Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 14

  Quinn listened as Haddad told the story of how he and his companions had been arrested, and subsequent to that, and the ways in which the others had been murdered. Haddad tried to restrain the tears but failed.

  Haddad’s account of the bombing, the revenge killing, and his escape from Kyshtym followed. “So,” Haddad concluded. “I came here.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Quinn said. “I’m sorry about your friend and your sister.”

  “So,” Dean put in, “that brings us to the present. Sin Jol has very few resources here. But they have an extensive presence in northern Kazakhstan. And Hakeem thinks they might be willing to provide us with assistance after we cross the border.”

  “I think they will,” Haddad volunteered eagerly. “We hate Russia more than we hate America.”

  Quinn couldn’t help but smile. “I appreciate your honesty. But have you considered the possibility that the Russians might attack your group if it provides us with assistance?”

  “Yes,” Haddad answered. “But I think they will attack us anyway. And I think the Caliph wants to kill Russians.”

  “You think, but you’re not sure,” Quinn said.

  Haddad shrugged. “I could be wrong.”

  Quinn looked at Dean. “So, what do you propose?”

  “I think Hakeem and I should head south,” Dean told her. “And see if we can cut a deal with Caliph Jumah.”

  Quinn felt a stab of fear. What if something happened to him? But that was silly … They weren’t a “thing.” Still, silly or not, that’s how she felt. “Okay,” Quinn said. “What does the agency think of your plan?”

  “My boss isn’t exactly thrilled, given all of the obstacles we’ll face, but he hasn’t been able to suggest something better.”

  “Where is the Tigr?”

  “It’s parked in amongst some wrecked cars. Or it was … I haven’t checked lately.”

  “Take it if it’s there,” Quinn said. “And whatever else you need.”

  “Thanks,” Dean replied. “We will. Plus, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take a gold bar with me. If we are allowed to meet with the Caliph, tradition demands that we give him a gift. And a bar of the yellow stuff will get his attention.”

  “Done,” Quinn agreed. “But give me a receipt. We’re in the army after all.”

  Dean turned to Haddad. “Wait in the hall … I’ll be there shortly.”

  Haddad left and closed the door behind him.

  “I wish there was time to ramp up to this,” Dean said. “But there isn’t. So here goes. When this is over, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  The invitation was the first clear indication that Dean felt the way she did. But more than that, the date was an affirmation, and a claim on the future. A promise to survive.

  Quinn reached out to squeeze his hand. “I’d like that Dan. I’d like that very much.”

  Dean stood. “Good. We’ll settle the details later.” And with that he was gone.

  ***

  Metlino, Russia

  Jones saw Bilenko’s head jerk, and blood spray sideways, as the 9mm bullet passed through his skull. Then the mechanic fired again. The bullet smashed the back window and blew a hole through the windshield as well. Jones shifted into reverse and stomped on the gas. The police car hit the mechanic and threw her down. The cruiser bucked as it passed over the body. Jones braked.

  The Russian raised a feeble hand as if to ask for help. Jones shifted into drive. Tires spun in the snow, found traction, and sent the car surging forward. The left-hand tires narrowly missed Bilenko’s body and hit the mechanic. The hood of the car rose and fell as it rolled over the woman again.

  Jones left the car with pistol in hand. The mechanic appeared to be dead. Jones shot her just to make sure. He was angry. Very angry. One of the Russians had been suspicious. That much was clear. And called who? The police station in Kyshtym? Quite possibly.

  Jones turned and walked toward the office. Snow fell as if to conceal the bodies. The old man was standing behind the cash register, hands trembling, as he tried to load a shotgun. Jones shot him in the face. The impact threw the geezer backwards. He hit hard and slid to the floor.

  That was when Jones noticed the old crone. She was wrapped in a blanket and sitting next to a wood burning stove. And in her gnarled hand was a cell phone. Jones shot her twice. Then he turned to leave.

  That’s when he spotted the maps. They were upright in a clear plastic holder. He took one and pulled it open. And there it was … A full color layout of the entire area! Jones smiled. Bilenko was dead, but Dubek was alive, and Jones had a map. Life was good.

