Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.
Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.
Angel Of Death
An Alex Rider Story
The sun scorched the thick scrub of the southern Russian plains. Plumes of black smoke rose like wraith-like towers from the militarised complex. A column of cars and trucks wove around the hills towards the complex, which straddled the land like a large spider, a thick body with eight tendrils spreading out up onto the hills. Each tendril was topped with a vast mounted gun, each with an excellent arc of fire over the facility. The first car slowed down as it reached the main gate, and the guards on duty at the checkpoint walked forwards. One strolled around each side of the car, and a third stayed in front, armed with a heavy-duty sawn-off shotgun. The man driving the car wound down his window, his sole passenger did the same on the other side.
"Can I help you?" the driver asked, holding up an identification card to the guard.
"You are English?" the guard asked, his heavy Russian accent distorting his words.
"No, I'm Irish." The Irishman's words weren't understood. "Irlanski?" The Russian guard nodded, and the Irishman continued, "I'm a doctor from the Atomic Energy Research Commission, and I've been told to recover an amount of non-refined plutonium for the AERC's Executive Research Division. Can we go through?"
"I am very sorry, but I will have to ask my superior-" The Irishman moved with blinding speed. He drew a low-calibre handgun, aimed and fired. The Russian guard jerked slightly, then collapsed to the floor. The Irishman's passenger drew a similar gun and fired at the guard on his side. The two Russians crumpled, and the sole survivor aimed the shotgun, straight at the cars windshield. The Irishman rose and fired again, a brief volley of hollowpoint bullets slamming into the Russian's chest and throat, spurting red as they sliced through skin and muscles. The Irishman tossed aside his small handgun and picked up the dead man's shotgun. He checked the corpse for any more ammunition, and placed the cartridges in his left pocket. It was then that the main body of the convoy crested the last hill and sped towards the main gate. The Irishman's passenger, a tall, Norse man with blond hair and blue yes, tossed a grenade at the gate. Both of the men sprinted a short way back, and the thick iron gate exploded. They jumped back into their car and drove through, leading the way into the complex.
The Irishman's car sped through the complex towards the centre. At strategic intervals, trucks left the convoy, driving towards the gun embankments and barracks, their crew of heavily armed soldiers loading deadly assault weapons. But the main body of the convoy, three trucks and the Irishman's car, kept on going, heading with single-minded precision towards the underground bunker at the heart of the complex. They braked to a halt next to the bunker's gateway. A small platoon of Russian soldiers strolled into place to block their progress. Their leader, a short man with a captain's uniform, called out, first in Russian, then in English. The Irishman got out of his car, flanked by the giant Nordic. On cue, the rest of the soldiers exited the trucks.
"What is your business here?" asked the captain, his thick Russian accent disguising the irritation in his voice. The Irishman raised his pistol, a Raptor Magnum .50 calibre, one of the strongest production handguns in the world. He flicked the safety off and the laser sight on.
"We have come for the missiles. If you want to live, then you will throw down your weapons and leave this base now." Fear flickered in the captain's eyes, and the Irishman shot him. The Russians reached for their weapons, but hesitated when a flurry of laser sights played across their chests. The Irishman's soldiers were carrying AK-47 automatic rifles, high-powered and fully tooled up with laser sights and sniper scopes.
"That was a warning. If you do not surrender now, we will kill each and every one of you. You have ten seconds." One Russian, in a lieutenant's uniform, raised his pistol and stepped forwards. The Nordic fired a blast from the shotgun, and the lieutenant's mangled body fell to the ground. The other soldiers surrendered rather quickly after that, not only throwing down their guns, but also all their magazines of ammunition, radios and even field rations. The Irishman nodded.
"You have done well. Now run, unless you want to be mown down!" The Russian's ran, weaving like foxes over the muddied ground. The Irishman gestured, and his troops fired. The rifles spat out brief pulses of high-calibre bullets, each one singing into the soldier's backs. They died to a man, completely wiped out. The Irishman laughed and strode into the bunker. Half of his troops, including the Nordic, followed. The others assumed guard positions outside, ready to fire at anything or anyone who moved.
The Irishman led his troops through a labyrinth of tunnels. Dark tunnels, light by bare low-wattage bulbs, most broken and the others grimy. Dank tunnels, where the only clear path through was following a small railway track into the bowels of the earth. The Irishman's troops crouched and weaved, hiding behind cover wherever possible, and their automatic weapons never left their shoulders. They approached the only lift down into the heart of the facility. The Storeroom. After the break-up of Communist Russia, many of it's nuclear weapons had been stolen, hijacked by terrorists and spies. So, in a fit of conscience, the new Russian President had recently converted rural military bases into strongholds for nuclear missiles, burying them underground in the middle of the countryside, miles out of the public eye. But not anymore. The Irishman strolled up to the lift's reinforced doors, and pressed the radio button. The lifts in these facilities couldn't simply be called down by buttons, but instead only by a radio message.
