Citadel Of Fear

CHAPTER SIX

Kaliningrad. Warehouse District.

Propenko snapped his team to attention. He scowled over the nine men standing in line as if he might just condescend to let them lick his boots, but only the soles. He shook his head in disgust and pointed at McCarter. “This man is God! I am prophet! Do you have any questions?”

None did.

Manning smiled and spoke low to McCarter. “Nice touch.”

Gaz the Bagman had turned out to indeed be a bag of money.

Rather than accept bully boys from Moscow, Propenko had taken the money and privately gone shopping. It had been a risk, but McCarter had gone along with it. Propenko had used his personal connections and found ten Russian military policemen of the Western Military District, special oblast unit, who were more than willing to make some cash on the side. Save that one was missing; McCarter was pleased with the transaction.

All of the assembled men had the Russian Federation equivalent of fast-reaction-team training and all of them spoke English. Several were local boys and spoke Polish. All had proved themselves as tough, capable and utterly corruptible soldiers. Being utterly corrupt military police in Fortress Kaliningrad, they had easily been able to acquire high-quality weapons and gear. They had brought a truckload of body armor, night-vision goggles, com gear and stubby, Kashtan submachine guns with sound suppressors and red-dot sights. As well, there was an assortment of grenades, though, the Phoenix Force leader knew, they were less than lethal flash-stuns and sting-ball, blunt-trauma weapons.

McCarter and Manning had helped themselves. It was good kit, but it was light, “slender gear’” as McCarter’s father would have said.

Every scenario the group had run ended up with the real enemy force coming in hard and heavy. Phoenix Force would have to rely on the reinforced Able Team and Dragonslayer to make up the difference.

Propenko strode up to McCarter and saluted. “They are ready for your inspection.”

“You said you’d hired ten.”

“I did.”

“Where is our missing military policeman?”

“Do not know. Missing man is youngest. Perhaps he is late, or screw up getting off duty tonight.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to make do, won’t we?” McCarter scanned his squad. “They seem likely enough, I’ll give them that.”

“Good news is they are Russian boys. They have seen far too many action movies and shows on cable television. Trained from childhood to think officer with English accent is best of best. They will think you are James Bond or General Montgomery or both if you let them believe. I suggest you do.”

“Right.” McCarter strode forth and stopped just short of being a Monty Python skit as he laid it on thick. “Right! Listen here, you communist heathens!”

Several of the men smirked.

McCarter allowed it. He wanted cohesion and camaraderie on this one. Propenko could instill blind fear and obedience if the situation warranted. “The situation is simple. There happen to be some right bloody bastards in Poland who don’t belong there, and there are men in Moscow with money. Manna from bloody heaven, amounts of money, my lads!

“The pricks in Poland, who are squatting there quite unreasonably, have given the men in Moscow grief, added insult on top of injury, and cost them blood and money. The men in Moscow have shown the infinite good taste and wisdom to hire me. I have sent forth Mr. Propenko, and he has hired you. I am informed you are all Military Police—Voennaya Politsiya, VP—Western District, special unit. The best of the best! You know how to conduct a raid, how to kick ass and know how to take prisoners and collect evidence! The money men in Moscow would dearly love to speak with these men, so alive if possible. I am informed we will have satellite and ground level intelligence.”

The Russians nodded and made affirmative noises.

“You are all being issued communication gear. All battle instructions will be in English. This is Operation Red Wolf. We are Wolf Pack.”

The Russians liked the sound of it.

McCarter snarled. “Wolf Pack! Sound off!”

The Russians shouted out in domino effect. “Wolf One. Wolf Two. Wolf Three. Wolf Four, Wolf…”

“Memorize it,” McCarter ordered. “From now on we have no names. I am Alpha.” McCarter snapped his head toward Propenko. “He is Lobo.”

Wolf One was a black-haired, bearded, buff individual and he gave Manning a wary look. “Him?”

“He is Werewolf. He will be operating independently, with the biggest bloody rifle you have ever seen. If all goes well, we go in tonight. Until then, I am told we have been given unlimited privileges at Luffy-Land.”

