Overkill pr-1

by James Barrington

  Camp David, Maryland

  ‘Anything?’ the President asked, walking back into the underground bunker, the Marine major on Football detail a respectful five paces behind him. The President had been spending a few minutes up in the house with his wife as the children were put to bed.

  The senior officer present, an Air Force general, stood up as the President approached, and shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir. We’re just sitting around here waiting. We’re at DEFCON ONE, we’ve got just about everything airborne and heading east that’s got wings and an engine and can carry anything bigger than a grenade, and the Russians are doing zip.’

  ‘No response at all?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr President. Our technical resources – principally the Keyhole satellites – show absolutely no unusual activity anywhere in the CIS. The Russians must know that we’re holding at maximum readiness, but they’re not responding in any way at all.’

  The President looked at the tote boards and video screens ranged along the longest wall of the bunker, and shook his head. The general was right. Every board showed long lists of American strategic military assets – the teeth of the Triad – in the air, out at sea or sitting, primed and ready, in underground silos. All were waiting for his single word of command, translated through the Gold Codes, to deliver a blow from which Russia might never recover.

  ‘I never thought I’d see this,’ he muttered, almost inaudibly. ‘At least, I hoped I never would.’ The enemy activity totes were, as the general had said, completely empty. Nothing that could in any way be construed as hostile was moving anywhere within the Confederation of Independent States. The President shook his head again, walked across to a leather armchair and sat down. The general watched him for a few seconds, then turned back to his console.

  Gibraltar Harbour

  ‘Go,’ Ross said into his helmet microphone, and the SAS troopers behind Richter began to move forward, Ross in the lead, Dekker a few yards behind him. Even with no apparent opposition, they still moved in combat fashion, one group stationary, weapons at the ready, while another group moved. One trooper slid down beside Richter and covered the ship with his 7.62mm Accuracy International PM sniper rifle fitted with a Davin Optical Starlight scope.

  The first group had boarded the ship and was regrouping on deck when it all started to go wrong. Richter heard a muffled noise from somewhere near the bow, and then the distinctive metallic crack of a Kalashnikov AK47 assault rifle firing single shots. Two SAS men fell immediately, and the others dropped, rolling into what cover they could find while they searched for the gunman. The trooper beside Richter found him immediately. His rifle fired once and the Kalashnikov fell silent, but by then the advantage of surprise had gone, and lights were coming on all over the accommodation section at the stern of the freighter.

  On deck, Ross was deploying his men ready for the firefight to come. The accommodation section was accessed by a door on the centreline of the ship, and Richter knew there was at least one other door on the starboard side because he could see it. He guessed that the starboard door was mirrored by one on the port side, which meant the SAS had three entrances to cover. The plan they had hoped to implement was for a stealthy entrance to the accommodation section and, as far as possible, silent elimination of the opposition, cabin by cabin. But that was before the man with the Kalashnikov alarm clock woke everyone up.

  Ross had briefed two contingency plans. The first had assumed that the assault team would be detected after boarding the ship, and the second that they would be spotted on approach to the vessel. As Richter watched, the troopers swarmed silently around the accommodation section, smoothly implementing the former. Brief commands and acknowledgements sounded in his earphones.

  From behind his crate Richter had a good view of the centreline door. Two troopers stood by it, and even at a distance Richter could see the characteristic stubby shape of the Arwen carried by one of them. The second man was working on the door, on the hinge side, moulding plastic explosive and implanting detonators. As Richter watched, the troopers moved away from the doors, into shelter, and seconds later three explosions ripped through the night. Ross’s contingency plan had called for simultaneous assaults on all possible entrances, and it sounded as if that had worked.

  Through the smoke and debris Richter saw that the centreline door had gone, replaced by a gaping black oblong. The troopers ran back to their previous position, and one lobbed something through the doorway. The flat crack of the stun grenade sounded louder than the plastic explosive, magnified by the steel bulkheads of the accommodation section. The whitish fumes of CS gas poured out of the doorway, and when Richter could finally see clearly again, both the troopers had gone.

