Hammerfall

by David Adams

  The bold statement didn’t seem to faze her. “Sounds good. Have your men bring in their things and we’ll get you settled.”

  “Good,” said Pavlov, trying a wide smile. “I need a drink.”

  Chuchnova narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “No alcohol in this facility,” she said, “nothing for drinking, anyway. Strict orders.”

  Denying Russians their vodka? Officers in good standing had been shot for less. “Whose orders?”

  “Mine.”

  He could hear Apalkov groaning over the whine of the dropship’s engines.

  “As you wish,” said Pavlov. Behind him, the dropship powered down, the noise of her engines dropping down to a low murmur, then vanishing entirely. He touched his radio. “Coming inside with us, pilot?”

  “No thanks,” she said. “I’m staying with my craft. If I get the all-clear from Varyag, I should be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. It also means I’m ready to go if the facility gets attacked.”

  Pilots and their ships. “It might be some time before we get that go-ahead,” said Pavlov. “You sure you can sleep in there?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Not a drama. I’ll seal the ship—nobody gets in or out. I’ll string up a cot in the transport section. Got myself a nice little stash of lunchables, even a small lavatory. Just like camping.” There was a brief pause. “Besides…I should clean up the mess you made before taking the ship back home.”

  That was fair enough.

  “As you wish,” said Chuchnova, turning and heading back toward the large double doors leading into the structure. “Welcome to Hammerfall.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Lower levels

  Hammerfall

  “THIS PLACE SMELLS LIKE SHIT,” said Apalkov, holding his nose as he stepped into the large, empty room labelled Bovine Processing. The room was to serve as a kennel for the Dogs.

  “That’s because,” said Pavlov, “until like an hour ago, cows shitted in it.”

  It did still smell. Although the scientists had clearly gone to some effort to clean it—the bottoms of the walls still glistened slightly from the hosing—it would smell for some time. But spetsnaz were used to hardship.

  “Arf arf.” Apalkov threw his rucksack into one of the far corners. “Mine.”

  “Mine,” said Ilyukhina, claiming the other.

  “Well,” said Pavlov, “guess I get to be the meat in the idiot sandwich.” He tossed his rucksack between them, against the far wall. “No touching me while I sleep.”

  “Arf arf,” said Ilyukhina. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll protect your honour.”

  The other spetsnaz spread out, bickering as they divided the space between them. Apalkov pulled out a steel hip flask Pavlov had seen before; he took it on every deployment, full with as much vodka as it could carry.

  No. Not this time. Pavlov gestured to it. “Hand it over, doc.”

  “What?” Apalkov looked as though Pavlov had insulted his father’s honour. “Cука блядь. You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious,” said Pavlov. “Chuchnova was very clear. No booze. I don’t want to give her a reason to kick my arse ten minutes into our deployment.”

  “You can’t possibly be listening to that nerd,” said Apalkov, his eyes narrowing. “C’mon, sir.”

  Pavlov waggled his fingers, and Apalkov, grimacing visibly, slid the flask in.

  “You’ll get it back,” said Pavlov, slipping it into his breast pocket. “Consider this as me saving it for the victory parade.”

  “Victory parade.” Apalkov put his fingers against his temple. “Yeah.”

  With that little bit of administration out of the way, Pavlov turned his attention to the three new members of his squad, all transfers from another unit, as they bunked in together.

  Private First Class Nessa Stolina. Heavy weapons specialist. A squat, Mongolian woman with heavy scarring. Quiet sort. She was replacing Sharova.

  Private Shurochka Tomlin. Nikolai’s replacement. Communications. Tall, athletic, but with a face like it got kicked by a mule. Then eaten by that mule. Then gotten shitted out, and the shit shaped into a stylised representation of one of Syrene’s moons.

  And finally, Private Markov Marchenko. A rifleman. Basically just a kid. Pavlov wasn’t sure why he was still a private. Strong, as they all were, but with dark skin; bronzed, as though he’d been in the sun too long. Probably of Turkish extraction. An oddity, to be sure, but he seemed competent and strong.

  The new Minsky.