"Hello down there!" The Irishman called out in flawless Russian, "I'm a terrorist with a big gun! Could I buy one of those nuclear missiles you've got?" There was nothing but static on the other end. The Irishman waited patiently, and sure enough the tunnel started to rumble as the lift rose up. The Irishman grinned, and his giant Nordic bodyguard moved into place with the rest of the troops, their laser sights switched off. The lift doors opened, and the cavernous lift beyond disgorged half a dozen Russian soldiers, each clutching a sawn-off shotgun and a Sig 9mm pistol. They surrounded the Irishman, who had hidden his Magnum.
"What are you doing here?" Their leader barked. The Irishman grinned.
"This." On cue, dozens of laser sights flickered and danced over the Russian's chests. The Russian's leader stopped and swore, once, before the bullets ripped through the subterranean air. The Russian soldiers dropped, their weapons falling from lifeless fingers. The Irishman and his troops stepped over the corpses and into the lift.
The lift doors gave a merry ding! And opened. Then the Irishman's troops opened fire. The Russian technicians and guards dropped under the constant chatter of automatic weapons-fire, with alternate bass blasts from the Magnum and the sawn-off. The Storeroom was cleared in under a minute. The Irishman strode over to the nearest nuclear missile. It was a four point five megaton Triton ICBM. The terrorist leader slit open a small compartment on the missile, and withdrew the PAL card. This small object, the size of a credit card, was actually a global positioning satellite transmitter, relaying the missile's exact location to the Russian government. The Irishman placed it within his pocket, and gestured. His troops folded the missile down from its rack, placing it upon something resembling a miniature train-cart. They dragged this onto a set of train-tracks inside the lift, and crowded inside. The lift left the Storeroom on it's upwards journey.
Outside, the Russian soldiers were regrouping. Although the terrorists controlled all eight of the gun embankments, they hadn't fired yet. This gave ample opportunity for the surviving soldiers to regroup and return to the bunker. With a vengeance. The Irishman's forces were getting restless. The Russian's leader raised a hand, and his troops charged. A few terrorists were taken down before they realised what was happening. But then they returned fire, raking the buildings clear of soldiers with pinpoint accurate assault fire and liberal amounts of hand grenades. All of a sudden, the Irishman and his troops emerged from the bunker, dragging the Triton behind them. The Russian's leader immediately ordered all their fire on the missile. Nuclear missiles are extremely well armoured, however, so the few shots that struck it glanced off. The missile was loaded into a truck, and the terrorists scrambled onboard. The Russians pursued on foot, and were therefore in a perfect position to watch as the Irishman raised a Stinger heat-seeking rocket launcher. He pointed the tube at the Russians and pulled the trigger. A tongue of flame shot out of the rear of the launcher as the rocket sped forwards. It slammed into the ground just before the Russians and detonated, sending the soldiers sprawling, wrapped in blankets of fire. The Irishman lowered the rocket launcher and laughed.
The terrorist's convoy arrived at a small airfield a few miles from the base. Only when the last truck had drawn to a halt did the Irishman produce a small remote from inside his coat. He pressed the single red button in its matte black shell. Five miles away, back at the compound, all eight of the gun embankments exploded. The ammunition caught next, and the pillars of flame hurled the massive barrels down into the base. The Irishman grinned as narrow columns of smoke sprouted into the sky, and he turned to the mute Nordic giant.
"Eric, I want you to pilot the reserve plane. Take the troops to Liverpool, as instructed." The giant nodded and strode towards a small Cessna plane. The Irishman turned towards the other two planes. "Now then, I want the PAL card to be taken aboard that plane. Fly to Moscow, as instructed, and play the radio message." A terrorist nodded. "OK, now let's load this hunk of junk," he slapped the nuclear missile playfully, "Onto the Cessna. Remember the plan: We fly to London."
"What about MI6?" A terrorist asked fearfully.
"What about them? They'll have enough on their hands besides us."
"What do you mean, boss?" The terrorist replied.
"A few dozen kegs of C-4 in Liverpool Street's basement. Think that'll keep them off our backs?"
"And what about the kid? Rider, or whatever his name is?" The Irishman grinned.
"Again, don't worry. He'll be dead before the morning."
