A/N: This chapter might seem a little fragmented. That's because this one and the next were supposed to be one single chapter, but I decided while writing it that I'd break it into two. (The draft was a good nine pages on Microsoft Word, which is much larger than what the first two were.) But for some reason there was a problem while uploading and I could only get this one onto the site. Which means you'll all just have to wait a bit longer for Chapter 3, since I was going to upload both of them at the same time. (Again, since they were originally one.) So enjoy, things will start heating up.
-Chapter Two-
Breaking and Entering
Boris Demidenko sipped his lukewarm coffee and read the newspaper. It seemed Russia was finally starting to understand capitalism, and for once the economy was proving beneficial in the region. The gangsters and prostitutes who'd taken over following the initial collapse of communism were now being ousted by the strengthened militia in Moscow and across the country. It was nice, Demidenko noted. Part of his life had been spent under the oppressive rule of the USSR, the other half in the subtle chaos of post-Cold War capitalism. Now he was being given a chance to live what Americans called a "normal life."
Demidenko was a mercenary. He had brief experience serving with the Russian Spetsnaz, and after that he'd become drawn to the freelance service of private military companies. The firm he currently served was called Blackwater Worldwide, who's new office in Russia was proving to be a great success. Demidenko's place in the organization was a lowly one, but one which he was happy to fill. Currently, the Russian government needed his help in keeping watch over the exclusion zone of Chernobyl. Or at least, its borders. He was far enough away that he didn't need to worry about any real precautions, but close enough that he could effectively keep his portion of perimeter safe. The road leading to the disaster zone was commonly left untouched, and so most days at his outpost were spent reading the newspaper and watching cruddy post-Cold War television. Ah the beauties of American life. He thought while sipping his coffee.
But today would be different, he realized when he heard the sound of approaching tires. A quick look out the window told him that a truck was driving down the abandoned road, its headlights cutting through the midday fog like a knife. Perplexed, Demidenko pulled the Blackwater baseball cap that came with the uniform down over his head and reached for the Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun on the table. He'd have to be careful introducing himself to his new visitors. All kinds of unruly folk came to Chernobyl for their radioactive goodies. Looks like you're going to see some action after all. He strode out of the outpost's single building a moment later.
* * *
Al-Jaali sneered at the sight of Boris Demidenko emerging from the outpost with the shotgun in hand. He was, in truth, a man who's heritage found its way back to Afghanistan, and he was not particularly fond of the Russians. A barbaric race, he'd always thought, just as they had once thought of him as barbaric. This would be no great expense for him.
"Remember. Keep it down." Al-Jaali instructed the man in the driver's seat. Ahmed was a good boy, Al-Jaali thought. A young man, really, almost twenty years old. He'd do fine for this mission. "Wait until he comes up to the window, then do it."
Ahmed nodded frantically, his mind trapped in a constant state of fearful anticipation. His left hand remained on the steering wheel of the covered flatbed truck, while his right firmly gripped a Glock 17 handgun hidden under the dash. With every step Demidenko took towards their vehicle, Ahmed grew more and more frightened.
"What business do you two have all the way out here?" Demidenko asked somewhat accusingly. When he didn't receive an answer, the Russian merely gripped his shotgun tighter. "Well?"
It happened in an instant. Ahmed whipped his right had up and stuck the pistol out the window, closing his eyes as he pulled the trigger. A second later his foot slammed down on the gas pedal, and the flatbed tore down the road, crashing through the flimsy chainlink gate on its way into the exclusion zone.
Demidenko had barely seen the weapon come up when he was blinded by the muzzle flash. The driver had shot him at point blank range, a single nine millimeter bullet ripping through his jaw and leaving him coiling on the gravel road. His hands covered the grisly wound while blood gushed out onto his palms and down onto the rugged ground. His shotgun was several feet away now, but that wasn't his primary concern. He reached for the radio on his belt, but found it to be a useless gesture. He'd left it in the outpost, he realized begrudgingly. It wouldn't have made a difference; his jaw was now fractured beyond repair. He couldn't utter coherent words, and a call for help would have been almost impossible.
* * *
Jim Charleston was the man in charge of maintaining the Chernobyl perimeter. The men who guarded the exclusion zone now consisted primarily of Blackwater mercenaries stationed in Russia, and his responsibility was making sure everything remained safe. To this end, his men had kept to a radio check-in system. At regular time intervals, each post was required to make a quick time check over their portable radios. Any missed check-in would, according to protocol, be treated as breach in security and an armed recovery team would be sent in to see what the problem was.
"Sir!" The junior officer to Charleston said as he poked his head in the door. "We've got a possible disturbance in sector nine. Our man there didn't check in as usual."
Charleston looked up from his desk and lowered the phone he'd been talking on. "Who's the guy on duty there?"
