The single surviving Alpha Group Private didn't have the slightest idea as to why the men from Eastern Sunrise had decided to keep him alive as a hostage, but it was of no consequence to him now. He instinctively hit the floor as the armored doors of the panic room burst open, engulfing the inhabitants with a tremendous shockwave. What followed was a brief outburst of utter chaos as the atmosphere exploded, and all the Private could do about it was cover his ears and pray that he would not be on the receiving end of a stray bullet or be executed in a crazed act of desperation from one of the terrorists.
The screams, shouts and thunderous gunfire that enveloped the confines of the small and claustrophobic room seemed so heightened and prolonged that when the onslaught finally ended with the immediacy of the flick of a switch, the Private could only assume that he to had met the same grisly fate as the rest of his team.
"It's over, soldier." The voice of his rescuer broke the eerie silence, most fortunately proving his assumption wrong. "Here, give me your hand."
The Private opened his eyes and looked up at the man, a KGB Major, with one very bloodied uniform, who helped him up to his feet, before the Private finally took one long sigh of relief. He was alive, and the men who had slaughtered his friends had comrades had been slain; a deal he was more than happy with.
"You alright?" The Major asked as he helped the Private up to his feet.
"Yes sir." The young soldier looked up and answered.
"Outstanding." The Major said with a smile. "You are Private Vladimir Makarov are you not?"
"Yes sir, of the Spetsnaz Alpha Group." Makarov struggled with his words, but was immensely proud of them. "I am at your service, Major Klossovsky."
"Ah, so you know my name already." Klossovsky looked back at a very fatigued looking Kamarov, who up until that point had been busy struggling to catch his breath. "Corporal, get our comrade a rifle."
"Right away, Major." Kamarov nodded.
The Vympel Corporal walked up to the pile of corpses, who wore the uniforms of both sides but thankfully none of the hostages, and picked out one of the few Soviet-built rifles that lay there in the form of an undamaged Kalashnikov. Upon magazine inspection, the rifle was revealed to not have fired one single shot in the foray. Satisfied, Kamarov threw the weapon over to Makarov, who caught it in mid air, his reflexes working perfectly despite his jangled nerves.
"Thank you." Makarov said, bowing his head and in doing so noticing the golden dagger and parachute insignia of Kamarov's regiment embroidered on his sleeve patch.
"You. You are Vympel?"
"Apparently." Mikhail answered Kamarov's question for him, before he even had the chance to open his mouth. "But that is of no matter to you, my friend. What matters is that you and the rest of the hostages, are safe and well."
"Indeed." Klossovsky added. "The Captain is right. Monotov, are all of the hostages accounted for?"
"Yes sir." Mikhail responded. "No civilian casualties to report. Little cuts, bruises and a whole lot of psychological damage, but nothing more serious than that."
"Superb." The officer's voice quickly changed from an air of pleasure to that of concern. "But what of your own men?"
This question from the Major was one that caught Mikhail unawares, causing him to take a step back in bemusement. In his whole service as an officer of the Soviet Union, he had never before been queried of losses to his team with such a genuinely worried tone by his commanding officer. Officers do not see other ranks, and the deaths of those below them were more petty inconveniencies than tragedies and sacrifices, but Klossovsky seemed different. To his enemies, he was brutal to the point of savagery, but he did seem to genuinely care for the fate of those that he was responsible for leading into battle.
"We've lost five, sir." Mikhail said, without showing his emotion.
"Regrettable." Klossovsky replied, solemnly and quietly. "But they did a great deed, helping us prove a point today. A point made directly to these new and clandestine enemies of ours."
Klossovsky stopped for a moment and took a few strides to the front of the room in order to address the remains of his team, clearly aware that even his first words had already commanded their rapt attention.
"You can throw out the rulebook of war and make the civilian world your battlefield.' He said. "You can forge yourself an army without a country or a flag, and spread anarchy, chaos and terror to those who do not deserve it with acts of cowardice and evil. But we will always be here. Here to restore order, here to protect the innocent and most importantly, here to display our own brand of justice to those who do not believe in it."
