Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre (12 page)

"He said any take off that gets you into the air is a good take off."

"Sure. Tell him not to apply for a job as a pilot with American Airlines. I doubt he'd meet their standards for keeping the passengers comfortable."

* * *

The flight was long, noisy, and bitterly cold. The aircraft didn't carry enough fuel to get them to their destination with such a heavy load, and Josef put down at an airport just outside an unidentified small town about two thirds the distance to Chita. The break of fifteen minutes gave them a chance to stamp their feet around the tarmac and restore the circulation to their frozen limbs. There was no passenger lounge, just an unmanned militia post, a decrepit control tower made of rotting timbers, a couple of hangars, and a few warehouses sprayed with graffiti. Alessandra chose the moment to walk alongside Talley. She linked her arm with his, not easy when wearing military equipment and ballistic vests. But after the white-knuckle flight and the numbing cold, he felt grateful for the warm feel of her. She turned her head to stare at him.

"Do you think we can do this, Abe? I mean, really bring this train a stop and seize those warheads? Wouldn't it be easier to wait until it leaves Russian territory for North Korea, and NATO can call in an airstrike from a carrier group in the Sea of Japan?"

He thought about that for a few moments.

"Sure, it’d be easier, but there'd be no guarantees. We need to have sight of those warheads, and make sure we have them all secure. Don't forget, they've already moved them around on the train. We don't even know if they're still there. It could even be a subterfuge. Can you guarantee they’re on the train?" She shook her head, and he continued: “I doubt they've moved them. They've fought hard to defend that train, and if they weren't aboard, I think their tactics would have been different. But we have to be sure. There’s too much at stake. We have to have sight of those warheads."

She stared at him. "There's another reason, isn't there? Colonel Ho."

Now he looked back at her. "Yes, Colonel Ho. You know what he did back in Seoul. I'm going to kill him."

"Does that make sense? I mean, military sense, Going after one man?"

He felt the ice in his soul, as he did every time that name came up.

"I doubt it makes any sense, no, but I brought that bastard over to the South, and he slaughtered those girls. Don't you see? He has to die. I can't let him live. Besides, it's not a question of going after one man. He’s not any man. Can't you see that? Ho is Kim Jong-un's man. He’s been tasked to bring those warheads back for his Leader. Wherever Ho is, that’s where the nukes are. They're linked, inextricably. I know he won’t give up until he can offer them to Kim on a plate. He has to die."

She was silent. He heard movement behind him and turned to see Guy and Domenico. He knew they'd heard him, and he gave them a challenging stare. Neither man said anything. He realized he was taut with emotion, and he turned back to Alessandra, trying to cover his embarrassment.

"He’s their key to obtaining nukes. I'll kill him, no matter what it takes. Period."

Leaving the airfield was only slightly less hairy than before. They didn't have so far to go, and Josef had only pumped sufficient fuel on board to take them the remainder of the journey, so the aircraft weighed less, a little less. As a consequence, the take off only used the entire length of the tarmac, without the need to roll right off the end. They’d only been in the air for an hour when the sky began to lighten. Dawn. In another half-hour, the rays of the sun lit up the cabin, and they could see the vast expanse of Siberia below, the endless frozen territory. An hour later, Josef shouted something from the cockpit.

"He says Chita is in sight. We’ll land in about a half-hour," Alessandra translated. "He wants you to come forward to the cockpit." Talley fought his way through the packed bodies until he reached the cabin. Alessandra was in the co-pilot seat, ready to translate. They'd offered Barrington the seat at first, but he declined. Instead, he'd found a place at the rear of the aircraft. Maybe he thought it would be safer in the event of a crash, although Talley doubted anywhere would be safe if the antiquated aircraft hit the ground hard. He squeezed into the narrow gap between the two seats, and she gave him a small smile.

"He says when we land, he'll taxi the aircraft out of sight of the terminal. He assumes we don’t want the authorities to see us arrive."

"Tell him it's appreciated."

And we paid the man fifteen thousand dollars. It’s all part of the service.

"He wants to know what we're doing in Chita. He says he may be able to help us."

He smiled at the ancient pilot sitting in the left hand seat. Josef had opened a paper bag and was busy eating his breakfast, spreading rancid smelling pickles on hunks of coarse black bread.

"Thanks, but I doubt it."

She translated, and the elderly Russian turned to stare at him. He started to speak, and before Alessandra could translate he spoke in perfect English.

