The Fifth Battalion

by Michael Priv

  The sniper was next to die, in this lineup of the doomed, with only seconds left to live. Funny how that works. He thought he was well-concealed and removed from any danger. He thought wrong. I ran stealthily in his direction. We were only about twenty feet apart when I spotted him the same instant he spotted me. A red laser pinprick slid effortlessly toward me. Dropping down, a bullet whistling over my head, I shot the sniper four times with my Glock— unsilenced, of course. From this distance, I could not have missed even if I tried. The sniper’s body fell off the tree, banging and clanking. Sounds of moaning, labored breathing and gurgling, reached my ears just as a Marine’s silenced automatic fire slapped the vegetation around me. I reached the sharpshooter’s former position in three huge leaps. The sounds of me tearing through the low growth betrayed my exact position, and bullets pounded the tree trunk the instant I slid behind it, right next to the wounded sniper. He was still alive. One of my bullets had struck him in the throat. He was busy spattering blood and gurgling. He stared at me with anguish as I got down next to him.

  I didn’t feel like drinking with this one. I liked killing him. “Can you hear me?” I asked softly. He nodded and hissed something. “I executed you for the murder of FBI Agents James Burk and Frank Silezny and for your participation in the kidnapping of Linda Steward. You will die shortly for your crimes. Any questions?”

  “Orders,” the sniper hissed, struggling to make himself understood, willing me with his eyes to hear and understand him. I did, I heard him perfectly. He said, “Orders.” Typical convoluted convicts’ thinking.

  “ Your orders were to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic. How does that align with murdering two FBI agents and kidnapping a US citizen?” I felt the anger whaling in me with renewed force. And what had Yvette ever done to these deranged fuckers?

  The sniper was no longer listening, his eyes wide open but gazing inward at something he did not want to see. He slumped down with his eyes still open but no longer alive. Good riddance.

  Shadows in the darkness. I barely made out two Marines flanking me from the right, and another covering them from behind a parapet porch wall in front of the house, to my left. I had to expect a couple more, but I had no idea exactly how many there were to begin with and how many were taken down with the booby trap grenade. I could only vouch for the two I had just killed and the three advancing.

  With the second grenade on the ready, crouching close to the ground, I took a few quick steps toward the attackers, shooting my Glock in their direction. Yelling, “Grenade!” I changed direction, rushing toward the porch, pulled out the pin and threw the grenade behind me, taking three more quick steps and hitting the wet dirt. The fragmentation grenade exploded close enough to the two flanking Marines. It was a good throw, judging by screams and cussing. I was only about twelve or fifteen feet from the parapet wall, my Glock lined up to fire. I took the opponent out with one shot in the forehead as soon as he poked his head out. I jumped behind the parapet wall, followed closely by the bullets pounding old brick.

  Everything went quiet again. So far I was certain that I ’d killed three of approximately eight bogies and wounded one—the one who was screaming now. How many did I get with the booby trap?

  I crawled to the front door and inside the house and got up in a crouching position. It was dark and smelled of blood and explosives. The entrance to the last room was obstructed by a dead soldier who was caught in the back of the head with a fragment. He must have spotted the trap or heard the safety pin snap and turned to flee—too late. I searched him, found nothing of any interest, except for a couple of MK concussion grenades hooked to his vest—more weaponry than I needed or even wanted, despite being outnumbered. I hated dragging luggage around. I had started out with a knife, the Glock, Jane’s Beretta and the two grenades. I still had four rounds in my Glock and the fully-loaded Beretta. Four of the Marines were confirmed dead and one wounded. But I wasn’t about to break rule number two, never underestimate the opponent, just as I was betting my life that the Marines would. For them, their arrogance brought a speedy and painful demise, but it could for me too, although not nearly as permanent.

