And with no way to escape, they also knew they would be fighting to the death.
As Rakken sat there, waiting for the platoon to pull up outside the tower, he nervously flexed his gloved fingers. It had been an exhaustingly long ride. With some shuffling after the bombs had gone off during their trip up 95, his platoon was now spread among three Strykers, down a squad, and certainly a little demoralized.
Still, no more bombs had gone off after the initial ones, and their road march had proceeded without incident. Thorough searches of every vehicle had turned up nothing. Most of the officers were convinced that the bombs in question had been cleverly disguised as Stryker parts.
Hassa and Appleman were on the intercom, discussing two civilian choppers that for some reason had been allowed to circle overhead, when Appleman suddenly broke off and said, “All right, Sergeant. We’re here. Get ready!”
The Stryker rumbled to a halt, the ramp lowered, and Rakken and his men charged outside, onto the street, then up and onto the sidewalk—
Where they were suddenly accosted by their company commander, Captain Chuck Welch, who was joined by a group of five civilians, two women, three men, all middle-aged and being fitted into body armor by two vehicle gunners from the master sergeant’s platoon. They each carried a heavy backpack.
“Sergeant Rakken, these folks have just put down and it’s your job to get them up and into that tower.”
“Yes, sir.” Rakken’s confused expression was hard to conceal. “But sir, they know we’re coming. Power’s been cut. No elevators. Got like eight hundred stairs to climb. They’ll probably gas us, drop grenades, and—”
“You need to get them up top. Period. Do you read me, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re putting snipers in the building next door, see if we can take some of them out from there, lob some flash bangs and gas inside the deck. We’re going for a surgical removal here with minimal damage to the tower itself. Let me repeat: minimal damage. They’ve made that clear.”
Rakken pursed his lips, gestured the captain away from the civilians. “Sir, what’s going on?”
The captain sighed. “I got orders to get these folks up top and not destroy this beautiful landmark. I don’t know any more than you right now. Off the record? Take a look at these people. Geeks with backpacks, heading up into a tower heavily defended by Russians. Think they might be looking for something?”
Rakken was no rocket scientist, but it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to blurt out the word: “Nukes?”
Captain Welch gave him an ominous look. “They were circling overhead for thirty minutes before they put down. And they got carte blanche wherever they go. I asked for ID. They said they don’t have to show us anything. There was a JSF XO here to vouch for them.”
“Damn.”
“Good news is I’m issuing all of you MOPP 4 suits and Cross Coms, with access to a pair of small recon drones we’ll fly up each stairwell. They’ll walk point as you go up.”
“Nice.”
“Get your men over there, get on those masks and protective suits, and finish gearing up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Welch thrust out his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant.”
Rakken shook hands, then his gaze swept up the tower, toward the top, reaching the impossibly high observation deck. He stood there a few seconds more, forgetting to breathe.
Everything about this said: get those people up there, but you are expendable.
Rakken had never felt more uncertain about an operation. But he couldn’t show that. “All right, Spartan team! Here’s what’s happening…”
“Stay behind me!” shouted McAllen.
“No, I see one right there,” cried Halverson. She knew that the next time that Spetsnaz troop behind the tree rolled out, she’d have him.
And she wasn’t going to let Mr. Macho Marine rob her of a little payback.
“Major, get your butt back here! We didn’t come this far to lose you now!”
The Russian appeared, raised his rifle, and Halverson, who was armed with McAllen’s pistol, fired two shots, striking the Russian in the left cheek. He slumped. She ran—
Right back behind McAllen’s position.
“Jesus, lady!” he cried.
“I ain’t no lady,” she shouted back. “Not today!” She dropped down at his side and said, “Two squads. I saw a few of them shifting to our flank.”
“I know,” the sergeant said. Next to McAllen sat Pravota, who’d been gagged since he’d been screaming to the Russians after they’d fired their first shot.
The rest of the Marines were out there, somewhere behind them, engaging more of the Russians. They must have been spotted by one of the chopper crews, who’d set down and dropped off their troopers.
“Any chance of our ride coming a little early?” she asked him.
“Yeah, right. Hold on.” He got on his radio, began talking to the others. Outlaw this guy, outlaw that guy. All Halverson wanted was to bail. Now. She’d drawn her blood, was ready to go home now.
If it wasn’t too late.
When he finished on the radio, he glanced sidelong at her and said, “We need to make a break for it. Ready?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go!”
Major Alexei Noskov stood in the hatch of the BMP- 3K Rys, the reconnaissance version of the infantry vehicle equipped with a 30 mm gun and radar. His was the lead BMP of the entire battalion. And much to the chagrin of all the other officers, he’d insisted on riding at the tip of the spear.
The other officers were afraid of him, aware of his contacts in Moscow, aware of his temper.
Of his rumored insanity.
He chuckled aloud as he glanced right toward the sun lowering on the horizon. He took in some meager warmth, then lifted his binoculars once again.
The town of High Level stood just a kilometer away, with a pathetic roadblock strewn across the highway.
Ignoring the order for communications silence he had just given, he got back on the radio and cried, “Great soldiers of the Motherland, this is Werewolf. Tonight we expand our empire! Tonight we make Canada bow to Mother Russia!”
He thrust his fist in the air, glanced back at the vehicle commander in the BMP behind him, who returned the fist.
Good man. If he hadn’t, Noskov might’ve shot him.
His smile grew even broader.
Someone would write a history book about this battle. And Noskov would lean over that man’s shoulder, making sure NOSKOV was spelled correctly.
“All right,” he said into the vehicle intercom. “When we draw close to the obstacle, we will shift to the embankment and let the engineers begin breaching operations.”
“But, sir?” said the driver. “I thought you wanted us to blast on through. I thought you wanted the glory.”
“Yes, but as I look at that obstacle now, I see a trap, not glory. The engineers will go in first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think me a coward?”
“No, sir. And my girlfriend back home in St. Petersburg thanks you for this.”
“I’m sure she does. Now pull over.”
Noskov waved on the BMPs carrying the engineers, those great heroes and saints who would roll out a carpet stained with blood.
