Olaf could feel her. She was hiding behind the chassis of a T-72. He stalked towards her, letting the fear settle in. Her signature was the only clean one in the room. Eight massive fixtures, replacement turrets for the tanks in the hanger, had the other signatures.
Fear gnawed at Raina. She had never felt anything like the presence coming from this being. As she rose from her hiding spot, she desperately searched for another weapon to replace the empty assault rifle.
She had no silver. She was facing a Pricolici in a rage. She needed some way of dealing massive damage in a single effort. Her experimental pistol would be worse than useless. For all she knew, it would only make the monster even worse.
Her plans were ashes. She had used harsh methods, but she had been trying to find a way to help humanity rebuild, to become their saviour. If that meant she had to rule the rabble they had become, it was for their own good.
Now, despair filled her. She couldn’t escape the monster stalking her. Her quest for power and domination was over. But she was one of the oldest vampires there. She could still die with honor. She rose from her place of concealment and exposed herself to the Pricolici. She could still die on her feet.
In an act of mercy from the universe, she did not feel the blow when it landed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After some risky scouting into the city, the plans on which buildings to assault had changed. There was a cluster of three still-standing Soviet-era skyscrapers that were closer to fortified strong points than anything else in the city. All of them were strongly defended at the base. However, the placement of civilians as ‘human shields’ showed that there was no real planning against an air assault from the shuttles.
Perhaps their enemies were unaware of the presence of the crafts. Perhaps they believed Boris would not put them at any risk. To be fair, Boris would not risk them. However, there was nothing that Viktor had used from his arsenal that could harm the shuttles. There had been a few surprises, but nothing that extraordinary.
So, after longer than Boris liked, his forces were ready to assault the towers. Their biggest problem would be opening the rusty roof hatches with a modicum of silence. The Soviet construction may be ugly as hell, but it was solid.
Once those towers were properly manned, taking them back would be hell for the enemy. Even if they managed to—something Boris believed they lacked the training and morale to achieve—their losses would be hideous. He would land a company on each, have the first platoon infiltrate down five or six floors, and leave a white phosphorus surprise to give the defenders something to distract them.
If the hatch were too rusted, it would be quieter to thermite open the hatches. There seemed to be a few sharpshooters in the upper floors, but no defenders otherwise. His biggest concern was the civilian ‘hostages.'
There were enough of them that he was seriously worried about causing casualties, but taking the towers would shorten the siege considerably. Boris desperately hoped he could do something to reduce the food shortages for them. Too many people had already been killed. If Viktor had not been so insane, so abusive and expansionist, Boris would have left well enough alone.
But a wise leader did not leave a rabid beast next door. Like any form of a rabid animal, there was only one wise choice with Viktor. A bullet to the brainpan.
Boris was just disappointed that he could not be part of the initial assault. He was moving in after the towers and central area between them had been cleared. Two regiments of his would man the salient. The Swedes had landed a regiment of Marines, and the Finns had sent three times the forces they had initially agreed to send.
Apparently, Viktor had tried raiding their lands as well. He had not even been looking towards Arkhangelsk Palden. Boris was not sure if Viktor’s actions represented overambition or active stupidity.
Viktor was outnumbered more than three to one in troops. When it came to artillery, he equalled the mortars of Boris’s force, but had fewer field guns and nothing to match the crude howitzers Boris had pulled together.
If his forces could take and hold those towers, then Boris was grimly satisfied they could crush Viktor’s forces. Even if the combined positions did not force an outright surrender.
And if he could not go in, at least he had the Arkhangelsk Regiment. They trained for it, and Mark was an intelligent officer. Boris was sure he was the second-best choice, but Janna had delivered an ultimatum. If Boris led the assault on any tower, she was leading the assault on one of the other two.
Now, all Boris could do was wait. Wait and depend on the skill of the soldiers he was sending into battle and depend on the planning that had gone into the assault.
<<<>>>
Gregori was impatiently waiting for his man to burn through the hinges on the hatch. Over the decades since someone had last opened it, the hinges had rusted shut. At least it was a contingency that was within the plans. The thermite lance they were using was crude. Just smoked autumn venison compressed around an aluminum oxide core. But it was doing the job nicely.
The windmill and the radio mast indicated they would have people two floors down. Possibly people on the top floor. Someone had to maintain the bloody things.
Once the hatch was open, a security team of four rushed down the ladder. The task Gregori’s platoon faced was an initial clearance of the top floor. That would allow them to deploy the battalion in the top few floors before fighting their way down.
Three armored Shifters in wolf form were the next down, scouting the vicinity quickly and effectively as the remainder made their way through the open hatchway. They knew the enemy had silver rounds, but Shifters made better scouts than anyone else. They could also move faster and were experts at silent takedowns.
They would be on the front of the spear for every second floor once the battalion deployed, with other elements securing the floors after they were cleared. The top floor had been empty, except for a pair of chatting guards the Were scouts localized and quickly killed. They had been sitting down and chatting with their weapons clear of their bodies. Boredom and routine had clearly set in among at least some of the troops in the tower.
