Author's note: On the war path! Let's go ahead and check on those crazy Russians and add even more characters to this mess!
"Lance Corporal Mikhalkov!" Kruschev demanded, "Where in the hell are you, over? Respond!"
Mikhalkov tapped the radio. "Lieutenant, I fell way off course. Not sure of my position, so I'm trying to regroup with a convoy from the highway."
"Copy that. Keep your eyes open—the reports are all focused on ambushes and that sort of thing! The only one here that has the authority to kill you is ME, understood?"
"Understood, sir! I'll keep you posted, Mikhalkov out."
It wasn't necessarily eerie, since the whole 'on the dangerous road alone' effect was extremely hampered by the gunfire and explosions from other areas of the city, but Mikhalkov knew that he could very well be being watched. The point of an ambush was NOT to be seen, heard, or even smelled until it was too late.
Then, he heard a noise around the corner, in a nearby alleyway, and flattened himself against the wall to peek around. What's going on in there?
"Dammit! Let me go!" Bardzecki demanded, as the JGSDF soldiers forced him against the wall in restraint. One of them snarled at him in Japanese as he drew a leather strap from his pocket and jerked it tight around the Private's wrists.
"Private... what on Earth did you do?" Mikhalkov sighed, weighing his options. Suddenly, a plan came to his mind.
It was a hastily prepared interrogation room, but what wasn't hastily prepared in this city? Bardzecki was dragged in by the two JGSDF men and forcibly secured to a chair, and despite the Private's efforts, he was soon fastened tightly and merely rubbing raw patches into his wrists.
"Good luck getting out of there before the Leading Private gets here!" One laughed cruelly in fragmented, accented Russian.
"Are you thick? Your pathetic resistance is all futile! You will all be crushed, count on it!"
"Wrong answer." After relaying Bardzecki's words in Japanese, the soldier and his companion began howling with laughter. "I would pity you, Russian, but it took you but a few hours to earn everything coming to you."
"Wow, this guy's nuts." His companion commented, watching the young Russian soldier screaming and swearing himself red in the face. "Even more zealous than I thought."
"Hey, that means we get to watch him interrogated longer."
The two laughed again, but stood at attention as the Leading Private entered the room.
"Ma'am!" They both shouted, their faces wiped of all expression.
"Hm, not bad, Hatsu." Kagura said dryly. "At ease. Time for a little payback. Someone get me my baseball bat."
"Yes, ma'am!" Hatsu disappeared from the room, leaving Kagura and the other soldier alone with the prisoner.
"Be glad you can't speak Russian, Mikawa. Some of the stuff this guy's saying... it would break your tender little heart."
"After losing Sakumi, I don't think much else could hurt me any more." Sighing, Mikawa kicked the Russian in the shin, met with a renewed, enraged shriek. "Couldn't we just kill him? Like he'd do any better to us if he were in our position."
"I understand you, Private, but that's not a smart thing to do. We're above that."
"Your bat, ma'am!" Hatsu returned with the aluminum bat, which Kagura accepted with a grin.
"However, we're not above this." Clearing her throat, she approached the Russian and shifted languages.
"Hey there, Ivan. How're ya doing?" The woman chirped, slapping the end of the bat against her palm. "Kind of a mess you guys made, eh?"
"The ones who made the mess were the Americans you allow in your borders!" Bardzecki retorted, despite the hollow feeling in his chest at the sight of the baseball bat. It is the duty of any soldier to remain strong and vigilant, even in the face of injury and/or death. "We're cleaning it up!"
"Is that so?" Pushing up Bardzecki's chin with the bat, the woman scowled slightly. "What possible value could the Americans gain from a terrorist attack like the Zakhaev shooting? Consider that for even a second? Didn't think so. Whatever, I'm not here to have a debate with you. I want information, but I can already tell..." she bumped the bat into Bardzecki's jaw, "it's not going to be easy."
"Not just difficult, but impossible!" Having bit his tongue, Bardzecki tasted blood.
"Ha. Everyone has their price." An evil grin accompanied her next words, "Let's find yours, shall we?"
