Outside Al-Raqqah, Syria
Sometimes playing games with superpowers backfired, and Dawson just hoped today wasn’t going to be yet another example of that very thing. He peered through his scope at the scene below, a group of men on the edge of town waiting, six of them clearly armed, the other two who seemed to be in charge, sitting in two of four chairs placed around a table by the new arrivals.
They were definitely waiting for someone.
Intel said this would be where the sale of the missing Cesium would take place, and from his briefing, he knew they had to recover it at all costs, the potential human toll unimaginable.
And in the White House’s infinite wisdom, it decided to inform the Russians that their missing nuclear material was about to be retrieved, and not to conduct any bombing missions in the area as there would be friendly forces present.
The Russians had turned it around on the White House, insisting they accompany any mission otherwise they couldn’t guarantee the safety of American troops on the ground.
The White House had agreed.
The attempt to embarrass had backfired.
American Special Forces were constantly conducting operations in the area, and there was no need to inform the Russians of any specifics, beyond that they were there. This had been a continuation of the tit-for-tat game playing out on the world stage leading everyone toward a second Cold War in which Russia wasn’t hampered by the flaws of communism.
It was a standoff that could lead to serious bloodshed if someone didn’t figure out quickly how to deal with the belligerent Russian leader.
And goading him would never work.
“Here they come. Ten o’clock.”
Dawson shifted his view to see where Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung had indicated and spotted two vehicles approaching, one stopping several miles back, the other continuing forward, toward the town. The vehicle came to a stop about fifty feet from the table set out for the transaction, the men seated behind it rising to greet their guests.
Four men exited the vehicle, three with weapons, one with none obvious, and the only one to step forward.
“Is that him?”
“It does not appear so,” said the heavily accented voice to his left, Major Zolotov, the Russian lead on the mission. There were eight from each country, split into two teams of six plus two sniper teams, all deployed around the site, ready to engage on Dawson’s signal, it decided somebody had to be in ultimate command.
If only the major knew my rank.
While everyone’s focus was on the exchange, he redirected his attention to the second vehicle that had held back.
“They’re gone.”
Zolotov grunted. “It doesn’t matter. Look.”
Dawson refocused on the table, a case produced and opened, it impossible to tell from this angle if it was what they were after, yet it was obviously what those gathered below were there for. He rose to his knees. “This is Zero-One. Execute in three—two—one—execute!”
Two shots rang out from opposite sides of the gathered terrorists, two guards dropping, two more shots fired before their bodies even hit the ground. Dawson and his group of six including Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman and Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James, sprinted toward the distracted hostiles, the other team approaching from the other side.
In range, Dawson raised his MP5 and squeezed the trigger, taking out one of the new arrivals hiding behind the wheel of his vehicle, the Russians pouring a steady stream of fire on the proceedings, leaving little doubt to the enemy where their location was.
Fools!
It was an arrogant method of engagement, underestimating one’s enemy, putting everyone at risk. He glanced over at Atlas who was shaking his head, his weapon raised, yet to take a shot, there nothing left to shoot at.
Arriving at the scene, Dawson, using hand signals, ordered a perimeter established while Atlas and Spock grabbed the case, bringing out testing equipment to confirm the contents. Atlas glanced up from the display and gave a thumbs up.
“This is it.”
Dawson approached, the Cyrillic writing plain to anyone. The Cyrillic writing on three canisters.
There’s supposed to be six.
A shot rang out behind him and he spun around, Zolotov having put a bullet in a wounded hostile. It was clear the Russians wanted no prisoners, probably so no one could identify their crooked SVR agents. Dawson jerked a thumb over his shoulder, at the case. “You guys in the habit of losing this stuff?”
Zolotov stepped over to the table then nodded, raising a radio to his mouth. “Now.”
The thump of helicopter rotors sounded in the distance, rapidly approaching, the betrayal Dawson had fully expected, and told the colonel would happen, now underway. He activated his comm. “Beetlejuice.”
