Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  He took the message, read it, and nodded. They followed him up into the cabin and Vann introduced them to his crew. "This is my co-pilot, Mark Armstrong. Mark, these are my good friends John Raider, with his business associates."

  As they removed their coats, and the assault rifles and submachine guns concealed beneath, he didn't even blink. They shook hands.

  "Pleased to meet, you. Gentlemen, I have to leave you now and get into the air."

  "You take her up, Mark," Vann told him, "I have things to discuss back here."

  "Yes, Sir."

  He disappeared into the cockpit, and a couple of minutes later, they heard the engines start. They must have completed their pre-flight checks and warmed the engines previously because they began to taxi out to the runway. The aircraft halted at the end of the main runway, awaiting final clearance. Everything was quiet; with just the murmur of the engines on idle.

  They eyed each other across the conference table in the center of the cabin with Vann and Mariyah on the other side.

  Vann looked grave. "There's something you're not aware of. Everything has changed. That message from the co-pilot, it was from Vladimir, about what you're up against. You need to know what you're getting into."

  They waited. He took a deep breath and went on.

  "Malenkov has built almost a fortified bunker down there, very difficult to penetrate. Even worse, he runs the entire area like a kind of bandit fiefdom, so he has the cops in his pocket, the militia, probably the local FSB as well. Inside his compound, he has at least thirty armed men in his employ."

  "We've been up against worse odds," Joe murmured.

  "Perhaps, perhaps not. What I'm saying is, you could be going up against a small army."

  "What about the Mafiya?" Raider asked him.

  "No, not the Mafiya. He has several long running disputes with the Mafiya over territory, so they'd like nothing more than to see him dead."

  "So it's just Malenkov and his thugs we need to contend with to get my daughter out."

  "Don't forget there's also the militia and possibly the FSB. They could stop you getting out."

  Mariyah interrupted, her face stretched with anxiety. She was a mother with a daughter in danger. "John, listen to what Paul is saying. It's a suicide mission. We'll have to think of some other way to get Abigail out."

  He stared back at her. "Some other way? What does Abigail do in the meantime? Rot in some fucking basement in Malenkov's bunker, frightened, crying for her family. You think I'd leave her in that kind of a situation while we 'think of some other way'?"

  "No, but..."

  "There're no buts. We get her out, and Malenkov goes down. Period."

  "You're a fool," Vann snapped at him, "You'll be no use to her dead. Listen to what she's saying. It can't be done. We'll have to negotiate." He forced a smile. "I'm a lawyer, John. It's what I do every day."

  Joe interrupted. "Your pilot is taking a long time to get clearance, considering the airfield is about to close down."

  Vann looked up quickly. "I'll check."

  Before he could move, Armstrong stepped out of the cockpit. "I'm sorry, Mr. Vann. They're refusing final clearance. They say there's some kind of a problem."

  "What problem?"

  "They won't say, Sir."

  "You said you gave them the bribe money?"

  "Yes. One thousand dollars, US."

  Then we're leaving. I'll take over, Mark. One way or the other, we're out of here. Motherfuckers!"

  He strode forward into the cockpit, leaving the door open. It was the other side of Paul Vann, the ruthless corporate lawyer who didn't take no for an answer. He put on a headset and flicked the transmit button.

  "St. Petersburg tower? This is Gulfstream G550 awaiting clearance. What's the holdup?"

  "It's a technical issue, nothing more."

  "Fuck your technical issue, and fuck you, tower. We're leaving."

  A pause. "That would be illegal, Gulfstream. We'll be forced to send out a fighter interceptor to turn your aircraft around."

  "Is that so? Maybe you'd better ask the pilot of that aircraft to name their price. They may be listening now. Do you want me to spell out the going rate for unofficial clearance at St. Petersburg International?"

  "This is absurd. We do not..."

  "I record everything, pal. I'm a lawyer, and you never know when something may be needed in court. You want me to play back the recording of our little transaction over the air? Let the whole world know what went down with that money I paid you?"

