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    Raider Black Ops: The Russia Strike
    Raider Black Ops: The Russia Strike
    Raider Black Ops: The Russia Strike
    Ebook336 pages6 hours

    Raider Black Ops: The Russia Strike

    By Eric Meyer

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    About this ebook

    Russia - An almost lawless country ruled by the FSB, dread successor to the KGB, criminal gangs and Pamyat, fanatical Russian Nationalists. Organizations who will commit any crime, murder any civilian, even commit genocide, to further their cause. When a package of sensitive information is stolen in a well organized robbery in Manhattan, it is soon tracked to the despotic hellhole that no sane person would want to navigate. Yet if the contents are made public, an entire nation will be ruined. Only one group of men can be trusted to carry out the task and retrieve that package; John Raider and his former SEAL buddies.

    Unwilling to take on the job, Raider finds he has no choice when his family becomes threatened. He must enter the vast sub-continent, where their lives will be on the line the moment they step across the border, what used to be termed the Iron Curtain. Raider's men find themselves embroiled in the politics and struggles of a country at war with itself. The police are criminals, and the criminals compete to carry out even greater atrocities, where human life is often measured against the value of a pack of cigarettes.

    This is a thrilling and bloody story of former US Navy SEALs, trained to go to any lengths to complete their mission. Raider Black Ops: The Russia Strike is by the bestselling author of many other Spec Ops stories. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo titles, as well as the Echo Six and Devil's Guard series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateOct 23, 2014
    ISBN9781909149700
    Raider Black Ops: The Russia Strike
    Author

    Eric Meyer

    An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

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      Book preview

      Raider Black Ops - Eric Meyer

      RAIDER BLACK OPS: THE RUSSIA STRIKE

      By Eric Meyer

      1st Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014 by Eric Meyer

      Published by Swordworks Books

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      CONTENTS

      FOREWORD

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      Foreword

      New York City

      The anonymous black Ford minivan pulled into the curb. The street was dark, almost silent. A distant clock chimed the hour, three o'clock, a time when most people were asleep in their comfortable beds. Only a few service workers crisscrossed the city on their tired journeys to and from work. Night clubbers stumbled along the sidewalks, making their precarious way home, but they were few. The Ford parked outside a handsome, newly updated brownstone. It was one of a number of similar houses; most occupied by wealthy brokers and lawyers, who flocked to the area after the gentrification of the area made it a desirable place to live.

      The man who eased out of the passenger door of the minivan was not a resident. He was dressed in black from head to foot. He had wide shoulders, a slim waist, and a ramrod bearing. He was almost certainly a soldier, or had been one in the not too distant past, and moved silently and gracefully in his black, soft-soled combat boots. His head was hidden beneath a lightweight hunting cap, the earflaps and peak pulled low. He also carried a respirator, slung around his neck. He glanced around, stopped, and listened, cautious and wary. Much like a wild animal, filtering the night sounds and sniffing the wind. His body tensed, and he dropped into the shadows just as a yellow taxicab came around the corner. The beams of its headlamps lit up the street.

      Two people got out, a man and a woman, both in their fifties. They paid the driver, and as the cab drove away, they walked to the front door of the house next to the one where he waited. As they drew nearer, the powerful security lamp came on, bathing the whole area in a bright wash of light. The woman noticed the irregular shape outside the house next door.

      James, what is that? I think someone is lying on the ground. Perhaps they're ill or maybe had an accident. I'll go and take a look. They may need help.

      Be careful, dear. It could be a mugger, some kind of a trick.

      Don't be stupid. Someone is hurt. I'm sure he needs help.

      I'd better come with you.

      The man in black watched them. It was a complication, but a minor one and easily dealt with. His hand snaked under his black jacket and emerged holding a short automatic pistol. Had the man and woman walking toward him been military trained, they may have recognized a model PSS, Pistolet Sptsialnyj Samozaryadnyj silent pistol, built to use special SP-4 captive piston ammunition. However, they were not military trained. He was a broker, and she spent her days working for a local children's charity. Not that it mattered; the man in black squeezed the trigger twice, and twice more.

