He glanced at his wristwatch. “And we have just one hour left.”
The briefing had concluded.
7
THE CRUDE FABRIC FELT crisp and fresh. Sokolov had discarded his grimy street clothes, changing into the new khaki fatigues allocated by Bulgak. He stepped out into the lashing rain, an army surplus AEK-973 Kovrov assault rifle dangling from his shoulder. Utilized during the Second Chechen War, the weapon had improved on competing Kalashnikov models with a slimmer, lighter design and greater accuracy. Constantine had also dressed to resemble a newly-recruited paramilitary grunt. In lieu of another AEK handed out to him, Constantine had retained his Saiga shotgun.
They had no time to waste as rotor blades buzzed, revving up. Together, they joined the rest of the squad already boarding the helicopter. Only Bulgak's men had chosen to wear balaclavas. Apart from the lightweight rifles, nobody was equipped with any gear or body armor. Bulgak and Klimov carried no firearms except handguns. Shouting out orders, the Colonel acted as leader, with the Minister at his side.
“Come on, get in!” Bulgak yelled above the noise of the turboshafts.
The Mil Mi-8 'Hip' multi-purpose helicopter had served as a trusty workhorse for decades, with thousands of units produced and operated across the globe. It could carry up to thirty troops, but as Sokolov hastily climbed inside through the hatch, he saw that much of the cabin space was taken up by an auxiliary fuel tank. The 900-liter drum was mounted internally to address the Hip's excessive fuel consumption, leaving a narrow aisle between it and the lateral bench-style seating. Sokolov strapped himself in alongside Constantine, Klimov, Zubov, Bulgak and his men.
The chopper took off, piloted by a three-man crew. Ascending sharply, it pitched and bobbed in the harsh wind. Something rattled inside the cabin. The twin engines chugged, struggling with the steep lift over the mountains. Sokolov glanced at the porthole next to him. Beyond the rain-streaked glass, he glimpsed the landscape that the helicopter was rising above. A picturesque palette of yellow, brown and green vegetation, with glacial white popping up in between. The odd combination mesmerized him, rock and ice contrasting with abundant flora. The color of the tiny streams and lakes was the clearest blue he had laid eyes on.
The lush, forested slopes drifted away, shrouded in fog. The aging chopper was flying low, the Caucasus ridge proving too much to overcome in such inclement weather. Yet only the shortest possible route to Dedura's palace would win them enough time for the assault. That way they should reach the target in fifteen minutes.
The plan's biggest strength lay in its simplicity.
The chopper would land on the helipad inside the palatial complex. Within minutes, the squad would spread out and seize control of the unprotected palace. Arriving from his yacht, Dedura would walk into a trap.
Laboring, the Hip broke past the tallest edge of the mountains and started to descend. Sokolov had a sinking feeling in his stomach, but it wasn't due to the change in altitude.
The success of their mission rested on the assumption that the palace remained unprotected. There existed no proof of such vulnerability beyond Bulgak's opinion.
If it was wrong, they were all sitting ducks.
8
IN THE VICINITY OF the mountain pass, a twenty-five-meter-tall mast jutted above the trees, supporting a large rectangular wire-grid antenna. Identical masts stood ten kilometers apart, spaced across the perimeter of Dedura's territory. Chained to each other, the transmitters created a radar fence against aerial intrusion. The bistatic early-warning system acted as an invisible tripwire against low-altitude, low-signature aircraft. The antennae sent tracking information to a data-processing workstation inside Dedura's palace.
Daryl Booth scowled as he received an alert from his communications officer and took an elevator to the underground level. The CO, a squat, red-haired Welshman named Jones, sat in front of an array of screens. His command post amassed data from hundreds of magnetic and infrared sensors dotted around the Biosphere Reserve, as well as surveillance cameras around the palace and its grounds.
“Target scanned, sir,” he informed Booth, pointing at the radar map which displayed the coordinates.
“Not a false alarm?”
“Negative, sir. The target has been automatically identified as a helicopter. After Mr. Dedura arrived earlier in the morning, we haven't been told to expect any other incoming flights.”
