by Dave Edlund
“Ran into some resistance, like you said. The approach to the campus and the commons is cleared, killed about twenty or so enemy soldiers out there. Took out a tank across the road at Independence Square. There are two other tank hulks burning and what looks to be the remains of a mobile SAM launcher. You guys do that?”
Rather than explaining the missiles were fired from SGIT’s top-secret transport, Jim just nodded.
“Third and fourth platoons are clearing the other buildings. My team is completing a final assessment as we speak. If it’s secure, we’ll bring in an Osprey, land it right in the street. Weather is deteriorating slightly. Light rain, but wind is mild and ceiling is still above 3,000 feet— shouldn’t impact bringing the bird in.”
“What can my men do to help?” Jim asked.
“We picked up a few prisoners. No rank insignia, and they aren’t talking. Found this on one of them.” Diaz held a hard case, about the size of a cell phone. Jim opened it to reveal a syringe, extra needles, and an ampule of a clear serum. “If some of your men can guard them, it’ll free up my team to finish clearing this building and provide security.”
“Do you know what this is?” Jim asked.
“No, I assume it’s some type of medicine. Maybe insulin or a pain killer.” Diaz was a bit surprised by Jim’s interest in the ampules.
“I think it’s something else entirely.” He called Peter over. “What do you make of this?” he asked, handing the case to Peter.
Peter replied almost immediately. “Vaccine.” He looked at Jim. “They were selectively vaccinating their troops and anyone else they wanted to protect.”
Diaz looked confused.
“Can you take me to them? Now?” Jim asked.
“Sure.” Diaz turned to the open door and called, “Washington, Nolty.” Two Marines hustled up to their commander. “Confirm the head count and get these people ready. Clothes on their backs only, nothing else.”
“Yes, sir!”
Diaz addressed Boss Man. “Follow me.” Jim followed the Marine captain with Bull and Ghost by his side, and Peter close behind.
Chapter 36
Minsk
“AH, MY OLD FRIEND MAJOR LEONOV,” Jim said. The Spetsnaz soldier refused to look up.
“You know who he is?” Diaz asked.
“We’ve met. But I don’t know the other three. We had Leonov, only to lose him in a firefight outside the library.”
All four prisoners were sitting on the ground near one of the Humvees, hands bound behind their backs. The rain was intermittent, and not especially cold—certainly no risk of hypothermia, although it was probably somewhat uncomfortable. Too bad, Jim thought.
“I’m glad you caught him,” Jim continued. “I suspect he’ll have a wealth of information to share with DIA and CIA analysts.”
“We’ll take them out with us in the Humvees after we get the civilians evacuated.”
Jim knelt down in front of Leonov. “We disabled the machine––I thought you’d like to know.”
Leonov barely reacted, only a brief glint of surprise, and then it was gone, his countenance neutral once again.
“You probably didn’t think it was possible.”
The Major remained silent.
“Who built the machine, Major?” Jim prodded, trying to goad him to open up. “We’ll learn soon enough. The explosive charge has been disabled and the machine is intact. It won’t take long to piece it together and figure out its origin.”
Still Leonov refused to speak.
Peter lowered the open case holding the ampules. “Who was carrying this, Captain?”
Diaz pointed to Leonov. “Your blond buddy.”
“This is vaccine—that’s what it is, right?” Peter said. Leonov was staring at the case in silence.
“Well, this vaccine will be analyzed. The Army has a very good lab at Fort Detrick. The Centers for Disease Control will also conduct an investigation. The chemical composition of the vaccine will tell us clearly the country of origin.” Peter was making this up, speaking his educated guesses with confidence.
He had Major Leonov’s attention and pressed him harder. “The medium the virus was grown in, the method used to kill the cells––these are all part of the fingerprint. I’ve been told that no two labs use the exact same recipe.”
“You think it matters?” Leonov scoffed. “You have nothing.”
“We have the aerosol machine, plus this sample of vaccine. It has Russian labels and I’m betting the lab results will confirm it was made by a Russian pharmaceutical lab.”
