Chapter 2
Home Field Advantage
Military Base – Western Russia
Katja's plane landed at the base on schedule, among many others. Troops from various branches of the military disembarked.
A little strange, but she had yet to hear the whole story, so judgement was withheld.
"Captain," one of her lieutenants, Maksim Petrov, greeted her with a salute. Katja returned it, and the lieutenant's face eased into a small smile, a less formal greeting. He then fell into step beside her as they entered the complex.
Those under Katja's command respected her immensely – or so she'd been told by her own superiors. She tried to lead by example, even if that meant getting dirty and uncomfortable alongside them – the same way her brother had. She didn't feel it was right to ask her men to do things that she herself was unable or unwilling to do.
Those on the outside looking in did not respect Katja. Most said she was not hard enough on her people, and the leading by example was viewed as reckless. After all, who would lead her people if she was wounded?
She had silenced those critics by responding two ways. First, she couldn't direct people if she was sitting on the sidelines watching. Second, she employed a training method to her people: Teach the soldier below you your job, and should anything happen, you could be confident your lieutenants could replace you if needed.
Of course, there were rumors she had slept around to get this position (disgusting) as well as the rumor that her father had pulled strings (somehow, that was even worse). Neither was true, of course; and Katja didn't even bother to quash these rumors. She figured it only served to legitimatize them if she did.
"Petrov, what's the status so far?" Katja asked as she made her way to the barracks.
"Half the unit has reported in so far. Command is having a meeting shortly; they sent me to inform you 'your presence is mandatory'. Direct quote," Petrov answered while handing her a note.
Sighing, Katja opened it and read the request, time, and meeting place. "Alright. You can handle things out here?" Refolding the note, she placed it in her pocket and noticed they had arrived outside of the women's locker room, where she would don her uniform.
"Of course, Captain," Petrov answered before dismissing himself.
As soon as he'd left, Katja entered the room and opened her duffle. She quickly changed into an olive-green training tee, her combat pants with knee inserts, and her fleece combat jacket – all in a Russian copy of Multicam camouflage pattern. Thankfully, her Lowa hikers were already on her feet; one less thing to do.
In uniform and somewhat presentable as an officer, Katja made for the meeting room.
"Captain Mikhailov, glad you could join us on such short notice," Major Mishkin greeted.
"Glad to be here, sir." Katja saluted.
"Take a seat; we'll begin shortly," he gestured, and she complied.
More company commanders soon joined, many of whom didn't even have time to change after the plane ride.
"Attention!" a Colonel called out suddenly, and everyone rose. The person who walked in surprised Katja greatly:
The Marshal of the Russian Federation. The top dog, just short of the President himself. This must be serious.
"At ease," the Marshal ordered, and everyone took their seats. "First off, I would like to apologize for any leave cancellations, and would be most appreciative if you could extend that to your subordinates. But rest assured, Russia and its people will thank you. Yes?" the Marshal pointed to a raised hand.
"So, this is not a drill?" one of the officers asked.
"No, this is not a drill. The president has ordered the mandatory evacuation of areas in Siberia at risk for the meteor impact. Now SAR – that's search and rescue, may I remind you – is a little hard-pressed to cover that much territory, so we are pulling in other units to assist."
So far, this was making no sense to Katja. Why pull in Spetsnaz – special forces – for this? She personally had joined to help people, so she took no issue with the mission itself; but there were plenty of grunts for this kind of work. Sending Spetsnaz in was a misallocation of valuable resources – and that wasn't hubris talking, it was logic.
The other problem she noticed was the evacuation. The meteor was predicted to impact relatively harmlessly, away from anywhere heavily populated – and from what she'd seen, the Russian media was in agreement with world scientists in this assessment. Displacing people from their homes might only create more problems than it fixed.
The Marshal pointed to another officer.
"The meteor wasn't predicted to impact anywhere that could cause much harm. Why are we evacuating?"
Finally, someone had spoken up. Katja mentally applauded him.
