Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  Lada followed close behind, stepping over Kravchenko, pointing and shouting, "The bastard sleeps in there."

  Following the woman's direction, the major and Musin ran to a closed door. Musin kicked it open while the major rushed in, aiming his submachine gun at Yusuf's head and saying, calm as you please, "Any excuse is a good one."

  Musin followed Konstantin in, slinging his submachine gun, jumping on the bed, and rolling both of the girls flanking the Yemeni off the bed with his booted foot. He bent and flipped Yusuf onto his more than ample belly, then dropped down and pinned the man's hands behind him. Konstantin produced some sticky tape he'd gotten from the Americans on the ship and began to wrap Yusuf's hands together. Without a word, Lada went for a laptop lying on a marble table against one wall.

  Meanwhile, Litvinov reported via short range radio, "Comrade Major, Galkin's down; dead I think. I'm pinned except that I can probably go over the wall. How far I'll get before they mount the wall and put one in my back I wouldn't bet on."

  "Shit!" the major exclaimed, even as he continued wrapping Yusuf's hands. Maybe Galkin was queer and maybe he wasn't. But by God he was our queer and the fuckers are going to pay for that.

  From the open central bay, Kravchenko called, "Comrade Major, I have the wog's three sons in tow."

  "Shoot them," Konstantin ordered. Immediately, the apartment was filled with a chorus of approximately post-pubescent male voices, screaming, and a cacophony of wailing female ones. "The old man wants this bastard punished." Yusuf began to scream before Musin cuffed and punched him into silence. Of Litvinov, the major asked, "What the fuck happened, Lit?"

  "Based on where the guards' bodies are, Comrade Major, I think Galkin saw someone coming for his position. He never said a word, just opened fire. They must have seen him at about the same time-before they went down, anyway-because some of them got a few shots off, too. Right now, as I said, I'm pinned on the parapet."

  "Praporschik Baluyev?" Konstantin called.

  "Here, Comrade Major. Situation is nominal. I am in good position to cover Litvinov if he can run for it."

  Konstantin switched radios. "Falcons?" he called.

  "Here, Major," the senior of the helicopter pilots answered.

  "Things have gotten complicated," Konstantin said. "A ‘quiet' withdrawal is no longer an option. Come get us. I'll fill you in on the situation on the way."

  "Roger. Ten minutes," the pilot answered. However surly a bastard he may have been before, once action had begun his voice and tone went entirely businesslike.

  "So long?"

  "Have to get the birds started and warmed up," the pilot said. "Remember, we didn't have, couldn't carry, enough fuel to both keep them running and make our rendezvous . . . not and carry all your equipment, all of you, and a minimum of our own ordnance."

  "Understood. Please hurry."

  "Wilco, Major."

  "I've locked the women and very small children in one of the apartments-it actually looked more like a dungeon-Comrade Major," Kravchenko said, entering the room.

  Lada followed. "It was a dungeon," she said. "Yusuf's sexual preferences were a bit . . . odd." She didn't elaborate.

  Konstantin ignored the detail. In matters sexual he was very pedestrian, so much so that he really didn't like to even think about some of the strange turns human sexuality took. Besides, I've got more important shit on my mind.

  He took his own pistol from a shoulder harness and started to toss it to Lada. He thought better of this, put the pistol away, then took Kravchenko's submachine gun and handed her that. "Can you use this?" he asked.

  She examined it for all of a half second and answered, "Of course." She dropped the magazine with one hand, then jerked the bolt back and locked it to the rear. She lifted the weapon to inspect the chamber before replacing the magazine and releasing the bolt.

  "Very good. Krav, put the wog on your shoulder. Sergeant Musin, lead."

  "Where to, Comrade Major?" Tim asked.

  "The roof. We're not getting out of the compound by ground and the roof's flat enough and big enough for the helicopter to come in."

  In order-Musin, Konstantin, Kravchenko, and Lada-they lined up at the main door, better than half closed at the moment.

