But most of Dobrynyn's work had been with swimmer and minisubmarine raids, which, along with undersea habitats, were his specialties. Aside from training exercises, this was his first helicopter assault.
Unusual.
And this time, Baku Naval Headquarters had requested the operation, but the raid was endorsed by the GRU. Reading between the lines, Dobrynyn supposed a flag ranker at Baku wanted to embarrass the KGB garrison in Baikonur. Rumors of these things, sometimes ugly, with loss of life, reached the Spetsnaz. Politics. The KGB had probably beat up on somebody in Baku Headquarters recently.
Out the right window, a pair of red radio tower lights winked at eye level, a light loom glowered in the dust. Kharabali ten kilometers to starboard. Orbruchev turned and Dobrynyn saw a thin smile. The pilot nodded at Ritzna, then went back to his work. Another two hundred kilometers to Baikonur, a little over an hour to go.
Baikonur Cosmodrome. A sprawling eleven-hundred-square-kilometer complex, Baikonur was one of the Soviet Union's major rocket research and manned space centers. Nine hundred forty kilometers southeast of Moscow, the Cosmodrome easily absorbed millions of rubles daily to staff its research centers, control complexes, launch pads, manufacturing and final assembly plants, fuel dumps, rocket test firing stands, telemetry, computer, materials, instrumentation, tracking, building, and maintenance facilities. Leninsk, thirty-seven kilometers to the south, was exclusive home to Baikonur's seventy-five thousand workers. Situated over flatlands on the Kazakhstan Steppe, Baikonur was crisscrossed by hundreds of kilometers of railroad track. Construction towers, radar antennas-- hundreds of them-- organized into large farms, competed with thousands of telephone poles for skyline space. Packs of wild horses meandered at will over the arid cosmodrome and somehow survived temperatures from minus forty to over 110 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sputnik I had launched from Baikonur, then Gagarin, then Titov, then Shatalov. The Soyuz manned space flight missions originated there. Heroes were made in Baikonur.
They died there too. Pravda had recently printed a story about fifty-four scientists and technicians who were killed in the early sixties when an erroneous signal touched off the first-stage rocket they worked on. An enormous monument had been built in Leninsk, its stone engraved letters read, "Eternal glory to the military who heroically died while fulfilling their duty." Dobrynyn was surprised to see it in Pravda. He had read about the mishap, and others, in classified literature, but it seemed strange to see it in the press.
But success still followed success at the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Mir, the orbiting space station, became a reality, as did the Energia and Proton heavy lift boosters. And Buran. The Buran manned space shuttle, when strapped to an Energia booster, could orbit the earth and carry a payload comparable to its American counterpart.
Tonight's target was the Buran number-one launch pad. The complex was toward the north extremity of the Cosmodrome. The main technical center, Baikonur's core, lay forty kilometers to the southeast. Dobrynyn looked at the fuel gauges and shook his head. Another sixty kilometers to the Buran pad, 120 round trip. Fuel for the return trip was a major problem.
But intelligence had predicted things would be quiet at the Buran pad for the next week or so. They had stood down for maintenance to the liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen fueling systems. The Energia was already stacked for the next mission but the Buran shuttle was not scheduled to be strapped to its booster until next week. Not many people around now. Getting in and out should be easy.
He saw a dim reflection inside the windshield, someone moved forward -- Ullanov. His adjutant was in full battle gear, an AK-74 slung over his shoulder. Like Dobrynyn's, his face was blackened. Ullanov's eyes and teeth shone like spotlights in the murky interior.
Ullanov checked his watch, then nodded toward Ritzna. "Isn't it about time?"
"Late, I think. Leninsk should have interrogated ten minutes ago."
"All this nonsense about transporting critical machine parts. I wouldn't buy it if--"
Ritzna raised a hand, then reached up and flipped switches overhead. He pressed a palm against his helmet and keyed his mike. His lips moved. The copilot nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. He looked up to them and shrugged.
Two minutes passed. Ritzna put his hand back to his helmet. He turned with a grin. "Leninsk Airport has cleared our flight plan, Colonel. I gave them an ETA of an hour and a half, said we were having generator problems along with the headwind."