"Boris Demidenko." The junior answered quickly, and Charleston nodded.
"Alright, send a team over to make sure everything's kosher."
* * *
Charleston's department had about fifteen armored humvees from the US Army in its land-based fleet, all set up with a machine gun mounted on the roof. Two men armed with MP5/10 submachine guns took a brisk jog over to their assigned vehicle and clambered into the two front seats before the driver started the ignition. The jeep left the Blackwater camp less than a minute later, on its way to the ninth of ten security sectors set up around the exclusion zone's.
Ten minutes later it was there. The driver brought the humvee to a stop along the side of the gravel road as the passenger, a man named Michael Barnes, climbed out with his MP5/10 and raced to where Boris Demidenko lied in a sprawled out heap ten feet ahead of their vehicle.
He was dead. Barnes guessed it was due to the blood loss, seeing as there was a rather ugly wound on the lower right side of his face and a sizable pool of encrusted brown staining the gravel around him. Joshua Miller, the driver, climbed into the machine gun seat and kept watch on the outside as Barnes went in to clear the outpost. Thirty seconds later he came back out, his submachine gun hanging loosely on its strap as he walked quickly back to the car.
"What the hell happened here?" Miller asked his partner when he came back.
"Damned if I know. Best I can tell is we got some thieves on the inside." Barnes ventured. He explained what he'd seen, which wasn't much. Demidenko was dead, shot once in the face. There was a nine millimeter casing on the ground not far from marks in the gravel that had to be where a truck had spun its tires. That, and the fact that the gate had been smashed to hell, told both men all they needed to know. They had hostiles within the exclusion zone, possibly on their way to pick up some radioactive materials. "I radioed in the report to the boss. He's going to forward it to regional, and we'll know what to do from there. Until then we're to stay here and keep watch."
"Got it."
* * *
Bill Tawney sat with Lyov Mokashev in the small café several blocks from RAINBOW's Hereford garrison and headquarters. Tawney was the head of RAINBOW's intelligence department, and Mokashev happened to be a rising star in the Russians' FSB, the successor to the USSR's former KGB. This made Mokashev one of the people to know when it came to Russian intelligence, and it was because of this that to two men were close friends. Mokashev was in Britain for a conference with SIS officials, and had taken the opportunity to meet up with Tawney for lunch. They had a delicious meal of roast beef sandwiches and club soda, over which they carefully discussed events within each others organizations.
"I hear you folks have a new boss." Mokashev said, swirling the cola like vodka in its glass, watching the half-melted ice cubes swish around in the beverage. "You're man Chavez had a heart attack I hear. Will he be okay?"
Tawney thought Mokashev's English was superb for a man who'd studied the language for just shy of a year. He nodded enthusiastically, with a smile. "Yes, Ding will be fine. The man stared death in the face before in greater forms than that."
"I see." Mokashev grinned back. "We have men like that. Nothing seems to get to them, no?"
"You said it."
A cell phone went off, and Mokashev cursed—in English—and answered the phone. "What is it? What? Gospodi, are you serious? Still? Okay. Fine, I'll be at the airport in fifteen minutes." He hung up after a moment. "Shit!"
"What's wrong?" Tawney asked, a bit amused at his friends agitated persona. Little blighter curses like an Englishman.
"Somebody broke into Chernobyl. They blew away the mercenary keeping watch at the outpost and drove through the damned gate! His pals found him dead in the street afterwards, and their calling President Iltchenko to see what to do." Mokashev shook his head in disbelief and dropped the phone back in the breast pocket of his jacket.
The head of intelligence at RAINBOW listened with genuine interest and wondered aloud: "I wonder if the old fart would let RAINBOW handle it. We could have a team in Chernobyl within the hour." It was hypothetical.
Mokashev, who took it as a direct request, shrugged as he stood from his seat. "I suppose I could meet with my superiors and have them ask. Chances are Iltchenko won't want to send in the Spetsnaz for the political risks. I suppose this is what an election year is like in America."
"I wouldn't know." Tawney retorted.
The two men paid their bill together, and Mokashev was whisked away by his personal driver to the nearest airport, which had a nice private jet waiting to take him back to Moscow. Tawney took his own car, a Jaguar XF, back to the garrison and made his way back to the office. RAINBOW FIVE would want to hear about this.
* * *
Eddie Price hated deskwork. He missed the days of working with Chavez in the field, commanding troops like a real military man and fighting with an automatic weapon instead of a pen. The pile of paperwork on his desk was now a more hated enemy than those he'd killed in the past, well, perhaps he didn't dislike his new post that severely; Price had little sympathy for murderers. He heard the knock on his office door around one in the afternoon and answered with a disgruntled "Come in."
