by Eric Meyer
"There're enough spare rockets to bring down the Kremlin," he smiled. When his lips parted, it was like looking into the jaws of a shark, "We're looking forward to destroying this bastard Malenkov."
"Keep your men under control," he snapped at the Russian, "The object of the mission is to rescue my daughter, not start a new Russian Revolution."
"And to kill Yuri Malenkov," he gritted, "Don't forget Malenkov. My boss wants him dead."
Raider sighed. "My friend, you're in a long queue of people who want him dead. After we find Abigail, I don't care who kills who."
The huge Russian shrugged. "It shall be as you say. I have something that may help us, aerial photos of the compound."
Raider stared at him. "Aerial photos?"
"Yes." He beamed proudly.
He stared at Rasputin. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been planning something like this for a long time."
He grinned. "My boss despises the man, but until now, he's been under the protection of the Kremlin. No longer, so he's fair game."
"Yeah, just don't forget about my daughter. I'll ride in the lead truck and study these photos on the way. How long until we get there?"
"Half an hour, no more."
He checked the time. It would give them five hours of darkness.
Plenty of time.
"We'll change into camos first. Waite, we'll ride in the lead truck. I'll go in the cab and look at these photos."
"Yes, comrade," Waite replied. Rasputin gave him a sour glance.
With relief, they changed out of the suits into camos. There were armored vests for each of them, and enough guns to outfit a company. Al and Joe stayed with their Bizons. Waite took a weird looking rifle, something like an AK-47, but different.
"It's a semi-auto shotgun," he explained, "Twelve gage, with ten cartridges in the magazine. I reckon it'll be useful in the kind of close quarter fighting we're likely to encounter. I picked up a Stechkin as well, like the one you're carrying, with the extending stock."
He also had grenades and magazines festooned over his webbing so that he looked like a desperado.
Maybe that's what we've become, a band of gunslingers; no, the mission we're on is to save a life, not take it. There's a big difference.
Raider decided to carry a sniper rifle, a Russian VSS Vintorez. It was the kind of precision tool that could well save his daughter’s life. Silent and accurate, and with the ability to kill any man who tried to lay a finger on her before he realized he was staring at the wrong end of a barrel.
He nodded to Rasputin. They were ready. The Russian snapped an order, and his men climbed aboard the trucks. The engines roared, and they drove off along Highway E97. As the truck rumbled along, he found a flashlight and studied the overhead photos. It was apparent Malenkov's compound had once been a temporary fighter base.
There were four reinforced concrete hangars that had once housed fighter interceptors. Since the base closed, they'd been converted for other uses; one extensively modified and extended to make a luxury dwelling that had the additional advantage of being bombproof. The other three looked like workshops and storage, except for one with a number of private cars parked outside. That had to be the barracks for the guard force.
A concrete wall four meters high surrounded the entire compound. There was a single gateway in with a guardroom just inside. Sentries were visible in the photo, patrolling both the gate and the perimeter wall. Grigory was sitting in the center seat, watching him. Waiting.
"What do you think, American? A simple task, smash down the gates, go in, and shoot them all."
"They'll kill my daughter the moment they see us coming."
He nodded. "How important is she to you, this daughter? I mean," he stared at him, "It's not as if she's a son."
Raider returned the stare. "She's very important, Grigory. Let me put it this way, you work for Gublinsky, yes?"
"Yes."
"If she dies, I'll find him and kill him."
He chuckled. "You wouldn't get past me, American."
"You want to bet?"
He was thoughtful for a couple of seconds. Finally, he smiled broadly, put his arms around Raider, and gave him a breath-crushing bear hug.
"American, I like you. If she is that important to you, that's good enough. We'll do it your way."
He nodded his thanks. "The problem is how to get inside without Malenkov knowing anything is wrong."
He shrugged. "Go in shooting, kill them all before they know what's hit them."
