blindness. Under that, they each wore a No-Fog breath
deflector that would help keep them warm, but more importantly, would
prevent their goggles from fogging up. That was one of those little
details that, if overlooked, could get you killed in a firefight.
“Listen up!” Deckard yelled as he strode into the middle of
the group. “First Platoon, you have the airfield. Second Platoon,
you have the barracks a few kilometers east. Afterwards, we will
consolidate and sweep up anything else we missed.”
The orders were brief to say the least, but he had faith
in his platoon sergeants. They were just making this shit up on the
fly, anyway.
As the Carrickfergus approached the icy coast, the ramp
lowered and the mercenaries flowed off the ship, already wearing
their assault snowshoes. Fedorchenko took his platoon toward the
airfield while Shatayeva took his platoon to the barracks. Deckard
shadowed Fedorchenko while Sergeant Major Korgan trailed after
Shatayeva, the senior men present to help provide command and
control.
The only thing the mercenaries heard was the whistle of
wind in their ears and the crunch of snow under their boots. The
columns of black smoke rising into the dreary gray sky warned them
that, despite the alien desolation and emptiness of the Arctic,
something was very wrong on Kotelny Island.
“We have bodies,” Korgan reported over the command
net. “Someone tore them to ribbons. Looks like large-caliber rounds
were used.”
“I'm seeing them,” Deckard replied as he walked past the
remains of a Russian soldier. He had been wearing a heavy jacket with
a fur-lined hood. His entire body was scorched black up to his neck
and was nearly cut in half at his midsection.
Fedorchenko’s men moved out in a wedge-shaped formation,
spreading out and keeping a good distance between each mercenary so
they couldn't be wiped out by a single grenade, IED, or burst of
machine gun fire. Deckard trailed along behind them, his head
swiveling back and forth but not seeing any enemy threats. After a
few more minutes of treading through the snow, Fedorchenko ordered
his men on line with each other to conduct a sweep of the airfield.
Deckard walked off to the side and crouched down next to a
pile of expended shell casings. Picking up one of the shells with a
gloved hand, Deckard recognized it as a 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun
cartridge casing. Dropping the brass shell, Deckard clicked his
radio. “Seven, this is six. How are the barracks looking?” he
asked Korgan.
“Mostly empty, but some of the compartments have been
completely ripped apart by heavy machine gun fire, over.”
“12.7mm?”
“Maybe, but I don't see any firing positions.”
Deckard walked around the pile of expended brass. In the snow, it
was easy to find and follow spoor. Taking the hint from Korgan, he
immediately saw tank treads next to the pile of brass. They seemed to
lead off in another direction.
Tanks? But where did they go?
“Barracks secured,” Korgan reported.
“Airfield has been swept as well,” Fedorchenko radioed in.
“No sign of the enemy, over.”
Deckard knew that something was seriously wrong. Someone just
wasted a company’s worth of Russian soldiers with tanks and machine
guns. They didn't just disappear.
Deckard looked down the slope on the opposite end of the
airfield, noticing that the Russian motor pool looked untouched,
unlike the barracks and other vehicles scattered around the island.
Reaching into his chest rig, he pulled out a small three-power
monocular. Lifting up his snow goggles, he cupped his hand around the
monocular and took a closer look at the garages a few hundred meters
away.
The motor pool looked dead; clouds of snow had been blown around the
parking area. Then the doors on the garage suddenly began to open.
Deckard squinted, trying to get a better view of what was inside.
Then he saw it.
Deckard hit the transmit button on his radio.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Chapter 5
“To your three
deflector that would help keep them warm, but more importantly, would
prevent their goggles from fogging up. That was one of those little
details that, if overlooked, could get you killed in a firefight.
“Listen up!” Deckard yelled as he strode into the middle of
the group. “First Platoon, you have the airfield. Second Platoon,
you have the barracks a few kilometers east. Afterwards, we will
consolidate and sweep up anything else we missed.”
The orders were brief to say the least, but he had faith
in his platoon sergeants. They were just making this shit up on the
fly, anyway.
As the Carrickfergus approached the icy coast, the ramp
lowered and the mercenaries flowed off the ship, already wearing
their assault snowshoes. Fedorchenko took his platoon toward the
airfield while Shatayeva took his platoon to the barracks. Deckard
shadowed Fedorchenko while Sergeant Major Korgan trailed after
Shatayeva, the senior men present to help provide command and
control.
The only thing the mercenaries heard was the whistle of
wind in their ears and the crunch of snow under their boots. The
columns of black smoke rising into the dreary gray sky warned them
that, despite the alien desolation and emptiness of the Arctic,
something was very wrong on Kotelny Island.
“We have bodies,” Korgan reported over the command
net. “Someone tore them to ribbons. Looks like large-caliber rounds
were used.”
“I'm seeing them,” Deckard replied as he walked past the
remains of a Russian soldier. He had been wearing a heavy jacket with
a fur-lined hood. His entire body was scorched black up to his neck
and was nearly cut in half at his midsection.
Fedorchenko’s men moved out in a wedge-shaped formation,
spreading out and keeping a good distance between each mercenary so
they couldn't be wiped out by a single grenade, IED, or burst of
machine gun fire. Deckard trailed along behind them, his head
swiveling back and forth but not seeing any enemy threats. After a
few more minutes of treading through the snow, Fedorchenko ordered
his men on line with each other to conduct a sweep of the airfield.
Deckard walked off to the side and crouched down next to a
pile of expended shell casings. Picking up one of the shells with a
gloved hand, Deckard recognized it as a 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun
cartridge casing. Dropping the brass shell, Deckard clicked his
radio. “Seven, this is six. How are the barracks looking?” he
asked Korgan.
“Mostly empty, but some of the compartments have been
completely ripped apart by heavy machine gun fire, over.”
“12.7mm?”
“Maybe, but I don't see any firing positions.”
Deckard walked around the pile of expended brass. In the snow, it
was easy to find and follow spoor. Taking the hint from Korgan, he
immediately saw tank treads next to the pile of brass. They seemed to
lead off in another direction.
Tanks? But where did they go?
“Barracks secured,” Korgan reported.
“Airfield has been swept as well,” Fedorchenko radioed in.
“No sign of the enemy, over.”
Deckard knew that something was seriously wrong. Someone just
wasted a company’s worth of Russian soldiers with tanks and machine
guns. They didn't just disappear.
Deckard looked down the slope on the opposite end of the
airfield, noticing that the Russian motor pool looked untouched,
unlike the barracks and other vehicles scattered around the island.
Reaching into his chest rig, he pulled out a small three-power
monocular. Lifting up his snow goggles, he cupped his hand around the
monocular and took a closer look at the garages a few hundred meters
away.
The motor pool looked dead; clouds of snow had been blown around the
parking area. Then the doors on the garage suddenly began to open.
Deckard squinted, trying to get a better view of what was inside.
Then he saw it.
Deckard hit the transmit button on his radio.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Chapter 5
“To your three
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