Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon

CHAPTER FOUR

1117 EST, 14th November 1987

The Volga, Lenok (India) Class Submarine, Laurentian Fan, Atlantic Ocean, off the East Coast of Canada

THE SQUAD JOINED Colonel Krychenko in the Antonov, and the short-take-off-and-landing transport aircraft hopped from one airfield to the next, collecting the scattered 15th Spetsnaz Brigade. Vadim assumed that he would know most of the men and women that had joined them on the plane, but the rate of attrition had been such that a lot of the faces where new to him.

They landed at Bagram Airbase just outside Kabul, the main headquarters of the Soviet military effort in Afghanistan. The 15th Brigade had just about enough personnel left to warrant a heavy-lift Antonov AN-124 Ruslan aircraft. Even with them all in there, the huge cargo aircraft’s interior seemed cavernous. The other men and women all looked like Vadim felt, tired and without hope. There was much speculation, but nobody was telling them anything. He’d used the time to catch up with those members of the brigade that he still knew. They shared the same stories: soldiers’ lives wasted, the villainy of the KGB.

The plane landed a number of times to refuel and to drop people off. Initially Vadim wasn’t sure where their final destination was, though he suspected East Germany. It was warmer here than it had been in Afghanistan, despite its being November. They were loaded into trucks, and eventually debussed at the Baltic port of Rostock.

They were led into covered submarine pens to see two docked Lenok Class boats. They looked like most submarines Vadim had seen or operated from, except these had raised structures on their backs, carrying submersibles of a type Vadim didn’t recognise. He could feel the questioning eyes of the rest of the squad, but this wasn’t a good time to discuss anything.

There had been enough Spetsnaz in Rostock to form a patchwork company, which was split between the two subs and then broken down into squads. They were then ordered to give up their equipment, causing some heated discussion. No sailor had been permitted to carry a weapon in the Soviet fleet since the Kronstadt Mutiny, but Vadim and a number of other officers, backed by some increasingly angry soldiers, had pointed out that they weren’t sailors. The naval officers had replied that a pressurised environment 700 feet beneath the surface is not a good place for high-velocity weapons and grenades. In all honesty, Vadim could see their point.

It was cramped on the sub, which smelled of diesel, sweat, military cooking and shit. The sub seemed to be running on a reduced crew to make room for the Spetsnaz commandos. The squads had been separated and isolated. This was standard operating procedure, helping compartmentalise what little information they knew. They had been at sea for more than seven days now. At least they had all managed to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Vadim made his way through the narrow corridor from the commander’s state room back towards the cramped bunk area his squad had been assigned. He had no idea how Farm Boy, Mongol and the Fräulein were managing to get around.

They were all sitting around a wooden crate, except for Gulag who was in his bunk, furtively masturbating.

“Fuck’s sake, Gulag,” Vadim muttered.

“I can’t help it, boss, I can see Fräulein.”

“I will tear it off and choke you with it, little man,” the Fräulein threatened.

“Promises, promises…”

“Speaking as your medic, you’re supposed to leave it alone when it starts to bleed,” Mongol pointed out. There was some laughter. Gulag’s mercifully dry hand emerged from beneath the sheets and he tried to wipe it on a protesting Farm Boy.

“Enough!” Vadim snapped. After the meeting he’d just had with the sub-commander and the political officer, he really wasn’t in the mood. Even Gulag was paying attention now. The criminal sorted himself out and shifted to sit on the side of the bunk. Vadim nodded to Skull, who moved to stand by the curtain between the corridor and their bunkroom.

“Well?” Vadim asked Farm Boy. The big Georgian held up a half-full glass of water with a number of listening devices in it. Then he shook his head; he couldn’t be sure that he’d found everything.

“Anything, boss?” Princess asked.

“The commander would like you to not break any more of his sailor’s arms,” he told the sniper.

“He grabbed my ass.”

“I explained we have standing rules of engagement. If you’re attacked, take whatever action you deem appropriate. Probably try not to kill anyone, though.” There were a few smiles around the bunkroom and Princess nodded. It was the sub commander’s job to control his men, not Princess’s job to restrain herself.