"No. I want you to stop at the main gates, as if you're engaged in something innocent. Keep it friendly. You're carrying supplies for Yuri Malenkov, you know the kind of thing."
"They'll say they never asked for any supplies."
"So you argue, and keep on arguing."
He looked suspicious. "What are you not telling me?"
"While you keep them busy at the main gate, I'll take my men and twenty of yours, and we'll climb the wall here," he pointed at a spot closest to the sprawling house, "We'll park the truck next to the wall and use it to climb over. We start the attack at 02.00."
Rasputin nodded slowly. "When they are tired and not so watchful. It may work. After that is another matter. Malenkov is no fool. What do you want me to do with the rest of my men?"
"Hold them back until we're ready to withdraw. When I give the signal, hit them with everything you have. But remember, we'll be inside, so watch where you shoot. My daughter will be with us..."
"You hope."
He stared at the forbidding Russian. "She'll be there. We don't come out until we find her."
"Sure, but if..."
"No but's. That's the way it is."
"As you wish. I will tell my men of your plan and detail the twenty to go with you."
The Russian walked away, and Raider looked at his three men. "Any questions?"
"None."
"Good. I have a question. Joe, where's Dragan?"
"What?"
"The guy you work for on occasion, Alexander Dragan. They let him go after that fracas at the museum. We're about to hit the final target, yet there's no sign of him. Why?"
"I don't know. I honestly don't know. I haven't given him a thought. With Paul getting involved because of his granddaughter, I guess I assumed Dragan had moved into the background."
He believed him. But he didn't believe that Dragan had backed away. He was somewhere, lurking in the background, pulling the strings.
But where?
"Okay, I guess we'll find out sooner or later. There's something else, Joe. I was thinking about Paul Vann. I appreciate his concern for Abigail, but there's something more, something I don't understand. He has an agenda, and I'd like to know exactly what it is. He's acting more like a warlord than a worried grandfather. Flying aircraft loaded with mercenaries around the country, arranging for supplies of weapons, fixing up the meet with the Russian Mafiya. He doesn't sound anything like a New York corporate lawyer. What's his game?"
Again the innocent expression in his eyes, "I just don't know."
"I believe you," he said, fixing Joe with a hard stare, "But I hate being led by the nose, and that's exactly what's happening here. People are getting killed for no reason. Elena shouldn't have died."
"She ratted us out to Malenkov," he reminded him.
"She was blackmailed, poor kid. What choice did she have?"
He looked thoughtful. "I guess she had none."
"Right. I want some answers, and I intend to get them when we get out of here."
Rasputin's men arrived, twenty Mafiya thugs, all bearing the scars of past battles on their faces, and all of them heavily armed. One walked up to him.
"I am Pavel. Grigory said we are to follow your orders."
They shook hands. "Climb aboard the truck. It's about time to move in. We're going over the perimeter wall on the other side of the compound, as soon as the gate guards are looking the other way."
"I understand."
He sh
outed an order in Russian to his men, and they swarmed inside the rear of the truck. He went to join them but looked back. "I should tell you, all of these men were chosen because they speak or understand some English. I assume you are not a Russian speaker."
"No."
"Very well. Tell them where to go and who to kill. They will do the rest."
He smiled. "I assume they've done this before."
Pavel grinned back. "Many times."
He leapt into the back of the truck with his men. Joe and Al joined them. Waite got behind the wheel, and Raider climbed into the cab with Rasputin. He nodded.
"Let's do it."
Waite started up, and they drove four klicks through the dark Russian countryside, finally skirting Malenkov's compound. The concrete wall protecting the place was topped with rolls of razor wire. There were also CCTV cameras positioned every one hundred meters. They stopped under the overhang of a clump of trees away from the cameras, and he climbed out, holding the VSS Vintorez. During his service with the SEALs, he was the unit sniper, and his plan was to shoot out the nearest cameras. He was hidden inside thick, leafy foliage, out of sight of Malenkov's probing security force. He propped the barrel of the rifle against a fallen branch and took aim. A gentle squeeze of the trigger, and he watched through the scope as the plastic housing exploded, mixed with glass and broken pieces of circuit board.
