Port of Murmansk Federation Base, 26
th
June 2014, 1300 hours.
Evelyn, Nathan, and Stewey took the time to further explore their surroundings. The entire facility, erected on the dockside, consisted primarily of hastily acquired shipping containers. Russian military personnel gave them enquiring looks as they passed through the rat-run maze. A central command area, with the largest gathering of staff they had seen in one place so far, appeared on the right, visible through a small opening between the massive steel boxes. Noticeably, guards stood on either side, actively checking those wishing to enter. It would appear this area was deemed classified to all but those with relevant clearance.
A shipping container, strategically placed inside the entrance to create a T-shaped corridor, served to block any prying eyes to the activities beyond.
“Evelyn, there you are!” Charles smiled. “Come, come, we have much to do. I have our clearance. There is someone I would like you to meet, this way. Nathan, Stewey, you too. You’ll need to sit in on the briefing to be aware of the situation as it now stands,” he informed us.
Charles guided them to a row of four allocated seats as others took their places. Headphones rested on the backs of each of the chairs. To the front of the assembly area was a long table with five seating places, each with a closed, black dossier folder placed squarely at the front. The assembly area filled with chatter, though none of it was discernible to the team.
After what seemed like an age of people watching, three well-dressed men and two equally stylish women took their places at the head of the table. The centre-seated man stood, hands raised in a gesture to gain silence. He indicated to the headphones on the backs of the chairs. In unison, the gathering adorned the headsets before the man finally spoke.
“Welcome, everyone, welcome,” he began.
There was a short delay in the headphones, but when the sound did come through, the words were in English, in a voice not befitting the silver-haired gentleman who stood before them.
“For the benefit of our guests, I am Vladimir Rostok, supreme commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. To my immediate right is Dr Kazimir Aslanov, chief science officer,” Rostok introduced each member in turn.
As he spoke, his thick, bushy brown eyebrows appeared to be in complete contrast to his unruly greying hair. They became the focal point of his face, their movement choreographed with the rise and fall of his voice.
“What we discuss in this room is classified information. You are all here because of your specific chosen fields of expertise, to aid and assist us. For that, the Russian Federation thanks you. A few hours ago, Russian freighter
Baltic Wanderer
crashed into the harbour wall. As yet, we have found no survivors to enable us to find out why it crashed. The bodies we did find on board were unrecognisable, or badly decomposed. There is evidence to suggest that this may have been some kind of botched, rebel chemical warfare attack upon our lands. This, we are investigating further. You will be given access to the vessel in due course. To explain further, Dr Aslanov will address the meeting,” The supreme commander stated.
Evie squeezed Nathan’s thigh, conscious of others in the room. She removed her headphones for a second and brought her lips close to whisper directly into his ear, shielded by her cupped palm.
“I know that guy, Aslanov,” she revealed.
There wasn’t time for her to expand upon her revelation before the chief science officer spoke.
“We are aware of some kind of chemical agent aboard this ship. As yet, we have not determined exactly what type of weapon this is, but it is not a natural one. My team have samples and are in the process of identifying. Given that, anyone with permission to enter the vessel will be supplied with biochemical attire and will follow protocols with regards to possible contamination. You will be searched before and after—that is procedure. Inside the complex, we have fully equipped Russian mobile lab facilities for you to use. All scientists report directly to me. In one hour, we will conduct more testing on the vessel and its remaining crew.”
Aslanov took his seat once again. His lean face and short-cropped black hair, combined with a perfectly fitted three-piece suit, made him look more like a big city lawyer than the head of science.
Rostok stood and announced the political officer, Vadik—an overweight man accustomed to the finer things in life, to excess, it seemed. His hair stuck to his skull with such precision that it was impossible to determine where the style ended and the bone began. His piercing, ice-grey eyes constantly darted from face to face as he talked—an air of revulsion and suspicion towards the foreign faces before him. He spoke about governments and international agreements, the requirement to cooperate on this task, the need for the utmost secrecy and, of course, a reminder of the chain of command.