“You can see why a man would, though,” Gulag said. Vadim tried not to sigh.

“How will you masturbate when I break both your arms?” Princess asked.

“You are completely safe, my dear. I have eyes only for Fräulein.” This wasn’t true; Vadim had seen Gulag watching Princess. The gangster wasn’t the only one in the squad, but his eyes were by far the most predatory.

“Well then, you’re in luck, once Tas had broken both your arms I will snap your spine, which should enable your mouth to reach a cock even as small as yours,” the Fräulein said. Even Vadim had to smile as laughter rolled around the room. “Now shut the fuck up and let Vadim speak.”

“So… nothing,” Vadim said. “The commander insists he’s just a taxi driver, which I can believe. The political officer, who I’m pretty sure is actually calling the shots, says that we will be given our orders when we reach our destination. It’s all compartmentalised, which makes a degree of sense if the different squads have different missions.”

“Is the political officer KGB?” Farm Boy asked.

“Of course he is,” Gulag told his friend.

“Without a doubt,” Vadim affirmed. He left out that there were undoubtedly KGB-loyal crew on board, probably with access to small arms.

“Are we going to Am—” New Boy started.

“Shut up, you get to talk when you’ve been shot at.” It seemed that Gulag still hadn’t forgiven their new recruit for not having any pornography.

“I served in Afghanistan bef—”

“I said shut up,” Gulag repeated. New Boy looked angry, but wisely decided not to push the matter. Farm Boy put his hand on Gulag’s shoulder.

“Are we going to America?” Mongol asked. He was trying hard to keep the worry out of his voice, but not completely succeeding. He would be thinking about his family. Everybody was watching Vadim intently now.

“I don’t know,” Vadim said honestly. “They’ve done a good job in hiding the charts from me, but leaving from Rostock, this long at sea, it seems likely.” There was some muttering and cursing from the squad. “Remember, this was what we were trained for.” It was as much for anyone listening as to motivate the squad.

“Good thing I learned to speak Pashto,” Skull said, smiling his death’s head smile.

“How are we getting – ?” New Boy started.

Gulag swung round to face him. “What did I tell you?” he demanded.

Vadim was getting a little tired of this. Gulag always took this bullshit too far. He considered saying something, but it was better for the squad to sort it out themselves.

“Gulag,” Mongol started, “let him talk.”

Gulag opened his mouth to say something.

“You’re either contributing or you’re quiet, you understand me?” the Fräulein told him.

Gulag narrowed his eyes but managed to keep quiet.

“I don’t know how we’re getting back,” Vadim said quietly. “The political officer told me I would be given all the details when we reached our destination.”

The muttering was more subdued this time. Gulag laughed and lay back down on his bunk.

“You know what this sounds like, don’t you, Vadim?” he asked. There was no need for the captain to answer. It sounded like a suicide mission, a one-way trip. Vadim found the Fräulein staring at him, a question in her eyes. Should we take the sub? He shook his head. For what it was worth, he was still a soldier of the USSR. Besides, if the sub was taking them to America, it would be easier to defect there, if that was what they decided. If the rumours he’d heard from the submariners were true – that the entire Soviet submarine fleet was preparing to put to sea to hunt NATO and SEATO ballistic missile boats in wolfpacks – it would be academic. What he didn’t understand was why they were preparing to fight a war nobody could win.

Vadim climbed onto his bunk and lay down, picking up his novel. Whatever lay ahead, and despite being trapped in a pressurised tin can underwater with a lot of unhappy commandos, he was still enjoying the down time.

“Boss,” New Boy began. Going by his tone, Vadim wasn’t going to like the next question. “Why does Colonel Krychenko call you ‘Infant’?” There was an almost perceptible intake of breath from the rest of the squad, except for Gulag, who was chuckling.

“Because he think’s we’re infantry,” Gulag announced.

Vadim closed his eyes. He’d always hated the name.

