Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Read online

  There was a five-beat pause, followed by the sound of the voice Quinn had heard during half a dozen movies. “Enter.”

  Rooney opened the door and stood to one side so Quinn could precede him. And, based on the air of formality Rooney had established, Quinn did everything by the book. “Sir, Major Quinn, reporting as ordered sir.”

  Flynn’s narrow, even-featured face was split in half by a nose that was almost too large, and punctuated with a pair of famously squinty eyes. The ones that made him look dangerous.

  His hair was longer than it should have been, and swept back on both sides, leaving a pronounced widow’s peak above a smooth forehead. He was dressed in a natty looking suit instead of a uniform and was perched on the corner of a desk. A map of what Quinn took to be Russia was spread out on his desk, and carefully held in place with a semiauto pistol, a magnifying glass, and a coffee mug. As if on a movie set.

  Flynn stood. And every part of his custom-tailored suit fell into place as he did so. He was tall, thin, and Vanity Fair elegant. And, since he wasn’t in uniform, he didn’t return her salute. A small detail and one that was consistent with what she’d heard from Booker. Flynn was no 90-day wonder. He knew his way around the army. “At ease,” Flynn said, as he came forward to shake Quinn’s hand. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Quinn heard a series of clicks as Rooney captured the moment for posterity. Was Flynn’s ego so huge he considered every moment of his life worthy of documentation? Would the shot of her shaking hands with Flynn appear in an autobiography after the war? Quite possibly. Assuming he survived. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Please,” Flynn said. “Have a seat.”

  Two guest chairs were positioned in front of the desk and Quinn chose the one on the right. “So,” Flynn said. “What do you think of the 152nd so far?”

  Quinn believed it was her duty to answer the question honestly. “On the one hand I’m amazed by how quickly the unit has come together,” she replied. “But there’s a lot to accomplish in four weeks.”

  “Three weeks,” Flynn said gloomily. “I just returned from a meeting at Presidio Army Base. According to the latest HUMINT the Russians moved the date up. They need the rhenium in Moscow, and they need it pronto. Twenty-one days from now a special transportation unit will arrive in Kyshtym to pick it up. Our orders are to land one day earlier, convince the Russians that we are that team, and snatch the rhenium out from under their noses.”

  “That sucks, sir.”

  “Yes, it does,” Flynn agreed. “But I believe we can do it. And one of the reasons I believe that is because they assigned you to the unit. I’m going to level with you Major. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m an actor, and I speak Russian, someone else would be in command of this mission.”

  That was the first time Quinn had heard about Flynn’s ability to speak Russian. It was a definite plus. As was his direct manner. Unless Flynn was playing her. The man was an actor after all. How could she tell what was real, and what wasn’t?

  “Furthermore,” Flynn added, “I know why they chose you. You’ve seen more combat than I have, they think you’ll keep me grounded, and you’re the Ice Queen. An officer who, according to the grapevine, stood on a bridge in Germany and glassed the enemy, while snipers shot at her.”

  Quinn started to object, but Flynn raised a hand. “Save the humility for someone else. There’s something more I want to say. I am not a misogynist. I am a man who wants to win and will use every resource at his disposal to do so. That includes you. Do not, under any circumstance, withhold your advice. Do you understand?”

  Quinn was encouraged by the extent of Flynn’s self-awareness. Maybe, just maybe, the 152nd Training Command could get the job done.

  ***

  Kyshtym, Russia

  Ivan Boyko had to be careful. Very, very careful because he was a Muslim and, not only living in a police state, but a country given to Islamophobia.

  More than that Boyko was the living personification of what many Russians feared. An agent sent to activate “the sheeple,” and pave the way for a caliphate.

  Not an ISIS led caliphate, but a caliphate as conceived by a group called Sin Jol (The True Path). After being founded in 1954 by an obscure scholar, Sin Jol had spread to more than 50 countries, with a membership which the organization’s hierarchy claimed to be in the “tens of thousands.”

