Only Viklav, Vasili, and Brolchev the Bear knew that he was going off on this mission. All the other sub-commanders were in field… and of the ones who knew what he was going to do, only Brolchev disagreed with the move.
"A solo attack on a forward operating base is suicide, tovarish." That bear of a man had complained, trying to talk him out of it. "You are still young and impulsive."
The Ghost had retorted it was only suicide if you strode up to the front gates expecting a scrap- but that was how Brolchev thought attacks should be. Traditional, honorable, won through tenacity of the people's spirit.
It was too much credit to give to the hounds, for they certainly didn't show the people of the mountain the same respect.
That forward base was a thorn in their side. It was were the burn teams bunkered down during the winter. It was where hound patrols ranged out towards the Liberation Front's lines. It was where they thought they were safe to project their power out into the hills beyond. To strike at them there would certainly give them pause, but to get through the patrols and perimeter… well, save for Vasili, the Ghost was the only one who had trained under Leonov before the old veteran got himself killed.
And Brolchev didn't understand that the Ghost wasn't moving to wipe it out, at least not yet. Weaken it, put the hounds on edge, make them pull back patrols to guard themselves; it would relieve some pressure from the lines.
The dead of night would cover his tracks, and the guard may be lax- the frigid cold of the mid-winter would deter all but the most determined infiltrator.
Unfortunately for the hounds, the Ghost was incredibly determined as he gently slid under the freshly-clipped razor wire, digging himself a shallow trough through the snow. The guards in the tower were barely moving, frozen to their seats or huddled around a heater most likely. The spotlights never moved, never swept back and forth in diligence of their duty, instead they stayed focused around the main entrance.
The Ghost glided across the snow to the foot of the hesco wall crowned by more razor wire. The second line of defenses would be harder than the first to get through without being noticed. He slid around the perimeter wall, going by memory of the maps. Armory, the rows of longhouse barracks, garage, mess hall- he noted where the closest buildings would be mentally.
The mess hall and QM would be the least watched section of the base, least populated as well. Cutters at the ready, he began climbing the hesco's wire-framed exterior, thankful that there was just enough room for his gloved hands to fit. Peeking the top of the wall revealed that he was, indeed, near the mess-hall, and even more fortunate, there was barely any lights, save for the illumination near the central yard of the camp.
No patrols, either, from what he could make out. He clipped the razor wire as quietly as possible before gently sliding his pack and rifle through. The cold was keeping everyone inside- either lack of discipline or the hounds thought that they were safe in their little fort. The Ghost slipped through the gap in the wire, gently tying it off after he was through. If there was a patrol that came by, they'd have to be hawk-eyed to spot the breach.
In his pack were three large blocks of explosives, the first of which was destined for the command and control center. Cripple the bases' response time for the coming offensive, hopefully decapitate their leadership. Moving about inside of the perimeter was a hundred times easier than outside the wire. More sharp angles, more crevices and shadows to hide in, and most importantly they had no idea there was anyone in the wire yet.
The next would be the armory- the secondary explosions and cook-offs might hopefully maim more. The final package was destined for the one of the barrack blocks, the plan to set it all off after he slipped out, but the path back towards his escape route took him by the muster-yard. He had skirted the flood lights, though at the opposite edge of the yard, they illuminated something he had missed his first pass.
Six bodies tied to posts, their makeshift uniform of one of the mountain militias making it clear who they were. The Ghost stared, eyes finally adjusting to what he was seeing- they were long dead from exposure, but the black splotched stains of frozen blood on the front of their uniforms told the Ghost that they had suffered before being left out in the cold to die.
Something in his mind hijacked the current plan. Cold logic melted away to simple-minded hatred. It wasn't enough to cripple this base- he needed to put fear into these hounds. They needed to understand just exactly who they were dealing with, so that not even executing prisoners would make them feel like big men anymore.
And the Ghost would tear into them like the savage they saw the mountain folk as. Like his namesake, he slipped to the barracks that would have been spared. What little sense of restraint that was left had fled.
The clatter of a explosive-packed metal cylinder against the cold wooden floor hadn't woken any in the first longhouse, but the resulting explosion sure as hell woke everyone else. In the time it would take for them to leap out of bed in confusion, the Ghost speed-dialed the first explosive.
The ringtone, followed by the boom that ripped from the other side of the camp.
Chaos, screams and shouts. The first half-dressed man to run out of the next longhouse had barely managed to get a chest-rig over himself, rifle not even ready as he plunged into the cold dark.
The Ghost's knife sank into the soldier's neck, becoming a convenient handle to steer the dying man as a human shield for the moment as he pulled the victim to his knees. He mounted his rifle on the soldier's shoulder, cracking off a burst at the closest group of armed men that emerged. His shield's pained screams became gurgles as the point of the blade sank somewhere deeper near his throat.
