Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "I think these things will do. Try them on."

  She thanked him and returned to the bathroom to change once more. When she'd gone, Lorak's smiling expression darkened.

  "I just heard they've taken David Brackman, as well as Dragan."

  "Brackman? Surely his CIA buddies will get him out."

  "Not this time," Lorak shook his head, "Apparently, he'd gone along to watch Dragan's back, but a militiaman picked him up trying to get away. He's also in the Lubyanka, and it doesn't look good. Malenkov will do anything to get information out of him. He's convinced Dragan is trying to assassinate Putin, and one way or the other, he'll sweat it out of Brackman, true or not."

  "Dragan was staking out Pamyat headquarters with a sniper rifle. How does that make for a plot to assassinate Putin?" Raider said.

  "It doesn't need to make sense. These are Russians. They just want bodies in their cells, someone to pin the blame on. Make them look good to their boss. They may even use Polonium on both of them, poor devils. It's a nasty way to go, I promise you." His voice was bitter.

  "Yeah." There was nothing they could say to that.

  Minutes later, a stranger emerged from the bathroom. She wore a figure hugging rich, dark red sheath dress, cut just above the knee, and fashionable high-heeled shoes, with glittering gems inset in the toes. She'd put her hair up in a classic, ornamental style. The effect was completed with entwined and jeweled decorations, shining in the rich, black tresses. Around her throat and wrists she wore a necklace and bracelets, catching the light as precious diamonds flashed when she moved. Her face was heavily made up, and her eyes and lips were huge, accentuated by the makeup.

  Waite said, "Jesus Christ!"

  Al whistled. Joe sucked in his breath, and Raider just stared. She was a vision. She'd explained her plan to them, and it was simple. She'd masquerade as a high-class whore to get inside the building. Raider would be her chauffeur, and the other three would ride inside the cavernous trunk of the limo. Lorak had pointed out they'd probably search the trunk and find them inside, and he had a point. That was until Elena appeared in her finery. All eyes would be on her. No way would they bother checking the trunk or anywhere else. Not when they were feasting their eyes on this glorious vision of female beauty.

  Lorak did try one final objection after he'd finished ogling the girl. "Even so, what if one of them does look inside the trunk? Well, he could be gay, or something."

  Raider's reply was succinct. "In that case, I'll shoot the fucker, pull the trunk release, and the guys can jump out and take down the rest of those Pamyat shits."

  "Fuckin' A," Waite exhorted.

  "Either way, we're going in."

  Abigail, I'm coming. Hang in there, baby.

  * * *

  It was mid-afternoon, and already the winter light had dimmed; it was the kind of twilight favored by hunters. And assassins. He guided the big Mercedes limo through the heavy Moscow traffic, narrowly avoiding scrapes with every variety of vehicles that drove along the same crowded road. Old, rusting Moskvitches, Ladas, even a couple of East German Trabants, puttering and smoking their way along the potholed roads that circled the Kremlin.

  Strutting and interweaving through the procession of motoring antiques, he had to avoid the Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Mustangs, Porsches, and Mercedes. Chase vehicles carrying their bodyguards followed many of them; sturdy Range Rovers, heavy with armor, weaponry, and muscle trailing their masters, the oligarchs, Mafiyosi, and high-ranking politicians. Their stately Mercedes limo was sufficiently big, powerful and intimidating to keep the competition at bay, and Raider drove through the streets with some confidence. Black and anonymous, it could have carried anyone, even Putin. Everyone knew the price of tangling with 'The Boss.' None tried it. It wasn't healthy.

  He'd exchanged his camos for a chauffeur's uniform, white shirt, black coat, and cap; all supplied by Lorak. It meant at least he looked the part. The rest was up to her voluptuous charms. He reached the street next to the museum and slowed the car as they approached the entrance. Armed guards were everywhere, outside the doors, on the street, patrolling the sidewalks, and inspecting every dark shadow inside of a hundred meters. He could see snipers positioned on the roof, and on the approach lane that led to the rear, a barbed wire barrier manned by four more armed guards. In front of the entrance doors, two heavy machine guns were in position, surrounded by sandbags to make sure an attack by anything less than an armored vehicle would be a waste of time.

