by Stephen, Lee
The tent was packed. From one end to the next, American soldiers and officers lorded over an assortment of equipment ranging from weapons racks to radio stations. Chatter came from every direction—until Mikhail and his men were inside. The Americans looked up from their stations and all sound stopped.
The Soviet Union and the United States of America. Communism versus capitalism. Progress versus prosperity. Never before had those differences felt so tangible. In the midst of the deafening silence that surrounded Mikhail and his men, an unsettling chill rose from the floorboards. For the Soviets, this was enemy territory. For the Americans, this was inviting the enemy in. Never before had a situation felt so conflicting. It was enough to make Mikhail miss Hungary.
Finally, after ten full seconds of tension, someone across the room spoke. “Somebody get those boys some chairs. And some coffee, pronto.” Following the voice, Mikhail’s stare came to rest on a man across the room. He seemed older than most of the others present, maybe in his fifties. Pushing his glasses up against his nose, he motioned for the Soviets to approach. “Have a seat over here, gentlemen.”
Stepping through the crowded tent, Mikhail and his men made their way over. Maps and photographs were posted everywhere. The extraterrestrial spacecraft was plainly visible in each one. Mikhail spared a quick glance behind him to see if his team had taken notice. Based on their looks of wide-eyed perplexity, they had.
“Hope you like your coffee black,” the man said, stepping closer to meet Mikhail’s approach. “General Thomas Palmerston, NATO command. Pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand, a gesture Mikhail accepted.
“Captain Mikhail Kirov, Soviet Fourth Army. My…team.” He realized in that moment that he didn’t even know their names well enough to recite off the cuff.
Palmerston seemed sympathetic. “Long day and it hasn’t even begun, I know. Your team paratroop in?”
“Paratroop? No.”
“Mm.” The general nodded and motioned for the Soviets to follow. “Thought you might have come in with the first batch.” As they approached the newly-formed row of chairs set up for the foreign arrivals, Palmerston pointed to a small group of men standing along the tent wall. Dark green uniforms, M3 submachine guns. But it was their hats that gave them away.
Green Berets.
Palmerston beckoned the nearest Green Beret toward them. He was a man with an unwavering gaze—intensity personified, with brown hair and green eyes. The general stepped aside to allow the man to greet Mikhail. “Kirov, I’d like you to meet Captain Charles Hemingway, 10th Special Forces Group. He and his team will be accompanying you inside the spacecraft.”
“Spacecraft?” Sevastian blurted out behind them, apparently recognizing that particular English word. The rest of Mikhail’s team looked equally stunned.
Hemingway’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Sevastian briefly, then back to Mikhail. “They don’t know?” he asked, his voice deep, yet crisp.
“They have been told nothing,” Mikhail answered. “I was hoping to explain the situation when I got called in here.”
“Well, let’s get these boys an explanation,” Palmerston said, walking toward the largest photograph. The Soviets took their seats as the general proceeded to explain the situation.
Every detail that Mikhail had heard from Dorokhov on the jetliner was covered again, from the initial nuclear strike to the arrival of military personnel on the scene to secure the perimeter. It wasn’t until Palmerston got specifically to their assignment—the infiltration of the craft via rear, buried hull breach—that things took a turn for the different.
“Washington and the Kremlin made it very clear that this is a joint operation. I know we’ve had our differences, but now’s not the time to focus on them. For the sake of this operation, we can’t afford to.”
As the general spoke on, Mikhail translated quietly for his Russian comrades.
“This operation, which we’re calling Crimson Dagger,” Palmerston said, “falls under our special access programs for operations and support. That’s top secret, for you red boys. Officially, you’re here to borrow some trucks for civilian crowd control. If any word of this operation leaves this tent, both sides will deny everything—and of course, you’ll deal with your government. I’m sure that’s not something you want to do.”
In that, Palmerston was right. Mikhail glanced briefly to his comrades, who were taking in the translated information as best they could, glassy looks showing on their faces. His focus returned to the general.
