Vedeno Gorge, Chechnya
Colonel Kolya Chernov kept any of the emotions he was feeling off his face, though inside he was fuming. As the commander of Alfa Group Six, part of Russia’s elite Special Forces unit, Spetsnaz, he knew everything in their arsenal, and everything in pretty much anyone else’s, at least those that mattered.
Though here he didn’t have to go far from home.
What he had caught a glimpse of were type BGE 75-T containers.
Russian.
Or more accurately, Soviet.
A remnant of the Cold War—soon to be replaced with a new one, if their illustrious leader in Moscow had his way. Chernov loved his country, the Russian Armed Forces, and certainly his unit. Getting into Spetsnaz was one of the proudest days of his life, being promoted to colonel one of the more disappointing ones. He didn’t want to command a desk, he wanted to be out in the field, but as the general had told him, “You’re the boss, you can do what you want”.
So he did.
And when the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, the SVR RF, had contacted his unit requiring a four-man team to provide additional security in Chechnya, he had decided the request was suspicious enough to pique his interest, and the assignment possibly dangerous enough to satisfy his craving for action.
And now his suspicions were proven well founded.
The SVR were merely the renamed First Chief Directorate of the former KGB, and the new reality in Russia was that they and the remainder of the former agency, the FSB, were more like their old namesakes with each passing day. He didn’t trust the SVR as far as he could throw one of them, their motivations completely different from a soldier’s. He trusted his men, would die for his men, yet he’d have to seriously consider whether he’d hit the brakes if one of these SVR bastards were to step in front of his vehicle.
The six canisters contained Cesium-137, extremely dangerous, and more than enough to build multiple dirty bombs. This was a substance terrorists the world over were desperate to get their hands on, and here he was, standing guard while two SVR agents sold a batch to what were clearly Chechen rebels, he recognizing the leader.
Each group had a computer hooked to satellite links, and money transferred.
Smiles.
Handshakes.
And the deal was done, the Chechens climbing in their Toyota and leaving, the SVR agents heading toward the Mi-24 Hind helicopter now powering up.
He could hold his tongue no longer.
“I assume we’re now going to stop them?”
The lead SVR agent—his name never provided—looked at him, a bemused expression on his face. “Why would we want to do that?”
“Because we just sold terrorists nuclear materials.”
Any humor disappeared, the man’s eyes boring into Chernov’s as he stepped closer. “You are mistaken as to what you saw. Do you understand me?”
The attempt at intimidation probably worked on most, but not on Chernov, though he valued his life enough to know to drop the subject. “Understood.”
“Good. Now let’s go. There’s vodka to celebrate!”
Chernov was the last to board, his men, his friends, all giving him a look that told him they too knew what had just happened and were none too happy about it.
But this was the new Russia.
The same as the old Russia.
And those that questioned the KGB—or the SVR—might just live long enough to regret it.