Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  That made sense. Haddad was going home. Could he flag a car down? Maybe, but maybe not. Any local in their right mind would wonder what a soldier was doing on a lonely road, all by himself, in a snowstorm.

  But fools were born every day. And maybe Haddad would get a ride. Dean would be shit out of luck if he did. Not only would he lose his contact with Sin Jol, Dean would have to confess his sins to the Ice Queen, and that was the worst possibility he could think of.

  The tracks turned left at one point, and ran into some bushes, where Haddad had paused to take a pee. He could see the yellow stain which meant the distance was closing. That was encouraging. Dean could see a pink smear on the horizon however, and the sky was getting lighter, which meant the locals would be out and about soon.

  Dean’s pace had slowed to a brisk walk by that time. A truck passed without slowing. That was a good thing. Or Dean assumed it was, although he couldn’t be sure.

  What would Haddad do? Would he go to ground? And hide during the day? Or would he keep going? And take his chances on the road?

  Time would tell. Dean ran, and ran some more, until Haddad’s tracks veered off onto a one-lane track that followed a fence line up and over a rise. Haddad was going to ground. But why there? It seemed like a strange choice since no structure was visible. He’s been here before, Dean reasoned.

  A cold breeze came in from the east and blew some of the loose snow his way. Dean put his head down. And, when he looked up, it was to see a drift of gray smoke from beyond the rise. That suggested the presence of a home, and raised the possibility of people. Why else would the kid head for a place that was so clearly occupied?

  Rather than continue on the snow-covered road, Dean crossed the fence, and descended a slope to an icy stream bed where he hoped to approach the house unseen. He paused to put the night vision gear away and brought the submachine gun into the open.

  After following the gully for a thousand feet or so, Dean climbed most of the slope before dropping to the ground, and elbowing his way forward. And sure enough, beyond the fence Dean could see a barn, some snow-crusted farm equipment, and a low-lying house. The lights were on, and smoke dribbled from the chimney.

  Dean moved 50 feet to the right, where the barn would block the view from the house, and climbed the fence. Then it was a simple matter to close with the barn and peek around a corner. He could see an expanse of snow, what was almost certainly an outhouse, and the tracks that led to and from it.

  A thick layer of snow covered the roof. There was a single window on the south side of the structure. A warm glow was visible behind lacy curtains.

  If the owner happened to be looking east, he or she would almost certainly spot Dean, as he crossed the expanse of snow separating the barn from the house.

  But how likely was that? Chances were that the resident or residents would be talking to Haddad. Dean ran toward the house. Six inches of snow made that difficult and the pack slowed him down. The journey seemed to last forever, but took no more than 30 seconds.

  The back door was plain but sturdy. Dean took hold of the knob. It turned freely and some gentle pressure was sufficient to push it open. The air was warm and fuggy.

  Dean heard voices as he entered the old-fashioned kitchen. From the sound of it two men were engaged in a loud argument. And one of them was Haddad.

  Dean tiptoed over to a half open door and took a look at the room beyond. It was furnished with an ancient dresser, a rumpled bed, and a cheap wardrobe. That was the only bedroom as far as Dean could tell.

  A floorboard creaked as Dean made his way over to a beaded curtain and peeked through. Haddad was there all right, along with a shorter man, both seated at a table. The stranger had a pair of enormous glasses perched on his nose.

  The conversation was in Russian, so Dean couldn’t understand it. But one thing was for sure … The man with the glasses was pissed, and Haddad was on defense.

  Dean stepped into the room with the submachine gun ready to fire. “Well, look who’s here.”

  A look of surprise appeared on Haddad’s face as he turned and went for a gun. “Don’t do it,” Dean said, and the hand fell away.

  That was when the man with the glasses stood and slapped Haddad across the face. Once from the left, and once from the right. “You are a stupid, stupid boy,” the man said in Kazak. “Look at what you’ve done! This man will kill us. And it’s your fault.”

  Dean cleared his throat. Though not as good as his command of Arabic, the agent could get by in Kazak. “I won’t kill you unless forced to do so. My name is Dan Dean. And you are?”