  ***

  Ozersk, Russia

  A solitary figure stood on the roof of what had been the public library as the snow swirled around him. Not because Savvin enjoyed standing there but as an act of penitence.

  Rather than the quick victory he’d hoped for, and assumed would be his, the foreigners had proved themselves to be worthy adversaries. And because of that General Oleg Dedov, and a company of paras, were scheduled to arrive soon.

  Not only would that be humiliating, it would force Savvin to take orders from an old man better known for kissing President Toplin’s ass, than for fighting the pindos.

  But maybe, if Savvin could defeat the foreigners, and take possession of the precious metals quickly enough, he would be able to declare victory—and forestall Dedov’s arrival.

  The first step toward accomplishing that was meticulous planning. The second was the application of brute force. Preparations were underway.

  ***

  CSM McKenzie and a four-person fireteam were heading into the southeast sector of the city, where an 80mm mortar was firing rounds at City Hall. They were advancing building-to-building because the tunnels in that area were flooded and therefore impassable.

  McKenzie was determined to use every bit of cover and avoid contact with the Vodnik High Mobility Vehicles. But if forced to fight, his soldiers had the means to do so. In addition to their AK-74s the fireteam was equipped with two RG-6 semi-automatic revolver-style grenade launchers.

  McKenzie was on point. Corporal Hass was in the two-slot, Private Fernandez was in the three-hole, Private Robert Sims was number four, and Combat Medic Page was walking drag. She was armed with a carbine and had responsibility for the unit’s six.

  Shoot, move and communicate. That was the essence of what soldiers were trained to do. But other skills were required as well such as the ability to maintain situational awareness, make use of whatever cover was available, and anticipate what might lie ahead.

  McKenzie led the fireteam through an alley, stopped short of the next street, and paused to look both ways. He heard a boom in the distance. A round hitting City Hall? Yes.

  But his job was to ignore everything other than the task at hand. He murmured into his mike. “Street crossing … One at a time … Stay alert.”

  McKenzie dashed across the street and hurried to take cover behind an ancient delivery truck. Its wheels were missing, and half of the vehicle’s windows were broken, but the hulk would offer some protection.

  Hass followed with Fernandez behind him. That was when a Vod turned a corner and came straight at them. The top-mounted machinegun was firing long bursts. “Bravo-Zero and Three will take cover,” McKenzie instructed. “The rest of the unit will engage.”

  Hass aimed his grenade launcher at a point in front of the Vodnik and fired. The boxy truck ran into the explosion. But the vic was equipped with thick armor, and emerged from the smoke intact.

  Machinegun bullets were hitting the delivery truck by then. It shook under the force of the impacts. Hass remained undeterred. He sent two grenades down range. The first struck the Vodnik’s windshield. The second scored a direct hit on the vehicle’s front left wheel which forced the Vod to stop. Troops spilled out.

  That was when a bullet from across the street hit Hass and killed him. He slumped to the ground. McKenzie saw it happen out of the corner of his ey
e. Half a dozen dark silhouettes had appeared on the roof opposite him. “Heads up, Sims! Six Ivans are on the roof above you!”

  Fernandez was firing his AK-74 at the Russian troops. A soldier collapsed and the rest dropped to their stomachs. But McKenzie and Fernandez had to duck as a hail of bullets came their way. They rattled as they hit the truck, and some went straight through.

  Sims was climbing a fire escape to reach the roof. Page saw a Russian lean out and point his weapon downward. She fired three shots and hurried to sidestep the falling body. The Russian landed with a thump. The medic shot him again.

  Sims arrived on the roof. The rest of the Spetsnaz were firing at McKenzie and Fernandez. Sims leveled the RG-6 and fired. The first grenade was a hair short. Shrapnel killed two Russians nevertheless. The others were in the process of rolling onto their backs when the second grenade exploded. Five bad guys in all … Six, counting the one Page brought down. Sims thumbed his radio. “Bravo-One-Zero to Alpha-Five. The roof is clear. Over.”

  “Good work,” McKenzie replied. “Establish an overlook. We’re crossing back. Over.”

