First Strike Weapon Read online

  “Enough!” Vadim snapped. After the meeting he’d just had with the sub-commander and the political officer, he really wasn’t in the mood. Even Gulag was paying attention now. The criminal sorted himself out and shifted to sit on the side of the bunk. Vadim nodded to Skull, who moved to stand by the curtain between the corridor and their bunkroom.

  “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.

  Vadim glanced over at the other submersible, which was just breaking the surface now. Princess, Skull and Mongol were all in the water, holding onto their flotation sacks; Princess had a hold of two. The Fräuleinwas struggling to pull herself through the hatch. Vadim pulled on his fins and slid into the water, barely feeling the cold. He took his sack from New Boy, checked the Fräulein had managed to make it into the water, and started to swim toward the shore. He heard the hatches on the submersibles close; when he glanced behind him, they’d gone.

  “VADIM,” THE FRÄULEIN said. They were just inside the tree line now, looking out over the beach and into the bay. They’d opened up the flotation sacks to find Western luggage that contained their gear. They’d used their saperkas, the sharpened entrenching tools they all carried, to dig a pit for the sacks and dry suits, but they hadn’t buried them yet. Vadim, Skull, Princess and New Boy had stood guard armed with suppressed Stechkin pistols, whilst the Fräulein had gone through the gear. “I don’t like it.” She had moved up to where Vadim was standing in the shadow of a tree.

  “What?” Vadim asked. They were still speaking Russian; without further information it was a little hard to decide what else to do.

  “We’ve got our weapons, plus webbing to carry it all. That’s about it.”

  “The RPGs?”

  “RPGs, grenades for the launchers, hand grenades, even Skull’s old three-oh-three, all of it.”

  “Radio?” Not that he was sure what he would do with one.

  The Fräulein shook her head. “No radio, no night vision and no body armour.” That got his attention. “But all the ammunition in the world. There’s one other thing.” She pulled at her jumper and her jeans. “Western clothes, but no Western weapons. Easier to fit in, easier to find parts and ammunition for.” In the East German Army, the Fräulein had been part of a special divisionary battalion, training on US equipment captured by the NVA in Vietnam. In the event of a conflict with the Western powers, their job would have been to drive over the border into West Germany, infiltrate NATO lines and wreak havoc. “It looks like we’ve been equipped for a fast, dirty op, not a long-term infiltration.”

  He nodded. Even in the darkness he could see the concern on her face. It felt like the jaws of a bear trap closing around them.

  “Okay, keep the gear stowed, we carry concealed weapons only: knives, sidearms. Make sure everyone has their suppressors on.” The Fräulein nodded.

  Birdsong. People froze, or moved into cover. Suddenly everyone had a Stechkin in their hand. There was no sign of Skull.

  “Hello, is there anyone the – !” The sentence was cut off by a frightened squeal, and Vadim heard something hit the ground. He hoped Skull hadn’t killed the speaker. There was a reason why Gulag hadn’t been on guard. Vadim signalled for New Boy to follow him and for the rest of them to remain on watch around the gear. At least they knew for sure where they were. The speaker had called out in English, with a pronounced American accent.

  Vadim and New Boy, pistols at the ready, advanced through the trees towards where the voice had come from. They found Skull lying on a path leading into the woods, both legs and one arm wrapped around a stranger and a NRS-2 survival knife held to the man’s throat. New Boy kept watch as Vadim knelt down next to Skull and his captive, his suppressed Stechkin levelled at the man’s face. He nodded to Skull, who loosened his grip enough for his captive to speak.

  “You guys are Spetsnaz, right?” He had floppy blond hair and a build that looked like he spent some time in a gym. Even in the darkness, Vadim could make out the tan, which seemed out of place at this time of year, on what he assumed was America’s East Coast. He wore a thick coat over a ridiculously coloured suit that looked too large for him, and a grotesquely colourful shirt open at the neck. “My name’s Eugene. I’m your contact. I’ve never been asked to do anything like this before, it’s very cool.”

  He was clearly an idiot. Skull looked at him questioningly. Vadim was going to let the sniper kill him if he didn’t use the contact phrase in the very near future. “Oh, shit, yeah! ‘Alexander’.”

  “Nevsky,” Vadim answered and didn’t shoot Eugene in the face.

  0438 EST, 16th November 1987

  New York City, New York State

  AFTER THE CONTACT phrase, they had thoroughly checked ‘Eugene’s’ identity: his birth mark, fillings, questions about his cover. Vadim had the feeling Eugene wasn’t an American who had been turned; he seemed to be trying too hard to be American, particularly with his ridiculous, over-sized clothes. He was pretty sure the man was a KGB infiltrator, probably trained at their mocked-up American town just outside Vinnytsia in the Ukraine.

