Free Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre by Eric Meyer Page A
Authors: Eric Meyer
cruising altitude. That's about it, although I'm glad it's you guys going out there and not me. I flew C130s in the first Gulf War, and at least if we had to put down, we weren't up to our balls in the snow."
He caught sight of Alessandra and did a double take. "Apologies, ma'am, I didn't realize there were ladies on this trip."
"No problem, Captain," she smiled, “I’ve heard worse. Much worse.”
He nodded and went back into the cockpit. The rest was routine, trying to keep moving to keep the circulation working in the unheated fuselage. Fifty kilometers outside Irkutsk, the pilot declared his emergency, and the aircraft dropped like a stone. Cargo pilots never felt the need for gentle course changes, cargoes never complained. They felt the pressure pop in their ears as the 747 slowly depressurized, and they began strapping on their equipment and parachutes. Several minutes before they reached the jump point the co-pilot, a younger man, came back and prepared for the drop. He opened the rear door, nearly dying of exposure as the bitter air over Siberia attacked the slightly warmer interior of the Boeing.
“Oh, fuck, that is cold. I pity you guys going out there.” He recovered and reported to the pilot, "Ready!"
The cockpit door was left open, and the pilot called back, "Two minutes."
The rest was straightforward, as straightforward as jumping from a low flying 747 could ever be. It was a tossup what was worse, the massive slipstream from the aircraft or the Arctic temperature. Either way, there were no complaints when they hit the frozen ground. Not that it was much warmer than up in the sky, but a few degrees difference when the temperature was in the basement was more than welcome.
* * *
The railroad was less than a hundred meters ahead of them. They lay in the snow, waiting, almost invisible in their snow camouflage. It was a freezing night, with a hard moon reflecting off the snow. It seemed to make the icy chill feel even colder. The city of Irkutsk lay five kilometers to the west of them. The train always halted there while they took on a new crew and refueled the locomotive. This particular train carried no passengers. It was freight only, a mixture of wagons and flatcars loaded with machinery and autos. All destined for shipment to the markets of Siberia, Vladivostok, Mongolia, and China, other than one particular wagon en route to Pyongyang. Overhead imagery from American intelligence-gathering satellites showed the train had four passenger cars, as well as the wagons for the guard force.
Major Barrington checked his wristwatch for the tenth time.
"Damnit, where are those Russians? They should have been here and hour ago. At this rate, we'll miss that train."
The men of Echo Six looked at each other and said nothing. Barrington had already demonstrated his lack of SpecOps training. Talley would have had the men spread over a wide area, watching for the approach of Borodin's party and any hostiles who may be in the vicinity.
"You will not miss the train."
The voice was soft and spoken with a strong Russian accent. Barrington whirled, raised his rifle, and saw a huge man only a meter away from him. The MP’s assault rifle was an M16-A4, the fourth generation variant of the venerable rifle originally generated by the Armalite Corp, and the Major had his finger on the trigger, about to fire. Talley leaned over and pushed the barrel down.
"It's okay, Major. These are our people."
The MP looked around him and made out the dark shapes of a large squad of men crouched around them in the shadows. The Mafiya had arrived. He let out his breath.
"Why the hell didn't you tell me? I might have killed that guy," Barrington snarled.
"We saw them coming. We assumed you'd seen them too. They didn’t look like they were a threat."
The man snorted, got to his feet, and looked at the man standing next to him.
"My name is Major Barrington. I need to speak to Vladimir Borodin."
The Russian didn't answer at
He caught sight of Alessandra and did a double take. "Apologies, ma'am, I didn't realize there were ladies on this trip."
"No problem, Captain," she smiled, “I’ve heard worse. Much worse.”
He nodded and went back into the cockpit. The rest was routine, trying to keep moving to keep the circulation working in the unheated fuselage. Fifty kilometers outside Irkutsk, the pilot declared his emergency, and the aircraft dropped like a stone. Cargo pilots never felt the need for gentle course changes, cargoes never complained. They felt the pressure pop in their ears as the 747 slowly depressurized, and they began strapping on their equipment and parachutes. Several minutes before they reached the jump point the co-pilot, a younger man, came back and prepared for the drop. He opened the rear door, nearly dying of exposure as the bitter air over Siberia attacked the slightly warmer interior of the Boeing.
“Oh, fuck, that is cold. I pity you guys going out there.” He recovered and reported to the pilot, "Ready!"
The cockpit door was left open, and the pilot called back, "Two minutes."
The rest was straightforward, as straightforward as jumping from a low flying 747 could ever be. It was a tossup what was worse, the massive slipstream from the aircraft or the Arctic temperature. Either way, there were no complaints when they hit the frozen ground. Not that it was much warmer than up in the sky, but a few degrees difference when the temperature was in the basement was more than welcome.
* * *
The railroad was less than a hundred meters ahead of them. They lay in the snow, waiting, almost invisible in their snow camouflage. It was a freezing night, with a hard moon reflecting off the snow. It seemed to make the icy chill feel even colder. The city of Irkutsk lay five kilometers to the west of them. The train always halted there while they took on a new crew and refueled the locomotive. This particular train carried no passengers. It was freight only, a mixture of wagons and flatcars loaded with machinery and autos. All destined for shipment to the markets of Siberia, Vladivostok, Mongolia, and China, other than one particular wagon en route to Pyongyang. Overhead imagery from American intelligence-gathering satellites showed the train had four passenger cars, as well as the wagons for the guard force.
Major Barrington checked his wristwatch for the tenth time.
"Damnit, where are those Russians? They should have been here and hour ago. At this rate, we'll miss that train."
The men of Echo Six looked at each other and said nothing. Barrington had already demonstrated his lack of SpecOps training. Talley would have had the men spread over a wide area, watching for the approach of Borodin's party and any hostiles who may be in the vicinity.
"You will not miss the train."
The voice was soft and spoken with a strong Russian accent. Barrington whirled, raised his rifle, and saw a huge man only a meter away from him. The MP’s assault rifle was an M16-A4, the fourth generation variant of the venerable rifle originally generated by the Armalite Corp, and the Major had his finger on the trigger, about to fire. Talley leaned over and pushed the barrel down.
"It's okay, Major. These are our people."
The MP looked around him and made out the dark shapes of a large squad of men crouched around them in the shadows. The Mafiya had arrived. He let out his breath.
"Why the hell didn't you tell me? I might have killed that guy," Barrington snarled.
"We saw them coming. We assumed you'd seen them too. They didn’t look like they were a threat."
The man snorted, got to his feet, and looked at the man standing next to him.
"My name is Major Barrington. I need to speak to Vladimir Borodin."
The Russian didn't answer at
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