Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "I hear you." He looked at Waite. "Can we assume the waterfall drops into the Moscow River?"

  "We can be sure of one thing, Boss. If we don't go for it, they'll kill us."

  He took a last, despairing look around, but Waite was right.

  He pointed at the waterfall and looked at the girl. "Elena, we're going that way."

  She stared at the terrifying maelstrom for a few seconds and shook her head. "No! I can't. I'd sooner die."

  "We don't have a choice. Waite, I'll go first." He met his eyes and nodded toward Elena, "When I'm away, send them down, and bring up the rear. Don't worry about Elena."

  He saw her relax.

  "Got it. We'll make it, Boss. All of us."

  "Sure we will. Elena, can you see anyone coming along the tunnel?"

  She turned to look back the way they'd come. "I don't think so, I..."

  She didn't get a chance to say any more. He grabbed her, held her firmly, and jumped. There was no chance to warn her to take a deep breath; the only way to get her off the ledge and to make the dive was to use surprise. She was still wearing her respirator, and he assumed it would keep the foul, stinking water out of her mouth for long enough to reach the surface. Wherever that was.

  She panicked and tried to free herself, anything to get back up to the surface where they'd come from. There was no way, the power of the water was impossible to resist. Besides, no one ever swam up a waterfall, above or under the ground. He managed to pull her limbs close to his body, to prevent her breaking any bones as they passed outcrops of brick and rock inside the flume. The journey was endless, and the inevitable happened. Water began seeping through the filters of their masks.

  He knew if they didn't make the surface soon, they'd start ingesting the stinking, bacteria-ridden water into their lungs, and death would come soon, assuming they didn't drown. He put his head close to hers and shouted, "Hold your breath!"

  He doubted she'd heard. All she did was keep struggling. It was as if she thought by freeing herself from his embrace, she could somehow make her way out of the torrent of sewage. He took a deep breath himself. No matter what happened, if he could stay conscious, he would be able to save her. Although if they didn't get out of the flow very soon, they'd run out of air, and they'd die anyway.

  He had a nightmare vision of reaching the end of the flume, only to find there was an iron grating, and they'd spend their last agonizing moments desperately trying to suck in air. Fighting to escape, before death finally overtook them. He felt the speed of the water increase and tried to look ahead, but all he saw was blackness. She tried to twist away again, and he gripped her tighter. Then they flew through the air, falling, falling, and he hit something with a bone jarring crash.

  His head spun as he tried to make sense of what had happened to them. He felt around with his hands, trying to work out where they were. The surface was cold, bitterly cold, ice cold. And then it came to him. He smiled.

  Of course it’s cold. It’s ice. We’ve fallen on the frozen Moscow River.

  He took a chance, ripped off his respirator, and sucked pure, sweet clean air into his lungs. He was almost blind; his eyes were caked with filth from the sewer. There was a hole in the ice, and he ducked his head under the surface to clear his vision. When he wiped away the water, he could see lights.

  We made it!

  He looked at Elena. At first he thought she had struck her head on the ice when they fell, but when he listened to her breathing, it was ragged. She'd gone into some kind of a fugue state, blanked out from sheer terror. He ripped off her respirator and put his lips close to her ear.

  "Elena, listen to me. We made it. We're out."

  Her lips moved a fraction. "We're going to die," she mumbled, her voice hoarse with terror.

  "We're not going to die. We're out of the tunnel, on the Moscow River."

  "The river? But, it's not wet."

  He explained about the ice flow. As he did, he saw three bodies hurtle out of the sewage outflow, three meters above the ice. Joe hit first and then Al. Waite came last. They missed the ice flows and splashed into the water, but Waite took hold of both of them. He saw Raider swimming over to them, and he pulled the three men onto the ice flow.

  "Are we alive, Boss?" Waite shook his head, bemused.

  "I think so. But we won't be if we don't get off this river. We need to find somewhere warm. A half hour in this cold and we'll be goners."