Scratch one camera.
He waved to Waite, who engaged the gears and drove forward next to the wall. Pavel's men climbed out and up onto the roof of the truck. One of them had a heavy wire cutter. Seconds later, the razor wire parted to give them clear access over the wall. They climbed up to join the Russians on the roof of the truck, and he found Pavel.
"Leave two of your men to guard the vehicle. The rest of you, follow me in. No shooting, not until I give the order."
"If they shoot first?" Pavel asked, "What then?"
"Kill them."
Because if the shooting starts, she'll be dead anyway, and the operation will become one of pure revenge.
The Russian nodded, satisfied.
Raider climbed over the wall through the gap in the wire and jumped down to the ground. The area was in darkness, except for the entrance. Powerful overhead floodlights lit up the gates, and he could see Rasputin's three trucks parked outside. The huge Russian was arguing with the guards, and he smiled at the violent gestures that told of a raging argument. As long as they were talking, they wouldn't be looking elsewhere. He hoped.
They were only three hundred meters from the main house. He crept silently across the grass, the rest of the men strung out in a line behind him. Fifty meters before the house he stopped, searching for surveillance. There was nothing he could see. Which didn't mean they weren't using low light cameras. He shrugged mentally, either they were there or they weren't. He ran forward to the house and crouched below a window. Nothing. With the butt of the Vintorez, he tapped the glass and made a small hole. The noise sounded deafening in the still of the night. He put his hand inside the broken glass, unfastened the window, and pulled it open. Still nothing. He put his leg over the sill and stepped inside. He was in!
Waite was right behind him with Joe and Al. Pavel and his men crouched close by, waiting to join him. He held up a hand for them to wait and inspected the room with his flashlight. It was richly furnished in the overblown Russian style. Overstuffed sofas, a silver samovar on the varnished walnut sideboard, sumptuous artworks, and darkly dramatic oil paintings lined the walls.
Thick carpets covered the floor, which was a plus, as they'd mute the sound of their boots as they went in. He returned to the window and gave the signal. Waite climbed in, and the rest of the men followed. When they were inside, Pavel joined him.
"That wasn't too difficult, American. These fools, we'll get your girl and piss all over them. It's like taking candy from children."
Before he could reply, the alarm sounded, a jarring, discordant clamor that echoed through the house. He felt an icy hand grip his heart. The need for stealth and silence had disappeared. He heard the sound of boots racing through the house. The guard force was already responding, which meant her chances of survival were almost zero. They were zero. The wailing alarm had sounded the death knell of their rescue attempt, and of Abigail.
Chapter Eleven
Igor had left the girl alone while he reported a problem to Yuri Malenkov. His boss was sitting behind a vast carved desk stationed in the center of his huge office on the first floor. Rumor had it the desk belonged to Tsar Nicholas II before it was looted during the Revolution. The room had once been part of the maintenance area for a MIG-31 fighter. Malenkov had turned the cavernous space into a luxurious office, stripped of machinery, re-plastered, soundproofed, and paneled in fine Siberian oak. Malenkov was on the internal speakerphone, talking to the guard commander on the gate.
"They say they have a delivery for this address?"
"Yes, Sir. They insist on unloading it."
"It's an odd time for a delivery, Dmitry."
"I understand, Sir. They said they took the wrong road and got lost. I thought it could be, you know, a special order. Under the counter."
"It's possible. I don't like it. Something doesn't smell right."
"You want me to send them away?"
He considered for a moment. It could be innocent, a shipment of rare and expensive foodstuffs stolen from a local warehouse. It was the way business operated inside Russia.
"Inspect every truck, and search them thoroughly. If it still looks okay, get back to me, and I'll tell you where to unload."
"Yes, Sir."
