Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  Chapter Four

  Lappeenranta Airport, Eastern Finland

  The wheels banged down and woke him from a fitful doze. He peered out the window and wished he hadn't. This was Finland, the land of the midnight sun. It was also the land of ice, snow, and more snow. A land that was bitterly cold, where breath condensed in the air like a smokescreen from a naval destroyer. The air temperature at thirty-five thousand feet above the ground was somewhere around minus fifty or sixty degrees centigrade. The view through the window of the aircraft suggested it was no different on the ground outside.

  The ground crew wheeled a boarding ladder up to the door, and Maksim came from the cockpit to open the fuselage door. An icy gust blasted in, to sweep away any body heat they had left, leaving all four men shivering.

  "Hey, Maksim," Waite shouted, "How much do you want for the coat?"

  He grinned. "More than you can afford. I'd suggest you wait in the terminal. The restaurant is open, and you can warm up with some hot food. The coffee is good, too. Don't worry about your gear. I'll stay on the aircraft and make sure no one goes near it. It'd be best if the Finns don't see the cargo we're carrying in the hold. They fought the Second World War against the Russians, and I doubt they'd want to be drawn into another."

  They took him at his word and exited the aircraft. Thick slush and snowdrifts slowed their progress as they walked across to the terminal. The temperature was warmer inside. Al reckoned it was almost zero degrees. They still wore their white padded Arctic camouflage, and they'd given up caring about appearances. Staying warm in this place was the priority, and no one gave a damn how you did it.

  They ordered hot food, thick reindeer steaks with masses of fries, and a jug of coffee. They ate in silence, just enjoying the sensation of warmth returning to their limbs when halfway through the meal, a voice intruded.

  "You must be the guys Dragan sent over."

  They looked up. He was a short, compact man, clad in a thick fur parka. He had the hood pulled up over his head, so it was almost impossible to make out his features beneath the thick layers of fur.

  "Who's asking?" Raider said softly.

  "Ilya Razov, from Ukraine."

  "You're a long way from home, Ilya."

  "Yes, that's true. I carry out certain errands for Mr. Dragan in this part of the world."

  "Errands?"

  He smiled and held up his hands, palms up, as if to display his innocence of any wrongdoing. "Nothing illegal, I just help him iron out, er, problems, as and when they crop up."

  Enforcer, smuggler, hitman, he could have been any or all of those things. He pulled back the hood of his coat, to display a face covered in tattoos and scars. The kinds of scars and tattoos a man acquires during a lengthy prison term. They exchanged glances. Whatever his history, he'd earned that face the hard way, the illegal way. One word summed up this guy. Trouble. Then again, they were in the snowy wastes of Finland, close to the Russian border, and they may well need someone like this man. He'd know every hidden trail, every bent cop and border guard, enough to get them into Russia.

  Razov began to unbutton and unzip his huge parka. Underneath, Raider noticed he carried a huge handgun in an open holster fastened to his wide leather belt. The Ukrainian saw the direction of his gaze and patted the butt of the gun.

  "You never know when it may come in handy in my kind of work. The border regions can be unpredictable at the best of times."

  He studied the odd-looking revolver. "I've not seen one like that before."

  Razov smiled proudly. "I'm not surprised. It's something of a rarity." He pulled it out, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to display a weapon in an airport terminal, "It's an Udar, designed to fire tear gas cartridges for crowd control, or a big charge of lead shot to disperse a riot. They discovered a way to chamber the gun for hollow-point ammunition, and even armor-piercing shells, so they produced this baby. It's a useful weapon, I can tell you. There's not much it can't penetrate. Except a T-80 tank, I guess."

  "You tangle with Russian armor?" Al asked him.

  He chuckled. "Not if I can help it, I like to stay alive. Listen, this is the arrangement. Mr. Dragan sent me to guide you across the border and take you as far as St. Petersburg. I assume you don't have visas." No one answered, "No, of course not, or you would not be here. It will be dark in two hours. Then we can leave."

  Waite checked his watch. "Two hours! It's only 13.00 now."

