PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (38 page)

“STOPPAGE,” he screamed, as the weapon jammed and he dropped to one knee, ripping out his Beretta.

“COVERING.” Miklos dispatched the rest of the stunned security men with a series of quick headshots.

Yanuk was the only one of Dostiger’s men who managed to return fire. The Russian used the crate holding the chemical weapon canisters as cover and fired his pistol rapidly, hitting Miklos in the helmet. The small Czech stumbled backwards, tripped and fell off the ramp. Bishop fired a single shot and Yanuk slumped forward over the precious cargo, pistol dropping from his hand.

Bishop rushed forward and grabbed the mercenary’s harness, hauling the limp body off the canister. As he pulled, Yanuk flipped onto his side, grasping Bishop’s pistol with one hand and helmet with the other. Using his momentum, he dragged the PRIMAL operative over his own body, throwing him into the side of the aircraft.

Bishop grunted as he slammed into the wall and fell forward into the netting seats. His pistol snagged in the net, trapping him momentarily with his back towards the Russian.

Behind him, Yanuk had rolled off the canisters and was sliding his hands across the floor, frantically searching for his pistol. Unable to find it in the darkness, he drew his combat knife and focused his attention on the dark outline of Bishop struggling to extract his weapon from the web seating.

With a roar, he leapt forward, driving the long knife with both hands into the centre of the shape. The point struck Bishop between the shoulder blades and he crumpled forward under the blow. His armour had stopped the blade but the impact knocked him into the seating.

Yanuk dropped on top of him, using one hand to grab the edge of Bishop’s helmet, searching for a gap to drive the knife into.

The PRIMAL operative let go of his pistol and pushed himself out from under the Russian, landing with his back on the floor. Yanuk was fast; he leapt on top of the black-clad figure, jamming his forearm under the front of the full-face helmet and pinning an arm under his knee. Bishop punched desperately with his free hand but the Russian shrugged off the blow, pushing his knife into the gap under the helmet.

“Boss, are you alright. Report?” Pavel’s voice screamed inside Bishop’s helmet. He ignored it, soley focused on the point of the knife pushing through his ballistic neck guard. The pressure alone was suffocating, and he started to panic.

As he reached up to grasp the knife, his hand brushed one of the miniature concussion grenades attached to his armour. He ripped the pin out, slid the small grenade into his hand and slammed it into his assailant’s nose. The man screamed and Bishop smashed it forward again, shoving the small device between the mercenary’s teeth.

The explosive was not designed to kill when it detonated in an open space, merely stun. In the confines of Yanuk’s mouth, it was deadly. The blast tore his jaw off and blew through the roof of his mouth. The expanding gas vented into the brain cavity, pushing its contents out through his nose, eyes, and ears in a spray of gore.

 With the inside of Yanuk’s head spread across the aircraft’s cargo hold, Bishop pushed the dead body aside and struggled to his feet. He wiped the blood from his visor and shook his head; even with his enclosed helmet, the stun grenade had left his head ringing.

“Boss, report.” Pavel sounded frantic. Waiting in their BTR, he hadn’t heard from the team leader since Miklos fell from the ramp.

“Fischer here, hostiles have been neutralized,” Bishop transmitted as he looked around, getting his bearings. He stepped over the twitching corpse at his feet and checked the two canisters. “We’ve got the cargo. Get ready to bug out,” he transmitted.

At the front of the plane, Aleks was struggling to move his BTR out from under the collapsed aircraft. The nose of the big Antonov was sitting heavily on the back of the armored vehicle and the weight had pushed the front wheels off the ground. Rounds ricocheted off the hull as Dostiger’s security teams blasted away from the southern end of the runway. Kurtz couldn’t hit them; he had the twin cannons fully depressed but they were still pointing uselessly in the air.

“Come on, you bitch!” Aleks revved the big engine hard, engaged the lowest gear and dropped the clutch. “Come on, come on.” The BTR groaned as it inched forward, creeping out from under the twenty-eight tonne aircraft. “Yes, come on, little
one.”

With a lurch it was free, the front wheels slamming into the ground, crunching the crumpled nose of the AN-12 onto the tarmac. Aleks spun the big steering wheel, bringing the BTR round in a wide loop. Kurtz began to acquire targets immediately, firing the 23mm cannons as they circled to support Bishop’s team.