  The SAS man beside him was quartering the ship with his Starlight scope, looking for signs that any Spetsnaz personnel had already got out of the accommodation area. Richter spotted another crate about twenty-five yards from the gangway, grabbed his bag and machinegun and sprinted for it.

  The deck area appeared quiet, two troopers covering a third as he worked on the two SAS men who had fallen when the AK47 had opened up – all SAS personnel receive comprehensive medical training – but the accommodation section of the Anton Kirov was echoing with shots. Richter looked up at the bridge area, then further astern, and knew it was time for him to move.

  ‘This is Beatty,’ he said into the microphone. ‘I’m coming aboard.’ As Richter stood up he saw a brief flash from the bridge wing, and dropped flat behind the crate. Half a second later a bullet whistled through the thin wood beside him and ricocheted off the concrete of the Mole and away into the night. One of the SAS troops fired his sniper rifle. Richter cautiously eased his head out from behind the crate and looked up. Another flash, and two more shots from the Mole. Richter saw a dark figure tumble backwards and slump against the bridge wing door.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, left the nav-bag where it was, moved the Hockler into the firing position, stood up and ran. He reached the gangway and ducked down beside it. No shots. He stood again, sprinted up the gangway and crouched down against the steel side of the accommodation section. One of the troopers on deck raised an arm in acknowledgement.

  ‘Beatty. I’m going up to the bridge.’ A steel ladder ran down the side of the section, and Richter ran over to it. He looked up, but could see no signs of opposition. One SAS trooper moved to the side of the ship to provide covering fire if needed, and Richter started to climb. The ladder was in three sections, joined by intermediate platforms of perforated steel, and he made the first without problems. Richter waited briefly on the platform, checking above and below, before he started up the stairs again.

  Halfway up, a shape moved above him, and Richter span round, landed on his back on the stairway and jammed his feet out sideways to stop sliding down. He saw the movement again, and opened up with the Hockler on automatic at the same instant as one of the snipers on the Mole fired his sniper rifle. The figure above Richter slumped down, his Kalashnikov tumbling from his grasp and falling past Richter to the deck below.

  He got to his feet again and continued up. The Spetsnaz soldier was lying facedown on the second platform, the back of his seaman’s jersey soaked with blood. It looked as if he had taken five or six bullets through the chest. Richter felt briefly for a pulse in his neck, found none, and started up the third flight.

  The last set of stairs ended on the bridge wing, where another figure was slumped. As Richter stepped on to the wing he thought he saw the figure move. He dropped, just as he had been taught at Hereford, and fired a double-tap – two rounds – with the Heckler & Koch. Richter got to his feet, walked over to him, checked for a pulse and moved on. The bridge door was unlocked. Richter opened it and slid inside. There were no lights on, but he had a good idea where he was going. At the centre rear of the bridge was a sliding door, closed.

  Richter checked that the Hockler was selected to single shot and that he had about half a magazine left, and slowly slid the door open, admitting the
light from the passageway. Richter saw him before he saw Richter, but it didn’t matter because the Russian fired first. The Kalashnikov round ripped through the wooden door and took Richter full in the chest. It felt like a kick from a bull, and he tumbled backwards into the darkness of the bridge, the sub-machinegun spinning from his hands.

  The Walnut Room, the Kremlin, Krasnaya ploshchad, Moscow

  There was a brief knock at the door and then Yuri Baratov walked in. ‘We haven’t found Trushenko,’ Baratov said as the Russian President looked at him enquiringly, ‘but we think we know where he is. When we went to his apartment, his manservant said he was in St Petersburg, and when we finally found his secretary at the Ministry he confirmed it. He’s spending a few days with friends in St Petersburg. We got the address from the Ministry, and I’ve alerted the local SVR headquarters. They’re on their way to pick him up now.’

  Anatoli Lomonosov snorted. ‘They can only arrest him if they can find him,’ he said sardonically. ‘It is, I suppose, just a coincidence that the Finnish border is only a hundred miles from St Petersburg. Your SVR men may find that the bird has already flown.’

  ‘Why should he?’ the President asked. ‘He doesn’t know yet that Podstava has been discovered. Or does he?’

