Hell To Pay

by Andrik Rovson

  Grigor's head was pounding as his man in the control room called him on the radio. “They're working again, the power is back, our problems are over!” The blessed diesels had kicked in, providing power to replace what was lost, making him laugh hysterically in relief, their backup power supply made his disaster vanish.

  “Back inside, there's nothing to do here, they probably won't try the back doors, but to be sure I want one of you – Anton – hide in behind the stone wall around the...” he was lost for words.

  “The dumpster?” Anton worried, wishing he'd assigned two of them to guard the broad back of the building with its large, mandated fire exit. Anton, unfortunately, would be highly vulnerable. With only one man to deal with it was impossible to fight effectively, especially if he was attacked from two directions at once, or worse, if an attacker rolled a grenade into the three sided, concrete block structure. It was a suicide mission.

  But, if the fight moved elsewhere, on the roof, where the backup diesels sat, then he'd be safe here, safer than the men going up through the hatch to the rooftop, their only access. That too was a guaranteed suicide mission. Realizing that made a partial smile creep over his lips as he nodded then turned to race for his stinky post. Once Grigor left how would he know if he'd done his duty? A quick shot would disable the only security camera in this part of the building that could observe him. It would let him sit this out, if they were being attacked. This was how most people did their duty, if they could get away with it, in his country. Let the fools charge in, giving their lives for the cause. The only true hero was a live one, when the shooting was over.

  “You got him Ron?” the RF tech inside the Humvee ignored his whispered question once more. Standing up, keeping watch he peered through his sniper rifle and scope as Corporal Bobby Lee leaned over the thick metal roof, keeping watch over the back of the building. Tucked behind a convenient bank of Mesquite, with a camouflage net strung between two trees for more cover, it hid the contours of their low slung Humvee. His efforts to hide their vehicle had been verified by the activity around the back of the building, since nobody had seen them, producing a sense of accomplishment. They were invisible to anyone without starlight scopes or infrared equipment, now it was dark.

  He'd nervously tracked the small group of men when they'd appeared around the corner, all three armed with AK-47's, indicating they were security – the opposition they'd been briefed about by Jabo. Tough characters, but he was as well, working out nearly every day in the gym on base, keeping his name in for Ranger training, hoping to get in this year and earn the coveted arched badge for his shoulder. He intended on passing his first time through the gut wrenching course.

  His associate in the Hummer, Ron, had talked endlessly as they'd driven down, a real motormouth. He'd never met him until the older soldier drove up, picking him up from his company barracks. An electronics specialist, he was monitoring the cell towers in this area while Bobby Lee provided overall armed security, which suited him just fine. Only three cell towers were close enough to pick up calls from the blue concrete warehouse, meaning Ron would have an easy time tracking any calls of interest. The closest active relay cell was ideally positioned to broadcast the call Grigor had taken, which was still going on. The cell tower that had taken the call, connected to most of the cell phones in the LazaRuss building, was nearly a mile away, out of sight over the hill. His line of sight was blocked by one of the larger concrete office buildings nearby, not that it mattered. The back of the building was all that mattered to Bobby Lee, especially that man who'd broken off the trio who'd come outside to hunker down inside a walled dumpster park, the best spot to observe and defend himself.

  “If we'd brought a grenade launcher we could drop one inside that damned dumpster and our job would be done. Hell I could have taken them all out when they came around the corner, full auto, bang, finished.” Corporal Bobby Lee Allwanger, a Southern boy, chafed at the restrictions Jabo had put them under, their 'rules of engagement'. Jabo had been clear they were to hide and observe unless they received a 'weapons free' signal from the sniper team who was already shooting, lucky bastards! Their explosive round had lit up a transformer on the side of the building and after it had exploded the short had taken down the electricity in most of the surrounding buildings.

