Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  Hiller stared at him. “I call them targets.”

  Melnik nodded. “Sorry. I meant ‘targets.’”

  ***

  Savvin was furious. At the pindos and at himself. You are proud, Savvin told himself. And you are arrogant. Worse yet it appears that the invaders know Ozersk better than you do.

  You were stupid enough to send vehicles down main streets. And your men paid the price. But only 4 of 15 vehicles were destroyed. That suggests that the zhopas (assholes) have a limited number of mines to work with.

  That was when the old PA system came to life. “Sergeant Glazkov? Are you still alive? And what about you, Private Yolkin? Do you wish to die here? Maybe you have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. They want you to live.”

  Savvin was shocked. Somehow, someway, the pindos had been able to intercept a message related to his mission and decode it. Was that the result of a systems failure? Or an error by some idiot in the command structure? He would find out once the rhenium arrived in Moscow. Savvin turned to his XO. A captain named Salko. “Put a squad to work destroying those speakers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Salko …”

  “Sir?”

  “How many mortars did we bring?”

  “Three 82mm Podnos 2B14s, sir.”

  “Aim them at City Hall,” Savvin ordered. “We’ll reduce the building to rubble.”

  “No offense, Colonel,” Salko said. “But we only have 30 rounds per weapon.”

  “Good point,” Savvin said. “We won’t reduce the building to rubble. But 90 rounds of 82mm will certainly get their attention.”

  Salko grinned. “Yes, it will. The Americans have a saying: ‘Payback is a bitch.’”

  ***

  SoGro Farm 16, east of City 40

  Bilenko opened the door before the first policeman could knock. “Hello,” the pilot said cheerfully. “What’s up?”

  “We saw that the gate was open,” the policeman said. “And the chain had been cut.”

  “Sorry about that,” Bilenko said blithely. “We’re taking part in an exercise where we’re supposed to hide while another unit tries to find us. And we thought the farm would be the perfect spot. We’ll replace the chain.”

  The second cop had entered by then. He was wearing the epaulets of a police sergeant. “Who’s in charge? I’d like to speak with him. Mayor Brusilov told us to be on the lookout for infiltrators in Russian uniforms.”

  Hollis clubbed him from behind. The other policeman tried to bring his submachinegun to bear, but thought better of it, when Jones aimed a pistol at his face. Dubek hurried down from upstairs. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing good,” Jones answered sourly, as he took the submachine gun. “Search these guys and tie them to chairs. Let’s see what we can learn.”

  ***

  Ozersk, Russia

  The first mortar round hit City Hall on the 10th floor, where it blew a huge divot out of the east wall, and sent an avalanche of red brick into the street below. The building shuddered and Quinn felt the movement through her boots. “What the hell was that?”

  “That,” Dean replied, “was some sort of artillery. A mortar is my guess.”

  “Make that mortars plural,” Booker said, as two additional rounds hit the building.

  Suddenly the situation had changed. Rather than being an asset, the structure’s height had been transformed into a liability. All it would take was a hit in the right place to collapse the stairway, effectively cutting the top floors off from those lower down.

  Quinn turned to Booker. “Evacuate the top floors, but leave the cameras running. They’re wireless, so who knows? Maybe we’ll luck out.”

  “They’re trying to force us out into the open,” Dean said, as more shells shook the building. Paint chips rained down on them and dust filled the air.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, as she went to stand behind an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Operator. Her name was Pruitt, and she was flying a Black Hornet nano drone. “Be all you can be,” Quinn told the tech, “and find those mortars.”

  Pruitt laughed. “Yes, ma’am. I have one of them now … Take a look at screen 2.”

  Quinn looked, and sure enough, a medium-sized mortar was firing from behind the protection of a concrete wall. Quinn turned to Booker. “Where is that on the grid? And have we got a team in the area?”

  “It’s in the southwest sector of the city,” Booker replied. “Lieutenant Salazar’s team is three to four blocks away.”

  Quinn knew that meant three to four blocks away via the underground maintenance tunnels that crisscrossed the city. How long before the Russians discovered them? Not long, Quinn figured.