  He calculated their drift and worked out that in less than a minute they'd touch the shore on the north bank. They pulled Joe and Al to their feet and waited. As the heavy sheet of ice touched the bank, they jumped ashore. Elena had recovered enough to help the two wounded men, and they slumped in a heap on the icy bank.

  He looked at his bedraggled force and took stock of the situation. They had some of their weapons, including the Colt .45s, and he had the silenced MP5 still slung on his back. Waite had his backpack on one shoulder and the dripping wet grenade launcher on the other. Al and Joe had lost their assault rifles, but Raider had missed the real objective, the only one that mattered; the means to free Abigail, the Putin file.

  He also had the satnav, which when he switched it on, still worked. He made a note to buy the same model, if he ever felt the need for a personal satphone.

  "We need to get help before we die of exposure. I'll call Dragan."

  He keyed the number and waited for an answer. There was nothing. He tried again, still nothing. In desperation, he called Andy Lorak.

  "This is Raider. I need to talk with Dragan, now."

  A pause. "In that case you'll have to find your way to the Lubyanka."

  "The what?"

  "The FSB arrested him a few hours ago. They picked him up close to the Pamyat headquarters, the Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum. They say they're holding him, pending enquiries. I believe that means they're pounding the shit out of him."

  "Jesus. What do we do now? We're dying of cold out here. We're on the bank of the Moscow River."

  "You do nothing. It's over, finished. The best I can is to get you flights back to the US. You're done here in Russia. Go home before they find you, lock you up, and throw away the key."

  "We didn't find the file."

  "That's too bad. There's no chance now. All you can do is get out of Russia while there's still time."

  He felt a sick feeling in his guts. Lorak had just pronounced a death sentence on Abigail. He wanted to take him by the neck and ram the truth down his throat.

  I’ll leave Russia with Abigail, or I won’t leave at all. No matter how many people I have to kill, she’s going home!

  Chapter Seven

  He calmed his racing pulse and forced himself to stay calm. He had to bring Lorak round to his way of thinking.

  "Dragan's arrest, what was the charge?"

  Lorak's voice was flat and unemotional, "They accused him of unlawful possession of a sniper rifle. He was carrying the VSS Vintorez, and they're saying he was planning an assassination. Stupid bastard, I told him this was all a waste of time."

  So that's why he didn't turn up. Maybe we misjudged him, although he was stupid enough to get caught.

  He explained their immediate situation. "If we don't get somewhere warm and dry mighty soon, we'll die out here. Two of our people were wounded, and they won't survive the cold for much longer."

  "Where are you?"

  Raider did his best to describe their location, and Lorak assured him he could find it.

  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  "Make it ten. People are dying out here."

  "I'll do my best."

  Eleven minutes later, a long wheelbase, black Mercedes S-class limo drew up fifty meters from the riverbank. Lorak emerged and waited while they went across to him. Raider was astonished. The man looked sicker than ever, and even his hair had started to fall out. He helped Elena into the car. She was shivering again, and her teeth sounded like castanets. At least it was from extreme cold, and not mortal terror. He gave Wait
e a hand with Joe next; the Vietnamese was lapsing in and out of consciousness.

  "It's extreme shock," Waite explained, as they lifted him onto the rear seat of the limo, "He took that blow to his head, and he's too weak to withstand the bitter cold."

  "What's that stench?" Lorak asked, as they turned back to help Al.

  "We had to escape through a sewer."

  He shuddered. "I can't think there's anything worse than a Moscow sewer."

  "Dying's worse."

  He nodded. "Tell me about it."

  He drove away and put the heater on full blast. "I'm taking you to our Moscow distribution depot. It's empty at this time of night. You'll find what you need there, uniforms, hot food, you name it."

  "Weapons?"

  He hesitated only for a couple of seconds. "Plenty."

  Something about Lorak's strange reply when he'd mentioned death came back to him. He recalled Dragan saying Lorak had been ill.

  "Tell me, how bad are you? I gather you've got some illness."

  "It's terminal."

  "Shit, I'm sorry. Surely with Dragan's money, he can find a cure for whatever it is you have."

