by Dave Edlund
With Diaz, Washington, and Nolty in the lead, the rest stormed into the arrival hall, heads swiveling and each crack of gunfire announcing a possible target. The men of Charlie and Delta squads were not being stingy with their ammunition, knowing they had to press forward.
Ahead, in the middle of the hall was a bar and snack concession. To the right were several small stores selling liquor, upscale clothing, perfume, and tobacco products. On the opposite side was a restaurant. The stores were empty, and many of the higher value products had already been looted by the Russian and NPA soldiers.
Washington and Nolty ordered the Leathernecks to spread out as they advanced cautiously. Suddenly, a fusillade of bullets cut through the middle of the formation. Three Marines fell to the floor amid a cry of agony, truncated by the voluminous return fire from the combined squads.
Chips of wood flew violently from the bar as bullets punched through the ornate mahogany. Enemy soldiers rose from the depths of the restaurant and from behind shelves in the stores, firing their AK-74 rifles at the exposed Marines.
Nolty turned his aim from the bar to the restaurant. Through his peripheral vision he saw a young Marine die instantly, his head blossoming in a red mist. He dropped his carbine, allowing it to swing at his side by the sling, and brought a second weapon strapped to his back. It had a short barrel, yet was large in diameter, and with an oversized cylinder above the trigger—the cylinder holding six 40mm grenades.
Shooting the M32 from his hip, Nolty sent a fragmentation round into the restaurant, followed in rapid secession by a second grenade. Both exploded on the counter along the back wall, reducing the wood display case to splinters and silencing the rifle fire.
As his comrades focused their fire on the stores, Nolty shifted his aim. Each pull of the trigger was followed by a deep whump that sounded oddly out of place with the sharp crack from the rifles and machineguns.
A grenade obliterated a glass display case housing expensive perfumes, small shards of glass multiplying the lethality of the steel fragments. Two more 40mm rounds blasted apart shelving, sending clothes and leather handbags in all directions. The final grenade exploded amidst a dozen bottles of single malt scotch that had somehow been left untouched. The crack of the explosive was followed by a deep thump, the sound of vaporized alcohol exploding in a fireball.
Nolty opened the cylinder, ejecting the spent cases and slammed home six more—it was all he had. A third of his fellow Leathernecks were down, but they had to hold the ground floor until the Marines from the upper floors joined them.
Every rifle shot drew the combined fire of the Marines, and they continued to advance on the stores and restaurant. The enemy soldiers in the restaurant resorted to firing their AKs on full auto while trying to stay out of sight behind a litter of tables and chairs. A couple of lucky bullets dropped two more Marines, but they had approached to within 30 meters of the shops—close enough that they started to throw grenades.
Four of the deadly steel orbs bounced about amongst the table legs of the restaurant, only to detonate a second later sending chairs and shattered portions of tables into the air. When the chaos settled, silence descended on the restaurant. But defenders were still fighting from the shops on the opposite side of the hall. Now, the Marines turned their attention to the remaining resistance.
Clusters of AK fire erupted briefly from behind rows of shelves or display counters, only to draw concentrated return fire and hand grenades. The trained Russian Spetsnaz were shooting and moving, never staying in one place very long.
Three more Marines fell to Russian bullets.
Nolty aimed the M32 at a cigar counter, blasting it apart along with the soldiers seeking protection behind it.
Another volley of shots came from the clothing store. Nolty turned his aim, but could not see where the shots had come from.
“Washington!” Diaz shouted. “Sweep forward with Delta squad. I want the remainder of this floor cleared!”
“Yes sir! Delta, you heard the Captain! Let’s go!”
As the Marines rose to follow Washington, a new burst of fire emerged from the clothing store, and this time Nolty got a bead on it—two soldiers shooting from the far side of a waist-high display island, about four feet wide and twice that in length. The sides were polished wood doors concealing stock held in reserve. A multicolor collection of sweaters was folded and neatly stacked on the top of the island.