  "You would not do that."

  "Try me. We're leaving now. The moment anyone tries to stop us, I start broadcasting, and the whole world gets to know your game. It's up to you."

  He hit the throttles, and the engines roared. The aircraft vibrated like crazy until he released the brakes. They hurtled down the runway, and seconds later they were zooming over the rooftops of St. Petersburg. Back on the tarmac, Raider could see a military convoy driving through the perimeter fence. It looked familiar, a UAZ jeep, four infantry trucks, and a BTR bringing up the rear. Just like the vehicles that chased them into the Winter Palace. Waite was staring in the same direction.

  "You reckon it's the same guys we tangled with at the prison? Or is it just coincidence?"

  "I don't believe in coincidence, Waite."

  The word 'coincidence' made him think back to Angelina, but he dismissed it.

  Ridiculous.

  He nodded. "Me neither. That was one close call. They nearly caught us back there. I wonder what we're going to meet when we land at Gelendzhik."

  "Gelendzhik?"

  "That's where we're due to land. Putin would hardly build his super-dacha without an airport nearby. In case something bad happened."

  Waite grimace. "Something bad is gonna happen."

  "True, but to Malenkov, not to him. We don't play games with the President of Russia."

  "Unless he plays games with us. It wouldn't be the first time."

  Raider had no idea what they'd face when they landed. Or who were their enemies. Malenkov, certainly, Pamyat, would they be there? They'd be looking for revenge after his team had shot up their HQ in the Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum. Svoboda too, they'd want to retrieve the Putin file, and they'd throw everything into an attempt to retrieve it. Putin himself, he wanted his documents back to head off any blackmail. Then there was the militia and the FSB. Alexander Dragan, where was he? Dragan wanted the file to bring Putin to heel over Ukraine. And there was the mysterious Vladimir Gublinsky, whose allegiance was unknown.

  "Flight time is about two and a half hours at our normal cruising speed and altitude," Paul Vann said as he came through from the cockpit, "I'll arrange transport to a suitable safe house when we land."

  They thanked him, and he returned to the cockpit. Raider wondered about Vann.

  What exactly is his angle? One thing’s certain; I can't trust him. So who is there to trust? Mariyah, yes, she’s probably the only one. All she wants is Abigail back.

  He reflected they were just four men, with half the Russian Federation pitted against them, along with the Ukrainian Independence movement, and probably the Russian Eagle Scout movement as well. They may was well join in.

  "How do you rate our chances?" Joe asked. He was holding a cup of coffee. The pretty cabin attendant had just been around with refills.

  "Chances? About the same as usual, I'd guess."

  He grimaced. "That bad?"

  "Worse."

  Chapter Ten

  "You what?"

  He stood before his boss, Yuri Malenkov, and shivered as he faced his fury. "I'm sorry, Sir, it was an accident. I didn't mean for her to see me, but the mask slipped down as I was entering her cell. Fucking cheap material, it wasn't my fault."

  "Asshole," he spat at the man, "You're fucking useless. You know what this means?"

  He didn't reply.

  "It means I have to kill either you or her. Frankly, I'm tempted to put a gun to your head myself."
<
br />   "No, please, I'll do anything to put this right."

  Malenkov glared at him, noticing the traces of white powder around the man's nose.

  The damn fool, he's addicted to coke. His job is to help run my business, selling the stuff, not snorting it. When this is over, I'll have to consider terminating his employment. Permanently.

  "If she goes back to her family, and they get a reasonable description of you, they'll run it through their computers and pick up your name in minutes."

  "I could go away and..."

  "Idiot! If they have your name, they can link it to me. Killing you would be a waste of time; she could still describe your face. It would mean the end for all of us. Putin would carpet bomb this place to take us down. The international pressure would be unbelievable."

  "You want me to kill her?"

  He thought for a few moments. "Yes, there's no other choice, but not yet. The girl could still be useful as a hostage, should I need that kind of leverage. They could send in a clandestine unit to get her back. Besides, her father is on the loose, and he'll be looking everywhere."

