The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  She felt Lou’s touch on her shoulder.

  “This is an SS-19 Stiletto base,” he whispered quietly, barely audible.

  “And?” That bit of information didn’t mean anything to her. She felt a wave of irritation at her own lack of knowledge. Here I am, the clueless soldier. Fucking great!

  “That means it goes deep underground.”

  They kept their eyes on the two teams, as they made a silent and slow approach toward the two sentry groups. The team approaching on the right side, targeting the main silo entrance, had the forest line cover them for most of the way, then the silo’s wall curvature was going to work in their favor, keeping them hidden from view as they advanced.

  The team headed for the truck hangar had it a little rougher; they had to cross thirty feet of open, well-lit field. Martin saw them hesitating to leave the cover of the tree line, and ordered them to stop by extending his arm with his palm facing up and outward. Then Martin and his companion made their move toward the silo entrance.

  Alex held her breath, feeling her heart pounding. Oh, we better be right about this, she thought. Otherwise, we’re all going away for a long, long time, and I’m not even sure which country will sentence us to death first. She felt a wave of nauseous anxiety at the thought that she had brought all these people here, in harm’s way, based on her theories. She quickly revisited her deductions, and inspected her logic. She hadn’t taken any wrong turns in her investigation, or cut any corners. She was sure. The passengers of flight XA233 were there, just a few yards away. They had to be. She felt her anxiety dissipate and she took a long, refreshing breath.

  Martin and his companion had approached the sentries, crawling single file against the wall. When they were just a few feet away, they pounced silently and deadly. Martin got the one on the left. With one hand, he covered his mouth keeping him quiet, while the other, holding the tactical knife, stabbed the Russian in the throat, an inch below his ear, slicing deep into his brain. His companion decided to grab his target’s head and quickly break his neck with a swift rotating move. He then slowly eased the dead man down to the ground, making sure his fall was noiseless.

  They dragged the two bodies a few yards along the wall toward the back, getting them out of sight. Martin signaled the other team to be ready, then whistled loudly, enough to be heard by the other two Russians. The sentries perked their heads and started approaching fast, turning their backs toward the forest line, where the second team waited for the right opportunity to attack. The second team made its move, and within seconds, both Russians were dead.

  Martin gave the “clear” signal, and the rest of the support team advanced to his location, followed by Alex, Blake, and Lou. Sam declined wearily, seeming unable to stand, and signaled them to go ahead without him.

  They approached the silo door walking briskly, almost running. Martin placed a couple of his men on watch duty, and opened the massive door. It creaked loudly, causing them to freeze in their tracks and clasp their weapons, listening intently.

  They entered the structure cautiously, their weapons ready. A long, curved corridor extended both ways inside the structure, with metallic doors every twenty yards or so. Martin split them into two teams, taking opposite directions in their search. Blake joined Alex on the team headed left, and Lou went with the other team.

  After a few yards, Martin’s fist popped up in the air and they froze in their tracks. He then signaled with his fingers at his ear that he was hearing something, and gestured them to align along the inside wall, to take cover.

  They heard footsteps approaching. Alex held her breath, getting ready to pounce. She released the safety lever on her Tavor, and she heard the others cock their weapons.

  Then she saw who was approaching; two men and a woman wielding their Kalashnikovs falteringly, who froze when they saw them. One of the men lifted his Kalashnikov in a firing position, but hesitated to open fire. Her team immediately took positions on the corridor, and lifted their weapons, ready to pull the triggers. She felt her hair stand on its ends; this was wrong, very wrong.

  “Hold your fire,” Alex shouted. She stepped away from the wall, approaching the three people, and lowering her weapon. “Hold your fire. We’re Americans; we’re here to take you home.”

  “Really? You’re not fucking with me?” one of the men asked in a choked voice, lowering his weapon.

  The woman dropped her weapon to the ground and almost jumped forward, hugging Alex.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all.”