  “Tell Sal to destroy that mortar,” Quinn ordered. “And put teams to work placing wireless charges in the tunnels that lead to this building.”

  Booker said, “Yes, ma’am,” and went to work.

  It took Pruitt less than ten minutes to find mortars two and three. Three was surrounded by a platoon of enemy troops. Though lightly defended, two was in a quadrant where the radioactive ground water was three feet deep. The flooding made it impossible to reach via the tunnels. “I’ll take a fireteam and go after it on the surface,” CSM McKenzie volunteered.

  “Thank you, Command Sergeant Major,” Quinn replied. “Watch your six.”

  ***

  Metlino, Russia

  The police car was headed east, toward Metlino, which was located adjacent to Lake Kyzytash. It was sometimes referred to as “the most polluted place on Earth,” due to the large quantities of radioactive waste the government had dumped into the lake in the ’40s.

  The contaminated water was currently seeping north and south at a rate of 252 feet per year. Yet, in spite of that, a small group of mostly old people insisted on living there. That’s what the policeman named Chadov told them, and Jones had no reason to doubt it.

  The purpose of the trip was to “liberate” some fuel from the petrol station in Metlino, top off the patrol car’s tank, and fill whatever containers they could buy. Then they would take the gas back to the farm and fuel the trucks.

  That would be good for the 152nd, but more importantly, good for Jones. Because he couldn’t steal the Russian gold unless the 152nd retained possession of it. “There it is,” Bilenko said. “What a shithole.”

  And Jones had to agree. Metlino was a shithole. A weatherworn sign dangled in front of a convenience store-garage, similar to the one his parents ran near Colton, Oregon. As Jones braked the similarities became even more pronounced.

  The peeling paint, the vending machine out front, the tractor tire leaning against the front of the building, and the snow-covered plastic chair—all reminded Jones of home.

  There was an open bay on the right where a man was standing on a wooden box in order to work on a truck engine. Something Jones had done hundreds of times before joining the army.

  “Remember your story,” Jones said, as he stopped next to a gas pump. “We want to fill the car, and buy gas cans, because of the damage the foreign bombers did to Kyshtym.” Bilenko nodded.

  Jones wondered if the locals knew about the bombing. They had phones so it seemed safe to assume that they did.

  Bilenko opened the door to get out. Like Jones he was wearing a ushanka with a police emblem in front, a uniform overcoat, and knee-high boots. They were one size too small and hurt his feet. Fortunately, Bilenko didn’t have far to go as an old man shuffled out to pump gas.

  Jones remained in the car while Bilenko spoke with the store’s owner. The man nodded, circled around, and began to pump gas.

  Meanwhile Bilenko entered the open bay and spoke to the mechanic. He emerged carrying two five-gallon containers. And that made sense in a country store. If there’s one thing that Jones’s parents sold a lot of, it was gas cans.

  Jones watched in the rearview mirror, as Bilenko loaded full gas containers into the trunk, which he then proceeded to close. Jones started the engine, and watched as the pilot gave the old man a sheaf
of money, all of which had been confiscated from the policemen’s wallets.

  Then Jones saw the mechanic appear behind the car and realized that he was a very sturdy she. That was when the woman raised a semiautomatic pistol and shot Bilenko in the head.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ozersk, Russia

  The maintenance tunnels had been constructed in the ’50s in order to place the city’s electrical cables and pipes underground where they’d be impervious to the region’s icy winters. But the passageways had fallen into disrepair during the decades since City 40 was cordoned off. Some were dry, but many weren’t, including the passageway that Lieutenant Salazar and his soldiers were slogging through. Water sloshed around them.

  The ceiling was so low that they couldn’t stand up straight. That forced Salazar to look down as he walked. The blob of light from his headlamp passed over the body of a dead cat. It had two tails. Another reminder of the fact that the longer the 152nd remained in the city, the more radiation the soldiers would be exposed to.

  Salazar’s orders were to reach a spot adjacent to a Russian mortar, exit the tunnel, and destroy the weapon. His team would have surprise on their side. And that was good. But would they manage to exit the tunnel without being spotted? And once they were spotted, would enough soldiers be up on the surface to get the job done?