0206 EST, 16th November 1987

The Volga, Lenok (India) Class Submarine, Napeague Bay, off the Coast of Long Island, New York State

THEY HAD BEEN given Western clothing and dry suits to put over the top of them, but no rebreathers, which meant a surface swim. They still had nothing but supposition about where they were. There was almost a revolt when they were told that their gear had already been loaded into the submersibles piggybacking the Volga. They wanted – needed – to check their equipment before they went ashore.

The next surprise had come when they’d climbed into the submersibles and realised they had caterpillar tracks. They had split into two fire teams of four: Vadim had New Boy, Gulag and Farm Boy in his sub. The submersible disconnected from the Volga, impellers lifting it out of its cradle, dimmed running lights playing across its mother-ship and sister submersible. The water through the viewport was in total darkness, specks of dust and scraps of seaweed floating into view in the craft’s lights. He felt sure the sea wasn’t deep here, but the impact with the bottom still came as something of a shock. The submersible’s caterpillar tracks bit into the sea floor and started crawling, raising billowing clouds of silt. Vadim moved forward towards the submersible pilot and looked out the viewport. He could make out the other submersible just to the right and behind them. The clouds of silt reminded him of stagecoaches racing across dusty deserts in the Imperialist ‘Westerns’ he’d seen in Cuba.

The submersibles lurched to a halt. Looking up through the porthole, Vadim could just about make out where the top of the submersible had breached the surface. Gulag unscrewed the top hatch, and water spilled into the submersible as he pushed it up. The sea smell and fresh air was a blessed relief after eight days stuck in the stinking tin can of the Volga. Gulag was first out, followed by New Boy.

“This bullshit’s for naval Spetsnaz,” Farm Boy muttered as he tried to squeeze his bulk through the hatch. Vadim passed up the waterproof flotation sacks their gear had been packed into. They felt light. Then he followed.

He found himself less than sixty feet off a sandy beach edged by wooded hills. The beach and the surrounding area appeared deserted. To his right he could see the lights of houses, the Western equivalent of dachas, he guessed; even from here they looked large and comfortable, decadent. To his back were two islands, and further away, a headland with a few scattered lights on it. Beyond it were the lights of what looked like a reasonable sized town. At a guess, the few vessels he could see were small pleasure craft. They were unlikely to be crewed at this time of year.

Vadim glanced over at the other submersible, which was just breaking the surface now. Princess, Skull and Mongol were all in the water, holding onto their flotation sacks; Princess had a hold of two. The Fräuleinwas struggling to pull herself through the hatch. Vadim pulled on his fins and slid into the water, barely feeling the cold. He took his sack from New Boy, checked the Fräulein had managed to make it into the water, and started to swim toward the shore. He heard the hatches on the submersibles close; when he glanced behind him, they’d gone.

“VADIM,” THE FRÄULEIN said. They were just inside the tree line now, looking out over the beach and into the bay. They’d opened up the flotation sacks to find Western luggage that contained their gear. They’d used their saperkas, the sharpened entrenching tools they all carried, to dig a pit for the sacks and dry suits, but they hadn’t buried them yet. Vadim, Skull, Princess and New Boy had stood guard armed with suppressed Stechkin pistols, whilst the Fräulein had gone through the gear. “I don’t like it.” She had moved up to where Vadim was standing in the shadow of a tree.

“What?” Vadim asked. They were still speaking Russian; without further information it was a little hard to decide what else to do.

“We’ve got our weapons, plus webbing to carry it all. That’s about it.”

“The RPGs?”

“RPGs, grenades for the launchers, hand grenades, even Skull’s old three-oh-three, all of it.”

“Radio?” Not that he was sure what he would do with one.

The Fräulein shook her head. “No radio, no night vision and no body armour.” That got his attention. “But all the ammunition in the world. There’s one other thing.” She pulled at her jumper and her jeans. “Western clothes, but no Western weapons. Easier to fit in, easier to find parts and ammunition for.” In the East German Army, the Fräulein had been part of a special divisionary battalion, training on US equipment captured by the NVA in Vietnam. In the event of a conflict with the Western powers, their job would have been to drive over the border into West Germany, infiltrate NATO lines and wreak havoc. “It looks like we’ve been equipped for a fast, dirty op, not a long-term infiltration.”