  In his short military career, all stateside so far, Allwanger always felt left out, far from the action when they did their electronic eavesdropping, all practice runs so they'd be proficient if and when they deployed overseas. They always laid up somewhere safe, like they were now, as they recorded cell phones. Heck, their equipment could even read computer screens remotely. And while the techies played with their computer screens and black boxes, they were kept safe by guys like him, their specialized security team – a real waste of fully trained, front line infantry. Bobby Lee felt like a killer dog on a chain – useless!

  On a real Op, in sight of the bad guys and he still couldn't shoot! Damned shame and as usual, he was armed with a AR15 pee-shooter and a nine mil pistol, instead of a real weapon like a M40 grenade launcher, or a SAW machine gun that held one hundred rounds in its bulky, quick change magazine. That would have let him go 'Rambo' on these guys, give them a real US Army hello and goodbye, you assholes.

  The heavy, armored metal flanges, folded flat on the roof for driving on the freeway, flipped up quickly to provide protection for a M60 or a fifty caliber machine gun. Where the fuck was that? The brackets inside where the heavy machinegun was normally stowed for travel were empty. As far as he was concerned, their weapons were more suitable for jackrabbits than the heavily armed men he'd just seen moving around the building. Why did the brass always hold back on the big guns? His suggestion when they'd loaded up had included much bigger caliber weapons, available in the arsenal on their base, any of which they could have 'borrowed' for tonight's mission, using Jabo's O-5, Special Forces authority to later justify their actions. Those guys got to do anything they wanted, no questions asked.

  But no, Ron the electronics tech was one of those 'do it by the book' pussies who didn't have the balls for a after hours shopping at the armory. For Allwanger it was a missed opportunity to live his dream of being the hero, a hillbilly Rambo – that's a movie they should make, with him as the bad-ass, saving the day and getting all the chicks.

  Ignoring Bobby Lee, Ron kept his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. On the trip down he'd found the redneck recruit was incapable of any kind of adult conversation – fascinated by video games, wrestling and action movie heroes. Halfway to San Marcos Ron had begun ignoring his lower ranking passenger, but the talkative Corporal had failed to take the hint. Leary of hearing one more glowing review of all the movies he loved watching over and over, Ron had told him to stand up in the roof opening after he'd parked the Humvee. That still didn't shut him up. He'd whispered down his complaints constantly or rambled on about his limited set of subjects, recycling them endlessly. He'd been brought along to assist him with any physical tasks and provide extra protection, not act like a one man, all mouth Army. Bobby Lee didn't seem to understand playing Rambo was Jabo's job.

  The sergeant's computer was hooked into the specialized Hummer's complex array of antennas and intercept boxes, most of which were classified. Back at the base their vehicle was parked in a secure garage and its array of secret components were regularly tested by an aloof, quiet man in civies who wouldn't say who he worked for, only showed an identity card and papers proving he had access to the super secret equipment no one was allowed to crack into, only use.

  All that security it made their call interception work easier, plug and play really, just turn on the systems as the truck's engine idled very quietly, another special modification to their vehicle. The powerful engine made multiple oversize generators spin, creating enough power to keep everything happy. Ron was certain they had enough surplus amps to fire up a rock band or a row of electric grills.

  The communications from the many electronic components was reduced to a
single cable plugged into his laptop. His machine, a rugged, armored model that would stop a bullet, was packed with secret programs. A shielded cable let him watch it work on a large screen mounted over the passenger door. It displayed the vital information Jabo needed for the next part of their operation, maps of local cell towers, triangulation data on every cell phone using the network, with their ID and the name of the user. So far he'd identified two key cell phones, two SIM cards, two identities they'd locked in and were recording as they jabbered in rapid Russian slang. Both of them had picked it up in their accurate training simulations of Russian Army communications, done on a monthly basis, electronic war games done in Chinese and Arab as well as European languages. It taught them the most common cuss words, letting them recognize the many variants of 'fuck', 'shit' and 'whore' or 'bitch'. Some things are found in every culture. Profanity always made up a large percentage of their intercepted comms.

