Day 1- "New Enemies, Old Hate"
Warsaw, Poland
Hotel Spassky
1000 Hours
The bodyguards that exited the armored limo were all former Russian Special Forces and paratroopers. Beneath their jackets were Uzis along with flak vests and communication gear, true professional mercenaries. The cold of Poland was nothing compared to their homeland and they hid their discomfort of having to be under staunch professionalism and practiced movements. They fanned out in a security cordon to secure the street and building. Their limo was the last to arrive as all the others were already upstairs.
The lead mercenary touched his earpiece.
"Area secured. Escorting principal now." His Russian was clipped and even. His men opened the limo door to allow a well dressed Russian in his mid twenties to step out onto the sidewalk. A custom tailored suit framed his athletic build, a blood red scarf hung about his neck and a pair of $1200 Brunos crunched the fallen snow beneath his feet. His hair was jet black and decidedly unkempt but his most noticeable feature were his eyes; one blue and one brown. It was a hereditary trait passed down through his family on his father's side called heterochromia iridum.
His name was Sergei Makarov, son of the late Vladimir. Heading past his bodyguards, he headed into the hotel with determination in his step. Falling in next to him, his men escorted him up the elevator to the penthouse conference room where his meeting was to be taking place. Outside the penthouse doors, two more armed men waited for Makarov's arrival. Wordlessly, they opened the door to the penthouse and in stepped Makarov, leaving his men at the door. Walking the expense of the rooms, Makarov reached the conference room and entered. Around a large circular table was a collection of men in expensive suits and officers in the uniforms of the Russian Federation. The men here were the remainder of the Ultranationalist Party leadership, ousted after President Boris Vorshevsky signed the Maclean Accord that ended World War III. Each still had considerable influence in the military and political arena, even after their expulsion from Russia. It was this reason that the heir to the Ultranationalist movement, Sergei Makarov had called them from their countries of exile.
"Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Your continued patronage and support over the years to our cause have been most generous and fortuitous. I am pleased to announce that we are ready to begin." His hands were behind his back as he slowly walked around the room, amidst the aroma of fine cigars and expensive vodka.
"When it was on the verge of total victory against the West, it surrendered everything. A peace was reached between the puppet Vorshevsky and the Imperialist America. Our soldiers returned home to a foreign land, unappreciative of sacrifice and duty. True patriots were arrested, executed or thrown into exile, never to return home. My father did what was necessary to bring about a new Russia, free of the yoke that now grips it, and denies us what is rightfully ours. And it was a cause he gave his life for, as did every soldier of Mother Russia.
"But we betrayed by our own countrymen. So-called "Loyalists", allied with the West fought us at every turn, killing fellow Russians at will. It is this betrayal that fuels our desire for revenge. It is our desire for revenge, burning in our hardened hearts that has brought us to this historic day. Even now, our vengeance has already taken its first step to fulfillment." Taking the small TV remote from the conference table, Sergei hit the power to turn the screen on.
The images were Russia, the Kremlin. Armed troops were escorting the Premier and his cabinet into the streets. Murmurs came from the men around the table, cigars were stubbed out and vodka was downed in single swallows.
"These men denied a victory we had come within a hair's breadth of achieving. Now they will pay the price and a man capable of delivering that final victory will step in." Malice and hatred seethed in his voice, yet a steel determination resonated from his stature. As the men helplessly watched the screen, the soldiers opened fire on President Vorshevsky and his cabinet, riddling their now lifeless bodies with an endless barrage of lead.
"Ramzan Zakhaev, the last of that great family will lead our cause in the following days. Bold, patriotic and determined like his grandfather and father before him, Russia will rise once more. "Hitting the remote again, it showed an image of a rough looking man, in an ill-fitting suit before a podium that was flanked by the Ultranationalists banners. He bore a strong resemblance to the now dead and revered Imran Zakhaev, but a full head of black hair and beard to match. The caption underneath read " A Hero's Heir to lead Russia."
"We here at this table have something much greater to achieve, beyond politics or false treaties. There are allies of ours in the West that will support our mission, provide us with manpower and the intelligence necessary to carry it out. Rest assured my friends, the Kremlin will follow suit with our new leader at the helm and righteous justice will be ours." Flipping the remote once more, he brought up a screen with several photographs. One was the face of Major John Price of the SAS, the other was a man believed to have been killed four years ago. Yuri Danilovich Volkov, former Spetsnaz and Ultranationalist hero.
"These are our targets. Even now, our men are nearing closer to their objectives. Once they are dead, Russian will begin anew, a nation reborn from the ashes. And it will be drenched in the blood of our enemies.
