PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  “At a guess, in whatever facility he bases his Odessa operations. Chua wanted me to focus on the weapon, not Dostiger.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ivan checked his watch, then looked back up at Bishop. “Alright, Mr Fischer, there's really not much time. You need to move in fifteen minutes.”

  “OK, let me brief the lads and we’ll roll.”

  The team gathered around the model of the military base and the rough map of Odessa. Bishop quickly briefed them on the overall plan, updating the orders he had already delivered on the aircraft. The team listened intently, their faces serious, ready for battle. They were back in their armored vests, MP7s in hand and combat helmets at their feet. Bishop smiled as he saw Saneh looking like any other member of the FIST, clad in a spare set of body armor, holding a submachine gun in one hand and a bug-eyed combat helmet in the other.

  Everyone looked calm and prepared, ready to undertake one of the most daring assaults since the Israelis at Entebbe airport in 1976. Funnily enough, thought Bishop, this plan is similar; the odds are a little worse, but it’s the same basic concept. Get in hard, kill the bad guys, grab the loot and get the fuck out. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 61

  Odessa International Airport

  Dostiger’s Chief of Security was quietly confident. The airport was crawling with close to a hundred men dedicated to protecting the incoming cargo. Over fifty were Dostiger’s henchmen, supported by ten airport security police and a platoon of the elite Alfa troops from the SBU, the Ukrainian Security Service. The highly trained Alfa troops were Yuri’s quick reaction force, a heavily armed SWAT team prepared to react to any contingency.

  From his vantage point in the airport control tower, Yuri had a commanding view of the entire airfield. The 2.4 kilometer runway ran north-south, with the airport terminal and tower located a third of the way down its length on the eastern side. A three hundred meter grass emergency runoff separated the tarmac from the razor-wire fence and the meter wide anti-vehicle ditch surrounding the airfield. Brilliant white security lighting illuminated every square inch of the perimeter, casting long shadows behind the men patrolling the boundary.

  Yuri had thoroughly assessed the security and was certain there was nowhere a small team of Mossad agents could infiltrate unobserved. He had positioned men in armored four-wheel drives at both ends of the runway with additional teams roving the perimeter fence with dogs. The security teams had been patrolling since midday and had reported no sign of surveillance or attempted entry.

  Inside the terminal the regular airport police were supplemented by more of Dostiger’s men in plain clothes, carrying submachine guns under their bulky jackets and alert for any suspicious activity. The Alfa assault team was parked outside in black vans, on standby should anything unexpected occur.

  The Alfa commander never left Yuri’s side, the loyalty of his team paid for in cash. The Chief of Security smiled as he looked across at the Alfa sniper team positioned on the walkway of the control tower. He could barely see them, their black jumpsuits and balaclavas blending into the night. Lying behind their Blazer sniper rifles, he knew the marksmen could put a bullet through a man anywhere on the airfield. He was confident no one would dare attack them with this many men. He took a swig from his thermos of hot coffee.

  The air traffic controller addressed him. “Excuse me, sir, the flight has entered Ukrainian airspace. We’ll have them on the ground in sixty minutes.”

  “Excellent. Warn me when they’re beginning their approach.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yuri pulled his mobile from the pocket of his heavy, full-length jacket. He flipped it open, hitting the speed-dial button. Dostiger picked up after only two rings, anticipating the update.

  “Yuri, what is happening?”

  “It’s all going to plan; no sign of our Mossad friends,” the security chief replied.

  “Stay alert, Yuri. I’m sure they are watching.” Dostiger was paranoid since the assault on his nightclub. “Do you have enough men?”

  “Yes, I have nearly a hundred. The Alfa team has been fully briefed on their security and escort duties. Once the chemical is delivered, they’ll assist in moving it to the facility.”

  “Good, good, but stay alert. I know those Jews will make an attempt to steal the package. Mossad will do anything to stop us.”

  “We’re ready for them. Let them come.”

  “Call me when the cargo is on the ground.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dostiger ended the call and Yuri placed the phone back in his pocket. He pulled a black radio from his belt. “All call signs, this is Command: radio check, over.”