  "Wait, Sergeant Musin," the major said. From a bag he took a grenade, pulled the pin, released the spoon, and bounced it through the slit between the door panels and off the far wall. The grenade flew from that wall to the covered area to the right of the branch corridor. Konstantin shifted position and aim. Another one followed the first, this time bouncing to the left. There was heard another twin chorus of frightened shouts and screams before first one, then the other, exploded.

  Hot on the heels of the blasts, Musin pushed the door the rest of the way open and bounded forward. As he reached the end of the branch corridor he turned left and fired several bursts into the men, mostly laying and bleeding, though two were standing, swaying and stunned, in the long corridor to the left. Konstantin did the same, only to the right.

  "SERGEANT MUSIN, LEAD!" Konstantin reminded. He had to shout. The grenades he had used, RDG-5s, had an unusually large explosive filler, nearly a quarter pound. But for the half closed door the blast would have deafened them all. As it was, except for those protected by earpieces, their eardrums throbbed while everything heard through them seemed to come from a great distance. Lacking a radio, and with one hand on the submachine gun and the other on Yusuf's laptop, both of Lada's ears hurt terribly.

  "YES, SIR!"

  People, more than a few, quartered in the rooms along the corridor, opened their doors. These were cut down instantly and without compunction. Most were men but two overly curious women died, too. Konstantin said a small prayer of thanks that no children had stuck their heads out. It was the kind of circumstance that really didn't permit a lot of time for close judgment calls.

  At the door out which they'd come earlier, Musin stopped. "I CAN'T HEAR IF THERE'S ANYONE ON THE OTHER SIDE."

  The major pushed him out of the way, then emptied a magazine through the door. He threw his own shoulder against it-I am too fucking old for this!-until it flew open. He briefly took out the earpiece and listened with his good ear. Yes, there was a commotion below. He replaced the earpiece and shouted, "GRENADE!" at Musin, pointing downward to indicate the direction.

  While the major dropped and changed magazines, Musin nodded and pulled a single RGD-5 from his own bag. Arming it, he let it drop straight down the opening between the flights of steps. They didn't hear it hit bottom but they did hear and feel the blast. More screams followed that, one of which went on and on.

  "UP!" Konstantin ordered, pointing.

  "I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S UP THERE," Lada shouted.

  "TARGETS!" Konstantin shouted back.

  Musin, again, led the way. At the first landing, he ran into two keffiyeh-clad men, carrying rifles. Literally, ran into them. It was too close even to use a submachine gun. Instead, Musin threw himself into a tearing Tatar frenzy, a furball of slapping steel, punches, kicks, and headbutts. It seemed a long time, though it was probably less than two seconds, before Konstantin put his muzzle to one head and pulled the trigger, followed by another trigger pull for the other.

  The two Yemeni guards, however, had had time enough to call out a warning. Before they reached the top of the steps, the air above was filled with a lead blizzard, being poured in from outside.

  "Shit," Konstantin muttered. Again switching radios he called, "Falcons, we need you fast."

  "Five minutes, Major."

  "In five minutes we might all be dead."

  "I can't change the laws of physics, Comrade. Leave that to the communists and the current American administration."

  "Fuck the Americans and fuck the comm-"

  Litvinov interrupted. "Comrade Major, Galkin is not dead. I'm not saying he'll live long but he's not dead." The radio also transmitted the sounds of bullets striking all around the transmitter, as well as the cracks of further misses,
and the still more distant sound of rifle discharges.

  "How do you know?"

  "He called for me . . . for help."

  "Okay, that's pretty much the definition of not dead. Can you get to him?"

  "No. Not while I'm under this much fire."

  "Tell him to hang on another five minutes."

  "I'll try, but he seems to be rolling in and out of consciousness."

  "Best you can do," Konstantin finished.

  "And now?" Lada asked.

  "And now we wait for support," the major answered. And hope those fuckers don't have any grenades.

  "About two minutes out, Major. SITREP?"

  Konstantin might have cursed the chopper pilots except, What would be the point? Besides, it never pays to curse out people you desperately need.