Several Wolf Pack men made smothered throw-up noises. Others laughed.

“Right!” McCarter nodded at a table covered with steaming aluminum takeout dishes. “We have cots and Kazak barbecue. I personally recommend you stay here, eat your fill, check your weapons and sleep if you can. If we get the go-ahead? It will all happen very fast.”

The men nodded and started to break up.

Propenko roared something Old Testament in Russian. The nine men snapped to attention.

McCarter gazed long and hard at his squad. The nine men absolutely refused to meet his gaze. McCarter suddenly pumped his fist and bellowed as only an old-school British Officer could. “Wolf Pack!”

The squad roared in return. “Wolf Pack!”

“Right! Fall out!”

The men fell out nodding and making enthusiastic noises. They seemed excited about the plan and thankful to be a part of it.

Outside the warehouse a motorcycle screamed to a halt. A lanky, blond young man came running in breathlessly laden with two heavy, bulging, XL gear bags. Propenko already had a face like a skull. Filled with fury, it was a death’s head to behold. He rounded on the young VP soldier. He didn’t yell. The young man went pale as Propenko read him the riot act in a guttural hiss only the two of them could hear.

“Mr. Propenko!” McCarter shouted.

Propenko snapped around. “Dah!”

“Bring that man to me!”

Propenko escorted the man into McCarter’s presence. McCarter nodded at Gary Manning, who drew his pistol. Propenko shoved the man to his knees. The nine Russians stared in sudden shock and apprehension at their young comrade.

“Mr. Propenko. Who the bloody hell is this and what is he doing in my warehouse?”

“The late one.” Propenko glared bloody murder at the young man. “The…how do you say? The rookie!”

McCarter’s voice suddenly dropped to a frighteningly conversational tone. “And where have you been, my good man?”

Manning pointed his pistol at the young man’s head.

The young man gulped. “Ukov, Maksim. Reporting for duty! Regretting delay!”

“You weren’t talking to someone, were you? Perhaps telling them you were coming here?”

“No, sir. I am told we are perhaps performing raid. Perhaps snatch-and-grab. I was acquiring materials.”

“What materials?”

Maksim Ukov shrugged off his pack straps and opened one of the bags. “Gas masks and—”

“What the bloody hell do I need gas masks for?” McCarter thundered, though he was secretly grateful for them.

Ukov showed some guts and managed a sly look. “In case we use these?”

The young Russian opened up his other bag. It was full of light blue grenades the size and shape of tallboy beer cans and covered with Cyrillic writing.

Propenko squinted at the munitions and made a noise of approval.

“Mr. Propenko?” McCarter inquired.

Propenko showed a rare smile. “Blue Blitz.”

McCarter was aware of it. “Knock-out gas.”

Manning lowered his pistol.

Ukov grinned hopefully. “Thirty cartridges, if it pleases?”

McCarter gazed down at the young Russian. “Well, you romantic schemer, you.”

* * *

Gulf of Gdansk

ABLE TEAM WAITED, along with three members of Phoenix Force, for the imminent attack. Carl Lyons looked over their defenses one more time. The situation wasn’t as bad as it could be. Barbara Price had once again done very well for them with very little. The Polish duck-hunting lodge was more than a hundred years old. The walls were made of heavy stone-and-mortar masonry. The windows were narrow, could almost be described as firing slits and had heavy shutters to resist Baltic storms. The front, side and back doors were incredibly thick, iron-bound oak that looked as if they might be petrifying rather than weathering. Most of the house was bulletproof up to .30 caliber. The main approach to the lodge was a bit of raised single-lane road with wetlands overgrown with small trees on either side. The house sat on an acre or two of raised land with larger willows and alders forming a tiny forest. Behind the house the land fell away into a genuine fen that turned into a duck hunter’s dream of a swamp that drained into the gulf.

It was cold and wet and wretched, but it was defendable.

The lay of the land was in the Stony Man team’s favor, and out in the fen sat Jack Grimaldi in Dragonslayer. The chopper still wore her pontoons but she had machine guns slaved atop each one of them and rocket pods on stalks on either side of the fuselage. All of the equipment was mounted with explosive bolts and could be ejected into the marsh with the press of a button.