  And, unlike many other such organizations, Sin Jol’s ideology had been carefully thought out and documented via books, pamphlets, and the Internet. Some of the publications argued in favor of a Jihad (holy war), and some against it.

  But thanks to official statements like, “The True Path leads everywhere, to every country and to every home where the way of Muhammad will prevail over all others,” Sin Jol had been banned in numerous countries—including Russia.

  Which meant that Boyko’s mission, which was to get a technical education and spread “the teachings,” was a dangerous one. And in more ways than one. The use of social media would bring the federal politsiya (police) to his door. So Boyko’s efforts to spread the “word” had to be accomplished via old fashioned pamphlets, which no printer in his or her right mind, would agree to produce.

  That meant Boyko and the other members of his three-person cell had been forced to print the word themselves. And the need to do so led them to the nearby city of Ozersk, codenamed City 40, which was the birthplace of the Soviet nuclear weapons program.

  But in 1957 the plant in Ozersk had been the site of a major disaster. An underground tank filled with high-level nuclear waste exploded, contaminating more square miles of land than the Chernobyl explosions had.

  It was there, in the nearly deserted city, that Hakeem Haddad had located an ancient printing press. So once each month, the threesome loaded reams of paper and bottles of ink into their backpacks and made the dangerous journey to Ozersk.

  City 40 and the area surrounding it was considered to be one of the most contaminated places on Earth. So much so that past residents who worked at the nuclear plant often fell sick and died. Something which could happen to Boyko and his team if they visited too often. “Don’t worry,” Haddad insisted. “We’ll be fine.”

  Boyko hoped his friend was correct as they got into his ancient VAZ-21073, cranked it up, and drove east out of Kyshtym. It was well past nine and the city’s fluorescent street lights were on. But other than a man walking his dog, there were no pedestrians to be seen.

  After seven miles Boyko turned off onto a farm road. It wound its way through fields, passed a lake, and petered out. That’s where they left the car. The rest of the journey had to be completed on foot.

  It took 30 minutes to reach the cyclone fence. There was no activity to be seen nor did the youngsters expect any. A section of mesh was held in place by nearly invisible zip ties.

  Haddad cut the ties and would replace them with new ones on the way out. Kamila followed her brother through the hole. Boyko brought up the rear.

  They had flashlights which were used sparingly to avoid drawing attention from the roving security patrols, and from what Kamila called “the things.” By which she meant the estimated 200 to 300 people who lived in Ozersk.

  Most were harmless scavengers. Some made a nuisance of themselves by popping out of the shadows to beg. All three members of the party had candy bars ready for them.

  But the rest, perhaps 10 percent of the population, were said to be cannibals. That meant they were happy to feed on fellow residents or outsiders stupid enough to enter City 40 unarmed.

  Boyko and Haddad carried two-foot-long lengths of steel pipe and butcher knives just in case. But neither man had been forced to use their weapons yet and Boyko hoped they never would.

  It was cold and clear. So, without any competition from city lights, the stars helped to light the way. The trio kept a sharp lookout as they made their way through the litter strewn streets to a square. That’s where a fifteen-story building brooded over the mostly deserted city.<
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  The structure was an excellent example of the style known as Socialist Classicism, which often involved the use of columns, arches, and spires—all intended to promote Russia’s glory. And there, barely visible above the main entrance, was the famous hammer and sickle symbol. A logo with an Art Deco aesthetic.

  To Boyko’s way of thinking the rationale behind the symbol was consistent with the ideological underpinnings of Sin Jol. The hammer and the sickle were meant to symbolize a lasting union between soviet peasantry and the working class.

  Haddad led the way up the cracked steps to massive doors which had been left ajar by looters decades earlier. The flashlights became critical at that point because there was no way for starlight to penetrate the cavernous lobby.

  Twin staircases bordered both sides of the lobby with an elevator bank centered between them. Haddad chose the one on the right and made his way down into the basement. There were dozens of offices and storerooms down there—along with two massive boilers, a maze of plumbing, and a print shop.

  All three knew the longer they stayed the more radiation they would absorb and wanted to leave as soon as possible. Haddad led them into the shop which, having no value to Ozersk’s residents, had been left undisturbed.