  "We're in three parties," the major said. "The largest of us, three of our men, one woman-don't ask-and one prisoner are trapped in a stairwell just below the roof. Two men, one of them wounded and not all that close to the other, are trapped and under fire on the eastern wall of the compound. One man is outside, to the east."

  "I can't carry five of you on my own, Major. You've seen the passenger compartment. You just won't fit."

  "The woman is tiny," Konstantin said. "As for the prisoner . . ."

  So the old man wanted him for interrogation? So what? All he really needs is for the bastard to be dead. And I'm not leaving either one of my own, nor the woman, behind to satisfy an old man's desire for revenge. Let him be happy with the infliction of a shameful and painful death.

  On a hunch, he asked, "Lada, what's on that laptop?"

  "Everything, I think. Contacts, accounts, plans, assets. He never really lets it out of his sight."

  Hmmm. Got the laptop, don't need the wog.

  He took from a pouch a strand of piano wire, made to form a loop at one end. The loop he put around Yusuf's neck. The free end he tied off quickly on the stairs. Then he told Kravchenko, "Drop the fucker down to the next level."

  With an indifferent shrug, Kravchenko walked down a couple of steps, then more or less tossed a screaming Yusuf through the opening. The screams cut off abruptly as the piano wire tightened. Yusuf swung violently and began to kick and dance, though the kicks grew weaker with each second his brain lacked fresh blood.

  Tsk, thought the major. That must hurt. While Yusuf strangled, Konstantin took a pen and a notepad from one pocket and wrote on it, in Russian and English, "Pirate." He went down two steps and folded the note around the wire above the loop around Yusuf's neck. He couldn't tuck it between the wire and the neck because it had dug into the man's flesh at least half an inch. Just in case anyone doubts why the swine was hanged.

  "Forget the prisoner," he told the senior pilot. "What I need is a rocket and gun attack on the roof to clear it off. The other bird needs to get a picture of what's pinning my two men on the wall and eliminate it."

  "Wilco," the pilot answered simply.

  "GRENADE," Konstantin shouted at Musin, once again, again signaling that he wanted it dropped. After it exploded below, he thought, Ought serve both to discourage pursuit and make absolutely sure the wog has enough time to finish strangling. Though that's probably overkill at this point.

  In mere moments, so it seemed, after the grenade went off, the roof began to shed dust and plaster as one rocket after another slammed into it. There was a lull, quickly followed by another salvo of rockets and what sounded like a series of very close together grenade explosions.

  "The roof should be clear now, Major. My wingman is still hunting for whoever has your men pinned.

  They emerged onto the roof cautiously, maintaining that caution until they were pretty certain that the MI-28 had done its job and left nothing alive. Then the four of them, including Lada, raced for the eastern edge of the thing.

  Konstantin looked down and could see both Litvinov and Galkin, separated by nearly a hundred meters. He could also see flashes of fire coming from two places at ground level. I can see why the helicopters are having trouble finding them.

  Rather than shout, Konstantin used the short range radio. "Krav?"

  "Comrade Major?"

  "Can you get a grenade close enough to those groups to matter?"

  Kravchenko, too, looked over. "Sure. Easy."

  "Do it, then." To the helicopters he said, "Watch for the grenade flash." Going back to short range radio, he told Litvinov. "The helicopters probably won't be able to kill the people who have you pinned. They might be able to drive them back for a while. Your choice if you want to try to retrieve Galkin."

  Litvinov snorted. "Like that's a choice, Comrade Major. He may be a queer but he's still our queer."

  "Good man," Konstantin said. "Exactly so."

  Litvinov saw the grenades go off, then watched as the MI-28 rose above the wall and began to dance, its tail doing the My girl's name is Señora thing, its chin gun pelting first one section, then another, then back to the first. It expended all rounds quickly, then veered off to the east.