  He spent a moment studying all three of them. They all seemed so young. Pavlov himself was only twenty-four. Didn’t feel like twenty-four was the age to be an old hand, but apparently it was so. Wasn’t so long ago he was a fresh-faced officer fresh out of the academy. Now he was breaking in the new guys.

  Newcomers to a unit were always a roll of the dice. Especially for spetsnaz. The question was a simple one: would they integrate?

  “Hey,” said Pavlov, stepping up to them once their gear was done. “Stolina. Marchenko. Tomlin. All you new meat.”

  “Sir,” they said in unison. Like damn robots. New guys, always with a point to prove.

  He waved his hand. “Settle down, no need for all that. We’re spetsnaz, we don’t have to be formal when there’s nobody watching.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Marchenko. Pavlov tried not to look at him.

  “Walk with me,” said Pavlov, stepping out of the cow-shit room and into the steel-grey corridors. The three new soldiers fell into step behind him.

  “Firstly,” he said, talking as he walked, “Pavlov’s Dogs is elite. Spetsnaz GRU. The best. We’re the long arms of military intelligence, reporting to Colonel Volodin. He says jump, we ask how high. I don’t know how things were in your previous outfit, but that’s how things are going to work here. We’re less formal, but we’re more effective. You get me?”

  “Aye aye,” said Stolina.

  “Secondly, we don’t say ‘aye aye’. It’s ‘arf arf’. Because we’re dogs, get it?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean…arf arf,” said Tomlin, the noise awkwardly tumbling out of his mouth.

  Pavlov turned a corner. He had no idea where he was going, so he tried to make a loop around the inside of the building. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Soon it’ll be second nature.”

  “Sir,” said Stolina, “I get it, but with respect, we’re here to kill Separatists. Esprit de corps is all very well, but…we thought this was going to be a combat drop. There’s no combat. What gives?”

  Who knew? “I know about as much as you do. I was expecting an uneventful milk run, but after we almost got blown up on the way in, I figured we’d switch to shooting our way in, so…turns out I was right the first time.” He rolled his shoulders. Time to do a little bonding with the new guys.

  He pulled Apalkov’s flask out of his pocket. “За ваше здоровье,” he said, taking a long draught of the burning high-proof alcohol. Then he offered it to the others.

  They all exchanged a long look with each other, their disappointment palpable.

  “I know,” said Pavlov, “I know. But Apalkov’s got no taste. Vodka this good shouldn’t be wasted on degenerates like him. Have a drink?”

  “No thank you,” said Stolina, a little more formally than he expected. Maybe they’d done things differently where these kids were from.

  Pavlov turned and kept walking. So much for that. “Okay, so, no alcohol. How about a chat? Where are you kids from anyway?”

  “We’re from Vitaly Three,” said Stolina. “It’s a small colony orbiting the Vitaly star in the Khorsky Sector. A military outpost. We used to be attached to Archangel’s Vengeance, but they were disbanded. Major Yanovna recruited us herself…handpicked for Pavlov’s Dogs.”

  They must be good then. Maybe he’d misjudged them…

  Home was a good topic to bond with. “What’s Vitaly Three like?”

  Stolina considered the question as though she’d never been asked. “Basically the oppo
site of Syrene. Most of the inhabitable band is cold. Three moons; tidal forces make coastal areas uninhabitable. What’s away from the water is mostly covered in ice, battered by blizzards, and frozen solid most of the year.”

  “Sounds like Mother Russia,” said Pavlov.

  She didn’t seem to react to that. “It’s weird being outside like this. At home, we’d be dead in twenty minutes dressed as we are.” Stolina paused, then asked, “What about these Separatists? What can you tell us about them?”

  His walk had taken them back to the landing pad. Pavlov took a thick cigar out of his breast pocket, lit it, and blew the smoke out into the jungle.

  “Yeah,” he said, “the Separatists. They are unhappy being in Mother Russia’s bosom and yearn for freedom, or some shit.” Pavlov drew in smoke, inhaling the fumes and holding them in his lungs before slowly letting them out through his nose. “Their war cry is Die for Freedom! It’s actually funny, because we’re okay with them getting slaughtered for their cause. So Die for Freedom! is our war cry, too.”

  “Sounds peachy,” said Marchenko. Why? Why did he keep talking? “You’ve been down here a while,” he said. “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?”

