by Dave Edlund
The simultaneous detonation of the grenades blew the lobby doors inward. At the sound of the explosions Bull detonated the explosive cord, easily blasting through the window. Bull was through first, quickly yanking down a curtain panel. His squad wasted no time jumping through the opening, weapons searching for targets—and there were plenty.
The dozen NPA soldiers were largely exposed. They were expecting a frontal assault through the two lobby doors and were hunkered down behind the sandbag barricades when the grenades blasted the doors inward. Only the assault didn’t materialize.
Instead, Bull’s squad rushed in from behind the soldiers, who had turned at the concussion of the breaching charge. Bull, Homer, and Magnum opened up.
A few militiamen managed to swing their rifles around and point them in the general direction of the SGIT assault team, firing without taking time to aim. Time they didn’t have.
Bullets flew wildly, shattering the remainder of the windowpanes behind the draperies, the sound of breaking glass mingling with gunfire.
Major Leonov was in a corner of the room, and in the confusion of battle he darted for the open doorway, planning to use the massacre as a diversion for his escape. He halted abruptly in the doorway, Jim’s rifle pointed at his face. Ghost was a step behind and to the right of Boss Man, aiming his AA12 automatic shotgun at the Major, the huge 12 gauge barrel looking more like a canon.
“Stop right there,” Jim commanded in an even voice. “Drop your weapon.”
Leonov did as ordered and raised his hands.
As quickly as the attack started, it was over. Bull, Magnum, and Homer checked the NPA soldiers for signs of life and, concluding there was no further danger, turned their attentions to the hostages.
The men and women were clustered in a corner of the conference room. The terror-stricken civilians watched in silence until Bull approached, rifle down and hand held up, palm facing the petrified people.
Breaking the silence, a woman asked, “You have come to rescue us?” Her English was almost flawless, with only a mild accent.
Bull quickly realized they had recognized the American flag on the shoulder of his uniform. “Yes, we’re going to get all of you out of here.”
A man pointed his finger at the officer standing in the doorway, hands raised at gunpoint. “That is Major Leonov. He is Russian Spetsnaz.”
“Really?” Bull turned his head. “Did you hear that Boss Man?”
“Sure did.” Jim was looking his prisoner in the eyes, appraising his mettle. “So, Major Leonov. You’re a long way from home.”
“And you are?” Leonov said.
“None of your concern. Ghost, bind his hands.”
As Ghost zip-tied the prisoner’s hands behind his back, Bull completed the head count. “Fifteen, sir.”
“Several of our colleagues were killed during the first attempted rescue,” the man who pointed out Leonov explained.
“What do we do now?” Ghost asked.
“We need to get these people out of here to a more secure location.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Where to, Boss Man?” Bull asked.
Jim removed a folded paper from his breast pocket, a floor plan for the chemistry building. “Here.” He stabbed his finger at a location on the map representing a large room on the ground floor at the opposite end of the building.
“Not many exterior windows, corner access, should be defensible,” Bull observed.
“We have company coming!” Homer shouted. He was facing toward the campus commons. Wearing his night vision goggles, the approaching enemy soldiers stood out easily against the landscaping.
“Come on people—time to go!” Jim said. The civilians rose and exited the room as a tight group, following Bull and Ghost down the hall to the far end of the building.
“How many?” Jim asked.
“Looks like 20, maybe 25.”
With Jim in the lead, Magnum and Homer each grabbed Leonov by an arm, and together they trotted down the hall, close behind the civilians.
Chapter 31
Minsk
LEAVING THE WIDE RUNAWAY BEHIND, Captain Diaz led his men toward the terminal. The control tower rose above the center portion of the curved structure, providing an unobstructed view of the tarmac and taxi lanes. A half dozen commercial aircraft were parked at the gates, stranded where they had the misfortune of being when the airport was taken over by the NPA. Several more cargo aircraft were sitting on a large concrete pad several hundred meters from the terminal, including one Antonov An-225, the world’s largest cargo plane. Behind that behemoth was the flaming wreckage of another plane and hangar.
