Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  She gave him a knowing smile, and he reddened

  "It's Miss, not Ma'am. My name is Elena. I'm sorry I look too young. I assure you this wasn't my first choice."

  "You didn't want to treat sick people?"

  She was looking down, pulling aside the rough dressing, but she looked up in surprise. "Sick people? I do not treat sick people."

  "You don't? So what is this place?"

  "It is a veterinary surgery. I treat sick animals. Except when Alexander Dragan calls me in the middle of the night and requests a favor."

  Joe had just walked in, and he overheard the last part of the conversation. "A vet! You're kidding me?"

  She kept working on the dressing as she spoke. "Not at all. What did you expect in this part of Vyborg late at night? Johns Hopkins?"

  Joe shook his head. "No, Ma'am."

  "It's Miss."

  "Right."

  She bustled around the office, finding antiseptics to clean the wound, and then she gave him an injection. "This is a powerful antibiotic. There is a risk of infection."

  "Is it okay for humans?" Joe ventured.

  She gave him a look of scorn. "If not, he'll die. Why don't you wait and see? I need space. Would you please wait in the room next door? You'll find hot coffee on the stove. I made it fresh when Alexander told me you were on the way. You," she stopped Raider as he followed him out, "I will need your help. Clean your hands thoroughly, and hold your friend while I work on the wound."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  She grinned at the ironic reply but continued working. She was fast and efficient, he had to give her that. And beautiful, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

  What is a girl like this doing working in this crummy shithole?

  "You're wondering why I'm working in this forgotten little place, instead of a big city with a shiny operating theater and wealthy clients?"

  He started, but then realized she hadn't read his mind. It was an obvious question.

  "Kind of," he admitted.

  Her hands flew around the wounds, pulling out debris, pieces of cloth embedded in the flesh, cleaning, suturing, and she began to fasten a compress over the damage.

  "Put your hand here, on the dressing while I fasten it in place."

  He did as she told him. For a brief moment their hands touched, and their eyes met. Now it was her turn to flush, and she averted her eyes to look back down at the patient. After a few moments, she began to speak.

  "I don't normally work on my own. There are two of us here. I have an assistant who comes here during the day."

  "Right."

  "As to why I do this, it is a long story. I was in Moscow, studying archaeology. I also spent much of my spare time studying veterinary techniques and working in an animal hospital. I have always enjoyed working with animals, but archaeology was my first love. I had a position lined up with a prestigious Moscow museum as assistant curator. I did a job placement there while I was doing my degree, so they knew my track record. They offered me the post almost at once, and I was ready to start work. The day before I heard they'd changed their minds. They'd passed me over for the son of an oligarch, a man who'd threatened them if they didn't employ his son in the job that was rightfully mine. So I was out of work. Assistant curator posts are very few and far between."

  "You didn't try to complain?"

  She looked up, and her smile was bitter. "Oh, yes, I complained. This oligarch, Vasily Golitsyn, heard about it and sent his hoods into every museum in Moscow. If they tried to give me a job, he'd set fire to the building, and they'd all be out of work. He also sent men to visit me. They told me to get out of the city, or they'd kill me. I heard about an opening in Vyborg and took on this animal surgery. A few months back, when I needed a favor, I met Alexander Dragan. I needed medical equipment, and I found it impossible to use the normal suppliers. He helped me out and obtained everything I needed. I promised to return the favor if the need arose. I guess that's why he called."

  "Yeah, he'd be looking to call in the marker. That's Dragan."

  "You sound like you don't like him."

  "I don't trust him. What's the deal with Razov?"

  She looked down at her patient and considered. "He needs a proper hospital, no question, but as that's impossible, I believe what I've done will be enough to save his leg."

  "It's appreciated. We owe you one."

  She smiled. "You look like you could do with some hot food. I can rustle something up, if you like."

  "That'd be good. It could some time before we reach Moscow."

  "Moscow? How do you plan to get there?"

  He shrugged. "No idea. We'll find something."

  "I see. Watch the patient. I'll go and cook some food. We can eat in here and keep an eye on him at the same time."