  He shook his head but didn't elaborate further. They stopped outside a large, brick-built building with a steel shutter door. He took out a remote switch and pressed a button. The door opened, and they drove inside. They were in a vast warehouse stacked with crates. Lines of racking stood on one side, and on the other a number of doors that presumably led into the offices.

  They started to explore, but Raider hung back with Lorak. He was curious.

  "You were saying about this illness, there not being a cure."

  "Not for this problem." He thought for a moment and seemed to come to a decision, "It's political."

  "Your illness is political? I don't get it."

  "It's not too difficult. Raider, you recall the difficulties inside Ukraine. The insurgency, and the plot to assassinate Putin?"

  He shrugged. "We put a stop to that nonsense."

  "That's true. The problem is they couldn't leave it alone. You've heard of Svoboda?"

  "Ukrainian nationalists, screwballs."

  He forced a smile. "That's putting it mildly. They happen to be gunning for Putin in a big way. They blame him for everything bad that happens in Ukraine."

  "That's not far from the truth."

  He smiled. "Perhaps, but it's a little more complicated. Anyway, Svoboda put out a contract on Putin, and it's still in play. Putin's bodyguard Malenkov blamed me for all of it. He said he was convinced I organized the hit, just because I'm Dragan's personal assistant, and Dragan would like to see Putin brought down. But an assassination, that's ridiculous. I told him so and tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't listen. A few weeks ago, I became ill. The doctors diagnosed leukemia at first, but it wasn't cancer. It was something else."

  Waite had found cognac in the back of the car, a flask of Courvoisier. He passed it forward, and Raider took a deep draft, feeling immediately warmer. He thought about Lorak's illness, and an icy chill hit him once again, this time deep in the guts.

  Russians, an illness like cancer, that wasn't cancer.

  "They poisoned you."

  "Right. Polonium-210. It was a low dose. They wanted to spin out my last days of life in agony. The doctors give me eight weeks."

  "Polonium? Jesus Christ, I'm sorry. No chance of a cure?"

  He smiled faintly. "Malenkov said if I named names of people who were behind the assassination, he'd help me. Problem is, I don't know anything about it. So I'm fucked."

  There was a silence between them for a few moments. Raider had a sudden realization.

  "That bastard Malenkov has us both over a barrel. My daughter Abigail dies if I don't recover a damn file, which I don't have. You die if you don't give him the names you don't have. It's long past time someone put a bullet in his head."

  He nodded and smiled. "I wish. I'm sorry about your daughter, Raider. She shouldn't be mixed up in this."

  "Thanks, Lorak. Someone has to put a stop to Malenkov. I just decided it's going to be me."

  "I'd like to see him dead, but how?"

  "First, I'm going to get that file. Do you know what happened when the Spetsnaz went into the museum? Did they manage to dislodge Pamyat?"

  Lorak shook his head. "When I left, the reports were still coming in, but it looks like Pamyat is still in control. After you left half of them dead, they had a firefight with Pamyat. It looked like Spetsnaz was coming out on top, but a few of them changed sides, and in the end Pamyat managed to kick them all out."

  "That's interesting."

  Lorak stared at him in disapproval. "Interesting? I don't see it how it was interesting. It was bloodthirsty. You didn't see the number of bodies they carted away."

  "That's not what I mean. If we didn't get it, and Spetsnaz didn't get it, the Putin file must still be inside. I'm going back in to find it and bring it out. Then I'm going hunting for Malenkov. That fucker's going down."

  "Fuckin' A good, buddy," Waite grinned, "I hate leaving a job half done."

  "The head of Putin's Presidential security?" Lorak said, looking aghast, "Impossible, you won't get near him. Nor will you get back inside the museum. You've blown that chance."

  "That's right. We blew it, and Spetsnaz blew it. Which is why Pamyat won't be expecting another attack. First, we need to take care of Joe. He needs a hospital examination. I want to make sure he's okay."

  "I'll be fine," the wiry Vietnamese croaked. He'd got to his feet and limped over to them, "Elena found some painkillers in the first aid cabinet, and she cleaned up the cuts and bruises. I can make it."

