Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre (6 page)

And toss them into a black hole in the middle of the Nevada desert.

There were a hundred questions buzzing around in his head.

Why not just talk to the Russians?

It wasn't in their interests to have the lunatic regime next-door, North Korea, to have nuclear weapons. He put that question to Brooks, but the MP answered him.

"There's a simple answer to that one. It's called KGB."

"KGB? They don't exist, not anymore."

"That's not entirely true,” Barrington grimaced. “A lot of the senior people in the KGB went into business for themselves. Many of them bought land, forests, industrial centers, oilfields, and pipelines. Some went into the arms trade, with the support of their old pals who stayed on in the FSB, the internal security organization that succeeded the KGB. In a nutshell, these people are untouchable; they can do pretty much anything they want, and therein lies the problem.”

He stared at the Major for a few moments. He had the uncomfortable feeling there was something more, something they hadn't told him yet; something that would be the ball-breaker.

"What is it? What are we up against here? It's not just a bunch of Chechen gangsters, is it, Major?"

"I wouldn't underrate the Chechens, but no, it's more than that. They sent a company, two hundred elite North Korean security troops to guard the shipment. They’re not taking any chances, not this time."

He looked at Brooks. “And that’s what we’re up against? A company of elite North Korean security troops, with a bunch of their Chechen gangster friends.”

“That’s about the size of it, and we can’t send in more men. The Russians would go crazy as it is if they found out what we were up to.”

The room was silent as he thought about the bombshell. His unit consisted of twenty men, admittedly drawn from elite NATO units. The best in the world, bar none. They were suggesting he find some means of boarding and stopping the famed Trans-Siberian Express, defeat a bunch of Chechens psychopaths, men who had formidable reputations for acts of cruelty and violence; as well as overcome a full company of North Korean security troops.

Crazy!

He was about to ask which swivel-eyed loony had put this operation together, but he had an uncomfortable feeling the men responsible were standing in front of him.

"What you're asking is impossible, Admiral. In order for this mission to succeed, it would take a lot more men. Twenty doesn't cut it, not against a company of North Korean crack troops."

An ear-splitting roar forced him to stop speaking, and he glanced out the small, barred window that looked out over the airfield. A flight of F/A18s was just taking off, with a roar of jet engines that shook the building like a small earthquake and made conversation impossible. Ranged around the perimeter, he could see a squadron of South Korean armor; American supplied M1 A1 Abrams main battle tanks, armor and airpower. He looked back at Brooks.

“And if we did manage to stop the train, we’d need air support and armor to fight more than two hundred defenders."

Doesn’t Brooks understand? Going in there with just twenty men is little more than a suicide mission.

"Twenty one, I'll be coming with you," Barrington murmured,

Except I'm not about to lead my men to their deaths, no way! So they may as well face up to the fact that no one’s going anywhere. Don’t they get it? I’ll try to make them see sense.

"Twenty, twenty-one, what the hell difference does it make? It's not going to happen, Admiral, so forget it." He cast around for an argument to clinch the affair, something to make it clear to them how nonsensical it all was. For some crazy reason, he thought about the language problem. Other than a few words and phrases, no one in his unit spoke Russian. He stared at the Admiral.

"There's something else you haven't considered. Not one of us speaks Russian! It's mad to expect a unit like ours to infiltrate and stop the Trans-Siberian Express without speaking a word of the language."

Brooks looked calm.

"I agree with you, Commander Talley. You’re absolutely right."

"Good. If you…"

But the Admiral hadn't finished. “That's why I've assigned someone to go with you, someone who speaks Russian fluently. That makes twenty-two,” he smiled, as if the extra man was a clincher.

Talley shook his head. "It's too late to introduce someone new into the unit. Someone who doesn't know the way we work."

Brooks had a half smile on his face. Talley didn't know how, only that somehow, the wily Admiral had trumped his ace, had foreseen his objections, and was ready to counter them. He pressed a button on his desktop intercom.

"Sir?"

"Sergeant James, will you send the Captain in now, please."

"Yessir, right away."

The Captain must have been waiting outside, for the door opened, and an officer stepped into the office, came to attention, and saluted. Talley felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. She was beautiful, tall and willowy, only a couple of inches shorter than him. She was olive skinned, testifying to an undoubted Mediterranean ancestry. Her face displayed high, sculpted cheekbones; topped by a mass of dark, almost black glossy hair, and she wore no makeup he could see. Her camouflaged uniform was identical to that worn by the rest of the NATO elite troops, the American Multicam design. She wore it over a pair of smart, lightweight jump boots. He knew her well, knew she'd been part of a Brit intelligence operation run by MI6, and she held the Army rank of Captain, NATO grade OF-2, one jump below him. Her name was Alessandra Falco, Captain Alessandra Falco. He knew a lot more about her, because for two months, they'd been lovers. Before he'd called it all off, after the slaughter here in Seoul, committed by Colonel Ho.

On my watch.

He'd wanted was to be alone with his grief and guilt. Since Alessandra Falco, he hadn't been with a woman. The reason was simple. Every time he looked at a girl, he could see the face of one of those nurses. He nodded to her.

"Captain Falco."

"Commander Talley."

The other two men were watching keenly. It was obvious they'd picked up the awkwardness between them. Brooks would have expected it, and he brushed over it.

