Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition) (24 page)

The An-22 Antonov
sat on the apron in front of the hangar, with the cargo bay’s aft ramp lowered
beneath the protruding twin-tail. Avery recognized the registration number from
Ayni. A dozen meters away, there was an Ilyushin in GlobeEx livery and the
trailer truck from the Sosny storage site. There were also men in Russian army
uniforms near the Ilyushin, officers.

Two Russians in
civilian clothing grabbed onto Avery by each arm and effortlessly picked him up,
giving no consideration to his injuries. His damaged rib released new waves of
pain coursing through his side and chest. Combined with the dizziness and
nausea, he could barely maintain his balance, let alone walk in a straight
line.

He must have
stood around too long, because one Russian punched him hard in the gut and
screamed something he didn’t understand in his face. Avery got the message and
started walking, grimacing against the pain. After several staggering steps,
between which he nearly fell over, he regained his sense balance and managed to
stay upright and carry his weight outside the hangar.

The sunlight
forced him to avert his glare down at the tarmac, but the warmth felt good,
comforting. The stench of burnt jet fuel and hydraulic fluid carried to his
nose, and he heard the low hum of idle jet engines and the sound of grinding
metal, and then a forklift rolled away from the Antonov, having just deposited
its load, while the trailer truck backed into the Illyushin’s wide bay.

 Fifteen yards
ahead, Avery watched Kheda’s men drag Aleksa up the Antonov’s ramp. At the top,
she stopped and turned around, looking out for him. Then her escort shoved her
inside, and they disappeared into the back of the mammoth jet.

Avery weighed
his options. Like someone being abducted and forced into the kidnapper’s car, the
last thing he wanted was to board that plane. His instincts screamed at him to do
something, anything, to resist going aboard. In the air and outnumbered, he’d
be absolutely powerless. Not that there was much he could do now. Sure, he
could put up a limited fight, which would probably result with them beating the
shit out of him some more and physically dragging him aboard. That is if they
didn’t kill him outright. It’s not like the Belarusian police would give a shit
if the Russians dropped him right here on the tarmac. Or he could make a run
for it and get caught by the police or Litvin’s security.

Hell, he’d
rather be dead than spend the rest of his life in a Belarusian prison anyway. For
now, boarding the plane at least briefly prolonged his life expectancy, so in
the interests of survival, he went with that. Plus Aleksa was already onboard,
and he didn’t want to abandon her. After dragging her into this, he thought she
should at least not have to die alone.  

Resignedly,
Avery staggered up the steep incline of the ramp and into the cargo bay. The
cavernous space was sufficiently large to accommodate as many as four army
tanks or something as big as a Mi-24 gunship. All gray and white, with halogen
lights shining brightly overhead, the cargo bay had a sterile, clinical look. A
hooked crane hung from a rail system that ran the length of the ceiling, and
the air felt cold and metallic.

Aleksa sat on
the floor, her back against the fuselage’s aluminum skin. Getting his first
close look at her, he saw that she suffered a bruised eye, plus the scrape on
her forehead where she’d hit the street, but she was able to keep her head up
and otherwise didn’t look like she’d been hurt too badly.

Avery stumbled
over to her. He squeezed his abs and legs tight, to keep the strain off his
damaged ribs, while he carefully lowered his weight to the floor next to her. His
head dropped forward, and he shut his eyes, ready to pass out again. He heard
voices speaking Russian in the background and the steady whine of turboprop
engines, sounding distant and muffled. He thought he heard Aleksa say
something, but lifting his head and responding required energy he no longer
possessed.

He felt so
tired. Within seconds, he already felt himself drifting away. He needed just a
few minutes to shut down and re-charge, get his head together.

But Aleksa wasn’t
going to give him the opportunity. She prodded him with her shoulder and said,
“Look.”

Avery painfully
opened his eye.

