War with Russia

Vronsky drew up his men of the 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment in the vehicle hangar adjacent to the headquarters of the Kaliningrad Special Region and quickly explained the situation. An inspection like this was the last thing they needed, but Vronsky calculated that getting the general to inspect his soldiers right now was the best way of getting on his way before he got drunk and, perhaps, changed his mind. Besides, with only fifteen men in the detachment, Kirkorov would soon be finished.

As he stood, ready to greet the general by the door, Vronsky had time to think through his plan once again. Was he making a mistake?

From their radio transmissions, the British captain and his team were clearly heading for the Iskander nuclear missile battery, south of Pravdinsk. He could not imagine what they planned to achieve there, other than a recce of the bunker. They could not hope to seize a missile, at least not without starting the next world war and that seemed simply stupid. And he would not allow anything stupid to happen. Not with these men in the hall behind him. No, if the President really did want this man alive—and it seemed he really did—then ambushing him like this was the best solution. Decision confirmed, he and his men stood and waited.

The ADC arrived thirty minutes later and announced that Kirkorov was on his way with the base commander.

Vronsky ordered his men to attention.

The general, smelling slightly of vodka, strode in and, ignoring Vronsky, went straight to the line of men.

Despite himself, Vronsky was impressed at the way he went from man to man, taking a keen and intelligent interest in the specialist equipment that no conventional Russian soldier would ever see, but with which each Spetsnaz soldier was equipped. The new generation helmets and body armor with chest and back plates made of titanium and hard carbide-boron ceramics, impervious to the NATO standard 5.56 millimeter ammunition with which the British would be equipped; the grenade launchers; the AS Val assault rifles, so suited to operating with stealth and giving a minimum signature with its heavy, subsonic 9 millimeter, high-performance, armor-piercing ammunition, and magnified day and image-intensifier night sights; plus the collar and helmet-mounted radios that allowed them to communicate hands free.

Eventually the inspection finished. Kirkorov turned to Vronsky, who braced up to attention once again.

“Major Vronsky, your soldiers are impressive. Now, I have one question.”

“Sir?”

“You are certain that these terrorists pose no threat to our Iskander missiles?”

“They are five men and a few Forest Brothers. What threat could they pose to your company of highly trained guards and my Spetsnaz? No, Sir. They are obviously conducting a reconnaissance. And that is the last mistake they will ever make. The President will be forever grateful you allowed me to capture and hand them to you.”

The general smiled, looked at his ADC and pointed. “You. Make a note of Major Vronsky’s confidence and assurance.” Then he looked hard at the line of Spetsnaz. “Make sure you succeed in this mission. The President is depending on you. Russia is depending on you.”

Vronsky saluted, now doubly impressed: Kirkorov knew exactly how to play dirty politics as well as crush dissidents. He should never have allowed himself to be maneuvered into a statement like that but, had he demurred, he had little doubt the ambush plan would have been canceled.

“Thank you, Sir. My men will not let you down… Now, Sir. May I have your leave to carry on, Sir. Please?”

“Do so. The Motherland will be watching you.” Kirkorov gave a perfunctory touch to the peak of his cap by way of returning Vronsky’s parade-ground salute and walked out of the hangar, followed by his ADC and the base commander.

“Arsehole,” muttered one of the men in a stage whisper, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I heard that, Lev Davidovich,” said Vronsky without turning around, not least to stop his men seeing the grin of relief that was breaking across his face at seeing the back of the general, and the imminent prospect of finally settling his score with this British officer. However, in that moment of triumph, he realized that he had allowed his mission to become personal. “I’m getting as bad as the President,” he muttered to himself, before turning to face his men.

“Mount up,” he ordered and they clambered up into the Ural-4320 trucks, which were to take them to Pravdinsk.

Just over an hour later, Vronsky and his men dismounted by the perimeter of the Pravdinsk command bunker. This was close to where the radio sked had come from and, unless the British were playing some double bluff, this is where they were heading for. But even if they were, so what? All that mattered was that he had arrived here before them and this time he had the benefit of surprise. He and this British captain were going to meet again and soon.