As she wound up to strike him in the kneecap, an explosion sounded off just outside the building, causing her and her subordinates to turn away, shouting in Japanese again. After a rapid exchange of words, they broke from the room and made their escape.
"Damn! There's some luck, right there!" The Russian laughed. "HEEYYY! SOMEONE DOWN THERE COME AND GIVE ME A HAND!"
After a minute, a flashbang grenade flew into the room, blinding and deafening Bardzecki. When he came to, Mikhalkov was cutting his straps with his knife.
"Lance Corporal! What was THAT for?" He demanded, standing up but nearly falling over again, dazed from being flashed.
"Oh, sorry. I thought you'd be booby-trapped for sure." Mikhalkov replied jokingly, supporting Bardzecki to his feet. "Your welcome, by the way."
"Where's the others?"
"What others? We must've strayed too far during the landing—I've seen neither hide nor hair of anyone on our side since the drop."
"Oh. So it was just you."
"Nope. The gremlins helped out, too."
"OK, I get the idea. Thank you. Now, we've got to go!"
"Couldn't agree with you more." Passing the Private his rifle, Mikhalkov outlined their plan. "We've got to get to the highway and hitch a ride with one of those convoys. All our maps are screwed up because of all the barriers along the city streets, and we'll be much safer from ambushes."
"That sounds like a plan!"
"Admiral Drako," a young voice hissed through the speaker on the Admiral's office phone, "General Yashita is on the phone, line two."
"Thank you, Seaman App." Drako took a swig of coffee from the stainless steel thermos and brought the phone to his ear, pressing the '2' on its pad. "General, I'm doing everything I can, so if you could kindly STOP bugging me?"
"Fleet Admiral, you don't understand. It's of the utmost importance that you recover the plane's cargo before the Axis can get their hands on it!"
"Yashita, the Axis already have their hands on it! We're trying to swat them off! Those prisoners are practically our top priority..."
"Not just the prisoners, Admiral. There's something far more important that was on board."
Drako let out a groan. "Would it be too much to ask you to QUIT BEING MYSTERIOUS? What else WAS there on that plane?"
"That's classified information."
"Listen here, Yashita! I have a 'Top Fucking Secret' security rating and a DAMN GOOD 'need to know' justification, so you can just shove this whole 'classified' shtick up your ass and tell me what the hell my men are supposed to be looking for!"
"They should know it when they see it."
"And I'll order them not to bother with it until you fricking tell me what it is! Think about it, Yashita!" Slamming the phone into the receiver, Drako fell back in his chair again. "God DAMN IT! Even the top dog gets no respect... whatever the hell that guy's talking about, I'm beginning to doubt his trustworthiness."
He picked up the phone again and pressed a button.
"We're in transit, Admiral. ETA's ten minutes, over." Signaling Blacksmith to get down, Mailman dug a small impression into the snow and squeezed his body into it.
"Lieutenant, that's not all that I called you up for."
"You're quieter, Admiral, but you sound even more frustrated than last time. What happened?"
"General Yashita just told me that there was something other than passengers on board that Japanese plane, but he's being an ass about it. Simultaneously ordering me to retrieve it and refusing to give me any information on what I should be looking for... Dammit, that guy just rubs me the wrong way."
"He's not a popular general with his JGSDF soldiers, either." Mailman reminded him. "Fled to California as soon as evacuation began, unlike the rest of the Japanese brass."
"Son, I'm loading you guys with work, so just keep this as an opportunity. If you find anything that might correlate with Yashita's lust... extract it. Bring it to the Reagan as discreetly as possible. I'm the only one who will know about it—I'll just tell Yashita and Shepherd that whatever it was, we didn't find it. I'm suspecting that those two aren't telling me everything."
"That's a copy, skipper. If we get a fix, you'll be the first to know. You can count on us."
There was an audible sigh of relief from the other end of the radio. "I thank God every day for sailors like you, Lieutenant. One more thing... I didn't mean to tell you this, got it? Stay frosty."
"Not too hard out here. Don't worry, Admiral, we can keep a secret. Over and out."
