Gavin Smith: Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon

Gulag was stalking down the concourse past cowering commuters, firing at the remaining SWAT team members. Farm Boy was backing along behind him, firing in the other direction, exchanging shots with uniformed police officers. Between Gulag, New Boy and Vadim, the remaining members of the grenade-shocked FBI SWAT team were cut down in a vicious crossfire.

“Reloading!” Gulag shouted, pulling his magazine out and turning it over to insert the second magazine taped to it. A burly civilian launched himself off the ground and leapt on him. Gulag staggered, dropped the magazines, and almost went down. He awkwardly dragged his knife out of its scabbard with his left hand and stabbed the man repeatedly in the neck. The man staggered away from Gulag, clutching the wound. Gulag kicked him back, knocking him into the wall close to the entrance of one of the platforms, picked the magazine up, slid it home and shot his attacker twice in the face. Then it was quiet except for the cries of the injured and the whimpering of the terrified. Whoever had been shooting at Farm Boy had stopped. They took turns covering each other as they reloaded their weapons. Gulag reloaded the GP-25 Kostyor grenade launcher fixed to the barrel of his AK-74.

Vadim was looking around at the cowering commuters. The wrong place at the wrong time. Bullets, and shrapnel from the grenades, had hit a number of the civilians. Blood and shell casings covered the floor. Gunfire echoed down from the main concourse above them. He heard the LMGs, the sniper rifles, returning fire from SMGs, handguns and shotguns. He understood the civilians’ response. There was nothing cowardly about it; simple self-preservation in the face of a threat they could do nothing about. Then he wondered about the chemical/biological agent they had triggered in the locker. He didn’t feel any different, which suggested that it was biological rather than chemical. He had never liked fighting amongst civilians, but knew that sometimes it had to be done. Even so, the guilt of what he had done here gnawed at him. He glanced over at the corpse of the man that had attacked Gulag. Perhaps these Americans weren’t the weak, decadent capitalists the Soviet Union wanted people to believe they were.

“Keep your heads down, stay out of our way and do not attempt to resist and we will not kill you!” Vadim shouted in English, making for the ramp that led to the main concourse. The other three followed in a diamond-shaped formation: Gulag and New Boy flanking him a little way back, Farm Boy directly behind him keeping an eye on their rear. People kept their heads down or scuttled into the platforms out of their way. They passed the uniformed transit police officer Farm Boy had killed.

VADIM AND GULAG were on one side of the sloping tunnel, New and Farm Boy on the other. Vadim watched as the blaze of tracers bounced off the marble floor. Either Mongol or the Fräulein was unwittingly firing at them. Their path passed under the double stairs leading to the raised walkway around the main concourse; it also led to one of the entrances. Vadim guessed the SWAT team had come in that way and got pinned down by the Fräulein’s fireteam. Blood was dripping down into the mouth of the tunnel. Vadim communicated the plan to the others with hand signals. They nodded. They had to hope that when they moved, the Fräulein’s fireteam didn’t cut them down.

Vadim let his AK-74 drop on its sling and pulled a hand grenade from a pouch on his webbing. He removed the pin, let the spoon flip out and held the live grenade in his hand, cooking it, letting the fuse burn down. He stepped out of the tunnel mouth, the other three already moving behind him, and threw the grenade up over the railings onto the walkway. He heard cries of alarm, and followed Gulag out of cover. The grenade exploded almost immediately. Two bodies flew over the railings and landed on the edge of the ramp. Vadim and Gulag climbed the stairs, the criminal already firing. The SWAT team, already stunned and hurt, were dropping in front of them. Vadim heard the boom of Skull’s .303 and the quieter crack of Princess’s Dragunov sniper rifle.

Gulag reached the top of the stairs and moved sideways, still firing. Vadim reached the top of the stairs and did the same. Farm and New Boy remained on the stairs, catching the SWAT team in another crossfire. Sensing movement behind him, Vadim started to turn, seeing an agent levelling an SMG at his back. The top of the American’s head came off as either Princess or Skull killed him.

A tracer round flew out of the barrel of Vadim’s AK-74, telling him he only had three rounds left. One more burst and another SWAT team member was falling to the ground, but his comrade was still on his feet, frantically grabbing for his sidearm. Vadim let his AK-74 fall on its sling and grabbed the cut-down grip of the shotgun on his back, tearing it out of its sheath. He fired the 23mm buckshot round at nearly point blank range into the American’s face. The face disappeared. It felt like the recoil had nearly torn his arm off, but the SWAT team were all on the ground. These ones had different uniforms. They were NYPD, the letters ESU on their body armour. Vadim had no idea what it stood for.

Something thumped into the meat of his upper right arm, spinning him around. It burned, feeling like something was burrowing through his flesh. Then he heard the gunshot and the smashing glass. He was facing the entrance now. It looked like everyone in New York had guns and was trying to get into Grand Central: uniformed police, plain-clothes officers, SWAT, all firing into the station. Vadim was backpedalling, working the slide on the pump-action and firing. The shotgun kicked back hard, and a police officer was taken off his feet.

He saw Farm Boy staggering back as a volley of bullets struck him, sending him tumbling down the stairs. Gulag was screaming. The police’s relief force was in the station, on the walkway now. Tracer rounds started flying over the main concourse as the other fireteam rained fire on the police. Vadim fired the shotgun twice more, backing away, then switched the empty weapon into his left hand, drew the Stechkin and started burst-firing that. Gulag hadn’t moved; he was screaming, firing his AK-74 in long, undisciplined bursts. A shotgun blast caught him in the chest, and he staggered back, but didn’t go down. He tried to raise the AK-74 again, but several more rounds followed the first: undisciplined, inaccurate fire from frightened combatants, but it was enough. He hit the floor.

Vadim made it to the walled stairwell at the corner of the main concourse and took cover. He slid the shotgun back into its sheath, reloaded and holstered the Stechkin, and then reloaded the AK-74. He risked a glance through the doorway he’d just come through. The advancing police were being led by SWAT now. Bullets ricocheted off the stone, fragments cutting his face as the police closed in on his position. He removed the pin from another grenade, placed it at his feet and sprinted for the stairs, heading down. Above him, he heard the grenade exploding, followed by screams and cries of pain as he reached the doorway to the main concourse.

He edged out of the door, staying close to the wall. The police were on the walkway directly above him. On the other side of the main concourse, the other fireteam were conducting a fire-and–manoeuvre withdrawal, taking turns to lay down covering fire and move down the stairs. Vadim couldn’t see Mongol. Terrified, cowering civilians lay on the floor of the concourse in the spreading pools of blood, interspersed with the dead.

Vadim edged along the wall, exposed. If he opened fire on the reaction force shooting at the other fireteam, it would warn the police directly above his head.

He heard the shot, distinct from the SMGs, shotguns and pistols: a rifle, a marksman’s weapon. He saw Skull’s head snap back, and the sniper crumple on the stairs. Princess and the Fräulein glanced back, saw Skull was dead, then turned away and concentrated on the task at hand.