Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre by Eric Meyer Page A
Authors: Eric Meyer
Tags: thriller, Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Crime, Mystery, War & Military, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, War
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quiet. We have a lot to go over."
"Okay."
She sounded cold. No, cold didn't cut it. Icy. He hoped to Christ she wouldn't want to talk about the past. It wasn't likely. Despite what had gone wrong between them, he knew she was a consummate professional. That meant she'd understand when he laid out for her how impossible the whole thing was. It was lunacy to even contemplate it, and if he couldn't convince Admiral Brooks, maybe she could.
Someone has to listen! One way or the other, they're not sending Echo Six to die on the frozen Siberian steppes .
* * *
The North Korean officer unfastened the top button of his high-necked tunic and loosened his tie. He glanced around the dining car. Dark, polished oak chairs and tables, chairs fitted with gold brocade upholstery. Elegant dark red gilt-edged porcelain crockery and solid silver cutlery vied for space on the crowded table with crystal glassware. He was dining alone, for his second-in-command, Captain Park, had taken the hint and was doing the rounds of their security arrangements. The last thing he wanted was to eat his food with Park, the party hack who had only reached the rank of captain because of his father's association with a functionary in Kim Jong-un's government. The man was a low IQ dolt, whose only contribution to the conversation would be reciting party slogans and name-dropping half the Central Committee in Pyongyang.
This journey’s bad enough without having to endure Park's endless parroting.
He looked out the window at the snow-covered landscape. From inside the heated restaurant car it looked pristine and beautiful, although he knew the reality beneath the pure white snow was decades of pollution that coated vast tracts of the Siberian countryside. Further down the car, the Chechens dined together, six of them, all uncouth thugs. Gangsters, uncultured, and the worst was their leader Borz Abramov. Formerly of the KGB, he was now a wealthy man, as well as one of the main financiers of the Chechen Muslim insurgency.
Ho sighed and turned to his plate, a dish of veal with a spicy concoction of cabbage and vegetables. It tasted foul. He couldn't wait to get home and enjoy some real Korean food.
These Russians, Chechens, call them what you like, are all uncultured scum. But scum with something to sell, something I need.
He stopped for a moment and held his plate as the train rattled over a long bridge, the vibrations nearly sending it over the edge of the table. The railroad had almost bankrupted Russia when it was built in the nineteenth century, and they were so broke they cut back on everything to finish the gigantic project. In many cases, where concrete and steel were needed, they used Siberia’s great resource, timber. The result was a train ride that was interesting. Sometimes worse, crossing a rotting timber bridge, shaking and swaying, was an experience out of its own. To one side, he could see a high, rocky hillside, to the other, a wide river. An idyllic scene, if you ignored the garbage tip on the far bank of the river, and the army of poor peasants, like ants, scrabbling over the heap looking for scraps of food.
Just like my own country, except in North Korea, they wouldn't have thrown away that much garbage. In North Korea, they don't own that much garbage, he smiled to himself.
The Leader's crazy nuclear schemes stripped the country bare, and as a result the country was impoverished and the people ridden with famine He shrugged .
It really is too bad, but I serve the Leader, not the people. If Kim wants nuclear weapons, I’ll do my utmost to get them to him, like now.
He took a few more mouthfuls of his food and looked up as someone called his name. Borz Abramov, the Chechen leader. He looked drunk, his face flushed red. He'd noticed earlier their table was stacked with empty vodka bottles.
That’s interesting. I thought Muslims didn't touch alcohol.
"What is it, Mr. Abramov?"
The drunken gang leader climbed unsteadily to his
"Okay."
She sounded cold. No, cold didn't cut it. Icy. He hoped to Christ she wouldn't want to talk about the past. It wasn't likely. Despite what had gone wrong between them, he knew she was a consummate professional. That meant she'd understand when he laid out for her how impossible the whole thing was. It was lunacy to even contemplate it, and if he couldn't convince Admiral Brooks, maybe she could.
Someone has to listen! One way or the other, they're not sending Echo Six to die on the frozen Siberian steppes .
* * *
The North Korean officer unfastened the top button of his high-necked tunic and loosened his tie. He glanced around the dining car. Dark, polished oak chairs and tables, chairs fitted with gold brocade upholstery. Elegant dark red gilt-edged porcelain crockery and solid silver cutlery vied for space on the crowded table with crystal glassware. He was dining alone, for his second-in-command, Captain Park, had taken the hint and was doing the rounds of their security arrangements. The last thing he wanted was to eat his food with Park, the party hack who had only reached the rank of captain because of his father's association with a functionary in Kim Jong-un's government. The man was a low IQ dolt, whose only contribution to the conversation would be reciting party slogans and name-dropping half the Central Committee in Pyongyang.
This journey’s bad enough without having to endure Park's endless parroting.
He looked out the window at the snow-covered landscape. From inside the heated restaurant car it looked pristine and beautiful, although he knew the reality beneath the pure white snow was decades of pollution that coated vast tracts of the Siberian countryside. Further down the car, the Chechens dined together, six of them, all uncouth thugs. Gangsters, uncultured, and the worst was their leader Borz Abramov. Formerly of the KGB, he was now a wealthy man, as well as one of the main financiers of the Chechen Muslim insurgency.
Ho sighed and turned to his plate, a dish of veal with a spicy concoction of cabbage and vegetables. It tasted foul. He couldn't wait to get home and enjoy some real Korean food.
These Russians, Chechens, call them what you like, are all uncultured scum. But scum with something to sell, something I need.
He stopped for a moment and held his plate as the train rattled over a long bridge, the vibrations nearly sending it over the edge of the table. The railroad had almost bankrupted Russia when it was built in the nineteenth century, and they were so broke they cut back on everything to finish the gigantic project. In many cases, where concrete and steel were needed, they used Siberia’s great resource, timber. The result was a train ride that was interesting. Sometimes worse, crossing a rotting timber bridge, shaking and swaying, was an experience out of its own. To one side, he could see a high, rocky hillside, to the other, a wide river. An idyllic scene, if you ignored the garbage tip on the far bank of the river, and the army of poor peasants, like ants, scrabbling over the heap looking for scraps of food.
Just like my own country, except in North Korea, they wouldn't have thrown away that much garbage. In North Korea, they don't own that much garbage, he smiled to himself.
The Leader's crazy nuclear schemes stripped the country bare, and as a result the country was impoverished and the people ridden with famine He shrugged .
It really is too bad, but I serve the Leader, not the people. If Kim wants nuclear weapons, I’ll do my utmost to get them to him, like now.
He took a few more mouthfuls of his food and looked up as someone called his name. Borz Abramov, the Chechen leader. He looked drunk, his face flushed red. He'd noticed earlier their table was stacked with empty vodka bottles.
That’s interesting. I thought Muslims didn't touch alcohol.
"What is it, Mr. Abramov?"
The drunken gang leader climbed unsteadily to his
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