by Leslie Wolfe
Alex turned on her night-vision goggles, and took in the unfamiliar green-hued imagery. The device had the option to use infrared on one eye, or on both. She tried it both ways, to see which was better. With both eyes, she had an eerie feeling of surreal imagery, but she had balance and depth perspective. Single-eye option gave her the benefit of infrared vision, but kept her other eye accustomed to seeing and perceiving her environment the usual way. Either case, night vision took some getting used to.
The helo lifted higher in the air and departed, turning its lights back on after a couple of seconds.
She stood, a little dazed, hoping that her brain would adjust faster to the new way to see the surroundings, and walked toward the huddled armed men. Four had already taken positions, weapons ready, covering the perimeter.
She tripped on a tree branch and almost fell. She felt a strong grip on her right arm, steadying her, helping her regain her balance.
“Fuck,” she muttered, then looked sheepishly at the man holding her arm and whispered, “I mean thanks.”
The man grinned, his teeth glistening against his camouflage-painted face.
Alex reached the group as Lou wrapped up his briefing.
“We’re five klicks from target. We’re expecting 20 to 50 hostiles, and more than 400 hostages.”
“Copy,” a man replied. “Comms?”
“We have encrypted radios patched into sat phones.”
“Weapons?”
“Tavors, handguns, CornerShot, grenades, limited ammo. We’ve been at this for a while,” Lou clarified. “We have one wounded and two civilians.”
“Out of how many?”
“Out of four,” Lou replied dryly.
“Understood,” the man said, after a split second of silence.
“This civilian is ready to fight. You can count me in,” Blake said, stepping up toward the man. “Blake Bernard,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.
“Call me Martin, I’m the team lead.” The man shook Blake’s hand vigorously, not hiding his surprise. “The Blake Bernard?”
“Uh-huh,” Blake replied.
One of the men whistled appreciatively.
“It will be an honor to go to battle with you, sir,” the man added, ending his statement with a firm salute.
“Alex Hoffmann,” she introduced herself. “Also ready, but not nearly as famous.”
Martin shook her hand just as vigorously.
“One question,” she said, “how do we call you? Your men?”
“Just call us Bravos. We like anonymity in our line of work; I hope you understand. We’re your backup team. Bravo stands for backup.”
“OK, got it,” she replied, then turned her attention to Lou.
“There’s a single entry point to the silo that we can see here,” Lou continued his briefing, showing the men his phone screen with the imagery received from DigiWorld. “There are guards here and here,” he continued, pointing at the screen, “and there’s a hangar or carport of sorts to the side, where some trucks are parked. Those are guarded too.”
“Copy,” Martin confirmed. “Bravo teams, move out.”
...57
...Tuesday, May 10, 9:46PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Russia
...Thirteen Days Missing
Gary counted every minute since Teng had returned to the lab. Would it work? Did Teng keep his side of the deal? Or had he caved under pressure, ratting on them again? Come on, already, he encouraged the Russians in his mind. Come to Papa for a restful sleep, guaranteed to last forever.
He verified for the tenth time that everyone was in position and ready. Adenauer stood tall, his backbone stiff, and his face carved in stone, right next to the lab table nearest the door. The aerosol canister containing the anesthetic mix was inches away from his hand, tucked discreetly between the two centrifuges and the chromatograph.
Declan Mallory had an oxygen mask on, and slept sedated, undisturbed, unaware of anything. It was better for him that way.
As for the rest of them, they huddled near the far end of the lab tables, pretending to be working on various equipment, and ready to spring into action at the earliest opportunity.
Clamor outside the door caught his attention. Multiple men treaded heavily and noisily approaching the lab, then the rusty bolt was pulled, and the door shoved open forcefully.
“This is it, guys,” he whispered, “Godspeed.”
Adenauer swallowed his antidote, then turned to face the door.
Four armed men barged in, followed by Bogdanov. Gary recognized King Cobra, Death, and One-Eye, but the fourth was a new face, a huge man wearing a long, monastic beard, and holding a Kalashnikov with ease, as if it were a toy. Bogdanov’s face was contorted in anger, his eyes glinting with pure hatred.