It transpired that the two female members were merely the respective assistants of Rostok and Vadik. It would seem imperative such men of status were never seen without them. As soon as Rostok dismissed the assembly, people began to file out, none-the-wiser for having sat through the laborious, orchestrated event.
“Well, that was an anti-climax if ever there was one,” Evie stated, out of earshot of the others.
“I agree. Not much information to be had there, though the political officer made one small hiccup when he mentioned the remaining crew. Did you pick up on that, Evie?” Charles smiled.
“They must be aware of how many were on board when the ship set sail,” Nathan added.
“So, by the body count, there are others still unaccounted for,” Stewey deduced.
“Clever.” Charles winked. “And that is what we will be focusing on, primarily. That said, as far as they are concerned, we are assisting with their attempts to identify a foreign agent. The information gained from the transcripts of the spotter plane pilot pretty much confirms the presence of the Salby strain. We’ll be able to verify that when we get to examine the bodies and sweep the ship. Take it as a given, which means, be careful.”
“Lieutenant Colonel?” Stewey began.
“Yes,” both Evie and Charles responded.
“Oh, forgive me, again. Hard to get used to someone else taking point.” Charles grinned. “Evelyn, if you please.”
“Yes, Staff, what is it?” Evie smiled.
“Your field is the smaller aggressor, me and Cross here deal with the bigger stuff. What say we divide and conquer? We’ll go after the other shipmates, see what we can find out. Tell the Russians we’re heading home. Charles, apologies, Colonel Fitzgerald, Sir, reckon you could get us some transport?” Stewey smiled.
“Good thinking, Staff Sergeant, that sounds like a plan. Evie?” Charles offered.
“Hmm, if we get found out, we’ll all end up in a Siberian Gulag, you do know that, don’t you? We have no choice. If anyone jumped ship, we need to get to them before the Russians do.
If
they are infected, they pose not only a risk to the Russian Federation but with lax border controls, the whole of Eastern Europe.
And another thing, Aslanov, the science officer, I figured out where I know his face from. He featured in a convention for microbiological warfare some years ago; he’s the brainchild of Amiton, in its current form. He was the understudy of Gerhard Shrader—a chemist studying organophosphates. Studies of Amiton at Porton Down British Armed Forces Research Facility confirmed the extreme toxicity of what was, essentially, a pesticide. Aslanov enhanced the trade version of Amiton—we now know it as VX—the nerve agent,” Evie concluded.
“Well, that’s a conversation killer!” Nathan quipped.
“You mean to tell me that pompous, full of himself, slippery little weasel
created
VX gas?” Stewey blurted out, amazed.
“Yes, Staff. Among other things, he’s accredited with the version we know today. There are other VX agents he’s dabbled with, mind. I know
exactly
why he wants to find out what kind of virus is on that boat. He cannot, under any circumstances, get his hands on S.A.L.B.Y.
Nuclear war doesn’t even come close to the potential fallout; we’re talking global now. The instability within the Russian Federation is too great. There are states wishing to separate to independence, the border with Afghanistan and the tensions there, not to mention Turkey and Syria. Jesus, it would be a global war with only one winner. The virus.” Evie shuddered.
“Holy shit!” Stewey announced.
“Yeah, on a pan blocking, biblical scale of Holy shits!” Nathan added.
“That settles it then, if you’re in agreement, Evelyn?” Charles pressed.
“We have no choice. Charles, clear it with our secretary of defence, tell him what we know and who we are dealing with. I’m sure once you mention Aslanov, the relevant ears will prick up soon enough,” Evie mused. “Get the boys some kit, I’ll make an excuse for them to leave, maybe your goon squad can be of assistance? Remember, need-to-know gentlemen. The thought of Goulash for the next forty years doesn’t appeal to me, got it?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Nathan and Stewey replied in unison.
“Right. Let’s go to it,” Evie instructed.
*****
After a short, direct conversation between Charles and Hicks, stationed in Tenerife, the field operations director succumbed, relinquishing enough equipment and firepower for Stewey and Nathan to begin a small revolution. The goon squad proved to be invaluable assets, with access to much more intel than the team could have acquired by their own means. Well connected, the military outpost in Tenerife appeared to be at the very top of the classified outfit league tables.