"Ura!" Kamarov growled with a defiant fist of approval in the air.
"I'm glad you agree with me, my comrade. Our Soviet Union may be weakened but it will not be overcome, not now, not ever. Now, let's get these good people to safety."
As dusk befell the city of Beirut, local paramedics had arrived and took the wounded and traumatized away to hospital. Klossovsky and the men under his command took a moment for respite, leaning on the wall of the embassy for a quick cigarette break.
"Are you sure you don't want to go with them?" Mikhail asked solicitously, waving in the general direction of the horde of Lebanese ambulances. "You look in a pretty bad way, brother."
"Rather me than you." Kamarov chuckled. "It's not like they ruined a masterpiece when they broke my nose. My face was never destined for the front pages, unlike your good self."
"Oh shit, not that old chestnut." Mikhail groaned. "I thought we agreed to not speak of that again. You know full well-"
"I don't know why you take displeasure in it." Kamarov cut in with a smile. "Pravda's photograph was splendid. I bet you regretted getting married after all those letters-"
"Enough!" Mikhail snapped. "The only reason I'd regret getting married is that I got you as my little bastard brother in law!"
Kamarov looked down at his feet and chuckled to himself, well in the knowledge that very few men could get Mikhail's back up quite like him. Fortunately, the Captain was a man of good humor, and it took only a few moments for him to join in with the laughter.
"Oh, I thought I recognized you, sir." Private Makarov had been looking in the opposite direction but listening in on the two men's conversation the entire time. "I thought you looked like Captain Mikhail Monotov but I didn't think it was actually you. I did read about your exploits in the paper, and I must say it is an honor to get the chance to meet you in person."
"Why, thank you, Private." Mikhail said. "Shame it wasn't under better circumstances."
"Yes, indeed." Klossovsky took a moment away from his cigar. "Captain Monotov's reputation of bravery does precede him. Our very own celebrity, if you will, and-"
"Klossovsky!" A mustachioed Russian Colonel, who looked the very image of a Soviet Officer that had failed to escape the Second World War era, bellowed as he strode across the parking lot. "A word with you and your men if I may!"
Klossovsky and the team stood and saluted. "Why, of course sir!"
"Good man, Major, good man." The officer paused in order to properly compose himself before speaking any further. "I just thought I would congratulate you and your men on an excellent day's work. Sadly our great nation has little uplifting news to write about these days, but this is finally a good day to add to our diaries."
"Just doing our job, sir." Klossovsky bowed. "But thank you."
"You are one of the few." The Colonel muttered. "Too few patriots today."
The object of the Colonel's attention was quite quickly diverted to that of four Russian-made UAZ jeeps that had noisily arrived at the perimeter, and the occupants within, which were now busy engaging in what appeared to be a very heated argument with a guard, judging by the man's rather over-the-top gesticulating at the vehicles.
"Good God!" He exclaimed. "What are those damned clowns playing at?"
"Beats me, Colonel." Klossovsky said, shaking his head. "But I can assure you they are no men of mine."
"Well then, Major. I think you'd better show-"
The Officer was abruptly and shockingly interrupted as the driver of the leading UAZ produced a pistol and promptly shot the guard in the head at point blank range. Before the body had even hit the floor, the jeep's front passenger, who was dressed in a regular Soviet soldier's uniform, leapt out and aimed his scoped sniper rifle, a semi-automatic variant of America's ubiquitous M14 known as the M21 SWS, at the first target he could see. The target just so happened to be the Colonel, and one squeeze of the trigger later the Officer fell to the floor before neither he nor anyone around him had the chance to move an inch.
"Holy shit!" Klossovsky yelped as he jumped back, eyes wide and skin pale in horror and stupefaction, a look that was mirrored by all of those around him as they raced for cover and weapons.
"God damn it." Mikhail breathed. "The Colonel's dead."
"Return fire!" The Major ordered. "Looks like Eastern Sunrise have returned for seconds!"
