Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

The three warheads were physically small, easily transportable if you had the right vehicle. Each one had enough destructive power to rival Hiroshima. This team had been formed with just such a situation in mind. Deep down, she’d hoped her duties would be limited to the dismantling and destruction of existing weapon systems in a secure facility or location. Only utter morons would allow an incident like this to occur. Gayle felt her anger begin to grow again.

Field Operations had informed her in very diplomatic terms, due to her inexperience, that the operation was to be a joint one with the British, of all people. A placating bone had been thrown to her. Officially, she was in charge. This netted her an uncomfortable bonus, but one she could get used to. Gayle fingered the brand new Captain’s bars on her uniform collar.

The Brits had a two-man team from their Special Air Service in Syria. It was almost too convenient. She had been assured they would be there only in an advisory position. She’d heard stories about the SAS in action, and considered them more a dangerous liability than an asset. As a lone woman in a field dominated by men, Gayle knew just how far they would try to push their advisory role.

The Sergeant’s service dossiers, supplied by the UK’s Department of Defense, were very thin. Both men had extensive combat experience, though the references were vague. Nowhere was it mentioned if either had any experience in nuclear emergency situations.

She held the grim, unsmiling service photographs of Sean Addison and William Harris. They looked exactly like what she considered them to be: the drawn weapons of covert policy.

Captain Yevgeny Alexandrov, the ranking officer of the Russian group, sat down beside his colleague so deep in thought. He put his hand on top of hers. As usual, he spoke in Russian.

“One so pretty should not look so burdened,” he said.

Gayle, slightly annoyed at the intrusion, detached her hand. “One so married should not be so forward.”

Yevgeny smiled, his dark eyes flashing. “My wife is a very understanding woman.”

“She would have to be. Anything new on the fax?”

“Nothing since the last one received.”

“The damned Brits are going to get there first.” She rubbed at her eyes. “There’s no telling the damage they could do.”

Yevgeny turned serious. “I read their dossiers. They both speak Russian and I know Sturmovic, the base commander, well. He commanded the first unit I was assigned to.” He chuckled. “An ironclad bastard, if there ever was one. One of the old guard for sure, right now he is tearing the base and town apart. These two SAS men, if what I hear about their training is right, are as close to his way of thinking as you can get.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“The same place as before. Playing, as you say, catch up.”

Gayle frowned. “That is a game I don’t wish to keep playing. Do you think Sturmovic or these two will get anywhere?”

“Have some faith. We are not on this plane just for show.”

“Go get some sleep, Yevgeny. Another six hours and we will be there. I just hope we can repair any damage done by these advisors.” She turned back to staring out at the moonlit ocean far below.

Sean and Harris sat in the jump seats of the An-72, swallowing repeatedly, trying to equalize the pressure on their ear drums as the pilot lined up for final approach and the aircraft dropped altitude like a winged brick.

The landing was as violent as the takeoff. Both men unbuckled immediately and stood on shaky legs, eager to be out of the flying barn. The four-hour flight had seemed an eternity.

The Loadmaster, who Sean could have sworn was even dirtier now, muttered something in Russian too fast for either man to catch. He pushed a few controls on his master panel and the rear clamshell doors split open. Outside, it was still dark. They had been running from the sun.

On the tarmac, they were greeted by a young GRU lieutenant. “Please, you men will to come with me.”

Sean answered him in Russian. “You are from the base?”

Relief flooded across the young man’s face. “Yes, the Commander is busy in town right now. He asked me to take you to the base and find you quarters.”

Sean slung his kit bag in the back of the UAZ. “What’s he doing in town? Isn’t there enough to do at the base right now? I mean, is he getting drunk?”

The officer stiffened. “No, that is not the way the Commander deals with his problems.”

Harris looked up from securing his own bag. “Bit of a hard charger is he?”

The young officer’s face went blank. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Likes to take matters in his own hands.”

The officer stayed silent, but his eyes gave him away.

Harris looked at Sean. Sean stepped in front of the officer. “Is your Commander involved in activities related to the theft of the warheads, right now?”

The Russian looked away.

Sean didn’t want to bully a confession out of this kid, but he would if he had to. “Look, if it’s related, it’s important to us. We can’t help if we’re stonewalled right at the start. If your Commander is involved in anything that your bosses might frown upon, we’ll see what can be worked out to cover him.”

The officer still looked uncertain.

Sean tried another track. “I know it’s his career over this. That’s not what we’re here for.”

The young officer got behind the wheel of the UAZ 469. Sean and Harris pulled open the flimsy side doors and got in as well. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of a seedy looking building in a downtrodden part of Batumi.

The lights of the building were all burning, and guards holding AK-74s stood on either side of the main door. A BTR-60 sat parked at an angle in front, its heavy cannon aimed down the street at an unseen enemy.

They got out of the UAZ. Sean and Harris were led up a flight of stairs to the second floor. The stink of urine was strong in the air of the stairwell. Sean felt the shape of an automatic pistol slip into his right hand. Trust Harris to find them weapons on the drive from the airport. He put the pistol in the front pocket of his jacket. It was a bit amateur, but it would have to do.

Weak groans and the sound of a fist striking flesh filtered through the door at the far end of the dim hallway. It was to this door that the GRU officer led them. As the three men entered the room, they were assailed by the smell of stale sweat, fear, vomit and blood. The distinctive tinge of explosive propellant still hung in a faint pale blue fog around the lights. Sean looked at the floor and saw a blackened flash circle on the carpet. They must have used a stun grenade.

The source of the groans sat tied naked to a chair in the center of the room. The man’s right foot was horribly swollen. From the look of the bruises on his face and chest, he had been beaten repeatedly. Two large Sergeants in battledress, with GRU shoulder boards, stood in the far corners of the room. Both were armed with the AK-74U sub machine guns.

Sturmovic loomed in front of the man tied to the chair. It had to be him. A large uniform jacket of the Soviet Rocket Forces hung across the back of a nearby chair, between him and the two British soldiers. From the look in his eyes, and the blood spattered in drops across the front of his uniform, this was his interrogation.

Harris spoke in Russian before Sean had a chance. “Having some fun with the locals?”

Seconds ticked by. All movement in the room stopped.

Sturmovic looked the two men over. “And just who the hell are you?”

Sean cut Harris off before he had a chance to reply. “We’re janitors, here to clean up your mess. Let’s start with the sorry bastard you’ve got tied to that chair.”