"Do they have us on radar?" Dobrynyn asked.
"No, sir. And they bought the IFF malfunction. I reported our position over Orlovski. Even with this headwind, we should be in and out by the time Leninsk expects us."
Dobrynyn glanced at Ullanov. The master sergeant's expression was darker than his face camouflage.
"I think you're right, Josef. That was too easy." Dobrynyn said.
He bent to the pilot. "Orbruchev. This whole thing stinks. We'll hit the secondary target."
Orbruchev nodded, the Mil' came left slightly.
Dobrynyn rubbed his chin and said to Ullanov, "South side of Baikonur. Liquid oxygen distillation plant, Josef. Eh? They make liquid hydrogen too, right?"
Ullanov looked aft. "Yessir. I'd better brief the men."
Dobrynyn put a hand on Ullanov's forearm and said loudly, "Rocket fuel, Josef. Liquid oxygen, liquid hydrogen, hypergolics, all kinds of fuel. Don't you think they would have a few drops of kerosene?"
Ullanov and Orbruchev looked at each other, their eyes crinkled. Then Ullanov turned and went aft to tell the men about the change in targets.
Orbruchev grinned up to Dobrynyn. "No fun stealing gas in Baikonur, Colonel. No windows to break, no screaming babushkas to piss off."
The Mil' swooped over a hoary, spiked landscape sixty-five minutes later. The wind had unaccountably stopped and it was clear now. Dobrynyn looked out the port window as they shot over a low white wall, Baikonur's southern boundary. He checked his map and squinted at a group of lights. Yes, Tyuratam, Baikonur's original village, lay nestled six kilometers to the west. The liquid oxygen plant should be about nine kilometers north. He turned aft, caught Ullanov's eye and raised a fist. Two other Spetsnaz rose beside the master sergeant, they checked one another's gear.
Ritzna looked up to Dobrynyn. "Leninsk Approach Control wants to know our intentions, Colonel."
"They used that word? Intentions?"
"Yessir."
"And they still don't have us on radar?"
"That's what they said, sir."
"Don=t believe a word. They know exactly where we are. Tell them we're fifteen minutes out." He looked ahead and nudged Orbruchev's shoulder. "There!"
The pilot nodded as an antenna farm whipped underneath. Then he eased the Mil' among a group of prefabricated aluminum buildings. Fuel trucks were parked in long rows behind a wire fence. A double railroad siding gleamed in the moonlight.
Seven meters, four, one. The Mil' came closer, downwash billowed dust clouds around them.
The side door opened, three figures jumped, then Orbruchev raised his helicopter again and headed north.
Dobrynyn stepped aft among his squad as the Mil' slowed for another descent. He checked them quickly, slapped backpacks, then went to the open door as the Mil' dropped her tail and squatted six meters over an asphalt courtyard. As they descended into dust, Dobrynyn picked out two large distillation towers in the distance; closer, he saw a low concrete barracks building, and their secondary target, the three-story combination fuel distribution and administration building. The valve control and distribution center was on the second floor.
...the second floor...something nagged at the back of Dobrynyn's mind as Orbruchev eased the Mil' down.
A meter off the deck. Dobrynyn jumped with Corporal Smirnitskiy and the pair ran for the control center's side door.
Three quickly jumped after them, sprinted fifteen meters, and knelt. They fired gas grenades into the barracks, donned gas masks, then dashed into the
smoke. As the Mil' settled to earth, the last two Spetsnaz jumped, both laboring with heavy backpacks. One stumbled. His partner raised him by the armpit and the pair raced toward the liquid oxygen distillation towers.
As expected, the control room side door was metal-shielded and double-locked. Dobrynyn stood back. Smirnitskiy shouldered his AK-74 and fired a five-shot silenced burst. Then another quick one. Bullets screeched and ricocheted inside. Smoking holes took the places of the knob and lock mechanisms. They yanked, the door crashed open, and they sped inside.
There. Dobrynyn spotted the main stairway five meters ahead. He dashed for it, caught the bannister on the run, and whipped onto the stairs, his legs pumping.
