Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  He made a decision to gamble; his options had run out. Raider bracketed three shots, his last three rounds, in a desperate and final attempt to kill the driver. Almost immediately, the APC jerked left, then right, and slowed. Instinctively, he knew he'd failed. The driver was perhaps too injured to continue controlling the massive armored behemoth and was bringing the vehicle to a stop. But he'd be invulnerable to incoming fire from their assault rifles. He did the only thing possible and rolled off the hull into the thick snow.

  The BTR-70 motored on another hundred meters and stopped. Razov halted the Luaz, and Joe jumped out to help him up. He looked him over for signs of any gunshot wounds.

  "You okay? Back there it looked like you were hit."

  He grimaced. "Not yet, but I think I only winged the driver. We're out of AP ammo, so we have to get out of here before he uses that big gun mounted in the turret. If he opens fire with that 12.7mm, I don't need to spell it out."

  "He ain't gonna open fire," a voice said from behind him.

  He turned around and smiled. Waite had taken Dragan's VSS Vintorez from its case and was snapping the barrel into place. Al picked an ammo clip from the case and said, 'this one's AP.' There was a loud click as Waite snapped it home. He leaned against the hood of the Luaz and sighted on the BTR, just as the turret started to turn.

  "I wouldn't wait too long," Al murmured, "You're not catching a fish."

  "I wish. Wait. I want to send our Russian friend a big surprise. Best move the jeep out of sight, and you guys find a thick tree trunk to get behind. This is going to be hairy."

  Just as he issued the warning, the heavy machine gun spoke. The 12.7mm slugs were a like a lead hurricane slicing through the woods. Razov had the vehicle moving. He drove the Luaz behind a dense clump of trees, though not before several rounds drilled through the bodywork. Raider dived to the ground behind a snow-covered fallen tree trunk. As he lay next to him, he watched Waite pack handfuls of snow over the barrel of the Vintorez, and with their white Arctic camouflage, they were almost invisible.

  "It's time to put our Russian comrade out of business," Waite murmured, "He's starting to annoy me. What d'ya think, center of the turret?"

  "I guess so, yeah. Bracket him with a half-dozen shells; that should do it. I already winged him, so at least it'll put him off his aim." He was thinking hard, "Wait a second. That's the BTR-70, the twin gas engine variant. It's different to the BTR-80."

  "Sounds about right," he replied doubtfully, "What difference does it make?"

  "They stopped using gas engines because a bullet in the fuel tank would often cause it to explode. What other ammo do you have in that case?"

  He pointed to the traveling case for the Vintorez in the open, and in full view of the BTR.

  "We have a problem. You're thinking tracer?"

  "I'll retrieve it and see."

  "You're joking! The second he sees you, he'll..."

  The Russian gunner interrupted him with a clear demonstration of what waited for Raider the moment he showed himself. A barrage of heavy slugs tracked across the forest, chewing huge chunks of timber from the tree trunk they sheltered behind. The volley of gunfire went past them toward the thicket where Razov had driven the Luaz. They heard a scream, and Joe shouted, "It's Razov. He's hit."

  "Bad?"

  A pause. "His leg's all chewed up, so he's gonna need treatment mighty soon. Otherwise he'll die from shock and blood loss. I'm trying to put a tourniquet on him, but it's pretty bad."

  "Hang in there."

  He looked at Waite. "It has to be now or never. I'm not losing a man because of some Russian fucker with a big gun."

  "Okay, but give me a few seconds. I'll shift position and fire some shots to attract his attention. Soon as I let loose, well, you know the rest. Don't hang around out there."

  "I know."

  Waite slid along behind the tree trunk, careful to keep low. When he reached the end, he scooped out some snow to make a concealed firing loop and poked the barrel through the hole toward the target. A few seconds later, Raider heard him shout, "Two seconds."

  He tensed like a sprinter on the blocks, and then the Vintorez fired. The rifle made little noise, but the passage of the bullets marked the shooter as small puffs of snow rose into the air. He was already running when the gunner fired a long burst that sliced into the area around where Waite had shot from. Raider knew the veteran SEAL would have pulled back behind the thick trunk as soon as he'd fired, but it was a bad moment. There was no time to worry about his friend. He acted.