  “I go by Amir Abdulov. You speak Kazak.”

  “Yes, I do,” Dean replied in that language. “It’s my guess that you are what we would call a Case Officer. And Haddad is one of your agents.”

  “There’s no point in denying it,” Abdulov said disgustedly. “The idiot led you here. Why?”

  “Because he’s scared,” Dean replied, as he went over to confiscate Haddad’s pistols. “But there might be hope for him. Can we sit and talk like reasonable men?”

  Abdulov shrugged. “Yes, why not?”

  “Good. It’s my guess you have one or more weapons hidden in the house. If you go for one of them, or look like you’re going for one of them, I will kill you. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Abdulov said grudgingly.

  “Please feel free to offer me some coffee.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, I would. Thank you for offering. Haddad and I will join you in the kitchen.”

  There was barely enough room for the three of them at the tiny kitchen table. Dean placed the submachine gun on the floor next to him, but kept a pistol in his lap, as Abdulov made coffee. From what Dean could tell the concoction included dark coffee, cream, sugar and a shot of vodka. Just the thing for a chilly morning.

  After serving his guests Abdulov lit a hand-rolled cigarette before taking a sip of his coffee. “Okay, American, speak.”

  Dean did his best to provide a concise description of the mission and what had occurred up to that point. “So,” the SOG officer concluded, “we have the rhenium. And now we need to remove it from Russia. The original plan was to fly it out just hours after we arrived. But, when our planes were destroyed, we switched to Plan B—and a trip to Kazakhstan.”

  “Where Sin Jol will be happy to accept the rhenium and kill you,” Abdulov said evenly.

  Dean smiled. “That’s one possibility. But there are others as well. And Haddad here was smart enough to think of one. Go ahead, Hakeem … Tell Amir about your plan.”

  Haddad was visibly worried. What if Abdulov didn’t like his plan? And that, Dean realized, was why the young man fled the lake cabin. After giving the plan some additional thought Haddad decided to ditch it and the American.

  Cautiously at first, with his eyes darting from face-to-face, Haddad gave voice to his plan. “So,” he concluded, “if we help the Americans, and promise to fight the Russians, we could request large quantities of weapons and ammunition. Especially since we have no need of rhenium.”

  Abdulov’s eyes looked huge behind the big lenses. “You aren’t supposed to think,” the handler said. “You’re supposed to do what you’re told. Nevertheless, your proposal might have some merit. Not much mind you, but some, and it’s possible that the Caliph will smile on it. We shall endeavor to find out.

  “There are complexities however. The pigs who run Kazakhstan want to destroy us. They have been on the receiving end of aid from both Russia and the United States.

  “However, right after the war started, Kazakhstan declared itself to be neutral. But that’s a farce. The government is riddled with pro-Russian officials. So, who knows?” Abdulov inquired rhetorically. “Perhaps your State Department would assist us. Allah willing.”

  “Does that mean you’re willing to help?” Dean demanded.

  “I don’t have much choice,” Abdulov replied, as he blew a stream of pungent smoke into the ai
r. “The FSB (Federal Security Service) will land like flies on shit in a matter of hours. Then they’ll go looking for CIA, MI6, and Mossad agents. And they might find me.

  “Plus, it would be stupid to trust an idiot and an infidel to travel south without supervision.”

  “Do you have a vehicle?” Dean inquired.

  “I have a flatbed truck.”

  “Good. I’ll ride up front with you. Hakeem can ride in back.”

  Both men laughed.

  ***

  Chelyabinsk, Shagol Air Base, Russia

  The four engine II-76MD transport banked as it circled Shagol Air Base. There weren’t any windows aft, so General Oleg Dedov had gone forward to look over the pilot’s shoulder, and get a firsthand look at what was waiting on the ground.

  Dedov had seen aerial photos. And been briefed. “The B-2s flew in from the south and bombed the shit out the place.” That’s what he’d been told. And it was true.

