Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre (11 page)

He’d been about to ask the Russian how they could give chase, but now there didn't seem any point. Then he had an idea.

"Do you have a decent sized airport in Irkutsk?"

* * *

They waited outside the airport perimeter fence, still huddled inside the trucks. At least it was out of the worst of the freezing weather. It was two hours before dawn, and no traffic moved, either by road or by air. Yuri nodded at Talley.

"You will find little chance of finding an aircraft to take you to Chita. Apart from a small maintenance staff, the airfield is closed until morning, and even then I doubt you will find an aircraft to take you."

Talley continued gazing around the taxiways. There were several aircraft parked, some large enough to carry them on to Chita, the next major intersection of the Trans-Siberian Railroad.

"What about a private charter? There must be someone prepared to get out of bed for a bundle of US dollars."

"Maybe," Yuri grunted. "The problem is not getting them out of bed, but getting them out of the bar sober enough to fly. I know some of these pilots. They spend most of their nights drinking, an hour or two for sleep, and then they go on duty to fly these aircraft. Why do you think we have so many aviation accidents in Russia?"

Talley kept searching the airfield. He knew what he needed, something that belonged to a small, private charter outfit, someone who ran his business on a wing and a prayer, and would do anything for a fast buck. Then he saw it. He'd almost missed it at first. Right behind a big Ilyushin passenger jet, an ageing, Antonov AN2 prop plane. Guy saw the direction of his gaze and shook his head.

"No, you can't be serious. No way, it wouldn't even get us off the tarmac. That’s a museum piece."

"It's the cargo variant of the AN2, Guy. Just what we need, an empty cargo hold that allows the biplane to carry the maximum weight, and look at the condition of it. Whoever runs that aircraft is in need of money."

"Damn right. The reason they need money is because no one is crazy enough to trust that thing. Look at it, Boss. It’s falling to pieces."

He ignored him. "Yuri, is there any chance you can find the pilot?"

The Russian smiled: "Josef? Sure, he runs cargoes for us sometimes, when we can't find anything better. You sure about this? I wouldn't trust myself in that thing. A couple of months ago, he came down too hard and broke the landing gear. It's fixed now, but even so…"

"What's he like, this Josef?"

"As old as Moses. At least he looks that way,” he chuckled. “Drinks a lot, and lives on his own in an apartment in town."

"Can you take us there?"

The Russian nodded and started the engine. Talley called up the rest of the men in the other trucks and told them to wait. Barrington was suspicious and started asking questions, so he did the only thing possible and ignored him. The truck rattled through the depressing, decayed town, a relic of the Soviet era, yet there were a few signs of the emergence of the modern Russian economy. A couple of smart, new luxury apartment blocks, a Mercedes main dealer, and a small shopping mall with signs for Burberry and Hermes.

Some of the Russians are making money. That at least is progress.

Yuri drove through the back streets, and they pulled up outside a crumbling apartment block that looked like it was built in Stalin's time. Gray, ashen concrete, covered in grime and rust stains from the decaying internal steel structure. He climbed out of the cab with Yuri, and Alessandra Falco joined them. He didn't argue. They followed the Russian through the front door, ignored the elevator that was out of order, and walked up to the second floor. Borodin banged on a battered wooden door. It took several minutes to get an answer, and when it finally opened, the sight that greeted him was a shock. He looked like an extra from some Hollywood remake of an Old Testament Bible story. Thin, almost emaciated, and from his appearance, about eighty years old. Yet he still had all his hair, plenty of it, mainly gray with a few streaks of black; a great, wild bush that surrounded his head and joined his equally bushy beard, to look as if he wore a kind of halo. He seemed uncaring that two of the three people standing outside his door were dressed in military camouflage, with armored vests and carrying assault weapons. He finally spoke, and his breath smelt like a speakeasy.

"What you want, banging on my door at this time of night?" He spat out the words in Russian. Alessandra quietly translated.

"I want your plane, to rent your plane," Talley told him.

"I will be at the airfield sometime in the morning. Call and see me then," the man grimaced.

"I want it right now. A short flight to Chita."

"Now! Impossible. The airfield is closed until morning. Come back then."

He went to slam the door, but Yuri was ready for him. He put his boot against it, gesturing for Talley to continue.

"What is your normal fee for carrying a consignment to Chita?"

The man sighed and calculated for a few moments, "For you, three thousand dollars, American."

"Take us tonight, and I'll make it ten thousand dollars."

He knew Barrington was carrying a large bundle of cash for exactly this kind of contingency.

The pilot scowled: "For tonight, the price is fifteen thousand dollars. That's my final offer. Fuel is expensive. I'll also have to bribe the airport staff to turn on the runway lights, and that won't come cheap. They’re all fucking thieves!”

Talley nodded. "Done. Let's go."

The man grumbled again, but he disappeared back inside his apartment and re-emerged wearing a heavy sheepskin coat. The smell of vodka was even stronger. He’d obviously had a last pull on the bottle to fortify himself. They went downstairs, marched out to the truck, and the pilot squeezed into the cab next to Alessandra. Talley could see her nostrils flaring with the smell. It wasn’t just the booze. He exuded a stench of dirt and stale sweat, as if he hadn't washed for the past month.

"I guess it’s how they keep warm in Siberia," he smiled. She pulled a face and didn't translate it into Russian.

As they neared the airfield, he called Barrington and Guy to tell them they had the aircraft. The trucks already had their engines running when they drove past and followed them through the main gate out onto the taxiway. Yuri braked to a halt close to Josef's elderly Antonov.