Blacksmith tilted his head in confusion. "Sir, what does this mean? Some kinda conspiracy or something? You think there's something going on behind our backs?"
Pulling himself out of his temporary camouflage shelter, Mailman didn't even bother to brush off the extra snow. "Not behind our backs, Private, over our heads. The Admiral's doing us a tremendous favor by telling us what he has, and knowing him, he's not in the best of moods about being bossed around by a two-star general like Yashita. But, in any case, whatever this 'conspiracy' is, it's up in the world of flag and staff."
"Sir, I'm not a Private, I'm a Fusilier."
"Right, right, you came through Spec-ops from the Grenadiers... E-1's still E-1. Get Block on the horn..."
Suddenly, the snowbank behind Mailman erupted in a flurry of powder, as a pair of arms swiftly and suddenly grabbed his head and neck, pulling him to the ground. With a cry, Blacksmith fumbled for the pistol in his holster, but even as his fingers found the grip, a rapid impact from his side drove the wind out of him and forced him to the snow as well.
Koplov should've seen his attacker coming. Surveying the swirling tundra through the scope, he hadn't heard the bootsteps crunching in the snow behind him until it was well too late. Spinning and jamming the butt of his rifle in the assailant's direction, he was met with failure as his well-prepared adversary countered the advance squarely and hooked the gun, tossing it aside. Even though he tried, Koplov couldn't clearly see his attacker's face.
He doubled up his fist and wound up for a punch, which the shadow stepped inside of, knocking Koplov so far off-balance that he spun around and landed, face first, in the snow. As he tried to rise, he heard the snap of a pistol slide being racked, and squinted his eyes shut.
"We're all here, Colonel." Kamarov reported.
"Thank you, Sergeant." Colonel Wrangel was the kind of man that age didn't spare in appearance, but did so in energy. 'Wrangel' wasn't his born name—since he had been a major member of the Soviet and, later, Russian Federation military, he had his name illegally changed to obscure his identity. However, he was a descendant of the White Army general of the early 20th century.
He was standing with his most trusted team of elites, the Blackshirts, named so as a tradition. The original Pyotr Wrangel was known as 'the Black Baron' because his top soldiers were dressed in black. Among the Colonel's number were Sergeant Kamarov, Junior Sergeant Koplov, and Privates Norvid and Piotrowsky, who were all former Spetsnaz operators.
"The invasion of Japan is currently underway, as you all know." He intoned, as he and his team observed the table map. "One could say they had it coming, even. For half a century, Japan has been the bad guy in Asia, with China, Russia, and Korea being the relative good. It's funny how things change, but stay the same... now, China, Russia, and Korea are the bad guys, and Japan's the good guy. Yet... it still means that Japan is the odd one out."
"Beautiful history lesson, Colonel. Maybe you should look into teaching after the war." Koplov remarked. "Whenever we can get our mission, however..."
"There's plenty of mission for you, Junior Sergeant." The Colonel dropped a picture on the table. The date was vague, but placed it some time during the Chechen war. Makarov was present, as his face was unmistakable, as well as several of his confidents, three of whom were crossed out. One was circled.
"What am I looking at, Colonel?" Kamarov inquired.
"You're looking at Makarov's closest friend. 'Colonel' Viktor Abazzy, AKA, Viktor Baskov. The two go way back, all the way to their military academy days. It's likely he was present during the Zakhaev massacre." He pushed a pin into the map. "He'll be boarding a train right around here at 1-230 hours."
"After the hefty introduction," Koplov snorted, "I was hoping for something more gratifying than simple wet work."
"You're not killing him, you're capturing him. It's up to you to get on board that train and pick him up."
"Why capture him?"
"Viktor is Makarov's mad dog killer among mad dog killers. Sick, twisted, fiendish... cowardly. He's working undercover with the Russian military now, and assuming the identity of an intelligence Colonel that's probably at the bottom of a river with his feet stuck in cement shoes, he's been playing havoc, relaying valuable intel directly to Makarov and altering it for the Russian government, read the Axis, and thus they know the whole story well before President Vorshevsky ever does. Remember, Makarov's still smarting over his ejection from the Ultranationalist party."