He could not rely on that. In fact, when clearing the second floor, they encountered a guarded door. The guard next to it was alert and scanning the hallway doors. Fortunately, a Shifter had smelled the unwashed man before turning the corner. Using the body signals to indicate the problem, the man had retrieved a mirror to see what the issue was.
As the guard was stationary, a quick burst from the silenced BIZON had been enough to take him down with minimal noise.
The low electric light over the door had exposed the sentry by silhouetting him slightly and had not been strong enough to betray the small movement in the corner twenty meters down the hallway.
As they approached the door, it became clear why there had been no alarm. Even at this time of night, sounds of the radio watch were loud through the door.
Gregori brought up the reserve squad as soon as the Shifter reached him. The comms unit would have to be on this floor or the next. That it was here meant they had to take it out quickly, quietly, and hope no transmission was interrupted.
That could give away the assault to those lower down. The squad’s leader, Ivan, had pointed out a bundle of cabling and wires leading to the nearby elevator door. After backing up to the corridor, they held a quick, whispered conference.
They decided the best option was to cut the wires and hope they did not give the enemy advance warning. They would set a door charge on the door frame. The idiots had set the solid steel door into the original aluminum door frame.
Two troops pulled the corpse away as Doc set the charge. Probably the oldest member of the platoon, Doc was a Were who had both medic and explosive ordinance training. Some of the platoon joked that he could disarm a nuke in under a minute.
Once the broad-shouldered Doc had set the charge on the frame, he moved back and hand-signalled a three count. On one, the cabling was cut. On two,
the entry team turned their backs on the door. With the boom, they turned back around, kicked the door in, and entered the room.
Most of the techs in the room started backing up at the sight of men with ready guns charging into the room. The unexpected concussion of the blast had startled most of them. One near a radio transmission set reached quickly for his gun. His head blew apart, a red mist mixed with shards of bone and gelatinous brain matter sprayed the man next to him and covered the equipment he had been standing against.
“On the floor! On the floor!” Gregori ordered loudly.
Four more men, out of the twenty in the room, either did not follow orders well, or did not move fast enough. Quick bursts from the entry group’s weapons to chests and heads took down those four men, making the rest downright cheerful about being face down on the floor.
After quickly securing the survivors and sending them up, under guard, to a room on the top floor they had designated for prisoners, the platoon took a rest at their designated stairwell.
Having cleared the eighteenth floor, Third platoon, Second company, leap-frogged their position, leaving them in reserve and giving them a rest from the tension and stress of clearing a floor. Clearing a building this size took too long to leave a single force at the front. Everything went smoothly until they arrived at the fourth floor. Kills and captures of targets had required minimal gunfire.
The sounds of gunfire exploded in the direction of the north corridor to the corridor stairwell. Gregori said, “We’ve hit something,” before moving towards the north on instinct. Then he paused, turned, and pointed to Petra. “Get your butt up to Second company HQ,” said the grizzled sergeant. “Get them to cover the stairwell. The third floor had to have heard that shit!”
As soon as she spun around in response, she shouted orders. Gregori started organizing troops, preparing them to move in assault formation towards the sound of gunfire. “You know what uniforms they are in. Shoot them, don't shoot ours,” he snarled, sending the wolf and troop partners forward first.
The wolf/troop combination tactic was one Boris's forces often used. While the trooper distracted or pinned down the enemy forces, the wolves would get in close to rip at hamstrings and throats. If the enemy targeted the wolves, then the troops took them out with gunfire.
It was a brutal assault tactic that, when combined with the Werewolves abilities to heal fast, invariably lead to heavy enemy casualties inside positional defenses. The major problem was the casualties that it could accrue when facing layered defenses.
Defenses exactly like the ones they had encountered there. It was still more effective than a standard assault.
Still, Boris's forces had a joke. 'Who needs grenades when you've got Werewolves?'
That's not to say that they did not carry grenades, just that they used them less often than most forces. And today would be one of those days that they needed them.
The defenders had set up a defense in depth. There were three rows of sandbags with defenders posted both behind the sandbags and behind doorways and walls. The sandbag defenses buffered and supplemented.
The fighting was bloody as enemy troopers turned to face the new threat that Gregori’s platoon presented, adding more defenders to those already facing their attack. Even under the relentless fire of twenty men, the Werewolves of Gregori’s platoon were targeted.
Several of them went down with wounds from silver ammunition. The human troopers started moving forward under fire and maneuver, giving the remaining uninjured Weres an opportunity to find whatever cover they could.
Three more of his troops went down, but they had advanced twenty meters. Everyone had been able to take cover. With hand signals, Gregori informed his troops to pair up and ready covering fire and grenades. Due to the range in the inevitable stability of close combat in these circumstances, he also ordered them to fix bayonets
Gregori started a five count. On three, two of the troopers knelt out from cover and started pouring fire towards the barricades. On four, grenades could be heard exploding around the corner, a fortuitous attack from allied forces. With five, his soldiers armed and threw their grenades into the barricades. Then all troops took cover again, waiting for the cracks of the grenades.