  "This is Finland, my friend. In the winter, we often have only three or four hours of daylight. In the north, it is perpetually dark for two or three months of the year."

  "No sun?"

  No daylight, no sun, nothing."

  "So it's not a vacation spot."

  "Not in winter, no." He climbed to his feet, "I have an SUV in the parking lot. I'll ask Maksim to load your gear into the trunk."

  "You know Maksim?"

  "Maksim? We do business all the time. He is my second cousin, on my father's side. I'll go see him now. Enjoy your meal. I'll come back for you when we're ready."

  Raider watched him walk out of the terminal and resumed eating his food.

  "You know this isn't going to be easy," Al commented, "That guy looks about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. Chances are he'll hand us over to the FSB as soon as we're over the border. If they pay him enough, that is."

  Waite snorted. "He'll be dead before he has a chance to collect."

  "Dragan trusts him," Joe said quietly. He looked at Raider. "I understand he has some dirt on him. It would mean a long prison term if it came to the attention of the cops."

  "Nice to know he's honest." He grimaced, put down his utensils, and drained the rest of his coffee. "We should get outside and keep an eye on our gear."

  They followed him through the exit door and out into the chilly afternoon. The light was already fading, and the time was not yet 14.00. The airport was deserted, no people milling around, no vehicles moving, just a half dozen aircraft parked on the stands. Everywhere they looked there was thick snow covering the ground, buildings, and vehicles in a white blanket. It may have even looked pretty, except it was so bitterly cold. In the distance, they could see the shape of a forest, the trees bowed under the weight of snow.

  Next to Dragan's 737 men were loading a strange-looking jeep with the crates containing their gear. Razov came out of the loading door and descended on the cargo elevator, distinctive in his thick coat. He saw them, waved, and walked across to the vehicle.

  He drove over to them, and they stared at the weird six-wheeler, hoping he didn't intend to take them across the border in such a contraption. Razov jumped to the ground with a beaming smile.

  "What do you think? She's genuine Ukrainian built, a Luaz."

  "You don't say."

  He looked fondly at his peculiar vehicle. "Yes, one hundred percent authentic Ukrainian. Six wheels, so she'll go anywhere either side of the border, and the engine is rock solid. She's an amphibian and so can even travel across water. This baby has never let me down."

  They stared at the weird contraption. Sure enough, it looked as if the six-wheeler, all of which he informed them were connected to the drive train, would cross any terrain. It was also completely open, with no windows or roof, just an angled windshield to aid the driver.

  "It'll cross water?" Waite asked, "You sure about that? It don't look roadworthy, let alone seaworthy."

  Razov smiled. "The specification says the Luaz will travel on water. Of course, I've never tried. I mean, you never know."

  "Why not take it for a test drive on a lake?"

  "I can't swim."

  They made a note to avoid taking to the water in the Luaz. Their gear was loaded, and Razov looked up at the sky. "We should leave now. It's about to snow. Visibility is already poor. By the time we reach the border, it'll be a good time to cross. They won't see us. Jump aboard."

  Raider climbed into the front seat, the other three men in the back. The interior of the Luaz made the concept of 'Spar
tan' seem luxurious. The seats were cheap, torn plastic, with chunks of foam spilling out of the rips. The bodywork was mostly bare of paint, rusty metal in most places, and the instrument panel consisted of a single speedometer, which they noticed didn't function. The four-cylinder diesel engine ticked over happily, until Razov hit the gas to drive away. Suddenly, they were surrounded in a swirl of exhaust smoke.

  "This is going to be an interesting journey," Joe grimaced. He had to shout to make him heard over the racket of the pounding diesel engine.

  "Yeah. You'd better pull out our weapons before we reach the border. I don't like the idea of tangling with Russian border guards without a gun in my hand."

  "Copy that."

  A few minutes later, Joe passed him an assault rifle, followed by a handgun. He felt better, even if Razov's boast that he could thread them past the border guards was true. In the event, his assessment proved to be wrong.

  * * *

  "Stoy!"

  "That means stop. I knew it was too good to last," Waite snarled as they slowed, "We're not even inside Russia yet."