"Mad dog... sounds more like 'lap dog' to me." Norvid quipped.
Wrangel smiled. "There's a new leash law in town. Let's make it happen, Blackshirts."
CLICK.
W... what? Koplov thought.
"You're getting sloppy, Junior Sergeant." Kamarov's familiar, gruff voice growled as he holstered the Mauser C96 he owned for reasons Koplov couldn't fathom, "maybe I should've given that promotion to someone a little more attentive?" He held out a hand.
"Sergeant? I... I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again!" Koplov accepted the hand gratefully. Even though he had just been critiqued by his commanding officer, that's better than what he had been expecting.
"Don't give me excuses, Koplov. Give me results and I might forgive you." A trace of a smile crossed his face. "Blackshirts are never seen from behind."
"Understood, sir!"
Kamarov collected Koplov's rifle—a white-finished Mosin Nagant sniper rifle—from the snow and returned it to the man. "Norvid and Piotrowsky are going to meet us here any minute now. What'd you call me here for?"
"Look down there."
Just a hundred meters or so ahead, there was a Japanese transport plane that had a few Russian trucks parked outside of it. Koplov had to peer through the scope in order to see it, but Kamarov's eyes were much better trained and accustomed to the dark, cold winters in Siberia.
"A Japanese plane? Why is it all the way out here?" Kamarov puzzled. "It's not even likely to be a special forces mount, with that bright orange and white paint job."
Koplov squinted. "You're right... they look like they're trying to find something. There's a group coming out now.
Kamarov nodded.
"Look at that." He observed. "Those two soldiers are carrying some kind of package."
"You're right. That thing... that's huge." A closer inspection through the scope revealed lettering on the side in Japanese, which Koplov didn't claim to speak, and English, which he spoke very fluently. "Multivac?"
"Hm... Multivac." Kamarov said thoughtfully. "Junior Sergeant, have you ever considered how much technology has changed the battlefield?"
"What does this..."
"Isaac Asimov wrote stories about a supercomputer named 'Multivac.' Seems like someone's been reading their classics." He puzzled over it for a second before continuing. "Technology rules the war zone these days. It isn't the biggest gun that matters any more, it's accuracy. Precision that no human can muster. If Multivac in this case is what I think it is... we've got one hell of a crisis on our hands."
"Sergeant." Through a heavy blanket of interference, Norvid's voice faltered out of Kamarov's radio headset. "This is Norvid. Piotrowsky is bruised up, but I believe we've got compensation for that!"
"Norvid? What do you mean?"
"We picked up a couple of spec-ops soldiers that agreed to help us out."
"Back at the wheel!" Dunn sang out, as he spun the steering wheel of the Humvee to take the left turn. "Man, I never thought I'd LOVE the long, peaceful road trips! All those years of escorting nuclear convoys, thinking I had the worst damn job in the world! Sarge, remember the last time we ate over at Nate's, when we told those college bums that next time we went there, we'd show 'em our uniforms?"
"I remember that. Too bad they weren't there today, or they would've gotten one hell of a show." Foley looked back at Chiyo and Ramirez, the latter of whom was speaking quietly with the former on some matter that was most likely to keep both of their minds off the constant danger they faced. Raptor was awake, sitting in the leftover seat and not saying a word, probably swearing off conversation with the other two in shock. "Private, how're you two holding up?"
"Fine, sir." Ramirez said, even though his voice still shook. "Sarge, did you know that this girl was so smart? I'm being lectured on battlefield medicine from someone who before today has never been in a battlefield!"
"She's a teenager that's in college, Ramirez. What'd you expect... Falcon, what's that?"
Foley had only just noticed a blue knapsack that Chiyo was wearing, probably because it was so thin that it blended with her jacket, which was the exact same hue... save for blood splatters from Tristan and a few tears that revealed a periwinkle shirt. The added contrast made the bag clearly visible in this instance. Chiyo scooted back in her seat an inch or so.
"What do you mean, Mr. Foley?" She asked nervously.
"That bag. What's in it?"
"Nothing important. Just my laptop."