  He nodded. The idea of sharing a meal with Dr. Elena Filatov appealed to him. She returned after a quarter of an hour with two plates of food. A potato pie she'd warmed through in the microwave. He ate in silence, enjoying the hot food and her company. She constantly looked over at her patient between mouthfuls.

  "Whereabouts in Moscow are you going?"

  The question came out of the blue, and he answered without thinking. It was a measure of the mesmerizing effect she'd had on him in the short time since they'd met.

  "The Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum, that's what it used to be called."

  Her mouth opened in surprise. "The Aleksey Arakcheyev? That's a coincidence. It's the establishment where I was supposed to work. Tell me, why are you going to that particular museum? I'd heard it closed down."

  He mumbled some excuse about collecting a package, which was part lie, part truth, but he could see she didn't believe him. She got up again to check on Razov, and he could see she was annoyed he'd lied to her. The spell was broken, and in the end he made an excuse and rejoined the others. He helped himself to fresh coffee and sat at the table, feeling tired after the long flight and the exertion of the previous night. The first tendrils of dawn were showing through the window, and he tried to clear his mind and formulate a plan to get them to Moscow, and into the Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum.

  "We can't travel in the Luaz," Joe pointed out, "They'd pick us up before we get out of the town. We need another vehicle."

  "You're right. I'll call Dragan. This is his mess, so he can sort it out."

  He called him on the satphone, and once again the Ukrainian answered almost immediately.

  "Dragan."

  "Raider. We're at the doctor's office, and she's fixing up Razov. But we need a vehicle, something to get us to Moscow."

  "You sure do. Are you aware the military found the APC you destroyed in the forest, along with the bodies of the crew? They're scouring the area, looking for armed bandits. Their orders are to shoot on sight."

  So the driver had called for help before we killed him.

  "It was bound to happen sooner or later. What can you get for us?"

  "It'll have to be something that is above suspicion. Put me on to Elena. I have an idea."

  He found her in her office and handed her the phone. She talked with Dragan at length in a language he assumed was Russian or Ukrainian. Then she ended the call and handed him back the phone.

  "It's all arranged. I will take you to Moscow in the ambulance."

  "The what?"

  She grinned. "It's a small truck with a loading ramp and a dispensary in the back. I use it for traveling to farms when their animals need treatment. It'll be the perfect cover. I gather you're wanted men."

  "So I heard. You can take us to Moscow without any problems?"

  She smiled. "It is not the most comfortable of vehicles, so you may find it something of a problem. But as for the police, no, they will not think to search the ambulance."

  "What about Razov?"

  "The patient will stay here with Olga, my assistant. He will be quite safe. She is very skilled. Besides, there is another reason why Alexander suggested I drove you to Moscow. As I said, I worked at the Aleksey Arakch
eyev Museum, and I will be able to help you understand the layout of the building." She smiled, "I may even teach you something of archaeology, Raider. It'll make a change from killing Russian soldiers."

  Something in her tone alerted him. "You disapprove?"

  She snorted with laughter. "Disapprove? Let me tell you this. My father's family was Ukrainian, and Stalin forced them off their land. Most of them starved to death after they were exiled to collectives thousands of kilometers from their homes. My mother's family is from Finland. The town of Vyborg stands in what was once part of Finland. When the Russians invaded, they herded my grandparents into a railcar and sent them to Siberia. They never returned. We didn't even hear from them again. I hate Russia, and the Russians. My plan is to get out as soon as I've saved enough money, and make my life elsewhere. Anywhere but here."

  He touched her arm in sympathy. "I'm sorry your family had it so bad."

  She looked down at his hand and nodded. "It's all in the past. Now I have to look to the present and safeguard my future. Moscow is a long way from here, and the roads are not good, so I suggest we prepare to leave. First, let me show you the ambulance."

  He called Joe to stay with Razov, and the rest of them went outside to a semi-derelict barn. She opened the front doors, and inside they had the first sight of her ambulance.

  "Oh, lawdy," Waite muttered, "It's a museum piece."