"Be that as it may, the president has decided it is better to be safe than sorry. A relief effort and forward operating base is already being set up for those displaced as we speak. With any luck, we will not need it at all – or very little. Any other questions?"
Nobody spoke up. "Briefings will be handed down to company commanders to share with their people before long. Orders will be issued once you are deployed and on the ground. For now, everyone is dismissed," the Marshal finished.
The officers filed out of the room, a few of them grumbling about the situation under their breath. She caught some words, like 'a waste of time' and 'work for local police, not us'. As tempting as it was to join in, she refrained and stayed on course.
Katja found Petrov and her unit already on standby, ready to go. She couldn't help but feel pride at how efficient they were. It seems as though other units were still scrambling to get their vacation clothes off.
"Team attention!" Petrov announced. Her unit stood stiffly at attention, waiting for her command.
She gave them a nod. "At ease. No news yet, but I want us running drills to keep sharp. Start with some range time, we'll go from there. Fall out," Katja ordered, and her people obeyed. When they'd dispersed, Petrov approached her questioningly.
"Well?" he asked.
"We're assisting SAR with evacuation and relief efforts in Siberia."
Petrov just looked confused, so Katja elaborated. "The meteor. They're concerned it could cause more damage than what is predicted."
"Ah, I see. Can't have Russia embarrassed like they were with the Chernobyl debacle," Petrov joked.
Something within Katja bristled, and she pulled him aside harshly, out of sight of others.
"I tolerate a lot, Petrov, but I will not have my men speaking like that. The orders are orders and I expect you to follow them and treat them seriously, especially in front of the others."
"I understand. My apologies, Captain, for the disrespect," Petrov said, surprised by the rebuke. He was by far her best lieutenant – probably knew, it, too, even if he never acted prideful – and she hadn't had to admonish him in ages.
"You are dismissed. Oversee the range. I will try to come up with some drills for the company to run. Specifically, scenarios we may encounter out there."
What those would be, she could only imagine. Helping a grandfather pack his pajamas? Handing out soup to families? Changing diapers?
"Stop it, you're acting no better than Petrov," she scolded herself. "Duty, and defending civilians, are more than just military actions."
"Very good, Captain," Petrov said, and dismissed himself before he dug himself into a deeper hole.
With that out of the way, Katja walked back to her barracks and finished gearing up, adding a plate carrier, a helmet for her head, and protective ballistic glasses for her eyes.
Slipping over to the armory, Katja checked out her custom AK-105 and her Glock 17. She also loaded up her carrier's pouches with magazines, and headed to the range.
Right away, she noticed Petrov was calling out when the range was hot, cold, and when someone was down resetting a target. Good man. "I shouldn't have reacted so strongly," she thought.
Still. She wasn't supposed to play favorites, and it was better to remind herself of that once in a while.
She hadn't been at the range long, and was about to take a few rounds herself, when a superior approached with a scarecrow of a soldier in tow.
"Major," Katja greeted with a crisp salute.
"Captain. I have a replacement for you," the Major said with a return salute. Katja furrowed her brows in confusion. Replacements were for fallen soldiers. Nobody in her unit had died, that she knew of – and she would be a poor leader if she didn't.
"Replacement?"
"More like an addition. I want him to shadow your unit," the Major said, pushing the small soldier forward.
Katja took him in. He was a private of all things; she didn't think that rank was even used anymore. Not only that, but he also looked like he was plucked fresh from the womb. Baby-face features, curly blonde hair (which was not cut to regulation), and big-framed glasses only enhanced the youthful look.
"Private," Katja greeted, and it took a nudge from the Major for the recruit to give one of the worst salutes she'd ever seen. The Major didn't seem to care, however.
"Alexei Antonov, reporting for duty," Alexei stated. He looked flustered and embarrassed; not very becoming of a special forces soldier. Katja watched as he swung his PP-19 submachine gun around with neither muzzle awareness nor trigger discipline. To her horror, she also found the weapon did NOT have the safety engaged – and had a round in the chamber. Who was this kid?