Six submachine gun muzzles stared at the two from the top of the landing. They stopped in disbelief halfway up the stairs. Feet shuffled behind them, as four more men armed with submachine guns took positions on the first floor.
Then it hit Dobrynyn. There had been no resistance, no guards, no workers walking around. Not even a damned stray cat! It had been too easy.
Outside, the Mil's engines spooled down with a mournful whistle. It was quiet for a moment. Dobrynyn heard shouts in the courtyard, then screams of pain. He recognized his men's dismayed voices. He looked back to the group on the landing.
An officer, an oval-faced captain with pinched, close-together eyes and green KGB shoulderboards, smiled thinly. He waved a hand. "You are late, comrade."
Gun barrels and shouts prodded the pair into the first-floor cafeteria. They searched Dobrynyn, then handcuffed, gagged, and threw him into a plastic chair. Leg irons were snapped around his ankles. Smirnitskiy was quickly disarmed and made to brace against a far wall with his feet spread.
Presently, the rest of his squad, including a wide-eyed Orbruchev and Ritzna, were booted through the door. Two Spetsnaz, the demolition squad, struggled among the soldiers. They were beaten and kicked. One of the men's arms dangled obscenely as they roughed him to his feet and shoved him along.
Dobrynyn looked around, incredulous. His men. It had only taken sixty seconds. All bled from gashes around their heads, faces, and necks; even the erudite Orbruchev had a long slash down his cheek; Ritzna's eye was almost swollen shut, and blood ran freely from his nose. Their gear was tossed into a corner and the team joined Smirnitskiy against the wall.
The KGB captain pointed at three men. Their legs were kicked out from under and they pitched to the floor. One soldier planted a foot, pinning their necks, while other soldiers kicked the downed men in their backs and stomachs. Soldiers laughed as they stood over the man with the broken arm. A boot pinned his wrist while another soldier brought a rifle butt down on his hand. Bones crunched and the Spetsnaz screamed shrilly.
Over the next ten minutes Dobrynyn raged through his gag. Yet nothing inhibited these animals as they moved from man to man kicking, yanking, gouging. The KGB captain strutted among them, his hands behind his back. He looked at Dobrynyn once, shook his head, then watched the squirming Spetsnaz, nodding at their screams.
Dobrynyn counted thirty or so assailants. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders as they grunted and stomped and booted. All wore green KGB shoulderboards--these weren't the Army or Strategic Rocket Forces men that garrisoned Baikonur.
"Stop!"
An officer stood in the doorway. He wore an overcoat and his shoulderboards indicated a KGB full colonel. Dobrynyn looked at the insignia: Medical Corps. Full face, wide-spaced pointed teeth, sandy hair, the colonel walked in and stood before the captain in silence. "This was unnecessary." He shook his head slowly.
"We've waited for this for a long time, Colonel. These people have been--"
"Captain, that's enough. We've accomplished our mission. Load these men and take them to the dispensary. Keep them under guard but don't touch them anymore. I'll take care of this one." He nodded toward Dobrynyn, then walked up to him, his hands on his hips. "You should have tried the launch pad. Things would have gone easier. We had Army personnel waiting for you."
Dobrynyn looked into cold, brown eyes, a freckled face. Except for crow's feet around his eyes, the colonel could pass for twenty.
"My name is Sadka. I've been trying to find you for the past twelve hours. And, believe me, it was hard to convince the GRU to let us in on what you were doing. When I finally learned of your whereabouts, you were over the Caspian and headed this way.
"There is no time. No time at all. I flew directly from Moscow to intercept you here." He reached and pulled down Dobrynyn's gag.
Dobrynyn shouted, "You bastard! What the hell do you want with us? Why go to all the trouble of setting this up, then tipping it off?"
"In a moment." Sadka nodded to two men. "In there," he ordered.
The soldiers dragged Dobrynyn's chair into a small room. It had a long drainboard, a porcelain sink, blackened range, and refrigeration equipment. The men left. Sadka and Dobrynyn were alone.