  MK grenades in my pockets, I started sideways, slipped on something, and almost fell. The wooden floor was slick with blood. Whose blood? The dead soldier had never made it that far. There must have been another Marine who crawled out the back door. I peeked out and saw a motionless body on the back porch. Staying very low, I pulled him inside and examined his head as best I could in the dark. Sure enough, he had a bloody hole at the top of his head. The Russians had a night vision silenced sniper rifle on this side too. I felt like an amateur. Why couldn’t I ever be properly prepared for anything? Everybody else was always better prepared than me. With a deep sigh I got up and walked through the house and out the front door.

  4:06 a.m. Five Marines confirmed dead and one wounded. Two were not accounted for—the ones to the left of their sniper’s position. They probably fell back to the base position behind the cars, about fifty feet straight ahead. Close enough for a good grenade throw during the day but too far for an accurate throw in the dark. They must have picked up the wounded soldier and carried him behind the cars. Crouching and moving silently to my left, then forward, I kept first the house and then the bushes directly to the back of me, thus concealing the outline of my body, letting it blend with the background. There they were. I was close enough now to make out shapes of the parked cars. I tossed both of my grenades at the cars, one after the other and ran to my right, counting out four seconds, and then hitting the dirt.

  An MK-3A2 is a modified version of the World War II MK grenade—just eight ounces of TNT with a fuse set for a five-second delay, which for safety reasons was usually considered to be a foursecond delay. Two grenade explosions, one after another, momentarily lit up the scenery and sent one of the Marines flying over the car. I crawled past their base position and doubled back to approach them from behind. One of the Marines was moaning audibly behind the SUV—must be unconscious, otherwise he’d keep his moans to himself. As I crawled past him, I found the last Marine on the ground behind the sedan on his back, also wounded but holding his AR-15 at the ready. His breath was labored and uneven, as if he were suppressing a scream.

  “Put down your gun or I’ll shoot!” I yelled in his direction. “Okay!” he croaked, laboring for a breath. “Don’t shoot!”

  The gun clanked on the ground. I crawled forward, getting behind him, not believing for a moment that he was unarmed and waiting to give himself up—wounded or not. He’d just lost his entire team. It was prudent for me to be careful.

  I finally saw a Glock in his hand. He couldn’t get up or even move much, it seemed, but the misguided fool was still fighting all enemies, foreign and domestic. Groping around, I found a stick and threw it toward the sedan—clank. The soldier’s hand with the gun jerked up and away from me. I jumped on top of him and wrestled the gun out of his weakened grip. Sitting on top of him, I pressed the gun to his temple. He stared at me wide-eyed in the uncertain moonlight.

  “Who are you, man?” he squawked, choking.

  “Don’t waste time, soldier. I have a question for you. Who killed my bird?” “ Adams. Lieutenant Adams.”

  “The group leader?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “He was inside, working the homing beeper.”

  So much for killing the bastard last. He was either the dead man I found inside or the other one, finished off by the Russians behind the house. “Thank you. Who’s running the Op?”

  “I need a medic, man!” “ I will not get you a medic. Your handlers know where you are. They’ll pick you up either right before you die or very shortly after. Time to do a bit of soul searching, soldier, make peace with yourself.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “How many of you were here in total?”

  “Seven.”

  He was lying. Eight Mari
nes were accounted for already. But his answer indicated to me that there were probably no more left. He’d have to make his answer as close as possible to the truth to be believable.

  “Are you going to honestly answer my questions?” “Fuck you.”

  Pointless. I left him there. His Glock was fully loaded —seventeen in the clip and one in the chamber. I threw the one I took from Agent Burk into the bushes then checked for the other soldier’s vital signs— the one thrown clear over the SUV. He was dead.

  17 The battle was over. The silence of the dark, wet forest reasserted itself. Darkness, my old confidante, embraced me comfortably, pulling me into its cavernous sanctuary. The darkness that harbored unseen dangers seemed menacing. However, once all the dangers were shot up and blown away from the immediate vicinity, it felt positively comforting.

  Shadowy figures of the four Russians emerged out of the friendly darkness in a diamond formation, guns on the ready. Not all that friendly. The burner phone rang.