At this moment Private Makarov was hugely thankful for the assault rifle that had been put in his hands, and now he had the chance to prove himself to those who had rescued him by immediately returning the favor. In his short military career it had not taken very long for the young Vladimir Makarov to be recommended and accepted into the elite Alpha Group, partly for his honor and trenchant patriotism, but mostly for his reputation as a crack shot, a reputation he now had the perfect opportunity to uphold. In his hands was an unscoped AK-47, and in his undoubtedly skilled adversary's a superior weapon.
Both aimed at each other as Makarov broke from his cover, but it was the extremist that fired first. The bullet seared past the head of the Private, missing him by inches and striking the brick wall behind him. Powder and dust covered Makarov, but he already had his target, and his aim remained still, unwavering and unblinking. Then he fired. A short pause ensued before a pink cloud burst from the back of his enemy, and the sniper slumped to the pavement.
"Nice shot, Private!" Mikhail complemented. "Fucking excellent!"
"Keep moving forward!" Klossovsky was already on the move, leading the charge and waving for the rest to follow suite. "Come on, let's finish these bastards off!"
The rest of the Eastern Sunrise men from the jeeps decamped from their vehicles with their weapons at the ready, and were at once engaged by Klossovsky's team. The extremists put up a good fight, but were soon overwhelmed by the sheer skill and numbers of the Russians. As the last enemy fell down dead, Kamarov knew that it would not be the last of them. The Corporal surveyed the sprawling streets, a chill rising at the thought of the endless hiding places and ambush opportunities the terrorists could use to their advantage. Every nook and cranny out there was a deathtrap.
"We're not done yet." Klossovsky said as he too scanned the cityscape. "There will be more of them."
"What the hell is going on here?" Kamarov asked as he observed the fatigues of the slain extremists. "First they wear the colors of the Americans, now they wear our uniforms?"
"We can't be sure." Klossovsky answered. "But Gentlemen, I do believe we may have gatecrashed a little false flag operation."
"Oh great." Kamarov said under his breath as the rest of the men let out a collective groan. "Just great."
"False flag?" Private Makarov's bizarre eyes were wide and frightened. "Why would anyone even…I mean…I don't even want to think about those consequences should they-."
"There are some who would rather not see this war go out with a whimper, Private." Klossovsky said. "There are many who do not want Russia to be seen as the losers, but some believe that must be averted no matter what the cost is. Even if that cost is nuclear. Eastern Sunrise, they are such people."
"But obviously they have failed, why are they still attacking us?"
"Because, Soldier, the psychopaths who do their dirty work just love the little drug known as anarchy." Klossovsky smirked. "At the end of the day, they don't really mind how they get their fix, just so long as blood is spilt."
As predicted, the anarchy was not over yet. A fleet of various military vehicles had already started to converge on the scene, and not a single one looked as if it was there to assist. Soon enough, the entire embassy was completely surrounded and the sound of sporadic automatic gunfire began to rise up and echo through the streets. It was more than a little apparent that the men were now completely surrounded.
"Shit! Fall Back!" Klossovsky yelled. "Fall back!"
"Where the hell to?" Mikhail yelled in return.
"The embassy! Move it!"
The team ran hard back to the entrance of the compound as the hordes of extremists swarmed in around, killing anybody, military or civilian, that strayed into the crosshairs of their rifles. Every man on the team knew they could not do a single thing for these people without dying themselves in the process, and after the day these men had just had, little more than self-preservation was on their minds. It ended up a close call, but as the last man leapt through the doors, they had beaten Eastern Sunrise to the embassy. Holding it, now that would a completely different matter.
"There's a helipad on the roof!" Makarov informed. "That's our way out of here!"
"Good call." Mikhail said as he looked to Klossovsky, who gave an approving nod. "If we can even get an evac."
The Captain then turned to Corporal Kamarov who had been busy setting up proximity mines as well as using whatever he could find lying about as a rudimentary barricade. It didn't take a genius to know that it only hold for a few moments, and the terrorists would find another way in before that, but it was better than nothing.
"Think that will keep them out, Corporal?" Mikhail queried.
