After nearly three hours of driving they arrived at what Haddad claimed was the border. All Dean could see through the windshield was a single sodium vapor light, a cluster of top lit buildings, and a drop-arm with red and yellow stripes on it. The driver braked. “This it. Stay in bus. I talk.” And with that he got out.
Dean slid into the driver’s seat, eyed the controls, and got ready to drive the bus straight through the barrier. Would it give? He hoped so.
Given the lack of surrounding infrastructure, it appeared that the driver had chosen to use a secondary border crossing, and that made sense. Dean watched the driver wrap a Russian border guard in a hug, then turn to give the second guard what might have been a bottle, before turning to point at the bus.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the driver knew the guards, and went back and forth on a frequent basis. And why, Dean wondered, would a lowly bus driver do that, unless he had a side hustle? Like smuggling.
The guards shook hands with the driver who turned toward the bus. Dean was out of the driver’s seat by the time the Russian arrived and the pole barrier was lifted.
Roughly 200 feet separated the Russian checkpoint from its counterpart in Kazakhstan. The driver didn’t even bother to get out of the bus as he stopped in front of a second barrier.
And, when a soldier approached the left side of the vehicle, the driver had an envelope ready to give him. The conversation was polite but mercifully short. It took two soldiers to lift the barrier by hand. A man Dean took to be a noncom watched the whole process from the comfort of a lawn chair. Once the bus was in the clear, Dean allowed himself to exhale. He took a seat next to Abdulov. “Where are we headed?”
“The bus is going to Goloshyokino, where the driver and passengers will go their separate ways. And we’re going to Karabalyk.”
“Why Karabalyk?”
“Because,” Abdulov said, “that’s where Aybek Karimov is. And, if you want to meet with the Caliph, he must approve it.”
So much for Dean’s fantasy of an immediate audience with Caliph Jumah. “So how will we get from Goloshyokino to Karabalyk?”
“A truck will take us in. Or, depending on how the fighting is going, we might have to walk.”
Dean frowned. “‘The fighting?’ What fighting?”
“We control city government,” Abdulov replied. “But Kazakh troops have Karabalyk surrounded.”
Dean stared at him. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
Abdulov smiled smugly. “You didn’t ask.”
Dean was tired, in pain, and riding in a bus that smelled like goat shit. He tried to sleep. But his naps were short and less than restful. The bus stopped for gas. It passed through villages. And as the sun rose, the bus rolled through miles and miles of snowy farmland, before finally arriving in Goloshyokino where everyone got off.
“Hide your weapons,” Abdulov advised. “There are spies here, and everywhere for that matter. The government is controlled by Russian sympathizers, all of whom are on the take. That’s why we’re fighting to displace them.”
“To create a Caliphate,” Dean said. “Which would rule non-Muslims with an iron fist.”
“Sin Jol isn’t Isis,” Abdulov objected. “But tell me this American … Do you want our help or not?”
“I want your help,” Dean said.
“Then show some respect,” Abdulov replied. “Follow me.”
It hurt to stand, and Dean felt light headed as Abdulov and Haddad led him from the bus toward a café. The PP-2000 was hidden under his coat and the pack felt heavier than it had before. But Dean wouldn’t let anyone else carry it. Not with the gold inside.
The café’s interior was reminiscent of a Starbucks, and the coffee was good, as were the Russian pancakes dipped in honey. Dean was ravenous in spite of his wounds. When was the last time he’d had something to eat? At the safehouse … When Nadia served a casserole.
Dean was finishing a pancake when a man in nondescript gray overalls joined them. “This is Leo Gilyov,” Abdulov announced. “He drives a truck. And he’s going to give us a ride. Isn’t that right, Leo?”
Haddad translated and Gilyov nodded. “Da.” The men shook hands.
Abdulov paid the bill and Dean followed the others outside. A box truck was parked a block away. The truck’s paint was faded, its dents had dents, and it stood high off the ground.
Gilyov opened the doors to the trailer and Abdulov motioned for Dean to climb in. What should have been a simple act took every bit of Dean’s strength. The pain made him dizzy.