Directly across
from them, five steel, heavy-duty cylindrical containers, light blue in color,
lay stacked on their sides, each row becoming smaller from the base up,
creating a pyramid. There were two such pyramids. Each container was about five
feet long, with maybe a two foot diameter, with the end caps bolted on. Chains
and cargo netting stretched taught secured them in place to prevent them from rolling.
Avery couldn’t make out the black Belarusian labels and Cyrillic writing on the
end-caps, but the international radioactive materials trefoil symbol was
immediately recognizable.

 “It’s not safe
to be this near,” Aleksa said.

The Russians
didn’t seem concerned about exposure. Avery thought the cylinders would be
sufficiently insulated to contain the radiation. Inside each container would be
another container in which the HEU pellets were kept, with o-rings on the end
creating a tight seal. Inside, a layer of fiberboard and plywood separated the
two containers. But it didn’t matter. They weren’t going to live long enough to
have to worry about the effects of radiation poisoning.

Ruslan Kheda and
two more mafiya men boarded the aircraft. Kheda gave some orders to them,
pointing toward Avery and Aleksa. Then he hit a button on the control module,
raising the ramp and locking it in place. The trio walked across the cargo bay
and through the open hatchway into the passenger compartment in the forward
fuselage behind the cockpit.

Before the
hatchway slammed shut, sealing Avery and Aleksa inside the cargo hold, Avery caught
a glimpse of another Russian already in the crew compartment. He figured there were
at least seven onboard, including the pilots. They were all big guys, too, and
he figured everyone was armed.

After several minutes,
the massive engines and propellers picked up, and the aircraft kicked into
motion. Slowly and smoothly, the pilot taxied the Antonov onto the runway. Once
the pilot put the throttle into full power and the Antonov picked up speed,
accelerating down the long stretch of runway, the deafening roar blotted out
all other sound in the cargo hold, blasting Avery’s and Aleksa’s ears. Contrary
to what Hollywood depicted, it was near impossible to hold a conversation in a
transport’s cargo hold.

Bombarded by the
unending thunder barrage of the engines, Aleksa winced, and Avery, with the
trauma his head had already sustained, found the volume especially distressing.
He wanted to tear his ears off. But that was the point. Being held in the cargo
hold was meant to further wear them down and disorientate them. Plus, here,
Ruslan Kheda didn’t have to worry about making a mess.

The cargo bay’s
floor abruptly and steeply angled upward as the Antonov’s four turboprop
engines lifted the jet off the ground and carried it on a steep ascent into the
sky. Aleksa fell over against Avery, her hair in his face and her shoulder
digging into his ribs. He winced, and she gave him an apologetic look, which he
shrugged off.

The plane
reached altitude and leveled out. At thirty-plus thousand feet, the temperature
dropped rapidly in the cargo hold. Aleksa kept close against Avery. Her warmth and
presence gave him comfort.

Unable to
converse verbally, she looked up at him, as if expecting him to have a solution
or some way out of here. He returned her gaze through his one good eye, but he
had nothing with which to reassure her, and he saw the resignation in her eyes.

It was contrary
to the Ranger mentality and training ingrained into his psyche, but Avery thought
himself defeated, at least physically. Only the unyielding scream of the
engines kept him awake. He expected Kheda’s crew to return any minute to finish
the job and knew he should be looking around to find for some way to even the
odds, but he couldn’t bring his mind up to the task.

But Aleksa was
on the same page. She slipped her cuffed hands up from under her legs. The
chain between the cuffs was very short, to create a narrow gap and prevent
someone from doing just that, but she possessed the flexibility and
determination to force her hands beneath her feet and get them in front of her.
 

She stood up and
searched up and down the length of the cargo bay. But there was nothing around,
not even tools, which could be used as weapons or to break free of the
handcuffs. The Russians had done a thorough job of clearing the cargo hold of
any loose items in preparation of converting the compartment into a suitable
prison.

Abandoning the
search, she finally sat back down near Avery.