  Alex felt her eyes moisten; she hadn’t expected that reaction.

  “There are more of us,” the same man said, “many more. And Russians too, with guns.”

  “Name?” Martin asked.

  “Davis. Dr. Gary Davis.”

  “Dr. Davis, how many Russians, and where are they?”

  “We don’t know. We just broke free, right now. We were going to try to free the others. Five Russians are unconscious and tied up in the lab.”

  “All right, let’s get you to safety,” Martin replied, then directed them to the door, with one of his men leading. “Take them outside, behind the tree line, and wait there for my signal.”

  “Have you seen Adeline?” Blake asked, grabbing Dr. Davis’ sleeve. “Is she all right?”

  Gary Davis stopped and turned to face Blake. “I am sorry; I don’t know who that is.”

  Blake’s hand fell, releasing Dr. Davis’ sleeve.

  “Let’s move,” Martin commanded.

  They advanced carefully, stopping at every door, clearing the structure room by room. Most of the rooms were empty and dark. Then they found a makeshift lab.

  Martin opened the door carefully, and stiffened when he saw light. It was a large structure equipped with lab tables and equipment. His eyes met the scared glances coming from several people. Then he noticed the five inert bodies tied on the floor, dressed like the sentries he’d just taken out at the main silo entrance.

  Martin entered the lab lowering his weapon and saying, “We’re American; we’re taking you home.”

  The harrowed men and women started to cheer, but Martin quickly silenced them with a quick gesture. He then directed them to leave the structure and join the others at the tree line.

  “One of us was injured, and is bedridden, sedated, and unconscious,” a tall, dignified man spoke with a strong German accent.

  “Name?” Martin asked.

  “Adenauer. Theo Adenauer.”

  Martin gave Alex a quick look.

  “Dr. Adenauer,” she said, “we will clear the structure first, make sure everyone’s safe, then come back for him. Chances are if he’s unconscious, he will be out of harm’s way.”

  “You know who I am?” the man asked, emotion tingeing his voice.

  “Yes, we do,” Alex replied. “We’ve done our homework; we’re not here by accident.”

  “Have you seen Adeline, my wife?” Blake asked Adenauer with pleading eyes. “She’s five-seven, brown hair, thirty-six years old.”

  “No, I’m sorry. That name does not sound familiar. But there are hundreds more, somewhere in this structure.”

  “I know her,” a woman said, stepping forward. “I’m Lila Wallace. I am—I was the flight attendant in first class. She was seated in my area.”

  Blake grabbed her hand with both his, holding it tight. “Where is she? Is she OK?”

  “She’s with the others,” Lila replied. “We got separated when we got to the trucks. But she’s fine, I am sure. She wasn’t among the…” Lila choked a little, and then continued. “You’ll find her, you’ll see.”

  “Among the what?” Blake asked quietly, his face petrified with fear.

  “Umm…the test subjects,” Lila whispered, a tear rolling on her cheek. “But she wasn’t, I’m sure she’s OK.”

  “Oh, my God,” Blake whispered, turning a sickly shade of pale.

  Alex felt her stomach turn. She’d been right in her theories. Whoever had taken flight XA233 wa
nted the researchers to develop a nerve agent, and needed test subjects. Instead of feeling redeemed, all she felt was an unbearable sense of revulsion, of loathing, and a bubbling anger, driving her to want to draw blood with her own hands from the motherfucker who’d tortured all those people. It will come, you’ll see, she thought. I’ll find you, you sick son of a bitch, and when I do, you’ll wish you were never born.

  “Umm…excuse me?” Lila’s voice got their attention.

  “Yes,” Martin replied. “What is it?”

  “That man over there,” she said, pointing at a silhouette crouched against the back wall, “is the sack of shit who brought us all here. He’s the pilot.”

  Two of Martin’s men went to get him, their faces not promising anything good.

  “I want him alive,” Alex called after them. “I need to find out who’s behind this.”

  “We’re moving,” Martin’s voice called her to attention.