Booth nodded, staring at a CCTV feed from one of the twenty cameras around the palatial complex. It showed the state-of-the art fitness and spa suite in the adjacent sporting facility. Dedura, wearing nothing but a pair of broad, martial-arts-style hakama pants, was pummeling a wooden dummy with a bamboo kendo stick, part of his daily workout.
“Notify Mr. Dedura of an enemy attack, Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, sir. What about you, sir?”
“I'll go out to take care of it.”
9
OUTSIDE, OOTH LUGGED A portable SA-16 Gimlet anti-air missile launcher. Over the years, the SA had become the AK-47 of missile launchers, used in all sorts of armed conflicts from the Gulf War to the Syrian revolution. At twenty-four pounds, it was heavier than its NATO counterparts, with a three-pound warhead which Booth would smash into the oncoming chopper.
He summoned his men in the courtyard: ten battle-hardened ex-soldiers turned Dedura's praetorian servants. Like Booth, they were clad in black rain-proof ponchos, made from lightweight nylon. With their hoods on, they resembled the cloaked members of some medieval cult, except that each toted a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun. Booth picked three men to accompany him.
“Hughes, get behind the wheel. Williams, I'm leaving you in charge. Set up patrols around the palace.”
While Booth received the target's updated status from Jones via push-to-talk radio, Hughes pulled up in a Hummer H2. No sooner had Booth and his commandos got inside than the Hummer sped across the valley towards the mountains, dirt flying from under the massive wheels. Driving in a north-westerly direction for two kilometers, the modified H2 bounced traversing the rough, hilly terrain. Booth peered through the window, watching the sky until he spotted the helicopter. The wipers brushed the windshield frantically. The din of the downpour and the growl of the Hummer's 5-liter V8 made any sound of approaching aircraft indiscernible.
But there he saw it. A speck growing against the storm clouds.
Immediately, he ordered Hughes to stop, and climbed out.
Squinting as the wind swept sheets of rain at him, he observed that the chopper—a Mi-8 Hip—was skimming the treetops dangerously.
He raised the Gimlet tube on his shoulder, removed the nose cover, and locked the Mi-8 in his sights. Feeling the surge of adrenalin associated with a kill, he pressed the trigger.
Launched from the tube, the 9M313 heat-seeking missile engaged its rocket motor, whooshing to a Mach 2 speed with a tail of smoke in its wake.
Upon impact, the warhead exploded in a ball of fire and the helicopter went crashing down.
10
PANDEMONIUM ERUPTED INSIDE THE chopper. Of all the ways in which Sokolov could have died, he believed that this was the most horrifying. The Mi-8 shook furiously and then the deafening explosion sent the cabin spinning wildly. Torn metal shrieked as the rotor blades shattered.
Everything ended in a flash.
The collision shocked his body as the downed chopper hit the ground.
The extra fuel tank tore off its mounts and clattered into Bulgak's men, mutilating them. Kerosene sprouted all over the cabin from the severed hose.
Overcoming dizziness, Sokolov strained to open his eyes. The fuel drum had missed him by a hairsbreadth. Falling, the helicopter had crashed onto its starboard side. Apart from the stench of kerosene, he could smell smoke.
He turned immediately to Constantine. His brother groaned, breathing heavily.
“Come on, we need to get out!” Sokolov urged.
As he unstrapped himself from the passenger bench, Sokolov awkwardly reached for th
e lever of the escape hatch, located at the window behind him. The release mechanism jettisoned the hatch. Sokolov shoved his brother on towards the emergency exit. As fast as he could, Constantine wriggled through.
As Sokolov turned back to his friends, he coughed from the overpowering kerosene fumes attacking his throat.
Zubov hadn't fared too well. Blood seeped through his fingers as he clutched his head. He had suffered a nasty laceration, striking his head against the cabin wall. Klimov helped him through the opening and followed him out.
Sokolov remained alone with Bulgak, whose right leg lay twisted at an obscene angle. The leg break looked as horrific as any Sokolov had seen. Bulgak stared in shock, gaping and moaning. Sokolov slid Bulgak's arm over his shoulder and hauled him up.