  It was the same problem the Russians faced back at the copper plant. The first Russian to emerge from the underground passageway had been able to kill the colonel.

  But return fire killed him within seconds. That meant the men waiting below had to pull the body down and get it out of the way before they could climb upwards. And the second wave of Russians was slaughtered.

  The key, to the extent there was one, was to exit the passageway a safe distance away— and close on the mortar quickly. Salazar knew that his life and those of the men and women under his command would depend on it.

  Salazar raised a hand to stop those behind him, and had to stoop in order to look ahead. Four pencil thin beams of light were visible, each passing through a drainage hole, and revealing a way out. Salazar was armed with a two-foot long section of wooden dowel with a piece of red cloth tied to one end. He opened his mike. “Charlie-Six to Alpha-Four. I’m in position, or I think I am, and I’m going to raise a flag. Over.”

  “This is Four,” Booker replied. “Go for it. Over.”

  Salazar chose a hole at random and pushed the red “flag” up to the surface. Would a Russian notice it? If one did, he would open the manhole and drop a grenade into the tunnel.

  But, if the plan worked, Pruitt would spot the flag via the video feed from her Black Hornet drone, and let Salazar know that he was in the correct location.

  An agonizing minute passed. Then Booker spoke. “You’re one lid short of the goal, Six. Keep going. Over.”

  Salazar pulled the flag down, and clicked his mike twice. Then he turned to Mahowski. “We’re one lid short. Pass the word.”

  Salazar pushed ahead. After what he estimated to be a city block four holes appeared. Salazar felt his heart beat faster. His stomach felt queasy. Officers lead. And, in order to lead, Salazar would be the first person to climb up and out. Don’t fail, he told himself. Don’t fail.

  He turned to Mahowski. “Tell the troops to get ready … And tell them to exit quickly once I push the lid out of the way.”

  Mahowski nodded. “No problem, Lieutenant. We’ve got this.”

  Salazar had to sling his rifle in order to brace himself and push. He tried, and tried again, but the steel plate wouldn’t budge. He turned to Mahowski. “It’s too heavy for me … Or it’s stuck. Send for the Hulk. Maybe he can lift it.”

  Private Larry Gooding, AKA “The Hulk,” had been an amateur powerlifting champion prior to being drafted, and was the strongest man in the unit. The other soldiers had to flatten themselves against the walls for Gooding to pass.

  Gooding had dark skin, broad shoulders, and huge biceps. If anyone could push the lid out of the way Gooding could. Salazar pointed upwards. “That sucker is too heavy for me or it’s stuck. See what you can do. Oh, and if you succeed, get up and out of the tunnel as quickly as you can.”

  Gooding eyed the cover, positioned himself directly below it, and did a deep knee bend. Then, using the power of his tree-trunk like legs, he pushed. Or attempted to.

  Nothing happened. Then with a suddenness that caught Gooding by surprise the steel cover tipped up and out of the way. It landed with a clang. “Up! Up! Up!” Mahowski shouted. Gooding’s bulk barely fit through the hole. But he made it, and Salazar was right behind him, eager to see his surroundings.

  Salazar found himself in the middle of a snow-covered street. A Russian Vodnik was parked 200 feet away. The top-mounted machinegun was pointed in the opposite direction. Pruitt’s Hornet buzzed past his head. “Alpha-Four to Charlie-Six. The mortar is south of your position. Take it out. Over.”

  Salazar heard a bang, saw smoke rise from behind a wall, and knew that a shell was arcing its way toward City Hall. “Roger that. Over.”

  The entire six-person team was on the surface by then. The time for stealth was over. Salazar waved his soldiers forward. “Follow me!”

  They ran to a free-standing concrete wall. It was eight feet tall, and covered with graffiti. Salazar removed an M67 impact grenade from a pouch on his tac vest and Mahowski did the same. After arming the weapons, the men tossed them over the wall, and yelled “Grenade!” in unison.