  The Russians knew where the fireteam was, and could easily surmise where it was headed. So, the rational thing to do was abort and return to City Hall.

  McKenzie didn’t want to leave Hass lying there, but had no choice. All he could do was take one of the soldier’s dog tags plus his grenade launcher and ammo. I’m sorry, Corporal, McKenzie thought. I won’t forget. And with that he led Fernandez out into the street.

  ***

  SoGro Farm 16, east of City 40

  It hadn’t been easy to load Bilenko’s body into the cop car’s back seat where it sat slumped to one side. If the circumstances been different Jones would have left the Ukrainian for the Russians to deal with. But in order to steal the gold he had to score points with the Ice Queen. And taking the pilot back to the farm for burial was part of the picture he hoped to paint.

  A fifteen-minute drive took Jones back to the farm. The tracks he’d left earlier had nearly disappeared by then, and there weren’t any new ones. So, it seemed safe to assume that there weren’t any Russians waiting for him. Still, it made sense to be careful. Jones spoke into the mike. “I’m back. Peperone.”

  “Pizza,” Hollis replied.

  Jones got out to open the gate, drove past it, and got out again. After closing the barrier, he replaced the rusty chain. Did it appear to be locked? Yes, it did. And the steadily falling snow would erase his tracks.

  After driving up to the bunkhouse Jones broke the news regarding Bilenko to Hollis, and most especially, to Dubek. Would the surviving Ukrainian be upset?

  If Dubek was heartbroken he hid it well. And that, Jones figured, is a good sign. Maybe I can recruit him.

  Hollis continued to man the second-floor overlook while the other men hacked a grave out of the semi-frozen earth. After taking one of Bilenko’s tags Dubek delivered an improvised eulogy. “After a difficult childhood Olek became a pilot. He loved to fly … And even though he wasn’t very mechanical, he was damned good with his hands and feet, and that’s what pilots respect the most. And Olek loved our country, our poor beleaguered country. Olek means, ‘defender of mankind.’ And he lived up to his name. May Olek rest in peace.”

  ***

  Ozersk, Russia

  Night was falling. And as the light continued to fade both sides made final preparations for the impending battle. Quinn entered the makeshift HQ wearing her tac gear and carrying her rifle. Once the shit storm began, all members of the headquarters staff were expected to report to their various defense stations, and fight. “All right,” Quinn said. “Give me a sitrep.”

  Captain Booker was ready. “Two tunnels connect the system with city hall. The Russians are loading soldiers into them like bullets into a gun. You can watch them on screen 2. We have cameras in each passageway. The Russians found most, but not all of them.”

  Quinn turned to peer over a tech’s shoulder. The footage from the tiny IR surveillance camera was grainy and subject to bursts of static. But Quinn didn’t need high def to see a Russian soldier and glimpse the bodies packed in behind him. “Good work. What’s the situation on the surface look like?”

  “The Ivans are forming up to attack the side doors,” Booker replied. “We have teams ready to defend them. As for the main entrance, well, that’s where most of the action will be. They’ve been infiltrating the area for the last hour or so.”

  Quinn nodded. “Okay, let’s seize the initiative and blow the tunnels.”

  After Lieutenant Salazar and his team used the tunnel system to destroy the Russian mortar, Dodd and his assistant had spent hours planting two layers of explosives in the passageways. Some of the charges were concealed in vertical ventilation shafts, in drainage pipes, and in tunnels beneath the surface of the water.

  The second layer of explosives was hidden, but not as well. The Russians found them, cleared them away, and stopped searching.

  So, when Quinn gave the order to detonate the hidden charges, the resulting explosions killed at least six Russians in each passageway. Quinn felt the resulting tremors through the soles of her boots. “Okay everybody,” Quinn said, as Rooney clicked away. “Go to your defense stations. And Captain Booker …”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Should I fall, keep going. All the way.”

  Booker looked like a soccer mom in a Russian uniform. But her eyes were filled with determination. “Roger that, Major … All the way.”

  The decision to blow the tunnels before the Russians attacked was no accident. Rather than allow Colonel Savvin to time his attack, Quinn was determined to force his hand, and mess with his mind.