  A lightning sprint toward the rifle case, and already he heard the slight hesitation as the gunner checked his fire and began to correct for the new target. The heavy bullets chewed into the snow, tracking toward him as he raced back to cover. They were within feet of his charging body, nearer, nearer, and he knew he was dead.

  "Hey, you, over here!"

  Waite was up on his feet, dancing up and down, waving the sniper rifle in the air. A bullet passed between Raider's legs, but there were no more. The gunner had taken the bait and was traversing the turret back to destroy the impudent American who'd dared to challenge him. He dived the last few feet into the cover of the fallen tree, cradling the gun case, and snaked along to the other end where Waite had just rolled inside cover. A big muscled arm grabbed him, as he was about to move.

  "Don't!"

  He stopped, and the heavy machine gun bullets chewed up the snow in a gap beneath the tree. The Russian was spraying rounds liberally, and it was inevitable some would find their way through. The hail of lead moved on, and Raider nodded his thanks.

  "I thought I was a goner."

  "Not yet, old buddy. Not while we've got work to do. But we need to deal with that squirter. Let's take a look see what you have in your little box of goodies."

  He pulled out a cardboard box of ammunition and squinted at the Cyrillic writing. "You read any Russian?"

  "Not much."

  He couldn't work out the writing, so he opened up the box. Each round was carefully wrapped in separate packaging. They gleamed with a light coating of oil on the brass cartridge case, and the tips were similar to tungsten armor piercing rounds, but encased in plastic foam, as if to protect them.

  "Explosive bullets, has to be."

  "That'll do the job," he nodded, "Pass them over."

  Waite took the box and carefully loaded the bullets in the empty clip. While he was fitting the mag into the rifle, Raider tried again to interpret the symbols on the box. A kind of backward 'p', several letters, an 'o' and an 's.'

  "Waite, be careful handling those rounds. I think they're phosphorus."

  He grinned. "Is that right? A nice present for our Commie friend."

  "Communism ended a couple of decades back."

  "Nah, deep down these bastards are all Reds."

  He lay prone on the snow and sighted beneath the tree trunk. The machine gun had stopped firing, and they had no idea of what the Russian was planning, but then the BTR began to move away. Slowly at first, and then it picked up speed.

  "If he gets away, Waite..."

  "Tell me about it. I need some hush here. This is going to be a difficult shot."

  He shut up and left him to it. Waite licked a finger and held it up to estimate the windage. He took his time, and Raider was silently shouting at him to get on with it. Already, the APC was a hundred meters away, and the track ahead curved into a dark patch of forest where he'd be out of sight.

  The finger tightened on the trigger while Waite kept his body relaxed. Every movement was a smooth, graceful ballet, the classic sniper's technique. A gentle finger squeeze, barely perceptible, and then he fired. The bullet streaked out of the barrel and struck the rear of the BTR-70. Exactly where their SEAL training had advised them the fuel tank would be located. Nothing happened.

  He felt his disappointment. Waite had missed the vital area, or more likely, the cheap Russian ammo was dud.

  "It looks like..."

  He stopped sp
eaking. A finger of flame jetted out of the side of the armor plated hull, a flame that grew and grew. Abruptly, the BTR left the ground, jumped a meter in the air and vanished in a monstrous explosion. Smoke and flames obscured it for a few seconds.

  "Jesus Christ," he heard Waite mutter.

  When the smoke cleared, the turret had almost completely blown out of the hull, exposing the blazing internals of the Russian vehicle. They could even see the steering wheel and the back of the driver's seat, yet there was no sign of the enemy soldier. He'd vanished, vaporized.

  "We have to hope he didn't call it in," he said. Waite scoffed.

  "You're joking. Those crappy Russian radios hardly ever work, particularly this deep in the forest. We're good."

  "I think you're right." Then he thought of Razov, and they raced back to the jeep.

