Extraction

by Marcus Richardson

  He placed his hand on the scanner and the door clicked open. He saw Petroval over his shoulder, struggling with the reluctant wife of the now dead ambassador. "Just knock her out—but don't hurt her,” he called out.

  Petroval frowned like Mikhailovich had just insulted his mother, but smashed the woman's head against the wall by spinning his body. She went limp in his massive arms and he tossed her over one broad shoulder and carried her down the steps as if she weighed no more than a sack of flour.

  Mikhailovich impatiently held the door open for his most trusted hitman, then followed him into the darkened garage. Motion sensors, operating on battery backups, detected their movement and lit up the garage with flickering florescent lights.

  “Which one?” Petroval asked, looking at the parked cars, gleaming under the backup lights.

  "Over there, the black Mercedes," Mikhailovich said, pointing toward the up-armored sedan at the far end of the garage. The spacious bays held an assortment of vehicles, groundskeeping carts, and motorcycles. But the only one prepped and ready to go at a moment’s notice was his heavily modified Mercedes S class. He’d personally overseen the installation of bulletproof glass and armor—both above and below the running boards—that shrouded his tank of a car.

  Mikhailovich shut the secret access door and secured it with the same electromagnetic lock used in his private office. The American would have to tear a hole through the wall to get through that door. He smirked and turned to Petroval.

  “Drop her in the trunk—let's go."

  Petroval popped the trunk and nonchalantly tossed the American woman in, then closed the lid with a definitive slap. He opened the driver’s door and took the wheel, while Mikhailovich moved around the car to the front passenger seat.

  Muffled sounds of gunfire and screams filtered down through the thick ceiling. Mikhailovich looked up through a fine layer of dust that fell from several cracks he’d never noticed before. He frowned. "If the American survives this, I'm going to make him pay for the repairs. This is my favorite summerhouse."

  “We need to leave…” warned Petroval, eyeing flames licking at the ceiling.

  He slapped the roof of the car in climbed in. “You’re right. Let’s be off. Take me to Gagarin Square."

  Petroval settled himself in the driver’s seat and shut the door. He turned to stare at Mikhailovich, his wide face furrowed with confusion. "Yuri Gagarin Square?"

  "That’s the only Gagarin Square I know of. Yes, Petroval.” He sighed. “Don’t look at me like that! Igor Voroshilov is the only one who knew the layout of this house. I think he told the American how to find us,” he said with a disgusted flick of his wrist. “His headquarters is near the park. That medical business he’s always making shitty commercials for.”

  Petroval grunted and pushed the ignition button. “Onnei.”

  “Whatever—he set me up," Mikhailovich muttered, unable to keep a sullen tone from his voice, which just added to his frustration. “Me. The son of a bitch set me up.”

  "It's just you and me, now,” Petroval warned. For the first time in their long relationship, Mikhailovich detected a hint of worry in the huge man's voice. “We should think this through—”

  "Don't fret, Petroval, I'm just going to talk with him…" Mikhailovich said, fixing his eyes out the window as the garage door rolled up.

  For now.

  29

  Incoming

  West of Smolensk, Russian Federation

  Mikhailovich Estate

  Cooper coughed in the smoke that billowed through the room. He couldn't believe his luck that the defenders would rush down the hallway all clustered together like that.

  "Thermal," he said, coughing again. His AR glasses switched from showing the visual spectrum to the only two sources of heat. Cooper took a quick look down the hallway. The thermal imaging camera cut right through the smoke and showed several bodies and parts of bodies on what remained of the floors. Gore, splattered against the partially destroyed walls of the hallway—and even bits of the ceiling—glowed with residual heat. The grenade had done its work, and in the enclosed space of the hallway, obliterated seven men.

  He waited a moment for the glasses to identify any potential targets, and when it locked onto a figure trying to crawl away at the far and the hallway, Cooper rose and stepped through the debris, his boots making a squelch-crunch sound.

  As Cooper negotiated the rubble and remnants of the guards, his boots slipped on a puddle of blood and entrails, and he stumbled—landing on a headless torso. He cursed, wiping his hand on his pants, and looked up to see the man at the end of the hallway staring at him over his shoulder. The Russian gave a gurgled cry and redoubled his efforts to reach the door, just feet away. Cooper stood, and picked his way through the rest of the hallway, glancing left and right as he passed blown-open doors. The rooms all appeared empty, except one, which looked full of broken bottles.

  That was a lot of vodka.

  The man at the end of the hallway rolled over on his back with a groan and tried to raise a pistol in bloodied, shaking hands. Cooper snapped off two rounds that punched holes in the man's forehead and waited until he collapsed on the ground—and lay still—before he moved any further down the hallway.

  Cooper ejected the magazine from his rifle, inspected it, and found only four rounds left. He knelt, then snatched a spare from his chest rig, slapped it home, and yanked back the charging bolt, then opened the door and stepped through.

  "Visual," he subvocalized. The thermal imaging cut out and his glasses cleared, showing him a lavishly appointed office. The massive wooden desk in the center of the room sported a whole crop of monitors, cables, and computer equipment.

