by Dirk Patton
“How recent?” Igor asked.
Mikhail considered the question for a moment before answering.
“No more than nine months.”
Igor turned his head and surveyed the grouping of obviously unused bunks.
“Why is there space here?” he asked.
“The ones you killed were the last to arrive,” Mikhail said with a shrug. “Look around, young man. Most of us are very old. It’s rare that a week goes by without someone dying. No new ones to replace them.”
“They don’t know,” Irina whispered to Igor in English.
“Don’t know what?” Mikhail asked, grinning at her surprise that he understood.
She was quiet for a moment, looking at Igor who shrugged his shoulders to leave it up to her. With a sigh, she began relaying a carefully edited version of the story of what had happened to the world. The men surrounding her pushed in closer, hanging on every word. When she was finished, there was not a sound from any of them. After a long pause, Mikhail coughed and struggled to stand. Reflexively, Igor stepped forward and helped him come to his feet.
“Barinov did this?” he asked.
Irina nodded. Mikhail slowly looked around at the saddened faces.
“That explains why there have been no new arrivals for months. And the guards have been on edge. You asked earlier why you should trust me. Look around. Every man you see was sent here because we spoke out against men like Barinov. We tried to raise the alarm of what might come. Never could we have imagined something this horrible, but we understood what absolute power and greed can do to a man.
“Thanks to you, the men in this barracks who would betray you are dead. Those of us that are left were not criminals. At least not in the traditional sense. Our crime was to dare to criticize the men in power. I can only assume your presence here has something to do with what has happened to the world, and we will help, if you will accept it.”
Irina stared at him in thought, still unsure.
“We are here to find a man who tried to stop this.”
Irina looked up in surprise when Igor spoke. Mikhail took a step forward, titling his head back to stare into Igor’s eyes.
“And who is this man?” he asked.
“Fyodor Shevchenko. Former Admiral of the Fleet,” Igor said.
Mikhail’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“And what is it you want with him?”
Igor glanced down at Irina and nodded. She took a deep breath before speaking.
“We are hopeful he can persuade the military commanders to follow him instead of Barinov. If so, we can end the war with the Americans before any more people are killed. If not, I’m afraid the war will continue until there is no one left alive on either side.”
Mikhail nodded slowly, then turned to his fellow prisoners. He was checking to see if any of them objected. Each man he looked at nodded in agreement.
“We have one condition,” he finally said. “When this man assumes power, all of us will be released to rejoin our families. I, for one, do not want to die in Siberia.”
“Agreed,” Irina said without hesitation. “Do you know where he is?”
The old man shook his head.
“Never heard of him. He must be in another barracks. But if he’s here, we shall find him.”
He held his hand out towards Irina, but before she could take it, a blaring siren began wailing. The men instantly scattered, quickly heading for their bunks.
“What’s happening?” Igor asked, automatically pulling Irina close to protect her.
“There’s been an escape!” Mikhail said, already shuffling away. “The guards will be here any moment to do a bed check. You must hide!”
As he moved towards the far side of the room, he motioned for them to follow.
“Hurry!” he hissed. “They aren’t smart, but they will realize there are two too many people in this barracks. Follow me!”
Igor and Irina fell in behind him, willing the man’s frail legs to move faster. From outside they could hear shrill guard whistles being blown and the shouts of rough voices. Reaching his bunk, which was closest to an ancient wood burning stove, Mikhail circled around it to where two other prisoners had removed several of the rough boards that formed the floor. He came to a stop next to them, gesturing at the pitch-black hole.
“Inside!”
Irina hesitated, but Igor scooped her up and dropped her in. She fell a short distance and landed on her feet, the floor now level with her hips. Igor leapt in, pulling her down without a word as the men quickly replaced the boards and sealed them in darkness.
27
Anna pulled the trigger when Greg lunged, the pistol coughing out a round as he slammed into her. She fell back into the small bathroom, narrowly missing striking the back of her head on the toilet as he crashed on top of her. In a panic, she pushed against his weight, not realizing at first that he wasn’t fighting back. After a moment, she ceased struggling and, with a grunt of effort, rolled the much heavier man aside.
Scrambling as far away as she could, she raised the pistol, aiming at his head and holding it steady. If he so much as twitched, she was ready to put a bullet in his skull. But after nearly half a minute, Greg didn’t move. She shifted her eyes and watched, noting that he didn’t seem to be breathing. Exhaling slowly, she lowered the weapon and got to her knees.
Reaching out, she placed her hand on his neck, searching for a pulse that wasn’t there. Placing the pistol on the cold, concrete floor, she rolled the body over. It was limp and lifeless. She looked at the dead eyes, then at his chest. Directly over Greg’s heart was a small, circular burn mark on his shirt with a neat hole in the center. There was very little bleeding, but she knew that was normal. Without a functioning circulatory system, there’s nothing forcing blood out of an open wound.