His head leaned
against the fuselage, with his eyes closed. He was breathing, and she checked
his pulse and heartbeat. Both were steady. She stayed near close to him,
watched over him as he slept.

 Close to three
hours later, the hatchway in the bulkhead separating the forward passenger compartment
from the cargo hold opened. Aleksa didn’t hear anything, but when she turned
her head and suddenly saw Ruslan Kheda, with a Russian right behind him, she
jumped, panicked.

 The Russian
closed the hatch, sealing them in with the prisoners.

Aleksa’s pulse
quickened. She felt like a mouse cornered by a snake and never took her eyes
off the approaching men, even as she reached over with both hands and began
shoving Avery. When he didn’t move, she put more force into it and screamed his
name.  

With Kheda and
the Russian only ten feet away, Avery finally stirred and opened his eye. It
took him several seconds to orientate himself and recall where he was. But the instant
he glanced up at Kheda’s scowling, hate-filled face, everything came back to
him, and Aleksa felt him tense upright defensively beside her.

The floor
declined several degrees as the Antonov decreased altitude and leveled out
after a couple minutes.

Kheda stepped
over Avery’s legs and continued toward the control module. The Russian stopped
on the opposite side of Avery and Aleksa, placing the two prisoners between him
and Kheda. The Russian stood seven feet away, adopting a wide stance, poised to
move quickly, if necessary. He had a pistol holstered at his side. It was
apparent that he was present simply to observe and ensure the outcome.

The aft ramp
lowered on its support pylons, revealing a patch of deep, endless blue sky and
turning the cargo hold into an air tunnel, buffeting everyone inside. Ruslan
Kheda gazed out into space for a long moment. He seemed unaffected by the
powerful torrent of air bombarding him full force. Finally, he turned around
and returned his attention to the task at hand.

As the mafiya
killer approached, Avery was surprised at how calm he felt. His mind became
suddenly sober and focused, looking for options and plotting a course of
action. He just wished his body was up for it. He tried getting onto his feet, but
the pain in his side had worsened exponentially after the prolonged time spent
in one position, sleeping. He tried to push through the pain, but it
immobilized him and set him right back down on his ass. 

Aleksa jumped
onto her feet and came around in front of Avery, immediately acquiring Kheda’s attention.
She charged him and crashed her fists down against his forehead, but he barely
flinched. He calmly grabbed a handful of Aleksa’s hair, yanked her head back,
and struck her in the left temple. When she went limp, he threw her to the deck
and kicked her once between the shoulders. Then he exchanged looks with the amused
Russian and shook his head.  

By now, Avery
had worked his way onto his feet.

The Russian,
closer than Kheda, saw this, reacting first, and came at him.

Avery had three
inches on the Russian, and he smashed his forehead against his opponent’s face.
The Russian grabbed onto Avery as he stumbled back, taking him down with him.
Avery landed on top of the Russian, whose skull smacked against the deck.

Immediately, Avery
felt a pair of large hands clamp around his shoulders from behind.

Kheda
effortlessly lifted Avery off the Russian and slammed him face first against
the end cap of the nearest uranium container. Before Avery recovered, Kheda
came in close, grabbed the back of Avery’s head, and rammed it face-first against
the cylinder’s steel surface. Then he punched low, hitting Avery hard and
repeatedly in the kidney. Avery threw his head back and cried out. The pain ruptured
through his abdomen like a shockwave. He felt the acidic burn of bile rise up
the back of his throat. After three direct hits to his kidney, his legs caved like
wet noodles, and he sank.

Kheda caught Avery
beneath his armpits as he went down, heaved him back up, spun him around, and
punched him in the face, re-opening the gash in his cheek.

As he leaned up
against the cylinders, to keep from falling over, Avery saw a blurry, spinning double
set of Khedas in front of him, about to deliver a right hook. Avery sidestepped
fast, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, and Kheda’s knuckles
impacted against the steel of the container hard enough to break bone, but the Chechen
wasn’t fazed.