Nolty fired two 40mm rounds into the island, blowing it apart and creating a rainbow of sweaters across the floor. The Spetsnaz soldiers staggered, suffering from the blast overpressure. Moving in slow motion, both men began to raise their rifles, and were instantly shot dead by the remains of Charlie squad.
A moment passed… and then a second moment.
“Clear!” the call was shouted out, and echoed down through the surviving Marines. A heartbeat later Marines from Romeo, Mike, and November squads rushed out of the stairwells.
Diaz got on the radio and reported their local victory. Nearly all the enemy combatants fought to the death; only a few had surrendered.
Outside, the sky was owned by the Marine Corps attack helicopters and Air Force gunships. Anything even remotely resembling a mortar or machinegun position was destroyed; any moving vehicle was ripped apart by Hellfire missiles.
With the elimination of all hostile forces throughout the terminal, the only real estate left to clear was the control tower. The tower was accessed by a stairway behind a locked door. Diaz summoned Washington and Nolty. “Any of your men speak Russian?” he asked.
“Pratchett completed three years at Monterey,” Washington said, referring to the Defense Language Institute on the California coast south of the Bay Area.
“Good. Get him. We’re gonna enter the control tower.”
Diaz, Washington, and Pratchett hugged the concrete wall beside a metal door that they assumed opened onto the control center. Pratchett held a note he’d been instructed to write in Russian, ordering the occupants to surrender or Diaz would order the Vipers to light-up the control tower with 20mm canon and missiles.
Using hand signals only, Diaz instructed Pratchett to slide the folded paper under the door. Once done, he rapped the butt of his rifle against the door. The sound of muffled voices was heard through the door, and Diaz imagined someone was picking up the note.
The three Marines silently backed down the staircase, weapons ready just in case. They waited just one minute before a voice announced in Russian that they were surrendering. The voice was followed by four soldiers.
Pratchett questioned the men, who admitted to speaking only Russian. Whether it was true or not mattered little. Once their hands were bound and they were searched for weapons and papers, they were questioned further
“Who do we have?” Diaz said.
“They’re not saying much. No ID, not surprising. But this one,” Pratchett indicated a man of medium build with graying hair, giving him the appearance of being older than the other three prisoners, “had this photo.” The picture was of a woman and a boy, both were smiling.
“Family?”
Pratchett posed the question in Russian, answered by a silent stare.
Diaz flipped over the picture—there was writing on the back. “What does this say?”
“Just their names; Sonya and Vadim Jr.”
“So, wife and son. That would make our friend here Vadim Sr.” At the mention of his name, his eyes moved to Diaz, who noticed. “Ah, you are Vadim?” Diaz placed the photo back in the prisoner’s breast pocket.
“Vadim?” he repeated.
Finally, the man gave in. “Yes, he said in broken and heavily accented English. My name is Vadim Zolnerowich.”
Chapter 32
Minsk
THE HALLWAY WAS LONG, more than a hundred meters. If Jim had been running, he could have covered the distance in 12 seconds. But with the out-of-shape, middle-aged former hostages, it was already close to a minute since they left the conference room.
With about ten meters to go, the first three soldiers rounded the corner and entered the hallway from the shattered lobby entrance. Instead of taking time to aim at the fleeing hostages, they fired quickly, too quickly. The bullets travelled harmlessly into the walls and ceiling.
They halted their forward movement to stand and aim, but Magnum had spun around quickly and opened up with the AA12. Spewing five rounds of buckshot a second, he didn’t have to aim. The shot spread to a three-foot pattern by the time it reached the far end of the long hallway. After holding the trigger for two seconds, none of the NPA soldiers were left standing.
The brief firefight served as further encouragement for the former hostages to push through the open doorway, Ghost and Bull preceding them and rapidly sweeping the room for any hostiles. It was empty.