“Right, gentlemen. You’re done. Anything else you’re likely to need? Oh, one more thing—specialist bit of location kit,” Gladstone, the more talkative of the goon squad duo began, as he handed Stewey a small black bag, “linked to LOSAT 9, it’ll locate and provide coordinates to surface-based items. Anything with a heat signature, frequency, or callsign, but remember, it’s linked to a low atmosphere orbiting satellite, so there’s only a short window of operation. If you’re using the OSD, do so sparingly, the batteries aren’t indefinite, and the display eats them up, but it is good. Use access code Lima, Alpha, Charlie, One, Niner, X-ray, you got that?”
“Got it. LAC19X,” Stewey repeated.
“Where do you guys get funding?” Nathan asked.
“That’s need-to-know, and even I don’t need to know. Sorry. Oh, before I forget; one other thing. Me and Portman here will be riding shotgun. It’s a condition of us lending you the kit.” Gladstone smirked.
The same look passed between Stewey and Gladstone at the last snippet revelation, one of mutual discontent, bound by a brother-in-arms official oath.
North of the port, in a small secluded logger’s rest, equal alliances were being forged—this time, out of kindness.
Rural location outside the Port of Murmansk, 26
th
June 2014, 0700 hours.
The small cottage, nestled in a clearing and surrounded on all sides by thick woodlands, provided a haven after the harrowing journey. Our host, Yaromir—logger of the forest—welcomed us into the warmth, provided us with means to wash, tend to raw wounds, and eat.
I watched as Barbie delicately scooped the last of the thick broth from the base of the deep bowl, clearly enjoying every mouthful of the native cuisine. To be fair, as far as stews went, it was quite something, warming me from the inside, out and more than enough to quell the protestations from my previously empty stomach. I mopped at the sides of my bowl with a hunk of homemade bread.
The gentle giant that was Yaromir—meaning man of peace— according to the snippet of wisdom Barbie recently acquired, sat opposite as we ate. He looked over each of us, presumably assessing the physical damage or perhaps the state of our clothing.
“You are from England?” he asked.
“Yes, Yaromir. We got lost while out trekking. Which way is it to the next nearest town, outside of Murmansk? Don’t suppose you have a cigarette, do you?” I asked, not sure of why I lied to this man, who as yet, had posed no threat to us.
The fact that we were hardly dressed for any kind of recreational trek anywhere, let alone northern Russia, didn’t seem to deter the big man before us. He didn’t question further.
“Am sorry. I no smoke. You stay tonight. Here. Better travel in the morning. Storm coming in,” he offered.
How could we refuse a night in warmth and safety after what we had endured?
I nodded to Barbie and our moods changed accordingly. Where first a need to be on our way, at least farther away from the plumed smoke of the harbour incident had prevailed, now, here in this isolated dwelling, the cosy feeling of security forced back the fears. I offered my hand with a nod of acceptance and thanks to the bear of a man. Yaromir stood and pointed to a small room off to the left, there was only one, with a bed big enough for the both of us. Neither of us complained.
Yes, well, I only slept with her because—
the voices of reason colluded inside my head, another pathetic “it’s never going to wash” excuse. I did sleep with Barbie, although not in that sense.
As we lay beneath the thick blankets, she edged closer to my side under the guise of needing the warmth of my body heat, which, I can assure you, could have rivalled that of the open fire right about then. Here I was in an idyllic cottage, middle of nowhere, semi-naked, with a girl half my age who had a figure to die for. What’s a man to do? The answer was sleep. Tomorrow would see us on our way, though to where I had no idea.
While Barbie’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic tempo, my mind raced over what we should do.
Who the hell do we trust? Who do we speak to and what’s the risk? Exactly what is wrong with us?
The problem with the latter question was that I didn’t feel
wrong
at all. Indeed, I had none of the aches and pains I usually suffered from, no stiffness of joints, age-related symptoms, or grief from the injuries I’d sustained in our escape. I felt fantastic. It crossed my mind to rouse Barbie from her slumber, to ask her if she felt good. On second thoughts, I’d only just managed to quash the pressure in my boxers enough to get comfortable. If ever there was a passion-killer, it was overthinking—better not chance it. Besides, for all her beauty, she wasn’t Charley.
