Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  Much to Andruko’s relief the tankers remained untouched as the Havoc completed its pass and raced away. The rest of the train wasn’t so fortunate however. A boxcar was on fire. The locomotive’s horn produced a long mournful bleat as the train sped toward the Russian barricade and what promised to be a spectacular explosion.

  ***

  Quinn was looking over Pruitt’s shoulder. She watched in morbid fascination as the train bore down on the Russians and they fired on it. The helicopter was circling, but would arrive too late. Quinn looked up. Her eyes met Booker’s. “Where’s Dodd? He’s supposed to be here.”

  Booker’s mouth was a straight line. “He’s in the locomotive.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he couldn’t blow the charges from here,” Booker said. “He knew they would be too far away.”

  The tankers exploded. Twin fireballs rose into the air and combined into a single pillar of flame which rose to touch the sky.

  A resonant boom rolled across the land. It was like thunder, red thunder, and it seemed to last forever. Pieces of steel soared, bodies performed somersaults in the air, and what looked like rivers of fire flowed from the shattered tankers into the surrounding area.

  Quinn saw flaming stick figures attempt to flee. And somewhere inside the inferno was what remained of an American soldier. She felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. For Dodd, for the burning Russians, and for the world. That was when Booker and Pruitt saw the Ice Queen cry.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Karabalyk, Kazakhstan

  Dean heard his name. The sound seemed to originate from a long way off. The words were in English. “Can you hear me, Daniel?”

  Dean tried to say, “Yes,” heard an inarticulate croak, and tried again. “Yes.”

  “Good,” the voice said. “The operation was a success.”

  Operation? What operation? Dean struggled to open his eyes. They felt as if they’d been glued shut. Something wet and warm came into contact with his eyelids. Then, after some judicious blotting, Dean’s vision was restored. The face looking down at him was pretty, and very serious. “My name is Noma Serikova. I’m your doctor.”

  Dean struggled to focus. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” he said hoarsely. “You mentioned an operation.”

  “Yes, to remove the shotgun pellets, and stop the infection.”

  Dean’s hands went to his torso and the bandages that had been placed over his wounds. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Serikova said formally.

  Her comment was punctuated by a thud, a shower of paint chips, and the distinctive sound of an old fashioned Ack-Ack gun. Dean battled to sit up. “I hear fighting. What’s happening?”

  “The government is bombing the city,” Serikova said levelly. “They would prefer to destroy Karabalyk than let Sin Jol run the city government.”

  And who can blame them? Dean thought. Once a group like Sin Jol gets a toehold they’re hard to dislodge. But he didn’t say that. A man in bloodstained scrubs appeared. The words were in Kazakh. “We need you, Doctor! Please come.”

  “Keep your wounds clean,” Serikova said. “And may Allah protect you.” Then she hurried away.

  Dean allowed his head to fall back onto the pillow. He was in a recovery ward where men, women and children lay on beds, gurneys, and in some cases on the floor.

  That meant the rebs were losing. So, what about Aybek Karimov, the man Dean was hoping to meet? Karimov had been there, hand extended, when the lights went out. Was Karimov still in the city? Dean had to find out.

  The sit-up hurt like hell, and Dean managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed, before the vertigo stopped him. The dizziness lasted for 10 seconds or so.

  The floor was cold under Dean’s bare feet. He was dressed in a hospital gown and nothing more. Where were his clothes? Upon looking around, he saw a plastic bag hanging off his bed. A jumble of bloodstained clothing was inside, along with his personal effects, wallet included. But no weapons.

  It took the better part of 15 minutes to get dressed. Dean was struggling to pull his left boot on when Abdulov appeared. “There you are,” the Kazakh said, as if Dean had been MIA. “Leader Karimov is giving a speech not far from here. He wants our fighters to hold out as long as possible, but the city will fall, make no mistake about that.”

  “But he’ll leave town before it does,” Dean predicted.

  “Of course, he will,” Abdulov said dismissively. “Good leaders are like jewels that must be protected.”