Aside from two shallow grass-covered depressions to collect runoff water from the expansive paved surfaces, there would be no cover until they approached very close to the terminal. Then they would have tugs, baggage carts, and the landing wheels and low-slung engines of the parked aircraft to use as shields.
As they crested the lip of the first depression, the Marines came under fire, bullets grazing the ground and tumbling out of control upward. Immediately they fell to the grass, seeking out targets.
Mortar shells were exploding behind them, and Diaz was unsure —his men or the second wave of Marines who were still coming off the runway. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw more explosions well down the paved strip, and he had his answer. He turned his gaze back to the terminal in time to see a cluster of 30mm shells rain down on the suspected mortar position behind a tug close to the An-225.
Machinegun fire was still raking his position, keeping his squads locked down. At least the mortars were silenced. Diaz glassed the various equipment close to the building, trying to spot the machinegun crews. Then he saw it, a brief muzzle flash and a second later a dozen bullets tore up grass to his left, close enough he could hear the ricochets making a zinging sound.
“Behind the main landing gear of the aircraft at the gate, third from the right,” Diaz said to Nolty, the Marine next to him. “Pass it along, concentrate your fire on that machinegun when I open up.”
The combined rifle and automatic fire was intense, a continuous ear-splitting roar. After three seconds Diaz ordered, “Cease fire!” shouting to be heard.
“Let’s go!” Diaz was up and running first, immediately followed by the rest of the platoon. He was halfway across the taxi lane, a long strip of concrete that paralleled the runway but was only about half the width, when a machinegun opened up on his men again. The bullets split the air, some finding the running Marines, most just passing by in a mini sonic wave.
On the concrete there was nowhere to hide from the murderous automatic fire. Then another machinegun joined in. Diaz knew they had no choice but to run toward the weapons and dive into the grassy depression as fast as possible. But given the distance they had already covered and carrying 100 to 120 pounds of gear, the Marines were reduced to moving at the pace of a jog.
The gunfire continued unabated, and more Marines went down. Diaz heard screams of pain over the ringing in his ears.
“Medic!” The call rang out again and again. “Medic!”
At the lip of the depression, Diaz dove forward and tumbled down the gentle slope, followed by his radioman. He turned onto his side in time to see Nolty and then another dozen men scramble into position along the leading edge. It was still another 400 meters to the terminal, and nearly all that distance would be in the open. His platoon didn’t stand a chance of making it to the building unless those machineguns were silenced.
Overhead the gunships were still orbiting, hunting any heavy weapons the enemy was trying to deploy. At the moment, he heard more 30mm canon shells exploding but couldn’t see the impacts and assumed they were targeting weapons on the other side of the long terminal.
The machinegun fire slowed to sporadic volleys once the surviving Marines joined their commander in the shallow pocket of earth. Lying side by side on the cool, lush grass, they felt as much as heard a rhythmic and deep thumping, as if they were in a
gigantic drum that was being rapidly beaten.
Four AH-1Z Viper attack helicopters flew fast and low over the Marines spread out across the open expanse of tarmac and grass, the pilots deftly flying their slender aircraft while the co-pilot sought targets. Diaz was going to help them. From their forward position, he could call in targets and spot for the gunners. Through his binoculars he spotted the second machine gun, revealed by the muzzle flash when it was fired.
He keyed the radio. “This is Ghost Rider. We are pinned down by two machine guns, request air support, over.”
The reply came back almost immediately. “Ghost Rider, this is Shield. I have four Vipers locked and loaded and on station. Tell me what needs killin’, son.”
“Machinegun underneath commercial aircraft at Gate 3, they’re between the main landing gear. Second gun is on the second floor, about 10 meters to the left of the control tower. They’re inside, shooting through a blown-out window.”
“Roger that, Ghost Rider.”
“Be advised; we have Marines clearing the building from the top down. Three squads, they’re currently on the third floor.”