  They'd replaced the destroyed BTR-90 with yet another APC, an older BTR-70 variant, but still a formidable weapon against infantry.

  Elena charmed her way past them like a hot knife through butter. When a sentry held up a hand for them to stop, she waited until the limo halted, and then stepped out. The high heels looked impossible to walk in, and the tiny, figure-hugging dress was almost indecent; more than a match for the bitter winter chill. She sashayed toward them with a smile that was like a beam of warm sunshine, hot and welcoming.

  They flocked to her, every man. The men further away became aware of a stir at the front of the building, something sensational to relieve the boredom of sentry duty, and they raced to crowd around her. She performed like a trouper, smiling, touching their arms, and replying to their crude shouts. He heard the name, Sergey Zefirov, so she was giving them the line about being a whore bought in for the Pamyat leader.

  They just nodded, entranced, walking around her as if they were inspecting a glossy new performance car. Raider stepped out of the car, brushed down his uniform and raised his hands, inviting a body search. They ignored him and carried on staring. Finally, Elena snapped out an order, no doubt telling them she'd be late for her date. They dragged aside the barrier and they both got back into the car. One of the guards pointed the way to the back, and he drove slowly past the fortifications.

  We’re in!

  "You did well," he said to the feminine bombshell sitting in the rear of the limo.

  She snorted. "Filthy pigs, did you see their faces? If they didn't believe their boss had paid for me, they'd have raped me right there in the street. Disgusting."

  A guard stepped out, and again goggled at the apparition. He was on his own, his function more as a security guard and parking attendant. He gabbled out a question to Elena, and as she started to reply, Raider shot him dead. There was no time for any finesse. He popped the trunk, and the three men climbed out. Waite was hugging a canvas bag with the weaponry they'd taken from Dragan's warehouse.

  "Damn, that was a tight squeeze. Any longer, and I've have come out and shot those guards on the gate. I could hear them chattering to each other. Admiring the girl, I guess."

  "You could say that," he replied drily, "I'll move the car inside, and we can get started."

  He slid the limo into the cargo bay, and Waite lowered the roller shutter door. He and Elena changed into camos, and the other men fished their weaponry from the bag. Andy Lorak had provided each of them with a PSS 'noiseless pistol,' which fired a 7.72mm round. Their assault rifles were PP-2000s; 9mm submachine guns, unsuppressed but compact. They were both lightweight and capable of a high rate of accurate fire. As Lorak said, if the PSS pistols don't do the job and you needed to use assault rifles, the noise wont' make much difference.

  He had a point, but old preferences die hard, and they'd have been more comfortable with their familiar HKs and M4-A1s. They had a respirator apiece, in case of gas, and Waite carried their only heavy weapon slung over his back. A Degtyarev 12.7 anti armor KSVK sniper rifle. Similar in hitting power to the American Barratt, it would give them the edge if they needed extra stopping power. Like if they needed to engage a BTR. They also had a pair of RGD-5 fragmentation grenades apiece.

  It had to be enough, despite the shortcomings of their equipment. They had no NV gear, no commo headsets, and worst of all, no armored vests. If they got into a fight, a single bullet could mean immediate death. Raider checked the loads on his weapons, tucked the grenades into his jacket, and look
ed at the others.

  "We go now, and fast. Sergey Zefirov is going to find out very soon the surprise whore someone paid for has failed to show. He'll smell a rat, and he'll sound the alarm. So before he has the chance, we have to find him, neutralize him, and ask him nicely where the Putin file is hidden."

  "He may not tell us," Elena warned.

  "He'll tell us," Waite assured her, "It's just a question of asking him the right way. Ain't that right, Al?"

  His fishing partner nodded. "You got it. Besides, the bastard owes me, that bullet wound stung. This is gonna be payback time. Which way, Elena?"

  She pointed to a staircase at the side of the building. "That leads directly to the director's office. I'm certain he'll have taken over. It's wood paneled, and furnished with a number of antiques, so it's a beautiful room. There is also a private bathroom, so I'd be surprised if he chose any other office."

  "Sounds good to me. Waite, take the point. Remember, people, only use the pistols until we're forced into a firefight. Joe, if you're okay, I want you to watch our six. Al, stay with him."

