PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  “We’re not out of the fire yet!” Kurtz’s voice came over the radio. “There’s more of them massing on our flank. We need back up now!”

  “On my way,” Bishop said. He leapt to his feet, the machine gun in the crook of his arm. “Pavel, chuck me the launcher.”

  “Only two rounds left, boss,” said the injured Russian, throwing the grenade launcher to him.

  He caught it with his free hand and sprinted out of the building, down to the wall at the eastern corner. Taking up position beside a pile of firewood, he lay down behind his machine gun, covering the open ground between the barn and the sheds.

  ***

  Dostiger and the Chechen commander had left their position at the rear and moved down the treeline towards their forward line of troops.

  “This is far enough,” the Chechen commander said as he reached out and grasped his boss’s shoulder. If they moved any closer, they would be putting themselves in the line of fire.

  Dostiger turned on him, viciously slapping the hand away. “I want them dead. Do you understand me? Fucking dead!”

  “I understand, sir, but if you get any closer, your weapon won’t be as effective.” The Chechen attempted to placate Dostiger’s fury.

  The Ukrainian looked down at his Dragunov before returning his gaze to the Chechen. “Order them to attack. I want this finished here and now. I want those canisters and I want that devil Fischer’s head.”

  The mercenary nodded, removing the radio from his harness.

  ***

  Bishop tucked his machine gun into his shoulder. A pair of smoke grenades bounced into the clearing in front of him. They hissed and spluttered, filling the space with a billowing cloud of thick grey smoke.

  “Here they come, lads.” Bishop activated the thermal imager built into his helmet. The Chechens glowed red through the smoke, their presence betrayed in the cool morning air by the heat of their bodies and weapons.

  Bishop took aim and fired a long burst, sending tracer rounds lancing into the advancing Chechens. Their assault rifles barked in response and rounds thudded into the building. From the window Kurtz opened up with his machine gun and the rate of fire hitting the building faltered as Bishop and Kurtz shot up the advancing forces, hitting them from two sides.

  “Run, schweinnhunde!” screamed Kurtz as the Chechen line faltered and drew back.

  “Ammo check,” Bishop transmitted.

  “Fifty rounds,” reported Kurtz.

  “Two mags,” said Aleks.

  “Mag and a half,” cut in Miklos.

  Pavel reported last. “Two mags.”

  Jesus, thought Bishop, we’re not going to survive another attack.

  The fresh morning breeze swept the smoke from between the buildings, revealing the bodies of three more dead mercenaries. The farm was bathed in sunlight as the sun crested the horizon. Bishop’s goggles adjusted to the sun’s rays reflecting off the 5000 liter steel fuel tank raised high off the ground on four legs. He smiled grimly.

  As the Chechens regrouped for another assault, Bishop lined the grenade launcher up on the fuel point. He pulled the trigger and a grenade slammed into one of tank’s four legs. The tank groaned as the thick steel leg buckled, but it failed to collapse.

  One round left, he thought. This better bloody work.

  He fired the final grenade. It detonated on the buckled leg and collapsed the tank, releasing thousands of liters of diesel. Like a mini-tsunami, the fuel wave washed through the Chechen position.

  Bishop pulled a thermite grenade from his vest and flung it into the fuel. The diesel burst into flame, trapping the attacking mercenaries in a blazing inferno. As the burning men fled the fire, he machine-gunned them down in an act of mercy.

  Kurtz followed suit, firing at the men as they screamed in agony.

  The remaining handful of Chechens, most already wounded from the gunfight, beat a hasty retreat as the flames spread, consuming one of the sheds.

  ***

  “Where are they going?” yelled Dostiger. He watched the last of his men retreat away from the inferno that was consuming the farm.

  “I can’t raise anyone on the radio,” the Chechen commander replied calmly.

  “WHERE ARE THEY GOING!” screamed Dostiger.

  The Chechen turned to Dostiger. “Our men are dead. We need to leave.”