Casting a brief look to Hemingway before going on, Palmerston paced across the front of the sectioned area. “Now, you boys extended us a favor by not jumping the gun when we set off those nukes. It’s for that reason we’re extending our trust to you. Kirov, you will be serving as commanding officer for this entire operation, yours and ours alike.”
Mikhail raised an eyebrow.
“Captain Hemingway will assume the role of executive officer. Should something happen to you, he and his men will assume command of the entire operation. But you’re the crimson in this.”
So the chain of command began with Mikhail but continued only with Americans. He was just a Soviet figurehead for a Yankee operation. This reeked of ill intent, just as Dorokhov had suspected. He had no doubt that one of the Green Berets’ bullets was meant for him—a friendly-fire “accident” waiting to happen. Once Mikhail went down, the Americans would be in charge. He had to survive at all costs. For Russia and the world.
“At this very moment,” Palmerston said, “a special reconnaissance team is excavating the ground by the breach. One of your own snipers is providing cover fire.”
Andrianova. That must have been where she went. “Is she providing cover by herself?”
Palmerston nodded. “Yes, she is.”
Nina was confirmed.
“The bulk of our defense effort is facing the forward section of the alien vessel.” Walking toward Hemingway, the general went on. “The dig team consists of three. Your sniper makes four. With the six of you and six of our boys going in, we’ve got a nice, clean dozen. We send in any more and we risk getting overcrowded.”
So Nina wasn’t even going in. It made sense from a tactical standpoint. The fight inside the ship would be close quarters. Not exactly ideal for a sniper.
Palmerston’s expression shifted, his comfortable tone being replaced with something more uncertain. “Now let’s talk about the enemy.” Every Soviet sat upright. The Americans seemed less affected—they’d probably heard this before.
“Our ground forces didn’t start testing the lines until Soviet reinforcements arrived. But here’s what we know so far. The aliens themselves appear to be reptilian. They’re also big. Six feet tall, some as high as seven feet, and bulky to boot. We haven’t gotten close enough to see how they communicate or coordinate, but beyond using basic cover fire around the ship’s entrance, they don’t seem to be operating with any advanced strategic maneuvers.” He pointed to one of the photographs depicting rock formations just in front of the spacecraft. “These stones right here are providing the bulk of their cover. We haven’t pressed forward much, but in the little we have, the aliens have used those stones to their advantage.”
So the aliens hadn’t actually moved in on the Americans. There was no obvious offensive in progress. Crossing his arms, Mikhail leaned back as he listened. This should have been an easy operation. Air strike the ship’s perimeter. The aliens were already grounded—blow them away. Why wasn’t NATO doing that? Because if they destroy this ship, they can’t harness its technology. They need to take it from the ground.
Palmerston frowned. “Now’s the part you need to focus on. Reuben, play that film reel.” As the general stepped aside, a nearby officer rolled out a projector. After a moment of setup, he directed it at a standing screen. The grainy film began.
“This is an offensive we attempted shortly after the area was initially secured. Just intended to test their defenses and get a better idea of thei
r capabilities.”
Leaning forward, Mikhail watched the film. He recognized the front view of the fallen spacecraft. NATO forces were moving in. No Soviet soldiers could be seen anywhere. So they didn’t wait for us to arrive after all. All of a sudden, a flurry of bright flashes emerged from the rock formation. Mikhail’s crew collectively gasped as several NATO soldiers were struck. It was like watching men struck by lightning. Bright blue energy erupted with every hit on human targets. The soldiers were being fried alive.
Hand covering his mouth, Mikhail was transfixed on the scenes of carnage unfolding on the screen. Several more NATO soldiers were struck. The fallback began. Flashes of energy zipped past the camera. The retreat was in full swing. Then the film froze—an image of a man caught mid-blast lingering in the final still.
Silence.
For what felt like a minute but had to be much less, no one spoke a word. The Americans were letting what the Soviets had just seen sink in.