  “Fighting the Separatists.”

  Pavlov considered, taking another deep draw of his coffin nail. “It’s like an extreme sport, except people are trying to kill you. And they will, too. There’s a reason why our squad had three gaps in it.”

  None of them said anything.

  “Go get Apalkov,” said Pavlov. “Execute a four-point patrol of the surrounding jungle. Be back here by dawn. Keep comms open with me and watch out for Separatists. If you see anyone out of uniform, or any one of these scientists wandering where they shouldn’t be, shoot them.”

  “Just like that?” asked Marchenko. “We’re green light to engage any target we see?”

  “Yep.” Pavlov rubbed the cigar out on a metal beam. “The Separatists have drones. Tanks. Artillery. They aren’t the rebellious dirt farmers that the media wants us to think they are; they aren’t the kind of folks who inexplicably pull back when they have the advantage.” Jungle birds screeched endlessly all around them. “Something’s off about this whole place. The jungle, the facility, the people within…everything. I don’t trust these lab-coat wearing fuckers as far as I can throw them.”

  “But sir,” said Marchenko, “aren’t we supposed to be protecting them?”

  Pavlov looked out over the jungle, a sea of green and brown teeming with leeches, parasites, venomous and poisonous creatures of all kinds and descriptions.

  “Yeah,” he said, “but from what, exactly?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Pavlov’s Cell

  “YOU DIDN’T THINK TO REPORT any of this?” asked Yanovna, tapping away on her tablet.

  Pavlov shifted in the jail cell, cupping his hands between his knees. “Report my new men for not being alcoholics?”

  She squinted. “Fair enough.”

  It was difficult to explain. He clicked his tongue. “I’m telling you this with the benefit of hindsight,” he said, taking in a deep breath and trying to keep his pounding headache at bay. “Everything looks suspicious now that I’m looking back on it, but at the time, it seemed a little weird but fine.”

  “Fine,” echoed Yanovna. “You went in expecting shooting and found—”

  “Found nobody to shoot at.”

  Yanovna considered a moment, reviewing her notes. “So what happened then?”

  Pavlov smiled grimly. “Someone to shoot at found us.”

  * * *

  The Kennel

  Hammerfall

  The first night, at about 0300 hours, a mortar shell screamed into the side of the structure and exploded.

  “Cука блядь!” Pavlov jerked awake, snatching up his rifle. Beside him, Ilyukhina similarly grabbed her weapon, chambering a round as though by instinct.

  “Contact!” Apalkov shouted into the radio. Pavlov’s earpiece lay beside his sleeping cot. “Fucking incoming mortars!”

  Helpful.

  Pavlov staggered to his feet, clipping on his helmet and earpiece. He took just a moment to orient himself, then kicked the last of the sleepers awake.

  Weapons. Armour. Communications. Everyone pulled on their equipment in a frenzy and then, with the thunder of tromping boots, ran out from the Bovine Processing Room—their kennel now—to the upper levels. A glance out of one of the reinforced windows told him everything.

  The sky was lit up with dozens of silvery streaks, flying in from the distant mountains, soaring toward them with a quiet grace. They fell into the surrounding jungle, disappearing into the green momentarily before slamming into the ground and exploding, spraying out fire and metal in all directions.

  Bright flash after bright flash.

  “Apalkov,” said Pavlov as he activated his radio, “are you guys clear of this shit storm?”

  “Yeah,” came the breathy response, energised and slightly too loud. In the background, he could hear the snap of firing rounds. “We’re engaged over here, but we’re fighting our way toward you.”

  “Don’t come too close,” said Pavlov. “They’re still bombarding us.” He paused as a round screamed overhead, exploding in the jungle on the far side. “How are the new guys holding up?”

  “They’re massive nerds,” Apalkov spat, “but they’re doing good. Marchenko and Stolina are fighters, sir. I’ll bring them back alive.”

  Good to hear. “Arf arf,” he said, and then closed the link, turning to the others. “Wait here until the party dies down. Then we’ll do a sweep for intruders.”

  Ilyukhina managed a smile. “And I thought this mission was going to be boring.”

  “In Soviet space-Russia,” said Karpola, “the party finds you!” Her face seemed to come alive now that there was actual combat, and she seemed much more relaxed and happy.