  “NO! NO!” Dostiger shook his head in disbelief. “Turn them around. Make them fight. I must have the canisters!” He limped down the treeline towards the fire and smoke that marked the demise of Alpha and Charlie squads.

  The Chechen commander followed, trying to talk sense into the manic arms dealer. “Sir, we need to go. Reinforcements will be here soon and we can attack then.”

  “No! I will finish this myself. I WILL KILL THEM!” He stopped at the crumpled body of one of the Chechens, slung his Dragunov across his back and picked up the dead man’s assault rifle. His knuckles were white and his face twisted as he raged, “No one comes to my country and fucks with me. NOBODY!”

  The Chechen commander reached forward and tore the weapon from Dostiger’s grip. “The attack’s failed! We must—“

  Dostiger lashed out at him, striking the younger man’s face with his fist. The mercenary blocked the second punch and caught his boss in an arm lock, dragging him away. “Sir, we must go. We can return with more men.”

  Dostiger’s face was livid as they retreated back into the trees, putting distance between them and the burning sheds. Shooting pain in his leg added fuel to his fury. “This isn’t the end, Fischer. I will make you pay if I have to kill a thousand Jews to do it. I will.”

  ***

  Bishop breathed a deep sigh of relief as the last of their assailants withdrew into the treeline, leaving the bodies of their comrades to burn. A beeping noise in his helmet drew his attention from the blaze. He checked his phone. It was a message from the bunker.

  Ukrainian military communications traffic off the charts. Response forces have been activated. Expect first military units in your area within thirty minutes.

  “OK, team, we’ve got to hustle,” Bishop transmitted. “We may have fought off Dostiger’s mercs but Ukrainian military’s inbound. Aleks, get that truck started, otherwise we’re walking.” The vehicle hadn’t yet caught fire and he hoped it wasn’t too badly shot up.

  “OK, boss.”

  “Miklos, see what you can do for Pavel’s leg. Kurtz, you’re with me. We’re going to find Ivan.”

  Bishop and the tall German stalked cautiously down the treeline towards the remains of Jumper and the wrecked BTR.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” Bishop said as he scanned the forest, machine gun at his shoulder. “There could be more of those balaclava-wearing bastards around.”

  The BTR was burning fiercely, the engine compartment and tires fuelling the fire. Through the smoke billowing from its hatches, a lone figure could be seen sprawled in the mud, mere meters from the vehicle. As Bishop got closer. he identified the body.

  “It’s Saneh!” He bolted forward, ignoring the heat, and grabbed the Iranian agent under her arms, dragging her clear. He felt for a pulse. It was strong. He ripped off his helmet and lowered his ear to her mouth. She wasn’t breathing. Her lungs were full of smoke. He cupped her jaw in his hand and breathed two deep breaths of fresh air into her lungs. “Come on, Saneh!” He filled her lungs again.

  With a cough and a splutter, she started breathing. Her eyes flashed open, making immediate contact with Bishop’s. His panic subsided as her body convulsed with giant waves of coughing, clearing her lungs.

  “This doesn’t make us even,” she rasped.

  Bishop couldn’t help but laugh. “Not at all. We were all as good as dead till you showed up.” He carefully helped Saneh sit up.

  She glanced around. The absence of gunfire told her she was safe. “Lucky you left me behind, Aden, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

  Bishop gave her a grin. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

&n
bsp; “Oh, it’s going to take a bit more than that.” She laughed, coughing again.

  “If you two are done, Aleks has the truck started, ja,” the lanky German interrupted.

  Bishop looked back across the field towards the burning sheds. A rust-streaked farm truck with a canvas canopy was churning across the muddy field towards them, belching out clouds of black smoke. Bishop helped Saneh to her feet and nodded at the tall German, who steadied her with his hand. As they walked, Bishop dropped back and phoned the Bunker.

  Vance picked up on the first ring. “Bish, how’s the team.”

  “Yeah, Vance, team’s alive, and we’ve still got the canisters. Had a run in with some of Dostiger’s goons. Pavel’s been shot but he’ll be OK.”