  Each of the team commanders radioed in with nothing to report. Everything was running smoothly and within an hour the cargo would be secure at the facility. There Yuri had camouflaged bunkers, motion sensors and a small army of veteran Chechen mercenaries, not to mention a company of Ukrainian mechanized infantry on two hours notice to respond. Yes, Dostiger’s money and influence had ensured the best security available and the Chief of Security was confident that not even Mossad could threaten them.

  Chapter 62

  BTR-94 Armored Personnel Carrier

  17th Mechanized Brigade Motor Pool

  The vehicle compound was a basic two hundred by three hundred meter block, surrounded by a high metal fence topped with razor wire. The only way in and out was through a checkpoint complete with boom gate and guard box. A small security detail was stationed in the adjacent guard hut, the soldiers taking turns to rotate through the mundane gate duty.

  Less than a hundred feet from the compound entrance, down an embankment by the side of the road, the PRIMAL team crouched in a mud-filled drain. Bishop lay at the road’s edge, watching the guard box. Through the night vision goggles built into his helmet, the soldier on gate duty appeared in glowing red and yellow, standing out clearly against the green and black background.

  The guard paced back and forth, smoking a cigarette, unaware he was being watched. He stubbed out the butt with his boot and walked back into the warmth of the guardhouse to join his comrades. Occasionally Bishop would catch a glimpse of the men as they passed by the windows inside the small hut. It appeared as if there was some sort of party going on; he could hear men singing at the top of their lungs. Typical bloody soldiers, he thought.

  “He’s right, you know. They’re all drunk. Every one of them,” Bishop whispered over the radio to his team.

  “Do you see the dogs?” asked Kurtz.

  “Negative, we’ll tackle them if they appear. Saneh, are you ready?”

  “Ready,” she replied from behind the wheel of the utility van.

  “OK, no change to the plan. On my mark.”

  The team moved in behind him, crouched ready for action.

  “Go, go, go!”

  The team moved swiftly, weapons up as they silently approached the guard shack. They lined up beside the front door, opened it with a gentle push and rushed in.

  The singing died off immediately as the team fanned out into the room, submachine guns at the ready. All five guards were there, sitting around a large wooden table strewn with bottles of vodka, empty glasses and standard-issue AK-74 rifles. The wide-eyed Ukrainian soldiers were young, inexperienced and unprepared for the sight that faced them.

  The bug-eyed reflective lenses of their full-faced helmets made the PRIMAL team look like aliens from a Hollywood movie. They made no sound except for the faint hissing coming through the respirators as they breathed through the vents built into either side of the helmets. The drunken soldiers all froze in terror.

  One of the guards lurched forward in his seat, reaching for his AK-74. Before he could touch the weapon, Kurtz shot him in the chest with the taser attached to his MP7. The convulsing body slid off the table and on to the floor, twitching in a spreading pool of urine. It was enough to dissuade any further attempts at resistance.

  Bishop identified the senior rank amongs
t the men, grabbed him by the throat and dragged the terrified soldier into the corner. Aleks and Kurtz bound the rest of the guards as Bishop questioned their leader, pinning him up against the wall. The presence of the faceless assailants was proving to be a very sobering experience for the young man.

  “Where are the dogs?” Bishop’s voice was harsh and metallic through the helmet’s vents.

  The man began babbling in Ukrainian.

  “Where are the dogs? The woof woofs.” The PRIMAL operative used his gloved hand to make a shape like a dog barking.

  The man looked at him blankly.

  “Fuck it!” he said, throwing the Ukrainian to the side, sending him sprawling across the floor. “Put him with the rest.”

  Aleks grabbed the man by his collar, cuffed his hands behind his back and pushed him into the next room with the other guards. Pavel and Miklos were clearing the remaining rooms and the outside of the building.

  “We found the dogs, boss. They’re in cages out back,” one of them transmitted.

  “Good work. Keep clear of them. I don’t want to shoot them,” Bishop ordered. He keyed another button on his radio, transmitting to Saneh in the van. “Entry point secure.”