  A dirt path through the woods took them to a muddy track with a minibus parked on it. Eugene had got out of breath walking over the hills and Vadim had to stop him from smoking or using a torch. They put the luggage containing their gear onto the minibus’s roof rack, which wasn’t ideal. They had buried the drysuits, their fins and the flotation sacks back on the beach. With Eugene driving and all eight of them in the minibus, Vadim felt very conspicuous travelling the deserted roads at this time of the morning. Surely they would be screamingly obvious to any militia, or any members of America’s state security apparatus.

  They drove past dachas that Vadim assumed could only belong to the most powerful people in America. Then into suburbs where the houses still looked huge and luxurious compared to Soviet state housing. He could feel the squad struggling to maintain their situational awareness as they stared around themselves. The streets steadily became more and more built-up: leafy suburbs gave way to town houses, and in the distance he could see well-lit skyscrapers rise up into the sky. The city seemed to glow. Despite himself, Vadim was transfixed; and he didn’t think he was the only one. Even Eugene, who had kept up a steady stream of nonsense in English since they had climbed into the minibus, had gone quiet.

  “New York fucking City, baby,” he told Vadim. Vadim continued ignoring the annoying man.

  They crossed a river, glittering lights reflected in the water. Then they were into the city proper. Vadim wasn’t quite sure what to think. Maybe he had spent too much time in the field in places like Afghanistan, Nicaragua, Angola and Vietnam, but even Moscow didn’t compare to New York. The skyscrapers were causing a weird sort of vertigo. He understood that America was a new country, but even so, New York appeared to be from the future, something from one of Stanislaw Lem’s fantasies. He caught glimpses of entire streets that seemed made of light, like some commercialised tawdry heaven. The skyscrapers were tall towers, fortress-like, the home to dark characters from a fairy tale; but at street level the cracks in the capitalist system were apparent. Rubbish-strewn roads, graffiti-covered concrete, broken glass refracting blinking streetlights, the poor made to sleep in the streets, wild dogs and rats picking at the garbage. There were pornographic cinemas and sex shops, prostitutes and drug dealers operating openly from the alleys and the kerbs. So much flesh on show, despite the rain and the cold, but there was little that was ‘sexy’ about the prostitutes. They looked cold and miserable, used and exploited by their petty bourgeois masters.

  Vadim craned his neck, trying to look up at the towers on either side of the wet street as the minibus splashed through garbage-clogged puddles. There were clearly two very different worlds in this bizarre and alien city. He wondered what it took to get up into the towers. What kinds of crimes did one have to commit? Wonder and disgust warred within him as he tried to work out how he felt about this bizarre place.

  It doesn’t matter what you think of the place, you have a job to do, a decision to make, he thought.

  “Why doesn’t the government do anything about this?” Farm Boy asked, appalled.

  “Free enterprise, dude,” Eugene answered in English. “And you should probably try and get used to speaking English.”

  “We don’t all speak English,” Vadim told the infiltrator. Eugene stared at him before turning back to th
e road, shaking his head, as the minibus drove into a cloud of steam venting from a manhole cover.

  “‘Do something’?” Gulag asked. “This place looks like paradise.”

  “This is hell,” Mongol muttered, his voice full of superstitious dread. Vadim glanced over at Skull and the Fräulein. He looked impassive, she looked tense.

  The minibus came to a halt at a red light. Eugene was glancing around. A blue car, emblazoned with the letters NYPD and topped with a light, pulled up next to them. Suddenly Vadim’s feeling of conspicuousness came flooding back as one of the uniformed police officers in the car looked up them. Eugene smiled back at them. Vadim could see suspicion written all over the jowly police officer’s face. Gulag and New Boy, on the opposite side of the bus from the police car, had inched their Stechkins out of their holsters and were screwing suppressors into the barrels. Skull had his knife in his hand.

  “Take it easy, everyone,” Eugene managed through his fixed smile. “You, the pretty chick,” he said to Princess, and then when she didn’t answer: “Does she speak English?” he asked Vadim.

  “Very well,” Princess answered.

  “Give them a smile,” Eugene suggested.

  “Why don’t you go and fuck yourself?” Princess counter-suggested, practising her English.

  “Woah! Hostile!” Eugene muttered, still grinning at the police officer. The choked-off caterwaul of the car’s siren almost made Vadim jump. The minibus was bathed in a hellish red light as the police car pulled away from them.

  “The light is green,” Vadim pointed out.

  TWO WALLS OF the apartment were floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city’s lights. The apartment was huge, split level, open plan, with little more in it than a long, L-shaped sofa and some sort of entertainment centre that flashed and glittered like the cockpit of a fighter plane. A solitary picture hung on the whitewashed wall, two fields of subdued colour bisecting the canvas.