  “Hello! Heavenly Massage, may I help you?” I spoke into the receiver with mock breeziness.

  “Hey, Norman, my favorite massage clerk you! Good to hear your voice. How you doing there?”

  “Hi, Eugene! I’m done here. Please tell your hooligans not to shoot me. And don’t forget to bring in the sniper, too.” “What sniper?”

  “The one out front.”

  “Oh, thatsniper. Okay, I’ll bring him in, too.”

  Not even the slightest attempt to deny or justify planting a sniper in front of the house to take me out if need be. Douche bag. If you can’t trust the Russian Mafia, who can you trust?

  “Much appreciated. Listen, how’s Linda?”

  “She is fine, says hi and everything and so on and so forth and all that. You got the money?”

  “I think I got some of it for now.”

  “Good. Norman, my boys told me you took out eight Special Ops there all by yourself?” “ Well, not totally. I actually got some help from your boys.” “Yah, yah, right. Listen, who are you, man? You can tell me.”

  “I’m and extra-terrestrial gunnery Sergeant from Baltizor Confederacy of United Stars on mission here to set up a base.” “ Right. I’m thinking kind of too rich for a clerk, don’t you think?” “I’m not a clerk.”

  “Anyway, very professional work, man I’m impressed.” “We aim to please.”

  “You aim, hey? To please! Ha-ha, that’s funny! Well, all right, give the money to Andrey. I’ll talk to you in a minute.” The line went dead. The Russians approached, dressed in all black, guns ready. The oldest one, a tough old guy by the looks of him, asked with a heavy Russian accent, “Where is the money?”

  “Andrey?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Why are you pointing your gun at me?”

  “ Norman, is your name? Norman, you killed eight Marines in a gunfight. How I know what’s in your head now? Maybe you decide to bury us here and keep all the money or something.”

  “Relax, Andrey, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. I knew your positions. Have your guys collect the bodies and check these two cars for the money. And don’t kill the wounded.”

  “Okay, okay, yobannoye nachalstvo.” Andrey spat on the ground in disgust. “Everybody is a goddamn boss.” Andrey talked to the guys in Russian briefly, the sniper walked up from the tree line in front, a peculiar looking Asian guy, most likely a Buriat, a Siberian native, a born hunter—must be running in the genes of those Siberian tribes. Rumors had it they could shoot a squirrel in the eye from fifty paces with a twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with a single pellet just because squirrel pelts with no bullet holes brought more rubles. And this Buriat was not armed with a shotgun. He was carrying an old three-line bolt-action rifle, vintage circa 1893, equipped with an ancient-looking scope. No night vision. The Buriat didn’t need a night vision scope. He could see just fine without one.

  A minute ago, I had babbled that Andrey would be dead if I wanted him dead. Now I wasn’t so sure. A sideways glance at Andrey confirmed that he noticed my doubts. With a patronizing smile, Andrey slapped me on the back but said nothing. I guess he didn’t have complete certainty that I wouldn’t wipe them out after all, and didn’t want to get into a pissing contest.

  One of Andrey ’s guys brought him a bag from the SUV. Andrey set it on the ground and shone his flashlight inside. “How much is in here?” He shifted his weight uneasily. What he saw didn’t look anything like two million dollars.

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  “And the rest?” he inquired, squinting suspiciously. “Have a bit more work ahead. Need your help.”

  “Oh, yeah. The second location.” Andrey nodded, relieved. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Not yet.” I waved him off. “I’ll let you know.” The Russians were laying out the dead Marines in a neat row. The two wounded were separated. Andrey calmly observed them working, grunting approvingly, and smoking an unfiltered Camel. He turned to me, “Hey, listen, Norman, you wanna work with us? We can use bright kid like you. I can talk to boss. Pay’s good, health insurance, dental.”

  “No way! Dental too?” “ Sure! Eye doctor, childcare. You know, children are future. Right education is where it’s all at. You, for example. You got education, right? You some kind of clerk?”

