by Dirk Patton
Peter the Great was definitely on his target list. But the ship was so large the only way he was going to permanently disable it was if he could damage the nuclear reactor. He knew it would be well shielded and protected, and he was debating on whether or not to use both mines on the same target.
He was fairly confident the reactor core was about two thirds of the way back from the sharp bow. This was the logical location for a variety of reasons that he recalled from a two week cross-training session with the Navy he’d participated in back when he was a bright eyed, young Lieutenant. The design and potential weak points of enemy ships had been one of the courses, which included swimming in to the Norfolk Naval Shipyards at night and attaching a dummy mine to the hull of a decommissioned ship.
His small team of three Green Berets, with a Navy SEAL observer tagging along, had successfully placed the mine, but had been spotted by shore based security as they were leaving the area. The exercise results had been graded a B. The ship would have been seriously damaged or destroyed, but the swimmers would have been captured or killed.
Deciding a gaping hole in the hull of Peter the Great and the adjacent destroyer burning furiously from a mine placed near its fuel bunker was the right way to go, Crawford settled back to keep watch and let the night wear on. As the early morning hours approached the activity levels on the docks would die down and it would be easier to get into the water and place the mines without being detected.
46
When the surge of water struck, my entire lower body shifted then my legs began flailing in the current. I had managed to hang on to one of the ladder’s rungs with my right hand so I wasn’t immediately swept away in the torrent. But the ladder was only attached at one point and I was hanging from it by one hand, being buffeted by the raging stream and swinging around as the ladder started spinning.
I reached with my left hand, but between being tossed about and swinging like a pendulum I couldn’t grasp it. My hand still wasn’t what it used to be after the damage from being crucified by The Reverend and I could feel my grip slipping. Kicking my legs, which probably didn’t do a damn thing, I twisted and lunged with my left arm.
Somehow I managed to get my hand on one of the vertical rails, but it was smooth aluminum and slippery from being wet. My grip with my left failed and it felt like my right shoulder was ready to pop out of its socket when all my weight came back on that arm. That grip slipped some more until four curled fingers were all that was preventing the flood from carrying me away.
The ladder kept swaying and spinning. I knew I would have one more attempt then I wouldn’t be able to hold on another second. Twisting, I pulled with every fiber of muscle in my right arm as the water tore at my body, trying to take me with it. I lunged with my left again, this time aiming to shove my arm through and hook my elbow on a rung.
In seemingly slow motion, I managed to get my left arm through one of the openings as my fingers lost their last bit of grip. My body started to accelerate away, then I was snapped around as my left forearm came up hard against a rail. Scrambling, I fought against the rising flow until I could force my arm the rest of the way through and bend it. With a rung locked between my bicep and forearm, I quit fighting for a moment to catch my breath.
My heart was pounding and I was breathing like a race horse. Slowly my body calmed, but I was still being tossed about by the water and spun like a top at the end of the ladder. Slowly I raised my right arm and hooked it through a higher rung, pulling myself a few precious inches closer to the ceiling. I repeated the process until I was able to get my feet on the lowest rung.
Unfortunately, nearly half the ladder was submerged by now, my body with it. The change in weight distribution and position of my body had stopped the spinning. That was the good news because I had been getting dizzy. But in trade, I was now being pushed down the tunnel, the force of the current so great the bottom of the ladder was swinging clear of the surface before gravity took over and slapped it back into the water.
Arms still hooked through the rungs, I struggled for more height. It was probably only a minute at the most, but it felt like an hour when I bumped the top of my Kevlar helmet on the concrete ceiling. The rung I was standing on was still in the water, and the motion was bad, but with only my feet and the thin tubes that comprised the ladder being pushed on, it was manageable.
Worrying about the single point of attachment to the ceiling I looked over at the other eyebolt, then immediately dismissed any idea of getting hooked into it. There was no way with my weight on the ladder, so instead I focused on the manhole cover.
Placing a hand on it and exerting some force helped to stabilize the ladder. Then I began to worry that the extra weight when I lifted it would be too much for my precarious perch.
“Shut the fuck up, John. You’re over thinking things. There’s no choice other than to try,” I said to myself.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my shoulder until it was only a couple of inches below my hand, then pressed up on the cast iron plate. Moving it from a single pointed swinging ladder was a hell of a lot harder than it had been when the tunnels were nice and dry and I had both rails hooked. But I kept at it, pushing and sliding the heavy plate until there was an opening large enough for me to climb through.
Slowly and carefully I stepped up a rung and poked my head above ground. Surprisingly my NVGs had not only survived, they had stayed in place, so I was able to see that I’d come up in the middle of a four lane street. At the moment I didn’t see anything that concerned me, so I lifted an arm up through the hole and kept climbing.
“I got ya,” Titus’ voice sounded in my earpiece. “You OK?”
“Just fucking great,” I panted as I made it all the way up and onto my knees in the middle of the street. “Is the area clear?”
“You got half a dozen females a block west of you and a Russian patrol two blocks south. Don’t see nothin’ else at the moment.”
