The great dictator had driven the native Chechens from their lands during the Second World War, fearing that their presence would make it hard for him to defend the Caucasus. Always a thorn in the Soviet side, the possibility of rebels taking advantage of an outside attack to further their own ends was one to which the Soviet leader was only too well aware. And so, as many other ethnic groups had been, they were displaced en masse, exiled to Kazakhstan. It was only in the late fifties, after Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization of the Soviet, that they had been allowed to return.
In truth, although this exile rankled, it was also an inspiration to the young Orlov as he devoured tales of guerrilla fighters who took advantage of the siege of Stalingrad and the drain it made on Russian resources to mount an insurrection that almost achieved its aim. If not for the fact that Stalin directed Soviet bombers to Grozny rather than the Western Front, so delaying the turning of the Nazis, then there would be no need for Orlov to be standing where he was.
But history had been written a certain way; that could not be changed. What he could affect was the way in which it moved forward. If he could stop the Russians in their tracks, then he could kick-start a movement that could spread across the republic and make it truly independent once more, independent with its own wealth, the proof of which was the ace he held.
Yet for this to happen he needed the more animal impulses of Viktor Adamenko. Like Orlov, the giant was a man proud of where he came from, and he, too, yearned for a land where Chechens ruled themselves. And yet if this came to pass, then how would the giant satisfy the animal rages and impulses that drove him to kill? It was an unpleasant thought that there may come a time when his friend became a liability.
Right now, he was a driving force among the troops, and his disposal of the police chief was forgiven because the man was a foreigner by birth; not just that, but one who was also corrupt beyond even the norm of everyday life. His very presence was inspiring to the people, which was of great importance as Orlov had led them to believe that the soldiers in the town were only an expeditionary force. The truth was somewhat different: apart from a couple of men maintaining their home base, Orlov had pulled all the men his small group possessed to mount this takeover bid. He was gambling heavily, and would need all the spare manpower and motivation that his talisman warrior could provide.
It was vital that he keep Viktor happy. He clapped the giant on the back. “Do not worry, my friend. If I know the idiot president, he will be delighted to challenge us as soon as possible. Before too long, there will be many of them within your grasp. Now, tell me of our progress...”
Inwardly he heaved a sigh of relief as the giant, seemingly buoyed by Orlov’s words, relayed how the civilians had begun to dig emplacements along the road on both sides of the town, laying down tank traps and mines as well as establishing observation posts they could man. Some were up in the hill farms, establishing hidden locations for what anti-aircraft ordnance they could muster. Others still were fortifying buildings within the town to use as fortresses should the Russians break through.
Plans were progressing well. Viktor was now in a happier place, the imagining of dead Russians keeping his spirits up. The town was united and ready should an attack break through, though the consensus—buoyed by the conviction of the giant when he spoke to them—was that Orlov’s tactical genius would prevent this. He liked to hear those things, and it stilled the apprehension that lurked at the corners of his mind. He had planned every step, but had he considered every eventuality? He would soon find out.
The phony war was nearing an end. Soon the real battle would begin.
Chapter Eleven
Dragonslayer was to touch down near the border between Georgia and Chechnya. There was a clearing forty klicks from the line, in treacherous territory. Grimaldi flew expertly and low amid the hills and outcrops, skirting the tops of clumped forestation, keeping just below the radar and just above being snagged by the landscape. It was a bumpy, unpleasant ride and some of the mercenaries showed signs of air sickness that amused Bolan. No matter how big, tough and strong a person was, it was a difficult façade to keep up if the inner ear told the person otherwise. The soldier had always been lucky with his, and could stomach the jumpiest of rides, which, considering some of the places he’d had to fly with Grimaldi on the stick, was a useful talent to possess.
When they touched down, he ordered the mercenaries out with an instruction to take ten, get some air and work their cramping muscles. He was aware that they had been in the air for some time, and had stayed briefly at their last stop. They would be here briefly, too, but it would be the last stop before they reached the target area and they might have to hit the ground running. If that was the case, he wanted his men as sharp as possible. While the mercenaries walked stiffly, stretching and grumbling to one another about the flight, Bolan and Grimaldi headed for a corrugated-iron and brick shack built on the edge of the clearing. It looked deserted, the sole window blacked out and the only door shut.
The shack looked as though it hadn’t been used for a long time, and the clearing in which they stood was dusty, with the layer of dirt on the surface undisturbed except for their own tracks. Around the clearing, the foliage was thick, but not so much that it wouldn’t show signs of recent disturbance. Bolan could see none.
The door of the shack opened slowly. The inside of the building was pitch black against the afternoon light, and the soldier’s hand instinctively twitched toward the Beretta he had holstered in the small of his back. The door creaked back, and he waited with hairs bristling. Nothing happened; nobody appeared in the dark aperture.
Then, on either side of the shack, clumps of foliage moved backward as though secured on runners. Bolan realized that this was, in fact, what had been done. Cover of artificially preserved foliage that was movable to allow access with no visible trace had been placed on at least some sections of the perimeter. The runners were buried, and the soldier had to admit that he would have needed a close inspection to determine their location.