Mikhail had been in numerous campaigns. He knew how to survive. But nothing he’d been through compared to what he’d just witnessed. His blue eyes stayed locked on the soldier in the film—a faceless man meeting a horrible death the likes of which Mikhail had never seen before. A knot formed deep in his stomach.
Palmerston’s reverence for the moment lingered for several more seconds, before he inhaled slowly and took front and center again. “And that, gentlemen, is what you’re about to encounter.”
Mikhail’s mind was racing through tactics. Guerilla-style warfare. A lot of hitting and running, a lot of flanking. Counter the aliens with speed. If we can.
The general continued on solemnly. “The element of surprise is our only advantage. Obviously, their technology is superior, in the air and on the ground.”
Hand-to-hand is out of the question. We wouldn’t get close enough. We wouldn’t win even if we could—not against creatures seven feet tall.
“If you can make the aliens turn to focus on you, we can move in from the front. We can hit them from both sides, so long as the diversion is there.”
How can we win this? Rubbing his temple, Mikhail racked his brain for an answer.
Palmerston stepped aside. “You now know everything that we do. I know you have a lot of concerns. I know you have a lot of questions. But frankly, there isn’t enough time. You’re here because you’re some of the Soviet Army’s best. Our boys are some of the best, too. There’s no doubt you’ll succeed.” With nothing else to present, Palmerston motioned for them as he stepped away. “Come this way and I’ll take you to the jeeps.”
The whipping winds showed no sign of slowing down; the rain continued to blast the landscape in horizontal sheets. Somewhere out there, an American dig team covered by a Soviet sniper was clearing out a path into a spacecraft from another world. Climbing into the jeep and soaked to the bone, Mikhail looked down at his AK-47. Compared to the strange weapons of the extraterrestrials, it looked clumsy and primitive. But in the hands of the right humans—the right killers—it would take a life just like anything else.
This is not a suicide mission.
Hungary was dense urban combat. Getting shot at from every angle in its worst moments, being tactically superior in its best. That’s what this would boil down to: intelligence. Not the kind of intelligence that could build spaceships and fire energy weapons, but the kind that was aware of its toe-to-toe inferiority. The kind that knew there were other ways to win. Like digging a hole to enter a breach.
Crimson Dagger, indeed.
Splashing through the gravel and mud, the small convoy of jeeps began their journey to the crash site, the NATO tents disappearing in the distance behind them. What waited ahead was an unknown enemy. But that was fine.
The enemy didn’t know humanity, either.
3
1439 hours
HE’D SEEN THE photographs. He’d heard the description of the site and examined the map of the Americans’ entry plan. But nothing could have prepared Mikhail for actually witnessing the scene firsthand.
The spacecraft was huge. Its wingspan looked easily half a kilometer long. Even with the vessel embedded in the ground as a result of the crash, the amount that was exposed was enough to make this the most titanic ship the Russian captain had ever seen. How this thing could rise off the ground at all—let alone dogfight with American fighter jets—was not only a mystery, but a testament to the level at which extraterrestrial technology dwarfed that of humanity.
The convoy of jeeps had taken a path east of the spacecraft, around the rear of a series of hills between which they could see the vessel’s full breadth. Mud sloshing beneath the jeeps’ tires, Mikhail couldn’t help but feel a twinge of relief that the battle he was about to face was indoors. The rain had intensified to the point where long-range visibility was heavily obscured, if not completely impossible. Were they not as close to the spacecraft as they were—a frightening fact itself—it might not have been visible at all, despite its size. What once had been rumbling rolls of thunder were now ground-shaking explosions from heaven.
Sitting next to Mikhail was Sevastian, his senior lieutenant, though rank hardly mattered in a mission as unorthodox as this. Shaking his head, Sevastian whispered what sounded like a prayer of some sort—or an exclamation of bad luck. Mikhail couldn’t quite tell. No one else from their team was present in that jeep, the convoy’s frontrunner.