Gary saw Adenauer hesitate to release the gas, and he followed his gaze to see Marie-Elise staring at the floor, where she’d dropped her antidote capsule. Gary signaled her almost imperceptibly to leave it. Picking it up would be risky; could get the Russians’ attention. She leaned against the back wall, pale, and nodded discreetly to Adenauer, encouraging him to proceed.
Unseen, Gary popped his capsule in his mouth, then swallowed it immediately. Behind him, Jane, Teng, Fortuin, and Bukowsky took their pills, while Marie-Elise let herself slide to the floor, hidden from view by a storage cabinet. Good. This way, if she fainted she wouldn’t risk hurting herself in the fall.
He turned to watch the Russians near the lab entrance, and saw Adenauer releasing the canister valve and stepping back.
“You are dead, all of you, you fucking cunts!” Bogdanov thundered.
He pulled his gun and released the safety, pointing it at Adenauer’s head. Adenauer stood firmly, calm, brave, and dignified, unfazed by Bogdanov, and taking shallow, infrequent breaths.
“Kak der’mo,” King Cobra said, disgust showing on his face. “What is this smell?”
“This is nothing to worry about,” Adenauer said, almost smiling. “We work with chemicals here, so that can happen. But see? I am breathing it too. If you take deep breaths, like this, you won’t feel it anymore.” He demonstrated with his hands, encouraging them to breathe in the stink of desflurane.
God, I hope he’s faking it, Gary thought.
Bogdanov pointed his gun at Gary next, then back to Adenauer, his hand shaking just a little.
“What’s going on? What are you fuckers doing?” he yelled. “I will kill all of you, you hear me?”
Why the fuck isn’t it working? Gary thought, sweat bursting at the roots of his hair. It has to work! It has to!
Then he noticed One-Eye lean against the back wall, and Death running his hand against his forehead and shaking his head, as if to rid himself of a dizzy spell and regain focus.
It was working; they just needed a little more time.
Reading his mind, or just being the pure genius that he was, Adenauer started explaining to the men how the sense of smell worked, and how the nose protects itself by blocking the sensory information of a strong smell after a few inhalations, to maintain the capacity of discerning new smells despite the prevalence of a stronger, pervasive scent. Pedantic and calm, he took his time going through lots of trivial details about the wondrous human olfactory system. Bogdanov probably already knew most of that, and the rest of the men didn’t really care, but Adenauer’s speech kept them busy inhaling some more aerosolized anesthetic.
Then Gary noticed how Adenauer had placed a hand firmly against the surface of the lab table, to help support his weight. He was starting to feel weak, despite the antidote. Damn…
Bogdanov was the first to collapse, probably because of his smaller body mass. As he fell, he fired his gun twice. Both bullets strayed and hit the wall above their heads.
Death took two steps forward to catch Bogdanov as he fell, but he never got that far. He collapsed on one knee, then buckled to the side, his head hitting the concrete floor with a loud thud. One-E
ye collapsed right where he stood, leaning against the wall. King Cobra was next, and the bearded giant was last, falling forward while trying to fire his Kalashnikov.
“Now!” Gary yelled, and leapt forward, opening a metallic case stocked with chloroform on gauze. Grabbing a couple, he ran and placed one on Bogdanov’s nose, and one on Death’s, holding them firmly in place for a few good seconds.
Bukowsky was right behind him, taking care of the other men. He placed gauze soaked in chloroform on the noses of One-Eye and King Cobra, and then struggled to flip the bearded thug on his back.
Gary helped roll the man over and took his weapon, while Bukowsky gave him his due dose of chloroform. Then he helped Adenauer move to the back of the lab to breathe cleaner air, and offered him a second antidote.