Magnum halted for a half second, but no other soldiers rounded the corner. He turned and started sprinting ahead, only a step behind Boss Man, Homer, and Leonov when shots rang out again. A ricochet slammed into his thigh like a hammer blow. Magnum lost his balance, falling forward into the trio. Boss Man and Homer were knocked to the ground, Magnum’s weight pressing on their legs.
“I’m hit!” Magnum cried out, clasping his left hand on the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
Jim extracted his legs first and knelt, rifle already raised and squeezing off rounds. Homer pulled himself free and grabbed Magnum by his load harness, dragging him to the open door. Ghost rushed out to give him a hand, while Bull leaned against the wall and added supporting fire as Jim retreated backwards, constantly firing until he was next to Bull. The discipline of training took over, and neither man flinched even though bullets were thudding into the walls and ceiling around them. Finally, the last of the militiamen was dead or driven back, and silence set upon their microcosm once again.
Peter and his father heard the gunfire and explosions rumbling up from the ground floor. “Can the building take those explosions and not fall apart?” Ian asked.
An impossible question to answer, Peter shrugged. “It hasn’t fallen down yet.”
Quickly they climbed the steps, joining Iceberg and Gary at the top of the stairwell, just inside the roof access door. Iceberg didn’t want to run the risk of being observed on the roof, especially since it was approaching sunrise and the sky was getting light. Before long the first rays of sunlight would fall across the roof, making it much more difficult to remain obscured.
“Did you get it?” Peter asked between deep breaths. He set the metal box down. The weight of the power supply and the hustle up the stairs brought beads of perspiration to his forehead.
“Right here.” Gary indicated the flamethrower he had set behind himself in the corner.
“I meant the copper pipe.”
“Oh, yeah.” Gary proudly extended his fist holding the length of copper pipe. “Hope this will do. It’s the longest section I could cut without digging into the wall.”
The ends were still rough and ragged from the saw cut, but otherwise it was perfect for the job. Peter set the pipe down and took the copper wire from his father.
“Okay, here’s the plan. We need a coil of this wire about a half inch larger in diameter than the pipe.” He touched the pipe as he spoke.
“Iceberg, we need another piece of pipe, a little larger than this one to use as a form to wind the wire around.”
“Can’t you just turn a few coils, forming them by hand?” He asked.
“No, won’t work. First, we need as many coils as we can get to make a strong magnetic field. Second, the wire coil cannot touch the copper pipe. If it does the device won’t work.”
“On the roof, there are some stand pipes—probably about the right diameter. I can bust one off.”
Peter smiled. “That’s what I was thinking, too. They’re vent pipes for the plumbing lines, probably plastic. I’ll get a piece of pipe, and I need you to stand guard. It’s getting easier for NPA soldiers to see us on the roof.”
“What can I do?” Ian asked.
“The power supply. For the EMP bomb to work we have to tap into the electrical supply for the ventilation blower closest to the aerosol dispersion device. That blower will be powered by alternating current, 220 volts. This power supply converts alternating current to direct current, but I think it has multiple outputs at different voltages. I didn’t take much time to check it over closely.”
“I’ll cut the plug off the power cord,” Gary said, “and strip back the insulation so the wires can be tied in at the blower.”
“Good. Dad, find the output terminals. Pick the highest voltage direct-current option. That’s where we’ll connect the EMP bomb.”
“Ready, sir?” Iceberg addressed Peter. “Daylight’s coming on quick.” He clutched the AA12 in one hand, the other resting on the door latch.
Peter rose. “Let’s go.”
Iceberg lead the way in a crouch, his head moving from side to side, eyes searching for anything out of place, any threat. He didn’t expect to encounter NPA militiamen on the roof, but he was quite concerned about rifle fire from neighboring rooftops.
After moving to an open location on the roof, about 10 meters from the access door, Iceberg knelt and shouldered the AA12, still swiveling his head and torso in close to a 360-degree arc. Peter dashed to the closest roof vent. He wrapped a hand around the open end of the vent and pushed from side to side. It moved, flexing a little near the base. Good, it’s ABS plastic. Should be able to break it off, Peter thought.