They only had to wait a few seconds, and with the cracks came screams of agony from those enemy soldiers that had not managed to find cover from the explosions and shrapnel. Even those who had managed to find cover was stunned by the effects of near simultaneous grenade attacks from different axes of advance.
The conditions were perfect. The enemy was disorganized, and there was a slight smoke haze from the grenades. Gregori ordered a bayonet charge.
His troops leapt forward, the Werewolves joining the charge as friendly forces passed where they had found cover or had been feigning death. The vicious snarls of the Wolves joined with the bellowed howls of the blood-hungry soldiers.
Knife and fang pierced soft flesh, bayonet and claw lunged forth. Fist and rifle-butt hammered bodies on both sides. All these and more flashed and thudded, thumped and crashed as the forward barricades were overrun.
More of the enemy flowed towards the breached lines of sandbags, but they arrived too late. Gregori and his men were already in amongst them.
Cries of despair and acts of suicidal defiance on the part of the enemy took place over the final stages of this battle. Gregori found himself without his rifle, face-to-face with a scar-faced, muscular, one-eyed man. Quickly drawing his hatchet, he parried the first bayonet strike, forcing it down, following the parry with a quick kick to the side of his scarred enemy’s knee.
His opponent grunted, shifting his balance to the other leg slightly. Then the stocky opponent returned the favor with the butt stroke to the rib cage that landed with crushing force. There was no way to move in this dip among the improvised fortifications. What little fighting room they had was not enough to disengage or circle. His opponent recovered quickly, stabbing the bayonet towards Gregori’s guts, and with the hatchet out of position for a good parry.
Forced to sweep the hatchet quickly up while ducking, hoping he could get enough force into the parry to avoid the blow, Gregori found himself gaining a massive opening. The hammer back of his hatchet was in perfect line for backswing to his opponent’s head. It landed before he saw the opening.
His opponent didn’t have time to react before his eyes glazed over, and he slumped silently to the ground.
All around him the sounds of actual fighting were quieting down. Quickly, they were replaced with the groans of the injured and the screams of the mortally wounded. The stench of blood and ruptured guts hit Gregori, and he collapsed to his knees as a weariness flowed over him. He had been clearing the building floor by floor for hours by now.
This fight had taken more energy than he had expected out of him. He hoped the rest of his unit did not feel the same way, although he suspected they did. If the remaining floors were this tightly defended, he was not sure that even the forces that had been committed to the assault would be enough to take the tower.
<<<>>>
Boris found himself looking down over St. Petersburg from the roof of the third tower. The fourth Battalion of the first Regiment had captured it, and a whole extra Regiment had completed landing and security in perimeter lines connecting the three towers. Although there was still some fighting going on in tower two, the operation could be considered a success once companies had finished sweeping the area contained within the perimeter.
Viktor would have to surrender. That or find out that he simply did not have the forces to fight two fronts. With a reinforced salient inside his lines that could sally in response to an assault from outside his lines, he had one place to go if he kept fighting.
Hell.
Now, all he waited for was for the sweep inside his own perimeter to finish so that he could set up a command post.
He was already relieved to see that civilians, who had escaped the clutches of whatever portion of Viktor's forces were
holding them, were already being evacuated out past the siege lines by his shuttles. That meant that all the captives had already been taken away to the prisoner of war cage.
He was relieved that he finally had the freedom of action to help the innocent victims of this dreary conflict.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Boris woke suddenly to the sound of close gunfire. He was momentarily disorientated. After capturing the three towers, his forces had swept the area. The towers made natural strongpoints for a perimeter. His command post was near the middle of the captured and cleared land.
There should not have been a penetration that deep into the salient. The perimeter was adequately manned, his soldiers were well-trained, and Viktor was still off balance after the attack.
His body reacted, as was to be expected from someone who was a veteran of so many wars. Rolling off his cot, grabbing for his rifle, Boris charged out of the room.
His camp had been lightly fortified.
Reacting as soon as he saw an enemy, identifying them by the differing quality of uniform and the missing armor, he fired a burst into them. Simply firing at the enemy would not be enough. His command post was just a little too isolated from the frontline and the reserve positions.
Even an old, experienced soldier could sometimes make a mistake.
There was only one real solution to the situation he found himself in. Ducking behind a pitted, ruined concrete slab wall, Boris started to change. Only the strength and resilience of his beastman form would allow him to salvage any of his command group for this attack.
His self-anger and disappointment at having made the mistake that allowed this attack, whatever they were, morphed into a burning, seething, rage as he changed to the form he usually avoided.
With an earth-shattering roar, he burst into the focal point of the enemy attack. They had targeted the best-defended building. Perhaps they had assumed that had been where he was sleeping. Unfortunately for them, it was his communications center, with always active guards and messengers, and therefore the best-defended site in the command post.
Redemption (The Boris Chronicles Book 4) Page 16