Quinn turned to find that two soldiers were holding Jones at gunpoint. “Captain Dubek made us do it,” Jones said contritely. “I’m sorry.”
Quinn drew her pistol and aimed it at Jones. The mechanic frowned. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Quinn said, and shot him three times. Jones crumpled to the ground.
Command Sergeant Major McKenzie turned to his soldiers. “What did you see?”
“Jones went for a weapon,” Austin replied. “The Major had no choice.”
“And you?” McKenzie said to a second soldier.
“Same thing,” the private said.
McKenzie nodded. “That’s right. Enough fucking around. We have work to do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bolshoye Taskino, Russia
Dean was asleep when the police arrived. The safe house was part of a network of places where Sin Jol agents could stay. The one-story building was the property of a widow who, though Russian by birth, was married to a Kazakh man prior to his death three years earlier.
The locals knew that of course. But despite a generalized bias against Muslims they saw Nadia Nabiyev as a Russian. And why not? Nadia looked like a Russian, spoke like a Russian, and was a member of the Russian Orthodox church.
But unbeknownst to Nadia’s neighbors, her name had found its way onto a list of potential terrorist sympathizers by virtue of being married to a Kazakh national. And, in the wake of the raid in Kyshtym, potential collaborators were being arrested.
That’s why agents from the Federal Security Service, along with members of the Smol’noye police department, pulled up in front of the house at 0512 in the morning.
When Nadia’s dog started to bark, she looked out through the front window, and began to shout. “Policiya! Go out through the back! Go now!”
Dean was asleep on the couch, still fully dressed, with his possessions on the floor beside him. He didn’t understand Russian. But it didn’t require a linguist to know what the problem was. Especially after Nadia removed two floor boards to grab the AK-47 hidden below.
When the knock came Nadia fired through the door killing the men on the porch. Then she pushed her way out to fire at the Smol’noye police car.
“Come on!” Abdulov said. “Follow me!”
Dean hesitated. “But what about Nadia?”
“She’s going to Jannah (paradise),” Haddad said reassuringly, as a hail of bullets shattered the windows.
After years spent in the Middle East, Dean knew there was no point in arguing. People believed what they believed. Abdulov led the way, Haddad followed, and Dean brought up the rear. The CIA operative was two dozen steps behind the others as they left the house and ran into the arms of the police. Abdulov and Haddad had to drop their weapons and raise their hands or die.
Dean managed to stop, turn, and run back through the house. The bullet riddled front door was open. Dean had to step over two dead men on his way out. Nadia lay face down a few yards beyond, the assault rifle near her right hand, with bodies sprawled a few yards away.
The engine in one of the police cruisers was running. Dean hurried to throw his pack in, slide behind the wheel, and release the brake. Tires spun and slush flew when Dean hit the gas. As the car took off he heard the muted bang, bang, bang of a semiauto pistol. A side window shattered. But none of the bullets hit him.
Dean struggled to focus as he drove west toward the M-36. Should he continue the trip south? In spite of losing Abdulov and Haddad? Or call Quinn and rejoin the unit?
I’ll head south, Dean decided. And I’ll go alone if I have to. But what if I could break the guys out of jail? Then I’d have guides plus some added credibility.
But in order to do that Dean needed to know where the prisoners were likely to go. So he pulled over, put the car in “Park,” and got out. According to the decal on the door, the car was the property of the Smol’noye Police Department.
Dean got back in, opened the glove compartment, and fumbled for a map. Once open, it became apparent that the town of Smol’noye was about ten miles to the south, on the west side of the M-36.
Tires spun on ice, found traction, and the car shot back onto the road. The first task was to close the distance with Smol’noye. The second was to loot the car. And the third was to hide the vehicle where no one would find it. All before most people were up and around.
After merging onto the highway Dean turned south. There was very little traffic and the snow had begun to tail off. After waiting for the odometer to register an additional five miles, Dean began to search for a turn off. He saw a sign with the word “Ozero” on it and put the wheel over. An unpaved road led Dean past the ancient remains of a farm and straight to a lake. The road came to an abrupt end at the water’s edge. That suggested the presence of a boat launch under the ice.