  “Yeah, like I'm going to stick my neck out for one of those guys, much less an officer I've never met.” Ron responded to Bobby Lee's latest complaint about their lack of heavy firepower. “I got five and I'm out of this stupid army gig, with minimum time in service to get my retirement going. Then I hit the civilian market where I immediately make big money for one of the cell companies.” The busy Sergeant replied curtly, tired of listening to the younger noncom complain about their mission and the fact they hadn't driven an Abrams Tank down instead of their Humvee.

  “I've heard it a million times before, do your damned job, mister rich guy, I don't want to piss off that Jabo stud. I'd stick my neck out for him. He looks like a real bad ass, hell that's what I'm doing right now, stayin' frosty so I can blow these assholes away when he gives me the signal.” The corporal felt a light wind cool the back of his bare neck, shaved close, as per regulations, how he liked it. Ignoring the older NCO in the Hummer below him, he tracked the man who quickly disappeared inside the dumpster enclosure. It would be so easy to drop him, then engage the other two. All three of them were probably desk jockies like the Tech Sargent inside the Humvee – target practice for a real soldier like him.

  “You think he's really descended from the Bowie guy who was in the Alamo? Its sort of cool.” Bobby Lee offered, keeping up his patter now there was nothing going on at the building. Ron had locked in the two phones that had been used, along with the numbers they'd called, feeling a little bored. He was used to cataloging hundreds if need be. It was extremely easy to track and record cell phone voice calls without any crypto protection. There were kits that let you do much of what his equipment was doing, available on the internet. Once assembled, the equipment was highly illegal, to own or use, much less sell openly. Once you put the parts together you could capture SIM numbers, burn your own, identical SIMs, effectively cloning someone's phone so you could listen in, simulate their calls and texts, become the cell phone user you'd copied on any app – easy peasy. He was amazed more people didn't do it, the government sure did, all with the tap of a button. Once he got out that would change, of course.

  The corporal returned to his constant spiel, and the Sergeant replied “yeah it is,” to his latest comment about the 'cool' officer running this off the books surveillance, hoping it would shut the garrulous teenager up.

  Corporal Allwanger stared at the place he'd seen the man crouch down, hiding in the shadows made by the wall around the dumpster. “Heck, now I look at it, at this distance I'm absolutely sure I could chuck a grenade that far – drop it right on that sucker's head, kaboom! Game over!”

  Inside the Hummer, the Tech Sergeant sighed, refreshing his screens, making sure everything was working. This redneck teenager who thought he was a great fighter – wasted in this assignment – was never going to shut up.

  Grigor was done here, with a man detailed to guard the back of the building. He turned, followed by the one who was left as they both hurried for the front door, going back inside. He would have settled for six good men, backed up by a host of useless security guards who'd be useless in any kind of fight, the kind that seemed to be brewing now. It didn't matter now. He'd have to use what he had, to protect the building from intruders which mean keeping them from shooting their way into the entry in the front, the only way in or out, except for the large steel fire exit doors in the back, kept locked and alarmed, and guarded by the man he'd assigned on over-watch. His head refused to stop pounding with a killer headache, but that was the least of his troubles.

  Those spoiled assholes who ran everything in his country had complained he was spending too much already. With only ten well trained, combat experienced men – hard men like him – he could have stood off an army, or, if needed, mounted a multi-pronged attack on the roof, with grappling hooks and long ropes, which he had in his locked equipment storage. Given his meager resources, all he could offer was a stout defense that wouldn't last long. As for offense, it would require luck and skill, which he had.

  When he'd ventured outside he'd been pleasantly surprised they didn't shoot him, the sniper team that had taken out his transformer. He'd ruled out an RPG because the destruction done to the transformer box was too small. A rocket propelled grenade also had a short range, producing a smoky track that would be visible to the security cameras that ringed the building and he'd replayed them several times now before the white hot explosion of electrical sparks and fire had erupted. No smoke trail which mean either a recoil-less rifle operated by highly trained troops or an explosive high caliber explosive round from a large rifle, like the American Barrett.