      The woman and her husband dropped to the sidewalk, their blood already flowing to the concrete. The first shot had been fatal, but the shooter was always careful to double-tap a target. He jumped to his feet, raced to the bodies, and dragged them into the dark patch at the side of the house. Then he stilled, watching and listening for further threats. There were none. After a few seconds, he held up his left hand and made a signal. Immediately, the side door of the minivan opened, and five more men slipped out. They were all dressed in black, and like him, carried a respirator slung loosely around their necks.

      One carried a cylinder with the name Kolokol-1 stenciled on the side. The gas was an incapacitating agent, mefentanyl, dissolved in a halothane base, designed to render unconscious anyone inside the target area not equipped with a gas mask. Kolokol-1 was not in use in the West but had gained notoriety in certain anti-terrorist operations, notably in Russia. On some occasions, it caused death to those who inhaled it.

      They'd considered the merits and demerits of using the gas during the planning stages of the operation, but the leader had smiled and shrugged. Death by gas, death by a bullet or a blade, so what? It's what we're paid for. There'd been no argument.

      One of the men passed the cylinder over the wall to the first man and vaulted over to land next to him in the narrow strip of garden. The rest followed, and seconds later, all six were crouched at the side of the house beneath a window. One produced a thin metal tool and made a small hole in the glass. The man with the cylinder held it next to the hole and pushed the hose protruding from the nozzle through it.

      All six men donned respirators, and he opened a valve. They waited immobile for fifteen minutes. The leader checked his wristwatch several times, and finally made a hand signal to another of his men. He produced an unusual lock-picking device shaped like a pistol. He inserted it in the key way of the front door and pulled the trigger. A few seconds later, there was a quiet click. He pushed the door open, and another man raced past him to reach the sophisticated burglar alarm in the hallway. He used an electronic device to disable the alarm and signaled to the others.

      They raced inside and spread out. The search was well organized and brief. The object they were looking for was located inside of two minutes in the upstairs main bedroom. Ignoring the two occupants of the king-size bed, who were unconscious or maybe dead, the leader opened the lid of the small, jeweled chest. He used a tiny flashlight to inspect the documents inside, nodded once, and closed the lid. He tucked the chest under his arm and ran back to the head of the stairs, down to the first floor and into the hall, giving a signal to his men as he passed them.

      They exited the house, climbed into the minivan, and the driver drove away at a reasonable speed. There was no need to hurry; these men wouldn't want to attract the attention of the police. Besides, they were professionals, every one of them. They pulled off their respirators and remained silent. In fact, since they'd pulled up outside the brownstone, no one had spoken a word. The leader opened the small chest again to make sure he hadn't been mistaken. There was no need for the extra check, but it was the way he worked. Always. He was a professional. Safe and sure, that was his SOP. Check and double-check, it kept them alive. The man opposite him raised his eyebrows, and the leader said one word.

      Da.

      * * *

      It was late morning when the occupants of the brownstone woke up. The woman looked at her bedside clock and cursed.

      Jesus fucking Christ! It's gone eleven. Why didn't we wake up? My fucking head, it feels like someone's been hitting me with a mallet. What did you do, Edgar?

      The man next to her groaned as he massaged his aching head.

      I feel just the same. It must have been something we ate.

      I guess so. She suddenly thought of her daughter, What about Abigail! She ate the same food as us. I'll go check on her.

      She stumbled out of bed and ran to the child's bedroom in the next room. The young girl was asleep in her bed, but when she put her head close to her, her breathing was regular. After staying with her for a few minutes to be sure, she went downstairs and passed the alarm control box. She stopped and inspected the panel. Something wasn't right.

      Strange, I could swear we set it last night.

      She almost tripped as a giddy spell hit her while she walked toward the kitchen. Close to the full-length window at the front of the house, she felt a draft of cold air. Yet it was still closed, as she'd left it. She stooped to look for the problem and saw the hole in the glass. Realization hit her in a split second.

      We've been burgled!

      Edgar, get down here now. You have to call the cops. We've been burgled. I'll call the office and tell them we'll be late.

      We have a state of the art alarm system. Did they switch it off? How could they do that?

      She used her cellphone to dial the number of the alarm company, but before they answered, it hit her.

      The chest!

      She ended the call and raced up the stairs into their bedroom. The closet was closed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. At least they hadn't stolen the chest. She opened the door just to check, and her heart began to thump. The chest was gone. She felt sick and almost fainted. She sat on the bed, contemplating the awful reality of what had hit them. Someone had stolen the most damaging collection of documents in the northern hemisphere.

