5mm heavy machineguns, and a 7.62mm coaxial light machineguns. Savvin was riding in the first machine. It stopped just short of the open gate.

  Savvin exited through the hatch in the rear, circled around, and climbed up onto the roof just forward of the turret. Thanks to the video supplied by a high-flying Russian drone, he’d been on a virtual tour of the city. But, had anything changed?

  Snowflakes circled Savvin as he glassed the city. Lots of buildings were visible. But City Hall stood head and shoulders above the rest. And that was the building in which the Allied force had chosen to make its stand.

  Savvin understood the logic. By placing observers and snipers on the upper floors of City Hall, the pindos could not only get a 360-degree view, they could fire on selected targets.

  Who was he up against? A special operator. That seemed certain. A man who was both intelligent and brave. Hence the decision to fight, rather than run, and be whittled down over a period of days.

  What did his opponent plan to do? Savvin wondered. It doesn’t matter, he decided. The bastard is going to die in City 40. He opened his mike. “This is Agat-01 (Agate-One). Execute plan 1. Over.”

  Savvin was a perfectionist. Each company commander, each platoon leader, and each noncom knew what was expected of him. And they knew that if they failed Savvin would assign them a nickname like Moodozvon (Whacko), Zasranees (Shithead), or Durak (Fool), and forever address them as such. So, each man was careful to execute the plan with the precision expected of him.

  Except for Savvin’s vehicle, which remained at the gate, the rest pulled out in order. Vodnik 2 followed the fence north, 3 circled south, 4 went north and so on, until each 4x4 was aligned with a thoroughfare. Soldiers hurried to cut holes for their vehicle to pass through while their noncoms and officers urged them on. Each hoped to be the first to say, “Vypolneno” (done), and thereby distinguish himself. Once the battalion was ready, Savvin gave the order: “Ataka!” (Attack!)

  ***

  SoGro Farm 16, east of City 40

  Nothing of any consequence had occurred on the farm. And that was a good thing. Night had given way to day and the snow continued to fall.

  The soldiers couldn’t use the stove during daylight hours which meant it was cold in the bunkhouse. Those who weren’t on duty spent most of their time in their sleeping bags. And that was fine with Jones who put the time to good use.

  Jones had always been good at spotting peoples’ weaknesses. And in contrast to Captain Boyko Dubek, who was very self-possessed, Olek Bilenko had a flaw Jones could feed on. And that was a profound sense of aggrievement.

  Bilenko was reticent at first. But, with some encouragement from Jones, all of it came pouring out. Bilenko’s father had been killed in a traffic accident when he was five. His stepfather beat him, and his mother died of breast cancer.

  Years later Bilenko found his girlfriend with another man. And on and on. All of which led Bilenko to believe that he’d been systematically cheated by life.

  It was a flame that Jones sought to nourish. In fact, the only thing that cut Bilenko’s way was his ability at math, plus an inheritance from his maternal grandmother, which allowed him to attend the National Aviation University in Kyiv.

  Subsequent to graduation he flew passenger jets for a year and a half prior to the war. Then, when Russia invaded Ukraine, Bilenko joined the Free Ukraine air force. And that was how he wound up in a bunkhouse east of City 40. And, when the opportunity to steal the gold came along, Jones would need a pilot.

  “Hey, Jones,” Dubek yelled from the second floor. “We’ve got company!”

  Jones made a grab for his submachinegun. “What kind of company?”

  “It looks like a cop car … And it’s halfway up the driveway.”

  “Open the door, Bilenko,” Jones ordered. “You’re a Russian soldier. Invite them in.”

  ***

  Ozersk, Russia

  Quinn stood behind the techs. Her eyes flicked from screen to screen. She wanted to be at ground level, with her troops, but knew that would be a mistake. The command and control center was the correct place to be at the moment. Her defensive strategy was based on deception. “All warfare is based on deception,” Chinese General Sun Tzu famously said, and he was correct.

  That was why Quinn had worked hard to make it appear that her entire force was waiting to defend City Hall Alamo style, while in actuality, half her soldiers were hidden at locations around the city. And, judging from the way the Russians had invaded the downtown area f
rom the north, east, south and west—the plan was working.

  Quinn couldn’t take the time to use standard radio procedure for every transmission. Things were moving too swiftly for that. So, she gave orders one after another. “Standby to engage the enemy on my command.”

  Seconds later four of the enemy Vodniks triggered Hornet/WAM mines which were designed to detect movement and sound. Each lobbed a submunition, or sublet, up and over the incoming vehicle, where it sensed heat, and fired a projectile down into the engine compartment.

  The resulting explosions overlapped each other. One of the 4x4s exploded, killing all 12 of the Spetsnaz inside. The others survived but were rendered immobile—forcing troops to exit their vehicles as flames spread. “Engage the enemy,” Quinn said coldly. “Over.”

  ***

  Hiller had been waiting for that order. And, as luck would have it, one of the Russian vehicles was directly forward of her position on the 14th floor. The sniper was sitting on a stained mattress, pointing her semiautomatic sniper’s rifle at a jagged hole in the wall, as Russian soldiers hurried to exit a burning Vodnik. The best available cover consisted of a building located 200 feet away from them. The Ivans ran in that direction.

  By swinging her crosshairs to the left Hiller could place them on the soldier most likely to reach cover first. She fired, felt the resulting recoil, and saw the target fall.

  Then it was a simple matter to let the next Ivan run into the sight picture and shoot him. That was one of the things Hiller liked about the semiautomatic Dragunov. There was no need to throw a bolt which could pull the rifle off target.

  Her spotter was a Ukrainian kid named Melnik who, though not sniper qualified, was an excellent shot. And that was important because in addition to his responsibilities as a spotter he was there to provide security. “Kill,” Melnik said. “Kill,” “Kill,” and “Kill.” “A miss,” “A hit,” “A kill,” and so forth, until ten bullets had been fired, and it was time to reload.

  Two Russians scurried into cover while Hiller slapped a fresh ten-round magazine into place. “Eight kills, one hit, and one miss,” Melnik told her. “That makes for a grand total of 26 kills.”