“Two minutes!” called the pilot, and the team began an equipment check, the major in charge leaning closer.
“Stay behind us, and don’t hesitate to use that.” He pointed at her sidearm. “Assume everyone is involved.”
She nodded, her heart hammering at the idea. This was a military base. Heavily armed. They’d be outnumbered perhaps hundreds-to-one. But they were assaulting a single building where the General was confirmed to be currently on a conference call with Moscow, and that building would be mostly administrative staff. By the time the rest of the base reacted, it should be over.
If everything went to plan.
If.
She spotted the base ahead, the runways visible now, the sprawling complex stretched out beyond.
This is it.
The chopper’s nose dipped as it gained speed, the ground streaking by, before it suddenly pulled up then dropped rapidly toward the ground. She gripped her seat as the doors opened, the Spetsnaz team leaping out either side before they even landed. She jumped out a few moments after them, the massive helicopter rising immediately behind her as she took a few deep breaths, gaining her bearings as the second chopper lifted off. The forty-strong team of elite soldiers was already rushing ahead in a wedge formation, the only base personnel visible either not noticing, or standing with their mouths agape, wondering what was going on.
The headquarters building with General Gorokhin lay ahead of them. Two guards at the top of the steps advanced, their weapons raised. They were taken out with suppressed weapons.
But nothing prevented the eyes of those around them from seeing what had just happened.
Shouts of anger and panic surrounded them as they reached the steps, then a siren blared. Gunfire from their left erupted, tearing at the façade of the building.
But the team didn’t stop.
The threat from the lone weapon would end the moment they crossed the threshold. She ducked, not there yet, and not used to shots being fired at her. More gunfire inside had her slowing down, but one of her team grabbed her by the arm and hauled her along with him, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them. Bursts of gunfire echoed around her, and she realized her eyes were closed. She forced them open, and gasped at the lobby littered with bodies, soldiers, and administrative staff, dead or dying around her.
A dozen men were left to guard the lobby, and she spotted the rest of the team rushing the stairs to her right. She sprinted after them as the gunfire continued on the next floor that housed the senior staff including the general. She made it to the first landing, two more bodies staring up at her, all life drained from their eyes, as shouts and screams continued.
She made it to a sitting area at the top of the stairs, several dead in the comfortable leather couches, her stomach flipping as she recognized General Osinov, a man she had tremendous respect for, and who certainly had nothing to do with what was happening.
We need him alive!
She raced after the still advancing team, the General’s office at the end of the long hallway. His door was closed, and as the team efficiently cleared the rooms before they passed, each receiving a burst of gunfire, she caught up to the major as he reached the General’s door. He booted it open and she pushed past him, slapping the barrel of his Kashkan submachine gun toward the floor. She drew her own weapon and aimed it at the General’s head as he rose from his desk, the phone still pressed against his ear.
“What is the meaning of this? Who are you?”
“I am Major Petra Yolkin, Military Police. General Gorokhin, you are under arrest for the illegal use of property belonging to the Russian people, and for a hell of a lot more before this day is out.”
The phone was returned to its cradle as the color drained from the General’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The planes, General.” She pulled out her phone, bringing up the record. “One Ilyushin Il-80, tail number RA-86147, and one Ilyushin Il-78 aerial refueling tanker, tail number CCCP-78823. Where are these planes, General?”
A deep breath was drawn from behind the desk, some color returning. “They are on exercise over the Atlantic.”
“That exercise was not approved by Moscow, General.”
He glared at her. “Since when do I need permission from Moscow to train my own people?”
“I’m the one asking the questions, General. Who is on that plane?”
“What?”
“Who is on the plane, circling in the Atlantic for no apparent reason, being regularly refueled from this base?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The major stepped forward. “May I?”
She nodded, and the Spetsnaz commander put a bullet in the General’s leg. He screamed out in pain and collapsed to his knees as he struggled to hold himself up with the desk. She stepped closer.
“General, you have another leg, and my orders give me a lot of leeway. I’ll ask you again. Who is on the plane?”
The General gave up, grasping his leg as he tried to stem the pain and blood. “H-his name is Konstantin Kozhin.”
Yolkin exchanged a glance with the major, who shrugged. “Who is Konstantin Kozhin?”
“The son of someone from my past. He threatened to reveal some family secrets if I didn’t cooperate.”
“What family secrets?”
Gorokhin glared at her through the pain. “If I told you, then that would defeat the purpose of me having betrayed my country, now wouldn’t it!”
The major raised his weapon.
“Go ahead, shoot me, I’m dead anyway.”
Yolkin raised her hand, waving the major off, just in case he decided to take Gorokhin up on his suggestion. “What did he want?”
“The Il-80 with tankers for twenty-four hours.”
“And what did you get in return?”
“Fifty million American dollars, and a promise to never be bothered again.”