Once aboard Dean saw that unlabeled boxes lined both walls of the cargo area. They were held in place by nets. A narrow aisle ran between the loads and was furnished with three ratty mattresses.
Dean didn’t care. He made his way to the front, lay down with the pack clutched to his chest, and went to sleep. Then, after what seemed like only a few seconds, someone spoke to him. “Dan,” a voice said, from what sounded like a million miles away. “The truck is about to crash through the Kazakh blockade.”
Dean struggled to focus. “It’s going to do what?”
Abdulov was sitting a few feet away. The Kazakh’s back was against one wall of boxes and his boots were pressed against the other. Haddad was doing the same with his feet pointed the other way. “The army has the city of Karabalyk surrounded,” Abdulov said patiently.
“But the blockade is focused inward. And it isn’t designed to keep people out. A vehicle is blocking the street. Leo is going to try and push it out of the way. If he fails, we’ll have to get out and fight. That includes you. So, get ready.”
Dean sat up. “You must be kidding,” he croaked. “A .22 caliber bullet would go right through this thing.”
“Normally, yes,” Abdulov conceded. “But the boxes along the walls are filled with cans of food for the people of Karabalyk. And the boxes are stacked two deep. Brace yourself.”
Dean fumbled with the pack, took the grenade launcher out, and laid it beside him. Then it was time to check the PP-2000 and his pistol.
The truck started to pick up speed. Dean could feel it. He could also hear the roar of the engine, the cacophony of rattling noises the old truck made, and a rhythmic thumping sound—as if some part of the truck was trying to destroy itself.
Then the shooting started. Bullets pinged the walls. Some of them passed through. But true to Abdulov’s claim, most of the projectiles struck the boxes of canned goods, and failed to penetrate the safe area. Cans were leaking however … And all manner of liquids seeped out of the boxes to soak the containers below them.
Then came a tremendous blow as the truck hit something, and seemed to stall, before pushing ahead. The fact that Gilyov was still alive struck Dean as nothing less than a miracle. The gunfire slackened as the truck surged ahead. Dean felt there was reason to hope. Maybe, just maybe … Then, what felt like a gigantic hammer blow hit the truck and tipped it over. An RPG most likely. Dean found himself sprawled on top of a wall of boxes with more hanging over his head. He thought they’d come crashing down but the netting held. “Out!” Abdulov shouted, as Haddad opened a door.
Dean struggled to get the pack on, slipped an arm through the PP-2000’s sling, and battled his way toward the rectangle of light. The pain made him dizzy.
An automatic weapon began to chatter and Dean saw Haddad go down. Dean paused just inside the door. He could see the Tigr 4x4 Gilyov had shoved aside, the piles of debris the city’s defenders were using for cover, and the drift of smoke from a light machinegun in the distance.
Dean brought the launcher up and fired. A second grenade followed the first. The bomblets exploded in quick succession, silenced the machinegun, and created a brief respite in the firefight. “Come on,” Abdulov said, as he took hold of Dean’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What about Leo?”
“Leo is dead,” Abdulov said matter-of-factly. “What did you expect?”
Dean allowed himself to be half-carried, hal
f-towed, along the side of the truck past a dead body, to the corner of a shot-up office building. Once around the corner, and safe from enemy fire, Abdulov allowed Dean to sit with his back to the wall.
And that’s where the SOG officer was when a young man appeared. He had thick black hair, wore frameless glasses, and was dressed in an immaculate black suit.
Abdulov pulled Dean to his feet. “This is Aybek Karimov,” Abdulov announced. “The man you came to see.”
Dean stood taller and offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Karimov … I hope …” Dean was trying to smile when he fainted.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kainkul, Russia
It took the better part of an hour to force their way into the wrecked plane, remove the gold, and load the bars into the Vodnik which was still carrying the rhenium. The snow had stopped by then and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east.