Dean pulled the trunk release, got out, and went back to see what, if anything, he could scrounge. The answer was two boxes of 9x19mm Parabellum ammo, a first aid kit, and a gym bag full of police paraphernalia.
The best find was a GM-94 pump-action grenade launcher. There were three rounds in the tubular magazine mounted over the stubby barrel—and three more in a plastic clip. The weapon went into his pack with the butt sticking out.
After putting the knapsack and the PP-2000 aside, Dean went looking for a sizeable rock along the edge of the lake. He found one but had to use the car’s tire iron to chip it out.
After lugging the rock back to the car, Dean started the engine, and got out. It was difficult to place the rock on the accelerator without putting it on the brake too. But, by turning the rock on edge, Dean managed to make it fit.
The next step was to put the car in drive, release the brake, and exit the cruiser before it took him out onto the ice. After a mental rehearsal Dean pulled the shifter down and took his boot off the brake.
The challenge was to throw himself out through the open door quickly enough. He hit the ground and rolled. The police car drove itself straight out onto the ice, and looked as if it was about to keep going, when it coasted to a stop. Because the rock toppled off the accelerator? Yes. That made sense.
So there the cruiser sat, with its engine running. Would it fall through? Or remain there until spring? That wouldn’t do of course. Dean had to hide the car. Even if that required firing a grenade at the ice. The explosion would be heard. But what other choice did he have?
The decision was made for Dean when he became aware of a loud cracking noise. The ice gave way, the cruiser tilted forward, and slid into the lake. Steam rose and water poured in through open windows as the car sank out of sight. That left a hole, but so what? Such openings would be common that early in the winter.
Dean faced another problem. A lot of people were searching for him. They would focus on the car for a while. Then they’d look for the driver. That meant walking south along the M-36 was out of the question. He needed to hide during the day, and travel at night. The ruins of the farmhouse were nearby. But they were so close to the M-36 that even the laziest searcher would visit them. So, where to hide?
Dean performed a slow 360. And there, on the far side of the lake, he saw a smudge. It might or might not be a structure. But if it was a structure Dean figured that only the most zealous searcher would go over to inspect it.
Dean hoisted the knapsack onto his back and made a beeline for whatever the smudge was. If it’s a rock I’m going to be pissed, Dean thought, as he stepped onto the ice. It was very slippery. Walking didn’t work, but shuffling did. And it didn’t leave tracks.
As Dean set off for the far side of the lake, he realized that he’d have to circle around the hole, before setting a final course. Would the ice give way beneath him? If so, the gold would take him to the bottom. But I’ll die a rich man, Dean thought. The absurdity of it made him smile.
The lake was relatively small. And, as the smudge came into focus, Dean realized that he was looking at a fishing shack. The kind that could be pushed out onto the ice.
; Dean heard a crackling noise, and felt a sudden stab of fear, as a lattice work of cracks appeared around him. Should he stop? Back up? Or forge ahead?
Dean’s instinct was to keep going. His boots made a steady swishing sound as he advanced. The ice held. Dean felt a sense of relief as he followed a snow-covered beach up onto the flat area above. He paused to look around.
There weren’t any homes on the lake so it seemed reasonable to believe that his activities had gone unobserved. The shack’s door was secured with a sliding latch. The barrier opened onto a tight 4x4 space lit by a single window.
The furnishings consisted of a white plastic chair, a tangle of fishing gear, and a SAVO “Wonder Stove” which, according to the Russian-English sticker, could run on either diesel fuel or kerosene. Last, but not least was a half-bottle of Belebeyevskaya vodka. Just the thing for a cold day on the ice.
Would the space heater work? There was only one way to find out. Dean couldn’t read the Russian directions, and didn’t need to, thanks to the prominent fuel control knob and the igniter switch. He turned the knob and clicked the switch. There was a pop as the stove started.
