Roman Raskolnikov woke up and wished he hadn’t.
He had been racked all night by fear of his inevitable death in the sawmill that day, but had then drifted off into a deep sleep for half an hour just before the guard banged the metal bar at the end of the hut to wake them up.
He shrugged the old blanket off his head and stuck his head out. His body ached from shivering all night. The guards were going up and down the central aisle between the two rows of towering bunks, shouting and shoving people awake.
Men swore and stumbled around in the dim light looking for their boots under the bottom bunks. Two trusties had the easy work of carrying the huge bucket of nightsoil on a long metal pole. People stood back as they made their way along the aisle.
Shubin, the team leader, was at the bottom of his bunks, shouting: ‘Come on, get down here!’
Raskolnikov knew his fate couldn’t be avoided. He swung his legs onto the ladder and moved like an automaton down the rungs.
Vadim had obviously told the other politicals what the guards were planning to do and they looked as depressed as he did when they saw him. The nine men of the 33rd work team walked out to roll call as if they were all condemned.
Roman stood to attention, under the arc-lit night, amongst the ranks of black-clad prisoners, waiting to hear what he had imagined hearing so many times before.
The work roster was read out from the platform: ‘The following teams are on forest detail: 43rd, 21st…The following teams are on construction detail: 57th, 65th…The following teams are on sawmill detail: 9th, 82nd, 57th, 78th—’ come on! They were playing with him now—‘44th, 56th and 33rd.’
There—they had left it until last, a final sadistic ploy.
That was it then, it was all coming true. He would never see his wife, Ivana, again. Little Masha and Irina would both grow up into beautiful young women without him to look after them.
He couldn’t see clearly, because of the lights shining in his face, but he was sure that Commandant Bolkonsky, standing on the platform directly in front of him in his grey greatcoat and peaked cap, was looking at him, gloating over his fate. The commandant clapped his gloved hands and flexed his shoulders in a satisfied way; he had just delivered the orders that had sent Roman to his death. He was the final stage in the system of oppression that Roman had fought against to bring freedom to Russia, and that system had just won.
Bolkonsky looked across at the machine-gunner next to him, with the bipod of his weapon resting on a chest-high wooden frame, and reached out to press the button on the podium for the siren to signal the end of roll call.
A puff of red dust went up off the forehead of the machine-gunner and the soldier fell over backwards. The gun slipped off the wooden frame and clattered onto the planking.
Commandant Bolkonsky’s hand stopped in midair. He looked at the soldier on the floor, first with irritation and
then alarm as he saw the bullet hole neatly drilled in his forehead.
Heavy cracks and flashes of white light exploded all around the parade ground and the power cut out, plunging the whole camp into darkness.
An MTP-2 mine went off under the main oil tanks and a sheet of orange flame shot up into the dark sky. Burning oil spattered across a wooden barrack hut, which burst into flame.
The large radio mast with the satellite antennas on it went next, a double explosion blew two of its four metal legs out and the whole structure tilted slowly over before crashing down onto the radio hut roof. The generator shed, phone lines, gas tank store and diesel station all blew up one after another.
The sound of a helicopter swirled in from somewhere outside the camp. Arkady and Yamba were both watching carefully through their NVGs in the cockpit and saw the lights cut out, the signal for them to make their first approach.
Keeping in a low hover over the treetops, Arkady used the windspeed antenna, on the outside of the aircraft in front of his window, as a crude aiming device for the 80mm rocket pods mounted on pylons just alongside the cabin; using the helicopter as a standoff artillery platform.
When he was on target he barked, ‘Fire now!’ to Yamba next to him. The African hit the firing switch and the first 80mm rocket screeched away from the pod by Arkady’s right hand, trailing a stream of burning orange propellant sparks.
The orange dart coursed away into the night and exploded on a building behind the target. It was the right height but went wide to the west, so he adjusted the aim and then yelled, ‘Fire the pod!’ as he swung the aircraft in an arc across the target.