The gunfire from the scattered remains of Yuri’s security force had dropped off noticeably, with only an occasional bullet ricocheting off the BTRs. The small army was in disarray with half the men killed or injured, ripped to shreds by the 23mm cannons. Most of their weapons were ineffective against the armored vehicles and apart from the Alfa commandos, they had no night vision. The situation looked hopeless for them.

***

The Alfa commander was yet to commit his reaction force as he watched the two BTRs attack the aircraft.  He turned to his second-in-command. “If we attack now, they will tear us to pieces.”

“Yes, sir, without the snipers we won’t stand a chance,” the black-clad man replied.

The commander looked up at the shattered control tower. He had only just escaped with his own life. “There is only one way out; the factories block them to the south.”

“An ambush?”

“Exactly. We hit them with the RPGs and the grenade launchers. Once we immobilize their vehicles, they will have no options left. They can surrender or burn in their vehicles.”

“Good plan.”

“Tell the men. We move now.”

“Yes, sir.” The second-in-command turned and ran off into the darkness. The commander watched the aircraft for a few more seconds and then moved back to the assault team’s waiting area. He knew exactly where they needed to go. They would ambush the enemy on the north-eastern corner of the runway. The vegetation there was heavy and came within fifty meters of the tarmac. The two BTRs wouldn’t see them until it was too late.

***

Back at the Antonov, Miklos was still dazed from the concussion of the bullet hitting him in the head. The helmet had saved his life but he was definitely going to need an aspirin. He tore off the damaged helmet and staggered back to the vehicle while Bishop loaded the two canisters.

“Miklos,” Bishop grabbed him by the arm, “mount up. We’ve got to go. We need to be at the pick-up in ten minutes.” The PRIMAL team leader guided him towards the open side hatch of their BTR. “You going to be alright to drive?”

The Czech shrugged off his assistance, “Yeah, yeah, it’s OK. I’m fine.”

“Good, let’s get the hell outa here,” Bishop yelled over the firing of the 23mm cannons.

They took off, closely followed by Aleks’ BTR, both spinning around and accelerating side by side down the runway back towards the northern fence. Bishop sat alone in the passenger compartment of the vehicle, the canisters sitting on the floor between his legs. He glanced at his watch; it was seven minutes to pickup, right on time. So much for eighty men,
he thought. Half of Dostiger’s guards must have turned tail at the first sign of the BTRs. He felt the armored vehicle slow as it approached the end of the runway, preparing to move over the flattened fence and anti-vehicle ditch.

Two rockets streaked out of the dense vegetation, only thirty meters away. Both warheads hit the closest vehicle, Bishop’s BTR. One of them struck the side armor on the driver’s compartment with an almighty clang and failed to detonate. It glanced off the light steel plate, shooting skywards like a bottle-rocket. The other hit the rear and detonated into the engine compartment, the molten jet tearing through vital components as the engine caught fire. The personnel carrier rolled to a halt, the internal halon fire suppression system activated, filling the interior with gas.

“BAIL OUT, BAIL OUT,” screamed Pavel as he wrenched open the inside hatch on the protected side of the vehicle. Bishop moved quickly, pushing the heavy canisters out onto the tarmac. With their fully enclosed helmets, he and Pavel had no problems with the smoke and gas. Miklos, on the other hand, wasn’t wearing his damaged helmet, and as rounds slammed into the side of the vehicle, the two men dragged him, choking and spluttering, out of the side door.

Bishop was last out. He pushed Pavel through the door as a 40mm grenade slammed into the armored vehicle, penetrating the thin steel skin. A sliver of shrapnel sliced into the side of his neck and he felt the warmth of blood running down under his armor.

Another 40mm grenade slammed into the BTR as Bishop jumped out and all three men huddled behind the wheels of the stricken vehicle. Automatic gunfire lashed the opposite side. Pavel checked that Miklos and Bishop were OK and climbed back into the smoldering vehicle to operate the turret.

Bishop fumbled with his radio. “Aleks! We’ve been hit. You need to get back here.” The other BTR had already pushed ahead and crossed the outer fence.

Saneh answered the call. “We’ve turned around, heading back for you now.”

“Roger, we’re taking heavy fire.” The roar of the crippled BTR’s dual cannons blocked out the sound of the radio. Pavel was working the turret like a man possessed, raking the tree line with high explosive rounds. The weight of enemy fire increased, focusing on the turret. Bullets smashed into the optics, rendering them useless, but Pavel continued to fire blindly into the ambush site.