"Not at all, Captain." Kamarov sighed, dropping his shoulders in defeat. "I just wanted to really fucking piss 'em off a bit before they got in and killed me."
"I like the pissing them off part of the plan." Mikhail smiled an uneasy smile. "I'd prefer a different ending though. We should get moving, I'll take point, boys."
Mikhail led the way quickly but cautiously though the hallways, with Makarov following as his shadow. This was not a place any of them had wanted to ever return to, as with the onset of the attack the emergency services had fled, leaving behind the bullet-ridden bodies of the terrorists, the Alpha Group and he fallen Vympel men. It was a nightmarish place, and one none of them wanted to become their final resting place.
As Mikhail stepped over the carpet of dead, even the Captain, famous for his heroism, became unnerved and sickened at the sheer amount of dull, lifeless eyes that stared up at him from the floor. He had seen too many a sight like it in Afghanistan, but in a building such as this it was even more surreal, even more jarring and even more hellish. Then, as he prepared to step over one more Eastern Sunrise militia, the eyes of the man he thought dead suddenly blinked.
The Captain immediately froze on the spot, something he in any other circumstance would never do and would even go as far as chastise any man under his command for doing the same. Every part of him told his mind to fire his Skorpion and finish off the terrorist, and yet his body simply seized in place, unable to move a muscle.
The terrorist, while badly injured, quite literally jumped at the chance he was gifted. Mustering the entirety of his sapping strength he leapt to his feet, and slashed the Vympel Captain upwards diagonally across his face with a huge bowie-style knife. Mikhail dropped to his knees and wailed, clutching his face in his hands as blood poured out between the gaps in his fingers. The Eastern Sunrise man smiled darkly at his pitiful victim, and cared not about finishing the poor Captain off. Instead, in his final moments he had his mind set on doing as much damage as possible to the rest of the team.
Makarov was next in line, and already had his rifle raised and sights trained on his sneering, growling target, blood pouring from the Tango's mouth as well as his blade. The Private grimaced at the sight of the rabid dog of a man, and in a way felt a modicum of pity for him as he pressed the trigger to put the savage out of his misery with a quick, clean headshot.
Only this time nothing happened. In this most rare occurrence, the Alpha Group man's trusty Skorpion had jammed, sparking another fowl grin from his enemy who pounced on the Soldier as he went for his sidearm, grabbing Makarov in a lock with surprising strength and holding the knife to his neck. The terrorist had changed his plan. Now he was going to bargain his way out.
"Right!" The terrorist yelled, his harsh accent clearly that of a Russian in spite of the United States Army uniform he wore. "Now you all listen to me! I wan-"
Klossovsky didn't listen in the slightest. He too had his sights trained on the man already, and all he needed now was there perfect moment just as the terrorist looked him directly in the eyes. The Major fired, and in his case the sub-machine gun worked perfectly. With Makarov's squirming, the shot had to be absolutely spot-on, and it was, hitting the target directly between the eyes, and the enemy fell where he stood, his knife land blade-down right next to Makarov's boot.
Makarov gasped, stumbling forwards in delirium. "Oh my god." He murmured, starting to compose himself. "That was unexpected. Once again you have my deepest thanks, Major."
"Not a problem, Private." Klossovsky replied, swiveling his gaze to the injured Mikhail, who was still wailing in pain and struggling to get to his feet. The knife had caused a considerably deep wound, but in missing the eyes by only millimeters the Captain had been exceptionally lucky. Mikhail's face may not be as photogenic in future, but at least he would live to fight another day and with his eyesight intact.
"Captain!" Kamarov yelled as he and Klossovsky grabbed him by both arms and assisted him with regaining his balance. "You're going to be alright."
"Aright? How can I be all right when I can't see! I'm fucking blind!"
"Come on, Captain." Major Klossovsky said. "You haven't been blinded, it's just a lot of blood. Once we're out of here, you'll be just fine, just as the Corporal says."
"Oh great." The Major's words did little to comfort Mikhail. "Where the hell's my Skorpion? I can still fight!"