"What is it, Colonel?" Dobrynyn demanded. "What is so important that made you mangle my men? You or whoever set this up could have recalled us when we refueled at Nizni Oseredok. Why did you let this go so far?"
Sadka raised a hand. "I needed you to come to me. We saved at least--"
"Saved what?"
"--three hours, possibly four. I didn't anticipate what these people would do. It took me a while to get here from the Buran launch pad--"
"I don't expect apologies out of you. And believe me, we'll take care of your people later. And what is a doctor-colonel, or whatever the hell you are, doing here in a command function? Are you a zamp in disguise? And what is so damned important that an entire mission is compromised? It's a useless waste!" Dobrynyn roared.
Sadka waited as Dobrynyn glared. He leaned against the sink and folded his arms. Finally, "Your brother."
"What?"
"I said, `your brother.'"
Dobrynyn was silent.
"Yes. I thought that would get your attention." He paused, then, "Haven't you wondered about him and your father? Hasn't the legacy given you enough trouble?"
"Major! I demand you release us. I want our weapons returned and--"
Sadka stepped to Dobrynyn and backhanded him across the cheek. Dobrynyn's head whipped.
Sadka yelled, "Listen to me, you idiot. There is no time. This is really about your brother and you have a chance to do something about it!"
They locked eyes. Men murmured and groaned outside, an occasional shout cleaved through the door.
Sadka went back and leaned against the sink. "Well?"
Dobrynyn sighed, "All right, zamp."
"All right, what?"
Dobrynyn shook his head. "I don't understand any of this. My father and brother. Yes, they follow me everywhere. You must be aware of that already. If you aren't, read the damn file. But it means nothing. I never knew my father. My brother and I were separated when we were very small, a year old, I think. And what's it to do with all this?"
"Everything and nothing. If you must know, your raid was to be compromised, anyway. GRU wanted to test your reactions as well as those of base security here. But I needed you quickly. That's why we were forced to do it this way.
"There is no time. You will be leaving within the hour." Sadka tapped his coat pocket. "I have your orders. Your adjutant too, if you wish. You rate one. As far as your colleagues in Baku will know, you have been placed in temporary command of the garrison. That's your cover. It's been all arranged. It will be done quietly."
Dobrynyn struggled against his cuffs. The chair bounced. "I don't understand a word of this. What garrison? And whose orders?"
Sadka waited until Dobrynyn settled, then reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "An exciting opportunity for each of us, comrade. And I am not a zampolit. My field is psychopharmacology. Yours is, in a manner of sorts, espionage and assassination. Together, we can run the perfect operation--"
"Speak clearly, damnit! What operation?"
Sadka almost pouted. "Your brother. You are going to become yo
ur brother."
"What? How?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you. We have him. In Petropavlovsk. You are going to study him. His every facet. His every nuance. It will be a crash course. Your English will become perfect. You will learn your brother's American dialect, and then..."
"What?"
Sadka snapped his fingers, "...take his place. In America. He is a naval architect like you. Although he doesn't know, he is slated to be a leading program manager on the SSN-21 program. Have you heard of that?"
Dobrynyn nodded. "Their next generation attack submarine for the twenty-first century."
"Yes. That's where I come in. I will help you learn what your brother knows. When you go to America in his place you will find out more about the SSN-21 program and anything else you can discover. But we must do it quickly. Your brother can't be missing too--"
Sadka's head twirled to the door.
They heard "plop-plop" sounds in the cafeteria. Dobrynyn recognized the hissing of tear gas canisters. Then gunfire, a quick burst, raked outside. They heard screams, rasping coughs, and gurgling. Glass shattered, feet shuffled, and voices shouted hoarsely. Sadka pulled a Makarov from under his coat, his eyes grew wide. More gunfire, smoke seeped under the door.
Dobrynyn and Sadka coughed, then they retched.
The door crashed open. White smoke poured in. Dobrynyn's eyes ran freely and he coughed in rasps, his lungs white-hot.
Sadka stood at the sink dousing a handkerchief when a shape merged behind him. A rifle butt swung and smacked his head. Sadka slumped to the floor. His pistol clattered beside him.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 23