"Private! I do not want to see that lack of weapon discipline again! Report to lieutenant Petrov right there and explain yourself!" Katja ordered harshly. With any luck, Petrov would have him switch the safety on and off a thousand times as punishment.
She watched as Alexei fumbled around with the weapon briefly, saluted, and rushed to the man she had pointed out.
"Excellent. You'll break him in, in no time at all," the Major praised. Break him in? This had to be a joke or punishment.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Katja requested.
"Go ahead, Captain."
"Sir, what is this? Has this kid even been through basic? Is he even old enough to be in the army? Spetsnaz is not for fresh recruits, let alone… whatever he is," Katja protested.
"He may not look it, but he is twenty-one. Tech specialist was his field. The Marshal himself wanted him posted to this unit. I assure you; it is not punishment."
"Why would I need a tech specialist?" Katja asked, and the Major just smiled without answering the question directly.
"I'm sure he will be a vital asset in the mission. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to report to another meeting."
"Sir," Katja said in a simple, acknowledging farewell.
Looking behind her, it appeared Petrov was chewing Alexei out, as expected. The boy tried to remain stoic, but she could see cracks forming. Part of Katja wanted to go over and rescue Alexei, since he was clearly not a soldier; but the verbal flogging was necessary least he actually kill someone.
Taking a deep breath, Katja decided she needed to expend some rounds at paper and try to make sense of the last few hours.
Somewhere in the Bering Sea
Adrien did get lunch on the sub, but it was the same crappy slop he was given in the marines. Ah, the golden days.
He also had the displeasure of meeting the other three members of his team. Two ex-Navy Seals and one ex-Army Ranger idiot. None of whom had any background in fighting extraterrestrials; though to be fair, not many could put that on a resume. It also seemed like the CIA had no shortage of special forces to pull from. Currently, they were gearing up in the planning room.
"How was the lunch of crayons?" asked the ranger, Brian Spooner – also known as 'Hornet' by his callsign.
"Better than what you were gobbling," Adrien answered as he hefted his rifle. While his cohorts were taking smaller caliber rifles, Adrien opted to have his M4A1 SOCOM chambered in a larger round, .50 Beowulf and decked out with various attachments. He had learned from those that came before him. His cohorts took notice of the choice, too.
"You planning on killing an elephant in Russia?" one of the seals, O'Neil Becker – also known as 'Viper' by callsign – asked. Adrien couldn't help but notice how big this African American guy was – hell, he could make Dwayne Johnson look small. And Adrien was a six-foot marine made of (mostly) muscle saying this. He didn't work out quite the way he used to.
"Nah, our fearless leader here knows things we don't. You see, he got probed by aliens," the other ex-seal, the sniper, who went by both David Kim and 'Scarecrow', joked. David had actually been a South Korean UTD/Seal before immigrating and joining the US Navy Seals.
"That true, marine? We're you probed by aliens? Sexy," Hornet grinned. Adrien could take jokes and insults and dish them back easily enough. And he knew the men were intending to be good-natured about it.
But he would not let the memory of his men be insulted like this. He gave a breathy, angry laugh before replying.
"Was I probed by aliens? You could say that. When they 'probed' me with blades through the chest."
Dead silence. Apparently, his point had been made, but Adrien wasn't done.
"Let's not forget the probing they did to my men, too. Peeling the flesh off their bodies, disemboweling them, and hanging them out to cure while the buzzards picked out pieces for themselves. All so the aliens could have their goddamn trophies."
The three other men continued to be left speechless by Adrien's revelations.
"You know what I see? Three trophies ripe for the pickin' because they didn't respect what they are up against, nor did they understand it," Adrien sneered. "Don't worry, I am sure I will join you, and like a good marine and squad leader, we'll 'regroup in hell', just like our creed says. That is, if enough pieces of you even make it there," he finished before walking off with his gear to prep somewhere else.