  "But surely this is a secret location."

  He snorted. "Secret! Don't be a fool. This is Russia. Offer enough money and you can find out the color of Putin's underwear, if that's your preference. They'll find us. You can guarantee they'll come sniffing around here sooner or later. Talking of sniffing, Igor, knock off the coke, you're using too much. You can't function with your head full of that shit."

  "But, I only use a little, it..."

  "Leave it alone! I don't even like it on the premises. I assume you're using some of the sample batch the Mexicans sent over to us?"

  He didn't reply, just looked away.

  "I thought so. Get rid of it, clear?"

  He nodded his head reluctantly. "Yes, Sir."

  "Good. Your job is unchanged; you must continue to take care of the girl, unless there's any sign of them getting close. If that happens, kill her."

  "You say when they get close, what exactly do you mean, Sir?"

  Malenkov sighed. "Close enough to have a chance of snatching her. If one intruder enters this compound, that's enough. Shoot her, strangle her, I don't care how you do it."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Good. Now go back and make sure she's secure."

  The man walked away and left Malenkov considering his uncertain future. He'd thought he had the key to Putin's approval and gratitude. Then the file he recovered was shown to be a clever fake, and the President's gratitude turned to rage.

  Who has the real file?

  * * *

  He slept during the flight; they all did. They were exhausted from their imprisonment in freezing conditions, with little or no food and no chance of rest. They'd learned it early on during their service in the Navy. Grab the chance of sleep when you can. When the lead starts to fly, the chance is lost.

  They flew blind for the first two hundred kilometers, with Vann relying on instruments. They left the snow behind as the flight skirted the western border of Ukraine. Over Rostov on Don, Vann began to lose height ready for the landing. Raider came awake by instinct, and he made sure the others were prepared.

  "We don't know what we'll encounter when we land, so stay sharp. We may hit trouble, or maybe not. Anything's possible."

  Vann came out of the cockpit and joined them. They were checking their weapons, and he eyed the guns with dismay.

  "I came to let you know we'll be landing in fifteen minutes. I don't anticipate any problems then, so there's no need for the hardware, not yet. It could make matters worse if airport security decides to check us out."

  Raider grimaced. "You're sure about that? You know about the troops who arrived at St. Petersburg International just as we were in the air. A couple more minutes, and they would have had us. If they're waiting for us here, well, you're flying a Gulfstream, Vann, not an F/A 18."

  He smiled. "Now wouldn't that be something. But keep the guns out of sight, just in case."

  "Okay."

  He sighed and returned to the cockpit.

  "What do you think?" Joe asked him, "Will it go as smoothly as he believes?"

  "Not a chance."

  He nodded. "I thought not. We could do with a contingency plan. A HALO drop would be useful, but it's not going to happen from this flying executive boardroom."

  He glanced at the time on the cabin clock. It was 17.30 and still light, though not for much longer.

  "Sunset will be in about an hour. If we delay the landing until then, it'll be dark, and we can avoid what they have waiting for us. Waite, go forward to the cockpit and persuade them to play ball. An in-flight emergency should do it. They can tell the control tower the landing gear is stuck, and they need to free it. It'll give them the perfect excuse to tool around up here until dusk."

  Waite nodded and left.

  "What're you thinking?" Al asked, "Drop out before we hit the taxiway."

  "Yes. We'll slip out through the perimeter wire while the aircraft is heading toward the stand. If they're waiting for us, they'll be disappointed when the fuselage door opens. I've been thinking about the target. We're gonna need more than a couple of submachine guns and a well-cut suit to strike Malenkov's hangout."

  "What did you have in mind?"

  "Explosives. I'll talk to Vann. He seems to have connections just about everywhere in Russia."

  As he said the words, he thought about Paul Vann.

  It's hardly normal for a corporate lawyer to be so involved with shady Russians. Why is that?

  He put it out of his mind. He'd work that one out later.