“And why did he need the planes?”
Gorokhin shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Yolkin shook her head, disgusted with the pathetic creature on his knees in front of her. She pulled out her phone and dialed Morrison first, just in case her superiors gave her orders preventing her from doing so.
“Morrison.”
“It’s me. His name is Konstantin Kozhin.”
“What are you going to do?”
“My guess is take them down.”
“Take out the tanker. Leave the other one.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s the key to shutting down their network. We need him alive.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
The call ended, and she dialed Moscow. “It’s been confirmed. He gave the planes to a man named Konstantin Kozhin. He says he doesn’t know why, but we do.”
“Who’s manning the planes?”
She chastised herself for not thinking to ask the question. She pressed the phone against her chest. “Who’s manning the planes?”
Gorokhin stared up at her, his face filled with pain. “What?”
“The crew! Are they ours, or his?”
“H-his. From Medved Corps.”
She cursed and nearly spit at the mention of the mercenaries made up of mostly men like those that now filled the room. She returned to her call. “Not our people.”
“Then that settles that.”
“Wait, the Americans want the Il-80 left alone. They want him alive.”
There was a pause, and she tensed.
“You spoke to them?”
“I felt it was the diplomatic thing to do, since they were the ones who tipped us off.”
Another pause. “Next time leave the diplomacy to me, Major.”
She paled slightly. “Yes, sir.”
“Is the Spetsnaz commander with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put him on.”
She held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
The major took the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Yes?” He nodded. “Yes.” He raised his weapon and emptied the magazine into the general, then handed the phone back to Yolkin. She snapped her jaw shut but there was nothing she could do about her wide-open eyes. She put the phone to her ear.
“Sir?” There was no response. She checked the display and found the call had been ended.
Along with her investigation.
53
East of the Azores, Atlantic Ocean
Thatcher had confined himself to his quarters after losing his lunch, feigning sleep whenever someone would check on him. Giselle had spotted his display, and word had evidently spread among those on board that he was sick, so the check-ins were merely out of concern for him, not the mission. Though the fact he had heard nothing, told him that the delay continued, and his suspicions continued to grow, along with his frustrations at being powerless to do anything about it.
There was a rap on the door and the hatch opened. “Thatch, are you awake?”
He faked a groan at Giselle’s disturbance.
“Sorry, buddy, but you have to see this.”
The urgency in her voice had him kicking his blanket aside and rolling upright in his bunk. “What is it?”
“I, ahh, don’t know. You better see for yourself.”
He rose, feigning a good stretch and yawn to make it at least appear he had been sleeping, then slowly followed her onto the deck. She urged him forward, and he found himself increasing his pace to keep up, something serious obviously occurring, continuing to cover up his secret doubts no longer of any importance. He entered the mess hall to find everyone gathered around the television.
“What’s this?”
Giselle pointed at the television tuned to CNN. “They’re saying that someone has detonated two of the transatlantic cables, and is demanding two billion dollars or they’ll blow up more!”
Thatcher’s jaw dropped as he edged closer to the screen, listening to the report, and watching video of an underwater explosion breaking the surface off the coast of Spain. It was a charge they had set themselves earlier in the week. He dropped into a chair. “What does this mean?”
Giselle grabbed him by the shoulder, staring down at him. “Don’t you get it? He lied to us! He used us! This was his plan all along! Get us to plant the charges so if we were caught, we’d be blamed, then demand cash in exchange for not detonating them. He was never one of us!”
Everyone was staring at him now, anger and confusion on their faces, some with tear-stained cheeks. And he didn’t blame them. They had been betrayed. There was no doubt now. And it was his fault. It had never occurred to him not to trust Kozhin. His excitement over finally doing something that might make a difference had clouded his judgment, and now all their hard work was about to pay off for a man who was no more than a criminal. No message would be sent to better mankind, no awareness raised to the dangers of social media. It would have all been a complete waste of time and effort.
Though not for their so-called benefactor.
He stood to make billions in ransom if whoever he was blackmailing gave in. The details seemed sketchy from what he was hearing. The first inkling the press had was the explosion, which was then linked to a cable that had been severed exactly two hours earlier. It was too much of a coincidence for the press not to pursue, and someone within the American administration had revealed the truth.
But was it the complete truth?
He rose, anger replacing the shock of betrayal.
“Do you know what’s going on?” asked Giselle, still gripping his shoulder.
He shook his head. “No, but I’m going to find out.”
54
Somewhere over the Atlantic
“Echo Flight Leader, ParkRanger. We have four new bogies entering your airspace, heading two-nine-zero. We believe they’re Russian Sukhoi Su-33 fighters from the aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov. Their intent is unknown. Give them a wide berth, over.”