The SAVO began to produce heat almost immediately. Did the tank contain enough fuel to last all day? That seemed unlikely. But Dean planned to enjoy the warmth while he could, and as the temperature started to rise, it became necessary to unbutton his coat.
After placing the submachine gun and grenade launcher on the floor Dean opened the bottle. Vodka for breakfast, Dean thought. I’ve had worse. He took a sip. The warmth trickled down his throat to pool in his stomach.
It was, Dean decided, the perfect time to call his boss and check in. Chuck Haster could be gnarly at times. But he’d been in the shit and had a good rep. Would the walls block a good connection? Dean had no desire to venture outside unless forced to.
The call was up-scrambled, down-scrambled, and routed to a nameless woman. “Yes?” That was Dean’s cue to provide an eight-digit, alpha-numeric code, followed by Haster’s code name and a password. Five seconds of silence followed. Then a voice said, “Routing.”
The second wait was substantially longer than the first, suggesting that Haster was in a meeting, or home in bed. When Haster came on there was no mistaking his famously abrasive style. “What the hell do you want?”
“World peace,” Dean answered. “Or a really good cheeseburger.”
Haster laughed. “The burger is the more likely of the two. What’s up?”
Dean told Haster where he was, where he was going, and why. “So,” Dean concluded, “if everything goes the way I hope it will, I will need a C-17 and enough tankers to get it in and out.”
“That’s the rub,” Haster replied. “Those fuckers are like gold. Everybody needs them.”
“Call in a favor, have sex with a general, or whatever it takes,” Dean replied.
“I get screwed by generals every day,” Haster responded. “And none of them say ‘Thank you.’ What will the 17 land on?”
“I don’t know yet,” Dean replied. “But not an aircraft carrier.”
Haster laughed. “Fuck you.”
“And fuck you,” Dean replied. There was a click as Haster broke the connection.
The rest of the day passed slowly. Dean spent part of it familiarizing himself with the grenade launcher, took naps while sitting in the chair, and used some time thinking about Quinn.
The clouds had vanished by midafternoon. The temperature dropped and the heater ran out of fuel right around 1500. Dean buttoned his coat, did exercises to stay warm, and kept a careful watch on his surroundings.
The remaining hours of daylight seemed to crawl by. But finally, as dusk fell, Dean left the shack. Once it was dark, he planned to rely on his night vision gear and the GPS function on his watch to navigate.
The plan was to hike the five miles to Smol’noye where he hoped to free Abdulov and Haddad. Failing that he would proceed south in hopes of reaching Kazakhstan. One step at a time, he cautioned himself. One step at a time.
Fortunately, the surface of the snow was crusty rather than soft, and becoming more so as it grew colder. Other than clumps of trees, fences, and ponds there were very few obstacles. A dog barked as Dean passed an isolated house. But rather than venture out into the cold the animal’s owner chose to remain inside where it was warm.
From there Dean followed a dirt road into town. Dean couldn’t speak Russian, so he couldn’t try to bullshit his way through a cop stop, which wasn’t likely to work anyway.
That would force him to shoot his way out of town and leave the Kazakhs in the slammer. Assuming they were in the slammer, which was by no means certain. Had they been taken to Chelyabinsk? Anything was possible.
So, Dean kept to the shadows as he passed a row of small stores— all of which were closed for the night. He could see a brightly lit building up ahead, with two squad cars parked in front. Bingo!
Assuming the rebels hadn’t been whisked away to another location they’d be locked up inside. So, Dean thought, as he took refuge in a shadow. I can’t bullshit my way in. That means I have two choices: Go in shooting or keep walking. And, if I go in shooting, there’s a possibility that they won’t be there. As well as the possibility that I will accidentally kill them.
Dean spent a minute debating which course of action was best. He didn’t want to get himself killed. But Abdulov and Haddad could put him in front of the Caliph and do so quickly. And the Caliph’s assistance would make a huge difference when it came to getting the 152nd out of Kazakhstan.
Dean checked the PP-2000, slipped his arm through the submachine gun’s sling, and checked to make sure the grenade launcher was ready for business. “Alright then,” Dean said to himself. “It’s showtime.”