She stared at the man for a moment, experiencing a fleeting sense of guilt over having killed him. That hadn’t been her intention. She’d only wanted to escape, not end the life of a man who didn’t seem to fully understand what he was involved in. Not that she thought he was a good person, but the real villain, the one who deserved a bullet in the heart, was William.
Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she jumped to her feet and nimbly leapt over the body. Grabbing it by the ankles, she dragged it out of the bathroom. Snapping the deadbolt that secured her quarters, she let the robe drop to the floor and rushed back into the bath. A minute later she emerged, having stepped into the shower long enough to wash the dried urine and feces from her body.
Stepping carefully around Greg’s corpse, she snatched fresh clothes out of the closet and dressed, adding an extra layer for warmth. She well knew how cold the desert could be at night. Boots laced, she ripped the holster free of the closet door and threaded it onto her belt, slipping the pistol into place.
On the far side of the room, she pushed on the edge of a full-length mirror. It slid to the side, running on hidden tracks. Behind it was a dull grey steel door and a flush-mounted keypad. Entering a seven-digit code, she tugged it open. Nitro had insisted she prepare a bugout bag, just in case, and she grabbed the large backpack that was resting on the floor of the safe.
It was heavy, but manageable, holding extra clothing, a week’s worth of MREs, water purification tablets, an extra pistol, spare ammunition and a variety of survival gear. Shrugging into the straps, she settled it on her shoulders and reached back in for a short-barreled, suppressed rifle. A sling was attached to the weapon and she worked it over her head. Next, she opened a small fridge and quickly drank several bottles of water.
Feeling optimistic, Anna moved to the door and turned off the room’s lights. Gently, she disengaged the deadbolt and, as quietly as possible, turned the handle to release the latch. Cracking it open, she peered into the hall, listening intently. She neither heard nor saw anyone, and after a second of hesitation, pulled the door fully open, brought the rifle to her shoulder and stepped into the corridor.
The lights were dimmed,
indicating it was dark outside. She hoped this also meant that anyone else who might have been in the bunker with Greg was asleep. The militia had never seemed interested in posting guards or participating in watches. Nitro and his men had taken that responsibility, and she hoped the lackadaisical attitude taken by William’s men hadn’t changed.
There was almost no sound from her boots as she moved quickly down the hall. Her quarters were deep inside the mountain and it was a long walk to the exit. She resisted the urge to break into a run, forcing herself to remain calm and follow the training the Army had given her. Training that had been greatly enhanced by the time she’d spent with Nitro.
Frequently glancing over her shoulder, she moved through the dim hallways of the bunker without encountering a soul. Or even a sign there was anyone here, other than herself. Occasionally, she passed rooms where the door stood ajar, slowing and checking each before continuing.
When she finally reached the large garage that had been constructed at the bunker’s entrance, Anna was beginning to feel confident that she would escape. As soon as the thought passed through her mind, she silently cursed herself. Optimism is good, but consciously thinking about it can make you let your guard down. And that’s exactly what she had done.
Stepping into the large, open space, she was as surprised as the man who was seated on the hood of a Humvee, smoking. She recognized him, but had no idea what his name might be. For an instant, both remained frozen, staring at each other in surprise.
He moved first, letting the cigarette drop from his hand and reaching for a holstered pistol. Anna was a beat behind, but her weapon was already at her shoulder, the muzzle aimed in the man’s general direction. As he dropped to his feet and tore at his belt, she brought the rifle on target and fired twice. Both rounds tore into his chest and sent him spinning to the floor.
Anna approached cautiously, rifle steady on the man as he slowly writhed in pain. He had abandoned any effort to draw his pistol. Stepping closer, she noted a spreading pool of dark red blood and could hear a death rattle coming from the man’s lungs. She started to move past for the driver’s side of the Hummer, but a lecture Nitro had made her listen to caused her to pause.
There had been a lot of boring days after the attacks and Nitro had found a way to pass the time. He’d taken Anna under his wing and done his best to teach her the lessons of a lifetime spent in combat. She’d been uninterested at first, not seeing the point and preferring to while away her days mourning for Sean and her father. But he was having none of that and had cajoled and badgered until she’d relented.
Now, the topic of one of their conversations had stopped her from turning her attention away from an injured man. Nitro had told her that you never leave an enemy alive, especially one who is still armed. Anna had rejected the premise at first, but he hadn’t given up. He’d kept at it until she understood.
An injured man, even one who is obviously mortally wounded, can and will use their dying breath to exact vengeance on the one who killed them. Beyond that concern, leaving someone alive is like handing intelligence to the enemy. If they are found by their comrades before they expire, they can reveal things like who their attacker was, how many there were, where they came from and where they went.
It was the last part that gnawed at Anna as she thought about her situation. If William were to find the man she’d shot before he died, then he’d know she was alone. But if all she left behind were bodies, William would most likely underestimate her. He wouldn’t believe it was possible for her to have killed two of his men and escaped on her own. He would immediately think she’d been rescued, and the first person he’d suspect would be Nitro.