  “Not a clerk, no. I work at the lab,” I interjected meekly, but Andrey was not listening. “Education is everything. Before you got educ ated, could you take out eight Marines? ‘Course not! See? I keep telling my oldest, that bum…”

  “Andrey, we got a job to do. Focus!” “ Stand back and admire, man. Enjoy this moment. You did good job today,” Andrey explained. “We respect you. You not just clerk today. You’re best clerk!” Other Russians nodded, smiling.

  “I’ m not a clerk… Hey, listen, guys, I respect you too and all that, but I need to make a phone call, will you excuse me?” The contents of the Marine’s pockets were spread out on the wet grass and I found the only cell phone among the machine gun clips, grenades, and loose ammo. I called the last number, the only number. Adams was probably supposed to erase this call too but, as usual, arrogance killed the cat.

  “Status report.” Brisk, commanding baritone. I thought the dead Marines were vain. “ Err, fine, thanks for asking.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Guess.”

  “Norman Bolstad?”

  “M-hm. Who are you?”

  “Call me Colonel,” he replied with only a microscopic delay. Sharp. “Where is Adams?” “Nice making your acquaintance, Colonel. You don’t even know how much you’re worth to me. Lieutenant Adams is disposed of. I mean indisposed! Can I help you?”

  “Any of my boys around?” Colonel was still maintaining his composure but now barely so. Good.

  “Yes, sir, they are all eight right here, laid out on the ground in two rows.”

  “Did you kill all my Marines, you crazy son of a bitch?!” Now he’d finally lost it. “Well, yes and no. I mean, two of them are still alive. But yes, the entire team’s down. Don’t even know how that happened. A terrible tragedy. But they started it! All I wanted was to give them the stick. I was so scared, so scared… Do you still want the flash drive or screw it now?”

  “Yes, I want it!”

  “Okay. I’ll give it to you for two million dollars.”

  “What? You got your money, you imbecile. Give me the stick!”

  “Imbecile? That’s nice. You know, Adams used to call me a moron. What a good man and what a tragedy, and so young. Damn shame. Anyway, Colonel, you must understand. I need two mils for bread and butter. You know how much they charge for a head of lettuce nowadays? Politicians will ruin this beautiful country!”

  “Shut up!” the Colonel bellowed. “I don’t know what stupid games… I can’t get this kind of money for you in an hour. You know how long it takes?”

  “Okay, say goodbye to the flash drive. I’m walking it straight to the Russians.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll se
e what I can do. Stay where you are, I’m coming with your two million dollars.” “Sure . And your mother is Joan Rivers, right? No, I’m changing location. Will call you shortly with the new coordinates. Be there in two hours. Just you, no army this time.”

  “Norman, you...! I have a question for you.”

  “Yes, Colonel, shoot—so to speak. Shoot! Ha-ha! Funny, right?” “Who are you, really?”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you had two FBI agents killed , and you lost three Special Ops teams to get me and you don’t even know who I am? Colonel! Inexcusable. I’ll tell you who I am. I’m a concerned citizen!”

  “Listen, you.” He caught himself with difficulty. “I don’t promise to make it in two hours, but I’ll see you as soon as I can—that I promise.”

  “ If you ain’t here in two hours, I’m going to the Russians with my stick and hello Dolly! You know what I mean? Hello Dolly for you, man. By the way, don’t even bother showing up without the money. Don’t piss me off. They killed my bird, did you know that? I’m already pissed. I’ll kill you and ant number of your girlfriends, just as I whacked the entire Adams team.” The infuriated Colonel hung up, muttering something terminally vicious.

  “Andrey!” I called out to the Russian team leader. “We’ll have the money in about two hours.” “No, we won’t,” Andrey answered. “Or you wouldn’t ask for a place to torture the bastard. I’m not educated much, but I got work experience.”

  Two Russians had their machine guns pointed at me now. So much for being the best clerk. I peered at one of them, the one with an Uzi, in the moonlight’s uncertain glare. He smirked apologetically and shrugged, as if to say, “What do I know?”