Quinn was in no mood to honor the dead deserters. Dubek was left in what remained of the plane. The rest of the bodies were driven to the crash site and dumped onto the wreck. Russian thermite grenades were used to trigger a brief but extremely hot fire.
That would’ve been sufficient. But, when the fuel tanks blew, the flames finished the job. Command Sergeant Major McKenzie gave the funeral pyre the finger before turning his back on it. And, in retrospect Quinn realized that it would be just as well if the remains were not only destroyed, but lost. She had no desire to face a court martial for shooting a piece of shit like Jones.
Then it was time to mount up and return to what the soldiers were calling “Hill 152.” And there was good reason to hurry. Thanks to her RQ-11 Raven drone, Pruitt had been able to spot the all-weather Russian Mil Mi-28 “Havoc” attack helicopters that were parked on the airstrip at Kyshtym. And, according to the latest weather report out of D.C., good flying conditions were only an hour away.
So, the question wasn’t if the helicopters would attack, it was when they would attack. And the answer was—as soon as the pilots finished drinking their morning coffee. Quinn was determined to be on the hill when the poop hit the fan. “Step on it,” Quinn said, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Mac was already “stepping on it,” and would see the order for what it was, a sign of weakness.
The drive to Hill 152 was a blessing in a way, because it gave Quinn time to think. Could the company run? No. The helicopter pilots would like nothing more than to catch the convoy stretched out on a highway.
So, if the company was going to fight, what was the best way to go about it? Her people were sitting ducks on Hill 152. Or were they? We have teeth, Quinn thought. And what seems like a disadvantage could be an advantage. The possibility cheered her.
The sun was up in the east, and the sky was clear, by the time the two-vehicle convoy arrived. Once on top of the hill, Quinn hurried to prepare. In order for her plan to work, the company’s vehicles had to be positioned just so, as did soldiers armed with the Strela surface-to-air missiles.
Austin was one of them and an ex-librarian named Osgood was the other. She was twenty-something and was often referred to as “Four Eyes,” because of the black-framed, army-issue glasses she wore.
Each Strela could be used up to five times before being disposed of. So assistant gunners were assigned to help Austin and Osgood reload their tubes. Each two-person team was positioned in a well dug fighting position.
The rest of the outfit had gone to ground as well. Quinn took the opportunity to deliver a pep talk by radio. “This is Six. I hope you’re comfy. Get ready to watch the Russians waste two perfectly good helicopters attacking our hill. There’s no need to thank me … It’s the least I can do for the best pack of thieves in the army. Hooah!”
Quinn heard laughter from nearby, followed by a faint but respectable, “Hooah!”
Then the clatter of engines was heard, the gunships appeared to the west, and Quinn felt fear seep into her gut. “This is Six. Hold your fire. Let’s make every round count. Over.”
The Russians were under no such stricture. They were carrying Ataka missile racks, along with two B-13L rocket pods, each of which held five rockets.
The missiles arrived first. All were targeted on the relay station. It vanished as explosion after explosion tore the structure apart. That was expected and the building was empty. A salvo of unguided rockets followed. Most exploded harmlessly against the west side of the hill, but one weapon struck a two-man fighting position, and killed both occupants.
“The Vodniks will prepare to engage,” Quinn said, as the helos fired their autocannons. “Fire!” The Vods were empty except for their gunners. And as the helicopters swept in from the west, two of the vehicles could bring their 30mm autocannons to bear.
That was a possibility the Russians had failed to anticipate. Not just the volume of the fire directed at them, or how large the armor piercing shells were, but the fact that the Vodniks were at eye level with the pilots.
Had the pilots analyzed the situation correctly, they would have realized this fact because the Vodnik-mounted auto cannons were designed for surface warfare, and couldn’t be elevated the way an AA gun could. The weapons couldn’t engage aircraft that attacked from above. But the pilots had failed to understand that.
The Russians had one thing going for them however. The Vodnik gunners had never been trained to fire at aerial targets. So, rather than lead the attack ships the way a hunter leads a duck, the gunners fired at the helos. And that was a waste of ammo since the Havoc the gunner fired at was no longer there.