  "We crossed over a few minutes ago," Razov corrected him.

  "Fuck it."

  Ahead of them, an elderly Russian armored personnel carrier, a BTR-70, had slewed across the track. They'd traversed miles of rough terrain in the Luaz, wading through thick snow, icy forest tracks, and dripping forests. They were just starting to relax, after Razov assured them they'd passed the zone of maximum danger. The vehicle was traveling without any lights, and he drove using old Soviet NV goggles that substantially reduced his vision. It meant he failed to see the roadblock until it was too late.

  He almost ran in to the APC, only stopping at the last moment. The soldier appeared from inside the hull where he'd probably been sheltering from the bitter cold. Another man followed him and approached the Luaz, one either side. Their AK-74 assault rifles pointed at Razov and Raider. He kept his M4A1 low, out of sight.

  "What's the procedure?" he asked the driver, "Are they looking for a bribe, something like that?"

  He ripped off the goggles. For the first time, Razov looked worried. "I don't know. The uniforms are different from the usual patrols. They're not regular border guards."

  "So who the hell are they?"

  He shrugged. "My best guess is they're Army infantry, probably on an operation to curtail smuggling and people trafficking. You'd be surprised at the quantities of weapons and people that go backward and forward across the border."

  "You don't say. So how do we play this? You're supposed to be the expert."

  "I don't know."

  He heard somebody mutter an expletive. It sounded like Waite. He knew they'd be ready in the back. They'd been ready ever since they first entered service in the US Navy and then afterward, during SEAL training and many operations since.

  The soldier standing next to Razov spoke a torrent of Russian, and the Ukrainian looked even more uncomfortable. Next to Raider, the second soldier was staring at him closely. Both men were wearing long, muddy-green greatcoats, fur lined boots, and fur hats, the iconic Russian Shapkas, also known as Ushantas. Thick fur with long ear flaps to keep out the Arctic chill. The soldier closest to him squinted into the rear of the Luaz. He produced a flashlight and switched it on, lighting up the three men in back.

  Razov looked across at him. "This bastard wants to know why we were traveling without lights."

  "Tell him they don't work. Nothing much else works on this heap of tin, so it shouldn't surprise them."

  He spoke to the soldier again. The man reached inside the cab and turned the switch. Immediately, the headlights came to life and lit up the area in front of them. Razov smiled and shrugged helplessly as if to say, 'well I never, would you believe it?'

  He spoke to the Russian soldier, but the man snarled a reply.

  "He wants us to get out of the vehicle. He says we have to show our papers, and he's going to search the inside of the Luaz."

  Which meant they had two problems. First, they had no papers to show the guy, and second, they were carrying more weaponry than the Russian military would consider reasonable for a hunting trip in the frozen forests. In the back, he heard Joe murmur they were ready. He nodded slightly to acknowledge, then touched the butt of his M4-A1 to reassure himself. He glanced aside at the driver.

  "How many soldiers do you reckon they have in that APC, Razov?"

  A shrug of the shoulders; "No idea. They carry a crew of three, and I guess they'll have a junior officer to keep an eye on them."

  Four men, not a problem!

  What was a problem was the 14.5 mm KPVT machine gun mounted in the turret, backed up by a coaxial 7.62mm PKT machine gun. A lot of firepower, and there was little they could do with automatic rifles against the armor of the eight-wheeled vehicle. Thin armor, to be sure, but far too much for a 5.56mm round. Razov was still arguing with the soldier, who was starting to shout and rave at their refusal to obey his orders.

  "Razov, that Udar pistol you're carrying on your belt, what kind of load you have in the clip?"

  "My Udar? All I have is armor piercing rounds. If you came up against a black bear, you'd know why, they could save your life." He sighed, "We have to get out of the vehicle now. If we wait any longer, I think they'll start shooting."

  "Armor piercing is fine. I'll take the guy next to me. Joe, take out the soldier next to Razov. Al, Waite, go with Razov as soon as he's down. Get across to that BTR and take it out. Razov, you're about to find out how effective that handgun of yours is against armor."