  Elena looked stern. "It's a Zil, a model 157. A very serviceable vehicle, especially in these parts."

  "It looks more like my father's old workshop mounted on top of an old truck," he objected.

  "It works for me. Inside the truck I have built a small surgery. It has saved the lives of many animals over the past year."

  Raider glanced over the vehicle, which faintly resembled an ancient American deuce and a half, and jumped up into the cab. The driver's seat had been repaired with chunks of foam, held in place with electrical tape. The steering wheel, too, had been repaired with tape, to compensate for the plastic that had peeled away. The instruments were cracked and broken, almost certainly u/s. He could also see daylight through the floor.

  "Try the engine," she shouted, climbing up into the cab, "It's better than it looks. Besides, vehicle theft is a huge problem in Russia, and they never bother with this old Zil."

  "I'm amazed."

  He turned the starter switch, and the big 5.6-liter diesel engine burst into life with a savage roar. A plume of black smoke emerged from the exhaust, which protruded above the cab. It was a kind of snorkel arrangement that allowed the strange vehicle to operate in wet and marshy areas, where it could suddenly encounter several feet of water. He smiled at the sight of Waite and Al waving their hands to disperse the smoke that engulfed them. The oily fog lasted a couple of minutes, and then started to disappear as the engine warmed.

  "What's in the back?"

  "An examination table. Well, this was an army radio truck, so it's just an aluminum workbench. Seats along one side and some lockers for stowage, that's about all."

  "No heating?"

  She smiled. "Only when the engine catches fire."

  He nodded. "It'll have to do. How far is it to Moscow?"

  She calculated for a few moments. "About eight hundred kilometers."

  He converted eight hundred klicks to miles, around five hundred, and in an unheated vehicle capable of a speed of 40mph with the gas pedal flat to the floor. More than twelve hours.

  "We'd better get started. When does your assistant arrive?"

  "Olga? She's due at 08.00."

  He nodded. "We'll hide inside the truck just before she arrives. It's best she doesn't see us, in case the cops come calling. Introduce her to Razov, and then we'll get on the road."

  "Yessir, Lieutenant," she snapped back, giving him a parody of a salute, "Anymore orders for me?"

  "Who told you?"

  "Joe."

  "That was a long time ago. Now it's just Raider, John Raider."

  "So you do have a first name."

  "On occasion."

  At 07.50 they took cover inside the Zil, and promptly at 08.00 a battered Lada Niva 4x4 spluttered into the yard, and a girl climbed out. Raider watched from inside the cab, hidden behind the passenger seat. The others were in the back, stowing the equipment they'd transferred from the Luaz. Elena spoke to Olga for a few minutes and went inside. She emerged soon after, climbed into the cab, and tossed him a white cotton coat.

  "You'd better put that on. If we're stopped, say you're my assistant."

  "Yessir, Ma'am."

  "Touché, " she grinned as she started the engine. With a thunderous roar and more clouds of smoke, the big diesel began to warm, and she drove the heavy truck out onto the road and turned the wheels to the east, toward Moscow.

  Abigail, baby, I'm on the way. We're coming for you.

  It was too noisy for conversation until she hit the main highway for St. Petersburg. It had a thin skin of tarmac, enough to reduce the noise from the continual jolts as the wheels hit the frequent potholes. They skirted St. Petersburg, and she turned onto Highway M10, the Moscow road. As the noise level dropped, he began questioning her about their target, the Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum.

  "Why don't you tell me something about this museum?"

  "The Arakcheyev? What would you like to know?"

  "Everything."

  She pursed her lips as she thought it through. "It is, or was, dedicated to the history of the Rus, the people who founded Russia. There's considerable debate as to whether they came from the southeast, making them a Slavic tribe. Many Westerners believe them to be Norsemen who settled the area over the centuries. There is evidence to support both views. The subject is..."

  "I meant the layout of the museum, the area, number of floors, entrances, that kind of thing."

  "Oh, of course. The building occupies an area of five thousand square meters on four floors, as well as a basement, so that makes it..."

  "Twenty five thousand square meters. Pretty big."