Yamba ripple-fired the remaining nineteen rockets in the pod; they shot out one after another and howled into the target; a series of white explosions stabbed across the side of the helicopter sheds. The two Mil Mi-17s inside were hit repeatedly, their fuel tanks went up and with their aluminium airframe they burned with a brilliant white light.
Arkady quickly threw the aircraft into a sharp bank and retreated back into the woods, circling round to come in and strafe the vehicle sheds, with the trucks and Vityazs, on the other side of the complex in a similar way.
Commandant Bolkonsky dived behind his podium and took cover. The entire camp was blowing up around him. Orange flames and secondary explosions were now the only light source, and thick clouds of oil smoke drifted across the parade ground. Some sort of shoulder-launched rocket was fired from just outside the inner fence and hit the door of the armoury shed by the parade ground.
From where he was, Bolkonsky crept round the edge of the podium and looked at the nine hundred prisoners in front of him. They had initially thrown themselves on the ground as well, along with their guards, but were now beginning to get up and scramble away. Bolkonsky could see that the armoury door had been blown open; if they got in there he would have a war on his hands.
His special prisoner could not be allowed to escape. He had spoken to President Krymov’s First Secretary only last week and promised him that Raskolnikov would be killed; he had to get back in charge of the situation and finish the job.
He looked around him and saw the machine gun lying on the floor near him. He wasn’t sure where the shot had come from that had hit the gunner and he didn’t want to find out, so he reached across, pulled the machine gun behind
the podium and then yelled out to the guards in front of him: ‘Shoot Raskolnikov! Shoot the bastard!’
He then opened fire on where he thought Raskolnikov had gone to ground. The gun chattered and red tracer lines spat out across the parade ground; most of them went over the prisoners on the floor because, from where he was lying, Bolkonsky couldn’t get the gun depressed low enough to hit anyone, but the effect was still great.
The prisoners scrambled and scattered for cover. Many had already attacked the guards, grabbing their rifles and shooting others; firefights and complete carnage broke out in front of him.
Shockwaves made him duck his head as another peal of rockets exploded on the other side of the camp, blowing up more buildings.
From where he lay on top of the log pile, Magnus saw the tracer coming from behind the podium but couldn’t see Bolkonsky to shoot him so he concentrated on the guards. A man with a whip coiled at his waist brought his rifle up to his shoulder, swung it in towards Raskolnikov and fired a burst. The rounds kicked up snow amidst a group of men crawling on their stomachs away from Bolkonsky towards the gate. One screamed and sat up as a bullet went through his ankle.
Magnus centred the crosshairs on the guard’s chest, to give himself the largest target area, held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. The impact of the heavy round sent the rifle flying up out of the guard’s hands as he was knocked over backwards. Magnus calmly worked the bolt, chambered another round and looked down his scope for anyone else causing problems.
As soon as he had seen the machine-gunner go down, Alex had hit the switch on his radio detonator to blow the
ten mines that he had set around the camp, and Pete had done the same, before also firing a Shmel round in through the inner fence at the armoury.
Alex was in cover near the inner perimeter and as soon as the lights went out he started cutting his way through the three fences to get to Raskolnikov. This took longer than he had expected and so he had only just cut through the final one when he heard Bolkonsky shouting from the podium and then opening fire.
Fuck!
The crazy bastard was about to shoot Roman in front of his eyes. He scrambled through the last fence, swung the Shmel launcher off his back and kneeled in firing position. He quickly pulled out the simple trigger mechanism and sights and focused on the platform. With his NVGs he could see it clearly a hundred yards away and with an area-effect weapon he didn’t have to be deadly accurate.
He pulled the trigger, the tube bucked hard against his shoulder, a blast of propellant jettisoned the rocket casing out of the back of it and the fin-stabilised round screeched straight into the wooden stall. In an instant, the primary charge blew up, sending out a cloud of fuelair explosive, which then went off and took out the whole platform in a fireball.
Game over, he thought with grim satisfaction.
He swung the launcher back over his shoulder and ran out into the maelstrom of men in front of him, hunting for Roman. All the figures running around him wore the same black uniforms. A terrified man cannoned into him and turned round. A starved, whiskery face stared at him.
