Nikolai. “Green Berets, secure rear!”
“Yes, sir!”
Taking position next to Nikolai, Mikhail began to stalk forward. Sevastian and Nina followed, with Hemingway and his two remaining soldiers walking backward behind them. Their twelve-man team was down to seven, one of whom, officer or not, wasn’t supposed to be on the strike team at all. That meant six of the original dozen were dead. They were effectively at fifty percent.
All along the hallway, running lights flickered like a dwindling pulse in the strange alien ship. The hallway was illuminated only in dim, intermittent moments. The slant of the spacecraft, while off-balancing, was manageable. Within ten steps, their constant pull to the right had been compensated for.
Based on their orientation, Mikhail was certain they were heading deeper into the spacecraft rather than toward its wingtips. Just the same, going deeper wasn’t his priority. Regrouping was. So when they approached the first open door he’d seen along the way, he directed Nikolai to enter it. The “medic” did, indicating no hostiles shortly thereafter. Holding his position at point, Mikhail directed those behind him to duck into the room. As soon as they did, he backed in himself.
“What the hell just happened?” one of the Green Berets asked breathlessly, hands on his knees as he looked at Hemingway.
Reloading his M3, Hemingway answered, “We got punched in the mouth.”
Mikhail was searching by the side of the door for some kind of way to close it. Coming across something that looked like a button, he punched it. Nothing happened. Either he was doing something wrong or the door had no power. “Everyone, back up.” Walking across and up the slanted room, the group of seven put some distance between themselves and the doorway. He looked at the nearest Green Beret. “Keep watch outside the door. If something appears, shoot it.”
The American nodded. “Yes, sir.”
This room was completely unlike the one by the entryway. There were no canisters or boxes anywhere. Blue tubes lined the walls with what seemed to be some sort of liquid flowing through them. The same dim, pulsating lights that had been in the hallways were present here. In the center of the floor was a large, circular depression, easily large enough for several people to stand in. Although curious as to the room’s purpose, Mikhail had more pressing matters. This was a time to regroup.
Gaze returning to the crew, he surveyed who remained. Hemingway was down to two soldiers, though they both seemed in fighting condition. On his own side, Mikhail was down to three. Sevastian was wounded—the extent of which, Mikhail wasn’t sure. But judging by the way the senior lieutenant was keeping his right shoulder locked against his chest, it was more than just a mere hindrance.
As for Nina, the sniper was leaning against the wall, buckled over on her knees with her palms against her eyes and her fingers stuck through her mud-caked hair. She is uninjured. She will be fine. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t supposed to be there. She was part of the strike team now.
That left Nikolai Lukin.
Mikhail’s focus shifted to his “medic.” Eyes already on Mikhail, Nikolai’s posture seemed to indicate, somewhat defiantly, that he knew the game was up. Hands on his hips, the mud-covered operative said nothing. That was fine with Mikhail—he had more than enough to say himself. “Who are you?”
Though Nikolai was looking directly at Mikhail, he remained tellingly silent.
Breaking the silence, Hemingway said, “He’s Spetsnaz.”
That was already what Mikhail was thinking. He just wanted to hear it from Nikolai himself. “I said, who are you?” After another non-answer, Mikhail raised his pistol. He aimed it straight for Nikolai’s head. “We have already lost half of our men. One more will not make a difference.”
Very faintly, Nikolai’s pupils shifted to focus on the Americans. Inhaling slowly, the Russian
“Yes, sir!”
Taking position next to Nikolai, Mikhail began to stalk forward. Sevastian and Nina followed, with Hemingway and his two remaining soldiers walking backward behind them. Their twelve-man team was down to seven, one of whom, officer or not, wasn’t supposed to be on the strike team at all. That meant six of the original dozen were dead. They were effectively at fifty percent.
All along the hallway, running lights flickered like a dwindling pulse in the strange alien ship. The hallway was illuminated only in dim, intermittent moments. The slant of the spacecraft, while off-balancing, was manageable. Within ten steps, their constant pull to the right had been compensated for.
Based on their orientation, Mikhail was certain they were heading deeper into the spacecraft rather than toward its wingtips. Just the same, going deeper wasn’t his priority. Regrouping was. So when they approached the first open door he’d seen along the way, he directed Nikolai to enter it. The “medic” did, indicating no hostiles shortly thereafter. Holding his position at point, Mikhail directed those behind him to duck into the room. As soon as they did, he backed in himself.
“What the hell just happened?” one of the Green Berets asked breathlessly, hands on his knees as he looked at Hemingway.
Reloading his M3, Hemingway answered, “We got punched in the mouth.”
Mikhail was searching by the side of the door for some kind of way to close it. Coming across something that looked like a button, he punched it. Nothing happened. Either he was doing something wrong or the door had no power. “Everyone, back up.” Walking across and up the slanted room, the group of seven put some distance between themselves and the doorway. He looked at the nearest Green Beret. “Keep watch outside the door. If something appears, shoot it.”
The American nodded. “Yes, sir.”
This room was completely unlike the one by the entryway. There were no canisters or boxes anywhere. Blue tubes lined the walls with what seemed to be some sort of liquid flowing through them. The same dim, pulsating lights that had been in the hallways were present here. In the center of the floor was a large, circular depression, easily large enough for several people to stand in. Although curious as to the room’s purpose, Mikhail had more pressing matters. This was a time to regroup.
Gaze returning to the crew, he surveyed who remained. Hemingway was down to two soldiers, though they both seemed in fighting condition. On his own side, Mikhail was down to three. Sevastian was wounded—the extent of which, Mikhail wasn’t sure. But judging by the way the senior lieutenant was keeping his right shoulder locked against his chest, it was more than just a mere hindrance.
As for Nina, the sniper was leaning against the wall, buckled over on her knees with her palms against her eyes and her fingers stuck through her mud-caked hair. She is uninjured. She will be fine. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t supposed to be there. She was part of the strike team now.
That left Nikolai Lukin.
Mikhail’s focus shifted to his “medic.” Eyes already on Mikhail, Nikolai’s posture seemed to indicate, somewhat defiantly, that he knew the game was up. Hands on his hips, the mud-covered operative said nothing. That was fine with Mikhail—he had more than enough to say himself. “Who are you?”
Though Nikolai was looking directly at Mikhail, he remained tellingly silent.
Breaking the silence, Hemingway said, “He’s Spetsnaz.”
That was already what Mikhail was thinking. He just wanted to hear it from Nikolai himself. “I said, who are you?” After another non-answer, Mikhail raised his pistol. He aimed it straight for Nikolai’s head. “We have already lost half of our men. One more will not make a difference.”
Very faintly, Nikolai’s pupils shifted to focus on the Americans. Inhaling slowly, the Russian
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