  What the movies didn't reveal was the Russian RPG was an assault weapons. They were ridiculously inaccurate at over two hundred yards and required extensive training for repeatable results. It got worse, because most RPGs were third rate copies instead of well made Russian versions. Grigor had quickly determined it wasn't an equipment malfunction because of the neat hole he'd found on a large chunk of the outer metal box, something he'd seen many times after a strafing pass from his own helicopter forces shooting twenty millimeter rounds, solid and explosive.

  That bit of evidence had cinched it. The transformer had been hit with some sort of armored, explosive round and the round entry hole was distinctive to anyone who'd seen an armored vehicle peppered with heavy armor piercing rounds. His nose had caught the unique, acrid nitrate odor in the air, what American fifty caliber and twenty millimeter explosive rounds smelled like, different enough to his experienced nose it settled the issue. They were under attack by American forces or someone who had access to their military grade weapons. at least their electrical power was.

  Maybe it was a hit and run by someone who wasn't a fighter, but able to shoot. The fact the opening shot hadn't turned into a full scale assault by a company of soldiers with heavy armored support meant he was facing a small group of fighters, perhaps in numbers equal or less than his. That would be real bonus. That guess made Grigor feel better, assured for the first time he could defend the building and its damned computers. But defense was never enough, he wanted to take the fight to the men opposing him and wipe them out!

  Feeling more confident, he tried to remember what they called it, the restrictions Americans established before fighting broke out. It exposed their neurotic tendencies, men who thought they could control the chaos of battle and death – turn it into a dueling match out of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace'. Oh yes, that's it, 'Rules of Engagement'. More like 'Rules of Stupidity'. His rules were kill everybody, no prisoners – may the most ruthless win, if a few mistakes are made, then chalk it up to the God of War's blood price. They had worked back home, in Mother Russia, fighting rebels, various Muslim groups and Mafia clans who hadn't got the memo that Putin was the big boss now. And so far, it had worked here in American too. Every major threat had been eliminated quickly after detection. This threat was bigger, better organized and more open, but no different.

  “Your orders sir?” his last two Russian Army veterans asked as he entered the building. Nervous, they spoke Russian instead of English. Grig
or entered the front security area, a glassed in foyer, his perimeter inspection done. At least they'd agreed to an outer glazing should be bulletproof glass – thick, tempered material, able to stop even a large caliber rifle round. But not a fifty caliber bullet, only forged steel armor plate had a chance of stopping that in a full fledged battle.

  He quickly tasked his youngest Spetsnaz to take charge of the front entrance. A good man, heavily armed with a bullet proof vest – he'd die at his post if necessary. The useless security guards were already hiding behind the heavy metal boxes of the x-ray machines used to examine packs, purses and briefcases. They provided the best cover from someone shooting into the building's interior, trying to hit them. But a static defense like this wouldn't last in a real fight. A small squad, tossing in a few grenades followed by smoke and tear gas, then rushing in while they were blinded and confused would kill them all, which they seemed to sense as they nervously looked at Grigor for direction. Their sheepish eyes begged to be dismissed so they could retreat and hide, deeper inside the building.

  But there was nothing else to do, his options were limited. His requests for even a few light machine guns had been denied. What did they expect if this was the fight he'd forecast for months – miracles?

  “Nothing. Stand your post.” He'd wanted to add, 'or Yuri there will shoot you', but that would probably stampede these nervous cows. Grigor needed time he didn't have. As his mind raced he turned to the security guards and his sole hard man he'd put in charge. At least he was smart enough to crouch down behind an internal concrete wall while a few of the civilian guards regained their composure, standing, with false confidence at their posts, like nothing abnormal had happened, the recent explosion a false alarm. Americans, what idiots!

  “Shoot anyone who comes inside,” there, now they had their stupid rules. His man, Yuri, grinned, released to raise hell, while the rentacops all dropped their jaws, ready to protest, but he didn't want to give them time. He had to hurry deeper into the building, to his nerve center to check the screens. They could attack at any time.