  Saneh answered his call. “I’m moving now.”

  The old Russian van drove out of the darkness, straight through the entrance as Kurtz activated the boom gate. The team piled in and Saneh sped through the camp towards the vehicle bays.

  Near the rear fence of the compound, lined up under security lighting, were twelve BTR-94s; enough armored vehicles to move a hundred men. The BTR-94 was a Ukrainian modification of a Russian armored personnel carrier. A little longer than a mini-bus, the eight-wheeled BTR had a crew of three and could carry up to eight fully equipped soldiers inside it’s armored hull. Its armament included a remote weapons turret that housed twin 23mm auto-cannons and a 7.62mm machine gun.

  Aleks was first out of the van as it pulled alongside the line of BTRs. He had always thought the big vehicles looked like bugs. Riding on their fat off-road tires, bristling with weapons and antennae, they resembled giant, death-wielding cockroaches.

  The former Eastern Bloc members of the FIST took charge in preparing two of the vehicles, with both Aleks and Miklos using their prior military experience. They would drive the armored personnel carriers during the assault.

  Aleks used a pair of bolt cutters to cut through the padlock on the side hatch of his vehicle. He swung the heavy door handle, unlocked the mechanism, and the bottom part of the hatch dropped down, forming a step, while the top half swung upward. Using a small torch he found the internal lighting switch and a number of tiny bulbs filled the hull with a sickly yellow glow.

  The inside of the BTR smelt like a mechanic’s workshop, the air heavy with the stench of diesel and solvents. Aleks clambered past the gunner’s cage onto the driver’s seat. Using his torch he looked at the buttons and switches. The layout was different to the BTR-70 he’d trained on.

  The Russian flicked a few switches and thumbed the ignition button. The big engine clunked as it attempted to turn over, the starter motor straining. He thumbed it again and the same thing happened; the engine refused to catch. Cursing, he was about to try again when Saneh slipped into the command seat next to him. She leant forward and examined the control panel, flicking a number of switches.

  “Try it now,” she said in her soft Iranian accent.

  Aleks frowned, thumbing the starter. The diesel engine turned once and caught, roaring to life. He lifted his bushy eyebrows in surprise.

  “You need to turn on the fuel pump and glow plugs,” Saneh yelled over the roar of the engine. “We have BTRs in Iran as well, you know.”

  The Russian grinned at her, pulling himself from the driver’s chair. Kurtz had already pulled the ammunition boxes out of the van and Aleks helped him load the heavy, belted rounds for the guns, showing him how to arm the cannons and use the remote weapon station. The German learnt quickly, rotating the electronic turret, using the camera to zoom in and out.

  Aleks left him to check on the progress of Pavel and Miklos at the other vehicle. Their BTR was ready; they had no problems with the start procedure and were loaded, waiting to refuel.

  “OK, let’s go, guys,” he said before hurrying back to drive his vehicle. They didn’t have much time left and he knew it would take at least ten minutes to fill the six hundred liter tanks.

  As the two crews drove their BTRs across to the diesel fuel point, Bishop was sitting in the back of their van waiting for a call from Ivan. He glanced at his watch. He still has a few minutes if we’re going to be on schedule, he thought. If he doesn’t— A beep in his helmet interrupted his thoughts.

  “Fischer, this is Ivan. I’m in position at the airfield.”

  “Roger. Is there anything to report?”

  “Yes, there’s lots of movement here: over eighty hostiles, possibly more.”

  Jesus Christ, thought Bishop. Good thing we’re bringing the BTRs. “Any sign of heavy weapons?” he asked.

  “Negative, you chaps ought to be fine,” Ivan replied.

  Bishop smiled. He found it amusing that Ivan’s voice sounded more like a British politician than a Russian trained spy. “Roger, we’ll be inbound soon.”

  “Acknowledged, Ivan out.”

  Bishop used his wrist-mounted flex-screen to change over to the Bunker’s frequency.

  “Bunker, this is Bishop.”