  Dean sighed. Sin Jol was basically a political party, which was using the Muslim faith as a springboard to power. But it was impossible to convince people like Abdulov of that. And a waste of time to try. He stood, and wavered slightly, but managed to keep his feet. Abdulov wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a pig,”

  “And you look like a goat’s ass,” Dean replied.

  Abdulov roared with laughter. “Come my friend. We will visit Leader Karimov.”

  “I want my weapons.”

  “Yes, of course,” Abdulov said. “And I fear you will need them. Follow me.”

  The Kazakh agent led Dean down a flight of stairs, and over to the point where a ragged hole provided access to a low passageway. The American had to bend over in order to duck walk through it. The ground shook and dirt fell as a bomb detonated somewhere overhead.

  The room Abdulov led Dean to was an arsenal of sorts, with weapons laid out on tables, and crates of ammunition stacked along a wall. “Your weapons are over there,” Abdulov said, as he pointed to a row of gym style lockers.

  And sure enough, there inside a locker with his name on it was the PP-2000, plus the shoulder rig, and his nine-mil handgun. More importantly, the knapsack was there too. But what about the gold? Abdulov smiled knowingly. “Yes, my friend, your gold is safe. “Come,” Abdulov said. “Let’s draw ammunition while we can.”

  After checking to make sure that his radio and sat phone were still zipped into what Dean thought of as the “com compartment,” he followed Abdulov over to a counter where each man was allowed to have two boxes of ammo.

  From there Abdulov led Dean on a meandering journey through a series of hand dug tunnels and basements, surfacing onto the bottom floor of a concrete parking garage. The persistent rattle of gunfire could be heard along with an occasional BOOM as an artillery round detonated.

  Roughly a hundred people were assembled in the space, all listening to Leader Karimov. He could have been a businessman, a lawyer, or a technocrat.

  But Karimov was none of those things. He was a thought leader, an agitator, and a part time warrior. “So,” Karimov told them, “The city of Karabalyk is going to fall.”

  Dean heard a mutual groan of disappointment, mixed with shouts of “Allahu Akbar,” (Allah is great) and “Death to the infidels!”

  Karimov shook his head. “No. Our path, The True Path, is one of peace. We fight when attacked, as was the case here, but we are a peace-loving people. Now go your separate ways and prepare to leave the city at eight this evening. Do not harm the residents of Karabalyk because they are innocent of wrong doing. Bariniz (Go).”

  They went. And as the fighters filed out Abdulov led Dean forward. Karimov had three bodyguards. And six eyes were focused on Dean. “This is Daniel Dean,” Abdulov said.

  “Ah,” Karimov said. “The American. When was the last time he took a bath?”

  “Five or six days ago,” Dean answered in Kazakh. “I’ve been busy fighting the Oristar (Russians).”

  Karimov looked surprised. “You speak our language.”

  “Yes.”

  “Please accept my apologies. You were wounded … Are you better now?”

  “Yes. Thanks to Doctor Serikova.”

  “She is, as the Russians would say, an angel,” Karimov replied. “Come. We will have coffee, I will listen to your proposal, then I will say ‘no.’”

  Dean didn’t know if Karimov was serious or joking. He hoped it was the latter as
he followed Abdulov and Karimov to a corner where a gas-powered stove, folding tables and a grouping of mismatched lawn chairs had been used to create a conference area.

  Once the principals were seated, and coffee had been poured, the conversation began. The meeting had a surreal quality. But Dean did his best to ignore the sounds of fighting and focus on his objective. His pitch was simple. The United States was at war with Russia. And Russia was trying to destroy Sin Jol. “And,” Dean added, “I’m sure you’re familiar with the old saying that ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

  Karimov nodded. “The first mention of the concept was in a Sanskrit treatise on statecraft called the Arthashastra. It dates to around the 4th century BC.”

  That was news to Dean, but he nodded in agreement. “That’s why Sin Jol should assist American and Ukrainian soldiers escape Russia.”

  “That,” Karimov said, “is one of the possibilities. Or, we could attack your unit, and take the rhenium for ourselves. And the gold too.”