Jane and Fortuin picked up Marie-Elise and put her on a cot. Fortuin held her head up and opened her mouth, while Jane opened one of the capsules and spread the powder under Marie-Elise’s tongue, to speed up the absorption and get it in her blood stream without risking her choking on the capsule. Within seconds, she started fluttering her eyelids and mumbling. She was going to be OK.
Gary and Bukowsky snapped a few power cords from some lab equipment, and used it to tie the Russians’ hands. They took their weapons and shared them among themselves. Bukowsky, Gary, and Jane each took a Kalashnikov and a pistol, leaving the rest of the weapons in Fortuin’s charge. Jane fumbled a little with the Kalashnikov, but soon figured out how to replace the clip, set the gun on semi-auto, and remove its safety.
“Watch them carefully,” Gary said to Fortuin and Adenauer, pointing at the unconscious men lying on the floor. “The slightest move, and you give them more chloroform. Don’t hesitate…better safe than sorry, all right? No one’s gonna miss them if they never wake up again.”
“Yes, yes, understood,” Adenauer replied. “Good luck!”
He offered his hand and Gary took it, giving it a firm shake and looking the German in the eye.
“Thank you,” Gary said warmly, surprised at the emotion he suddenly felt for the self-sacrificing man he’d always thought too arrogant to tolerate. “For everything.”
Then he turned to Bukowsky and Jane.
“OK, let’s go kill us some Russians now, so we can all go home.”
...58
...Tuesday, May 10, 2:43PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense
...Moscow, Russia
...Thirteen Days Missing
Myatlev took small pieces of toast covered with pâté de foie gras and chewed them slowly. His mouth felt dry, like sand, and he couldn’t even feel the taste of the exquisite delicacy. His thoughts revolved around the same bothersome, life-or-death questions. Why? Who was that woman? Why was she after him? How much did she know? Why was he still alive?
He pushed away his plate, an expression of disgust contorting his lips. Ivan jumped to his feet.
“Was there something wrong with it, boss? I’ll have them—”
“Nah…” He dismissed Ivan’s concern with a wave of his hand, then stood with a groan, holding his stomach, and released one notch in his belt. Then he started pacing the office slowly. His brows, creased firmly, were ridging his forehead, and somehow made the dark circles underneath his eyes seem more prominent.
He stopped his slow pacing and turned to face Ivan, who waited patiently near the coffee table, ready to pour him another shot.
“What’s going on at the lab? Did you call him?”
“Bogdanov? Yes. I told him to pull in some reinforcements, and be ready for an attack.”
“Everything all right there?”
“I heard nothing more. But clouds are thick over there; we lost satellite feed.”
“Argh…fuck!” Myatlev snapped. Even motherfucking nature was against him on this one.
He took a mouthful of cold chamomile tea and winced at the stale, unpalatable taste, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Goddamn shit…Send in reinforcements. Send the troops we have stationed on Sakhalin.”
“But…I thought—”
“Yes, Ivan?” he snapped impatiently.
“You said the lab was above top secret, that no one can know about it. If we bring the troops from Sakhalin, how are we going to keep everyone quiet about the lab?”
Myatlev gave Ivan a long stare, making him lower his eyes and shift his weight from one foot to the other. Sometimes he just couldn’t believe how naïve Ivan could be. He knew better than to ask that stupid question. But Ivan was just hired muscle, after all. What did he expect?
“The usual way, Ivan, what the fuck? Let them do their job and keep the lab safe. Then, they’ll disappear.”
Ivan remained quiet, a hint of surprise showing on his face. He’d been loyal, docile, and dedicated all those years, taking out everyone who had the misfortune to stand in Myatlev’s path, and had never hesitated in getting his job done. This time though, Myatlev was asking a bit much; the Sakhalin contingent was one hundred and fifty strong, all Russians, all soldiers who deserved better. He understood Ivan’s hesitation. He was asking for a massacre…For the higher purpose, Myatlev reminded himself, it’s all for the higher purpose.
“Understood?” Myatlev reinforced his point with Ivan.
“Yes, sir,” he replied deferentially.