  They continued to inspect the structure and found no one else on the main level.

  “Bravo Two, this is Bravo One,” Martin said into his radio, and it crackled to life immediately.

  “Bravo One, copy.”

  “Bravo Two, we’re going underground.”

  “Copy that. On your six, Bravo One.”

  They made their way underground, descending through dark, humid, moldy-smelling stairways, and feeling the temperature drop with every step. Then they reached another curved corridor, and started following it, like they had the one above.

  Within a few yards, they surprised a Russian taking a leak in a doorway. He opposed no resistance, and relinquished his weapon immediately.

  “Where are they?” Martin asked.

  The Russian pointed ahead.

  “The first door over there, the big one. The big circle.” He spoke in a raspy voice, his accent harsh.

  “How many Russians?”

  “I–I don’t know.”

  One of Martin’s men hit him in the stomach. “Think again, asshole.”

  “Three, maybe four.”

  “Thanks!” Martin replied, then knocked the Russian unconscious with the butt of his weapon.

  They soon found what the Russian had told them about—an access way leading to a large, tall, metallic, double door, covered in rust, and guarded by an armed man who didn’t even see them coming. That Russian went down silently, taken out by a lethal stab in the neck.

  Team Bravo Two caught up with them, and Martin gave them the signal to stand fast and silent.

  Martin cracked the door open as gently as he could, then peeked inside.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, then closed it.

  He signaled his people to approach. Alex, Lou, and Blake joined them.

  “This is the ingress point to the main silo. There are hundreds of hostages in there, and the Russians are scattered among them, on elevated positions. We risk extensive loss of lives if we go direct. They’ll start shooting, and scythe the hostages down in the crossfire.”

  “What do you want to do?” Blake asked, turning pale.

  “We might try to draw them out. Or we might get one of the Russians we captured, wake him up, and force him to call them out.”

  “I have an idea,” Alex offered. “Some of us can go in, without our gear, wearing plain clothes, and carrying knives. If the Russians are scattered in the crowds, they won’t notice us. Then we take them out, one by one. In the crowd there is inherent cover.”

  Martin stood silent for a few seconds, weighing his options. Then he started taking his tactical vest off. The rest of the men followed.

  “I need two of you to stay here, and cover our asses in case this goes bad,” Martin said. “You and you,” he pointed at two men. “If this goes south, remember they’ll have to come out at some point. Take them out one by one; don’t risk the hostages’ lives.” He then turned to Alex and added, “You should stay here too, ma’am.”

  “In your dreams,” Alex replied dryly.

  She’d taken off her vest, and she rubbed her back against the decrepit walls to get her tee shirt to look dirty. Some of the men did the same, even rolled on the floors covered in debris to look the part, then wiped most of the camouflage paint off their faces.

  “Blake,” Alex said, “You’re staying behind. You have to.”

  “What?” he asked, surprised. “Why? No way I’m staying behind.”

  “If Adeline sees you, she’ll react. There’s no way we can control that, and we shouldn’t risk it.”

  Blake lowered his head, accepting her argument. Then he lifted his eyes, locking them with hers. “OK. Then you bring her to me, all right?”

  “I promise,” she replied, touching his shoulder. “Ready,” she announced.

  “Roger that,” Martin replied. “This is a round structure. We enter one by one, and quickly take cover in the crowd. Let’s work it in concentric circles, starting from large to small. We’ll take the smaller circles, where we think the most Russians will be. Lou and Alex, you take the outer circle, closest to the wall. Alex walks west, Lou walks east. Walk slowly, casually, don’t draw attention. Stop, sit, observe. Find your Russian, and plan your moves. Keep chatter to a minimum. Earbuds should do it in there, and cover your mouth when you speak. The laryngophones will capture the quietest whisper. Just mark your man, and wait for my signal.”

  “Got it,” Alex confirmed.