  “Chua here, aircraft is twenty-five minutes out.”

  “Roger, we’ll be rolling in five.”

  “Acknowledged. Jumper will be waiting for you once you’ve recovered the package. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, mate. Bishop out.”

  He jumped out and walked swiftly across to the fuel point where the team was pumping the final liters into the two BTRs. He switched back to the team frequency. “It’s on, lads. Aircraft is inbound; eighty plus hostiles at the airport with no heavy weapons.”

  “I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards, da,” Aleks responded as he thumbed the starter on his BTR.

  Almost on cue the roar of both big diesels filled the air as Miklos started his own vehicle. He and Pavel were in one BTR with Bishop. The other crew consisted of Aleks, Kurtz and Saneh.

  The two armored personnel carriers turned out of the barracks and onto the main road, Pavel following the GPS provided by Ivan. Bishop looked at his watch. They had exactly twenty minutes. Timing would be critical. They needed to reach the airport immediately after the AN-12 touched down and not a moment earlier. Chua had confirmed Dostiger’s aircraft was on time, they had two bulletproof vehicles fully bombed up with fuel and ammunition, and the extraction aircraft was waiting for them. In a little over half an hour we should have this all wrapped up, he thought.

  Chapter 63

  Antonov AN-12

  Odessa International Airport

  The AN-12 landed heavily, hitting the end of the runway with a squeal as the tires slammed into the tarmac. Yanuk grinned at the rest of Dostiger’s security contingent. “I can almost taste the vodka, comrades,” he yelled over the roar of the four turboprop engines. They all laughed; every man involved in this operation was expecting a significant bonus, although none would be receiving as much as the Russian engineer.

  The old aircraft lumbered onto the taxiway and Yanuk unclipped his safety belt, standing up. He walked over to one of the fuselage windows and peered out at the floodlit airport. There were armed men everywhere. He smiled to himself.

  The big transport plane spun around slowly until the nose pointed back towards the runway and the tail faced the terminal. The whine of hydraulics announced the opening of the ramp and Dostiger’s men inside the aircraft shivered as the cold night air whipped into the hold.

  Looking out over the ramp, Yanuk could see a blue armored van driving towards them. Just behind it were half a dozen black four-wheel drives and a cordon of heavily armed men.

  Yanuk moved down the ramp as the truck turned and started t
o reverse. His brow furrowed and he looked past the vehicle into the distance. Over the idling props and the truck’s reversing indicator, he thought he could hear what sounded like the distant roar of a very large diesel engine, a sound that brought back vivid memories from the Chechen war over ten years ago.

  He stepped halfway down the ramp, looking towards the airport terminal for the source of the noise, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright security lighting. The growl of engines grew louder; Yanuk’s eyes narrowed, and then widened suddenly as the thump of a distant explosion plunged the airfield into total darkness. All the security floodlights, runway beacons, passenger terminal and tower lighting died at exactly the same moment. The engine noise rose in a crescendo and the Russian finally recognized the sound that was once so familiar to him.

  “GO, GO, GO!” he screamed, desperately gesturing at the loadmaster, who looked at him in confusion. Yanuk took two quick strides and roughly grabbed the man, shaking him, yelling in his face, “TAKEOFF! TAKEOFF!” The aviator looked shocked, thumbed his radio and relayed the message to the pilots. Almost immediately the big aircraft started rolling forward, the ramp dragging on the tarmac.

  From the airport tower Dostiger’s Chief of Security stood in the darkness, watching as the black shape of the AN-12 started moving away from his armored van. He had known something was wrong a minute earlier when one of the police patrols was cut-off over the radio, a crashing sound transmitting clearly through the speaker on his Motorola before it went quiet. A few seconds later the lights had died, plunging the tower into darkness. Now the unmistakable sound of armored vehicles could be heard approaching in the distance. A feeling of dread filled his stomach.

  Yuri turned to the Alfa commander, speaking in a steady voice. “Get your men out there. Find out what’s happening. Do NOT let anyone touch my cargo.”