  Gathering his courage, Litvinov got to his hands and feet and did a sort of sprinting crawl down to where Galkin's body lay. He was breathing, Litvinov saw, but also bleeding from more places than he cared to count. Picking the man up, under his arms, Litvinov slung him over the parapet and then lowered him as far as he could down the wall. Then he let go. Galkin fell a few feet, than crumpled bonelessly to the ground.

  Litvinov moved down a few feet from where he'd dropped Galkin. With an unvocalized prayer, he hopped his belly up to the crenellated wall, and swung his feet over. A couple of rounds struck the stuccoed mud brick below, where he'd been standing a moment before.

  Slithering backwards, he lowered himself as far as he could, then also let go. When his feet hit the ground he did the very same parachute landing fall he'd learned many years ago at the airborne school at Ryazan. As he had there, more than once, he hit his head on something, hard.

  Even as he cursed, he was moving to Galkin. Still cursing, he bent, got the other into a fireman's carry, and stood up. Then, as fast he as could, given the load, he began to sprint for Baluyev. It was an easy direction to hold because the praporschik was already firing at someone or something atop the wall, even as the other helicopter settled to the sand not far behind him.

  The major watched Litvinov go. He also watched some of the guard force race to the wall once the helicopter had moved off. He and Kravchenko leaned over the side and pelted those guards with unexpected fire. They got some, But not enough.

  "COME ON, KRAV," the major shouted, pushing the other in the direction of the helicopter, which had now landed on the roof. When they got to the door, they found Musin already buckled in, with Lada sitting more or less comfortably on his lap. Tim was trying very hard and somewhat unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

  Ignoring the smile, Konstantin pushed Kravchenko in, then followed, putting on the flight helmet even before seeing to his own buckling in.

  "Get us the fuck out of here!"

  The MI-28 lifted suddenly with the whine of rotors and jets, before nosing down and skimming out over the palace walls.

  With the sun rising up out over the Indian Ocean, the pilot buzzed Konstantin. "Major," he said, "bad news. I'm sorry, but your man in the other helicopter died. There was nothing his mates could do."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Take pity of your town, and of your people,

  Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;

  Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace

  O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds

  Of deadly murder, spoil, and villainy.

  -Shakespeare, "Henry V"

  D-Day, Rako, Ophir

  The sun was a bare hint, not yet crept over the horizon but reflected still from scattered clouds. The reflection shone down on a column that appeared mostly made of dust, but was, in fact, four tanks, six gunned Elands, three Ferrets, and rather more than a dozen Elands without turrets-headquarters, infantry carriers of w
hich there was now one fewer than there'd been, mortar and ammunition carriers, and an ambulance.

  The company had begun the march west with six tanks. Two of those had fallen by the wayside-victims of poor maintenance or victims of drivers who, with the exception of swollen- and bent-nosed Lana, hadn't more than a clue what they were about. None of the newly captured tanks, given that their crews were nothing but a driver and a black or black-faced soldier standing in the turret to look intimidating, were truly combat capable.

  But, Reilly thought, when we show up at a town with better than two dozen combat vehicles I don't think we'll actually have to fight.

  Hope not, anyway. It would not only be bad for the town, we'd certainly end up killing a number of the people we intend to capture.

  Reilly checked his map against his GPS. Then he glanced half to the right and said over the radio, "Scouts and antitank: That's the tank lager over there to your right. Go shoot it up . . . and have fun storming the castle, boys."

  D-Day, East of Buro, Ophir

  It had been said that a stern chase was a long chase. This chase must have seemed very long indeed to the pirates pursuing Eeyore and Morales.

  Not long enough, though, thought Antoniewicz. Not nearly long enough.

  Antoniewicz was crouched down almost under the ship's wheel. This didn't give a lot of cover, though it gave some. He steered by feel, mostly, supplemented with occasional risky glimpses forward.

  Morales was crouched as well, though he was in the stern, holding one of the team's utterly inadequate underwater assault rifles. He was bleeding, the result of a side hit, not terribly serious in itself, from one of the bullets the pirates had been throwing their way infrequently and at random. The hit hurt, but, thought Morales, probably not as much as a full day at BUDS.