The Russian Woman

Chapter 19

Captain Grigori Volkov stood in the open hatch of his armored personnel carrier, waiting for the command to advance. He was already sweating under the weight of his body armor. The sun was a blazing ball of yellow fire in a cloudless blue sky, a promise of searing temperatures to come later in the day.

Grigori's vehicle was a testament to the skills of Russian military designers. It had eight large wheels and a two hundred and sixty horsepower diesel engine that could do better than fifty miles an hour over level ground. It was armed with a 30mm cannon and a 7.62mm machine gun. The carrier was manned by a crew of three and carried seven special forces soldiers loaded down with a variety of weapons.

Kevlar plating and a reinforced floor protected the occupants against bullets, mines and IED's. If needed, an overpressure system was designed to counteract nuclear or chemical attack. It was even air-conditioned, though Grigori had little confidence that feature would continue to function in the Syrian heat.

Electronic support for the vehicle commander was a technological marvel. Grigori had the use of advanced GPS and topographical maps, satellite navigation, and night vision functions. Using his headset he could communicate with his crew, the brigade command vehicle, each of his platoon commanders, and every other vehicle in his company.

Major Gorky's command vehicle idled at the head of the column. He had chosen Grigori's Alpha Company to be first in formation behind him. It was a source of personal satisfaction, an acknowledgment of his leadership.

Grigori looked out at the featureless sands of the Syrian desert. Kurdish territory was less than an hour's drive away. His excitement was beginning to build, the first hint of adrenaline making its way through his veins. All his senses were heightened. There was a hard, metallic taste in his mouth.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled of diesel fumes and hot metal and desert dust.

The smell of war.

Grigori couldn't think of any place he'd rather be than here, feeling the vibration of the idling engine under his feet.

Ever since he could remember, he'd wanted to be a soldier. His father had reached the rank of full Colonel in the SVR and had expected his sons to follow in his footsteps. Grigori had never wanted to be anything like his father. He'd never forgiven him for his cruelty, for the way Arkady Volkov had bullied all of them. He still bore the marks of his father's belt buckle on his back.

The evening before, he'd meant to call Anya. It had slipped his mind. Now it was too late.

I wonder what she's doing? You've gone far, big sister..

Thinking of Anya made him think of Mikhail. Mikhail had doted on his big brother and sister. It had been natural that he'd follow them into the Army. That would have been all right, except for the incompetence of the idiot Lieutenant responsible for Mikhail's useless death. The man should have been court-martialed, but he was well-connected. He had received only a mild reprimand. Grigori had learned the man had been promoted and was working a desk job in Rostov. He decided that when he got back after this operation he'd look him up. Catch him off base. Teach him a lesson.

A head and shoulders emerged from the open hatch on his left. Sergeant Pavel Vassiliev had been Grigori's driver for the better part of two years.

"Going to be another hot one, sir," Vassiliev said. "The air conditioning is broken again. Too bad we can't open the vents for that desert breeze."

"You've been spoiled by all that nice, cold air, Sergeant. "

"That's right, sir. If they didn't want to spoil us, why add it in the first place?"

"They put it there for you, Pavel. So you'd have something to bitch about when it stopped working."

Vassiliev grinned at him.

"Got that right, sir."

"Everybody loaded up in back?"

"Like caviar in a tin, Captain."

A cloud of dust rose ahead, as tanks of the 12th Motorized Infantry began rolling. Grigori would have liked it better if the 22nd was out in front, but it made sense to let the tanks take the first brunt of whatever the Kurds might have ready for them.

He heard a short burst of static in his earpiece, then Major Gorky's voice.

"All units, prepare to move out."

"Here we go, sir."

Vassiliev ducked into his compartment, pulling the hatch shut with a metallic clang. Grigori did a final comm check with his platoon commanders and dropped down next to him, closing the hatch. It was forbidden to drive the vehicles with the hatches open. At least the broken AC kept air circulating. Minutes later, the formation began moving toward the highway leading to Deir-ez-Zor. From there they would cross the Euphrates into Kurdish territory.

Deir ez-Zor had been heavily damaged during the civil war of the decade before. The regime had rebuilt the city with Russian help, but had never been able to oust the Kurds from the oil fields on the other side of the river. Once across the Euphrates, the heaviest concentration of the wells under Kurdish control were to the east and south.

Phase one of the battle plan called for the columns to cross the river and split into two elements. One element would head east under the command of Colonel Brezhnev from the 12th, eliminating opposition along the way before turning south. The second element, led by Colonel Novikov, would turn south as soon as they crossed the river. Eventually the Russian forces would meet up near the town of Abu Kamal, close to the southern border with Iraq. That would secure the bulk of the fields under Kurdish control. At that point, attention could be turned to the remainder of the fields in the Northeast.