  HQ was on the second floor. And, by the time Quinn arrived on the mezzanine one level below, a full-scale assault was underway. She was wearing night vision gear and could see clearly. Rocket propelled grenades smashed through windows to explode in the lobby. And massed machinegun fire raked the front of the building.

  Then the incoming fire stopped long enough for a modified Vodnik multipurpose vehicle to bounce up the front steps. A length of steel pipe was affixed to an improvised framework and struck the doors like the battering ram it was.

  Then the Vod backed away, even as its turret-mounted machinegun poured a steady stream of bullets through the gaping hole, and Russian troops massed for an all-out frontal attack. And that made sense except for one thing: Not a single one of the 152nd’s soldiers were located in the first-floor lobby. They were massed on the mezzanine, the forward part of which was fortified with steel filing cabinets filled with chunks of broken concrete. The barrier wasn’t perfect but sufficient to offer some protection from the 5.45x39 rounds that AK-74s fired.

  “This is Alpha-Six,” Quinn said over the company frequency. “Hold your fire. Wait for my command.”

  The men and women of the 152nd didn’t have long to wait. Having subjected the first floor to a barrage of fire, the Russians charged up the steps, confident that most, if not all, of the defenders were wounded or dead.

  But the moment the Spetsnaz passed through the hole where the double doors had been, they found themselves in a V-shaped killing field, which forced them into a tightly packed mass.

  Like the defensive bulwark on the mezzanine above, the first floor “walls” consisted of steel filing cabinets loaded with chunks of concrete, which were too heavy to push out of the way. “Prepare to fire,” Quinn said. “Fire!”

  The men and women of the 152nd Training Battalion fired everything they had. That included AK-74s, grenade launchers, and light machineguns. The slaughter was horrific.

  As Quinn looked down on the scene, she saw Russian soldiers die only to remain standing due to the crush of bodies around them. To their credit many of the Spetsnaz managed to return fire. But most of their bullets went astray or were blocked by the defensive wall.

  Those who could turned and made for the hole through which they had entered. Some were carrying wounded comrades or dragging the
m to safety.

  Logic dictated that the Americans gun them down lest they regroup and attack again. But that was more than Quinn could stomach. “Cease fire! Let them go … That’s an order. Over.”

  A final shot rang out, a bullet struck a fleeing Russian between the shoulder blades, and threw him forward. Dr. Gulin and her medics went down to help those who could be helped.

  Meanwhile a team set about scrounging weapons and ammo for the journey ahead. There were other matters to deal with as well, including the group of Russians who had been able to blow a side door, killing four of the six defenders stationed there. Agent Mars among them. Fortunately, the quick response team led by Lieutenant Salazar pushed them back.

  All of which was good. But, in order to withdraw from City 40, there was one more thing the 152nd needed to do.

  ***

  Captain Danylo Andruko and eight Ukrainian soldiers had been in hiding for more than eight hours waiting for a terse message from Quinn: “This is Alpha-Five. Condition green. Go. Over.”

  Thanks to Pruitt, and her drones, the 152nd knew where the Russians were headquartered. And now, after suffering terrible losses, that location was vulnerable. And the Ukrainians had a score to settle. The Crimean Peninsula had been annexed by the Russian Federation in 2014. And many of the mask-wearing troops sent to seize Crimea were Spetsnaz.

  So there, in the radioactive city of Ozersk, Andruko and his men had an opportunity for revenge. And, what better way to accomplish that than to kill a Spetsnaz officer, and decapitate his unit?

  It felt good to leave the storefront where they’d been hiding and venture outside. The snow had stopped, but was thick underfoot, and served to muffle their footsteps. The Ukrainians were wearing American night vision devices.

  The Russian HQ was located in the old Lenin Hotel. And thanks to a recon carried out by Pruitt’s UAVs, Andruko knew that Colonel Savvin’s staff worked from the third floor, which was certain to be guarded.

  What Andruko didn’t know, was whether the Russian officer had been there throughout the attack, or been on-scene at City Hall. If the latter, Savvin might be dead. And that would be a shame since Andruko wanted to kill the bastard himself.