He heard the screams and shouts from behind him as the parachutes fell through the air, heading towards the ground, and laughed at them. What possible danger could there be? Weren’t the grown-ups caught in the excitement of the moment? Hans whooped with joy as the parachutes opened, revealing the men below as their fall slowed almost to a standstill, just above the runways. It was exciting, almost like the air show he seen when he was younger; there was nothing to match the sight of aircraft and men doing cool things. His father was tugging at him, trying to get him to move, and Hans refused to budge. He wouldn’t lose the chance to see what was about to happen.
“Move,” his father said. His hand impacted firmly with Hans’ rear. Hans squawked in outrage — his father rarely spanked him and then only when he was very bad — and tried to struggle. His father was much stronger and pulled Hans away mercilessly; he opened his mouth and started to bawl. “Hans, we have to move!”
The parachutists had landed, their parachutes drifting away; Hans could see them as they formed up rapidly into units, a perfect display of formation landing. Alarms were going off everywhere, but to him it was only part of the excitement and he cursed his father for trying to get him away from the sight. It wasn’t fair…
And then the shooting started.
Szczecin-Goleniów Airport was no different to Airport One, at least in general concept; long runways, terminals and two control towers. Aliyev was unimpressed as the long fall towards the ground slowed sharply and his feet touched the ground; it would be almost impossible for the Poles to defend it unless they had an entire regiment dug in around the terminals. There hadn’t even been any shooting; the attacks on Airport One had been far more dangerous than Szczecin-Goleniów, so far.
“Form up,” he snapped, trusting in his subordinates to know what they were doing. Alarms were sounding everywhere, but there was no sign of any real resistance at all; the shock and awe of their sudden arrival should paralyse the defenders long enough for them to lose… if there were any defenders. The intelligence reports had stated that there was a stand-by anti-terrorist unit in the airport, one with military-grade training and equipment, but it wouldn’t be any match for his people. “Advance!”
The parachutists broke into a run as they charged towards their targets. A handful of dark-clad figures lifted weapons and tried to fight, overcoming their shock; the Russians mowed them down and kept coming. Aliyev took a second to check their bodies and realised that they had been security guards, completely outmatched by real military people. The terminal rose up in front of him, frightened eyes peering out through massive glass windows, somehow unaware that his men could come right through the glass. The strike teams moved fast and threw their grenades; the glass shattered, sending fragments flying over the civilians. Many of them screamed as glass cut into their bodies; Aliyev had no time at all to worry about them. It was vital that they took the airport largely intact.
The other parachutists fanned out as they crashed into the terminal. Civilians scattered in front of them; a policeman lifted a weapon and fired once at a commando, who took the shot on his body armour and only staggered backwards. Aliyev felt for him; the impact felt like being punched in the gut, even if he had been lucky enough to escape real physical harm. He should have escaped such harm; the weapon the Pole had fired hadn’t been a serious pistol at all. Aliyev’s team shot him down anyway.
“Everyone get down on the floor, hands on your heads,” he bellowed, and cracked the skull of a fat aggressive German who started to shout at him. His wife, equally fat, threw herself to her husband’s side and tried to tend to him, until Aliyev ordered her to lie down with the others. There were hundreds of civilians in the airport, he realised as they fanned out through the building, along with employees and workers in the airport. They were sheep in front of his men; only a handful even tried to hide. They were dragged out and placed with the others as the reinforcements rushed into the terminal. The remainder of their supplies would be landing now… and then the aircraft would be heading back to Russia.
Aliyev and his men were on their own.
“Listen,” he bellowed, in Polish. He would repeat himself in German and English in a moment; the sight of a small boy, weeping, reminded him far too much of Groznyy. “This is a military emergency; anyone who refuses to follow our orders will be shot. Follow orders and we promise that you will not be harmed, nor will you be killed, raped, hurt or forced to help us. Remain calm; parents, keep your children calm and everything will be well.”
He repeated himself in two other languages and then led his main unit up the stairs towards the control tower. The airport had two, redundancy was built into the system, and he was certain that the Poles would be screaming for help as loudly as they could. He knew that both of the nearby barracks had been hit by missiles, but there was no telling how much damage had actually been done until it was too late; he was uncomfortably aware that he might find out when the Polish infantry launched an attack. The stairs had been blocked; several shots rang out as they approached.
“That’s the antiterrorist unit,” Captain Alexander Vatutin muttered. Aliyev had given command of the preliminary work to his most trusted subordinate. “They’re dug themselves in there and we can’t get up the steps without using the grenades.”
Aliyev scowled. Grenades meant that they risked damaging vital equipment they needed desperately, but there was no choice. He muttered orders and the team deployed, each one holding a light fragmentation grenade; at his command, they hurled them into the stairwell, and then charged as soon as they exploded. More gunshots rang out, but the firing was no longer perfectly targeted; the commandos shot the Poles before they could recover from the grenades. A handful of Poles tried to escape and were mercilessly shot in the back; Aliyev led the charge towards the second locked door, leading into the control room.
He grinned and knocked. A female voice called out a question in Polish. “Who is it?”
Aliyev forced himself to speak Polish again. “It’s the team,” he said. “You’re safe now and you can open the door.”
“Fuck off, Russian,” the woman shouted back. Aliyev shrugged; it had been a long shot, but it had been worth a try. She probably knew all of the members of the antiterrorist team by heart, perhaps even cock size, the nasty part of his mind whispered. “We’re calling for help and you’d better be gone when it comes!”
Aliyev nodded to two of the commandos, who placed small charges on the door and melted through the metal. There were screams from inside as the metal ran like water and the door was kicked in; he saw seven terrified men and women… and one woman, sitting in the centre of the room, trying to look confident and failing miserably. She would have been a beauty in her youth; the sullen defiance on her face twisted it into the realm of ugliness.
“Everyone, hands in the air, now,” Aliyev barked, as the commandos charged into the room. There was no resistance, but they didn’t dare take chances; they grabbed the operators, secured them and left them tussled up on the floor. Some of the civilians were whimpering; like most civilians in their position, they were used to the idea of emergencies taking place a long way away. “If you attempt to resist, you will be shot!”