  “Right, buddy, we need to get you out ASAP!” Bishop could hear Vance issuing commands to the team in the background. It took a few seconds for him to gather all the information he needed. “Bish, you still there?”

  “Yep, shoot.”

  “First things first. You got wheels?”

  Bishop looked across at the battered truck. “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Right, that’s good. Plan is you get back to the farm. You lay low till dark and then RV with the Gulfstream at another airfield close to the border.”

  “Sounds workable. What about Ivan? Is he meeting us there?”

  “Haven’t been able to contact him. Will keep trying, but right now you gotta get moving. The Ukrainians can’t be far away!”

  “OK, mate. See you soon.”

  The old farm truck slowed to a halt and Aleks greeted them with a broad smile. He’d found a rotten farmer’s jacket and a cap to wear. With the grime of combat smeared across his face, he looked the part of a peasant farmer.

  “Canisters are in the back, boss, Pavel will live and Miklos is whinging like a little girl,” Aleks announced.

  “Right then,” Bishop said as he helped Saneh clamber up into the back of the truck. “We need to get back to the farm. Head east, Aleks. Try to stick to the back roads.”

  Once everyone was under the faded canvas canopy, the Russian took off with a crunch of gears, crossed the field, and turned onto the country lane.

  Chapter 69

  Enroute to ‘The Farm’

  “So where to from here, Aden?” Saneh asked as the truck bounced down the country lanes of Odessa’s rural hinterland. They were sitting in the tray side by side, the rest of the team sprawled around them.

  “The canisters will be destroyed and then I’m going to kill Dostiger.”

  “Do you really need to kill him?” Saneh asked. “You have the canisters; the mission is a success.”

  The PRIMAL operative simply raised an eyebrow.

  “You really want to kill him, don’t you?”

  Bishop didn’t respond. His thoughts were far away from the truck. He was back in Dostiger’s nightclub, the image of the missile launcher on the office wall searing into his brain.

  ”Do you trust me at all?” Saneh asked quietly.

  Bishop sighed, returning from his thoughts. “Trust was never the issue, Saneh.”

  It was the beautiful Iranian’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “OK,” laughed Bishop, “I lie. A little bit of an issue.”

  “Oh, please, I’m Persian and I am a woman. Two things you clearly have no idea about.” She elbowed him gently in the ribs.

  “Oh, I know about Persians—” The sirens of a passing police car caused him to pause. The wailing faded. “The fact you’re Persian isn’t an issue for me, Saneh. The Persians have a lot to be proud of. It’s the extremists that bother me.”

  “Is that how you think of me, Aden? Do you think I am some fanatic willing to die for my religion?”

  “No, not at all, Saneh. I think you’re a lot like me.”

  “And how is that, Mr Fischer? Jaded and despondent?”

  Bishop smiled. “No, you’re a bit of an idealist: someone looking to make a difference.” He leant over and whispered in her ear. “Now’s not the time.” His eyes flicked to the rest of the team sitting in the back of the truck with them. “But if we get out of here, I’ll talk with my superiors. You don’t belong in MOIS, you—“

  “Hey, boss.” Alek’s pulled back the cracked glass divider that separated the cabin of the truck from the tray. “Sorry to interrupt but we’re there and it looks like Ivan’s already here.”

  Bishop leant forward to look through the windscreen. Ivan’s battered Russian jeep was parked next to the open doors of the barn.

  “Drive in,” said Bishop.

  Alek’s nosed the truck in through the open doors and brought it to a smooth halt on the straw-covered floor.

  As the truck stopped, a voice yelled out from the darkness at the rear of the shed.

  “GET OUT! LEAVE YOUR WEAPONS IN THE TRUCK!”

  Bishop whipped out his pistol and peered though the front cabin. He caught a glimpse of a man aiming a submachine gun at Aleks.

  “This is Iranian intelligence, Mr Fischer,” the harsh accent yelled out. “We have your friend here. If you do not comply, we will kill him!”

  So MOIS have decided to join the party, thought Bishop, and he looked directly into the eyes of the beautiful woman beside him. “Your friends, Saneh?”

