Not a terribly long chapter this week, only ~6000 words. The merest trifle, right?
But I couldn’t post the next chapter as well; that one is another monster, and between them I’d probably crash the site.
Have you heard of Kindle Vella? Seems Amazon thought I had a good thing going here, and they’ve decided to imitate it! Well, okay, maybe they’re not directly imitating me, but I was doing it first, even before they announced it!
Kindle Vella is a serial story platform. Authors put up ‘episodes’ of their stories – think of them as chapters – and you can read along with them, buying them with Amazon’s virtual currency, tokens. There’s no set schedule for releasing them, so some people post them all at once, some do multiple posts each week, some do once a week, some less often.
I post once a week.
My story, well, it’s really Kendra’s story; she’s the official author, after all. Here’s her description:
My name is Kendra Cassidy, retired Admiral, wife to Aiyana Cassidy, and I’m here to set the record straight. My biographer has done a good job, more or less, telling the stories of our life after we married. But there’s decades he missed, stories from our childhoods, which are dying to be told. These are my memories of Aiyana. I put up a new episode every Tuesday, and I may just slip in a special episode here or there, so click FOLLOW and stay up to date!
The first three episodes are free to read. And, to spur interest Amazon is giving away 200 tokens to anyone who asks for them.
So why not check it out? While you’re there, click on FOLLOW and give the episodes some thumb’s ups!
Mike was still goggling at the time when they hit on the ground at Vnukovo. Seventy-three minutes. They hadn’t even changed time zones, which led to his pleased realization that, whatever happened, he wouldn’t have to deal with jet lag.
As they taxied toward their parking spot, well away from any commercial terminals, Vanner was already on a phone with someone.
Russian, by the sound of it. Made sense.
Vanner motioned Mike to wait.
The plane stopped at their designated area and Mike could see the ground crew looking up, slack jawed. He smiled.
“I need the card,” Vanner mouthed, hand over the mouthpiece.
Wordlessly, Mike handed over the Titanium card. He heard the words “fifty thousand rubles” and “two hours” before Vanner started reading off numbers.
The call was soon over.
“What was that about? And you do know the Russians are the number one credit card thieves after Nigeria, right?” asked Mike after reclaiming the card. No point in leaving temptation with Vanner.
“Soundproofing. While we were in the air, I did some research, found a firm which does that kind of thing. They’ll come out to Vnukovo and do the job on site. Seems they have some extra tiles, supposed to go in the first-class section of the 747, they‘re willing to give up on the cheap. And I wouldn‘t worry about them stealing the card; I hacked into their system before calling. They try to access it for anything besides this little transaction, it all blows up on them. Plus, a Brit owns the company; Bridgewater vouched for him.”
“Just don’t let them tear the plane apart. We might be leaving in a hurry,” warned Mike. “If they’re on board when we boogie, they come with us.”
“I’ll brief ‘em when they board,” assured Vanner. “Might have to promise a bonus, then.”
“That’s capitalism. What else?”
“I think Watson’s already arranged for refueling, through a separate cover account. I don’t think we want Putin to know about our little surprise too soon, though I don‘t know what we can do about the crew. A security team might be a good idea.”
“Arrange it. You stay here, handle the bird with those two. Stay in touch.”
By now Mike was the last one on board.
Mike snorted. “Or something.”
“He’s here?!” bellowed Putin at the speakerphone. The vein in his forehead throbbed visibly.
“Yes, Minister. He and a team of Keldara, and some specialists, landed at Vnukovo a few minutes ago.”
“And in a fucking Backfire! Where did they get it?”
The spittle reached across the meeting room table.
“Apparently, the Georgians are being very cooperative,” was Chechnik’s bland reply. Privately, he admired Jenkins’ balls at flying a former Russian plane into Moscow, especially a bomber.
“Did nobody know they were coming? Why wasn’t I informed?”
The voice had turned to ice and he even appeared calmer. That meant trouble. The other experienced staff members quickly and quietly vanished, remembering places far away they needed to be.
Immediately, if not sooner.
“Minister, I was informed myself they arrived only moments ago. They were in the air less than an hour. It took us utterly by surprise,as nobody expected Umarov to provide such support to the Keldara. With the search going on, communications have been somewhat chaotic,” said Chechnik, carefully ignoring the first question. It was fortunate he’d chosen to call this report to the Prime Minister; if he’d been present, he doubted he’d survive the spittle.
“And we’re sure Jenkins is here?” persisted Putin.
“Yes, Minister. Along with members of his command team and a few Keldara warriors.”