  ‘What have you decided to do, Comrade President?’ Baratov asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ the President replied. ‘We are going to do nothing at all for the moment. I have used the hot-line telex to tell the American President that I have no knowledge of this alleged assault, which is very nearly true. We are not going to take any military measures to respond to the American sabre-rattling.’

  ‘Is that not dangerous?’ Baratov asked. ‘If we don’t respond, we are defenceless.’

  ‘Defenceless against what?’ Yevgeni Ryzhkov asked. ‘The one thing we do know about the Americans is that they would never dare initiate a first-strike. Let them fly their bombers in small circles over the Atlantic and Pacific, let them sneak their nuclear submarines around. There are two very good reasons not to respond. If we initiate any military actions, the Americans might use that as an excuse to launch a pre-emptive strike against us.’

  ‘And the second reason, Comrade President?’

  ‘According to General Sokolov, ultimate control of Podstava lies in the hands of one man – Minister Dmitri Trushenko. If we can’t find him, he will presumably activate it when his own timetable so dictates. So, if we can’t find a way of stopping it, we are going to have to let Podstava run its course.’

  Anton Kirov

  Richter lay crushed up against the front of the bridge, his left shoulder against the base of the binnacle, trying to get his arms working. He had no idea where the Hockler had fallen, but he still had the Smith and Wesson and he was expecting the Spetsnaz trooper to push through the bridge door any second to inspect his handiwork. Richter’s right arm seemed heavy, almost too heavy to move, and it took all his strength to seize the butt of the revolver and pull it out. He dragged the pistol on to his chest, panting from the effort.

  The bridge door flew open, and Richter struggled to lift the Smith into a firing position. But he was too late – aeons too late. Back-lit by the passageway lighting, the Russian looked down at him over the barrel of his Kalashnikov. ‘Das vidaniya – goodbye,’ the Russian said, walked over to Richter and tucked the assault rifle more tightly into his shoulder.

  Richter tried to lift the Smith, but the pistol was just too heavy. He tensed, then heard the crash of a shot, but from his right. The Russian suddenly had no head, just shoulders and a spray of blood. He toppled to Richter’s left and fell sprawling on the bridge floor. A small, black-suited figure ran from the bridge wing and knelt beside Richter. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Don’t know. Chest.’ It was all Richter could do to speak. His chest didn’t hurt – it was just numb, and he couldn’t seem to draw breath. The SAS trooper felt cautiously under the vest, which Richter hoped had worked as advertised, then pulled out his hand and waved it in front of Richter’s face. ‘No blood,’ he said.

  ‘Good. What gun?’ Richter gestured feebly at the body lying beside him.

  ‘Arwen,’ the SAS trooper replied. ‘Buckshot, more or less. You should see what it does with a chest shot.’

  ‘No thanks.’ Richter’s breath was coming more easily, and he still had work to do. ‘Help me up,’ he said.

  The SAS trooper checked round the bridge and down the passageway before lowering the Arwen to the floor. With his help and the support of the binnacle, Richter got back on his feet. He felt as if he’d been through a combine harvester. The trooper picked up his Arwen, moved across the bridge and then returned with Richter’s Hockler. ‘You OK now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘I owe you. Just give me a minute to get my breath.’

  ‘All part of the service. You’re Beatty right?’ Richter nodded. ‘Did you get to the Radio Room?’

  Richter shook his head. ‘I didn’t get that far.’

  ‘Right. Follow me.’

  Richter followed him off the bridge and down the passageway. There were three doors off the passageway all open. They checked each room, but found them all empty. None of them was the Radio Room. A steel staircase led to the deck below. The trooper crouched flat on the floor, peering down the staircase and looking for any opposition. Satisfied, he stood up and made his way slowly down. On the next deck down there were only two doors on opposite sides of the passageway, one of which bore lightning-flash symbols indicative of high voltages and the Cyrillic legend ‘Радио Офис’ – Radio Office.

  Richter pointed at it. The two men moved to the door and took up positions on either side of it. Richter stretched out his arm, turned the door handle gently, and then pulled. The door didn’t budge, but suddenly the clamour of an automatic weapon erupted and a pattern of holes appeared, ripped through the wooden door at chest height.