  They snuck in, one by one. Alex was among the last, and she felt her heart in her throat when she approached the ajar door. She took a deep breath, then stepped through the tight opening.

  She took a few quick steps to reach a group of hostages, then stopped, to absorb and process the information she was seeing.

  The structure was vast, with a high, dome-vaulted roof that had hatched openings at the center. It was hard to tell what that space had been used for; it resembled a huge arena or a circus of sorts, in a terrible state of decay. The floor was concrete, covered in dirt and debris. The smell of human sweat and waste was pervasive, almost suffocating.

  Then she looked at the people and shuddered, shocked. They were disheveled and haunted-looking, defeated, hopeless. Most of them stood, walking aimlessly, or talking quietly with one another. Some sat on the floor, or lay on the cold concrete, curled up on their sides, immobile. They were in hell.

  Alex snapped out of her shock and focused on her task. She started walking slowly, checking out the people she saw, and looking for an armed Russian she could tackle. There he was, a brute, scars marring his face, arms the size of her thighs. That monster was her target.

  She felt her blood chilling, turning to ice cubes. How would she do it? Would she stab him in the back? How much force did she need to apply? Why had she offered to come in here anyway? That’s why they had contracted the Bravos. Stupid, reckless, idiotic, she called herself, almost ready to let Martin know she needed someone else to do her job.

  Then she laid eyes on a thin, frail Chinese woman, sitting against the wall and holding her baby. Tears ran quietly on her checks, as she caressed and reassured the silent, immobile infant.

  Alex felt a wave of rage suffocating her. “Ready,” she whispered in her comm.

  “Copy,” Martin replied. “Go on my count. Three, two, one, go.”

  She made a move toward her target, her hand clutching the handle of her tactical knife, her arm lowered, hidden behind her back.

  The Russian turned, startling her for a split second.

  “What do we have here, huh?” he said, staring at her with obscene eyes, and grabbing her chin with his filthy fingers.

  “Your worst nightmare,” she growled, then stabbed the man in the chest, plunging her knife to the bolster, throwing all her weight behind the thrust.

  The man buckled, his surprised eyes drilling into hers, while his mouth opened, gasping for air. She took a step back, pulling her knife from his chest, and getting ready to strike again. The man fell to the floor in a pool of blood.

  “One down,” she said into her comm, then sign
aled silence to the hostages around her, putting a finger to her lips.

  One by one, she heard the team members confirm their kills. Then she heard Martin give the “all clear,” and he addressed the hostages from the entrance.

  “Attention, everyone, we’re here to take you home,” Martin said, as incredulous hostages clamored and hurried toward the door. “Please follow our instructions to stay safe. There could still be hostiles in this building.”

  No one paid much attention. They hurried to get out, to leave their hell, stepping over each other, screaming, running, just wanting to be free.

  “Both teams, we need to contain the situation,” Martin’s voice came to life by radio. “Don’t let them scatter in the forest. We’ll never find them.”

  Then Alex heard Blake’s voice, rising over the tumult, calling Adeline’s name.

  ...60

  ...Tuesday, May 10, 11:46PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Abandoned ICBM Site

  ...Near Naikhin, Russia

  Alex followed the sound of Blake’s voice, as he called his wife’s name. He stood by the entrance, still on the outside corridor, unable to enter the dome against the flow of rushing people—tumultuous, desperate, frantic to get out.

  That was something none of the team had given enough thought to. How would they control 423 passengers and 18 crew members, when they were running for their lives? What could they possibly say to slow them down, to get them to listen to reason? Not that they had their exfil figured out either. She had no idea how to get all those people to safety, from behind enemy lines. She needed a solution—a good one, and fast. One way or another, they were responsible for the lives of almost 450 irrationally frantic people, running, trying to escape.

  Running to where, exactly?

  There was no way to know what the enemy had coming. Maybe they had reinforcements nearby and some Russian had radioed a call for backup before being taken out. They had to move, get out of there while they still could, or risk a bloodbath.