  He grimaced. "You mean the two walking wounded? Don't worry, Boss, we'll be right behind you."

  "Let's go."

  Waite went ahead, and Raider followed with Elena.

  "I thought Al Miller was such a nice man," she whispered to him as they ascended the stairs, "But I get the impression he wants to hurt Zefirov."

  "He wants to kill him, not hurt him."

  "But, why?"

  "Because he dislikes men who put holes in his skin. Early in his career, some white folks gave him a hard time. A couple of times, they nearly killed him."

  She shook her head. "You're white, and Waite. Waite's his best friend, I don't understand."

  "Neither do I. That's Al's strength. He seems like Mr. Niceguy, until you cross him, and then he becomes your worst nightmare. Except for Waite, I guess."

  "He's worse?"

  He grimaced. "Oh, yeah."

  He heard a slight 'pop' from a few meters ahead, and when they caught up, Waite was standing over the body of a Pamyat guard.

  "Any problems?"

  "None. There's a corridor at the head of the stairs, and I took a peep around. This guy was walking toward me, so I had no choice. I had to kill him. There's another guard about ten meters along the corridor, and he's sitting at a kind of console, so I'd guess he's guarding the main man."

  "That's the director's office," Elena whispered.

  "Got it. Waite, we need him to come this end of the corridor. You're in agony, comrade."

  "Sure, Boss."

  They had their silenced pistols held ready as he went into a perfect rendition of a man in severe pain. He rolled and threshed on the ground, and it sounded as if he was about to go into immediate coronary failure. The guard shouted something in Russian, and then ran toward them. As he rounded the corner, Al stepped forward and pumped two silenced rounds into his chest. The Russian toppled, and as he went down, Al snatched the rifle out of his hands.

  "You won't need that where you're going, buddy."

  He leaned the rifle in a dark corner of the stairwell. Waite was already going forward, along the corridor toward the director's office. They watched, and as he reached it, the door opened, and a man stepped out. Elena whispered "Zefirov."

  He looked lean and hard, with a thin, hatchet face and a 'fuck you' expression of contempt for lesser mortals. Which meant anyone he met. His clothes were well tailored; pinstripe pants, a white linen open neck shirt, and over the shirt a camo jacket. Probably so he could ditch the camo jacket in a second to put on a suit coat. He would look like the successful businessman he undoubtedly was, when he wasn't fomenting revolution. Around his waist he had a belt with a pistol in an open holster.

  Waite put a hand on the man's chest and pushed him back into the room. They raced along the corridor to join him and went inside. The office was warm, much warmer than the icy building that had the bitter chill of a cold store. Obviously the leader of Pamyat felt his exalted position deserved better than what his men had to put up with. Waite had the man pinned to the ground, with one huge foot placed on his chest and his PSS pointed at his head.

  "He speaks English," he murmured, "At first he denied it and gabbled in Russian, but I told him if he didn't understand I may as well shoot his ass. He suddenly remembered he spoke the language and asked me not to kill him."

  Raider stared down at him. He had to hit him fast while he was in shock.

  "You are Sergey Zefirov?"

  A slight nod of the head.

  "You know why we're here?"

  "The Putin papers, yes, of course I know. You're wasting your time."

  "Is that so? Where are they?"

  He hesitated but only for a couple of seconds. Waite increased the pressure of his boot and took up the pressure on the trigger. He spoke softly to the man.

  "I can shoot you in the balls, and you'll die in agony. Then we'll find someone who will own up about where you keep this file."

  "All right, all right. But as I said, you're wasting your time."

  They waited, and he gave them a thin, hard smile. "The Putin file is held in a safe. The safe is in the lobby of the building and surrounded by my main guard force." He sneered, "A total of forty armed men on patrol at all times. To reach the Putin file, you'll have to kill them all, and they are all dedicated to our cause. Believe me, they will die to defend this building."

  "We can arrange that," Waite muttered.

  He screwed up his face in puzzlement. "As a matter of interest, how did you get past my men outside?"