“The warriors don’t matter,” said Putin, suddenly thoughtful. “Jenkins does. I want him followed, No! I want you with him at all times. Go and meet him.”
“But, Minister, someone has to coordinate the search!” Chechnik didn’t feel he ought to mention Jenkins had already imposed the condition, but to not protest wouldn’t be believable.
“No excuses, Chechnik! You have a deputy, yes? And he is capable of this? Or should I have him shot for incompetence as well?“ Chechnik didn’t see any point to replying. “You will take a tracking device and meet with the Kildar. I will know where the bastard is at all times, do you hear me?”
The Or else was unsaid; the throbbing vein added its own punctuation to the threat.
“Yes, Minister. May I ask why?” A homing device will piss Jenkins off. Maybe he ought to quietly warn him once out of earshot of Putin’s pet dogs
“No, you may not! Suffice it to say that I do not intend to let him interfere in Russian internal affairs again with impunity!” Putin allowed a horrible smile to cross his face. “I have special plans for that, that, cowboy!”
Cowboy. That was rich. Putin was a rodeo clown, Jenkins, a skilled operator. But he allowed none of that to color his tone.
“Yes, Minister,” Chechnik answered to a dead line.
This didn’t sound promising.
Gereshk and his men easily evaded the patrolling squads. They were ordered to search buildings, not vehicles, so the battered lorry passing through the city streets raised no alarms, even though one Geiger counter screamed when it passed by. It knew a gamma source was nearby. The soldier holding it looked around quickly. All he saw were parked cars and one receding truck half a block away, so he hit it.
The alarm died away. He assumed it was simply malfunctioning and chose not to say anything to his squad leader. They‘d already been chewed out for surging into a dentist’s office ready for a firefight. Even though Higher wouldn’t admit to it, they’d all heard of the other squad’s fate. To a man they’d resolved it wouldn’t happen to them, no comrade! This wasn’t a game or exercise any longer.
The patrols in the Komsomolsky District were all moving from the center of the city towards the periphery, so Gereshk ended up closer to his enemy’s heart than when he began. He passed three more foot squads and had even shadowed an army truck along an avenue for a while before he settled on a new location.
A small bakery off Khoromniy Tupik, with a ‘closed’ sign on the door, seemed to be the perfect safe house. For now. Unless the patrols began to double back, but no point in inviting Shai’tan‘s mischief.
The back door was only secured by a simple latch bar. A surreptitious knife raised it out of the way, the age-stiffened door was quickly forced, and the bomb brought in. Nobody noticed another truck making a routine delivery.
The room in the rear was a storage room. Fifty kilo bags of flour lined both concrete walls. Crockery, filled with starter culture, perched precariously above the sacks. The next room in was a prep kitchen. An ancient brick oven, still warm from its last use, stood in one corner, though no wood or coal was set up for the next day. So. Nobody was expecting to bake tomorrow. Or they were simply lazy; that was always a possibility. They’d find out soon enough.
Large dough mixers and industrial-sized ovens crowded the next space, obviously the main baking area. The bomb was left in the back as the front was unsuitable. Not only was it lined with plate glass but also far too small. There was plenty of bread for the men, if a bit stale. Between that and the leavings in the walk-in, they could make a soup. That would settle the men down.
Gereshk felt more secure once the lorry was moved, parked a block away. The sturdy concrete walls would prevent any unwanted intrusions, and the relatively lightweight wooden roof was built to allow for adequate ventilation.
Wood, which stopped gamma radiation not at all.
The sedans the Russians had provided were roomy enough, if somewhat old. No matter, they would do.
Mike would have preferred old, heavy Army trucks.
He wanted the high vantage point, able to see beyond the car immediately ahead. He could use them to bulldoze through traffic if he had to. Since Padrek and his Team had been left behind, if he needed to force an entry, well, three to five tons of rolling steel made one hell of an door-opener.
Which is probably exactly why the Russians gave up the sedans.
Anisa and Grez already had their systems up and running, getting a continuous feed from The Cave and Stella.
“Anything, ladies?” asked Mike politely through the rear window.
“Some details about the firefight earlier.” answered Grez. “Looks like the Russians pretty well got slaughtered. They’ve recovered thirteen bodies, only two of which weren’t Russians.”
“Any ID yet? Even tentative?”
“No. They’ve cut back dramatically on their radio chatter, almost as if they knew we were here and wanted us dependent on them. Or someone’s just being a fucking asshole. One or the other. I do have an address, though,” she finished sweetly.