Facing his senior lieutenant, Mikhail spoke. “Keep your focus on the extraterrestrials, but pay attention to the Americans, too.” His voice remained intentionally low. He didn’t want the American driver overhearing. As Sevastian arched a brow, Mikhail went on. “There is concern among the higher ranks that the Americans will attempt to eliminate us inside the vessel. This would leave no one behind to hold them accountable for sharing its wealth.”
Sevastian’s eyes shifted briefly to the driver, then returned to Mikhail. He stayed silent.
“What did the United States do with nuclear technology after they developed it?” Mikhail asked under his breath.
That got a reaction. Inhaling purposefully, Sevastian looked past Mikhail, to the hills behind him. Despite the break of eye contact, the senior lieutenant’s tone was unmistakably keyed in. “I understand, captain.”
“It will be up to you to pass that message on to the rest of our comrades. All eyes will be on me once we are inside the ship.”
Sevastian nodded.
Mikhail looked forward. “Hungary was both complicated and brutal. Even still, I never lost a single man.” In truth, he’d lost seven. It was still an impressive number. But his comrades didn’t need to feel impressed. They needed to feel invincible.
“We will take this vessel, captain,” Sevastian said. He looked at Mikhail dead on. “And if need be, we will take the Americans, too.”
Mikhail nodded his head. There was no need to say anything else. Gazes forward, the two men watched the muddy trail wind on.
The drive to their drop-off point lasted almost thirty minutes, due both to distance and terrain. The hills were muddy and wet, and on more than one occasion, progress had to be slowed to almost a crawl in order to proceed. Throughout the journey, Mikhail surveyed the surrounding area in the slim chance he’d catch sight of something—the spacecraft appearing between dips in the hills, stray shots of that strange energy weapon the aliens were using, anything. As they approached the drop-off point, he finally got his wish. Just not in the way he’d expected.
Coming to a stop at the bottom of a low-lying hill, Mikhail caught sight of a solitary person standing roadside in the monsoon. Her figure, then her weapon, gave her away. Nina. Beauty may have been subjective, but size was not. This woman was tiny.
She approached him as soon as he stepped from the vehicle. Within two seconds of being outside the jeep, Mikhail was drenched. Nina already looked like a drowned rat. Soaked tips of black hair dangled from beneath her helmet. But if the elements were bothering her, she wasn’t letting it show.
“Nina Andrianova
, captain.” Slinging her sniper rifle from her shoulder, she said, “I apologize for not being at my post.”
It was not the first omission of Nina’s rank that Mikhail had encountered. It hadn’t been included in the dossiers, either, nor was it present on her uniform. He had a hunch as to why: she likely outranked him. She was probably under his command only due to the strangeness of the operation.
“Covering the dig team became impossible as the rain increased,” Nina went on. “The entire enemy force could have mustered at the bottom of the hill and I wouldn’t have known.” Andrianova’s fervid intensity was clear through the downpour.
Mikhail crossed his arms. If visibility was that poor down the hill, he was going to have difficulty finding the dig team at all. He couldn’t afford to wander around looking for them, not on this mission and not in this weather. By the look of it, Nina was already thinking what he was.
“The dig team should nearly be finished by now. Should you desire, I can lead you to their position.”
“That would be appreciated,” Mikhail said. “As soon as we reach the entryway, return to the convoy with the dig team to be extracted.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Everyone,” Mikhail said, “come together!” He waited as the Russians and Americans gathered around him. “We all know what is at stake. The Soviet Army is filled with professionals. So are the Green Berets.” Everyone seemed to be listening. Hemingway in particular. “I have been selected to lead this operation, but that does not mean it will be Soviet-first. We all must work as one in order to succeed.”
Hemingway nodded. “I want to echo Captain Kirov’s words. This is our operation—all of us. We’re committed to working with you,” he said, looking at Mikhail directly. “As we know you are with us.”
The words sounded sincere. Time would tell. “All right,” said Mikhail, retaking the floor. “Miss Andrianova will lead us to the dig team. Once we have found them, we will enter the spacecraft. Prepare yourselves, everyone. This mission starts now.”