Another volley of fire forced Diaz and several other Marines off the lip and further into the depression. Diaz didn’t hear the reply of acknowledgement from the helo pilot. He inched back to the edge in time to see the four Vipers split into two teams and circle around the terminal from opposite directions. The attack birds were low, only 160 meters, and they made one pass to confirm the reported locations of machineguns. On the second pass the lead Viper of each pair locked onto his target and fired.
A pair of Hellfire missiles struck just before and after the wing root on the parked aircraft, shearing off the right wing and collapsing the landing gear. The two-man machinegun team was dead even before the 90,000-pound Airbus landed on them.
The other Viper hooked in ten meters above the tarmac. The pilot came to a stop and at the same time pivoted the nose of the helo so it was pointing at a row of blown out windows to the right of the control-tower base. At the sight of the attack aircraft, the Russian soldiers leveled their machinegun and fired.
Immediately the pilot pulled back on the cyclic stick, retreating the Viper directly away from the terminal. The co-pilot aimed the three-barrel Gatling gun and unleashed a continuous barrage of 20mm armor-piercing explosive rounds, walking the barrel back and forth for a full three seconds. Hundreds of bright flashes, like flashbulbs, marked the explosive rounds inside the building.
The pilot held his aircraft in a stationary hover, daring the defenders to attack, but their guns were silent.
Captain Diaz was in awe, having watched the devastating attack through his field glasses. Wasting no more time he ordered his men forward. They would regroup behind a smoldering armored personnel carrier about 120 meters from the terminal.
Facing only sporadic small arms fire, they made the dash suffering only two casualties, both minor grazing bullet wounds. The Vipers continued to circle overhead, firing missiles and 20mm rounds at targets of opportunity, while the gunships could be heard firing their canon at targets that were outside of visual range. The bulk of the Marine invasion force was coming up behind Diaz facing little resistance.
Diaz looked at the sweaty faces surrounding him. He did a quick head count and realized half of his men were absent—either dead or wounded. His back was pressed against one of the eight rubber tires as he saw Washington leading Delta squad. “Welcome back Sergeant,” he said.
Every man in Delta squad was breathing deeply, trying to recover from the long run. “We couldn’t catch up until the machineguns were put out of commission,” Washington said. “Had us in that first depression by the runway. Man, that’s a long sprint.”
“Glad to have you back.” Diaz gave everyone several minutes to rest while he considered their plan of attack. When he was ready, he addressed his men.
“Listen up!” All eyes were on their commander.
“Squad leaders, you will each enter the building through a different doorway. We will clear the ground floor and meet up with Mike, November, and Romeo squads there. Any hostiles trying to escape will be caught between our forces. Beginning with Alpha squad, you will enter at Gate 2, Bravo Gate 3, Charlie, Gate 4, and Delta, Gate 5. Squad leaders, refer to your maps of the terminal.” Diaz paused momentarily, paper rustling as the maps were unfolded.
“Our job is to secure and hold this floor while Mike, November, and Romeo clear from the top down. Alpha and Bravo, you will sweep right. Charlie and Delta, you will sweep left. Make sure you leave a rear guard. No one enters this floor unless they wear the U.S. Marine Corps uniform. Am I clear?”
Heads nodded accompanied by “Yes, Captain.”
Diaz looked over the sweat-soaked faces of his men. Many were veterans who had seen combat, for others this was their first time. None showed fear.
“If you haven’t already, drink some water. If anyone’s low on ammo, get a couple mags from your buddies.”
He stood and peered around the end of the APC, steeling a quick glance and then pulling back before he’d get his head shot off. He didn’t see any enemy and hazarded a second glance. Still, no one was visible.
“Squad leaders, ready?” The men were all standing now in four tight groups. “Go!”
Diaz rushed around the APC with Charlie and Delta squads at the same time the other two squads ran around the opposite end of the destroyed steel beast. The Marines ran hard and fast, reaching their respective gate doors and lining up tight against the wall to the side of the doors. For security reasons the entrances were locked. The airport personnel would have used a personalized magnetic keycard to unlock the doors for baggage handling and catering.