  To his right, a fire crackled merrily, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases. The same gold-fringed, blood-red velvet curtains hung from a window on the left side of the room. The whole place screamed it belonged to some Russian business tycoon or political type.

  Or mafia boss.

  Cooper slipped around the desk and glanced down at the screens, keeping his rifle pointed at the only other door in the room. He didn’t like the look of the red light glowing above the door.

  He pulled out a USB drive and slapped it on the computer. Oakrock’s hackers had built enough quick-copy software into it that he could have the whole setup transferred in mere seconds. It beeped and an alert message appeared on his HUD, informing him the computer had been wiped, but the encrypted garbage leftover would be copied. The process would take less than two minutes.

  Which, according to the screens on the desk, might be all he had to gather intel. Several men with weapons were trying to work their way through the wreckage of the house to the second floor.

  "How many fucking guys does he have here?"

  Three of the screens flickered in static, the other two displayed the swirling smoke in the hallway he’d just traversed and a high angle view of the damage his grenade caused. The last screen was quartered, showing different views of the house—including the abandoned kitchen and exterior views with the wrecked van, one more at the front door, and one inside a garage.

  Cooper tapped the screen and the image of the garage expanded to hide the other three feeds. He watched as a huge man shut the trunk of a shiny black Mercedes, then followed a man who appeared to resemble Mikhailovich. The two of them climbed into the car and headlights turned on, illuminating the garage doors.

  Cooper slapped his hand against the desk. “You son of a bitch!"

  "I don't know what you're doing, but you might want to get out of there sooner rather than later…” Beslan warned. “I am having a lot of activity out here, all of it heading in to you…" Beslan's voice sounded clipped and crackled, as if he were no longer nearby.

  "Where the hell are you?" Cooper snapped, focusing on the door with the red light over it. The HUD flashed, letting him know the hard drive had been copied. He walked back to the computer and yanked the USB drive free, securing it in a pouch on his vest.
r />   I need to get through that door.

  "I told you,” Beslan said with a laugh. “I went to get our ride."

  Cooper flicked his gaze at his HUD. The little drone circled the house now, and his glasses picked up six vehicles racing through the woods on partially obscured roads, their headlights weaving in and out under the trees with dust trailing them like smoke. He’d be surrounded before long.

  "Dammit…" Cooper muttered. The door lock was fused, and the handle wouldn’t budge. "You got anything that’ll hack a biometric panel?" Cooper called out.

  Beslan laughed. "What do you think I am, CIA? This is Russia my friend. I have something better.”

  Cooper fumed. He paced the room, alternately watching the hallway where he entered, and glaring at the door with a red light. He couldn't get through that door—which was where he suspected Mikhailovich had escaped with the ambassador. If he couldn’t get through, he wouldn't be able to finish the mission. Time was running out.

  Think dammit…you’ve never failed a mission, yet…

  "Hey! The garage door is opening! There is a vehicle coming out, is that you?" asked Beslan.

  "No!” Cooper fumed, waving at the door. “I can't get past this fucking door, and there're reinforcements working their way up behind me."

  "Okay, I see you now. I have a good lock, my friend—you should get out of that room…"

  Without asking why—or how Beslan had a lock on anything—Cooper lurched toward the hallway of death. Something in Beslan's voice said to not ask questions, but move. Cooper dove to the right of the door, covering his head.

  30

  Pyongyang

  Denver, Colorado

  New National Capital

  The president stared at the screens arrayed before him in Denver's upgraded war room. It was a far cry from what he’d left behind in Washington.

  A 3-D screen depicted devastation and ruin on a scale he found unimaginable. As the drone flew unmolested through what was left of the empty streets and collapsed buildings in Pyongyang, the broken structures seemed to leap off the screen. Twisted girders and charred support beams looked like skeletal hands, come to drag him to hell.

  Because I ordered the assault that wiped this city off the face of the earth.

  “My God…” he breathed. He leaned back as the drone dipped suddenly on an air current, and the image lurched toward him.

  “This isn’t good,” muttered the Army Chief of Staff.

  “Agreed,” replied Admiral Bennett, at the president’s side.

  “What?” asked President Harris. “Why? Look at that…” he said, gesturing at the screen. “Their whole capital city…it’s just gone…all those people…”

  “But not all their troops.” Bennett looked up from the tablet in his hands. “Sir, we’re getting reports from the DMZ and our allies in the South: the air-strikes and sub launched missiles have obliterated Pyongyang and cleared the DMZ of enemy combatants. There has been no large-scale retaliation from the North.”

  The president turned away from the gruesome 3-D video of twisted steel and cratered streets. “How is that bad?”

  “Sir, it means we took out their home guard way too fast. The NKors were estimated to have a 2 million man army before the attacks. There should be a massive counter attack underway right now—not the pot shots they’re taking with those famous embedded artillery bunkers that were supposed to wipe out Seoul.” He shook his head.

  “So you’re saying we didn’t get their army?” asked the president.

  “We knew this could be a possibility, sir, but all the evidence pointed to the opposite.”

  “Opposite of what?” asked the president, feeling his blood pressure rise by the second.