“I need a hand here!” he shouted.
Constantine and Klimov grabbed first Bulgak, then Sokolov and pulled them clear of the cabin.
Together, the four of them scrambled away from the crashed helicopter, running and half-carrying, half-dragging Bulgak.
Tongues of fire flickered. They dashed away, stumbling, falling in a heap on the rocky ground, just as the Mi-8 Hip blew up in a gigantic fireball. Flaming debris scattered all around.
Wiping muddy rainwater off his face, Sokolov craned his neck to have a look at the wreckage. The 900 liters of kerosene, coupled with what had remained in the primary fuel tank, burned intensely, charring the Hip's frame.
Sokolov caught several details. The helicopter had likely lost its tail section mid-air when hit by a projectile. The rotor blades had snapped off slashing the trees. He had little doubt that the shot had come from a man-portable air-defense system. MANPADS such as the Stinger or SA-16 had a kill ratio of under fifty percent. Those odds were the single reason for their survival. If the missile had found its target with just a little more accuracy, hitting the cabin instead of the tail, they would all be as dead as the men inside the Hip's mangled remains.
Their near escape from death didn't mean that they were safe from danger.
“We need to get moving fast,” Sokolov announced. “Whoever shot down the chopper will come looking for bodies … or survivors.”
Zubov cursed out loud.
“We need to split up,” Sokolov continued. “Constantine, Daniil and Sergei—you go in the opposite direction. The last landmark I saw from the helicopter was a small mountain lake. It should be a few hundred meters from here. Once you reach it, wait for me and Alexei.”
“No, Gene!” Constantine said. “I won't leave you behind!”
“I'll rendezvous with you at the lake and we'll figure out what to do next. Staying in one group, we don't stand a chance, moving only as fast as the Colonel can manage.”
“Gene is right,” Klimov said.
“In that case,” Constantine replied to Klimov, “you and Zubov go first. We'll catch up later. There's no way Gene can carry Bulgak on his own anyway.”
Further argument served no purpose. Every second counted. Klimov and Zubov departed, vanishing in the mist-veiled undergrowth of the Biosphere Reserve.
Sokolov and his brother remained with Bulgak, who lay propped against a fir tree. Rain sprinkled on their kerosene-soaked fatigues. Bulgak was panting heavily, enduring much pain from his severe fracture.
“Thanks for saving my life,” he said.
“Not for long,” Sokolov replied. “I'm taking it back.”
Sokolov leveled his AEK assault rifle at Bulgak's head and fired. A three-round burst cracked as the muzzle blazed.
The Colonel's body sagged against the fir.
But the shots hadn't blown his skull open. No slugs had ripped into the tree bark.
“Blanks,” Sokolov said.
Constantine stood shaking his head in disbelief until realization came.
“He set this up?”
“He sure did.”
In the glow coming from the conflagrant chopper, the corners of Bulgak's mouth creased in a sardonic smirk.
“It was never meant to be like this,” he said. “I just had to drop you off at Dedura's doorstep like lambs for slaughter, and fly back. I crossed you without suspecting I'd be double-crossed.”
“By whom?” Sokolov asked. “Dedura?”
“No ...” Bulgak shook his head. “Frolov. He ordered me to do it, or else he'd pulverize my company. I had no choice but collaborate. No security business can be run without the FSB's approval, so you must understand my position.”
“A position of betrayal?” Constantine said. He placed his fingers on the grip of his shotgun.
Bulgak had no reply.
“What about Dedura? You knew full well that he and his goons were already at the palace,” Sokolov said.
“Dedura will also be dealt with, but that's none of my concern. It's up to the FSB agent.”
Sokolov grasped the remark.
“Three of your men died in the cockpit. Two others got killed in the cabin. Where's the sixth man? And who is he?”
“He didn't board the chopper. It's the FSB man. He calls himself Imran. He stayed back to wait for reinforcements. Any time now he should lead the real assault team to eliminate Dedura.”
“And finish us off,” Constantine added.
“Unless Dedura's thugs do it sooner,” Bulgak said. “You risked your life saving me. You'll still die because of me, so don't spare me again. You have every right to shoot me.”