He nodded. Even in the darkness he could see the concern on her face. It felt like the jaws of a bear trap closing around them.

“Okay, keep the gear stowed, we carry concealed weapons only: knives, sidearms. Make sure everyone has their suppressors on.” The Fräulein nodded.

Birdsong. People froze, or moved into cover. Suddenly everyone had a Stechkin in their hand. There was no sign of Skull.

“Hello, is there anyone the – !” The sentence was cut off by a frightened squeal, and Vadim heard something hit the ground. He hoped Skull hadn’t killed the speaker. There was a reason why Gulag hadn’t been on guard. Vadim signalled for New Boy to follow him and for the rest of them to remain on watch around the gear. At least they knew for sure where they were. The speaker had called out in English, with a pronounced American accent.

Vadim and New Boy, pistols at the ready, advanced through the trees towards where the voice had come from. They found Skull lying on a path leading into the woods, both legs and one arm wrapped around a stranger and a NRS-2 survival knife held to the man’s throat. New Boy kept watch as Vadim knelt down next to Skull and his captive, his suppressed Stechkin levelled at the man’s face. He nodded to Skull, who loosened his grip enough for his captive to speak.

“You guys are Spetsnaz, right?” He had floppy blond hair and a build that looked like he spent some time in a gym. Even in the darkness, Vadim could make out the tan, which seemed out of place at this time of year, on what he assumed was America’s East Coast. He wore a thick coat over a ridiculously coloured suit that looked too large for him, and a grotesquely colourful shirt open at the neck. “My name’s Eugene. I’m your contact. I’ve never been asked to do anything like this before, it’s very cool.”

He was clearly an idiot. Skull looked at him questioningly. Vadim was going to let the sniper kill him if he didn’t use the contact phrase in the very near future. “Oh, shit, yeah! ‘Alexander’.”

“Nevsky,” Vadim answered and didn’t shoot Eugene in the face.

0438 EST, 16th November 1987

New York City, New York State

AFTER THE CONTACT phrase, they had thoroughly checked ‘Eugene’s’ identity: his birth mark, fillings, questions about his cover. Vadim had the feeling Eugene wasn’t an American who had been turned; he seemed to be trying too hard to be American, particularly with his ridiculous, over-sized clothes. He was pretty sure the man was a KGB infiltrator, probably trained at their mocked-up American town just outside Vinnytsia in the Ukraine.

A dirt path through the woods took them to a muddy track with a minibus parked on it. Eugene had got out of breath walking over the hills and Vadim had to stop him from smoking or using a torch. They put the luggage containing their gear onto the minibus’s roof rack, which wasn’t ideal. They had buried the drysuits, their fins and the flotation sacks back on the beach. With Eugene driving and all eight of them in the minibus, Vadim felt very conspicuous travelling the deserted roads at this time of the morning. Surely they would be screamingly obvious to any militia, or any members of America’s state security apparatus.

They drove past dachas that Vadim assumed could only belong to the most powerful people in America. Then into suburbs where the houses still looked huge and luxurious compared to Soviet state housing. He could feel the squad struggling to maintain their situational awareness as they stared around themselves. The streets steadily became more and more built-up: leafy suburbs gave way to town houses, and in the distance he could see well-lit skyscrapers rise up into the sky. The city seemed to glow. Despite himself, Vadim was transfixed; and he didn’t think he was the only one. Even Eugene, who had kept up a steady stream of nonsense in English since they had climbed into the minibus, had gone quiet.

“New York fucking City, baby,” he told Vadim. Vadim continued ignoring the annoying man.