  She looked shocked. “I didn’t know. I promise.”

  Bishop looked away in disgust. “OK, I’m coming out!” he announced. “I’m not armed.” He dropped his pistol onto the floor of the truck and moved to the back. Kurtz grabbed his arm as he passed. “We can take them!” he hissed. The look on the German’s face was pure rage as he raised his machine gun.

  “No,” whispered Bishop and he climbed down from the truck.

  Aleks was already out of the cab, his hands in the air, facing a group of Uzi-wielding men.

  As Bishop’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could just make out the features of the five men in front of him. They looked like a group of badly-dressed thugs from an Eighties’ action movie, complete with skivvies and poorly fitting polyester suits.

  They had to be Iranian, he thought. Not even eastern Europeans wore outfits that bad.

  If it wasn’t for the weapons, including the pistol one of them held to Ivan’s head, Bishop probably would have burst out laughing.

  The oldest of the men, athletic-looking, with gray hair and cold blue eyes, spoke. “Where is Agent Ebadi, Mr Fischer?”

  “She’s in the truck.”

  “And the weapon?”

  Bishop feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Behind him he could hear the rest of the team disembarking.

  “Come now, Mr Fischer, there’s no need to be like that, what with this being a joint operation and all.”

  “Like I said, Mr... ?”

  “You can call me Rostam.”

  “Like I said, Rostam, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that right, Aden?” Saneh walked past Bishop carrying one of the black nylon duffel bags. She unzipped the bag and handed Rostam the silver cylinder.

  “So this is the wonder weapon?” the MOIS officer asked as he scrutinized the container.

  “So I am led to believe!” Saneh replied.

  “My dear girl, you fail to fathom the power that this cylinder represents.” He switched his intense gaze to Saneh. “Just the one?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmmm. A pity. Regardless, this will meet our requirements nicely. I must say, Fischer, to use a British term, you’ve done a ‘cracker’ of a job. Successfully denied the Revolutionary Guards their wonder weapon and delivered it directly to me. Don’t think that MOIS isn’t very grateful for your efforts.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Rostam. The Western world isn’t going to stand by and let you waltz off with that,” said Bishop.

  “Do you really believe that, Mr Fischer? Or are you trying to justify your own shortcomings?” Rostam smiled. “The truth is you simply failed and no one, not MI6, nor anyone else, will do anyth
ing to stop me. You need to accept that despite all your shiny toys and resources, you were foiled by a pretty smile.” Rostam placed his hand on Saneh’s shoulder. “You’re all the same, my boy, young, hot-headed and driven by your loins and not your brain. All passion and no planning!”

  Bishop said nothing, his face searing a hot, bright shade of red.

  “I bid you farewell, Mr Fischer. Better luck next time.” Rostam nodded towards the man holding a pistol to Ivan’s head. “Release him!”

  Ivan stumbled across the gap between the two parties and Bishop caught him.

  “Sorry, old chap, they got the jump on me.”

  The Iranians started to file out as the roar of a low-flying helicopter approached. Saneh paused when she reached the door, looking back. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed and then disappeared.

  The helicopter’s engine note changed as it touched down briefly, then took off, the clatter of blades disappearing into the distance.

  “That treacherous bitch.” Kurtz’s snarl broke the silence. “She played us like a bunch of fucking boy scouts.”

  “A bunch of boy scouts caught with our dicks in our hands,” growled Aleks.

  “I don’t think so,” Bishop said quietly.

  “What do you mean? You saw her; she sold us out!” accused Kurtz.

  Bishop turned to him. “I thought the same at first, but I think you’ll find she was as surprised as we were. You should’ve seen her face when that Rostam arsehole told us to get out of the truck.”

  “Then why did she hand over the canister?” Aleks asked.

  “Because she didn’t have any other choice. She had to play along.”

  “That doesn’t change the facts! Now Iran has the weapon and we don’t have shit!” said Kurtz.

  “Don’t we?” Bishop asked. “I think if you check the truck, we still have one canister. Not ideal, I know, but better than nothing.”