I gave myself ten more seconds for my heart rate to come down, then muscled the manhole cover back in place. My hands were aching and tired. The cover slipped as I moved it over the iron ring it rested in. The damn thing slammed home with a loud thud. Much louder than I would have liked.
“Uh oh. Them infected heard that,” Titus warned me. “They’re on the way.”
“Where’s that Russian patrol?” I asked, scrambling to my feet.
“Two blocks due south. There’s three of ‘em,” he answered immediately.
I jogged to the closest intersection, pausing and looking west. It was less than ten seconds later that the females came into view. They were a couple of hundred yards away and moving fast. I had my rifle up and flashed the light at them a couple of times to make sure they saw me, then turned and sprinted down the street that headed south.
I’ve never been a sprinter, nor even remotely in the category of what you would call fast. I can run all fucking day if I have to, but speed was one physical attribute that I hadn’t been blessed with. Still, I ran like the hounds of hell were on my heels. I suppose they were, and the illusion was strengthened when they started screaming.
“What the hell are you doing?” Titus shouted at me.
“Where’s Russians?” I gasped as I pounded through an intersection.
“Next street, turn right and they’ll be about a hundred feet in front of you.”
“How close females?” I panted out, not wanting to risk looking over my shoulder and tripping, or even losing an ounce of speed from turning my body.
“Coming fast. Maybe forty yards.” The stress in his voice lent a sense of urgency and I pushed as hard as I could.
Sure, I could have hidden. Or I could have engaged them with my rifle while they were still at a safe distance. But this idea had popped into my head and I’d just gone with it. Hoped like hell it worked.
All of this went through my mind as I reached the intersection and without slowing swung wide through the turn and came face to face with three Russian soldiers. I had t
ime to note that all three were walking with their eyes cast down, just watching the pavement directly in front of their feet. They were almost to the intersection and by the time my presence registered on them I was passing a couple of yards to their left.
Now I slowed to turn and look over my shoulder. All three of them were shouting, spinning around in the road and bringing their weapons up. Then the females charged around the corner and slammed into them, immediately taking the trio to the ground. One of the females bypassed the patrol, but the other five fell on them, ripping and tearing flesh. I stopped, waiting for her to close a little as I knew my aim would be shit because of just having sprinted two blocks.
When she was inside ten yards, I fired, her lifeless body flopping to the wet pavement and rolling nearly to my feet. Glancing up I didn’t see any more coming after me. They were fully absorbed in their meal. Changing directions, I dashed across the front lawn of a small house and around the side, emerging in a heavily overgrown back yard.
Rifle up, I checked the small area, then pushed my way into a thick hedgerow that grew along what I assumed was the rear property line. Beyond was a narrow alley with a few cars and lots of residential trash dumpsters. To my right, at the very limit of the NVGs, I could see movement, but couldn’t tell if it was Russians or infected.
“Pretty fuckin’ slick,” Titus chuckled in my ear. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid, too if’n you ask me.”
“Yeah, well, it worked didn’t it?” I mumbled back. “Now, where the fuck am I?”
“You’re in pretty good shape. You came up right where you would have had to walk if you’d made it to the exit. You’re gonna want to head east for a mile then turn south for four blocks. That’ll bring you in on their blindside.”
I had caught my breath and my heart rate was almost back to normal. Acknowledging Titus’ directions, I pushed through the hedge into the alley after carefully scanning in both directions.
47
Colonel Grushkin was seated in the Hind, sheltering from the weather. His foul mood had progressively gotten worse as the evening wore on into night and his troops still hadn’t found the American. To top it off he had a splitting headache that no amount of non-narcotic pain killer was touching. The medic had warned him that he had a severe concussion to go along with the head wound that took over a hundred stitches to close.
Where was the man hiding? Grushkin had been carefully monitoring the progress of the searching patrols and wasn’t happy that with over three fourths of the town’s buildings checked off the list the man was still successfully hiding. Doubt began to creep in to his thoughts as he watched the four women handcuffed to the braided steel winch cable.
They were soaked and shivering and looked absolutely miserable. All except for the pretty Mexican that Buzinsky had shot in the leg. She was unconscious, her full body weight held up by her wrist. He had considered going out there and using his knife to make them scream and cry out for the Major, but didn’t want to perform to an empty theatre. He didn’t think the man was close enough to see or hear what was happening, which negated the point in doing it in the first place.
What if he’d managed to slip away? Was even now moving farther and farther away from the town. But he didn’t see how that was possible. His men had tracked him into town. Found the crashed American military vehicle that had struck a large cow, and soon after had found the only vehicle in the entire area that had a hot engine.
They couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes behind him and between the helicopters and ground troops there had been no opportunity for him to escape. That only left the possibility that he’d found a good hiding place somewhere in the town. They would eventually find him, or flush him out with the messages his men were broadcasting.
“Comrade Colonel,” Major Buzinsky, acting as his aide, appeared at the open side door, hair plastered to his head by the steady rain, and held out a blocky satellite phone. “General Kozlov for you, sir.”