"Hm..." Foley turned back ahead, just as another Humvee heeled to theirs and its inhabitants called out.
"Sarge!" Wade yelled from the driver's seat. Wade was a younger soldier, snarky and sarcastic, and often seemed like he wasn't listening to whoever was talking. He had developed a cross-listening talent from a lifetime of listening to his parents talk while he was on his cell phone. "Nice to see you care about us, sir!"
"Private Wade, what the hell are you talking about?"
McChord, up on the M2 MG on the roof of the adjacent Humvee, carried on the conversation in his booming voice, which was befitting of a soldier who had aced every physical requirement with flying colors, save for the running test, which he very nearly flunked. Looking at him made one wonder how such a bulky trooper was even possible. "You left us with a Humvee that's got holes shot in most of the cupholders!" He roared, shaking a fist at the end of a very muscular arm, "Where're we supposed to keep our Bud in here?"
"What?"
Wade and McChord burst out laughing, "Nah, we're just playing," McChord said, "Just wanted to check up on the little flower up here, like gentlemen! Hey, Sandler, say hello to the nice lady!"
Sandler was the only soldier there that wasn't wearing a helmet... since he was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, one leg casually resting over the other, his boonie cover gave him the impression of a cowboy—no wonder, as he was known as 'the Gunslinger' for his exceptional skill with his M9, honed through years of sixgunning competitions before deciding to put those skills to practical use. Quiet and reserved, Sandler had many comrades in the unit due to his likeable personality, but only a few 'friends.'
His head turned slightly in her direction, and he lifted one arm up in a wave—then dug his fingers into the seat as a mortar shell landed just aside the road, causing his Humvee to swerve erratically. Foley was on the radio in an instant.
"Ambush!" He screamed, so that any nearby Humvees with radio trouble might hear him as well, "AMBUSH!"
Another mortar shell landed dangerously close to Chiyo's vehicle, showering them with dirt and chunks of pavement.
Normally, Overlord's conversations with the Sergeant were mute to Chiyo, but now that he was using the Humvee's radio instead, she could hear it clearly.
"Hunter 2-1, Overlord, be advised, multiple enemy helicopters have taken off from the north-north-west, east-north-east, and south-south-west. Attempting to requisition air support, over."
"Shit!" Dunn jerked his helmet strap tight, "We're surrounded!"
"Don't give me that, Corporal! Keep it together!"
"Sarge!" Wade hollered, "We're breaking off with Nightmare! We'll try and buy you some time! To get those HVIs out of here!"
"Negative, Private! We need to..."
"Overridden!" Their Humvee swerved away and drove off the road, followed by Nightmare, just as the helicopters began to appear. Foley cursed.
"Dunn, floor it! All vehicles, we need to run this gauntlet ASAP!"
Chiyo was thrown back in her seat as the Corporal jammed the pedal into the floor, and wasn't really paying attention to much that was happening. Soon, the gunfire started as the Russian soldiers rappelled from their choppers and began shooting at them. If she wasn't wearing her seatbelt, she would've been tossed out of the car a hundred times, but was far too busy ducking her head under the window to see just what was causing Dunn to panic so much. Foley yelled something, before the car slammed into a wall, the force of the very belt to which she owed her life blowing her lungs empty at the impact. Gasping and wheezing for breath, the gunfire and explosions seemed to come to her through a fog as she labored, in vain, to raise her head, although she was vaguely aware of Raptor screaming his heart out, and Ramirez struggling to free her from the safety restraint.
"I've got her! Get Raptor out of here!" Dunn ordered, forcing the driver door open and running around the Humvee, opening Raptor's side door as well. Ramirez got himself and Raptor out of the seatbelts and proceeded to stumble away from the crash, leaving Dunn and Foley with Chiyo.
"Dammit, this buckle is jammed!" the Corporal swore, drawing his combat knife and sawing at the belt. Then, he felt something tap the side of his helmet—the muzzle of an AKM rifle.
"I'll help you with that," A thickly accented voice jeered.
Author's pie: Yes, that's right, author's PIE. Apple with a side of REVIEW THE DAMN STORY PEOPLE.