  Without waiting to hear the explosions Salazar circled around the north end of the wall and began to fire. Half the Russian mortar team was already down. The rest fell to a hail of bullets from Salazar and Mahowski.

  Once the mortar team had been neutralized a kid named Kramer hurried to fasten a charge to the mortar. It was lying on its side but still functional. “Stack shells around it,” Salazar ordered. “But do it quickly. We need to amscray.”

  The shells would make the coming explosion even larger. But of more importance was the opportunity to prevent the Russians from using the shells in a different mortar.

  Once the ammo was heaped next to the mortar, Salazar told his people to start back, and ordered Kramer to “Blow it.”

  Kramer yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

  The combined explosions were very loud, and echoed between buildings, as a cloud of white smoke rose to meld with the gray sky. “Back to the tunnel!” Mahowski bellowed. “Move it!”

  ***

  Quinn knew that a civilian named Haddad had been captured in the basement of City Hall when Dean’s team cleared the building. And she’d been too busy to give the matter any thought since.

  But, after interrogating the prisoner, Dean requested half an hour of her time. “I know you’re slammed,” he told her. “But this guy has an interesting story to tell. More than that, he could be a key player after we cross into Kazakhstan.”

  That was what Plan B called for … A dangerous trip south and across the border into Kazakhstan where a long-range aircraft would arrive to rescue the 152nd. If one was available, if it didn’t get shot down, and if it could land.

  Quinn knew all of that because the plan was hers. And the fact that she’d spent zero time thinking about the next steps made her feel guilty.

  It was as if Dean could read her mind. “Stop that, Katie. You’re doing an excellent job. There’s no reason to feel guilty.”

  How long had it been since someone had called her “Katie?” Rather than “Major?” Or “Ma’am?” And Dean could, because he wasn’t in her chain of command, and was probably a major himself. Or a lieutenant commander. Because Quinn had a hunch that Dean was a SEAL.

  That was the moment when Quinn realized that she liked hearing her name on his lips. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, Dean was looking into her eyes with something more than professional interest. She cleared her throat. “If this Haddad character can help us exfil I’m all ears.”

  Dean grinned. “Good. He’s in a cell. I’ll bring him up. Would 1300 be oka
y?”

  “Yes,” Quinn replied. “I’ll see you then.”

  The surviving mortars had stopped firing. Not as an act of mercy, but because the Russians were out of ammo. The result was a standoff. But one Quinn couldn’t accede to. Because with a large quantity of rhenium at stake, not to mention a shipment of gold, the Russians would request reinforcements. And every day spent in City 40 meant that her people were absorbing additional radiation. So, the 152nd had to defeat the Spetsnaz battalion, and do so quickly.

  Fortunately, from Quinn’s point of view, there were signs that Colonel Savvin was preparing to attack. Quinn knew the Russian’s name thanks to the roster the NSA had intercepted. And she knew something about the Russian officer’s personality after reading the CIA profile forwarded to Dean.

  Savvin was by all accounts a strict disciplinarian who, though somewhat conceited, still held himself to account. And Savvin would feel a sense of failure if his unit failed to defeat the enemy on its own. That was one of the reasons Quinn believed an attack was imminent.

  There was a great deal to accomplish and time went by quickly. It felt as if only a few minutes had passed when Dean returned with Haddad. The prisoner was dirty and disheveled. But so were the rest of them.

  They met in a dusty office where badly yellowed documents were still heaped high in a dead man’s inbox. Fifties-style propaganda posters graced the walls, and a moth-eaten overcoat hung from a hook.

  “All right,” Dean said, as they took their seats. “Major Quinn, this is Hakeem Haddad. He’s a college student, and an agent for Sin Jol, aka The True Path. And it, as you may know, has goals similar to those of ISIS—but is much less violent. Thus far anyway.

  “Mr. Haddad, this is Major Katie Quinn. She’s in command of the 152nd.”

  “I am glad to meet you,” Haddad said, in stilted English.

  “Same here,” Quinn replied.

  “First,” Dean said, “I’d like Hakeem to bring you up to speed on how he wound up hiding in the basement of this building. Go ahead, Hakeem … Take it from the point when you were arrested by the police.”