They crossed a river, glittering lights reflected in the water. Then they were into the city proper. Vadim wasn’t quite sure what to think. Maybe he had spent too much time in the field in places like Afghanistan, Nicaragua, Angola and Vietnam, but even Moscow didn’t compare to New York. The skyscrapers were causing a weird sort of vertigo. He understood that America was a new country, but even so, New York appeared to be from the future, something from one of Stanislaw Lem’s fantasies. He caught glimpses of entire streets that seemed made of light, like some commercialised tawdry heaven. The skyscrapers were tall towers, fortress-like, the home to dark characters from a fairy tale; but at street level the cracks in the capitalist system were apparent. Rubbish-strewn roads, graffiti-covered concrete, broken glass refracting blinking streetlights, the poor made to sleep in the streets, wild dogs and rats picking at the garbage. There were pornographic cinemas and sex shops, prostitutes and drug dealers operating openly from the alleys and the kerbs. So much flesh on show, despite the rain and the cold, but there was little that was ‘sexy’ about the prostitutes. They looked cold and miserable, used and exploited by their petty bourgeois masters.

Vadim craned his neck, trying to look up at the towers on either side of the wet street as the minibus splashed through garbage-clogged puddles. There were clearly two very different worlds in this bizarre and alien city. He wondered what it took to get up into the towers. What kinds of crimes did one have to commit? Wonder and disgust warred within him as he tried to work out how he felt about this bizarre place.

It doesn’t matter what you think of the place, you have a job to do, a decision to make, he thought.

“Why doesn’t the government do anything about this?” Farm Boy asked, appalled.

“Free enterprise, dude,” Eugene answered in English. “And you should probably try and get used to speaking English.”

“We don’t all speak English,” Vadim told the infiltrator. Eugene stared at him before turning back to the road, shaking his head, as the minibus drove into a cloud of steam venting from a manhole cover.

“‘Do something’?” Gulag asked. “This place looks like paradise.”

“This is hell,” Mongol muttered, his voice full of superstitious dread. Vadim glanced over at Skull and the Fräulein. He looked impassive, she looked tense.

The minibus came to a halt at a red light. Eugene was glancing around. A blue car, emblazoned with the letters NYPD and topped with a light, pulled up next to them. Suddenly Vadim’s feeling of conspicuousness came flooding back as one of the uniformed police officers in the car looked up them. Eugene smiled back at them. Vadim could see suspicion written all over the jowly police officer’s face. Gulag and New Boy, on the opposite side of the bus from the police car, had inched their Stechkins out of their holsters and were screwing suppressors into the barrels. Skull had his knife in his hand.

“Take it easy, everyone,” Eugene managed through his fixed smile. “You, the pretty chick,” he said to Princess, and then when she didn’t answer: “Does she speak English?” he asked Vadim.

“Very well,” Princess answered.

“Give them a smile,” Eugene suggested.

“Why don’t you go and fuck yourself?” Princess counter-suggested, practising her English.

“Woah! Hostile!” Eugene muttered, still grinning at the police officer. The choked-off caterwaul of the car’s siren almost made Vadim jump. The minibus was bathed in a hellish red light as the police car pulled away from them.

“The light is green,” Vadim pointed out.

TWO WALLS OF the apartment were floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city’s lights. The apartment was huge, split level, open plan, with little more in it than a long, L-shaped sofa and some sort of entertainment centre that flashed and glittered like the cockpit of a fighter plane. A solitary picture hung on the whitewashed wall, two fields of subdued colour bisecting the canvas.

“How many people live here?” Vadim asked, crossing to the window and looking out. They were high above the street now, in a different world.

“Just me,” Eugene said, sounding confused. Vadim had expected the answer, but it still managed to surprise him.

“And the State pays for all this?” Farm Boy asked, awe and disgust warring in his voice. Vadim could understand how the big Georgian felt: awe and disgust were pretty much all he’d felt since arriving in America.

“Where’s all your furniture?” Gulag asked.

“It’s called minimalism, man,” Eugene told him and went to slap Gulag on the shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Gulag said and Eugene froze, arm still raised. “If this was my place, I would fill it with a lot of things.”