  "My natural charm," Raider replied, "Okay, you're coming with us to grab this file. If we hit trouble, we'll see how dedicated your people are. What they value most, their lives, their boss, or the Putin file. Al, fasten his hands and gag him. I don't want him doing anything stupid. Waite, we have to clear those men from the lobby, so we need a diversion."

  "What we need is so much ordnance popping out front they'd be less than human if they didn't respond."

  "They are less than human," Al murmured.

  "Yeah." He looked at Zefirov. "The armory, quickly! Where is it?"

  He responded with a defiant look, but his glance to a door in the rear of his office was enough of a clue.

  "Of course, the director's repository for special artifacts," Elena said, "It's like a vault in there, an obvious place for weaponry. We'll need the key. It was always on the director's keyring."

  He held out his hand to Zefirov, and the man handed over his keys. Raider went to the door, found the correct key, and walked into a room almost as large as a single car garage. Inside was an Aladdin's cave of guns, ammunition, and a variety of weaponry, all of it Russian, of course. Waite wandered around the room, grabbed an armload of missile launchers, and returned to the office.

  "RPG-7s, our old friends, the rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Portable, unguided, shoulder-launched, and able to take out a tank. Four of these babies and they'll think the Nazis are at the gates of Moscow. We can also use a Strela 2, the low-altitude surface-to-air missile systems. They have a high explosive warhead and passive infrared homing guidance, so that will make sure of the BTR. It should do it, Boss."

  Al staggered out of the armory with a machine gun. "I reckon we may need one of these, just to improve the impression they're under a serious attack."

  "What the hell is that?"

  He flipped down the bipod, propped it on the director's desk, and began to check out the loading and feed mechanism. "I saw one like it once in Afghanistan. It's called a Kord. Fires a .50 caliber size bullet, the Russian 12.7 mm. Like our Barratt rifles, but this one is a true machine gun. It's insurance, just in case they smell a rat when those missiles hit them."

  He nodded. "Good enough. Joe, lend him a hand. That looks heavy. Waite, we'll launch the missiles between us, and as soon as the troops exit the building, we go downstairs and hit that safe."

  Waite took the Strela-2 to the window, togethe
r with an RPG launcher. Raider carried two RPGs, and Elena the fourth launcher. Al and Joe lugged the heavy Kord and propped it on the sill. They opened the window, and an icy blast of the wintry Moscow night turned the warm room into an icebox within seconds.

  A half-dozen men patrolled the street outside, but with little enthusiasm. Their priority was keeping warm, or at the least avoiding the worst of the cold. The BTR was parked at the side with no sign of movement. They were certain the crew would be inside, keeping warm. It was about to get warmer.

  "They're lined up like fish in a barrel," Waite gloated.

  "Yeah, but remember, we need to kill them all. Otherwise, when the others come a running, they'll tell them where the missiles came from."

  "Copy that, Boss."

  Raider looked at Al and Joe. "I reckon that's a job for you guys. Finish off any survivors after the missile hits."

  "We're on it," Al assured him.

  He was tucked behind the heavy iron butt of the Kord, and Joe waited to feed additional ammunition belts. Waite had the Strela-2 ready and aimed at the APC.

  "You ready?"

  "Roger that."

  "Al, Joe?"

  "Just say the word."

  "Elena, watch Zefirov. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere. If he tries, shoot him."

  She had her PSS pistol out, pointed at his guts. "He'll behave."

  He nodded. "Open fire."

  Waite fired first, the fragmentation warhead, weighing almost three pounds smacked into the BTR, penetrated, and the vehicle crumpled in front of their eyes. As he tossed the launcher down and picked up an RPG, Raider fired and Al opened up with the Kord. Abruptly, the BTR exploded as its ammunition cooked off, and Raider's rocket struck the first machine gun position next to the main doors. The heavy slugs from the Kord bowled over the three remaining men, who were in the road, not knowing how to react. Waite fired another RPG and took out the second machine gun nest.

  In seconds, the outside guard force had disappeared, all dead. Outside the building was just wreckage and dead bodies.

  "Waite, time to go downstairs and hope those troops in the lobby are on their way outside. Elena, bring him along. Al, stay here with Joe and cover the outside. If they don't buy it, we'll need that machine gun."