The Americans were learning on the job however. But not before the lead ship destroyed a 6x6 truck. Black smoke poured up into the air as the gunships circled. “SAM launchers,” Quinn said. “Prepare to fire … Fire!”
The delay was no accident. There had been a time when surface-to-air missiles could chase helicopters and kill them by locking onto the heat that emanated from their exhausts.
Then the Mi-28s arrived on the battlefield. And, because their exhaust ports were pointed downwards, it became much more difficult to bring one down.
So, the best place for a SAM launcher to be was directly below a Havoc. And, when Osgood fired, she knew her missile would fly straight and true. Her eyes were still on the helo when she said. “Feed me.”
The second missile was being loaded as the first one hit. There was a flash, a burp of black smoke, and the Mi-28 appeared to flinch. “This is Six,” Quinn advised. “That was a hit. Give me another. Over.”
Austin had fired by then. But the second ship was firing flares in an attempt to draw the IR seeking missile away and the ruse worked. Austin swore. “Load me.”
Meanwhile, rather than cut and run, the first helo remained in the fight. Smoke trailed the gunship as it fired rockets at a Vodnik. The target rocked wildly and exploded.
But the battle wasn’t over. Because, when another Vodnik gunner sent a stream of 30mm shells into the space a helicopter was about to occupy, a section of rotor flew off.
“Yes!” Quinn exclaimed, as the helo corkscrewed into the ground, and blew up. “Well done. Over.” The total population of targets had been reduced by 50% at that point. And both SAM launchers were loaded. Osgood’s missile followed a flare.
But Austin’s didn’t. His missile went where it was supposed to go, which was the most intense source of heat. Quinn saw a flash of light, followed by a red-orange ball of flame, and heard a loud BOOM. Pieces of burning wreckage fell out of the sky like black snow.
A skirmish had been won. But Quinn knew it was no more than a skirmish. “This is Six,” she said. “Medical personnel will attend to the wounded. The rest of the unit will prepare to pull out. You have 30 minutes. Over.”
***
Shagol Air Base, Russia
General Oleg Dedov was at the controls of a powerful Chetra T-11 bulldozer not because he had to be, but because he wanted to be, much to the amusement of his men. While in command of an engineering battalion years earlier, Dedov had insisted on learning how to
operate every machine the unit had, and that included bulldozers.
The engine growled as Chetra’s dozer blade pushed a wave of soil into one of the craters that kept the runway from being used. Making the airstrip operable was of strategic importance, but had tactical implications as well. Because once he repaired it, Dedov could bring more troops in. He was backing up, and preparing to push a final load of dirt into the crater, when Captain Zolotov arrived. He waved his arms to capture Dedov’s attention.
Dedov sighed, turned the engine off, and made his way to the ground. “This had better be important, Captain.”
“It is,” Zolotov assured him. “And I want you to see it with your own eyes. Please follow me.”
Dedov was none too happy about the interruption, but knew Zolotov to be a serious man, and followed the officer into the base’s ready room. It was intact, as were the photos that decorated the north wall, each depicting one of Shagol’s many commanding officers. The oldest images were black and white. How many of them are still alive? Dedov wondered. And how many have been consumed by old age or the war?
“Take a look at this,” Zolotov said grimly. “The video was captured by one of our drones.” Dedov felt a sense of despair as his helicopters appeared, attacked a hill with a relay station on top of it, and were systematically destroyed.
Yes, the Havocs scored some hits. But the destruction of two ground vehicles could hardly make up for the loss of two 16-million-dollar attack helicopters.
The fuck-up wasn’t his fault however. No, the troops assigned to protect the rhenium had failed, and Colonel Savvin had failed, leaving him to deal with the consequences of their incompetence. “Damn it,” Dedov said. “The pilots had drone footage of the hill and the fools chose to ignore it. Fortunately, two additional helos are scheduled to arrive this morning. They will kill the pindos or chase them south. If it’s the latter we’ll be waiting for them.”
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 19