  The single runway ran parallel to an equally long concrete apron and the revetments where approximately 20 planes were parked. Some had been damaged or destroyed during the bombing. Others remained untouched. But wouldn’t be able to take off until the craters in the pockmarked runway were repaired.

  All of which had been part of an elaborate scheme to steal a large quantity of rhenium from the copper plant in Kyshtym and spirit it away on stolen An-124s. A plan that would have been successful had it not been for the efforts of a guard officer named Yeltsin.

  Then a Spetsnaz battalion had landed. The same battalion that was supposed to escort the rhenium to Moscow under the command of Colonel Savvin. A capable officer by all accounts, but one who’d been outsmarted, and was presently MIA.

  But smart or not, the officer who led the Allied raid was about to go down. Because even as the transport circled over Shagol, two of four helicopters were coming off transports in Kyshtym.

  And once the helos were operational they would find the Allied column and destroy it. Or, failing that, harry the pindos like hunting dogs, and drive them south into Dedov’s arms.

  But first things first. Dedov’s paratroopers were members of the vaunted 76th Guards Air Assault Division. A unit that traced its origins back to WWII, and the famous 157th Rifle Division, which distinguished itself at the Battle of Stalingrad.

  They were waiting in the cargo compartment ready to jump. And Dedov, who’d been called out of retirement, was going to jump with them.

  “Thanks for the tour,” Dedov said. “Circle around and line the plane up on the runway. That’s where we’ll jump.”

  Dedov left the cockpit and returned to the cargo compartment. All 102 of his paras were seated with their backs to the sides of the plane and an open aisle between them. Every set of eyes was on Dedov as he gave the thumbs up. It was necessary to yell over the roar of the engines. “Prepare to jump!”

  The order was expected, and set off a last-minute flurry of activity. The soldiers stood, checked their gear, and turned to check the man to their right. Officers and noncoms shouted repetitive orders. Then it was time to turn left or right depending on which side of the plane a trooper was on.

  Dedov made his way between them slapping backs, calling out names, and shouting friendly insults. “You’re getting fat, Chekov. You’ll fall like a rock.” “How old are you son? Do you shave yet?” “What the hell is this? A man or a bear?”

  Each jibe drew laughter, and the troopers loved it. More than that, they loved the fact that Dedov was going to jump first. A symbolic gesture, since there were no enemies below, but all of the paras knew Dedov would precede them even if there were.

  As for Dedov, he was scared shitless, and for good reason. He was too old to jump out of airplanes. All of it came rushing back. The faint odor of jet fuel, the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the pro forma orders from the jumpmaster.

  A rectangle of daylight appeared as the cargo hatch opened to reveal the white clad ground below. Then it was time for Dedov to hook onto the static line, wait for the green light, and rush forward. Dedov felt a gentle tug as he was sucked into the whirling snow. He took a tumble when the slipstream hit him and felt a jolt as his parachute filled with air.

  Then came the all too brief trip to the ground. The chute swayed as the wind hit it, snowflakes whirled around him, and the northern outskirts of Chelyabinsk appeared in the distance. This is the last time, Dedov thought. I’m 67 fucking years old. It isn’t the falling that troubles me. It’s the landing. What if I screw up? Knees and feet together … That’s the key.

  And it was the key. Dedov landed standing up, spilled the air out of his chute, and was gathering the nylon into his arms when a sergeant came to help. He felt light headed. The risk was behind him. Others were landing all around. Lead elements of the 76th Guards Air Assault Division were on the ground and ready to fight. Russia was about to strike back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  East of Ozersk, Russia

  “Enemy vehicle ahead,” the top gunner said. “Preparing to engage.” The VPK driver braked which forced the rest of the convoy to do the same.

  Quinn could see the Russian Tigr through the veil of gently falling snow. It was the 4x4 that Dean and Haddad were using or one identical to it. “Stay on it,” Quinn said from below. “But don’t fire unless fired upon. I’m going to take a look.”

  Quinn was carrying her assault weapon as she jumped to the ground and made her way forward. About six inches of snow slowed her progress. It was the same vehicle. Quinn felt sure of it. So, what about Dean and Haddad? Were they okay?