There was no reason to lurk in the shadows anymore. Dean walked out into the middle of the street, took aim, and fired three grenades in quick succession. He heard glass shatter followed by three flashes of light and the accompanying explosions.
Dean took a moment to free the submachine gun, and sling the launcher, before making his way to the front door and jerking it open. Then he walked inside.
A small fire was burning to his left. A man with a pistol staggered out of an office. Blood was streaming down his face. Dean fired a burst which threw the officer back through the doorway. Dean heard a boom, felt the pellets slam into his body, and staggered. The shotgun produced a clacking sound as the cop pumped a second shell into the chamber.
Dean swiveled to the right, fired a burst into the shotgunner’s chest, and watched him fall. A headshot followed.
Swinging doors blocked the way. Dean kicked them open. A hall led past a restroom to the cells beyond. A voice called. “Dan! Kill the man in the toilet!”
Dean turned to find that the man had left the toilet. He was in the hall pointing a pistol at Dean. There was a loud bang, followed by a crisp snap as a 9mm bullet sped past.
The policeman jerked spastically as a burst of PP-2000 slugs took him down.
You were careless, Dean concluded, as he changed magazines. Even a newbie would check the can.
“He has the keys!” Abdulov shouted. “Bring them!”
Dean went to the body, saw the key ring dangling from the jailer’s belt, and removed it. There were four cells. After some fumbling Dean found the correct key for each. There were six inmates. Five men and a woman.
A prisoner hurried to collect the cop’s pistol. “The politsiya arrested everyone with a Kazakh surname or darker skin,” Abdulov explained. “Most of these people consider themselves to be loyal Russians. But now they’ll have to flee. We must take them with us.”
Dean was holding his side. “And how will we do that?”
“We go in bus,” a man with a heavy beard said. “School bus.”
“They’ll be waiting for us,” Dean objected.
“We go around Chelyabinsk,” the bus driver said. “I know roads. I know border.”
“Get the bus,” Abdulov ordered in Russian. “A
nd bring it here.” The man with the beard hurried off.
The female prisoner said something in Russian. Abdulov nodded. “She wants to know about families. They have to take their families.”
Dean sighed. “We’ll try. But it will have to be fast.”
Dean turned to Haddad. “Go out front, find a weapon, and stand guard. If any of the locals show up chase them away.”
“They won’t,” Haddad predicted. “Not after what you did.”
“Good,” Dean replied. “But do it anyway. And keep a sharp lookout for incoming police or military units.”
After Haddad left Dean made his way to the men’s room, stripped to the waist, and got his first look at the pellet wounds. There were four in all, and they hurt like hell.
Dean’s waistband was soaked with blood. He pinched a wound and a pellet clattered into the metal sink. The rest of the projectiles were deeper and would have to wait.
After removing the first aid kit from his pack, Dean used paper towels to clean the wounds. Then it was time to squirt antibiotic ointment into each hole, slap pressure dressings over them, and wrap yards of hemostatic gauze around his torso to hold the bandages tight. Abdulov opened the door. “The bus is here. And the fire is spreading.”
Smoke was thick in the air as Dean left the restroom and carried his belongings through what had been the reception area. Flames crackled to the right. Where was the fire department? Staying safe, that’s where. Which was a sensible thing to do.
Dean carried his belongings out to the bus. The driver was behind the wheel. Two women, three children and a dog occupied the seats behind them. They had suitcases too … Six of them. Dean groaned and turned to Abdulov. “Tell the driver to hurry. And tell the prisoners that we will wait ten minutes for them and not a minute longer. One suitcase per person.”
That was the beginning of a long and extremely frustrating house-to-house trip which wound up taking more than an hour. Fortunately, it was nighttime, and it would take authorities some time to arrive and sort things out.
Dean felt a vast sense of relief once the last family, goat included, boarded the bus and the trip to Kazakhstan got underway. The journey began with a long detour east in order to circle around Chelyabinsk, followed by a series of turns, all of which led south.
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 18