Leonov shrugged. “Believe what you wish; Russia is not the only country to use the Cyrillic alphabet. When the international media broadcasts video of women and children suffering and dying from smallpox, nothing your government says will be believed.” Leonov raised his head and looked directly at Peter. “Time,” he started to laugh, “it is not on your side.”
“Come on Peter; we’re wasting our time,” Jim said.
Peter stood motionless, staring at the Major, processing what he’d said—and then it hit him. “Wait a minute!”
Peter faced Jim and Captain Diaz. “There’s another device, another aerosol machine.”
“What makes you certain?” Jim said.
“He knows we’ve already disabled the machine from the roof of this building. Yet Leonov is saying that people will be infected. So there has to be another one out there.”
Jim reached down and grabbed Leonov by the collar, hauling him up to his feet. Then he slammed him back into the Humvee and leaned in close to his face, water droplets running down his nose and cheeks.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
Leonov’s lips curled in a sickening smile.
Jim slid his hand around the man’s throat, and squeezed. The veins on either side of his neck bulged as circulation and airflow were constricted. “Where is it!” Jim shouted.
“It’s already too late,” Leonov said with a laugh.
Diaz had his knife in hand. The blade was seven inches long and razor sharp. “Say the word Commander and I’ll pop off his knee caps. We can start with the right leg, and see what he has to tell us.”
The Major stared back at Jim, his eyes defiant and filled with vengeance. “Do it,” Jim said.
Peter watched in silence. He knew he should object, try to talk Jim and Diaz down, but he also knew they needed information right now.
Diaz gave his weapon to Peter, who kept it trained on Leonov. Then Diaz reached down and cut a small slice in the camouflaged pant leg. Wielding the knife like a surgeon, he inserted the blade through the cloth, cold steel pressing against flesh, and enlarged the opening, fully exposing the kneecap.
Jim had the Spetsnaz soldier leaning backwards against the Humvee, pinning him there with an iron grip on his throat. “Last chance. Once he cuts off your kneecap you’ll never walk again.”
His eyes widened and his breathing became rapid and shallow. Still, Leonov shook his head.
“Do it,” ordered Jim.
“Wait!” Peter couldn’t take it any longer. “You can’t do this.”
“Bull, I am ordering you to escort Dr. Savage back inside.”
Bull grabbed Peter’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
“This isn’t right!” Peter said as he let Bull lead him away.
“The ends always justify the means,” Diaz said.
Peter had his back turned, and the next sound he heard was a blood-curdling scream. He didn’t have the stomach to turn and look.
s
At the moment, the Minsk International Airport was arguably one of the busiest airports anywhere. Marine and Army reinforcements were arriving onboard C-130 transports, while incoming equipment and cargo flights were landing at the rate of about one plane every fifteen minutes. Nearly every square meter of tarmac was occupied with parked planes unloading men, equipment, and machines.
Then, once empty, the planes operated by the USAF, NATO, the RAF, and the French Air Force, were rapidl
y refueled so they could take to the air again, returning to bases in Germany, Poland, Italy, Turkey, France, and Great Britain. Everything that would be necessary to wage war with Russia had to be flown in, and it was needed now.
In the span of hours, the airport had transformed into a huge port, dedicated solely to establishing a defensible foothold against an anticipated Russian counter attack. The Pentagon analysts expected that action to appear first as an air assault, followed by a ground force, including armor, and attacking within 24 hours.
The analysts were wrong.
s
“Bill, you have the stick,” Major Doyle said at the sight of an incoming encrypted email message.
“Co-pilot has the stick,” Bill Harrison said to acknowledge transfer of flight control.
“Looks like that hot shower will have to wait. We’re not through yet,” she said. It didn’t take long to read the message.
“New target coordinates,” she said to Bill.
With the destruction of air defenses at the airport and low on fuel, Hammer flight was on its way back to Germany, mission concluded. The plan was to fly northwest across Lithuania to avoid any remaining air defenses in western Belarus.