Tawney came in quietly, shutting the door behind him and taking a seat without being asked. "Sir, I just met with a friend of mine in the FSB. You're not going to believe what he just heard."
"Spare me the suspense." Grumbled Price, who removed the prescription reading glasses and cast away the ball-point pen he'd just scrawled out his signature with.
"It's Chernobyl. One of their mercenary rent-a-cop got himself killed by some trespassers. The bad guys busted down the gate and disappeared." That earned FIVE's interest. "The Russians are trying to figure out what to do now, but you know Iltchenko. He'll beat around every bush from Moscow to London before he really decides to do anything."
It was a political truth. Russian President Aleksei Iltchenko had proven to be quite the pansy when it came to taking military action, which was odd considering his service in the Russian Air Force. There would be no decision for hours, and by that time the trespassers might be long gone. Both men knew that the PMC there would be smart enough to secure the breached outpost, but people who stole radioactive materials often proved to be quite the crafty sort, and there was no assurance that they'd be neutralized or captured without direct intervention.
"I'll tell SIX." Price concluded.
* * *
Al-Jaali was the one who kept watch. He was competent enough went it came to use with an Kalashnikov rifle, and Ahmed was just along for the dirty work anyway. He watched the nearby road with a steady eye as the young man used a shovel to unearth what they hoped was a full casket of nuclear waste. Such materials was just what they'd need for their current goals.
Ahmed set the shovel down some seconds later and cursed audibly. "It is not here Hosaam. Where else should we look?"
The senior man shared in his companions profanity and deviated from his task of watching the road. He walked over to the open tailgate of their flatbed and checked the map they'd brought. He cursed yet again and draped his rifle against rear fender. There were too many spots to check, and they had not enough time. He pointed randomly at one of the nearest marked spots on the map. "Try there."
* * *
Palmer opened the door for Price when he'd heard the knock at his own door; their offices were adjacent to each other, on the third floor of the headquarters building. RAINBOW SIX welcomed his deputy director and beckoned for him to take a seat before moving to do so himself behind the high oak desk.
"What can I do for you Mr. Price?' Palmer asked politely, leaning forward and folding his hands as a scrutinizing teacher might do while addressing a group of eager students.
RAINBOW FIVE cleared his throat awkwardly. Something about Vincent Palmer rubbed him the wrong way, but he dismissed that thought. This man was his boss, and he'd have to get used to that. "Sir, Bill Tawney found out something you might want to know." He recounted the story of Demidenko's violent death and the Blackwater response.
"No." Palmer replied when Price asked to have a team sent to Chernobyl to intercept the thieves. "I'm sorry Mr. Price, I can't authorize that kind of action."
Price suddenly knew what it was that bothered him about Palmer. "Excuse me sir?"
"Mr. Price, sending a team to Chernobyl on this kind of witch hunt would be taking unnecessary risks with the organization's manpower. It would wholly irresponsible of me to do so. This is the Russians' problem, and they will deal with it." Palmer looked down and flipped open the manila folder on his desk, and began fiddling with some of the papers as though Price wasn't even there. He looked back up a few moments later. "Is there something else I can help you with? Mr. Price?"
"Sir, with all due respect, is this bloody joke?" Price retorted vehemently.
"Excuse me-"
"Excuse me, sir!" Price demanded. "Mr. Palmer, RAINBOW's primary objective is counter-terrorism. We have first-hand reports from a foreign intelligence agency that tell us that unidentified hostiles have killed a mercenary guard and forced their way into an area full of radioactive materials. Sir, this is as much a threat of terrorism as a group of insurgents with AKs." Bloody hell, for all we know that might be exactly what this is!
Palmer's response was calm and direct. "Mr. Price, my understanding of my duties as RAINBOW SIX is that my direction of the organization is necessary in order to maximize our efficiency as a counter-terror organization. That being said, I cannot authorize any military action without further intelligence and the cooperation of the nation's government."
"That's bull, sir!" FIVE near-shouted. "I've been with this group through two acting directors, and in that time we've staged a number of operations on Russian soil. Iltchenko will play ball, sir, I know it. And I also know that if we don't act now we're giving these bastards a chance to get away with nuclear materials. The least we can do is contact the Russians."
"If they need our help, then they will contact us."
The hell they will! Price mused. He'd never been so frustrated before serving in RAINBOW. This is bloody… there's no damned words! I've never seen such a misguided…
RAINBOW FIVE was shown out of Palmer's office within another minute. What he did next was the first act of true aggression he'd ever shown toward a fellow RAINBOW operative. Sitting down at his desk, he rubbed his brow and cursed loud enough that it traveling through the walls bordering their offices.
A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it. I would ask for reviews, but anyone who's read this far probably knows what I want by now. Again, if this one seems off, Chapter 3 should fix that. Until next time everyone, I'll see ya' later!