The morning sun shone through the small, wood-framed window to reveal not only the length of time since the last glass clean, but also a bright, cloudless day. It was chilly now, the fire, long since out of food, had left only charred, fragmented cinders in the hearth. Only when I realised where I was, and with whom, did I sit up with a start.
Much-needed sleep had recharged and energised me, as much as it had Barbie, by the looks of it, because she wasn’t next to me. I dressed, still fighting off the clutches of sleep, intent on locating Barbie and saying our goodbyes to the friendly lumberjack. As I opened the bedroom door to the short hallway, two things heightened my senses: The absence of any kind of birdsong, and the absence of any form of chat, music, or laughter.
In a place so out of the way, unlikely to get much in the way of visitors let alone two foreigners in the middle of the night, what were the chances of a host having nothing to say, of not wanting to know anything? My mind raced over the possibilities. Had I underestimated Yaromir? Was Barbie in danger even now, right at this minute? I rammed through the door to the quaint living area with such intent that it rattled as it rebounded from the wall. Fortunately, my display fell upon no one. Instead, the rhythmic sound of axe-head upon wood penetrated the silence. Barbie stood, dwarfed by the sheer bulk of Yaromir, as he swung the axe down hard on the latest block of wood to be chopped for the fire. He must have been there for some time, given the size of the pile already cut.
“Hey, sir. You woke up. You looked so peaceful I didn’t have the heart to wake you. It was, um, is, a beautiful morning. Yaromir was up with the birds so I joined him. I figured it was the least I could do to try and help repay his kindness.” She smiled.
“Don’t start with the sir thing again, Barbie. I thought I’d made that clear,” I barked.
She came towards me, her hand extended palm up. I took it.
“My name is Simon. From now on, please call me Simon, okay?”
Her hand slid from my grip as she raised her eyes to meet mine. “Understood, Simon,” she began. “How about some coffee? Do you like coffee, Simon?”
“I, uh, yes. I do,” I babbled, somewhat perplexed by what just happened between us.
“Yaromir! Coffee? You like coffee?” Barbie called to the big Russian.
“Da, kofe!” Yaromir boomed. He swung the axe one more time, splitting a metre-long section of log straight down the middle in one strike. The pieces fell on either side of the thick tree trunk as Yaromir buried the axe head into it. He turned then, leaving the axe handle at forty-five degrees skyward, long strides catapulting his bulk towards the cottage. It would appear that it was now time for coffee.
I followed the pair of them inside, my head still trying to make sense of the whole sir thing. At the wood-burning stove, Barbie had become quite the hostess, the kitchen table set with mugs, bowls, and a fresh pot of steaming coffee. She proceeded to pour for us, the liquid dark brown vitality casting swirls of aromatic steam.
“Sit, Simon. I’ve made scrambled eggs. Would you like some?” she asked.
“Um, yes, please. How long have you been up and about? Do you feel okay?” I queried, a little concerned at the change in her personality.
“Oh, I feel fantastic. Not felt this good in ages. Must be the country air, I guess. We’ve been up a good few hours now, the sunrise here is amazing; you really should see it sometime,” she said, cheerily.
Yaromir sat, heartily shovelling stacked spoons of scrambled eggs, followed by bites of toasted bread, swilled down with the hot coffee. He smiled an acknowledgement at the food, scrambled eggs English style being a treat, it would seem.
I had just begun to relax and enjoy the breakfast, the company, and the setting when the door flew inwards. Yaromir rose fast, way too fast for a man of his size. He brought his breakfast spoon down hard upon the forehead of the attacker, then lunged at the man, grabbed his clothing, and lifted him clean off the ground. He let out one almighty growl as he launched the man, easily of my own build, back through the door to land in a heap on the path outside. He was about to go out after the would-be assailant, but stopped at the sight of numerous barrels pointed his way. Yaromir edged backwards, unsure of what he could do to prevent the soldiers from entering his home.