“You’ve got to have style, you get me?” Eugene asked. Vadim was looking at a large, roughly square building, arched windows, a pillared frontage. It looked like a train station built by the decadent gods of Greek mythology. There was a broad skyscraper behind it, an ugly concrete block that ruined his appreciation of the station by reminding him of the brutal state architecture of the USSR.

He turned back to see the Fräulein organising the rest of the squad to thoroughly check through their gear. Mongol was kneeling over one of the bulky suitcases, shaking his head.

“No med kit,” he said. Gulag glanced over at his friend, and then turned to look at Vadim. It was clear to the captain that if the squad decided they’d had enough, there wasn’t a lot he could do about it over here. It would be very easy for them to defect right now.

“What’s the mission?” Vadim asked Eugene. The spy looked around at the rest of the squad.

“Em… I think it’s best that we speak alone.” He’d actually lowered his voice to answer. Princess was closest to him.

“Princess,” Vadim said quietly. Eugene screamed as she seized him, put him in a painful hold and showed him her knife. Most of the squad had stopped working, though New Boy had drawn his pistol and moved to the door. Vadim liked that.

“I have a number of misgivings, comrade Eugene,” Vadim said as he started to pace. “The first is you don’t seem very bright…” Eugene opened his mouth to protest. Princess hissed, almost sensuously, but the threat was apparent. He closed his mouth again. “For example, what possible reason could I have for hiding information from my people, and why would I risk losing something in translation? My second misgiving is that you seem to enjoy being American just a little too much…”

“I’m a loyal—” he started, giving a frightened yelp as Princess drew blood.

“…which makes me wonder if you’ve been compromised,” Vadim continued. “And thirdly, you’re annoying, and we’re not renowned for our patience. So when any of us asks a question, I would like an answer. Do we have an understanding?”

Eugene opened his mouth to say something.

“Think about what you’re going to say,” the Fräulein warned him. In the end, he just nodded. He was pale and covered in sweat. Princess let him go.

“What is the mission?” Vadim asked again.

“I think you guys are here for the duration,” Eugene said, shakily lighting a cigarette. Vadim wondered how this man had the nerve to be a spy. “I’m awaiting further orders, but initially it’s very simple. They want you to pick up something from a locker in Grand Central Station.”

Vadim pointed at the building far below.

“That station?” he asked. Eugene nodded, nervously sucking on the cigarette.

“Why can’t you do it?” Gulag growled before standing up and taking Eugene’s cigarette from him.

“That’s what I asked,” Eugene said fumbling for another cigarette. “Apparently there’s a threat to the package, so they want you guys there and loaded for bear.”

“Loaded for bear?” Farm Boy asked, frowning.

“Heavily armed,” Vadim said. A building a little distance away had caught his attention: a silver, needle-like tower. It looked like something from a pre-war German Expressionist film he had seen at an illegal screening as a teenager. A city peopled by robots.

“Why weren’t we given our body armour?” the Fräulein demanded.

“Or a medical kit?” Mongol added. Eugene stared at them.

“How would I possibly know that?”

“Why do they want us so heavily armed?” Skull asked quietly.

“I told you: a threat,” Eugene protested. “Look, I think there will be more instructions with the package. You may be going straight on, catching a train to go and blow up Washington, or something. How would I know? This is what compartmentalisation is all about, comprende?”

Vadim stared at the spy, who look terrified. Gulag reached over, took Eugene’s packet of cigarettes from his pocket and the second lit one from his unresisting hand. He offered it to Farm Boy, who shook his head. Gulag shrugged and started smoking both cigarettes.

Vadim didn’t like any of this: the weapons, the missing equipment, the sparse brief, the trail of dead KGB they had left in Afghanistan. This stank of a setup.

“I’m sorry Eugene, but I don’t believe you,” Vadim said. “We’re going to have to torture you until you tell us what the real plan is.”

Mongol and Farm Boy shifted uncomfortably, but held their peace. New Boy didn’t look terribly happy either. Skull and the Fräulein remained impassive, but Princess and Gulag smiled. Gulag wandered into the kitchen and started going through the drawers, pulling out knives and other utensils.