"You think I'm an old man, that I'm not able to do anything more than fly this old heap? Let me tell you. I was once a pilot in the Soviet Air Force, a shit hot pilot, Lieutenant Josef Phillipov. And I didn't fly old heaps like this piece of junk, but real aircraft, a Mig-21, a supersonic fighter interceptor. I was assigned to Frontal Aviation, flying up and down the Mongolian border to make sure the Chinese didn't try any funny stuff. I even did a stint in North Korea, training their pilots to fly our Migs. Then they sent me to Afghanistan. I can tell you, boy, if you think that take off back there was dangerous, you should have been there. Flying real low, skimming the ground along narrow valleys. Searching out the rebels and keeping your eyes peeled for the missiles. The bastards used Stingers. American.”

He glared at Talley, his eyes misted up as he recalled the old days.

The good old days?

"I've been there."

"Afghanistan? You were in that shithole? It's the Devil’s Asshole. The only thing to look forward to in that place is to get home as fast as possible. If there's anything to come home to."

He could see the old pilot had changed, no longer the laconic bush pilot. It was obvious something had happened in his life, something really bad.

Interesting how good his English is? He could be of more use to us than I thought.

"Tell me about it, Josef? What happened?"

He didn't say anything at first, and Talley thought he was ignoring him. Then he spat it out, "Muslims! That's what fucking happened."

"In Afghanistan?"

"No, no, not in Afghanistan. Here, in Russia, when it was the Soviet Union. My family, my wife and my son, all lived in Irkutsk. While I was away, they went on vacation to Batumi, a Black Sea resort. We didn't know it then, but the Muslims were starting their bombing campaign, murdering innocent civilians. Chechens! They managed to reach Batumi and planted bombs in three of the hotels. My family was staying in one of them."

"I'm sorry. They were killed in the blast?"

Josef laughed bitterly. "Oh, no, it wasn't that simple. They didn't have enough explosive to destroy the hotel, so they left their charges in backpacks outside the front and waited at the rear. When the bombs detonated, people rushed out the back way, and they machine-gunned them, all of them. Fucking Chechens!"

He spat the name out, like it was a foul taste in his mouth.

"When did it happen?"

Josef sighed deeply. "March the 5th, 1988. Just before we started pulling out of that shithole country. The bastards, they'd seen how the Mujahedeen used unbelievable cruelty to fight their wars, and they learned their lessons well. I was twenty-three years old when it happened, and I went to pieces, and fell apart. Vodka was my poison, anything to take away the pain. They threw me out of the service, and I can't blame them. What use is a drunken pilot?"

Talley said nothing. The smell of alcohol was still on the pilot’s breath.

"So I came home to Irkutsk, scraped together all the money I had, and bought this piece of crap. Somehow, I managed to keep it flying, but every year it gets more difficult. And what’s it all for, eh? Why should I build up a good business? Who do I pass it to when I die?"

They flew on in silence, and the city of Chita grew larger. Josef called the tower, and they immediately put him on final approach. He throttled back for the landing, and as they dropped lower, he spoke again.

"You won't be able to move around the city, you know that? In daylight, they’ll pick you up straight away."

It was Talley’s concern as they neared the city. The operation had been planned for an isolated area outside Irkutsk, to take place at night. This was different. He'd planned to ditch some of their equipment, helmets, armored vests, and even some of their weapons. Then split into small groups and hope they looked like civilian hunters, which were common across Siberia, rather than a foreign military unit. But no matter what they did, it was a risk, a huge risk.

"You got any ideas?"

Josef chuckled. "You have paid me well, so I will help you. I rent space in a warehouse in Chita, and you're welcome to store your gear in there. You can even use it as a temporary base if you wish. No extra charge."

It was a relief, and he accepted instantly. "That’d be great. Yeah, we’ll do that."

"I thought as much. Will you need my aircraft again? I have no charters arranged for the next couple of days, so I'm available. But if you give me an idea of what you're up to, I may be able to help you more."

He thought seriously about the elderly pilot's offer. Or maybe he wasn't so elderly, he'd worked out the man was only forty-eight years old. It wasn't just the huge bush of white hair and the monstrous beard underneath which made him look so old, like a kind of flying Moses. His face was deeply lined, as if someone had gouged channels in it with a blunt chisel. His skin was burned brown, like tanned leather, the effect of too much winter sun beating through the cockpit windshield of his primitive aircraft. But it wasn't difficult to know why he’d aged so dramatically, the high stress environment of a fighter pilot’s life on active service, the depths of despair after the murder of his family, and the effects of a daily diet that seemed to consist mainly of vodka. He’d probably been good-looking as a young man. Now, he looked more biblical patriarch than pilot. A man who was probably on the last part of his voyage in life, and perhaps would reach out and welcome death with open arms, in the hope it might reunite him with his wife and son. Or at least end the torture of their loss.