With a gun pointed at his chest, Yaromir continued backwards until the table prevented any further retreat. I moved next to him, determined that if we were going to go down, it would be one hell of a fight. Barbie took one look at the pointed gun before she threw herself at the soldier. It took both of us to pry her off the man and keep her still. The soldier, in shock at her ferocity, suffered claw marks to his face but was otherwise in one piece. He edged backwards, the gun now pointed at Barbie, rather than the big Russian, to be replaced by a smarter-looking, uniformed man.
“Sit! All of you, sit!” the soldier ordered.
We did as we were told, though not before I gave Barbie a sharp look and a mouthed “No!” She sat to my left, purposefully placing her body between me and the imposing threat in the doorway.
“There now, isn’t that more civilised?” he added, his tone no longer that of an officer.
Yaromir struck up a conversation in Russian. The questions and answers flowed far too fast for either of us to discern what was actually being discussed. After ten minutes of debate, Yaromir finally ceased his barrage, leaned back in his chair, and waved a hand at the officer, permission for him to enter his home.
“I am General Uri Volkov. I apologise for the brash entrance, but we did not know what kind of resistance we might find here.”
“General of what?” I asked boldly.
“I am the leader of the resistance. The People’s Resistance Army. And you would be Simon Lloyd, British citizen. You are currently wanted as a top priority by the hierarchy of Mother Russia, da?” Volkov smiled.
“But how do you—” I began, taken aback by his knowledge.
“We have been tracking Russian military communications for the last few days, Mr Lloyd. We know only too well of your significance although as to why they want you so badly, that, we can only guess at. We felt that you would be safer with us, hence our intrusion. I see you met Yaromir already. He is one of us, though not quite as active as he used to be, I might add.” The officer tipped his hat towards our host, who merely smiled at his last remark.
“But that still doesn’t explain how you know my name,” I challenged.
“All in good time, Mr Lloyd. Please, be patient. I would like you and the lovely lady, that name we haven’t been able to source yet, to accompany my troops and I to a safe mountain retreat. The military have already mobilised, searching for you, it is only a matter of hours before they tear this place apart to find you, and they will,” Volkov warned.
He spoke quickly in Russian to Yaromir; the response, this time, gained a militarily curt answer.
Yaromir then stood and spoke calmly to me. “Go with the general, you will be safe there—safer than here. The Russian military will not harm me if you are gone, have no reason to,” he urged.
His eyes never left mine as he spoke. I felt that I could trust this man with my life, indeed, with both of our lives. With little time to spare, I appraised the officer now standing in the shadow of the man-mountain we had come to be friends with.
Surely, Yaromir wouldn’t lead us into any kind of trap? Not now, not after all he did for us?
General Volkov stood perfectly straight, confidence incarnate; his air of professionalism and leadership radiated, even to a civilian like me. He was young, I thought, for one of such responsibility, and yet, he wore no outward signs of rank. There were no in-your-face uniform accreditations of any normal military commander, at least, not like the ones in the films. Short-cropped, grey-flecked hair was visible only when he removed his hat to acknowledge his comrade in jest. His uniform looked a little faded, but nonetheless functional, and he wore shoes rather than boots, peeking out from beneath his military-style trousers, still with a passable shine.
“General, do you have a cigarette?” I asked. I remembered in the movies how it played out. As a sign of peace, the man with the upper hand offered a smoke.
“Da, sure. Here, you keep them,” Volkov stated as he handed me the packet. “You need a light? I have been trying to quit, anyway.”
“Thank you. We will go with you, General Volkov,” I conceded.
“It is the right choice. I will see you soon,” Yaromir added.
“Barbie, we can trust them. I feel it. We should go. Get the backpack.”
Barbie nodded. No questions or concerns, she left for the bedroom to collect the small pack and returned ready to move, less than a minute later.
“Come. We go,” Volkov announced.
As we prepared to make the journey, I could see the lights of the port in the distance. I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening about the
Baltic Wanderer
. I mean, it’s not every day an ocean freighter gets parked in the Harbour Master’s ‘reserved’ spot, is it?