Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

‘Face down!’

‘I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding,’ said Dima. ‘If you’d just let me explain—.’

Another boot in his ribs put paid to the rest of the sentence. A GAZ jeep zoomed towards them from the airstrip and slewed to a halt beside them. Two more men got out and grabbed Dima and Vladimir while the boot man jumped round the Land Cruiser, shoved Kroll on to the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

‘Someone really, really doesn’t like us,’ said Vladimir.

They drove in convoy to the small terminal. Two more men who had been lounging against the chopper now came towards them: black pants and T-shirts under black jackets, PP-2000 submachine guns dangling from their hands — and a look of triumph on their faces.

Vladimir turned to Dima.

‘Do you think we should tell them they look like James Bond extras?’

‘Depressing isn’t it? So unoriginal.’

‘I’m bored with Russians being the bad guys all the time. But hey, if they are the bad guys, doesn’t that make us the good guys?’

‘Good point.’

‘Shut the fuck up, you stupid prick,’ said the shorter of the two. His cheeks were pockmarked from bad adolescent acne and his eyes were red-rimmed from too many late nights. He was the marginally less hideous looking of the two, which wasn’t saying much, with an ‘all the girls want to fuck me’ smirk.

In your dreams , thought Dima.

‘Are we going for a ride in the helicopter? I can’t wait to see the hollowed-out volcano,’ said Vladimir.

The taller one, who reminded Dima of a weasel he’d seen in a cartoon film, pulled out his brand new Grach police issue pistol and smashed the grip against Vladimir’s cheek.

‘They also fire bullets through the pointy end,’ said Vladimir. ‘Want me to show you?’

‘Shut it,’ said Weasel, ‘before I smash every bone in your body.’

The two men in masks pulled Kroll from the Land Cruiser. Where the fuck was Amara? The three of them were marched into the terminal building, where they watched as the jeep men eviscerated the Land Cruiser. One took out the spare wheel, slashed the lining of the rear compartment and peered into the corners. The other one looked under the hood, then tore off the door trim and even ripped out the headlining.

‘I get it,’ said Vladimir. ‘It’s a drug bust!’

‘Unless it’s the ultra portable WMDs they’re hoping for,’ Dima replied.

‘What, the ones I swallowed?’ said Kroll.

‘Seriously, they don’t really think we have them?’

The search seemed not to be producing results. Weasel waved the search party back to the jeep and took several determined steps towards Dima, finishing with his face almost touching his.

‘Suppose you stop trying to be clever, and just tell us what you’ve done with them.’

‘The snacks? We finished them on the way. Is the airport café not open yet?’

Dima looked at Kroll: his expression was now unreadable. Where was Amara?

Dima heard a door open behind them: two more men in black. Beside him, head bowed and bloody was Darwish. He was half frogmarched, half dragged to a table and dropped into a chair.

Darwish’s face was almost unrecognisable. The flesh around his eyes was so battered and swollen his eyelids were just bloody slits. His nose had been broken and his lips were split and oozing. A clotted icicle of blood and saliva hung from his chin.

‘Hold up your hand: splay your fingers.’

Darwish, utterly defeated, complied.

Weasel turned to Vladimir. ‘You want to see how accurate the Grach is? Watch.’ He fired. Darwish’s hand flew back, knocking him off the chair.

‘Not really much of a challenge,’ said Dima. ‘A real man gives his opponent a fair chance.’

‘Get up you fuck,’ ordered the third man. He was bigger than Weasel and very bald.

‘Any more jokes?’ he demanded. ‘Or shall we just get to the bombs?’

‘Sure. They’re on their way to Paris and New York, with a former Spetsnaz non-national, codename Solomon or Suleiman, depending which side he chooses to be on. They came from the late Amir Kaffarov, purveyor of Russian arms to the highest bidder. How do I know he’s dead? Because he died in my arms. Of a heart attack, oddly enough.’

‘Can’t you do better than that? You sold them on obviously. Oh, did I forget to say? You’re under arrest for illegal arms trading.’

Dima, surging with rage, could feel the zip cuff cutting into his wrists.

‘Then I have the right to remain silent.’

‘You have the right to fuck all .’

He turned to Darwish who was clutching the bloody stump of what was left of his thumb.

‘Your pal Mayakovsky’s not playing ball. Put your other hand up.’

Darwish was shaking, tears running from his blood-rimmed eye slits, as the shot rang out.

They all looked round. The left half of Weasel’s head had dissolved into a sticky shower of blood and brain. Dima lunged for the PP-2000 on Weasel’s shoulder and took out Shorty with two short, sharp bursts of fire. Baldy scurried away through the rear of the terminal in a hail of fire from Vladimir, who had grabbed Shorty’s gun as he fell. Vladimir kept on after him while Dima and Kroll raced for positions to take out the GAZ boys, who were leaping out of its four doors. Only then did he catch sight of Amara, gun still frozen in her firing stance. She let the gun fall and ran to her father.

‘Back at the Land Cruiser while we were waiting for you, she went for a pee,’ said Kroll. ‘I gave her the Makarov, just in case.’

The Land Cruiser erupted in a ball of flame, the victim of an unhelpful round from one of the falling GAZ men. A second later the jeep exploded. Dima ran back to Amara, who was gingerly embracing her injured father.

‘The chopper. Just try and get there. Kroll will cover you.’

He yelled to Kroll and pointed at them as he ran back to the chopper, detouring to one of the downed GAZ guys to scoop up his AK. How long since he had piloted a helicopter? Like carrying a tray of water, he’d complained to an instructor. Don’t think about it, just do it. This one looked brand new. Showroom condition. First problem: the doors were locked. No time to figure that out. A carefully aimed shot blew a huge chunk off the door where the handle was. He levered himself in. Jesus, it all looked so unfamiliar. Okay, just concentrate. .

Collective control left of the seat, like a handbrake, the one that made it go up and down. Leave down. Cyclic control, the stick in front, unlocked. Master fuel valve in. Electrics on. Transmission light, check, clutch light, check. Fuel cut-off out — or was it in to start? Try with it in. Throttle twist grip on the end of the collective — half open. Fuel boost on. Starter. Dima pushed the switch forward. Fuck — nothing. He went through the routine again. Fuel cut-off out. Fuel boost off this time. He could see Amara struggling across the apron with her father. Opened the throttle wider. Engine starter again. Another explosion outside. A big ball of flame from the back of the terminal. What the fuck was that? Not Vladimir. Where are you Vladimir? Heard the whine of the rotor shafts — then nothing. Kroll had two AKs, firing both at once from each hip. Good old Kroll.

He tried the starter again. Better hope it’s not flooded. It’s not a car, dickhead! He shut the throttle, tried the starter one more time. Do it, you piece of Russian shit . The engine whistled into life and the rotors started painfully slowly. What are you, a fucking hour hand on a clock? He twisted the throttle wide open and the revs climbed to two thousand. The rotors whipped the air, flapping the broken door. He reached back and slid the rear door open so the rest could climb in more easily. Kroll was working his way towards him, his back to the chopper, still firing, covering Amara and Darwish as they converged under the rotors. No Vladimir.