Alex shoved him out of the way.
‘Raskolnikov!’ he yelled, pushing his way through the crowd towards the area in front of the platform.
‘Raskolnikov!’
‘Over there!’
A small man with a ratty face scuttled past him but then stopped and pointed.
‘Raskolnikov!’
A figure on the ground rolled over and looked up at him.
Alex didn’t recognise the withered face from the photos of the national football captain, but he saw the number D-504 on his hat. He reached down and grabbed the front of his jacket to pull him to his feet; the frightened eyes widened in alarm.
‘Who are you?’ the man shouted.
Alex stared at him for a split-second trying to think how much he should say. They could easily be captured at this point and anything he told Roman could be divulged under interrogation.
‘We’ve come to get you out!’ he shouted back, and tried to pull him up but Roman grabbed his smock. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted again.
Alex realised he had to give some reassurance, the guy was in shock. ‘Shaposhnikov,’ he said more quietly.
Roman frowned as he tried to take it in and let go of Alex. He couldn’t think how the billionaire supporter of the government was connected with this mayhem thousands of miles from Moscow, but whatever was happening was undoubtedly better than being murdered in the sawmill.
Alex saw he was mollified for the moment. ‘Come on! We’ve got to get out!’
He dragged him stumbling towards the gap in the fence that he had cut.
Pete barged towards them from the other side of the parade ground, using the butt of his rifle to knock people out of the way. He grabbed Roman’s other arm and helped propel him along.
Other prisoners had found the open armoury door now and were passing out assault rifles; the scrappy fighting intensified as convicts scurried around, crouched low in the darkness, firing indiscriminately at anything that moved. Bursts of automatic fire ripped out and stray bullets cracked and zipped all around them.
Alex dragged Roman through the gap in the fence and headed north in the direction where Bogdan and Colin were waiting in the Vityaz. He dragged Roman forward into cover behind the bakery hut. From there he began pairs fire and manoeuvre with Pete.
Alex kneeled low with his AN-94 pressed hard against his cheekbone, scanning for targets behind them. ‘Prepare to move!’ he barked.
Pete got a firm hold of Roman’s coat collar.
‘Move!’
The Aussie dashed forward, dragging Roman towards the next piece of cover.
With all the burning buildings around them, there was a lot of illumination now, and the movement attracted the attention of a pair of guards. They were running along the fence with their rifles held across their chests; they stopped and turned their weapons towards Alex.
His eyes zeroed in on them. In his hyped-up state he saw each movement slowed down so he could discern it clearly: the way one of them skidded in the snow slightly as he stopped, how the one on the left was taller and had a more natural shooter’s stance as he swung the black gaping hole of his muzzle round.
Alex squinted into the V-shaped backsight next to his eye and lined it up with the sighting ring on the end of the barrel; he centred the aiming point at the bottom of the left-hand soldier’s ribcage.
The AN-94 was designed for asymmetric recoil, allowing it to fire two-shot bursts without the hefty kick of a normal assault rifle.
Alex squeezed the trigger, the gun cracked out two rounds but only dug back lightly into his shoulder instead of kicking up, allowing him to traverse instantly to the right, target the next guard and drill another two rounds into him. Both targets went down and stayed there.
‘Prepare to move!’ Pete shouted from behind him. He was now down on one knee, hunched over the sights of his own AN-94, ready to cover Alex.
‘Move!’
Alex got up, sprinted back to where Pete was and they repeated the cycle all the way towards the north gate.
They came to the corner of the final building, where they were supposed to meet the Vityaz with Colin and Bogdan, and flattened themselves in the shadows.
Alex stuck his head round the corner. The Vityaz was there but Bogdan was standing next to it in his colonel’s uniform and peaked cap, with three guards with rifles held across their chests questioning him.
He caught an intense question from the sergeant: ‘But, sir,
where
is your authorisation?’
‘Sergeant, this is an official matter! The place is being attacked by saboteurs, you need to stop fucking around here and get back on the gate!’