      After a number of specific threats against her family, she'd made arrangements to hand the documents over for safekeeping. Now that would be impossible. As a result, they were in danger, terrible danger. There was also something far more serious than their personal safety. The life or death of an entire nation hung in the balance.

      Why didn't I get rid of them sooner? Because I never thought anything like this would happen.

      She heard her husband's voice shouting, I'm calling the police now, Mariyah.

      No! Don't do that.

      Don't do that? Why not? We've been burgled. We have to call the police.

      No. I'm calling my father. He'll know what to do.

      And if he doesn't? he asked, coming down the staircase.

      She felt a lurch of terror in her stomach. He has to. They'll try to kill us when they find they've gone. And there's something else. He waited, watching her as she struggled to contain her terror, It could mean war.

      Chapter One

      Somewhere off the coast of Newfoundland

      Icy seas tossed angry waves at their boat; a continuous pummeling that seemed to be nature's punishment for daring to venture into this hostile ocean. The Grand Banks 42 was well named. She was designed to take the hammering in some of the world's most deadly waters, the seas off the coast of Newfoundland on the North American continental shelf. A massive wave almost forty feet high, crashed down on the deck and tore away a hatch cover. A man ran forward without a lifeline to secure the damage, stepping lightly on the storm-ravaged deck.

      He seemed to ignore the foaming fury that plucked at the oilskins protecting him from some of the weather. Halfway along the deck he even stopped, balancing on the balls of his feet while he surveyed the boiling tumult surrounding their vessel. He took out a handheld radio and spoke into the mic.

      Al, I'll have to lash a canvas over the hole. That wave took the hatch cover clean away. It's probably off the coast of Alaska by now.

      The handsome black face inside the wheelhouse, unencumbered by waterproofs, wore an expression of concern. Al Miller spoke with an accent that was pure Boston.

      You ought to wear a lifeline, Waite. You took enough risks in the SEALs. You want to live a while longer, enjoy your retirement pay; the storm's getting worse.

      Never worn a lifeline in my life, not in the SEALs, not on a fishing trip. Ain't gonna start now.

      The accent was pure Deep South, as different as it was possible to be from the man in the wheelhouse. Waite Sullivan was born south of the Mason-Dixon Line, in an area famous for producing cotton. And rednecks. Brought up a male-dominated world of beer guzzling, truck drivers. Macho men who assumed every woman theirs for the taking, and blacks existed to wait tables or clean pools. He almost went off the rails as a young man until he joined the US Navy, and met Al Miller.

      The two SEALs quickly became inseparable, unlikely pals from backgrounds that were often at loggerheads. Each knew how the other man ticked, so they could, and often did, rely on the other when their lives were on the line. Some comic in their regular bar said they made such a fine couple they should be married. He had a sufficiently long stay in hospital to rethink his ideas. They were both red-blooded hetero men, who just happened to enjoy a rare friendship, as well as something else.

      They had a shared interest that took up most of their spare time. Angling. After they left the SEALs, they scrimped the money together to buy the Grand Banks. Their purpose was to pursue the doubtful thrill and pleasure of exploring the wildest, roughest waters around the Americas. Their best friend, John Raider, told them they were crazy.

      You put your lives on the line for your country all the time. It's dangerous work inside the most hostile of countries. When you take a vacation, you should find a way to relax.

      We do, Boss, Waite replied in his melodious Southern tones, We go fishing.

      The last I heard, you were planning a trip to Cape Horn, off the southern tip of South America. Why would two sane men go to the wildest stretch of ocean in the world?

      They'd looked at each other in puzzlement.

      For the fishing, Al replied, Of course.

      He decided to give it up.

      Waite found a sheet of spare canvas in a locker, bracing himself against the heaving deck while he threaded a cord through the eyelets, and then tied it around the gaping hole where the hatch had been.

      Waite, hold on tight. There's a big roller coming in!

      I hear you, buddy.