He still didn't believe the op would amount to anything, but what he had stated needed to be said. Before suiting up, Adrien did some more back exercises; the pain was finally starting to fade – and without the use of painkillers, something he disliked using or relying on.
With that finished, Adrien donned his 'base layers' first; a spartan way of saying underwear. These were basically fleece long-Johns and a moisture wicking shirt. He wasn't looking forward to Russian winters any more than Minnesota winters back home.
Next came his M81 Woodland camo Crye Precision combat pants, just like his days in MARSOC. He did, however, decide to keep on his tan Henley that he wore to work this morning rather than a combat shirt.
His PCU wolf-grey jacket also matched the one from his MARSOC days and was just as warm as he remembered. Desert nights got cold, after all.
Finally, the most important piece. His Fugitive GTX hikers. Good footwear was critical in the military, lest your feet hurt and rot.
Adrien then realized that in his rage, he had forgotten his equipment back in the planning room.
"Dammit," he groaned. Well, he'd have to address this sooner rather than later, anyway. Walking into the room, he found the three men taking the back armor plates out of their vests and forgoing night vision. Probably for weight reasons. They stopped to silently regard him.
While Adrien believed the mission was a hoax, not being properly equipped in case something did go down was a bad idea. Giving a snort of disgust, Adrien reached for his gear and turned to leave.
"Captain…" Viper called out. Adrien turned back. "We wanted to apologize. It was meant to be in good fun. Not to disrespect the fallen."
Adrien nodded and turned to leave again.
"We would like to get your opinion on the op before launch, if you'll have us," Hornet followed up with a peace offering.
"Maybe over some poker?" Scarecrow said, holding up a deck of cards. Adrien did love playing cards.
"Alright; but I'm out of cash, so no actual bets," Adrien caved. All three men loosened up and cleared the table for play.
"So, what's your callsign, Captain?" Scarecrow asked. Adrien considered this. He actually had complete freedom to pick one in the CIA, and change it anytime he cared to. So, to adhere to his home state's football team and his own Nordic descent, he came up with the perfect one. Even if they never won.
"Viking."
West Russia - in transit
Katja gazed idly out of the train car window at the passing wilderness – most of which was covered in a blanket of clean snow – and resisted the urge to bounce her heel with impatience.
When the Marshal had spoken of deployment, she had assumed a traditional aircraft would be their transport. She hadn't expected them to be sent by train, along with several cars of supplies for the forward operating base.
Not only did it make her feel like cargo, but it also seemed like a very slow method in light of the urgency with which they had been recalled and deployed. At least, she reflected, they were given sleeping cars, a dining car, and a lounge car.
Her unit spent most of their time in the lounge car, socializing. They had grown bored of cards and were now reduced to playing "Will You Go to the Ball?" She halfway expected them to start playing Cossacks and Robbers next.
They had invited her to join them, but she had declined, knowing that time spent to themselves – to complain about superiors and blow off some steam – was necessary in their line of work.
The one thing she regretted, though, was that the lounge car was much warmer than the sleeping car, where she was. To stretch her cold, stiff fingers, Katja worked her hair out of its braid and began to reweave it. As she did so, she grudgingly had to admit that her mother had been right. She should've gotten it cut. Too late now. It would just have to stay tied back until she could visit the salon.
"Maybe you could ask Petrov to take his Kizlyar knife to it," she thought, and then winced. She had been joking to herself, but she didn't want to imagine what the results might actually be – though images of giant clumps of hair on the floor came to mind. Probably frightening enough to scare the meteor back into space. Petrov didn't exactly have a delicate hand.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door of the room. Surprised, Katja invited, "Come in." She hadn't realized anyone even knew she was in here.
The door opened, revealing Petrov. He paused before entering the room, and that was the moment she registered his clothing.
"How… why are you wearing that?" Katja asked in confusion. Somehow, he'd found a Spetsnaz uniform that looked like it came from the Afghanistan campaign in the 80s. Berezhka pattern, if she recalled correctly.