Not that this mattered now. From each newly made clearing two men appeared, one with a wheeled tank containing fuel and the other riding shotgun—or at least, an AK-47.
They stood on the perimeter, unmoving and unsmiling. At his back, Bolan could feel as much as hear the tension as the mercenaries watched what occurred and tensed.
A man limped from the darkness of the shack, leaning heavily on a cane. He was lean, lame on the left and had a face that looked like a relief map of the Caucasus, his long gray ponytail seeming to emphasize how worn he was.
“Grigory, it’s been a long time. And do you have to lay on the drama?” Bolan asked. “You’re scaring my man.”
The old man looked at Grimaldi with a glare as stony as the mountains he resembled. Then his face cracked. As it did, Bolan could see the four men on the edge of the clearing visibly relax, as though they had been waiting for this as their sign to stand down. Equally, he could feel the tension ebb from the men behind him.
“You can never be too careful, Belasko. I tell you this when we talk, and still you don’t listen.” “Belasko” was an alias Bolan had used for years.
“There’s careful and then there’s going for an acting award,” Bolan replied as he stepped forward and clapped the old man on the back. “Get your men to fuel us up. I hope you’ve got coffee going.”
While the refueling took place, Bolan followed the old man and the Stony Man pilot into the shack. Inside presented a different proposition to the exterior. In much the same way as the entry to the clearing had been disguised, the door and window had been carefully camouflaged on the outside to appear ramshackle and neglected. From the interior, which was now lit by fluorescent lighting triggered by the old man as he entered, it could be seen that the window was a one-way mirror, with insulation designed to keep sound in as much as the weather out. The door was not the aging piece of
wood it appeared to be, but in fact had insulation and security locks down a reinforced metal frame.
There was a bed, table and chair. On the table stood a tablet, a shortwave radio transmitter and a smartphone. A small stove and a kettle also stood there, with a small generator beneath the table.
Ignoring what Bolan had said, the old man took a bottle of vodka from beside the bed, fished three glasses from a tray beneath and poured three drinks. He handed one each to Grimaldi and Bolan, coughed a toast in what sounded like Russian but was too guttural for Bolan to tell and downed his glass. The two Americans followed suit.
“Good. Now we can proceed,” Grigory said with a nod. He continued without preamble. “Things are not looking good. If I were you, unless you had some imperative that would mean death otherwise, I would turn back and not bother.”
“We can’t do that,” Bolan said simply.
Grigory grunted. “I thought not. I do not say lightly that you would turn back if it were an option. From here, the flight path to Argun-Martan takes you low over the mountains, which is treacherous enough. You must add to this now the fact that there are fighters moving into the region to be based at the nearest airfield. The orders have been given. The tank regiment is in position. It is Sergei Azhkov’s. You know of his reputation?”
“I’ve heard about him,” Bolan commented.
The old man grunted. “Take everything you know and multiply by five, maybe ten. He’s miserable, bloodthirsty and mean-spirited. And he’ll be in a worse mood as he’s smart enough to know he’s being set up.”
“Meaning?” Bolan queried.
“Look at this,” the old man said, bringing up a map of the region on the tablet. He indicated the town and the road parallel to the river and the mountains. “Where the tanks have been situated, they have no choice but to proceed one way only. There can be no pincer movements. They move in and either eradicate the opposition or drive them back, and then into the open.”
“Where an air strike can pick them off,” Bolan said. “Meanwhile, the civilians get slaughtered and someone has to take the heat off the Russian president for the operation.”
“Precisely. This will just make Azhkov more pissed off than he usually is, and so he will be more vicious. This makes your mission in the town more dangerous, and also makes it harder for you to enter and escape without being picked up by the increased vigilance attendant on a fighter squadron.”
Grimaldi studied the map on the screen. He traced a flight path with his index finger. “If the fighters are stationed here, then they’ll have to take this path across the mountains, so if I can move around here, I can avoid that corridor.”
“If you are that low, then you may be seen from the farms that circle the mountains and the town,” the old man counseled. With his finger, he traced a slightly different path. “Now this way, on the other hand... There is still a slight risk of being seen, but you can use some of the mountains as shelter if you feel confident of flying that low at that time.”
“Are we talking about night flying?” Bolan asked. “Over that terrain?”
Grimaldi chuckled. “Evening more than night, Sarge. Even I’m not that reckless. But it will be pretty dark, and I can’t risk lights.”
Bolan’s face quirked in a grin. “I believe you, Jack, but I think we should maybe keep this from our passengers.”
“A sensible decision,” Grigory agreed. “We have secured the area, and there are no overhead flights that we know of. Let your men equip themselves here, maybe eat, and then take off just before twilight so they don’t have time to realize what you intend,” he said wryly.