“Sounds like a place to start.” He stepped away. “Let’s move them out!”
Mike waved to the other four sedans. The Keldara drivers responded with single beeps on their horns.
The drivers provided with the cars were huddled together by the plane, hulked over by the patently unhappy Keldara warrior selected to guard them. They’d made the mistake of assuming they’d be allowed to follow their orders, doing the driving for the Keldara. Mike had quickly disabused them of the notion.
To prevent any unwanted distractions, he’d ordered all their cell phones and radios collected while Anisa and Grez swept the sedans for monitoring devices. It had only taken one would-be driver being hauled bodily from the wheel, turned upside-down, and shaken, before the other four produced their own devices post haste. That particular driver was now secured with rigger tape; Adams promised he wouldn’t go anywhere, and he might even keep his hair. Well, except for the one stripe.
He climbed into the limousine the Russians had provided, noting it was a Mercedes and the driver had been replaced by Jitka. He was followed closely by Arensky, Adams, and finally Kat.
“I didn’t like that plane,” announced Kat. “It’s too noisy!”
“Vanner’s working on it,” assured Mike. “But yeah, it’s not a 550. Tolegen, you’re our WMD expert. What do you know about this particular design?”
Settling back into the seat, Arensky began to recite.
“The RDS-46. A warhead, precisely, not a bomb. It was never designed to be dropped on a target by a plane, but rather delivered by an ICBM. The SS-6 Sapwood, it was called by the West, but it is properly the R-7 Semyorka.”
Even though he was impatient, Mike knew better than to interrupt an expert when in full lecture mode. Sometimes, you had to bite the bullet. Besides, he’d be able to take it out on some poor muj bastard soon enough, he felt. They’d find the bomb, he was sure of it.
The tougher part would be after: getting out of the city without getting dead. He tapped Jitka’s shoulder, and the impromptu caravan pulled out.
“Nominal yield is five megatons, achieved through the Teller-Ulam method where a small fission device is used to trigger a larger fusion explosion, which in turn triggers another fission reaction. Typically, a RDS-46 would have either an impact or altimeter trigger, depending on whether it was intended for a ground or air burst.”
Mike had to ask; this might be a useful loophole.
“It needs to be at an altitude to function?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” answered Arensky, not at all disturbed by the interruption. Intelligent questions, he could tolerate. After all, it allowed him to expound further.
“Those are simply the most common triggers, and either one can be simulated on the ground. For example, hitting the detonator with a large sledgehammer would activate an impact trigger quite nicely.”
Mike gulped as Arensky continued.
“Or, if you had the altimeter type, you could simply adjust the detonation setting. It works on air pressure, you see. Say you knew you were two hundred feet above sea level; you’d just manually set the trigger to detonate below two hundred feet and it would detonate almost immediately. Even if you don’t know your altitude, you can simply dial it down until you found the proper setting.“
“And how would you know the setting was right? Is there a tone or a light or something?“
This wasn’t a smart question, and Arensky’s irritation showed.
“No. It would explode. Once it was armed, of course. Either way would require a martyr, as well, so perhaps that’s not the method they would choose.”
“Or maybe exactly the method,” said Adams quietly. Mike nodded agreement.
“It would be quite simple to attach a timer, however, allowing for the perpetrator to escape. Radio or cellular triggers are also easy to assemble. If any of these men had experience with IEDs in Iraq, or Afghanistan, then they would likely be familiar with the set-up.”
“What kind of damage would a bomb like this do to Moscow?”
“Five megatons? Let me see…”
He pulled out a calculator that looked like it was a refugee from the seventies and started punching furiously. A minute later, he looked up.
“Assuming optimal yield, the fireball would be up to two kilometers across. Terrain, building density, those would alter the pattern, of course. Everything within that would be vaporized. Everyone closer than about five kilometers would almost certainly be exposed to a fatal dose of radiation, even if they survive the blast effects and the thermal bloom. The proteins in the nerves simply cook and stop working. Quick, at least. Probably the best, as you’d be dead before the blast hit you. Those protected from the radiation would almost certainly perish from the thermal bloom. Horrible way to go. Oh, certainly there would be some scattered survivors, Hiroshima showed us that, but they would be very rare exceptions.”