  She smiled. "It's a rabbit warren. I'm not sure if that helps you or not. It's easy to get lost in there."

  "What was the place used for, before it was a museum?"

  "A military barracks. It's only a few hundred meters from the Kremlin. There's a large yard behind, which used to be a parade ground. The museum used it as a parking lot. Inside there's an armory. We used it for storing valuable artifacts when they weren't on display."

  "It sounds like a fortification."

  "It is. People say Tsar Nicholas II was held captive there, together with his family, but it has not been confirmed. It's certainly secure enough, it’s almost a castle."

  "That's good to know."

  She smiled. They drove in silence for more than an hour and saw nothing, no towns, no villages, just a monotonous landscape of endless steppe. They topped a rise, and in the distance there was a service station.

  "We could stop there for a short time. We're low on fuel, and I imagine your friends in the back could do with a break."

  "Will it be safe?"

  "As safe as anything is in Russia."

  She parked next to the pumps and filled up with diesel fuel. The attendant, a burly woman who looked like an Olympic weightlifter, spoke to him, but he turned away, unable to comprehend. She muttered something, and Elena came and quietly translated.

  "She said you're a rude, ignorant bastard, so you must work for the government."

  He grinned. "It's been said before."

  When the tanks were full, she drove the truck out of sight behind a dilapidated repair shop. Joe, Al, and Waite stepped down to stretch their legs, stiff and sore after the rollercoaster ride on Russian roads. Elena brought them coffee, which they almost gagged on when they tasted it, but they managed to swallow it when she told them it was all they would get for the next ten hours. Then they re-boarded the truck, and she drove away.

  The journey to Moscow was endless, and Raider took a turn on the wheel. The Zil steered like a brute. There was no powe
r assistance, and it took all his considerable strength to keep the vehicle on the road. She slept for part of the journey, and he kept himself awake by attempting to recognize the endless lines of vehicles that passed them. There were former Soviet trucks, like the one they were driving, though not many. Plenty of Ladas, GAZ jeeps, and then the fruits of modern Russia, BMWs, Mercedes, Jaguars, even a few Rolls Royces, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis, oligarchs, no question. The modern robber barons who'd raped the emerging democratic Russia to leave it an economic cripple.

  They reached Moscow in the late evening and drove through dank, monotonous, gray streets jammed with traffic. There were areas of prosperity, high-end stores, luxury auto dealers, but the squalid streets and the ragged inhabitants who shuffled along the shabby sidewalks outnumbered them.

  He was driving when she awoke, and he suggested she show him the museum, so they could get an idea of what they were facing. They fought through the traffic jams, weaving past bright new Mercedes and even a few wooden carts drawn by emaciated ponies. Their route took them past the onion spires of St. Basils, situated inside the Kremlin, and then she told him to stop.

  It was a large, concrete structure that was just as she'd described, like a fortress. More like a castle, and the Pamyat flag hung from the top floor. A ten meter-wide banner with the organization's logo for the world to see. He climbed out of the truck and opened the back for the others to jump down. They'd removed their arctic camouflage and didn't look quite so conspicuous as before. They were wearing camos, but this was Moscow. A substantial number of the populace wore camos. For some it was a fashion statement. For the heavily armed militias who protected the mafiyosi and the oligarchs, it was their working uniform.

  Al stood on the sidewalk, surveying what lay in front of them.

  "This is bad. They have the side street blocked off, which reduces our chances of a clean infil and exfil. If they have a full company of troops in there, we're looking at a couple of hundred men. And from the look of those guards on the main doors, they're not short on ordnance."

  The four guards on the main door carried their weapons openly, and they were not the ancient weapons of the Soviet era; each man carried an AN-94, the post-Soviet 5.45mm assault rifles. Designed to fire two-shot bursts, as well as full auto, their low-recoil design and high rate of fire allowed them to penetrate body armor. The weapon was also capable of penetrating thin vehicle armor at short-range. In the military of the Russian Federation, possession of such a rifle was a badge of status amongst poorly equipped and supplied troops. They were also extremely good at killing.