Three punches to his shoulder followed by another three, another three, another three...
Those who weren't his first victims had dove for cover and were panickedly returning fire. The Ghost yanked a grenade from the dead man's rig before scrambling back towards the next longhouse. Shouts of confusion, the sounds of men arming themselves.
He pitched the sphere through the open door as he passed, more screams of terror- more confusion before the dulled thump.
The alarm was out now. Eyes and ears would be on the eastern side where he played havoc. Slap the mag out, latch in a fresh one, keep moving. Don't get pinned to one spot-
The flashlights in the dark were still on his last position, but they would catch up or cut him off soon. He pulled another grenade as he approached one of the earthen bunkers that lined the perimeter. Wisps of vapor- breath from muffled whispers. Confusion at which direction to face; he pitched the grenade in before diving away.
The flashlights swept towards the bunker now-
Time for the split of forces. He speed dialed the next bomb.
An explosion three times that of the grenades he had been flinging about erupted from the other side of the camp- the armory going up in a gout of fire. The pursuing lights faltered, rapidly sweeping back and forth or pointing back the way they had came-
And what he wanted more than anything, the sound of AK's firing into the dark on the other side of the camp.
"Ura! For the Komi! For all the Peoples!" He shouted before drowning out his own voice with rifle fire.
He would make them pay.
He would do as Leonov taught. He would make them bleed. He would make their mothers weep and their wives lament. Even if they killed him, it would galvanize the others- it would raise the rest of the Urals in full rebellion.
And then he'd be free of this. Then he'd...
He… He-
"You're lying now, commander." 45 interrupted the commander's thoughts, giving him that knowing stare. While the smile was amused, there was a hint of annoyance mixed into 45's modulator.
"Am I?"
"Your heart rate has elevated, you are gesturing after emphasis points, your eyes are making micro-movements implying you are over-thinking." 45 counted off the infractions, her grin growing wider with each piece of evidence provided.
"Well it was a harrowing experience."
"Oh I am sure." 45 rolled her eyes. She had no real reason to doubt his narrative, she had seen him in action plenty of times before, so what had really tipped her off?
"Tell me then, how did you come to Griffin?"
"I was getting to that part-"
"The truth, this time please."
The commander sighed deep, a smile creeping onto his face once he had admitted to being bested. "The short or long version?" He asked.
"The short version is fine."
"I was turned in by my cousin when taking leave from the front." The commander let out a single, dry chuckle once 45 had parsed that it was the truth, "No grand final stand, no shootout. Simply handed over to the FSB in a peace deal made behind my back. Viklav, Luka… most of my lieutenants got rounded up after I did. I don't know which ones were complicit in the betrayal though."
Those were the times that he didn't want to remember. A life of violence begets violence, after all.
"They hung most of them at the border of the Urals Yellow Zone or dumped them in the Vishera. Sent me back to Perm to be paraded around as a war criminal- though most of it was made up, mind you, justification for being as ruthless as they were. That aside, Kryuger picked me out there, made me a deal… are you sure you didn't want to hear the long version? I had thought up this bit where I slipped away and escaped to the-"
"No." 45's words were blunt, but there was something beneath; she was thinking deeply about something.
"Master. Your stress levels have elevated. For your mental well-being I would advise ending this interrogation." 36's voice chimed over the intercom. While most of the time he relied on her for his mental well-being, this time he was fully in control. 36's choice of words certainly cut back all of the good will he had spent the last hour culminating.
"An interrogation was it?" 45 smiled coldly.
"Hardly- obviously." The commander grunted as he stood and stretched. The way that 45 had clammed up again made him curse G36's empathy program stepping in. It was best to just leave 45 here, let her teammates see that she was fine. He moved to leave.
"Commander?"
He found that 45 was hesitating, the dolls mouth slightly ajar, frozen with the words trapped in her voice modulator. The fragmentation she suffered from was clear even to him- or perhaps because he spent so much time around dolls it was clear. Either way, the commander patiently waited for her to overcome the barrier.
"I… thank you for sharing." 45's tone shifted sharply, distant. He had no idea if that was what 45 needed, but he certainly hoped it would help her overcome whatever it was she was suffering from.
"Whatever you read on the net about the Ghost, just remember that most of it is lies and propaganda." The commander smiled, "After all, the People don't have the net up there, so how could their voices ever be heard?"
"Master. Your attention is needed in Command."
"Coming, Thirty-six." He shouted back to the intercom before giving 45 one last glance.
There she lay on the slab, motionless, just like a wounded body laid out in the cold, and he couldn't help but feel a connection to 45… and it pained him. Helpless in his inability to help her, still shut out. As apt as a student of war he was, he never was one for Leonov's advice when it came to leading... but he could certainly see merit in the old man's words now. Fraternization always brings the looming specter of tragedy; so which would be his downfall?