Eugene didn’t try to run, and he certainly didn’t go for a weapon. He was pale, shaking, tears rolling down his cheek, a growing wet patch on the front of his oversized trousers, piss running down his leg.

“Please…” he managed.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Gulag muttered.

“Tell me the truth, Eugene,” Vadim said quietly.

“I am!” he howled. “They don’t tell me anything! I’m not good at this! I’m scared all the time! I don’t know who’s watching me! I live in fear constantly!” He sank to his knees in the puddle of his own piss. Princess looked disgusted, and Gulag shook his head. “I just want this to be over!” he sobbed. If it was an act, it was a damn good one; but it was the piss that convinced Vadim. He couldn’t conceive of any man willingly pissing himself.

“Do you have equipment for detecting electronic surveillance?” Vadim asked, and Eugene nodded. Vadim pointed at Farm Boy. “You’re going to show this man where it is and then you’re going to show him where you believe all the listening devices are hidden.” Eugene nodded again, utterly miserable.

THEY HAD EUGENE point out the listening devices and put the television on, before tying and gagging him and putting him in the bath. Then Farm Boy conducted another sweep with the bug detecting tools and found more listening devices.

“We have a decision to make,” Vadim told them. They were all crouched, close together, speaking in a low voice in case Farm Boy had missed any of the bugs. “Do we do their bidding or not?”

The Fräulein frowned. Vadim suspected that she did not approve of the breakdown in military protocol.

“What are our alternatives?” New Boy asked carefully.

“We defect,” Vadim said. They were all staring at him now, even Skull and Gulag.

“Even I’m not a traitor,” Gulag spat.

“I believe we have been betrayed,” Vadim said. “This feels like we’re being set up, somehow.”

“With all due respect,” the Fräulein said, “are you sure you don’t just have misgivings about the end result of the mission?”

Farm Boy was frowning. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“We have to be picking up an NBC weapon,” Skull pointed out. Mongol drew back a little, and Gulag laughed humourlessly.

“He’s right,” Vadim said. “I suspect our job will be to pick such a weapon up, perhaps a suitcase bomb of some kind, and deliver it to a target. I think we’re so heavily armed because we’ll have to fight our way to the objective.”

“Then why no body armour? No med kit?” Mongol asked.

It was a good question, and Vadim didn’t have a good answer.

“Perhaps we’ll be moving too fast for a med kit?” Farm Boy suggested, though he didn’t sound like he really believed it.

“Too fast for body armour?” New Boy asked.

“It’s the Red Army,” Gulag said. “It’s probably a logistics mistake.” Except Vadim was pretty sure that the KGB had packed their gear. These weren’t the kind of mistakes they made.

“So?” Vadim asked.

“What do you want to do, boss?” the Fräulein asked.

“I will act on whatever you decide.”

“I have family back home,” Mongol said. “I can’t defect if there’s even the slightest chance I can get home.” Vadim could tell Mongol didn’t like his chances of getting back.

“I owe the USSR nothing, I say we defect,” Skull said. Suddenly everyone was staring at the sniper.

“I’m no traitor,” New Boy managed. Princess glared at him.

“I say we do the job,” she said. Then it went quiet.

“Fräulein?” Vadim asked.

“I am with you, whatever is chosen.”

“This is your decision,” Vadim told her.

“And I have made it,” she told him evenly. Vadim turned to look at Farm Boy. The big Georgian was deep in thought. Gulag was watching his friend.

“I think…” Farm Boy finally said, “that it is not a good thing to turn your back on your loyalties” – he glanced over at Skull – “however they are imposed.” Skull nodded. “I think we should follow our orders.” All of them turned to look at Gulag, who in turn was staring at Vadim.

“You know we’re all dead anyway, right? Smoking, radioactive corpses?” he asked. Vadim nodded. Gulag glanced over at Farm Boy. “Fuck it, I’m in.”

“You can go your own way,” Vadim told Skull. The sniper just narrowed his eyes, offended at the suggestion he would leave the squad in the lurch.