Doyle checked the fuel load. Not good. She keyed the secure radio link. “Golden Eye, this is Hammer flight, acknowledge.”
“Reading you, Hammer Flight. This is Golden Eye.”
“Look, our tanks are pretty lean. Insufficient fuel to complete new sortie. Please advise, over.”
Following a short silence, a new voice addressed Major Doyle. “Major, this is Colonel Horn. What is your fuel status?”
“Sir, we will go bingo fuel in five minutes at current speed.”
Colonel Horn had built his career by making hard decisions, and this was no different. “Listen closely, Major. That airport is essential. If we don’t hold it—if we allow the Russians to retake it—we will not be able to reinforce and supply our troops.” He paused to let that message settle in.
“Right now, there’s a column of Russian armor approaching fast, and soon it will be within striking distance of the runway. Our aircraft and crew are fully exposed. You know as well as I the havoc those tanks can bring to bear on exposed aircraft. Best case, they shut down the runway and stall our advance. That’s a win for Russia; time is on their side. We have to hold that runway and infrastructure—intact—at all costs.”
“I understand, sir,” Doyle said.
“Do you, Major?”
Without hesitation, Major Doyle answered, “Affirmative, sir. This aircraft is expendable.”
Colonel Horn sighed heavily. He hated this part of the job as much as he was proud to be associated with the the men and women who served under his command. “That’s right, Major. I wish it wasn’t so, but I’d be lying to you to say otherwise. We don’t have other strike aircraft in the vicinity with the capability to destroy that armor. What’s left of the close air support is on the ground being refueled and rearmed. The militia and Russians didn’t just walk away from the airport.”
“We’re on it, sir.”
“Godspeed, Major.”
“If I can ask a favor, Colonel. Move that tanker as close to our vector as possible. We’ll be on fumes on the flight home.”
Although Doyle couldn’t see it, Colonel Horn smiled. “You’ve got it, Major. Golden Eye out.”
“Turn us south Bill; you have the coordinates. Maintain 30,000 feet.” No sooner had she completed the order and the aircraft began a tight-banking turn.
“Jonesy, what ordinance are we still carrying?” Doyle asked the Offensive Systems Officer.
Captain Jones checked his stores before replying. “Uh, twelve GBU-49 and three GBU-50 if you really want to leave an impression. What’s the objective?”
Doyle considered her options—mostly laser-guided 500-pound bombs and a couple guided 2,000 pounders. Either was more than adequate.
“Suspected Russian armor. Golden Eye has detected a column heading toward Minsk on the M1 motorway. Location about 45 miles east of Minsk and closing fast. The column will reach the airport in about 60 minutes, maybe sooner. We are to confirm target ID using the Sniper Pod. If it’s military assets, we’ll take ’em out.”
“Roger that.”
They flew in silence for ten minutes. Bill had been running the numbers in his head, same as Major Doyle. “It’s gonna be close,” he said.
“That’s right, Captain. Even if we don’t have to dodge or outrun any MIGS or missiles, we still may not have enough fuel to reach the tanker. We’ll return at altitude, and if we flame out, we eject.”
By the time the Bone was close enough to get a visual on the advancing column, it had closed to 25 miles from the airport, and was still moving at top speed. Jonesy was studying the magnified images coming back from the Sniper pod. “We have tanks, Major,” he said. “Probably T-90s. And a bunch of BTR 80s or 82s,” referring to the eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier.
“How many?”
“Ten T-90s. A dozen… no, make that fifteen APCs.”
“Prioritize the tanks. Without heavy armor the BTRs won’t fair well against the Marine Viper attack helos.”
“Roger that, Major.” Jonesy designated all ten tanks. The Sniper pod would hold the laser designator on up to three separate targets. “We’ll have to do five releases, Major, if you want to drop all our ordinance.”
“No point in bringing it back home. Plus our fuel will go farther if we aren’t carrying any excess weight.”
“With ya one hundred percent,” said Jonesy.
“Bill, bring us down to 20. That will reduce the drop time and we can get out of here sooner.”