Even so, Talley thought about the offer. It could be useful. His hatred of the Chechens meant he was unlikely to do anything to betray their mission, as long as there was a chance of taking down some of the Islamic murderers from that benighted country.

"How do you feel about North Korea? I mean, you said you spent time there."

He spat out his reply: "Bunch of fucking psychotic savages, most of them, anyway. While I was there, I tried to help them, and all I got in return was hatred and contempt. Someone should nuke the lot of those fuckers, before they go nuclear and cause us more trouble than we can handle. Bastards! Why do you ask?"

Talley grinned to himself. At least Josef's viewpoint largely coincided with their mission aims, apart from the rain of nuclear devastation. He took a chance and explained they were trying to prevent a shipment that originated in Chechnya from reaching Pyongyang, by way of the Trans-Siberian Express. He told him about the Chechen guards, about the North Korean security troops, and about Colonel Ho, but not about the warheads. There was no need. The pilot understood immediately.

"So the Chechens sold them nuclear weapons. I knew it! It had to happen before long. And you're trying to stop them? How many of them guarding the nukes?"

Talley told him.

"That many security troops, and supported by a bunch of Chechen gunmen?” Josef chuckled. “You need my old Mig-21. That'd do the job. Turn then into mincemeat. What's the plan?"

If I were honest, I'd tell him I don't have a plan. All I know is; we have to stop that train, and destroy the warheads, and Colonel Ho. One will lead to the other; the two are inextricably linked.

He explained what had happened with the ambush at Irkutsk.

"This time, we need to get it right. First, we have to see the layout at Chita where the train stops. If Yuri's people can reach it in time, we'll join forces with them. Then we disable the locomotive and prevent it from leaving. After that, we eliminate the guard force, take possession of the warheads, and then destroy them."

Josef nodded and gave him a sardonic look. “That’s all, is it? And why do you think you can defeat them this time, that many slant eyed fanatics with their Islamic psycho pals? It sounds to me like you have a problem, a big problem.”

“So you can’t help us?”

He looked around at Talley, his gaze calculating. “I didn’t say that, boy. Let’s get this flying junkyard on the ground. Then we’ll see.”

They were only a few hundred meters from the edge of the landing strip, and he concentrated on guiding the aircraft expertly down onto the tarmac. Something of the old fighter pilot returned. They touched down with a gentle bump, and he handled the controls with a feather touch, almost as if he was making a point; that he wasn't always a broken down, alcoholic wreck. Once upon a time, long, long ago, he'd been a crack fighter pilot, with a wife and son.

He taxied off the runway, away from the terminal to a motley collection of dilapidated hangars and warehouses. He brought the Antonov to a halt at the side of the end hangar, out of sight of the control tower and the terminal. Finally, he switched off, and the roar of the engine died away.

"You can deplane here and use the side door to go into the hangar. I doubt there’ll be anyone inside today, so you’ll be safe enough. I’ll show you my space, should you want to use it."

He climbed out of his seat and shouted at the men in the cargo space.

"You need to leave by the cargo hatch at the back of the cabin and go straight into the hangar."

"Thank Christ for that," Guy exclaimed. "I don't know what was worse, that take off at Irkutsk or spending several hours in a freezing cold aluminum box with a thousand jackhammers banging on the side. You'd think he'd buy a new muffler for the engine."

"It is a new muffler. The old one was twice as loud," the Russian replied.

Guy groaned, shook his head, and jumped down to the concrete. They clambered out through the rear cargo hatch and stood stretching on the broken concrete of the apron. It was bitterly cold and covered in a thin film of oil and grease, but it was Terra Firma. Finally, Josef jumped down, glanced at his wristwatch, and found Talley.

"You know the Trans-Siberian is due in two hours, maybe a little more if it is delayed. That does not give you much time."

"I know."

He led them into the dark interior of the wooden building and flicked on the overhead light. They were surrounded by the stench of oil and gasoline, but it didn't seem to bother Josef. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit up, passing away clouds of foul smelling smoke.

Why does Russian tobacco always smell like a garbage heap on fire?

His rented space was accessed through double doors that opened onto an area about the size of a two-car garage, with a small office at the side. He went inside, and Talley followed with Alessandra Falco. On the wall above the desk they could see faded photographs of Russian fighter aircraft, including one showing a much younger Josef Phillipov standing in front of a MIG. The desk itself was covered in sheets of paper and books, invoices, manuals, old aeronautical charts, and amendments to regulations from air traffic control. There was also a photograph in a frame, showing a handsome young fighter pilot with his pretty wife and young son. Josef sat behind the desk and looked up at them.