Encizo had built a cheery fire and his teammates chewed duck jerky and dunked black bread into steaming mugs of black tea with lemon and honey. Lyons lifted his chin as the wind moaned against the shutters. He almost felt bad for Calvin James. The Navy SEAL was somewhere out there in the wind, rain, darkness and muck watching the main approach to the lodge. It was a shit detail, but of course that was what SEALs did.

Lyons clicked his com unit. “How’s it hanging, Cal? Cold as a well digger’s ass?”

“Gdansk is God’s country,” James replied dryly. “I’m coming back.”

“Copy that.” Lyons looked to Schwarz and checked his watch. Schwarz sat by his laptop and a small array of communications and security gear. He’d spent the day putting surveillance gear and some unpleasant surprises for trespassers around the manse. “How are we doing?”

“We have two more hours of satellite window, then we are going to have a half-hour gap before the Farm can get eyes on us again. We’ve—” Schwarz sat straight as his computer pinged a message from McCarter.

Coming in hard

“We’ve got Wolf Pack on the way!” Schwarz announced.

Lyons strode over and messaged back.

Come and get it

Kurtzman’s window popped up on Schwarz’s screen. “Able. Be advised. You have major movement to the north and south.”

Lyons leaned over and looked at the satellite image. They had heat signatures, and a lot of them. “Wolf Pack is coming in from the east.”

“Affirmative.”

“Where the hell did these guys come from?”

Kurtzman wasn’t happy. The bad guys had snuck under his radar. “It’s like they popped up out of the earth.”

Lyons wasn’t happy, either. The bad guys had managed to get into the swamp behind them. “So we have to assume Wolf Pack has been compromised.”

“We always did.”

“And they are heading into cross fire.”

“That is correct. I already informed them.”

“Tell Jack to get airborne, message McCarter and tell him to plan B as hard as he can.”

“Copy that.”

The Able Team leader took up his weapon. “Able! Gear up! Here it comes!”

* * *

The Game Room

PYLE SAT HUNCHED in front of his massive screen. His fingers hammered his keyboard. “They’re communicating!”

“With whom?” Kun asked.

“It’s scrambled. They have to be bouncing it off a satellite.”

“How many satellites could be giving them real-time imaging and intelligence?”

“No. It’s communication. It could be being bounced from multiple—”

“That is not what I asked you.”

Pyle flinched and, nervous habit, tugged at his nose ring. “You think they’re piggy-backing?”

“Currently, somewhere on this planet,” Kun stated what to him was completely obvious, “there is a room much like this one. Inside it there are men, much like us. They are our real enemies. We are not taking advantage of poor native criminals or guerilla fighters in Africa or a ‘Stan’ country. We have encountered another genuine player. I am not sure whether they are state-sponsored, rogue or deniables. Regardless, we have a real game on hour hands.”

Pyle called up his file on all satellites and their orbits. “Checking.”

Rong sat in front of three screens swiping his fingers across them to pull up and expand images. This was the action, and absolutely the part of his job he loved. It was a cross between a strategy game and a first-person shooter, but the blood and the stakes were real. Not for him, but nevertheless it gave him a thrill as none other. Seventy-two hours ago, the first Battle of Gdansk, as Rong liked to call it, was the first battle he had ever lost since moving from online gaming to gaming with human lives in the Game Room. That loss still stung. A lot.

He watched the enhanced thermal images of Propenko and the meat shields sweeping toward the lodge in a very professional manner and felt a glimmer of foreboding. “I don’t like this Alpha, International Man of Mystery bastard, him or his Wolf Pack. I don’t like them at all.”

Kun watched his screens. He didn’t like Alpha and his Wolf Pack, either, except for the fact that he loved them. Kun loved challenges. He lit a cigarette, reached into his mini-fridge and mixed himself the single vodka martini he would allow himself until the battle was over. Kun normally didn’t care for alcohol or its effects, as it dulled his senses for the experiences he enjoyed the most, but in battle the prop was important to him. His team perked up at the sight of him mixing it.

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