  Quinn knew the Tigr could be booby trapped, and was careful not to touch the vehicle. There weren’t any signs of combat, which made Quinn feel better, and the tires were fully inflated. So, they broke down, Quinn decided. And proceeded on foot. No radio report though … Which might, or might not be important. Well, Dan is a big boy. He’ll call for back-up when and if he needs it.

  That was logical and should have been enough to put her concerns to rest. Then why hadn’t it? Because you care about him, Quinn decided. Even though it’s way too early for that. Go back to work.

  The convoy stopped in Metlino to gas up. The bodies had been removed, and the door was boarded up, but that didn’t stop Smoker Jones from breaking into the store. It was a simple matter to turn the pumps on and top off each tank as the convoy jerked forward. Then the mechanic returned to his vic.

  They were about to pull out, when Dr. Gulin arrived on foot. Quinn opened the passenger side door and got out. “What’s up Anna?”

  “Rooney is fading fast, Major … We’re pumping blood volume expanders into him, but his blood pressure is too low. I think there’s a bleeder in his chest cavity. The obvious solution is to go in and find it.”

  “Which would force the convoy to stop.”

  “Yes,” Gulin replied emphatically. “I can’t operate on a patient in the back of a moving truck.”

  Quinn faced a difficult choice. It was safe to assume that the Russians would chase the unit. And sooner rather than later. If the convoy was parked next to a road when the Ivans caught up with it, the 152nd would be toast. So, should she order the column to stop in an effort to save Rooney? Or try to protect the unit?

  Quinn looked up. Snowflakes kissed her face. Visibility was bad. So bad the convoy was invisible from above. And that was a good thing. “How long would the operation take?”

  “No more than two hours,” Gulin replied. “But once it’s over, we shouldn’t move him until tomorrow morning, at the earliest.”

  Quinn sighed. That was a long time. But logical though it might be, she couldn’t bring herself to sacrifice Rooney. “Alright doctor … But first we have to find a defensible position. And mark my words, we’re leaving at 0600. Rooney or no Rooney.”

  Gulin nodded. “I understand.” And with that the doctor turned and walked away.

  The snow concealed the column from satellites, planes and drones. But it also made it difficult to see the surrounding country
side. And that was critical in order to find a place to laager up. But after five miles of driving, the top gunner spotted something in the snow-shrouded distance. “I see a hill ahead.”

  Quinn squinted into the glare. It was hard to make out, but yes, there was a softly rounded hill ahead. As they drew closer Quinn saw what she knew to be a microwave relay tower on top of the rise. Was the facility still operational? Or had it been abandoned in favor of fiber? Not that it mattered. A hill was a hill.

  But the presence of a relay tower suggested a maintenance road. And that would be essential if the convoy was to reach the top. Quinn turned to the driver. “Watch for a turnoff to the left,” she instructed. “It will be covered with snow.”

  Quinn thumbed her radio. “This is Six. The column will stop on the side of the road, and maintain a defensive posture, as my vehicle turns off.

  “Assuming the road to the top of the hill is in good condition, I’ll call you up. Alpha-Five will establish checkpoints half a mile east and west of the turnoff. Over.”

  Quinn knew that CSM McKenzie would personally inspect each checkpoint and give the right orders. Thank God for that.

  The VPK waddled over the ridge of snow that had been thrown to the side of the highway by plows, found its footing on the other side, and followed the poorly marked track toward the summit. The snow drifts were a foot deep in places, and would have been impassible, had it not been for all-wheel drive.

  There was a lurch as the VPK started up the winding path that led to the top. There were no guard rails, which meant the driver had an understandable tendency to hug the hillside, as the big tires bounced over hidden rocks and the vic swayed side-to-side.

  Finally, after circling the hill three times, the VPK arrived on the windswept summit. The first thing Quinn noticed was that the flat area located in front of the relay station could accommodate four or five vehicles. And, judging from the graffiti on the building, the hilltop was a gathering place for local youth.