Grushkin took a deep breath, steeling himself to report that he had still not succeeded in capturing the American.
“Colonel Grushkin speaking,” he said into the phone, waving the Major away.
“What is your report, Colonel?” Kozlov was always one to get straight to business.
“We are closing in on him, sir. I expect to have him before sunrise,” Grushkin gave the only answer that wouldn’t have resulted in orders for his arrest being immediately issued.
“Fuck your mother, Grushkin,” Kozlov roared over the phone. “Tell me what is really happening. It is not just your balls that will be cut off and fed to Comrade Barinov’s dogs if you fail. Mine will be first on the menu.”
“I am sorry, Comrade General,” Grushkin said, then proceeded to explain in detail the events of the past several hours.
“Have you begun applying pressure to his wife to get him to show himself?” Kozlov asked.
“Not yet, sir. No. I am holding her in the middle of a very large field. The entire area is covered by sniper teams. He is not close enough to see or hear, of that I am certain. If I begin working on her it will be of no use if he is not aware, and may shorten the time in which she is useful.”
There was silence on the phone as Kozlov digested what he had been told. He was no fan of torture, especially on a woman as leverage to control her husband, but just because he wasn’t a fan didn’t mean he wouldn’t order it done to complete his mission. But the Colonel was correct. Hurting the woman when her husband wasn’t aware of what was being done was pointless and ran the risk of losing the asset prematurely.
“Very well, Colonel. I am going to gather some men and board a flight. Expect me in four hours. And… for both our sakes it would be best if you have found him by the time I arrive.”
The General broke the connection, leaving Grushkin fuming. He wasn’t angry at Kozlov. The man was simply doing what any commander would do in this situation. If your underlings aren’t having success and your very life depends on a positive outcome, you get your ass into the field and take control. No, Grushkin wasn’t mad at the General. He was furious with the American Major.
Unreasonably so, he realized, but that didn’t change the fact that if the man didn’t make a mistake and get captured in the next few hours, Colonel Grushkin might very well not see the sunrise. Standing, he dropped the phone on the seat he had been occupying and climbed down from the dry cabin.
The rain was cold, a stiff breeze from the northwest driving it into his face as he slowly walked down the line of captive women. He was cold, even in his greatcoat. They were dressed much lighter, shivering so violently the cable they were cuffed to was shaking. Ignoring Irina, he stopped in front of Rachel, reaching out and lifting her chin to look into her eyes. Wet, stringy hair hung across her face and her teeth were chattering.
“How do I find him?” He asked gently.
“L-l-l-l-look behind you,” Rachel stuttered out as violent shivers racked her body.
Grushkin didn’t take the bait, recognizing the defiance in the woman’s eyes despite her deteriorating physical condition. Smiling, he stroked a finger across her cheek before removing his hand.
“You are his wife. No?”
Despite Buzinsky’s bluff, there wasn’t a photo of Katie in John’s file. There were references to her past with the CIA, but somehow a picture had never been added to the record. Grushkin had called contacts in both the SVR and GRU, having them pull Katie’s file, but again there was no photo in either. If she had ever worked on the CIA’s Russia desk there most certainly would have been, but there had been too many American agents spread across the world to warrant the effort to photograph every single one of them.
Moving on, he stopped in front of Martinez who remained unconscious. He looked at her briefly, taking a moment to reach out and check the pulse in her neck. When his fingers touched her flesh she whipped her head around and clamped her teeth down onto his hand. With a roar of pain, he tried to yank his hand out of her mouth, but she bit d
own as hard as she could, jerking her head from side to side.
Grushkin began hitting her head with his free hand, trying to break free, but Martinez held on. Responding to the Colonel’s shout of pain, two soldiers ran up, one of them raising his rifle to shoot.
“Nyet!” He screamed at the man, drew his pistol and began clubbing Martinez across the head.
The pain was incredible and he hit her hard. Finally, his hand came free as he pulled backwards, stumbling and falling onto the rain soaked grass. He stared at his hand in shock, dropping the pistol and cradling it with his other. His index and middle finger were missing, blood pouring from the ragged stumps.
Martinez had straightened, taking the pressure off her bruised wrist. Blood coated her lips and chin, quickly being washed away by the rain. When Grushkin looked up she spit his fingers out of her mouth to splash onto the ground between them.
“Don’t fucking touch me, puto!” She smiled, showing her blood stained teeth.
With a bellow of rage, Grushkin leapt to his feet and launched himself at the small woman. He rained blows from his good hand onto her head and face, switching to her body when he felt her nose break. He pounded on her ribs and stomach. Sent sharp punches into her kidneys.
“You fucking motherless whore,” he screamed as he kept assaulting her.
Katie, Rachel and Irina were all screaming at him, begging him to stop. Katie slid her cuffs along the cable to reach Martinez, Rachel following suit when she saw what the other woman was doing. Both were roughly grabbed by the two soldiers before they could get close enough to place themselves between Martinez and the mad man. She finally cried out in pain when he began kicking the bullet wound in her thigh.