Gavin Smith - Special Purposes - First Strike Weapon

“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.