Nolty, leader of Charlie squad, looked to Diaz and then pulled a pistol-gripped shotgun from a scabbard alongside his pack. He pumped the action forcefully, chambering a breaching round, pressed the muzzled against the door latch, and pulled the trigger. The 12-gauge shotgun jumped back and Nolty kicked the door open, immediately darting inside. The rest of Charlie squad followed single file, filling a wide hallway. They moved forward, hugging the walls and shortly faced two doors, 90 degrees apart. Diaz checked his map, confirming that one door led to a service room with elevators to the second floor where the kitchens were located. The other door connected to the baggage claim and customs hall.
He looked at Washington and Nolty. “Nolty, your squad will clear the baggage area. Washington, you take the service room.” Both men nodded affirmation.
“Look, once your space is cleared, wait for my signal. Both squads will enter the main arrival hall at the same time. I’m expecting heavy resistance, so timing is important.”
The doors were locked, as expected, and on a silent count to three, the latches were simultaneously breached. The Marines rushed in.
Washington’s men found little of interest in the large room. Several desks, some empty carts that may have been used by catering, three elevators along one wall. There was no way he could lock out the elevators—that would have to be done at a mechanical room or control panel. But he could do the next best thing. He had his Marines rig two trip wires and two Claymore mines, each located in front of the elevator doors and about ten feet apart such that the lethal arc of each AP mine covered all three elevators. The trip wires were arranged such that if one was activated it would not set off the other.
Delta squad was ready, there was nothing more to do than wait for the order from Captain Diaz. Washington gently tested the latch on the door leading to the arrival hallway. At least from the inside, it was not locked.
Charlie squad entered the large open room and spread out. Baggage carousels were spaced across the expanse. On the far side of the room was the customs declaration area, with five large steel desks where unlucky passengers were invited to open their suspect luggage to be searched. Beyond customs was the exit.
“Clear!” The shout was repeated by Marines as they swept their shouldered rifles across their respective fiel
ds of fire. No enemy were occupying the baggage claim area and the squad moved forward. Suddenly, Russian soldiers rushed through the exit doors stopping at the customs declaration counter. Both sides saw each other at the same time and opened up.
Rifles fired, grenades exploded. The Marines ducked behind the stainless steel luggage carousels and concrete pillars supporting the upper floors. The Russian Spetsnaz used the customs desks as protection. The confined space and hard surfaces amplified the horrendous noise, drowning out any attempt to verbally communicate.
One by one, the customs desks were shredded by explosions. The Spetsnaz, reduced to only two survivors, retreated back to the arrival hall.
Charlie advanced to the two sets of double exit doors. If they had been constructed of glass it would have been easier, but these doors were solid steel and locked. Unlike the service room cleared by Delta, the baggage and customs room was a secure space.
Diaz looked at two Marines. “Set up charges; I want those doors ready to disappear on my mark.”
The Marines busied themselves placing detcord around the double doors and connected the explosive-filled cord to a single detonator held by Nolty. Completed with their task, they joined their fellow Leathernecks behind what was left of the desks.
Then Diaz activated the squad net. “Washington, you ready?”
“Affirmative Cap.”
“On my mark were gonna blast these doors open and throw grenades out into the hallway. You do the same. As soon as the grenades explode get your men out the passageway as fast as possible.” No need to elaborate on the reasoning; all the Marines knew the choke point was a killing zone.
Diaz locked eyes with Nolty and mentally reviewed all they had done since entering the terminal. He’d done it by the book, as they trained.
His Marines were ready.
The heat and pressure wave was simultaneous with the ear-splitting blast. No more than a second later Marine heads popped up and grenades were lobbed out the opening where the pair of double exit doors had stood resolutely only moments ago. Dust was still swirling in the turbulent air, but this wasn’t a time to pause.