"We've got to keep moving." Klossovsky insisted, passing the sub-machine gun to the Captain. "Those bastards will be here any moment now. We've been seriously lucky that they haven't done so already."
Once the roof had been reached, the shocking grimness of the scenario was finally unveiled. The streets had descended into full-blown chaos, and any allied forces that were still in the square below had surely been slaughtered. All the group could hope for was that the extremists had made the end as painless as for them as possible, but that was unlikely. A lot of good men were dead, and it didn't look like anything resembling backup was on the way any time soon. The four who stood atop the embassy were possibly all that was left; now the only method of escape was through a helicopter evacuation. As Kamarov and Makarov used what semtex they had setting up another trap for those who got inside, they knew time was running out.
"Command, this is Major Klossovsky of Vympel Group!" Klossovsky bellowed into his radio. "We have been overrun at the embassy, and are suffering heavy losses! We need a pickup, ASAP!"
There was no reply. Not even the usual fuzz of static.
"Command, do you read me?"
No reply.
"COMMAND! This-"
"Nothing's going to come, Major." The quiet voice of the radio operator responded. "We've used up our helicopters getting as many as we possibly could out of there. Err…the Lebanese Army will be on hand in time, but there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry, Comrade."
"Understood. Over." Klossovsky said, hanging his head and letting out a long sigh. Eventually, the young Officer's short temperament got the better of his judgment.
"Those motherfuckers!" He spat. "I should have known."
To the armed forces of most powerful countries, the act of leaving men behind, no matter what their rank or physical condition, is one of the most standard unacceptable and impermissible decisions one could possibly take on the battlefield. Klossovsky, however, knew full well that this situation was a possibility. It had been such a frequent occurrence in Afghanistan that abandoned Russian soldiers had often gone rogue and turned their allegiance in a desperate attempt to survive, and desertion was commonplace. There would be no such wrangling in this instance, however. It was simply a case of one last blaze of glory, sending as many enemies of the Soviet Union to the depth of hell before your ultimate sacrifice was finally called upon.
In the floors below, the thunderous stamping of boots became louder and louder, like a relentless pounding of incoming war drums. Eastern Sunrise had finally got in, and it would only be a matter of seconds before they figured out the group's location. A few small explosions echoed and rumbled as the proximity mines played their part, but it did little to slow the advance. As Klossovsky and Mikhail raised their weapons at the doorway to the roof, Makarov and Kamarov had their detonators at the ready. The timing had to be nothing less than perfection. They knew that.
It did not take long for the first men to appear at the doorway. Before anybody on either side had the chance to fire, the semtex was detonated, reducing the four leading the enemy charge to little more than a fine powder of red dust, and damaging the steel stairway which lead to the roof to the point of collapse with a groan of twisted metal.
While the rest looked on, Kamarov switched the firing selector of his Skorpion to fully automatic and emptied his clip down the stairwell, ending the misery of those who had attempted to reach the roof and somehow survived the explosion only to end up falling three floors and onto the razor-sharp shards of the remains of the splintered steel staircase. His actions may have appeared barbaric, but in reality the Corporal had been showing undeserved mercy.
"Any plans now, Major?" he asked, looking back at Klossovsky. "There's no way out of here now."
Before Klossovsky had the change to answer, two helicopters thundered overhead and started to circle around the embassy. The medium-sized aircraft were the British Army Air Corps Westland Lynx, a chopper than on appearance looked like a cross between the UH-60 Black Hawk and the UH-1N Twin Huey and at one time held the record as the fastest helicopter in the world.
What the British had been doing in the city was unclear, and Klossovsky, Mikhail and Makarov winced at the thought of rescue coming from those they still considered enemies to the Soviet Union. Kamarov however, was just delighted that rescue was a possibility at all, and the Corporal quickly lit a flare, waving it in plain sight of the aircraft. Much as Klossovsky's acute patriotism wished to dissuade him from doing so, he knew the Corporal was doing the right thing.
As the door gunner of the lead helicopter opened up with his machine-gun on the terrorists that still surrounded and overran the embassy and nearby hotel, it looked as if victory was somehow to be clawed from the jaws of defeat. This became increasingly more apparent when in the surrounding streets the Lebanese Army had finally mobilized en-masse, and had shown up in jeeps and American-made armored vehicles, picking off those that the Lynx had not.