      He grabbed onto a nearby stanchion and watched the huge wave bearing down on them. Al gave him a wave from inside the wheelhouse, and he nodded. He couldn't spare a hand to wave an acknowledgement, not without being swept overboard. The wave hit the boat, and it was as if they were descending into the pit of hell, or maybe Neptune's locker, or wherever sunken vessels end up. Waite hung on grimly, feeling the powerful surge of the oceans attempt to prize his grip from the boat. He looked at the wheelhouse and grinned to himself. Al was peering through the spray-dashed windscreen, his teeth bared under an anxious expression.

      Above the cabin, the flying bridge was empty. Battered by powerful winds and water falling on the structure in sheets, it was no place from which to navigate a small craft in these waters. The superstructure tilted more and more, as the enormous roller tried to force the boat onto its side. Over, over, it tilted more and more. Waite tried to force his body weight in the opposite direction to the roll to counter the force of the waves. Then he smiled; he was in a boat that weighed several tons, not a sailing dinghy.

      They reached the point when the Grand Banks was about to exceed the maximum angle. They were one short step from capsize. It held it for long seconds, teetering between disaster and salvation. He watched and waited, feeling an icy detachment as the fates and nature combined to decide whether they would survive or die in the hostile ocean. Seconds, minutes elapsed as their storm-battered craft hung in the balance. It started to move, and at last began to roll back on an even keel. Waite laughed long and loud. He'd cheated the sea, cheated death, once again. He strolled back along the wildly pitching and heaving deck and entered the wheelhouse.

      Shut that damned door, Al bellowed, How can I steer this damned boat with you letting the best the Atlantic can throw at us into my wheelhouse?

      Next time, you go out on deck and fix the damage, he snarled, It's time you did something useful instead of lounging around in the warm and dry.

      So who's going to steer the boat? This takes skill, not dumb-ox strength.

      Fuck you.

      Fuck you.

      They grinned at each other. You wanna beer? Waite asked.

      Sure thing. I put some more in the cooler early on today.

      Right. I'll strip off these oilskins and grab a couple of Coors. You okay on the wheel?

      Fine.

      Waite stripped off his dripping waterproofs, hung them on a peg, and went down the ladder into the galley area. He plucked a six-pack from the cooler, returned to the wheelhouse, and passed one to Al. They sipped the beer in companionable silence while the boat continued pitching and swaying around the storm driven seas. If they noticed several times when more huge waves smashed into them, neither man commented. They had the boat, they had the beer, and they had each other. Besides, they were together. Fishing.

      You heard from John and Joe lately?" Waite asked Al.

      He smiled. I talked to them both just last week. Joe's doing okay; he's still running security for that Dragan character in New York, and anywhere else that guy's private jet takes them.

      He's still working for that crazy billionaire Ukrainian? We were lucky to get out of Ukraine alive the last time. One thing that Dragan is good for is getting people killed.

      You mean getting other people killed.

      Waite smiled at Al. Exactly. He's also got that CIA connection, which ain't exactly healthy. What about Raider?

      Al's smile broadened. The boss? He's doing well. He took on a job working for some bigshot film director. I guess he's running around Sunset Boulevard in a Porsche, you know the way they live down there. It's all parties, booze, and babes.

      Waite grinned. Damn, that guy sure knows how to live. Sometimes I wish I was in his shoes.

      Me, too, Al said wistfully. He looked out the screen at the storm tossed waves and grinned as another big roller smashed over the prow of the boat, It's time we got some bait in the water. Time’s a wasting.

      * * *

      Los Angeles, California

      As he threaded the Porsche 911 through the streets of Los Angeles, the driver tried to filter out the noise of the man in the passenger seat. Jason Kennedy, current Hollywood darling, a director with a succession of box office successes to his name. The fact they were low-budget horror flicks, and with sufficient blood and gore to appeal to the masses, didn't dent Kennedy's ego one iota. They were an unlikely pair. The pudgy director wore designer casual clothing. Crumpled linen combat pants and a tailored cream silk shirt under his long, carefully styled hair tied in a ponytail behind his neck. If the clothes weren't enough of a statement, the Longines watch and what seemed like fifty pounds of gold chains and jewelry said it all.

      In contrast, the driver wore his dark blonde hair surfer style, which meant he ran his fingers through it when he stepped out of the shower. His outfit was denim pants, a loose T-shirt, and an even looser cotton jacket. The kind of jacket a man would wear when they wished to conceal something underneath. Like the Sig Sauer P226 handgun he carried in a quick draw holster under the left armpit. The same gun he'd carried during his service as a lieutenant in the Navy SEALs.