"Captain Falco, you spent the past twelve hours sourcing every piece of intel you could find to help us plan this operation. Perhaps you would go away with Commander Talley and pass on to him what you have found out. Jonas, would you stay here? There are a few things I need to talk over with you."

He sat waiting; Talley and Falco took the hint and left his office. As they walked along the passage, he spoke to her, "Maybe we should get some coffee. Somewhere quiet. We have a lot to go over."

"Okay."

She sounded cold. No, cold didn't cut it. Icy. He hoped to Christ she wouldn't want to talk about the past. It wasn't likely. Despite what had gone wrong between them, he knew she was a consummate professional. That meant she'd understand when he laid out for her how impossible the whole thing was. It was lunacy to even contemplate it, and if he couldn't convince Admiral Brooks, maybe she could.

Someone has to listen! One way or the other, they're not sending Echo Six to die on the frozen Siberian steppes
.

* * *

The North Korean officer unfastened the top button of his high-necked tunic and loosened his tie. He glanced around the dining car. Dark, polished oak chairs and tables, chairs fitted with gold brocade upholstery. Elegant dark red gilt-edged porcelain crockery and solid silver cutlery vied for space on the crowded table with crystal glassware. He was dining alone, for his second-in-command, Captain Park, had taken the hint and was doing the rounds of their security arrangements. The last thing he wanted was to eat his food with Park, the party hack who had only reached the rank of captain because of his father's association with a functionary in Kim Jong-un's government. The man was a low IQ dolt, whose only contribution to the conversation would be reciting party slogans and name-dropping half the Central Committee in Pyongyang.

This journey’s bad enough without having to endure Park's endless parroting.

He looked out the window at the snow-covered landscape. From inside the heated restaurant car it looked pristine and beautiful, although he knew the reality beneath the pure white snow was decades of pollution that coated vast tracts of the Siberian countryside. Further down the car, the Chechens dined together, six of them, all uncouth thugs. Gangsters, uncultured, and the worst was their leader Borz Abramov. Formerly of the KGB, he was now a wealthy man, as well as one of the main financiers of the Chechen Muslim insurgency.

Ho sighed and turned to his plate, a dish of veal with a spicy concoction of cabbage and vegetables. It tasted foul. He couldn't wait to get home and enjoy some real Korean food.

These Russians, Chechens, call them what you like, are all uncultured scum. But scum with something to sell, something I need.

He stopped for a moment and held his plate as the train rattled over a long bridge, the vibrations nearly sending it over the edge of the table. The railroad had almost bankrupted Russia when it was built in the nineteenth century, and they were so broke they cut back on everything to finish the gigantic project. In many cases, where concrete and steel were needed, they used Siberia’s great resource, timber. The result was a train ride that was interesting. Sometimes worse, crossing a rotting timber bridge, shaking and swaying, was an experience out of its own. To one side, he could see a high, rocky hillside, to the other, a wide river. An idyllic scene, if you ignored the garbage tip on the far bank of the river, and the army of poor peasants, like ants, scrabbling over the heap looking for scraps of food.

Just like my own country,
except in North Korea, they wouldn't have thrown away that
much garbage.
In North Korea, they don't own that much garbage,
he smiled to himself.

The Leader's crazy nuclear schemes stripped the country bare, and as a result the country was impoverished and the people ridden with famine He shrugged
.

It really is too bad, but I serve the Leader, not the people. If Kim wants nuclear weapons, I’ll do my utmost to get them to him,
like now.

He took a few more mouthfuls of his food and looked up as someone called his name. Borz Abramov, the Chechen leader. He looked drunk, his face flushed red. He'd noticed earlier their table was stacked with empty vodka bottles.

That’s interesting. I thought Muslims didn't touch alcohol.

"What is it, Mr. Abramov?"

The drunken gang leader climbed unsteadily to his feet, lurched toward him, and almost fell into the chair opposite. He looked at Ho’s dinner plate.

"A fine meal, my friend. They only serve the very best on the Trans-Siberian Express."

"Indeed. What can I do for you?"

How can you eat this disgusting shit?

The Chechen leaned forward, and he could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath. He wondered about lighting a cigarette, would it cause him to burst into flames? It was tempting. He kept his face stoic, but inside thought it would be worth seeing, anything to rid him of this obnoxious person.

"Are you confident with your security arrangements, Colonel? As you know, my payment will not be released until the shipment crosses the border into North Korea. Do you feel able to deal with any threats we may encounter along the way? You know they’re sure to make an attempt on the warheads."

He put down his knife and fork, for he no longer felt hungry. Maybe a drink would help ease his nausea, but not that truck fuel these people swallowed in large quantities.

"Mr. Abramov, as you know, I have a full company of security troops on the train. Two hundred armed soldiers. There is nothing we can't deal with."

Except you, you piece of Muslim filth. How I would like to see you in one of my prison cells, in return for your continued insults to my country and our Leader.

The Chechen glared at him. "I believe you may be underestimating the problem, Colonel. It's inconceivable that the Americans haven't learned something of the shipment. And if so, they're certain to try and intercept it. I have my contacts in both the FSB and the SVR, the Russian foreign intelligence agency, watching for any sign they're planning anything, but these people are not perfect. An attack could happen at any time."