He gazed at Constantine's shotgun, his eyes showing desperation.
After a moment's deliberation, Sokolov said, “The pistol in your holster. I don't suppose it's loaded with blanks as well?”
“Of course not. Klimov's is, mine isn't.”
“Your colonel's rank flatters you. You're an officer in name only. There's just one thing you can do to save your honor—if that notion has any worth to you. You'll need a single bullet.”
With that, the two brothers walked away, disappearing behind a thicket of yew shrubs.
11
BOOTH EXAMINED THE SKY. It was beginning to clear, the rain reduced to a drizzle. A plume of dense black smoke drifted, rising above the trees from the distant crash site. Hughes had driven the Hummer as close as he could to the edge of the fir forest, a good few hundred meters to go. From there, the terrain barred the vehicle from passing any further. They had to proceed on foot. Booth instructed Hughes to wait in the car. He took his other two men with him.
Marching uphill, Booth smelled the stench of burning. It filled the air as they approached the wreckage. Then he witnessed the flames engulfing the Hip's fuselage. For certain, nobody could have made it out alive. Booth prided himself on the inflicted damage.
Then he saw something else in the woods: a distinct human shape slouched against a tree trunk. Holding his H&K ready, Booth advanced.
The figure remained still, mouth agape. Dressed in fatigues, the man glared at Booth with empty eyes. A dropped handgun rested on the ground, near his leg which was positioned unnaturally, perhaps broken. A wound yawned in his right temple.
Booth cursed under his breath.
Although frustrating, the man's suicide was understandable. Knowing Dedura's ruthlessness, Booth himself would have done anything to avoid surrender.
The leg injury had rendered that miraculous escape futile. Booth studied the soil for fresh footprints, but the rocky terrain and recent shower made it impossible to distinguish any tracks. Unlikely as it seemed, Booth had to check if anyone else had fled the chopper. He motioned for his men to spread out and scour the surroundings.
At that moment, Jones radioed him.
“Sir, I got movement from a magnetic sensor near your position.”
WITH WET SNOW SQUISHING under his feet, Sokolov watched his step as he and Constantine trekked across the uneven woodland. After they had cleared the forest, they were greeted by scenes of ethereal beauty. A vista of rolling green hills opened before them. The gray rock sloped, forming a cauldron. Below, cupped by the slanting peaks, was a stunning pool of clear, topaz-blue water. Vis
ible from their vantage point, it was breathtaking. A waterfall cascaded into the lake off the face of a cliff.
It took Sokolov a moment to realize that there were two men sitting on the pebbly shore of the lake. Even without making out their faces, Sokolov recognized them as Klimov and Zubov.
“Is there a way out now?” Constantine asked.
“We have two options, and neither is appealing. We can traverse the mountain range. It could take days before we find a way through. Even if we break past those peaks and reach a path to the nearest village, the next storm will kill us. Without proper gear and supplies, it's a gamble with huge odds.”
“And the second option?”
“Also a long shot. We move towards Dedura's palace.”
“Just to remind you, I have one shotgun with a handful of ammo.”
“Attacking the palace is out of the question. Our mission has failed. Forget about getting Dedura, exposing the Red List, or whatever it was we were about to do. However, we can make a dash for Dedura's helicopter and hijack it.”
“I'm not sure which plan is the worst.”
“Let's catch up with Sergei and Daniil and vote.”
In reality, they both knew that they had no choice. The Dedura business had to be finished there and then, one way or the other. Even if that meant certain death, Sokolov would not back out.
They had started towards the lake when Sokolov saw it—a Hummer idling beyond the opposite side of the ridge. Sokolov pressed to the ground and peered from this elevated spot. Constantine lay down to avoid detection by the vehicle's driver.
“Damn,” Sokolov muttered. “Sooner than I thought.”
“Dedura's security?”
“Looks like it. There must be a search party hot on our heels. Head to the lake and bring the guys over here. Just make sure you're not caught. I'll watch the Hummer.”
“Do you need the shotgun?”
“No, keep it and don't hesitate to use it, if need be.”
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