Zolotov raised his weapon, aiming it at Dawson, Spock and Atlas returning the favor. “What does this mean, this Beetlejuice?”
Dawson held his hands out to his side, motioning for everyone to remain calm. “Simply signaling those back home what’s happening here.”
Two Russian Hinds, probably the most intimidating looking helicopters ever built, cleared a nearby ridge, coming to a hover several hundred feet away, several more rushing over the town as half a dozen troops dropped from each. Dawson checked to the east then west and saw his sniper team of Niner and Jimmy led by gunpoint.
Zolotov flicked his AK-9 assault rifle. “Your weapons, please. And your communications equipment.”
Dawson nodded to the others and they slowly rid themselves of the tools of their trade. Dawson held up his knife. “And this?”
“That, you can keep.”
Dawson sneered a smile. “You’re so generous.”
His team of eight was lined up against a wall, half a dozen Russian troops holding weapons on them as the case was taken, the remaining troops loading into several choppers that had landed.
Zolotov stared at Dawson. “Do you want to know why?”
Dawson shook his head. “No need. I already know.”
“Why?”
“You’re Russian.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can’t be trusted. Now you’ve just proven to Washington what those of us on the ground have been telling them for years.”
“And what is that?”
“That the Soviet Union is back.”
Zolotov laughed, a broad smile on his face. “I like you, American. It’s too bad you are right. We might have shared some vodka and toasted our fallen comrades together.” He frowned, lowering his weapon and stepping closer to Dawson. “I’m supposed to kill you”—he tipped his head toward the hostiles—“with their weapons.”
“Then why don’t you just get it over with?”
Zolotov smiled. “Because I have what we came for, the terrorists are dead, and I only kill people I don’t like.” He pointed up at the sky. “I leave that to others. Say your goodbyes, gentlemen, you’re dead already.”
Zolotov jogged to the final chopper waiting and climbed aboard, though not before snapping a casual salute at Dawson’s team. The Hind lifted off, banking sharply to the right and disappearing quickly over the rise. Dawson pointed in the same direction, knowing full well what the warning meant. “Run as fast as you can and don’t look back.”
They all pushed off the wall, sprinting hard, Spock in the lead, the bastard fast, as the screech of fighters in the distance, rapidly approaching, filled their ears. They crested the rise just as the first Sukhoi Su-34 tore overhead, missiles erupting from its weapons pods. Dawson glanced back to see Atlas, the largest and slowest, just reaching the top of the hill, the rest already down the other side.
“Hit the deck!” shouted Dawson and they all dropped, Atlas flying forward as massive explosions rocked the town behind them, the ground vibrating in protest. “Move! Move! Move!” Everyone was back on their feet as three more Su-34s thundered overhead, more missiles loosed.
“Over there!” shouted Spock, pointing to a rock outcropping. Dawson turned, making a beeline for the cover, shoving everyone inside the cluster of rocks before crouching down and squeezing in himself. They were on the edge of a large number of boulders, the only cover in the area, but an area large enough that he hoped the Russians wouldn’t decide to take them out.
They didn’t.
The pounding of the town lasted for about ten minutes before the last of the Su-34s left, leaving nothing but the wails of those who had managed to survive.
Dawson stepped out first, surveying the thick black smoke over the crest. Niner emerged from their cover, standing beside him.
“Nobody was meant to survive that.”
Dawson nodded. “No, we weren’t.”
“Now what?”
Dawson looked at the others then pointed up. “Everybody wave to the eye in the sky.”
Everyone did, and within moments, Atlas pointed to the south. “There it is.”
They all turned to see an RQ-7 Shadow UAV racing toward them, lower than it would usually travel, its operator, tucked away safely, perhaps stateside, rocking it from side to side, letting them know they had been spotted.
Atlas’ impossibly deep voice rumbled. “The Russians really need to start understanding that just because their president can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
Dawson chuckled then sat down, knowing their retrieval team was only moments away, his Beetlejuice code word the trigger for their departure.
Never trust the Russians.