  "No, it can't possibly work," he wailed, "They'll shred us into little pieces with their heavy machine gun."

  "So make sure they don't get the chance to use it. Stand by; I'll take the first shot. Make sure you have that Udar ready."

  The Ukrainian, for all his bluster, was shaking with fear.

  Maybe it’s a sensible emotion, Raider considered.

  Right now, the BTR-70 had the drop on them, and if it opened fire, the operation would come to a sudden halt. Their lives would also come to a sudden halt.

  That can't happen. For Abigail's sake, we have to succeed.

  The Russian soldier next to the driver was now screaming abuse at Razov for ignoring his order to step out of the vehicle. It would have been almost funny if it weren't for their AK-74s, which were both pointed at them. The upper hatch of the APC suddenly opened, and the head of a third man appeared. He shouted something at one of the soldiers, and it was obvious from the vicious crack to his voice, he was the man in charge. Now they had three targets out of a probable four. It was enough. He eased out the Colt and thumbed the safety to the fire position.

  It happened fast. The soldier next to Razov jacked a round into the breech of his rifle, and his finger began to tighten on the trigger. Raider brought up his right hand in a single flowing motion, aimed, and fired. The head of the man next to him almost disintegrated inside the fur hat, and he dropped to the snow. In the same instant, Al fired from the back, and the soldier next to Razov went down.

  They vaulted out of the vehicle, firing on the run. Waite had his M4 at his shoulder, and he squeezed off a half-dozen shots at the officer in the hatch of the BTR. He missed. The hatch clanged shut, and they were in serious trouble. The officer had already begun operating the turret, and the barrel of the heavy machine gun was turning in their direction.

  He looked around for the Ukrainian, who was stumbling towards them.

  "The turret, pump some shots into the gunner's position."

  Razov looked at him stupidly. "I… I…"

  He was holding the big pistol loosely in his right hand. Raider snatched it away from him and ran to the hull of the APC. He held the barrel a foot away and fired repeatedly. When the firing pin clicked on empty, he stopped to survey the impact of his shots. The turret had stopped turning, and the machine gun was still silent. Even so, there was another man inside the vehicle, the driver.

  He turned to Razov. "Another clip. Fast!"


  He delved into the pocket of his fur coat and wordlessly handed over the big clip of armor piercing rounds. Raider rejected the empty magazine, slammed in the new one, and searched for a target.

  But where?

  The driver could be anywhere, in the driver's seat, in the gunner's seat, or even next to one of the exit hatches and about to make a run for it.

  "How many clips do you have?" he asked Razov.

  The man was still in a state of shock, terrorized by the sudden violence and death that had come into his life. He shook his head. "That's the only spare I have. I didn't expect to need any more."

  He nodded and put his ear to the steel hull. There was no noise. And then the big diesel engine started up with that massive roar and a billow of exhaust smoke.

  He’s in the driver's seat!

  He jumped on top of the hull where the armor was thinnest and positioned himself above the driver. Then he fired a single shot. Before he could fire again, the vehicle suddenly lurched into motion, and he had to grab for a handhold to stop him falling off.

  He ducked his head fast to avoid a low branch that overhung the track. The driver must have realized his enemy was on top, for suddenly he changed direction, swerving into a densely wooded part of the forest. Raider flattened his body to avoid the branches whipping inches above his head and waited to line up a shot on his target. Behind him, he could see the Luaz chasing after the APC, with its headlights blazing on full beam.

  He made a quick estimate of the driver's position and fired again. The only reaction was the man jerked the BTR into a ninety-degree turn that almost toppled him from his fragile handhold. He selected another spot and fired again.

  Is it my imagination, or did I hear a scream from inside?

  He fired again in the same area, but this time there was no indication the heavy bullet had found a target. The Russian changed direction yet again, jerking the wheels over in the opposite direction. He gripped his handhold even harder and calculated his chances. He had three shots left, and if he hadn't brought the vehicle to stop after he'd emptied the clip, they'd all be sitting ducks. The driver would only need to stop and pour bullets into them at long-range. Or even short-range, they'd have no way to fight.