He held the length of copper pipe next to the black vent ABS for comparison. Satisfied with the pipe’s diameter, Peter grasped the top of the vent with both hands and pushed, leaning his body into it. The ABS bent and then refused to move further. Peter tried again to no avail.
“I’m gonna need your help. I can’t break it off.”
Iceberg joined Peter and added his strength to persuade the pipe to shear off. At first, the result was no different. Then Iceberg shifted position. With his weapon slung over a shoulder, he placed his right hand on the top of the vent pipe and leaned back using his left hand to brace for the expected fall. Then he pulled the pipe toward his body while Peter pushed from the opposite side.
Their teamwork was reward with a crack and then a pop as the ABS fractured in a jagged break. Iceberg crashed onto the roof surface. Peter pivoted just enough to avoid piling onto Iceberg and the now-liberated piece of ABS vent pipe.
Peter scooped up the copper pipe and the black ABS pipe and hastily returned to the access door. Iceberg was right behind him, shotgun again in his grip.
Back inside, Peter set to wrapping the copper wire around the plastic cylindrical form while Ian held the section of pipe. He carefully laid the coils so that there was only a small gap, about the width of the wire itself, between successive wraps. When the coil was slightly longer than the length of the copper pipe, he stopped and slid the wire coil off the form.
“I need you to pack C4 inside of this pipe.” Peter handed the copper section to Iceberg. “Place the detonator in one end just far enough to initiate the explosion. The idea is to generate a pressure wave that travels from one end of the pipe to the other.”
“Got it.”
“Also, we need to turn on the electric power to the coil at the exact same moment the C4 is detonated. I think I can modify the detonator to serve as our electric switch.”
With a block of plastic explosive in one hand, Iceberg handed a timing device to Peter.
Peter slipped the back off the plastic box revealing the battery compartment. “Perfect,” Peter said. “Let me have your multitool.”
Iceberg handed over the folded stainless steel implement. Peter removed the fuse from the box and jumpered it with a short length of copper wire. A lot of current would be flowing through the circuit, and he didn’t want the fuse to fail too quickly. In only a fraction of a second the timing device would burn out anyway from the high voltage and current, but a fraction of a second was a very long time for events that would occur
at nearly the speed of light.
Peter clipped the positive wire lead from the battery and shaved off the insulation from the wire ends. He joined the timer to the copper coil by twisting together a wire from each; the remaining two wires, one from the timer box and the other from the coil would be connected to the output from the power supply.
“Is the power supply ready?” Peter asked.
Ian nodded.
“All we have to do,” Gary explained, “is tap into the electrical supply to one of the ventilation blowers.”
Peter paused, taking in their handy work. It was almost hard to believe the klujed contraption could possibly work. Peter traced with his eyes the pathway the electrons would follow, seeing a dozen ways it was certain to fail. And yet the electric circuit only had to hold for a millisecond, enough time to energize the coil and detonate the explosives.
It was a Rube Goldberg contrivance for certain, but it had to work.
“Time to move it in place,” Peter said as he crossed his fingers behind his back.
Chapter 33
Minsk
THE SILENCE DIDN’T LAST LONG. “Where’s Major Leonov?” Jim demanded.
“He got away when Magnum took you two down. Went around the corner,” Ghost replied. “Probably out the nearest exit.”
“Sorry sir,” Homer added. “I was busy getting Magnum back to safety while Bull was providing cover fire.”
Jim sighed. It was a bad break. He wanted to bring Leonov back for interrogation and, as a ranking Russian officer, possibly to stand trial for war crimes.
“How is Magnum?”
Bull was bandaging the leg wound as he replied. “He’ll live. Took a round to the lower thigh, but the bullet barely penetrated the skin. Must’a been a ricochet. I popped it out and I applied antibiotic powder. When we have time, it would be a good idea to pull the skin together with three or four stiches.”
“I’m good sir; ready to go.”