When they exited the shack, the mercenaries were in a better mood, some even laughing among themselves. Being out of the confined space and able to move had cheered them, and seeing the refueling take place brought home to them that they would soon be in action. When Bolan instructed them to retrieve their weapons from the ordnance and then get something to eat, their mood lightened even more. The apprehension of waiting and an almost interminable flight had weighed on them, and now they felt a release.
While Grimaldi helped the old man prepare rations from the supplies on the chopper, Bolan took charge of ordnance distribution. Each man had guns and ammunition, with grenades to supplement. The explosives and mines were left packed to be carried by a detail when the chopper dropped them.
“Where will Jack go after we land?” Bulgarin asked as he took charge of his weapons.
“Dragonslayer will come back here. His contact will have his men on standby throughout the operation, and this will be an ops post for all intents and purposes,” the soldier replied.
“Does that not leave us isolated?” the Russian asked.
“Of course it does. That’s what we’re being paid for. You want to stay here and forfeit your payment?” Bolan said in a level tone, his eyes locked with the Russian’s. He could see a flicker of doubt in Bulgarin’s eyes. Doubt about the mission or about crossing the soldier? It was impossible to tell, but one thing was certain: whatever conflict Bulgarin had inside, he seemed to resolve as his eyes cleared before he looked away.
“It is only a short distance by air, I suppose,” he muttered. “There is no mission that is without risk.”
Bolan watched him go, realizing more than ever that he was one to watch closely. The other five mercenaries, whatever their initial qualms and clashes, seemed to be knitting together well. The necessity of having to form bonds and alliances quickly—even if only temporarily—was something that all of them had learned, through experience if nothing else.
After the men had eaten and secured their weapons, Grimaldi checked the time and indicated to Bolan that they should wind up and depart.
Marshaling his men, Bolan got them aboard, and as the Stony Man pilot took the bird into the air, the Executioner looked down and saw Grigory’s men, who had stayed out of sight while the mercenaries prepared for the coming mission, move into the clearing and remove all signs of habitation, including taking earth and scattering it over the swept areas where they had removed all signs of movement. He could see the old man limp back toward the shack, knowing that he would secure himself in there until such time as Grimaldi returned from the first leg of the mission.
Bolan relaxed and sat back. This part of the mission was the responsibility of the pilot. The team needed to get as much rest as possible before it hit the ground running.
As the chopper sped low over the ground, the trees and rocks rushing past in a blur, the light began to fade with rapidity. Back in the body of the helicopter, some of the mercenaries looked worriedly at one another and at the encroaching night beyond. Those with air sickness felt it start to creep back, and maybe not just because of the motion of the chopper.
The aircraft kept low, skimming the tops of trees and dropping even lower over those areas that were flat and barren. The moss and sparse grasses that covered the ground were typical of the lower slopes of hills and mountains in the region. Valleys and channels snaked through the terrain as walls of rock sloped gently on either side, narrowing into almost sheer rises before widening again to a safer breadth, where Grimaldi did not have to tilt the chopper to get them through with safe margins.
Somewhere around the twenty-minute mark on the journey, just as the light went from safe to treacherous, they passed over the border unseen. It took skill and experience in the poor light to negotiate some of the more narrow channels, but by steering clear of the grassier slopes that ran down the hills toward the river, they stayed away from farms that might have raised the alarm. It was a fortuitous move, as they did not know of Orlov’s outlying emplacements of some of the farms nearest Argun-Martan.
“Nearing target area, Sarge,” Grimaldi noted, alerting Bolan to their approach.
The soldier nodded, then left his seat to go back into the body of the chopper. Briefly, he informed the
mercenaries to get ready to disembark, and while they clumsily negotiated their preparation and the roll of the chopper as it grappled with turbulence and the shifting topography below, Bolan went forward to where Grimaldi wrestled with the controls.
“ETA?” he yelled.
“Five minutes,” the pilot returned as he took the chopper in as close to the town as potential eye contact and the lay of the land would allow.
Bolan checked his watch, went back and held up five fingers to the team before finishing his own preparation. Vishniev and Krilov had volunteered to carry the packs of additional ordnance with their gear, spreading the load between them. They now finished loading.
Grimaldi leveled the helicopter over the flattest piece of rock that he could find. They were in a wide valley, with an uneven floor and sparse vegetation that had at least allowed him to pick his spot without risking snaring the aircraft in trees. He lowered the chopper as far as he dared, so that it hovered only a yard or so above the rock.
Bolan slid open the door and judged the jump. It was only a short leap, but onto uneven rock. To hit it off-center could cause an ankle or leg injury that would really screw things. He poised himself then jumped. As he landed, he felt one knee take a jarring impact, but a shift of balance enabled him to keep to his feet. Once down, he was able to look up and beckon the others to follow.
Bulgarin, to his credit, seemed to be making a point by coming second, and once he was down the two men were able to lend a hand to Vishniev and Krilov as they jumped out with the extra gear. Vassilev followed. Dostoyevsky came fifth, with Basayev at the tail end. He looked none too happy at the leap, but once he had landed, stumbling slightly but held up by the man who had preceded him, he looked a lot happier.
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