"I will not come with you. Even if there is room enough in that contraption, I prefer to stay alive so I will be able to take revenge on the man who betrayed us to the Chechens."

"You know who it is?"

"Yes, I've given it some thought, and I know with the right amount of persuasion, the one I have in mind will tell us everything."

He saw Alessandra shiver at the nightmare images of what they would inflict on their victim, but it was too bad. These people lived by a brutal code, and all of them knew the penalty for treachery.

The Russian continued: "I will go Chita with my men. We will travel by road, and it will take us at least twenty-four hours to arrive. You have to find a way to stop that train until we can join you in the attack."

Talley offered his hand. "We’ll stop it, never fear.”

Assuming we ever make it to Chita in the Antonov.

“
You have my thanks, Yuri. And again, I'm sorry for the loss of your father."

"Thank you. Men die, it is the cycle of life and death, and of revenge,” he shrugged. “This is Siberia, where survival is often difficult and hard. Those who spill blood must be prepared to give it.” His relaxed expression became taut and grim. “As with the Chechens, the streets will run with rivers of their blood by the time we’ve finished. We will see you in Chita, if you have managed to stop the train."

"We'll manage."

He climbed down out of the truck, along with the pilot, Josef, and Alessandra. The men piled out of the back and looked warily at the Antonov.

"No way! No fucking way!" Barrington spat angrily. "That thing won't even get off the ground. You'll have to find something else."

They stared at the ancient looking aircraft with appalled looks, which ranged from dread to stubborn refusal. Talley could hardly blame them.

The AN2 was a single engine biplane, the type that only the Soviets could have produced when the rest of the world was building single wing, multiple engine aircraft, like the famous Douglas DC-3 Dakota. The AN2 had been in production since 1947, and incredibly they continued building them until 2002.

Josef's aircraft looked like it had to be one of the earlier models. The fuselage paintwork was almost non-existent. Only a small amount of the original livery remained, interspersed with alloy patches that had been riveted over damaged areas. One of the landing gear legs was clearly new, the other distinctly corroded. It even appeared to be slightly bent.

"There is nothing else, Major, and the pilot requires fifteen thousand dollars for the charter."

The MP exploded, ranted, and argued while Josef quietly began his pre-flight checks and ran up the engine. If he was curious about carrying such a large number of uniformed soldiers in his aircraft, he didn't show it. His only question was the combined weight of their party. Alessandra translated.

"About 2500 kg," Talley told him.

The pilot stared at him. "This aircraft will carry a maximum of 2100 kg."

"Can you get off the ground with the extra weight?"

He shrugged and spat, "We'll find out. If we crash on take off, no refunds."

Alessandra whispered the last part of the sentence in Talley's ear. He didn't repeat it, just began pushing the men into the cabin. It was little more than an aluminum box, with torn straps and old ropes strewn over the floor. It stank of oil, grease, and animal dung, with a faint, musk, rich background aroma. Marijuana. Josef started the engine, and the noise was a deafening roar. The vibrations of the engine seemed to shake every panel and rivet inside the aircraft. In two places, it was possible to see the ground through gaps in the floor. When they were aboard, Guy swung the door shut and forced himself inside the crowded cargo space.

"Now I know what a sardine feels like. I don't think I'll ever buy another tin. Always assuming we survive the take off," he smiled at Talley.

Any chance of a reply vanished as Josef gunned the engine up to full power. As if by a prearranged signal, the runway lights flickered on, and then they went off. He shouted over the radio a torrent of verbal abuse in Russian, and after a few seconds, they came back on again. He muttered again, and there was no need to translate. The airfield staff were delivering on their bribe. The aircraft was moving, and the pilot lurched onto the runway. He was already at maximum power, and they picked up speed, but slowly, much too slowly.

The runway was long, almost certainly built during the Cold War for Russian Air Force interceptors, possibly even Supersonic Strategic Bombers like the Backfire. Which was as well, for it looked as if they’d need every meter of tarmac, and then some. Talley looked forward through the windshield. It wasn't difficult. All that divided the cabin from the cockpit was a ragged screen of rope netting.

The perimeter lights were closing at an alarming rate, and still Josef kept her firmly on the ground on, making no effort to lift off. He wondered if he should say something to the pilot, something along the lines of preferring to fly to Chita rather than bounce along the ground at high speed. But the man had presumably flown from the airfield many times before, and he kept silent.

They reached the first boundary lighting tower. He recalled they must be within five hundred meters of the end of the runway. The lights rushed past, and then it was possible to see the perimeter fence, beyond which there was nothing except the black of night. There was no way they were going to make it, yet he knew there was nothing he could do to stop them rushing to their doom. Nothing. They passed the final light, and then the wheels bumped as they went off the concrete and onto an older, less well-maintained surface. It was unlit, and they were in total darkness.

He shouted to the men, "Brace yourselves for impact!"

An impact that never happened. At the last second, Josef pulled back on the stick, and the ungainly aircraft clawed its way into the air, gaining height centimeter by centimeter. A farmhouse loomed in front of them, visible because of a light shining in a second floor window. They were heading straight for it, and he knew the pilot had to make a decision that could destroy them. If he tried to gain more height, he could stall. And if he banked away, the aircraft could lose control and plunge into the ground. Josef did neither; he held the control wheel casually as they rushed toward the roof. There was a slight shiver in the airframe as the undercarriage brushed against an unseen object, and then they were clear. He realized he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out slowly. Josef glanced behind, saw his expression, and laughed. He shouted something in Russian, and Alessandra translated.