He ended the call and looked at Igor. "Well? Why are you here and not guarding the girl?"
"I need to speak to you. She's ill. I think she needs a doctor."
The man unconsciously wiped a finger across the bridge of his nose, and Malenkov's eyes narrowed.
"Are you still snorting that fucking stuff? I thought I told you to get rid of it."
"I did, Sir. It was just a little I kept for personal use, nothing more."
He didn't believe him. The cocaine business was vital to him. It was his sole income, now that he'd lost the Kremlin and all the perks that came with that job. He made his mind up.
Igor has to go as soon as this is over.
"The girl, what are the symptoms?"
"She's very pale, short of breath. She keeps lapsing into unconsciousness, and running a temperature. It could be a fever."
"You're a doctor, are you, Igor? You wouldn't know a fucking headache from a broken ankle. I'll call down and take a look at her when I'm finished here. In the ..."
The alarm cut off his words, and the men looked at each other. Malenkov's expression was thoughtful. Igor's was eager. Bloodthirsty, crazed even.
I wonder how much coke the man has snorted today.
"Intruders!" Igor screamed; his voice filled with panic and bloody anticipation, "They're here. We're under attack. You want me to kill her?"
Malenkov sighed. "Not yet. Go back, but hold off on killing her. Not until we're sure. It could be a false alarm. I haven't heard any shooting." He thought for a few moments, "Wait until you hear shooting. That'll mean they've come. When you hear the first shot, do it."
"Yes, Sir."
The man rushed away, just as another of his men ran into the office.
"What is it?"
"Sir, our outside patrol found a broken window. It caused the alarm to sound. There's no sign of anyone, but they could be inside the house already."
Shit!
"Make sure the guards are on alert; the lazy bastards should be awake by now. Check the house and the grounds, look everywhere. See to it, man!"
"At once, Sir."
The man dashed away.
Fuck! It's all too much of a coincidence, first an unscheduled delivery at the gate, and then the intruder alarm and the broken window.
He made an instant decision and picked up the phone to call the gatehouse.
"
Dmitry, the trucks waiting outside the gates. It's an attack. Shoot them. Kill them all, and destroy those trucks. Do it now!"
"Yes, Sir."
He put down the phone and searched in his desk for a weapon. He pulled out the pistol he kept for just such an emergency. A modified Stechkin PB, it had a long, bulbous silencer fitted to the end of the barrel. The magazine carried eight 9mm rounds, and he had a spare clip that he slipped into his pocket. If the Americans had come, he'd find them and shoot them dead one by one, before they realized he'd pulled the trigger. A shot rang out inside the house.
So they’re here. Good, my men will soon locate and destroy them. There'll be no need to call a doctor either. Igor will kill the girl. No corpse ever needed medical attention.
He nodded to himself in satisfaction. It was time to finish these impudent Americans. It may even put him back in favor with his President. He left the office and began searching the house.
Today I’ll see a change in my fortunes.
* * *
He had to shout over the racket of the alarm siren.
"Pavel, split your men into two groups. Take the first and second floors. Waite, Joe, Al, come with me. We'll hit the basement."
"You're sure she'll be in the basement?" Al asked with a worried tone, "She could be anywhere." He glanced at Pavel's men and looked back. The inference was unmistakable. They'd go in shooting everything that moved, and if Abigail was caught in the crossfire, she was as good as dead.
"I know. It's a gamble whatever we do. I figure the most likely place is the basement, so that's where we're going. If I'm wrong..." He felt a twist in his guts, "If I'm wrong, she dies. Keep moving. Every second counts."
He raced out of the room and out along the passage. The need for silence had gone, and he held the Stechkin ready to fire. A guard tumbled out of a door a couple of meters ahead of him, strapping on his gun belt, and he shot the man dead without pause. He was so close, and his anger was boiling over. He'd have taken on the Red Army singlehanded if that's what it took.
The basement, where's the fucking door? She doesn't have much time left. I'm coming, darling.