Captain Harrison nodded.
“I’ve got GBU-49s for each tank,” Jonesy said. “That leaves two extra that I’ll target on a couple APCs. Plus we have the GBU-50s. I’ll try to target those for a close group of two or three APCs—2,000 pounds of high explosives will go a long way on that light armor.”
Doyle resumed control of the aircraft, placing it in a straight, level flight and pulling the throttles back to minimum airspeed. “You are go to release, Jonesy.”
Three at a time, the 500-pound laser-guided bombs fell free of the Bone, quickly pointing nose down. The bulbous contraption at the nose of the bomb followed the invisible laser beam reflecting back from the target. In seconds, the three bombs detonated simultaneously. Against the relatively thin armor on the top of the T-90s, the bombs were devastating.
Then the next three bombs were dropped. And several seconds later, three more—and then three more until all the laser-guided munitions were gone. Out of vision of the crew, all ten heavy battle tanks were blown apart—turrets completely separated from the chassis, tracks snapped, even the reactive defensive armor on the outer hull had detonated in a series of sympathetic explosions.
The BTR armored personnel carriers fared even worse. Of the fifteen vehicles, eight were destroyed by either direct or near hits from the 500-pound and 2,000-pound bombs.
As Major Doyle gently banked her aircraft and slowly climbed, she saw the telltale column of black smoke. “Were you able to get a BDA, Jonesy?” she asked.
“Affirmative, Major. All ten tanks are smashed, and at least half the APCs are history.”
“Nice shooting, Jonesy, I’ll share the good news with Golden Eye.”
Chapter 37
Minsk
DIAZ SLAMMED THE POMMEL of his knife hard against Gorev’s kneecap. Not hard enough to fracture the bone, but with enough force that it hurt like hell. Then, without pausing to give his prisoner a rest, he dug the tip of the knife into the soft flesh at the edge of the knee. Predictably, Leonov screamed in pain.
Diaz held back.
“Where?” Jim demanded, holding Leonov tightly, bent backwards to the point that his back was also aching.
“Where! Tell me or so help me, I’ll let him slice off your kneecap.”
“I don’t know!” He took a moment to control his breathing, slo
w it down, so he could speak. “It’s not under my authority.”
“Tell me!”
Jim tipped his head toward Diaz, who edged the steel deeper into Leonov’s knee. He screamed again.
“I can’t! I don’t know where it is! I’m telling the truth.”
“I think you do know and you’re just holding out.” Jim scrutinized Leonov’s face—it was soaked, partly from the gentle rain and partly from perspiration despite the cool air. Jim slid his hand gripping Leonov’s neck so he could feel his pulse—it was racing, maybe 150 beats per minute. And his breathing had returned to rapid and shallow. Leonov was terrified.
“Where is it?” Jim shouted only inches away from Leonov’s face. Again Daiz dug deeper; again Leonov screamed in agony.
“I don’t know!”
Jim relaxed his grip, allowing Major Leonov to fall to the ground.
“It’s no good. I don’t think he knows.”
“He’ll talk once his knee cap is on the ground,” Diaz said.
“Yeah, he’ll say whatever you want to hear. But that doesn’t make it true.”
“Okay then, now what?”
“When your medic has time, stitch him up,” Jim said, and then he strode into the chemistry building. Peter and Bull were just inside the doorway. The sound of the tilt-rotor V-22 Osprey landing was very loud, even inside.
“Bull, time to get these people onboard that aircraft. Take them out the other way so they don’t have to pass these charred bodies.” The stench was still horrendous, but the fires had died out.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Peter said after Bull had left.
“I didn’t do it,” Jim replied.
“I heard the scream.”
“Diaz smacked his kneecap, and then made a shallow slice in his flesh. The corpsman is probably suturing it now; doubt it requires more than five or six stitches.”
“Okay, I guess you fooled me.”
“That was the point, and you played the part marvelously. Once you were convinced Diaz was actually going to do grave harm, Leonov also believed it. The fear of torture is often worse than the actual act.”