Apocalypta checked her instruments, the four new targets just coming into view. The tanker was less than a mile from rendezvousing with the Il-80, and her own flight was due for replacement shortly as their fuel was running low. When they had been deployed, it was to check out a curiosity. They would have left long ago, but something else was going on, and she had no clue what it was.
We don’t exactly have CNN or Google up here.
If she needed to know, command would inform her—after all, she was responsible for six airframes and half a dozen pilots including herself. Keeping her in the dark could put all of them at risk. The fact she hadn’t been informed, meant she had to trust she didn’t need to know.
But four Sukhois, dispatched into the middle of the Atlantic from a Russian carrier? Those things were almost never in the Atlantic, which probably meant it was in transit from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, or farther. Her initial thoughts were that the Russians were pissed because she had buzzed their plane, but now she wasn’t sure. If the Russians were pissed, she wouldn’t have been ordered to just give them some space. Giving them space meant their focus was the same plane they had been watching. If the Russians were a threat, she would have been ordered to bug out, or prepare to engage.
The very idea had her heart hammering. The only time she had ever engaged something in the air was over Georgia, and it had been Russians then, as well.
I seem to attract them.
She had been the talk of the Air Force, despite what had happened being declared top secret. A lot of smiles and back slaps had been sent her way, without anything said. She was a hero, though she was careful not to let it get to her head. About all she took away from the event was that she now knew she could pull the trigger when necessary. She had always wondered.
Her lady balls were big.
“Okay everyone, let’s back off and give our Russian friends some space to do whatever the hell it is they’re here for.” She banked left, away from the plane they had been shadowing, the rest of her flight breaking away with her as she made a slow loop that would bring her parallel to the new arrivals, but heading in the opposite direction with a wide enough berth that they wouldn’t perceive her as a threat. Her system started beeping and flashing at her, indicating weapons systems on the incoming birds were active.
Okay, Rooskies, who’s your target?
55
East of the Azores, Atlantic Ocean
“What the hell is going on? I just saw a report on CNN that you’ve detonated two of the bombs, and that you’re demanding two billion dollars to not detonate the rest!”
Thatcher felt the heat radiating from his flushed face, his hammering heart pounding so hard he swore he felt it in his bones. He had to calm himself.
“Has the story broken?”
He glared at the radio, unsure of how to respond, the voice of their benefactor almost bemused. “So it’s true? You’ve detonated two of the devices, two hours apart?”
“Yes.”
“You told me there was a problem with the satellite.”
“I lied.”
A wave of weakness flowed through Thatcher. He gripped the edge of the table holding the communications equipment, and drew in several large, deep breaths. A hand on his shoulder caused him to flinch, and he looked up to see Giselle standing behind him, the anger in her eyes not directed at him, but at the speaker. “What is going on? I at least deserve the truth.”
“The truth is that you are a naïve dreamer that was taken advantage of. You had an intriguing idea that I recognized could be used to my benefit. You provided the manpower and the patsies should something go wrong, and I provided the money and connections to actually execute a modified version of your plan.”
Thatcher’s eyes burned, tears threatening to escape their confines. “But the message! What about the message?”
Laughter erupted from the speaker. “The message was never going to be sent. It was useless. Even if you destroyed all the cables, they would be repair
ed in time, the data rerouted in the meantime, and in the end, nothing would have been accomplished. People don’t care anymore. They want their social media, they want their fake friends. It’s easier than real life. At least this way I’ll get a little richer, and if you want, I’ll even share some of it with your people. How’s a million each sound?”
Giselle’s hand tightened on his shoulder. He looked up at her and she shook her head, her jaw squared. He patted her hand. “You can take your money and shove it.”
More laughter. “How did I know you were going to say that? Thatcher, I respect you. You’re a man of principles, no matter how naïve they may be. I’m still going—wait a minute.” Muffled voices could be heard, and Thatcher and Giselle exchanged concerned glances. “Are you sure? Then get us closer to the Americans!”
There was a squelch then nothing.
Thatcher stood, putting an arm around Giselle.
“What the hell was that?”
Thatcher shook his head. “I don’t know, but hopefully it’s karma coming to bite him on the ass.”
“What are we going to do?”
Thatcher frowned. “The only thing we can do.”
56
Somewhere over the Atlantic
Kozhin rushed toward the cockpit as the plane banked hard to the left, Anokhin, the former major in charge of the Medved Corps mercenaries he was employing, hot on his heels. He yanked open the cockpit door and pushed inside, the pilot and copilot shouting at each other as they pushed the Il-80 to its limits.
“What’s going on?”
The pilot ignored him, leaving the copilot to answer. “Four tangoes are closing on our position. They’ve ordered us to return to Russia. General Gorokhin is dead.”
Kozhin frowned.
That’s disappointing.
He couldn’t care less that Gorokhin was dead. The man was a corrupt bastard, but he had served a purpose, a purpose that he unfortunately still needed served. He turned to Anokhin. “What’s your recommendation?”
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