Petrov looked a bit embarrassed. "Well, I found out this train has always been used for military operations and shipping materials. I managed to dig this out of an old crate. I don't think it's seen daylight since before either of us were born."
"Yes," she said, fighting to keep laughter from her voice. "I see the what. I'm just… wondering why. Are you guys putting on a fashion show up there?"
"No. The belt loop on my real uniform caught on some… piece of one of the train doors, I don't know. But it tore a big hole in…"
"Your pants."
"…My pants," he confirmed. "And they didn't have any spares in my size."
This, Katja knew, was more than likely true. Petrov was absurdly tall, at least 1.94 meters, and easily the largest of her men. Not only that, extra supplies for the Russian army had been… difficult to obtain, as of late. Often, she'd found herself purchasing items for her people with her own money.
Petrov scratched at his ear. "Luckily, these do fit. I just came by to get your permission to wear them during this operation, ma'am."
"It's fine. I'm not going to make you go out there with half a uniform, and it's not like the civs will know the difference." She winked. "Just be sure to grow one of those big bushy 80's mustaches to go with it."
"I think Preobrazhensky already has claimed that look. But I'll wear the uniform. Thank you, ma'am."
A half of a second later, the door was thrown open again – this time, without a knock. Katja jumped from her seat, muscle memory making her reach for a gun that wasn't there, and she darted in front of Petrov.
Alexei stood there awkwardly, gaping at her.
"Umm… sorry. Sorry. I was looking for the… the bathroom," he said.
"You won't find one here. There's a common one at the end of the car," Katja replied, composing herself.
"Okay," said Alexei, tugging at his dogtags. "Can I take this off? I have very delicate skin, and it itches."
She heard Petrov snort behind her.
"No." She was half-tempted to tell Alexei it was best practice to store one of the tags somewhere else on your person, lest your head get blown off and there was no way to identify your corpse. But he seemed squeamish enough already.
"Oh."
At this point, she wasn't even surprised that he hadn't yet called her 'Captain' or even 'Ma'am' throughout the whole ridiculous conversation. Not that she was a stickler for that kind of thing, but it only served to make her more curious – even suspicious – about his presence. Wondering if a friendly approach might draw him out, Katja said, "Are you having fun in the lounge car with the rest of the men?"
"Not really. I don't think they like me." He grinned. "I was too good at the games." From the telltale note of smugness and superiority in his voice, she could easily imagine why the others hadn't taken to him.
"Well, I'm sure you'll get along with them soon. Maybe you could let them play games on your tablet." Katja gestured to the iPad in the satchel that hadn't left his shoulder since he'd stepped on the train. "You are a tech guy, right? I've never met a tech guy who doesn't have a game or two secretly installed on his gear."
Alexei stepped back, hugging the bag to his chest. "Maybe. I had better go find that bathroom, now. Goodbye."
Petrov glanced at her, looking puzzled by the whole interaction. She just shrugged.
"I'll head out, too, captain. See you later," he said.
Pursing her lips, Katja closed the door and returned to her seat. She'd pushed Alexei too hard, too conspicuously.
"Patience, Katja," she could almost hear her brother saying. Karik had always encouraged her to have patience, even as long ago as her first years of school. She would often call him at his base in tears with a difficult homework question – her parents, naturally, refusing to help and insisting she do it herself – and Karik would talk her through it, urging her to stay calm and use reasoning. Eventually, she would always end up coming to the correct conclusion after stepping back and running through the problem with him step by step.
The trouble was, it was hard to step back when she was on a moving train. For now, the best she could do about the strange situation she found herself in was to remain observant and follow her brother's advice by staying patient.
It was a principle more easily determined than adhered to, however, when the lives of her unit were her responsibility.
Ural Mountain Range, Russia
The rest of the journey continued without incident, although Katja learned no more of either Alexei or the nature of their orders.
When she finally stepped off the train, she was slapped in the face with icy Siberian wind. Sinking her chin into her gaiter, she tried to keep from wincing.