      How does it feel to be guarding a Hollywood legend? he asked, watching John Raider intently, I'll bet you didn't expect to pick up a gig like this when you left the Navy.

      He didn't take his eyes off the road and kept his voice even. You're right. I never thought I'd pick up a gig like this.

      I'll bet your old pals would be green with envy if they knew the kind of bigshots you were mixing with.

      He didn't reply. He was looking for the off ramp for the start of the long journey to Las Vegas. Kennedy was due to appear at some kind of promotional event for his latest bloodfest. For some reason, probably connected to his overinflated opinion of himself, he wanted to drive all the way in his shiny new German sports car. This meant Raider had to endure his inane conversation for the entire two hundred and seventy mile journey.

      The director was quiet for a few minutes, and it looked like he may have fallen asleep. It was a forlorn hope, and his next utterance caught Raider's attention.

      I told you about the problem I was having, with this supplier?

      Supplier, in modern parlance, usually meant only one thing.

      He stared at the director. A problem with a supplier? I don't recall your saying anything.

      It must have slipped my mind. You've heard of him, Pablo Cuevas?

      Nope.

      Right. He's the guy who kind of keeps the film industry in certain things they can't, uh, source from elsewhere.

      What things?

      Uh, coke, sometimes smack, and occasionally crack for people who use that kind of thing.

      He felt like tossing the guy out on the street. With an effort he forced himself to be calm and keep driving. Kennedy, tell me you're not carrying drugs in this car.

      Well, I may have slipped a couple in…

      He jammed on the brakes, and the tires smoked as he fishtailed the powerful car into the side of the highway.

      Hand 'em over.

      What?

      Give 'em to me, you asswipe. All of them! If you think I intend to involve myself in the drugs trade, you're more wrong than you've ever been in your life. You want to carry drugs to Las Vegas, you walk.

      But this is my car!

      Tough. Don't fuck with me, Kennedy! Either we ditch the drugs, or I ditch you. Your choice.

      Cars were slowing to gawp at the drama on the highway, something to break the monotony of their journeys. A car that may belong to a Hollywood star, or at least some bigshot; it was reality entertainment. He noticed cellphones held up as people took pictures. They didn't have much time before the cops arrived.

      What is it with you? Kennedy snarled, Are you telling me you've never broken the law?

      Raider thought about the Federal warrant he was running from, one of the reasons he'd had to ditch his career as a freelance photojournalist. There was also an outstanding warrant in Russia. Somehow he'd pissed them off so badly they wanted to send him to a resort in Siberia. They called it Camp Gulag. The last thing he needed was to run interference for some coke-crazed Hollywood director who spent every minute of every day feeding his ego. He'd had to take the job. When you're on the run, the offers dry up. Even so, he didn't want to add to his problems and come to the attention of the cops.

      Five minutes later, they were driving along the freeway on the road to Las Vegas. The stash of cocaine had vanished in the Porsche's slipstream and was blowing across the desert, to spread harmlessly over a wide area. Maybe it would fertilize some of the cactus.

      You shouldn't have done that, Kennedy sounded petulant.

      He didn't bother to answer. Then something his employer had said earlier came back to him.

      You were talking about this drug dealer. What about him?

      Pablo Cuevas, right. We got into a bit of a disagreement a few days ago. He was, kind of, er, upset.

      Go on.

      He fixed up some friends of mine with coke for a party, and they didn't have the cash up front. He let them have the goods, on condition I'd cover his losses if they didn't pay up.

      I assume they didn't pay.

      Exactly. He nodded his head with some enthusiasm, That's the trouble; people don't settle their debts, and it causes a ton of hassle for their friends.

      What happened when this Cuevas guy came to you for the money?

      Raider knew the answer. He just wanted this egotistical fool to confirm what he already knew.

      Well, obviously there was no way I was going to pay for a bunch of deadbeats. I told his man to beat it.

      And then?

      There was a long silence, and when Jason Kennedy finally spoke, his voice was more subdued.

      "I got a threatening message, so I tried to reason with him, said I'd pay. He said it was too late. You see; Cuevas is some kind of a psycho. He told me when people try to screw him, he always deals with it the same

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