As the first continued the attack, second Westland broke off and hovered over the roof, the skids of the chopper only inches above the tiles and the booming rotors kicking up dust and debris into the Russian's faces. Satisfied that the Lynx was in prosecution, the team leader of the British Special Air Service leapt down to join them. Compared to the Soviets, with their faded, tatty khaki fatigues and aging sixties weaponry, the SAS man looked positively futuristic with his jet-black uniform, state of the art equipment and high-tech East German firearms.
"Well, well." The man said, with a strong Scottish accent. "Gentlemen, this is an unexpected delight. What's this, Ivan needing our help?"
"Don't start, please" Klossovsky knew full well that the Brit would find the pasting the Russians had received highly amusing, and would take every possible opportunity to undermine the Communist. Still, the Major struggled to hold back his anger. "We are grateful for your assistance, sir. I am Major Roman Klossovsky of the Soviet Union's Vympel Group."
"Lovely to meet you, mate." The Scot replied sarcastically. "Let's not waste time with details, you don't need to know who I am, son. Do you want a ticket out of here or not?"
Klossovsky nodded, forced to show humility. "Yes."
"Right then." The team leader turned to another black-clad soldier seated within the Lynx, faceless behind a gas mask. "Move up, Trooper! We're giving our friends here a ride out of here."
"Yes sir." The Trooper answered, his gruff London accent more than a little reluctant. "If you say so."
"Get on, Russkies, and make it sharpish. The meter's running." The SAS man said. "You do realise we're doing you lot a big fuckin' favor, right?"
"Of course sir." Kamarov answered.
As Private Makarov stepped on board the helicopter to join the rest, the SAS team leader signaled for the pilot to get the hell out of there, and the fire and the fury of the remains of Beirut's Russian embassy was left to smolder as the Lebanese stayed behind to eradicate any further persistence from Eastern Sunrise.
The fates of the four Russians would take them each on very different paths. A year later, Vympel Group would help to assist their KGB allies in a coup d'état attempt against President Gorbachev and his anti-communist reforms and restructures. Mikhail Monotov, who at that time had risen to the rank of Major, would lead the tanks as they rolled onto red square, and Makarov would join him alongside his Alpha Group comrades. Klossovsky and Kamarov, however, had seen and accepted that supporting communism any further was a lost cause and took the decision to defect, joining future president Boris Yeltsin at the defense of the White House in Moscow. The Coup would fail, and the Soviet Union would collapse.
Mikhail would never forget his brother-in-law's betrayal, and from that day forward would refuse to acknowledge Kamarov's very existence, and forced his wife to do the same to her own brother. Mikhail would never get the chance to forgive, either, as he spent the next decade drinking his way to an eventual untimely death. Disowned by his family, Kamarov would find solace in the only way he knew how, continuing his military work under the Russian Federation; only to one day find Roman Klossovsky himself as his commander-in-chief.
Vladimir Makarov too would never forget the betrayal, but would not dwell too deeply on it. Instead, he would pursue a second rise of communism with what he considered the next best thing: the Ultranationalist Party. Their leader at that time was Imran Zakhaev, and Vladimir knew his face immediately. Zakhaev had been a high-flyer in Eastern Sunrise during their short but memorable reign of terror and Makarov had been shown a photo of the man just before the ill-fated incursion. He did his best to forget that fact, as Zakhaev would take him under his wing, but after his new mentor's death and the rise of Boris Vorshevsky, Makarov would taste betrayal once again.
After executing his very own false flag operation as an act of vengeance against Vorshevsky, he would meet a face from his past, somebody he never though he would see again. Roman Klossovsky.
It took a lot of soul-searching to convince Makarov not to kill the former Capitalist President there and then, but even a mad-dog killer has a code of honor. Klossovsky had saved his life once, and he was offering him a chance to take down Vorshevsky once and for all.
It was a chance he simply had to take.