  When properly placed, three battery-powered lanterns were sufficient to light the area. The men went to work prepping the press while Kamila set type. A task her nimble fingers excelled at. Because the hand-operated press had been used to print regulations, and localized propaganda, it was small and easy to operate.

  The first sheets were coming off the press when a beggar appeared. She was an old crone, dressed in filthy clothes, and carrying a crucifix which she held high. “Bless you! For you are the chosen ones.” Boyko doubted that, but gave her an Alenka chocolate bar anyway, and sent her off into the darkness.

  Work continued after that, interrupted only by a visit from the man they called “The Scarecrow.” He spoke gibberish and insisted on performing a jerky dance, until receiving an Alenka bar, which he clutched to his chest as he ran away.

  It took six hours to print all the pages. Collation and stapling would come later. Boyko felt a sense of satisfaction as they turned their flashlights on, put the lanterns in their packs, and went back to the lobby. A pigeon flapped its wings and flew away.

  It was dark outside. As they entered the square, Boyko could see the crack of light that divided day from night, and knew they had to hurry. That was the moment when headlights came on, orders were shouted, and armed men swept in to surround them.

  Haddad swung his pipe, missed, and took a rifle butt to the head. He fell, Kamila broke into tears, and Boyko felt something hard poke the back of his head. “Ruki vverkh mudak, ili ya vyb’yu tebe mozgi.” (Hands up asshole, or I’ll blow your brains out.)

  Boyko raised his hands. How? How did the kafirs (infidels) know?

  Then Boyko saw that The Scarecrow was standing off to one side, talking to a man in uniform, and gesturing with his hands. The degenerate bastard was a police informer! Did he have a handheld radio? Probably. Not that it mattered. The prisoners were handcuffed, loaded into different vehicles, and driven towards Kyshtym.

  Boyko’s mind was on what lay ahead. I am a Jihadi, Boyko told himself sternly. I will go to Jannah (paradise), where I will live forever, and have all that I desire.

  But first I must be strong, and refuse to betray those who sent me, for to do so would offend Allah.

  The vehicles delivered Boyko and his friends to the parking lot in back of a one-story Soviet era police station. Boyko was sick with fear as officers hustled him inside. He expected to be questioned immediately. That didn’t happen.

  After being shoved into a Spartan cell, Boyko was left to stew for more than 24 hours, before being removed and marched into the interrogation room where Haddad and Kamila were waiting. The chair Boyko was ordered to sit on was bolted to the floor. A grid consisting of crisscrossing pipes dangled from the ceiling. Lights were attached to it and threw shadows onto the wall opposite him.

  There, at the very center of the floor, was a large drain. And when Boyko saw the hoses coiled on both sides of the room he knew what the drain for. To wash the blood away, Boyko thought morosely.

  A man entered. The policemen, who had been slouching before, came to attention. The newcomer’s head was shaved. A prominent supraorbital ridge shaded coal black eyes. “My name is Mayor Nicholai Brusilov,” the man announced. “I will be your judge, your jury, and if necessary—your executioner. Strip the girl. Hang her from the grid.”

  Kamila began to cry, and fought the men who ripped her clothes off, but to no avail. Boyko felt sorry for her. To appear naked in front of men other than a husband was to earn God’s punishment. Even if given no choice.

  Shameful though it was, Boyko had always wondered what Kamila would look like naked, and now he knew. Kamila had pert breasts, a narrow waist, and slender legs. Her feet kicked futilely as she was hoisted up into the air. And, much to Boyko’s disgust, the sight of it made him hard.

  “Now,” Brusilov said, “I am going to ask you boys some questions. If you answer them honestly, the girl will be released this afternoon. If you fail, we will whip her to death. Her fate rests in your hands. Who sent you?”

  Boyko could see the agony on his friend’s face. “No one sent us.”

  Braided leather cut into naked flesh and Kamila screamed. Brusilov turned to Boyko. “How about you, shit face. Who sent you? And by that, I mean which people sent you. It’s clear from the pages you ran off the press that you belong to Sin Jol.”

