left victims unconscious for two to six hours.
In 2002, Chechen terrorists took a large number of hostages in an incident known as the Moscow theater siege. Kolokol-1 was used against them; however, large doses of the drug might have contributed to the deaths of more than one hundred of the eight hundred hostages.
Intelligence gathered from Russian Federation defectors between 2018 and 2020 indicated that the Russians had made further refinements to the incapacitating agent in order to make it “more safe,” though they had thus far not used it against civilian populations.
Consequently, Vatz felt a deep sense of dread as he and Captain Godfrey stepped over the soldier they had killed with the grenade and headed down to the ground floor of the town hall, where they found the mayor and half a dozen other town leaders lying on the floor, a beer can-size canister still emitting gas beside them.
They checked for pulses. “Still alive over here,” said Godfrey, voice muffled through his mask.
“Here, too.”
“Looks like they’re hitting them where they find them with small concentrations.”
“Good. We may not need our masks outside.”
They hustled out of the building, rushed around to the corner, both slamming themselves against the wall as two Spetsnaz troops wearing masks rounded the opposite corner themselves.
Vatz caught the first one with his rifle, rounds stitching up the soldier’s armor and reaching his head.
But the second troop was already firing, his rounds drumming into Vatz’s armored chassis and knocking him off his feet.
Captain Godfrey stormed forward, unleashing a vicious salvo, drawing within a couple meters of the guy until the Russian went down, blood spraying inside the mask.
With his chest sore from all the fire, the wind still knocked out of him, Vatz pushed himself up on his elbows, blinked hard.
Just as Captain Godfrey sank to his knees, then fell forward, his rifle clacking to the frozen pavement.
Wrenching off his mask, Vatz got shakily to his feet and staggered forward, reaching the captain. He rolled Godfrey onto his back, removed the mask.
“Captain… sir…”
Vatz undid the quick release straps of Godfrey’s armor, tossed the vest aside, saw the two bullet holes in the captain’s neck, another just under his earlobe.
He checked the captain for a carotid pulse, got one: weak and thready but there.
“Band-Aid, this is Bali, over?”
The team’s senior medical sergeant, Jac Sasaki, answered, his voice tense, gunfire echoing behind him. “Bali, I can hardly hear you, over?”
“I need you here, south side town hall. Berserker Six is down, over.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Berserker Six is down!” Vatz repeated his location.
“Roger that! On my way!” cried the medic.
Vatz switched channels to call Warrant Officer Samson. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”
“Bali, this is Black Bear, make it quick!”
“Berserker Six got hit. He’s still alive. I say again, Berserker Six was hit. Got Band-Aid on the way.”
“Roger that, Bali. I’ll notify Zodiac Six and coordinate with him. Looks like they’re spreading out now, some heading for the neighborhoods. We need to take out as many as we can, right here, right now, before they all turn into snipers, over.”
“Roger that, and they’re using gas. Looks nonlethal, over.”
“Yeah, what they call nonlethal just kills you slower. Tell you what. You stay put. I’ll send over a truck.”
“Roger that, standing by. Bali, out.”
Vatz checked Godfrey’s neck again for a pulse, put his ear to the man’s mouth, listening.
They wouldn’t need Band-Aid now.
He swore, and dragged Godfrey’s body to the side of the building.
The guy was a good captain, not the usual token officer sent to do his time with an ODA, then go on to lead brigades. He’d really wanted to learn. And hell, he wasn’t even thirty years old yet.
Band-Aid called on the radio to say he was almost there. Vatz didn’t stop him. They’d pair up, get down in the alley between the town hall and another office building, and remain there until Black Bear’s truck arrived.
The sounds of whomping rotors kept Vatz tight to the wall. He looked up, saw one of the civilian birds banking overhead at just two hundred feet.
Just behind it came one of the Ka-29s, narrowing the gap, its four-barreled machine gun blazing until the civilian bird’s tail rotor was chewed apart by 7.63 mm rounds, its engine beginning to smoke, fuel leaking from its tanks.
But then a glorious sight from the ground: a Javelin missile rose to cut across the blue midday sky, its exhaust plume trailing.
Before Vatz could fully turn his head, the Ka-29 burst apart, the fireball so close that Vatz knew he had to get out of there. He shoved arms beneath Godfrey’s armpits and dragged the captain’s body toward the back of the building to escape the secondary explosions.
Good thing he did. The debris was already crashing down along the wall, and just as the larger parts of the helo’s fuselage hit with echoing concussions and multiple booms, Band-Aid hustled up and dropped down to the captain.
The medic was a Japanese-American with a sparse beard who never seemed relaxed, always “on.” He dropped his medical bag, about to get to work. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“He’s dead.”
“Aw, hell. I liked him.”
“Just move up front, look for Black Bear’s truck. They’re coming for us.”
“You got it, Sergeant.”
Vatz glanced once more at the fallen captain. And once again, it was always somebody else.
Cursed? Lucky? He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep.
And for just a second, he did just that.
There in the darkness of a dark, damp alley in Moscow lay his old friend Zack with a gaping bullet hole in his head.
Zack’s eyes snapped open. “Vatz, man, it’s not so bad here. If you want, we could hang out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re just delaying the inevitable. Those boys from the Tenth probably won’t get here in time. Maybe you’ll weaken this recon force, but once their BMPs come rolling down, you guys are all dead. Unless, of course, you run for it.”
“We won’t leave these people.”
“I know. So I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Sergeant!”
Vatz took a deep breath, heard the sound of an engine.
“Sergeant?” cried Band-Aid.
Vatz snapped awake with a chill. He immediately hoisted the captain in a fireman’s carry, then rushed around the corner, toward the street, where a pickup truck was waiting.
TWENTY-NINE
Sergeant Raymond McAllen, Sergeant Scott Rule, and Khaki rushed up to the idling Ka-29. McAllen held up the grenade, as Khaki had suggested.
Meanwhile, Rule was on the other side of the helo, pointing his weapon at the co-pilot on the other side of the canopy.
Both pilots were in their late fifties and seemed more annoyed than scared. They raised their hands, and