  “You could,” Dean conceded. “But the rhenium would be useless to you.”

  “We could sell it,” Karimov countered.

  “And we could place a bounty on your heads,” Dean countered. “But what if we were to provide Sin Jol with aid instead?”

  Karimov took a sip of coffee. “What kind of aid?”

  “Defensive weaponry,” Dean replied. “The kind that would prevent government planes from bombing Sin Jol cities with impunity. But understand this … Were you to force the Muslim faith on Christians, or any other religious minority, the agreement would be off.”

  “The true path is the path of peace,” Karimov said. “Truth seekers must find Allah on their own. So, American, what would you expect Sin Jol to do in return for such weapons?”

  “I need safe passage for my unit. And that means an airstrip that’s at least 8,500 feet long.”

  Karimov was silent for a moment. “I cannot say ‘yes,’ nor can I say ‘no.’ Such judgements are made by the Caliph alone.”

  Time was passing and Dean assumed that Quinn was up to her ass in alligators. How many members of the 152nd had died during the last few days? Too many, Dean thought.

  But there was nothing he could do to force a response. “Okay,” Dean said. “Let’s visit the Caliph. Where is he?”

  “He’s at the City of Stones,” Karimov said. “A half-day ride from here. We will depart at eight o’clock.” Dean felt a sense of relief. The deal wasn’t done, far from it, but there was a chance.

  Abdulov took Dean to a makeshift cafeteria where he was able to get a cheese sandwich and a bottle of water. Then they were off to the south side of the city where the breakout was going to take place. A nook on the first floor of a bombed out building offered a place to sit and rest. “Stay here,” Abdulov said. “It’s a little past three now, and I will return by seven.”

  Dean ate the sandwich, used the water to wash it down, and took stock of his situation. “Shoot, move, and communicate.” That was the army axiom. And he could place a check mark next to items 1 and 2. As for the third, not so much. It was past time to check in. But how? And with whom?

  Both the radio and the phone had been out from under his control long enough for someone to plant chips in them. So, if he made use of either one there was a chance that Karimov would receive a transcript of what was said. Yet he needed to communicate.

  The first call went to Chuck Haster at CIA headquarters. Dean spent the first five minutes of the conversation bringing his boss up to date. Then he dropped the bomb. “So, in order to get the assistance I need, I may have to provide Sin Jol with some shoulder launched missiles.”

  “Sure,” Haster replied. “Why the fuck not? And some tanks too.”

  “The war won’t last forever,” Dean responded. “And, when it’s over, Sin Jol could be useful.”

  “Or dangerous as hell,” Haster replied. “I’ll run the idea past the shitheads at State.”

  “You do that,” Dean said. “And when the suits start to freak out, remind them that a mixed company of Americans and Ukrainians will die if they say no, and either the Russians or the Kazakhs will wind up with a lot of rhenium. Oh, and the Ivans will score a gigundo propaganda coup to boot.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I will. Now get off my fucking line. I have work to do.”

  The next call went to Quinn. Only by radio this time. “Delta-Six to Alpha-Six.”

  There was a burp of static, followed by the sound of a male voice. “I read you Delta-Six. This is Alpha-Five-Four. Hold for Alpha-Six.”

  Two minutes passed before he heard Quinn’s voice. “This is Six. Go.”

  Everyone in the 152nd could listen in, so Dean chose his words with care. “This radio was out from under my direct control for a while, so keep that in mind.

  “I’m south of the border and in negotiations. I hope to have a final answer within 24 hours. Over.” There was more, much more that Dean wanted to say, but couldn’t.

  The reply was equally succinct. “Roger that, Delta-Six. Keep me in the loop. Over and out.”

  Dean thumbed the power button. Quinn was alive! That, at least, was good news.

  Dean had a feeling that the breakout was going to be rough. So, with the pack as a pillow, and the nine clutched in his hand, he fell asleep.