  They flattened themselves against the steel bulkhead. Richter caught sight of a movement opposite, and saw the other door start to open. He was still slow and hurting, but he brought up the Heckler & Koch and selected auto. As the muzzle of the Kalashnikov turned towards them, Richter opened up. The machine pistol took just under a second to fire the eight 9mm rounds he had left in the magazine. A tight pattern appeared in the wooden door, and the AK47 dropped. As Richter dropped the magazine out of the Hockler and inserted another one from his belt pouch, the SAS trooper took out his Browning, ran over and kicked open the door. He slid inside, and Richter heard a single shot.

  ‘No problem,’ he said, as he emerged and took up his position again on the other side of the Radio Office door. ‘Nice shooting.’

  The trooper opened the magazine on the Arwen and inserted two shells from his belt pouch. ‘Stand back,’ he said. He stepped back into the passageway, took aim at the bottom steel hinge on the door and fired. Richter had time to see that the hinge remained more or less intact, but the wood on the door beside it had simply disintegrated, before he fired again, at the top hinge. The door toppled slowly outwards into the passageway, and as it fell the trooper lobbed a stun grenade into the Radio Room.

  Three seconds later they were inside. The sole occupant was lying in a corner, AK47 beside him. He was alive, but the stun grenade had ensured that he would take no part in the proceedings for a while. The trooper pulled out his Browning, but Richter stopped him. ‘I have to ask him if he used the radio,’ he said.

  Richter picked up the Kalashnikov, put one round through each radio set, extracted the magazine and cleared the breech. The communications equipment installed was comprehensive, but in no way unusual. All the radio sets had appeared to be switched on, but again that was probably normal practice. Richter’s hope was that the man lying in the corner was simply a crewmember who had taken refuge in the Radio Office, and not the ship’s radio operator. What bothered him was the unmade cot in one corner of the room.

  The Russian showed signs of coming round, and Richter knelt beside him. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, in
Russian. ‘Can you hear me?’ The Russian shook his head, trying to clear the fog. ‘Did you signal Moscow?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you signal Moscow?’ Richter repeated.

  The Spetsnaz trooper looked up at Richter then, his pale blue eyes defiant. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As soon as you attacked. I sleep here, and those are my orders.’

  Richter stood up. ‘I’ve got to get to the hold,’ he said. ‘Deal with him.’

  As Richter picked up his Heckler & Koch and walked out of the Radio Office and down the stairs, he heard another shot from the trooper’s Browning. ‘Ross, this is Beatty,’ Richter said into the microphone.

  ‘Ross. Where are you?’

  ‘Coming down from the Radio Room. They signalled Moscow, so if they’re going to detonate the weapon we can expect it at any time.’ He paused, still catching his breath. ‘Have you reached the hold yet?’

  ‘No. We’ve eliminated most of the opposition apart from a group on the first deck of the accommodation section. I’ve got men above and below them, but we can’t get them out.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ Richter said. ‘If we can’t get into the forward hold we’re all going to die.’ He had reached deck level. ‘I’m on the main deck now, starboard side. Can you meet me there?’

  ‘On my way.’

  Richter saw a trooper standing beside the guard rail, and a figure in civilian clothes seated beside him. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Ship’s officer. He wasn’t on board – we caught him as he came running down the Mole when the fire-fight started.’

  ‘Good,’ Richter said. ‘Bring him along.’ The trooper yanked the man roughly to his feet and pushed him forward. ‘My name is Beatty,’ Richter said in Russian, ‘and I would like your help.’ The Russian spat at Richter’s feet. The trooper kicked him behind his left knee, then dragged him to his feet again. ‘Please listen to me,’ Richter said. ‘The hold of this ship contains a very powerful nuclear weapon which I believe will be detonated within minutes by radio signal from Moscow. You and the Spetsnaz troopers were probably never intended to get off the ship or unload the weapon. You were unknowing suicide bombers. Can you help us disarm it?’ The Russian continued to stare. ‘Right,’ Richter said. ‘Bring him.’