  "Shock and awe," Joe said quietly, "That's how we need to play this one."

  Al chuckled. "Kick 'em in the balls before they even know we've arrived."

  He saw Mariyah at the far end of the cabin wince, but she knew enough not to object, knowing he'd do what was necessary to get their daughter back. Waite entered the cabin, wearing a huge smile.

  "He didn't like it, not at first. He said he wouldn't do it. I told him any one of us could fly the plane, and we'd toss him out the cabin door at five thousand meters. He changed his mind."

  At the end of the cabin, he saw Mariyah's strained expression change, and she smiled for the first time in a long time. He had the distinct impression she was disillusioned with the man she'd thought for so long was her father. He made a mental note to ask her the reason one day.

  Vann has an agenda, one that intrigues me. What is he up to?

  Waite wrote down the explosive ordnance needed for the assault. Each of them added the equipment they'd need, and he took it back to the cockpit. Vann almost had a heart attack, but he eventually agreed. After the recent wars in Crimea and Ukraine, there was no shortage of available military ordnance in the region.

  The aircraft droned around in a wide circle, waiting for night. When the light began to fade, he went forward to Vann.

  "You can start making the descent. Slow at the end of the runway as you make the turn toward the stand. They won't see anything strange. Find a place that's as far as possible from the nearest security lights and slow even more. Dim the cabin lights so they don't see the cabin door open from the outside, and we drop out as we..."

  "We always dim the lights for a landing," he interrupted.

  "Yeah, but keep them dimmed until we've left the aircraft and the door's closed. Then carry on as usual, and deny all knowledge of us if they conduct a search. We'll meet you five klicks outside the airport at the side of highway E97, the road for Gelendzhik. Make sure you have everything we need, Vann. Getting Abigail out alive depends on us getting this right."

  "I'll do all of that," he said quickly, "Although I still don't believe leaving the aircraft early is necessary."

  "Let's hope you're right. We have enough people chasing us; a few less would be nice."

  He returned to the cabin as Vann and his co-pilot began preparations for the landing. The lights dimmed, and the pretty cabin attendant pulled curtains around the
doorway cabin to mask any remaining illumination. The Gulfstream lowered into final approach and hit the tarmac with a gentle bump. Vann hit the brakes, and the corporate jet slowed as it approached the end of the runway. They were still hitting fifty miles an hour when Mark Armstrong ran into the cabin.

  "You were right. The strip is blanketed with troops."

  "Copy that. Tell your boss to keep to plan. We'll drop out as he throttles back for the turn."

  "If you're sure. There're troops within a couple of hundred meters of that point."

  "Just tell him to get it right."

  "Sure."

  He returned to the cockpit, and the jet slowed. Armstrong called back, "We're on the turn. This is the place to drop out."

  "Okay. Waite, open up."

  He unclipped the door, and one after the other they rolled out onto the tarmac and crawled over and lay in the unkempt grass at the side of the strip. The light had almost gone, and Raider was sure they hadn't been seen. Getting off the airfield would be something else. The troops were close, positioned only a couple of hundred meters away. Local militia, with sloppy uniforms and unkempt hair, but their weapons looked well used, and they were watching the Gulfstream with a fierce intensity.

  They were grouped around a Gaz jeep that mounted a heavy machine gun. He counted soldiers on the ground, and two men, the machine gun crew, in the jeep. The barrel of the machine gun tracked around to follow the Gulfstream. At first he thought they were about to open fire and dispose of the troublesome foreigners in a blaze of heavy caliber machine gun fire. But the gun stayed silent.

  They waited as the aircraft rolled onto the stand and came to a stop. Immediately, a pair of Gaz jeeps armed with heavy machine guns rolled toward it and positioned themselves on either side. A line of troops double-timed from the terminal and took up positions adjacent to the door as it opened. The crew let down the airstair, and four soldiers went aboard to conduct a search.

  "It seems the long arm of President Putin has reached Gelendzhik Airport," Al murmured, "That was a good call, bailing out before the aircraft stopped."