"That's brisk!" Petrov said cheerfully, hopping down beside her. Loaded down with gear, he nonetheless managed to rub his arms with a mock shiver.
Katja rolled her eyes. It remained to be seen if he'd remain this chipper after they were outside in it for days, collecting civilians.
Before she could reply, though, another officer came up beside them.
It was Captain Sokolov, B Company's commander. Just who she didn't care to see.
At first, Katja had assumed Sokolov had it out for her specifically. But no. All other company commanders clashed with him. If she wasn't mistaken, he was also Petrov's former superior officer.
"Mikhailov," Sokolov acknowledged with disdain, his weirdly American handlebar mustache flapping in the wind. He ignored Petrov's presence completely.
"Captain Sokolov." Katja acknowledged back, including his rank to show she could give respect, even if he couldn't.
"You enjoy that ice-cold, uncomfortable trip? Can't believe they didn't fly us in."
Katja smothered her sigh. She knew the question was a trap, somehow, and simply said, "Could have been worse."
Sokolov snorted, clearly disappointed she didn't take the bait. Finally, he acknowledged Petrov; perhaps hoping to get the reaction he wanted. "Well, Maksim, tired of this little hard-ass yet? Ready to come back to a real leader? I won't even make you wear old uniforms."
Petrov shifted his weight ever so slightly towards Katja and shook his head. "Happy where I am. Sir," he said, his suddenly frosty demeanor a far cry from when he'd spoken to Katja moments ago.
"So, you two worried about a little rescue op?" Sokolov growled over the cold, as if determined to start a fight with at least one of them.
"No; I'm worried that I don't have team players backing these men and civvies up," Katja answered.
Sokolov had often been called out for being absent, usually behind the safety of a line, whether it be in training or real world scenarios. He pushed recklessly and didn't support other units when they needed it.
Plus, he was just an ass. She didn't care too much if he targeted her; but she wasn't going to let him antagonize one of her men like that again.
"I'm under no illusion of my reputation among the other company commanders, Mikhailov. But this our motherland. No matter how stupid the mission is, I intend to get the civvies out of here, even if I have to walk them out myself, one at a time," Sokolov explained.
That was an unexpected answer. But she didn't have time to consider it. Her men were rapidly disembarking, and she needed to direct them.
"Lieutenant, there's a convoy waiting for us on the opposite side of the station. Bring everyone there, and have them start climbing into the troop carrier. I need to speak to the conductor and engineer first," she said to Petrov, turning her back on Sokolov.
"Yes, Ma'am," said Petrov, immediately. Turning to the rest of the unit, who were shuffling around as they waited for orders, he snapped, "Men, fall in on me. Gather your equipment. If you can't carry it, you don't need it."
The troops obeyed, and were soon on their way with Alexei trailing behind, nearly tripping over the strap of his computer satchel.
Katja shook her head and turned away, walking the length of the train until she saw the train operators de-boarding. She made to approach them, checking her paper copy of the orders once more before stuffing them into her cargo pocket. To her irritation, Sokolov followed her. Didn't he have his own unit to direct?
"Excuse me?" she called, and the train operators stared at her.
The conductor, a woman with dark hair, reluctantly said, "Yes, can we help you?"
Katja straightened her back and widened her stance in formality. "My superiors said the train would be departing in two weeks. Is that correct?" She spoke for both her and Sokolov.
The conductor took off her hat and scratched her head, tucking said headwear under her arm. "Yes." She glanced at her engineer, who looked impatient. "Well, actually, we will be leaving. On a train headed back west. This train, however, will be staying here for two weeks to bring all of you back, when you're finished with…" Breaking off to glance at the multiple cars of cargo, she shrugged. "With whatever you're doing. The twentieth, fourteen days from now. I wouldn't be late if I were you."
"Right," thought Katja. "Thank you. I appreciate the information."
The two both nodded, and went back to their duties.
Katja headed towards the station, where her unit waited, Sokolov likewise deviating back to his own people.