“And blow up that Phenom. They won’t be going anywhere, those fucks.”
...59
...Tuesday, May 10, 10:08PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Abandoned ICBM Site
...Near Naikhin, Russia
...Thirteen Days Missing
They walked in single file, in a start-and-stop dynamic dictated by Martin, the contractor team lead who led the way. Two of his men were the advanced recon team, marching ahead of everyone else by a couple hundred yards, making sure they didn’t walk into an ambush. Alex had learned how to walk in the green-hued darkness of the forest without stumbling at every step. She lifted her feet higher, then set them down almost vertically, carefully, stepping on branches rather than tripping on them.
Behind her, Lou supported Sam, whose pallor had accentuated in the past hour. He leaned more and more on Lou, and groaned quietly every few steps. Every time she searched his face with worried eyes, Sam smiled weakly, trying to reassure her. It wasn’t working. The blast must have caused him an internal hemorrhage or more severe damage than she had estimated. He needed a hospital, as soon as possible. But what was really possible where they were? Nothing much. Where would they go? Please hold on, Sam, she thought, we’ll find a way, we always do.
Stepping carefully not to make noise, and almost mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, she let her mind wander. What would they find at the abandoned silo? Would they find the four hundred people they were looking for? Would they find bodies? Would they find V? If he were indeed the architect of this bold plane hijacking, would he be there, taking care of business? Or would he be hiding someplace distant and safe, letting others get their hands dirty, like the master puppeteer that he was? Would she finally get the chance to find out who he was?
She’d stopped talking to her team about her scenarios. She could see it in their eyes that they didn’t believe her anymore. Not even Sam. They must have all thought she’d become irrationally obsessed with her elusive terrorist. Yet she was sure; she knew, deep in her gut, that it was V, the mysterious Russian mastermind, who had the vision and the global strategic brilliance to orchestrate such a bold plan. Terrorists like that weren’t born every day. And when they were, they made history in a significant way.
A drop of water hit her cheek, bringing her focus back to reality. Light rain had started to fall, further reducing the visibility, but there was a distant trace of light coming from somewhere. She took off her night-vision goggles.
At the front of their line, Martin suddenly froze, raising his left fist in the air, in a silent command to stop. Then he silently gestured that he saw the enemy, and they should rema
in behind, under the cover of the dark forest.
They had arrived.
Alex took cover behind a tree trunk and carefully peeked to see. The silo was right there, eighty yards or so from the tree line. It was a massive cupola-covered circular structure, not taller than twenty feet. Probably the rest of the structure continued underground.
The structure seemed to have a single point of entry, a large metallic door. It had been originally painted in military green, but that had faded under the sustained attack of the elements, and was stained by rust.
Two armed Russians stood watch in front of it. They carried their Kalashnikovs loosely; they were not expecting trouble. They wore a strange mix of mismatching old military uniform parts, as if they were outfitted by a World War II Russian Army surplus store. They were not the official Russian Army. Interesting, and it’s yet another argument in favor of my theory. Alex felt a wave of excitement at the thought. She was getting close to catching the bastard after all.
At the left side of the main building, just like they’d seen in the satellite imagery, there was an open hangar that housed several military trucks, guarded by two armed sentries. From that distance, Alex could see they also had machine guns, but didn’t have any night-vision equipment.
Several light sources illuminated the area. A couple of larger spotlights covered the main entrance and the hangar access. Five floodlights covered the piece of asphalt road that connected the two structures, and several tens of feet of the road leading to the silo. The advantage presented by darkness was gone.
Martin signaled his men, and three of the military contractors joined him near the tree line. A rapid sequence of hand signals followed, then they split into two teams. All four men had holstered their weapons and carried their tactical knives in their hands, ready to strike. The rest of the fighters spread out behind the tree line, getting ready to charge.
Alex felt her heart pounding in her chest. She tightened the grip on her Tavor, her finger hovering above the safety lever, but not releasing it. She felt her spine tingling, and adrenaline hitting her gut. This was it…she better be ready.