As they neared Deir ez-Zor, the desert sands gave way to fields of crops irrigated by the life-giving waters of the Euphrates. Motorcycle outriders had gone ahead and cleared the way. People watched in silence as the Russian columns rumbled through, wondering if the city was about to be destroyed again.

Grigori's company crossed the Euphrates into Kurdish territory and headed east onto a harsh, yellow plain dotted with oil pumps rising and falling in monotonous rhythm. They looked like huge metal birds, dipping their beaks.

There was no cover. If an air attack came, the columns would be sitting ducks, but Grigori wasn't worried. The SDF didn't have many planes. If they showed up, Russian fighters would take care of them. The Americans wouldn't dare interfere.

A flight of SU-35s screamed by overhead, headed somewhere to the east. He almost felt sorry for the Kurds. Those planes would turn their positions into rubble.

The first objective was a large refinery and distribution junction ten kilometers east of the highway. So far they'd encountered no resistance, but Grigori knew it couldn't last. The refinery could be seen in the distance, a sprawling complex of buildings and towers. The planes had bombed it. Thick columns of black smoke rose into the morning sky, lit with an orange glow from the raging fires below.

The air-conditioning began working again. It made the interior almost comfortable.

Grigori scanned the objective through his optics. He couldn't spot any of the enemy, only smoke and flames. Had they abandoned the refinery and fled?

The column had almost reached the outer buildings when someone in the complex opened up with a heavy machine gun. Suddenly the air filled with the crackle of small arms fire. Bullets glanced off the carrier with a ringing, metallic sound.

They followed the waving red pennant on Colonel Brezhnev's command vehicle toward the muzzle flashes of the guns. Major Gorky's vehicle was off to the left. Static crackled in Grigori's comm set.

"Eagle Six to all units. Enemy ahead in force. Engage at will."

Eagle Six was Brezhnev.

Adrenaline pumped through Grigori's veins.

"You heard him, Vassiliev," Grigori said. "Sasha, keep an eye on those buildings."

Sasha Turganev was Grigori's gunner. The 30 millimeter cannon was a powerful weapon, with enough force to penetrate the steel plate used in most armored personnel carriers. Against a building, it could blow holes through walls with ease.

It was getting noisy inside the carrier. The autoloader clacked and whirred as it fed ammunition to the gun. A steady hail of bullets rang loud against the armor as they roared into the refinery complex.

The turret made a whining sound as Sasha traversed back and forth, searching for targets. Suddenly Brezhnev's command vehicle vanished, engulfed in a ball of smoke and flame.

There was no time to think about it. A trail of white smoke erupted from one of the buildings. A rocket propelled grenade streaked toward them.

"Left! Left! RPG!" Grigori shouted.

Vassiliev swerved, too late. The grenade hit the troop compartment in the back of the carrier. The sound was like nothing Grigori had ever heard. It felt like a giant hammer had swung down out of the sky and slammed against the side of the vehicle.

He was thrown off his seat. He hit the hard metal side of the carrier, driving his helmet down over his eyes. It hurt. He felt blood trickling down his cheek.

The turn left had exposed one of the few vulnerable spots on the carrier. The explosion had blasted through the armor. In the troop compartment behind Grigori, men were on fire. Their terrible screams froze him in place. A second rocket exploded against the front, and the carrier stopped moving. Grigori looked to his left. Vassiliev was slumped over the big steering wheel. Blood ran down his face.

Smoke filled the compartment. Coughing, Grigori leaned to the side and unlocked the hatch above his unconscious driver, then threw open the hatch over his head. Dizzy, he hauled himself out until he lay on the top of the vehicle. Tracers streaked through the air. For every round he saw, nine more were invisible. Rifle flashes blinked and stuttered in the dark window openings of the refinery buildings. The air was dense with the sound of automatic fire. Explosions echoed all around. Bullets passed over him, ricocheted off the turret, whined away, a discordant symphony of death.

He crawled over to the driver's hatch and lifted it up, then bent down and pulled Vassiliev through the opening. A bullet punched into his thigh, almost knocking him off the vehicle. It was like being hit by a truck. His leg went numb. He kept hold of Vassiliev and dragged him to the side, lowering him down to the ground. Then he crawled back to his hatch and dropped down into the compartment below. Sasha's legs dangled from the turret.

Coughing and choking in thick, black smoke, he got Sasha down. Grigori couldn't feel his left leg. Somehow he struggled up through the command hatch, then reached down and hauled his gunner out of the burning BTR. Another bullet struck him as he pushed Sasha over the side. He rolled off the carrier and landed on his back on the hard ground.

Grigori lay there, looking up at the sky. Something blocked the light.

"Captain!"

Vassiliev. Why is he there?

Vassiliev was saying something, but he couldn't hear what it was. He couldn't feel anything. There was no pain. Only a sickening feeling of falling, faster and faster. He wanted to tell Vassiliev to help Sasha but he couldn't speak.

Anya.

Then the world dropped away.