With a roar, Aleks’ BTR ploughed back through the fence and was upon them, the twin cannons thundering as they blasted the treeline. They pulled in next to the immobilized vehicle and Saneh opened the hatch, reaching out to haul Miklos and the canisters inside.

Pavel fired one last blast before he followed Bishop into the undamaged BTR. They slammed the heavy door shut and the eight-wheeled vehicle roared around in a circle, smashed back through the fence and accelerated up the highway.

Chapter 64

Odessa

“Sir!” One of Dostiger’s men burst into the arms dealer’s office at the facility.

“What do you want?” A scowl crossed the Ukrainian’s rough features.

“It’s Yuri. The airport is under attack!” The man held a mobile phone at arm’s length.

“WHAT?” Dostiger leapt from his desk, stumbled on his bad leg, and grabbed the phone. “Yuri, talk to me. What the hell is happening?”

“We’re under attack!” Yuri reported.

“Attack? By who, the Jews?”

“I don’t know. They have tanks.”

“You don’t know? YOU DON’T KNOW?”

“They came out of nowhere, Dostiger, with BTRs. Our men could do nothing.”

“No excuses, Yuri. Have they got the chemical?” Dostiger asked coldly.

The distant sound of gunfire interrupted his security chief, “...yes.”

“And the Alfa team?”

“I can’t raise them. They had tanks, Dostiger. We didn’t stand a—”

“Enough of your excuses, Yuri. I want that fucking weapon. Where is it now?”

“Ah, they’ll need to get it out of the country. They were heading north.” Yuri paused, thinking frantically.

“They’ll try to fly it out,” Dostiger stated.

“Yes!” Yuri agreed. “Yes, of course. Dalmak Airport. It’s the only airfield close enough. They’ll try to fly it out of Dalmak.”

“I hope you are right, Yuri, for your own sake. I’m taking the helicopter and the Chechens. I’ll finish this myself.”

Dostiger threw the mobile telephone back onto his desk and picked up his desktop phone. He hit one of the speed dial buttons and waited for the call to connect.

A clipped military voice answered. “Hello.”

“Ogi, it’s Dostiger.”

“Ah, my friend, how are you?”

“I have been better. Listen, I need a favor.”

“What sort of favor?” the voice had lost a little of its military manner.

“I need a fighter jet over Odessa.”

“What…when? Why?”

“I need it now,” Dostiger said urgently. “Someone is trying to steal something from me.”

“Now is difficult, my friend,” the Ukrainian Air Force General replied.

“Ogi, do I need to remind you who pays for your children’s schooling in Paris?”

“I’m not ungrateful, Dostiger, but questions will be asked.”

“Listen to me, Ogi, questions will be asked if you do nothing. Terrorists have just attacked Odessa airport; the terminal has been destroyed!“

“What? Terrorists at the airport? I’ve not—”

Dostiger interrupted. “There is not time for questions. Just get me a fighter. I’m not going to ask twice!”

The Air Force General knew better than to ask any more questions. “I could scramble one of the online fighters. We have two on the Moldova border.”

“How long will it take to get to Odessa?”

“Fifteen minutes, no more.”

“Make it happen. Tell the pilot there are terrorists trying to escape. He is to interdict any traffic attempting to leave Odessa air space. He is to force down any suspect aircraft that fail to comply. Do you understand me?”

“I will do this for you, Dostiger, but then we are even. The debts are cleared: no more favors.”

“Watch yourself, Ogi, you grow too bold. Your debt is cleared when I say it is, and not before.” Dostiger slammed the phone down on his desk.

“Fucking Mossad
,”
he ranted. Every aspect of his operation had been compromised. “It must be the Israelis; no one else would be so daring to assault the airfield. Fischer and Saneh!” He fumed as he limped across to a tall steel locker in the far corner of his office, spun the lock on the front, counting out the turns as he entered the combination. “It has to be them. Like hell they are British and Iranian. Mossad with stolen identities!”
The locker clicked and he pulled it open roughly. Inside were a number of antique guns, the rarest of his collection. He removed a sniper rifle from the rack and ran his hands over the well-oiled body of the weapon. The Soviet
Dragunov
was battered and worn; the butt marked with dozens of notches. “They will die here in Odessa. I promise them that.”