  When Dean awoke it was to the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of a heavy machinegun, and the crackle of small arms fire. Night had fallen and a flare popped above. It was suspended from a parachute which swayed from side-to-side as a breeze found it. The buildings around him were lit by a blood red glow. Dean stood and wished he hadn’t. The wounds hurt. And with no meds to call upon, all he could do was ignore the pain, and hope for the best.

  After hoisting the pack onto his back Dean stepped away to take a pee. Abdulov was there when he returned. “Where were you? I was about to leave.”

  “It’s only 7:30.”

  “Leader Karimov had to move the time up. The plan leaked. Government troops are gathering around the south end of town.”

  Dean remembered the parking garage, and all of the people gathered there. Of course the plan leaked. There must have been two or three government spies in the crowd.

  “Follow me,” Abdulov said. “And be careful. Government snipers have entered the city, armed sympathizers are on the loose, and criminals are looting the stores.”

  “Roger that,” Dean said, as he readied the submachine gun.

  Abdulov knew the city well. And he knew something about urban warfare. That much was obvious from the way he took advantage of shadows, and paused every now and then to check his surroundings.

  And they weren’t alone. Other men and women, some with children, were trying to flee. Some were burdened with packs, or pushing heavily loaded wheelbarrows. Others had little more than the clothes on their backs. A man, his wife, and their two children were up ahead.

  A shot rang out. The man stumbled and fell. The woman stopped to help and the children began to cry.

  Dean paused to check for a pulse. There was none. He helped the woman to her feet. “You husband is dead. Leave him. The children need you.” It was all he could do.

  “Hurry!” Abdulov shouted. “We’re almost there.”

  Dean ran to catch up. A head-high barricade made out of wrecked cars blocked the way. Abdulov ran straight toward the blue cargo van that was part of the wall, pulled the side door open, and dived inside. Dean followed.

  Because the front seat had been removed Abdulov could exit through the driver’s side door. And that’s where the street toughs were waiting. “Hold it right there,” one of them said. “I’ll take the AK. And it will cost you 1,000 rubles to leave the city.”

  That was roughly equivalent to 15 USD. Not a fortune by any means … But the loss of the AK-47 was a serious matter. The weapon was slung across Abdulov’s back, and he was reaching for it when Dean shot the thug in the face. A casing flew away from the nine, bounced off the side of Abdulov’s head, and produced a tinkling sound as i
t fell to the street.

  The fact that Dean was shooting from behind Abdulov, and over the other man’s shoulder, made the shot more difficult. But Abdulov was smart enough to duck.

  Thanks to the unobstructed view, Dean was able to shoot two men in quick succession. The third turned and ran. He was 10 feet away when Dean shot him in the back. Twice. The impact threw the criminal face down.

  “I can’t hear,” Abdulov complained, as he got to his feet. And no wonder, given how close the pistol had been to the Kazakh’s left ear.

  After ejecting one magazine and replacing it with a second, the nine went back into its holster. “You,” Dean said, as he pointed to Abdulov. “Go,” Dean said, pointing at the street ahead.

  The Kazakh nodded and took off. Flares lit the city with a ghoulish glow. Tracers cut the night sky into squares and triangles. Explosions marched down the street that ran parallel to the one they were on and snipers fired from rooftops.

  The situation was as bad as anything Dean had experienced in Syria and Afghanistan. The SOG officer felt a sense of relief as Abdulov led him under a bridge.

  A small group of people were waiting in the shadows along with a dozen horses. Karimov was there, as was Doctor Serikova, and a posse of bodyguards. They were facing out and Dean approved. Kasimov’s countenance was partially lit by the LEDs on his radio. He was issuing rapid-fire orders, all of which had to do with getting Sin Jol fighters out of Karabalyk.

  Doctor Serikova was smoking a cigarette. Every time she took a drag the glow revealed her face. “Smoking isn’t good for you,” Dean said.

  Serikova forced a smile. “It’s very unlikely that Aybek or I will die of cancer. How do you feel? Did you replace the dressings?”

  “Yes,” Dean lied. “And I feel fine.”

  Serikova switched to English. “You are, as they say, full of fertilizer. Is that the right saying?”