  Boyko looked at the floor. “No one sent us. We came up with the idea ourselves.”

  Kamila screamed and blood splattered the floor. Brusilov produced a theatrical sigh. “Fetch me some coffee. We’re going to be here for a while.”

  The coffee came. And Brusilov slurped it. There were more questions. Both men refused to talk. Kamila was unconscious by then. Brusilov shook his head sadly. “You leave me no choice. A pistol please.”

  Boyko watched a policeman remove a gun from his holster and surrender it butt first. Brusilov made a show out of ejecting the magazine, replacing it, and pulling the slide back. The mayor aimed the pistol at Haddad, laughed, and turned to point the weapon at Boyko.

  Then, with an amazing quickness, Brusilov shot Kamila in the head. Brain matter flew. The impact caused her body to spin. Boyko threw up. No one seemed to notice.

  The mayor directed a mournful look at Haddad. “That was your fault,” he said. “You shot your sister. Bring me the case.”

  The case, as it turned out, was quite large—and made of rosewood. A key dangled from the gold chain that Brusilov wore around his thick neck. He used it to open the box. Then he carried it over for Boyko to examine.

  And there nestled in side-by-side compartments were two tools: A gold sickle, and a silver hammer. Just like the ones that were emblematic of the old Soviet Union.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Brusilov demanded. “They represent what was, and what will be again. President Toplin gave them to me with his own hands three months ago.

  “‘Thanks to you, and your efforts, copper production is up by 9% in Kyshtym.’ That’s what he said. And that’s to say nothing of rhenium production, which increased by 62% under my supervision. Then he gave me the box,” Brusilov said importantly. “And all the other mayors could do was sit and watch. The silly assholes.”

  So saying, Brusilov gave the box to a policeman, and removed the sickle. “Look closely, Ivan. The sickle is made of copper covered with a layer of gold. Copper is too soft to hold an edge for very long. It will cut however. And that’s the point. The hammer and the sickle are real tools.

  “Uh, oh … I can see from the look in your eyes that you don’t believe me. But seeing is believing. So, watch this.”

  Boyko watched Brusilov pull the sickle back, knew what was going to happen next, and started to chant. “O God, forgive our living and our dead, those who are present
among us and those who are absent, our young and our old, our males and our females. O God, whoever You keep alive, keep him alive in Islam, and whoever you cause to die, cause him to die with faith.” Gold whirred through the air. Boyko felt a feather-like touch and was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fort Ord, California

  Colonel Flynn wasn’t around much. He claimed there were meetings, lots and lots of meetings, which he was required to attend. Quinn wasn’t so sure. She suspected that the CO spent a lot of his time in Los Angeles, hanging out with his Hollywood friends, and going to parties.

  There was a bright side though. Flynn’s frequent absences allowed Quinn to shape the company the way she wanted to. But she then had to sell Flynn on her decisions. And that could be difficult because he’d been in the reserves for a long time and had strong opinions about how army units should be run.

  Fortunately, Flynn considered a lot of the decisions Quinn made to be trivial. Issuing ski masks, or maskirovka, to the troops, was a good example. Warmth would be an issue with a Russian winter coming on.

  But in eastern Europe military balaclavas were more than a matter of comfort. They were an aspect of strategic, operational, and tactical deception. The Russian invasion of Ukraine was an obvious example.

  And, since roughly 20% of the company was Hispanic or African American, the ski masks offered an excellent way to conceal the fact that some of the soldiers were American.

  As for the troops, they thought that the skull masks were scary-cool, and would give them a psychological edge. And that was part of Quinn’s plan as well.

  Then there was the issue of supplies. The mission planners, in their infinite wisdom, figured that the raid would be completed within 24 hours, and were therefore withholding sleeping bags, extra MREs, and expedition quantities of ammo.

  But Quinn was of the opinion that if anything could go wrong, it sure as hell would go wrong. What if an unexpected blizzard grounded the planes in Kyshtym? What then?