  Admiral Bennet took a breath and squared his shoulders. “North Korea must have moved the bulk of its army to our shores already. We crushed their capital and neutered what forces remain, but we’re facing a much bigger problem at home. We—I just didn’t think it was possible for them to have moved that many men…they must have been stacked like sardines in those ships last year.”

  “I agree, sir,” said the Air Force Chief of Staff. “This was too easy,” he said, pointing at the screen. “They rolled over without a whimper.”

  “What about their military and civilian leadership?” asked the president, his voice hollow as the ramifications settled on his shoulders of millions of pissed off enemy soldiers running rampant through American towns.

  He collapsed into the closest chair. My God, I’ve doomed them all…

  “From what we can tell, their military and civilian leadership is…gone,” replied Admiral Bennett.

  “We used jihadi tactics on their underground bunkers—some of the best and deepest in the world outside Cheyenne Mountain and the Underground itself, sir,” added the Air Force general.

  “What?” asked the president, his head swimming. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at the Air Force’s commanding officer. “Explain.”

  The man nodded. “Our bunker busters are the best in the world, sir—these bombs can root out someone and ruin their day from a long ways off. But…the NKors are better than anyone at going deep and reinforcing everything with dozens of feet of concrete. So we pulled a tactic from the jihadis we fought in the Middle East a generation ago.” He gestured at a screen and clicked on the remote in his hand. The screen shifted from a map of Pyongyang to a diagram of a stealth bomber dropping ordinance.

  “The first bomb creates a huge crater and clears away the surface structures. We time it so that as the blast pressure subsides from the first bomb, a second one hits with laser accuracy at the exact center of the impact crater. The sub-surface structure, now weakened dramatically, gets a third bomb, delivered just like the second—within a second of impact, and so on until the target is neutralized.”

  He clicked the slide away and another image appeared, showing a second bomb breaking open the structure hidden in the ground, and a third bomb about to slip through the gap.

  “In this case,” he said, clicking the remote again and bringing the image of the royal palace—or what was left of it—in Pyongyang back on the screen. An enormous, multi-tiered crater lay at the heart of the walled off heart of North Korea.

  “We needed five bombs to accomplish the mission—but as you can see, the underground bunkers long touted by the North Korean regime as impregnable, were anything but.”

  “How can you be sure?” whispered the president.

  Admiral Bennett cleared his throat. “We’re going to deploy remote controlled combat excavation drones. They’ll be dropped down the crater by Air Force UAVs, then crawl their way through the rubble, giving us a first hand account of the success of the strike.”

  “And their air force and navy?” asked the president. He rubbed his face, his stomach making him look for a handy trash can.

  “We’re still hunting down the last of those pathetic little diesel subs they deploy,” Admiral Bennett said. “They don’t pose much of a threat to our fleet—subs or surface—but they can do some damage in packs.”

  “Their air force is permanently grounded, sir—that was our first order of business when we got the green light,” added the Air Force general.

  “It’s the soldiers already in our country we have to worry about,” said the Commandant of the Marines.

  “If they press an attack along the entire front…” said Admiral Bennett, his voice fading off.

  “Then what?” demanded the president as he sat up, thoughts of the trashcan forgotten. “You’re telling me we weren’t ready for this possibility? Goddamnit, Roger, you said—”

  “Sir, we are ready but every military situation is inherently fluid. If we had known that most of their military forces were already within the United States—”

  “Sir!” said the Chief of Staff of the Army. He pointed to a screen on the opposite wall. “We’ve got Russian armored divisions making a move toward the Ukrainian border.”

  “Ukraine�
�s asking for our help,” remarked the Secretary of State, as she looked up from her computer.

  “What about China?” asked the Commandant of the Marines.

  “They’re moving their 3rd Army to the North Korean border,” replied the army general, tapping keys on the terminal in front of him.

  “Mr. President,” said the heretofore silent General Rykker, face grim. “I’m getting reports from scout platoons in California and Oregon—the NKors are pressing into no-man's-land. No major offensive—just probing actions—but they’re doing it in force. We need to bottle this up,” he added.

  President Harris looked at the Army Chief of Staff. “I feel like we’ve been down this road before,” he said, frowning. “Now you tell me the bulk of their military is already on American soil. What’s going to happen this time?”

  “We’re going to destroy their forces and cleanse the land,” said Rykker, eyes clear and sharp, back ramrod straight. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation or hint of doubt in the Commandant’s voice.

  “This isn’t possible…” the DHS Secretary muttered, eyes glued to his own screen.

  The president sighed, putting a hand to his face. “What isn’t possible?”

  “I’m getting reports that multiple electric grids are under attack throughout the nation.” He looked up. “Sir, it’s a concerted Cyber attack, the likes of which we’ve never seen.”

  “China,” growled Admiral Bennett.

  “I can confirm that,” said the Secretary of State. “We’ve just received a communique from Beijing. They’re claiming responsibility and say unless we stand down from our unprovoked attack upon Pyongyang, they will collapse our entire grid, permanently.”

  “Can they do that?” the president demanded.