Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

Sykes raised his rifle and emptied a full magazine into the men. The silencer reduced the gun shots to a long series of choked pops. The muzzle flash strobed from the barrel in long tongues of flame, freezing each man in eerie green brilliance as the rounds hammered into them. The force of the bullet impacts tossed the Soviet missile officers off the bow of the boat into the oily water of the harbor.

Burghoff spun on Sykes. “You idiot! What the hell are you doing? I told you to wait until we were in the bay. We must get those lines off now.” He yelled at Petrol on the bridge, “Get the engines started. As soon as the lines are cut, get us out of here.” Stamopolis waved in reply; the engines rumbled to life. Burghoff advanced on Sykes, who had just reloaded his weapon. An accusing finger stabbed at Sykes’ chest. Burghoff was so angry he reverted to German. His English was almost unintelligible. “Du hilt ein Dumbkopff! You fool how many do you think saw the shots?” He drew himself up. “From now on, you will follow my orders to the letter. If you do not, I will kill you myself!”

Sykes fired a three-round burst into the East German’s chest. Burghoff, a look of shock and surprise on his face, stumbled back. His foot slipped on a pool of blood left by the Russians and he tumbled off the side of the boat into the bay, his body joining those of the Russians.

Burghoff disposed of, Sykes, with Marc’s help, quickly cut the lines holding the boat fast to the dock. When that was done, he moved back to the command bridge beside Petros, who backed the boat away from the dock. When he felt they were far enough in the bay, he swung the boat hard around and gave the engines full power.

“I am not so sure it was a good idea to kill Burghoff, or the Russians for that matter.”

“They were all a liability. You knew that and the man paying us knew that. He wanted Burghoff and those Russians dead. Once he had verified the cargo, Burghoff was just dead weight. Now none of them are a problem.”

“You are a cold man, John Sykes. A cold man.”

“Ah well Petros, live now pay later.”

His partner did not answer. He pushed the engine throttles to full and sped the boat off into the enveloping gloom.

Base Commander Nikolay Sturmovic was in a mood that befit his name. Three of his officers had failed to appear at morning parade. He was determined that, even though the future of his unit was suspect, until he had orders to the contrary, his post was to be run with the same level of professionalism that had marked his entire career. Missing morning parade, as far as Sturmovic was concerned, was an offense that should be punishable by death.

Sturmovic took solace in thoughts of just what punishment he would give to these three miscreants. A junior GRU Lieutenant ran up to him as he stalked the perimeter of the parade ground. The young officer saluted and produced a small notebook. Sturmovic embodied so much of the old ways that his men still used the no-longer-needed prefix of socialism.

“Comrade Commander.” The young man was slightly out of breath. Sturmovic made a mental note to talk with the base’s commanding GRU officer about an increase in the physical fitness regimes of his squad leaders.

“Have they been located?”

“No sir, but the guard who was on duty at the front gate said three men officers who fit the description left the base last night in one of the heavy trucks. They had proper paperwork.”

“What was the reason for their nocturnal expedition and what was their final destination?”

The young officer looked down at his notes. “Apparently they were going to get supplies for a party you were throwing.”

“I gave no such orders. What was the specialty of these three men?”

“All three were in the same duty section of Three Group, Mobile SCUD C missile battery.”

The Commander paled visibly. “And all three had access to the missiles?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, they were carrying out maintenance last night on some defective warheads.”

Sturmovic was amazed that this man had not put it all together yet, but then individual thought had not been overtly encouraged over the years in the Soviet forces. “Get every officer on base to the gymnasium now. Then get over to the storage building and check the payload sections of those missiles. Make sure they are all still secure and in place.”

“Yes sir, I uh…”

“Don’t stand there gasping. Move!” The tone of command galvanized the man into action. He took off at a dead run across the parade ground. Sturmovic watched him go. There was no point in sounding the alert. It would be a futile closing of a barn door after a fleeing horse. He would go back to his office and wait for the return of the GRU officer before making the phone call he knew would end his career.

The Supreme Commander of the Rocket Forces, General Gennady Mikhail Kirstol, put down the phone and placed his head in his hands. He was the first to be touched by the political shockwave radiating from Batumi. The path of bureaucratic destruction had begun.

“Why me?” He ventured to the empty room around him. He picked up the phone and, with a heavy hand, dialed the President’s private number.

The President was gruff as always. “Da?”

“Mr. President, General Gennady Kirstol, Strategic Rocket Forces. We have a situation.”

The President hated the way the military danced around direct answers. He asked his next question in a guarded tone, emphasizing each word. “What kind of a situation?”

“Three warheads from a SCUD unit just outside of Batumi, Georgia, have gone missing.” The phone was silent at the other end for a long time. “Mr. President?”

The phone erupted. “How did this occur? Did they grow legs and walk off the base? Or perhaps their launchers wanted a change of scenery. What kind of fools are you people, that you can lose something so dangerous? I want details and I want them now.”

Kirstol waited until the furor subsided before answering. He swallowed hard. “I was only just informed myself of these developments, but I will try to be concise as possible.”

The President’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Oh, please do.”

“According to the base Commander Nicolay Sturmovic, three of his officers failed to show up for morning parade.”

Surprised, the President interjected. “I was not aware that these things were still done.”

“Sturmovic still clings somewhat to the past.”

“Is he an anti-reformist?”

“No, in fact he kept the KGB at bay during the Coup attempt. He merely is a man who sees that the older way of the military is the better way. The three officers in question were all part of the same duty section in the SCUD group. It appears that they have absconded, with the use of one of the unit’s heavy trucks, three complete warhead units. Sturmovic is still searching for them. If they are working alone, they cannot have gotten far.”

“And if they are not working alone?” The President left the question hanging.

“From what we know of the underground market developing in that region dealing with illegal sales of our military technologies, it would not be good. In keeping with directives you initiated, we must notify the Americans as per the START treaty and activate our most available joint NEST team.”

“We will look like fools.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, better to look like fools than mass murderers.”

“Yes. You are correct. Keep me informed. If you will excuse me, I have some people to call. Good day, General.” The line went dead.

Kirstol breathed out a heavy sigh. That had gone better than anticipated. If Stalin had been in power, the NKVD would be arriving about now to administer a Tokarev-induced heart attack.