That would be good for Anna. She knew William was afraid of the hulking Delta trooper. And with good reason. Nitro had made it clear on more than one occasion that he would be very happy to slice the militia leader into small pieces and feed him to the coyotes. So, if William suspected that Nitro and his team had come for her, he might be inclined to accept his losses and not head out in pursuit of her.
Decision made, Anna pulled the rifle tighter to her shoulder and aimed at the man’s head. She watched through the sight for a few seconds, struggling with killing someone in cold blood. It was one thing to shoot a man in the heat of battle, when it was him or you, but it was quite different when there wasn’t an immediate threat.
As this thought went through her head, she realized the man had stopped moving or making any sounds. Not lowering her weapon, she watched him closely for several seconds, not detecting any signs of life. Finally, with her finger tight on the trigger, she stepped closer and kicked the man’s foot before leaping back to a safe distance. He didn’t react or move, so she changed position, shuffling sideways, until she had a view of his face. Dead eyes stared at the large slick of blood that surrounded the corpse.
With a sigh of relief, Anna lowered the rifle and hurried around the Humvee. She tossed her pack inside and rushed to the far wall, slapping a button that activated the camouflaged garage door. As it swung open, she jumped behind the wheel, started the engine and roared out into the night.
28
“So, here’s what we’re facing,” Brillard, the intel chief, said as he slid several papers across the table. “Barinov occupies the entire top floor of the building. The penthouse is accessible in two ways. Via a private lift that only services that top level, or by a set of private stairs at the rear of the building.”
Lucas and I leaned in for a closer look at a set of building plans.
“Internal security?” I asked.
“There is one man stationed within the lift at all times, and two others in the stairwell. One at ground level and another at the top. Also, there is security on each level within the building and a full squad of Spetsnaz on duty around the clock in the lobby.
“I’ll speak more to external security in a moment. The penthouse is the eighteenth floor of the building. Other than Barinov’s, all other floors are divided into two separate residences. These floors are serviced by two additional lifts and their own set of emergency stairs. There is no internal access from any of them to the top floor. If someone wishes to visit the penthouse, they must go to the lobby, then board the dedicated lift to Barinov’s level.”
“Parking garage? Delivery entrance?” I asked.
He smiled and nodded, shuffling papers around to show a new blueprint.
“Two separate, below ground car parks,” he said, tapping each location with a pencil. “Both are entered from Wylde Street and are secured by retractable steel gratings. One is for the residents, the other for deliveries and service personnel. Both are staffed with security.”
He paused to spread out a large map of the area. Barinov’s building was in the center, prominently highlighted.
“External security is in multiple, concentric rings, and is supplemented with a counter-sniper team on the roof. There is equipment under wraps that we have detected with aerial surveillance, and it would appear they have anti-aircraft capabilities. As far as the ground level, there are six of the aforementioned rings, each compromising static posts with roving patrols. The outer one begins here,” he said, taping a faint circle drawn on the map with pencil that was more than two blocks from the building. “This ring is responsible for clearing all vehicles and pedestrians who are trying to access the area.”
Lucas tapped several other structures which were within the outer ring.
“What about these? Are people still living there?”
“No,” Inspector Tanner said, shaking his head. “Over the past two years, the Russians purchased all of the homes and flats that now fall within the secure area. Those residences are being used to house the large security force.”
“So, there’s no reason for anyone to even approach the outer perimeter unless they’re expected,” I said.
“Correct,” Brillard said. “And even those that are scheduled are frequently stopped again at one of the inner rings for a second inspection.”
“How many men on each ring?” I asked.
Brillard recited the numbers from memory as he produced three wide-angle aerial photos of the area.
“As you’ll note,” he continued. “They are spaced so that there is never a static post that cannot be observed by at least one other. And their rovers are quite good at randomizing. We have been unable to detect any pattern to their timing or patrol sectors.”
“Weapons?” Lucas asked.
“Sidearms and suppressed AKMS rifles are all that we’ve seen.”
“Dogs?” I asked, staring at the photos.
Dog raised his head and looked at me.
“None that we’ve observed.”
I glanced at Lucas who met my eye and shook his head.
“Not just strolling in, are we?” he asked rhetorically.
Heads all around the table slowly shook.
“Let’s talk about other options,” Wellington said, nodding at Brillard to continue.
“Right,” he said, pushing more papers across the table to us. “Deliveries and service personnel.”
He paused, giving us a moment to look over the sheets.
“Thrice a week delivery from a local supplier. Food, liquor and necessities. Brought in a fifteen foot box van.”
He placed a photo of the vehicle on the table between us.
“The lorry is thoroughly inspected at the outer ring. Once cleared, the driver remains outside the perimeter while security drives it in and unloads. We do not believe this is a viable option for penetration.”
“What about contaminating the food?” I asked. “Poison of some sort.”
Schmidt, the former GSG9 man, was shaking his head before I finished speaking.
“No. Food is tested, prepared and tasted by Russian personnel at least a day in advance. All alcohol is also checked in the same manner. We have explored this possibility and have been unable to find a compound that would not be detected well before being consumed by Barinov.”
“Thought you were cyber,” I said.