  "You took a bad hit to the head. You could be suffering from concussion. You need a few days in a hospital bed to recover. There could even be longer term damage."

  "I'm coming, Boss. Al, too. After Elena patched up that shoulder wound, he's as good as new. What's the plan?"

  He shrugged. "I haven't got a plan. Not yet."

  Elena and Al joined them. She stared at him, understanding what he intended to do. "You're going back."

  "Yes. The Putin file is still inside. It's the only way to get my daughter back."

  She grimaced. "That bastard Malenkov, making war on children."

  "He's next on my list. Don't worry about him. In the meantime, we need to arrange to get you home. I'll talk to Andy. He'll organize your replacement vehicle."

  Dragan's assistant nodded. "That'll be no problem. I can have it ready inside twenty-four hours. Just choose what you want, and it'll be delivered to wherever you're staying."

  She stared at all of them, as if she hadn't been listening to him. "I can't believe it. You're really going back into the Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum?"

  Raider nodded. "I am. We all are. Pamyat won't be expecting a second attack so soon. With any luck, we'll catch them with their pants down."

  She looked skeptical. "And if you don't have any luck?"

  "Then my daughter dies. Us too."

  "You don't have a chance. You'll be lost inside there without a guide."

  He grinned. "I don't think the museum is supplying guides, not these days. We'll pick up a map at the desk."

  "No. I'm coming back with you."

  He could hardly believe what she'd said. The frightened, terrified girl who'd narrowly avoided death only hours before.

  She’s brave, no question, but she’s no soldier. She’s a vet.

  "No way. We barely made it out last time."

  "Then we must make sure the next time we have a better plan," she asserted.

  "Elena, I wouldn't advise this," Lorak intervened, "These Pamyat soldiers have just fought off an attack by Russia's elite Special Forces. If Spetsnaz couldn't succeed, Raider has no chance with only himself and three men. You should all get out of the country and save your lives."

  "How does Abigail do that?" he asked him quietly, "Just tell me."

  He didn't reply.

  Raider looked at the girl. "Elena, thi
s is not a good idea. You should go home, and get on with your career."

  "I'm coming, and I have a plan to get inside."

  They looked at her, the diminutive vet from Vyborg, who'd already come so close to death.

  "A plan?"

  "Yes. I know how we can get inside."

  He nodded. "You'd better spell it out."

  So she did. All four of them smiled and nodded.

  "It could work," Joe said.

  "I can't wait to see this," Waite grinned.

  "It sounds like our best chance," Al added, his face screwed up in thought, "Yeah, it's the last thing they'd expect."

  "We're going to do it," Raider concluded.

  "After you shower and change," Lorak screwed up his nose, "You stink like, well, like you've just crawled through a sewer. Which happens to be true." He pointed to a door, "You'll find fresh clothes in there. I'll see what I can do about something for Elena. She'll need something special for what you have in mind. Use the shower and get changed. I'll be back in an hour." He asked her about her size. She told him, and he left.

  They found the shower room, a single stall, and she went first while they stayed outside. Al was next and then Joe. While she re-fixed their dressings, Waite insisted on Raider taking the next slot, and he searched out some clothes. When he came out, he'd found a stack of camos, Russian style blue-gray Special Forces camos.

  "If they catch us in this gear," he grinned, "they'll shoot us like dogs. On the other hand, if they catch us, they'll shoot us like dogs, anyway, so it don't make much difference."

  When they were finished, they looked for all the world like a unit of Spetsnaz. Except Al, who was out of place, unless they'd begun recruiting from outside Russia, in Africa for example. And Joe couldn't hide his Vietnamese ancestry.

  "You'll have to go in wearing respirators," Raider told them, "We tossed ours when we came out of the sewer tunnel. We'll ask Lorak when he gets back."

  Elena had found a small set of camos to put on, but they still hung on her like loose window drapes. Lorak returned an hour and a half later, with armfuls of carriers from upmarket Moscow boutiques. He handed them to her.