  “Ahh,” said Pavlov, “the comedy stylings of Yakov Smirnoff. Six hundred years old and it’s still hilarious.”

  “Relax,” said Jakov, patting the side of the structure. “I checked the blueprints. This baby is clad in, like, two inches of smart-steel armour. Separatist mortars will keep us awake, but as long as we stay inside, we’re safe.”

  “Armour designs we stole off the IDF,” said Ilyukhina. “We don’t even know how it really works.”

  It was ever thus, though. Pavlov risked a look out the window again—another wave of silver streaks were drifting toward them, friendly little fireflies with glowing tails. “We steal off them, they steal off us. We point guns at them, they point guns at us. We tell Yakov Smirnoff jokes, they tell Yakov Smirnoff jokes. All the while, the poor infantry cower in their bunkers, hoping the next incoming shell isn’t their last.” He smiled. “Just like old times.”

  “The more we change, the more we stay the same.” Ilyukhina’s eyes drifted past him, toward the incoming fire.

  Explosions burst all around them, rocking the building. From below, he heard the faint bellowing of terrified cows.

  Poor beasts.

  “Pavlov to Chuchnova,” he said. “Your undercooked steaks are making a racket down there. Is everything okay?”

  “They’ll be fine,” she answered in his ear. Her voice was distant; she was using a fixed microphone instead of an earpiece. He’d have to make sure to fix that in the morning.

  “Hey,” said Ilyukhina, “is the bombardment stopping?”

  It was true. The sky was clear of silver streaks and the thunder of exploding shells faded. Pavlov linked his earpiece into the building’s external sensors. Then came a new sound. Human voices. Low and muted. They were trying to sneak past the sensor net.

  “Looks like you’ll get your fight,” Pavlov said to Ilyukhina. Cука блядь. It was about time.

  “Arf arf,” she said, a cold fierceness in her eyes.

  Pavlov adjusted his communications equipment. “Apalkov, the bombardment’s stopped. Make your way here—the Separatists are
making a push on the base, and we’ll need your assistance fighting them off.”

  “Copy that,” said Apalkov. “We’ll advise when we get close.”

  The squad checked their equipment, weapons, and attuned their sensors to the building’s network. They moved through the building’s winding passages in a clump, and after a few minutes’ travel, passed by a group of scientists led by Chuchnova.

  The poor bastards were manually loading rounds into their 6-1 rifles; the things were positively ancient, completely dwarfed by the weapons of the spetsnaz, to say nothing of the force-multiplication effect of their communications and targeting equipment.

  “Stay here,” said Pavlov to the scientists. “We’re going to sort this out.”

  “We can help,” said Chuchnova, brandishing her rifle. Loaded. Finger on the trigger. Safety off. What a recipe for disaster.

  “Stay here,” he said again, and then moved forward.

  Time to do what they were here for.

  CHAPTER 7

  Near the landing pad

  Hammerfall

  THE LANDING PLATFORM CONSISTED OF little more than a walkway to a long disk. Together, Pavlov and his squad transitioned out from the narrow corridors to the walkway, crouched low, bodies almost touching. Pavlov took the lead, his rifle’s stock pressed firmly against his shoulder.

  “Fan out,” he said. “Six metre dispersal. Use cover, and prepare to engage targets of opportunity as they appear. Stay away from the dropship, it’s our way out of here. Try not to let it get damaged.”

  Speaking of, Pavlov could use their guns. He signalled the dropship. “Hey Chainsaw, buddy, you there?”

  “Yup,” came the response. “I can’t take off, otherwise those damn missiles will get me, but I can still fire my guns from the surface. Let me know when to engage.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  Like ghosts, the spetsnaz branched out, keeping their silhouettes low as they crouched on the lip of the landing platform. Pavlov took the tip, bracing his rifle’s bipod on the very edge. His visor picked out enemies for him, highlighting the human shapes as red outlines against the blue-black of the nighttime jungle. Seventy or eighty at least. As he focused, his visor picked out the important details. Self-loading rifles. Some plasma throwers. Modified welding and cutting tools, designed to project hot matter at a distance. No sign of artillery or support weapons.