“Buildings would be severely damaged, if not destroyed, up to thirteen kilometers away. And the thermal bloom would cause third-degree burns or worse within twenty-five kilometers. It depends on how direct the exposure was at the moment of detonation. Once the fireball and pulse hit those closest, they‘d be past caring anyway. It is those unfortunates in the twelve to twenty-five-kilometer ring who would suffer the most. The burns would be painful, but not immediately fatal. The radiation, too, would eventually kill them, but not swiftly. And they would almost certainly be caught in the firestorm, which could easily double the casualty rate even among those who might have survived initially. In short, Kildar, I would estimate the thought of this device going off as a Very Bad Thing.”
Mike blanched. “Fuck me running. I knew nukes were bad, but this is one motherfucking big bastard.”
“We’d better not be around when this goes off,” said Adams. “At least we’re lucky one way.”
“Lucky?” scoffed Mike, incredulous.
“Yeah. An airburst would fuck up the city even more when it went off. At least when a ground burst goes off –”
“We’d better not let it go off,” retorted Mike. “How do you know so much?”
“I didn‘t sleep through all my briefings. Your thing is women, mine‘s nukes. I figured that I‘d better know all I could about them, cause sure as shit one fine day my Team would be sent off to try to get one back. Thought I got past that when I retired; guess I didn’t. But we have got to get this thing back, Mike. I can’t emphasize it enough.” With that, he leaned back and seemed to sleep immediately.
Mike knew better. Adams was simply getting his game face on, facing down his demons. He had them, just as Mike did. It didn’t help one of Mike’s was sitting next to him, wiggling her ass, trying to get comfortable in full kit. He so didn’t need her here now.
“What can you do about disarming it?” he asked Arensky.
“Disarming? My dear Kildar, there is nothing I can do! Not once it’s armed, at least. Oh, I can dismantle the detonator assembly easily enough, but I haven’t the training to actually disarm it!”
“Fuck me twice. Chief?”
The eyes flicked open.
“So where are we going?” asked Jitka over his shoulder. “We are approaching the center of Moscow, and I do not know these roads.”
Kat turned her tablet to face them.
“A warehouse in the Komsomolsky District of the North-Eastern Administrative Okrug. Ulitsa Panteleevskaya. Belongs to a company called Delfa, but there’s nothing current in their database.”
“The company legit?”
“Yes. I think the building was simply picked out at random. Jitka, straight here, next left to the overpass. Then I‘ll tell you what exit to take.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and turned his attention back to the road. Pedestrians beware!
“Grez said that some details were becoming available?”
Kat looked at the tablet. “Yes. It appears that a squad was doing a routine sweep, and almost literally stumbled across them.”
“Only the one who ran.”
“He’ll need to be available to question.” Whatever Mike was going to say next was lost as his phone trilled. He glanced at the display and snarled. Checknik.
“What?” he snapped, answering. As pissed as he was at Chechnik for his past decisions, he was twice as pissed at Putin. After all, Prime Minister and Puppet Master were very much alike.
“You are in Moscow now?” Rhetorical, but he’d answer it.
“Yes, you know that.”
Time for word games, then. Pay attention.
“Yes, I did. I have been ordered to accompany you and give you every assistance you need.”
“I swear, Kildar, the order to accompany you came directly from Prime Minister Putin himself!”
“And why should I trust the word of a lying prick about another lying prick?”
“Please, Kildar! I have my orders! I can explain more…later.” There was a just-perceptible hesitation between the words. “It would be more convenient for us both.”
Mike relented, remembering the conditions he‘d imposed on Chechnik.
“Well, if you’re with us, at least I’ll know you’re not screwing us over. Fine. Meet us, wait. Where was the warehouse, Kat?”
“42 Ulitsa Panteleevskaya.”
“You hear that, Colonel?” Let him wonder why he’d used his rank this time.
“I shall meet you there in twenty minutes,” came the reply.
“Make it an hour,” said Mike. “We want to look it over first.”
“Very well, Kildar. An hour then. I am sure I can find someone else to screw over, as you say, in that time. Perhaps a mother with small children.”
Mike hung up.
“You trust him?” asked Kat.
“Not a bit. But there’s a saying: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. And I want Chechnik as close to us as possible. Once we find the nuke, he‘ll either keep us out of the line of fire or make a good meat shield.”
Katrina seemed satisfied with his answer.
The warehouse was surrounded by a company of soldiers from the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division, although it looked like they had been ordered not to enter the building. Someone had, though. Bloody heel marks showed where the bodies of some of their casualties had been dragged out.
Mike looked around for an officer, finally finding one with the three small silver stars of a senior lieutenant on his fatigues.
“Pardon me Senior Lieutenant…?” he asked in English, playing the part of the ignorant American.
“Chopiak. This is a crime scene; you will have to move along.”