  Al had Razov across the rear seat of the Luaz. The plastic upholstery was bloody where the leg wound had leaked, and his face was chalk white. They’d done their best to tie the tourniquet, and it looked like he wouldn't die from blood loss, but it was hardly the only problem he faced; at best, the loss of his leg, at worse, death from gangrene. He was semi-conscious, and his mouth was moving, mumbling something in Ukrainian.

  "I reckon we have six hours at most to get him to a medic. After that, he's screwed," Al said quietly, as if Razov might overhear and start to panic.

  Raider nodded. "I'll call Dragan on the satphone. Razov is his man. He should have an idea of what we can do."

  He retrieved the satphone and switched it on. It was fully charged, and the set connected to a satellite inside of a minute. He dialed, and thirty seconds later, he heard a familiar voice the other end.

  "Dragan."

  "Raider. We have a problem."

  There was a heavy sigh the other end, but he ignored it and explained about Razov.

  "Will he die?" Dragan asked, his voice casual, "Are you sure it's worth getting him treatment? It could bring you to the attention of the authorities."

  He lost it. "Listen, Dragan, you little shit. This is one of your men. There's no way we're going anywhere until he's in safe hands. He needs a medic, and he needs one now!"

  A pause. "I'll call back in five minutes."

  The call ended, and he told them the mission was on hold. While they waited, Joe checked out the damaged Luaz. Whatever help Dragan could get for them, they'd need the vehicle to drive out of the forest.

  When he raised his head from out of the hood, he asked him how it was going. The Vietnamese grimaced. "She's on the ropes, but not counted out. I'm about to give it a try."

  At first glance, the Luaz had suffered badly from the burst of gunfire, but the damage was mainly superficial. The angular windscreen had shattered in each of the panes of glass, but the bullets had mainly struck the bodywork and seats. Joe started the engine, and it ticked over without missing a beat. One of the headlights was destroyed, but the other was still functioning. It would be enough to take Razov to get help if Dragan could locate something nearby.

  "If the cops see this, they'll stop us for sure."

  Joe nodded. "Let's hope they're all sleeping off last night's vodka."

  The satphone rang, and he answered.

  "Raider."

  "Dragan. Tell me, is he still alive?"

  Fuck you.

  "What've you fixed up?"

  "If you can make Vyborg, I've fixed up for a doctor to take a look at him."

  "Vyborg?"

  "It's a small town located on the Karelian Isthmus, about eighty miles northwest of St. Petersburg. My reading puts it about twenty miles from your current position. You should make it in less than an hour."

  "Understood. What kind of help have you arranged?"

  A pause. "You have to avoid a hospital. That much is obvious. Dr. Filatov owes me a favor, and she has a surgery on the outskirts of town, so you won't attract too much attention going there. She said she’d fix him up."

  "She?"

  "Elena Filatov, yes. She's very good."

  "With gunshot wounds?"

  A chuckle. "I doubt that, but she said she'll wait up for you." He gave them the address, the coordinates, and a cellphone number, "Don't stay around Vyborg too long. You know what's at stake. You have to get to Moscow."

  "You think I don’t know? It’s my fucking daughter's life which is threatened, Dragan."

  "Of course. I'll be in Moscow the day after tomorrow, with Andy Lorak. If you don't hang around Vyborg too long, you should be able to make it there by then. We can work out a plan to get into the museum, but we need to work fast. There have been developments."

  Developments?

  "What aren't you telling me, Dragan?"

  "It's Pamyat. They've, er, made some changes."

  "Like what?"

  At first he didn't reply. Then he muttered, "We can't fail with this. We have to retrieve that file."

  "What changes?"

  "Reinforcements. They've turned part of the building into a barracks for a newly arrived company of their paramilitaries. I understand they'll be based there permanently with dormitories, an armory, even a motor vehicle garage at the rear."

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  There was nothing more to be said. "We'll see you in Moscow."

  He hung up. He'd heard enough. Waite had the Vintorez packed in the case, and he told them of the conversation. He cut off their questions.

  "Joe, the first job is to start up and get Razov to Vyborg.

  "Which way? We're in the middle of a wood, and our guide is unconscious in the back."

