CALL OF DUTY: THE PANDORA MANDATE
January 7, 1976
Cherdyn Soviet Weapons Plant
Shoyna, Kola Peninsula, U.S.S.R.
PROLOGUE I.
Bluestone's bones ached, and his head ached more, as he awoken numbly from his deep sleep. He strained as hard as he could to move his right hand onto his left hand, gauging his wristwatch so that his eyes would meet its bluish luminescent glare. His vision was hazy, and the lingering glare of the wristwatch cut through his eyes with razor-sharp clarity. It read 06:00. Six in the morning. He cursed himself for allowing himself to get into the deep sleep he fell in, and he forced himself to sit upright, in a fetal position against the corrugated metal wall. John Bluestone was inside a small, outpost shack, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The frigid weather bit through his heavy undershirt, his overcoat, and the gloves he was wearing. The windowpane located off to the opposite wall was frostbitten, and he could still see the jagged bullet-hole perforated in the window he left earlier. Bluestone didn't make it a habit to sleep amongst dead bodies, but he was deathly tired, and needed the strength. One man was slumped over on a desk just next to the window, and the other was crumpled against the wall near Bluestone. He had came into the shack, used his modified M1911 with a splint-suppressor, and gunned his way inside. He had to be quick, silent and efficient.
The radio the guards used was set to PANIC. Yeah, that little red light just below the speaker was flashing red. They must have triggered it right before Bluestone killed them. The outpost was some twenty miles from the main security outpost, which in turn, was located about twenty klicks west of the Cherdyn Soviet weapons plant. The plant itself was snuggled some seven-hundred feet underground according to the preliminary briefing. He knew it would take a few hours for reinforcements to arrive, and now, at about 06:06, he could hear the distinct sound of snowmobiles, their ragged motors making the most horrendous choking sound he's ever heard. They would come checking up on the guards who sent the panic signal, make sure everything is okay. And since the men hadn't radioed in to their SOP since Bluestone intruded, it was even more a cause for their concern.
John managed to stand himself up, and sort of stumble towards the somewhat dilapidated wooden door, reinforced with concrete. The room was pretty dim, and dust particles floated angelically upwards from the old floorboards with Bluestone's each step. The sounds of the ragged snowmobile motors grew ever so slightly. He patted his leather holster, and felt the heavy metal of the M1911, just to make sure he still had it. He glanced at his watch once more: 06:09. He gritted his teeth at pain in his bones he was experiencing, and kneeled down. The blood-rushing towards his head brought forth immense pain and his vision went slightly blurry. He let out a deep sigh. His head was throbbing, and the adrenaline was starting to gnaw at him viciously. Now, the sound of the snowmobiles were nearing, and now he can start hearing the barking of orders by one of the soldiers.
Bluestone's quickly began to dilate and become focused, and he moved towards the window near the one of the dead soldiers. Through the frost-ridden window, he saw the silhouettes of five soldiers, wearing heavy ECWS gear, with Warsaw Woodland camouflage, not very suiting for arctic environments, and this told Bluestone the soldiers were hastily scrambled.They dismounted from their -mobiles, their AK-47's were slung across their back. They walked lazily in unison towards the shack, and the "point-man" produced a small pistol from his hip holster. The other soldiers fumbled out cigarettes, and had the demeanor that the situation was not serious, as if it were another countless drill. Their silhouettes receded into the frozen air, and Bluestone could clearly see the faces of the soldiers. They were young, except for the "point-man", who sported a thick mustache. They all wore Ushankas, with the symbolic hammer and sickle styled at the center of the cap.
Bluestone slipped his M1911 pistol from his holster, and squeezed the muzzle, to ascertain the suppressor was fit properly on the barrel. The soldiers were very close to the outpost now, and three of the soldiers broke off towards the side of the shack, where the entry was. The point man was closing in on the window Bluestone was looking out of. He crouched beneath the window, and the point man looked lazily inside, using his hand to cup his eyes to see through the frostbitten window. Without a second in hesitation, Bluestone stood up quickly, clearly startling the man, bringing up his pistol, and fired through the window with a single shot. The bullet ripped through the window with a muffled crush, finding its target in the upper chest of the Russian. He let out a yelp, and fell backwards on the snow. Bluestone heard immediate barking in Russian, and a boot-crunch of one of the other soldiers indicated that he kicked the door, breaking the hinges; it swung open. Bluestone, in high-ready position, fired at the first intruder, double-tap, the bullets finding soft flesh in the assailant's chest. He crumpled on the threshold, the other two soldiers tried bursting in simultaneously, Bluestone giving them each a bullet to the head.
The soldiers didn't fire a single shot. Amateurs, Bluestone thought. He quickly moved out of the shack, and traveled about one hundred feet towards the parked snowmobiles. The hot engines crackled in the frigid weather from its recent use. Bluestone fumbled in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small, handheld black receiver. He pressed the single red button at the center of the device. It let out three sharp beeps, and he placed it back in his pocket. He mounted on the closest snowmobile, eyed the ignition. The key was still in it. He shook his head, and smiled. Major amateurs, he thought. He turned the key, and the engine croaked and spat to life.