  "Head southeast. When you hit a road, keep driving. It runs all the way into Vyborg."

  "How do we know if it's the right road?"

  "This is Russia. Roads are mighty scarce."

  Joe nodded and drove away. Raider and Waite were crammed alongside him in the front. Al did his best to tend to Razov in the rear, although he occasionally regained consciousness, so when they hit a bump he screamed from the pain of his wounds. They came at last to a narrow road, a litter of broken gravel and crushed boulders. But it was still a road. A few of the potholes had been repaired, but some were deep and treacherous, waiting to trap the unwary driver and leave them kilometers from any assistance with a broken axle.

  The drove for almost a half-hour until the lights of a town appeared in the distance. They passed a cracked and rusting roadside sign that said, 'Vyb...'

  "I reckon that must be it," Joe said, "What about directions to this doctor's office?"

  "Dragan said it's the first house we'll come to this side of town."

  "Right." He saw movement and shouted, "Joe, pull over, switch off the lights!"

  They were just in time. A small convoy of Russian military vehicles had rounded a turn several hundred meters away. A few seconds later, and they would have run right into them. They waited in a small clearing behind the rusting hulk of an abandoned and burned out truck. Another BTR-70 drove past; similar to the one they'd destroyed. Three truckloads of troops followed, loaded in the canvas topped, square fronted, go-anywhere GAZ-33097s favored by the Russian military. Bringing up the rear was a 4wd vehicle, the Russian equivalent of a jeep, a battered UAZ-469.

  "I reckon there's upwards of fifty troops, maybe as many as eighty in those vehicles," Raider estimated, "A couple of rifle platoons sounds about right. The officers will be riding in the BTR with the heater turned full up. It'd make another nice target for Waite's phosphorus rounds."

  "Wouldn't it just," he grinned, "I'd sooner not tangle the half company of Russian infantry who'd come charging after us, not right now."

  They waited until the vehicles disappeared into the distance.

  Are they responding to a call for help from the BTR we destroyed? If so, the soldiers will come across the wreckage and put out an APB for the culprits.

  There was no way to know for sure, all they could do was assume the worst, and from this moment on watch their backs even more than ever. If the military caught them, theirs would not b
e a happy death.

  They reached the first house on the outskirts of Vyborg, a detached building with a yard and several outbuildings. As they pulled through the gate, the front door opened and a figure emerged. Joe halted the Luaz, and a woman in a long, heavy coat came toward them. Raider jumped out of the vehicle to greet her.

  "Doctor Filatov?"

  She nodded uncertainly. "Yes, I am Elena Filatov. Where is the patient?"

  He gestured to the rear of the jeep. She switched on a flashlight and played it over Razov's wound. He saw her shudder.

  "This is very bad. You must bring him inside immediately. You can park your vehicle at the rear of the large shed."

  He thanked her, and they carefully lifted the wounded man out of the back. Joe drove away to park the jeep, and they followed her into the house. It was old and smelled musty, as if it hadn't been properly cleaned in a long time. They looked at each other and frowned. Doctor's offices were generally well scrubbed, disinfected, and clinical. There was a rank odor that was kind of reminiscent of animals. She was obviously a pet lover.

  "Bring him into my surgery, through here." She indicated a door, and they carried him through, "Put him on the treatment table."

  The room was stark, and the table in the center was a stainless steel table. It seemed they did things differently in this part of Russia. She helped them settle him on the table. She'd removed her coat, and he had a chance to look at her close up. She was short, almost tiny, and he guessed about five feet without shoes. Very slim and petite, with rich, raven black hair held in a long plait that hung down her back. Rich, lustrous lashes framed her large, round doe eyes, and her wide lips pursed as she concentrated on Razov's wound. Like most people in the snowy northern wastes, her skin was pale, almost white.

  He realized she'd stopped working on Razov and was staring back at him.

  "Was there something you wanted? I didn't get your name."

  He flushed, realizing he was behaving badly. "No, Ma'am, I'm sorry. It's just, well, you look too young to be a physician, if you know what I mean. The name's Raider, by the way."