7
After the rough ride through the desert, the surface of the road seemed smooth, but it did little to calm Sokolov. Behind him, the 450-break-horsepower turbodiesel whined at full throttle, echoing his apprehension. His cold fingers slid over the polymer handle of the Kalashnikov. If worst came to worst, he would have to fire the rifle through the gun port near him, just like the other Alpha shooters in the back of the BMD.
The driver’s voice sounded in Sokolov’s headset, carried via the UHF radio which enabled communication both internally and between all three vehicles.
“Ten kilometers to target.”
Cruising at top speed, they would reach Aralsk-7 within ten minutes.
It took less than five for the complex to become visible.
Sokolov glanced over to the commander’s position in front, where Colonel Grishin was surrounded by an array of equipment: panoramic daylight and night-vision periscopes, one rearview periscope, target tracking screen, rangefinder, satellite navigation, 6x zoom scope and firing controls.
Thermal imaging rendered the view on the screen in gray hues. Against the lighter tone of the sky, blocky outlines appeared on a north-easterly bearing. Growing in size, the shapes split into two clusters as they became more defined. The larger one belonged to Aralsk-7. Standing separated from it was the Batyr camp.
Grishin turned to the scope.
“Target identified,” the colonel said. “Time for some recon in force. Commencing fire.”
The turret rotated automatically, adjusting slightly to the right. On the screen, the Batyr barracks were locked in the crosshairs. The numbers underneath were decreasing by twenty meters per second as the rangefinder measured the distance, now going below 4,000 meters.
It was well within the range of the 100mm cannon.
Whirring inside the turret, the autoloader slid a shell from the revolving carousel of the projectile ring, and slotted it home.
Grishin pressed the fire button on the control stick.
The BMD’s main A270 cannon thundered. The deep, sharp crack resonated above the engine noise loudly.
Through his own periscope, Sokolov saw the hit. The high-explosive shell impacted into the concrete wall of the Batyr structure, erupting in a cloud of smoke and dust.
The autoloader whirred again, and the next shot blasted, six seconds after the first, finding its mark, registered in another distant explosion.
Thirty-two shells still remained in the conveyor.
As the range between the BMD and the complex diminished, the cannon fired with greater accuracy, recalculating aim through a ballistics computer. The shells kept pounding, tearing away chunks of the barracks. Sokolov could now see that a section of the first Batyr building had been destroyed into rubble. Black smoke and tongues of flame rose from the blackened facade. In a cacophony of artillery fire, the other BMDs joined in, each of the three choosing a separate target to pummel. The barrage was relentless. The projectiles followed each other, ripping through the barracks before the roar of the previous impact died away.
Experience told Sokolov that the blast waves and collapsed ceilings had doomed anyone inside. But he saw motion. As the cannons were completing their destruction of the Batyr barracks, Sokolov saw that a few had managed to escape. Indiscernible figures, trying to survive like all living things. Disorganized, injured, some began to flee while a small group opened aimless fire. Out of range, the bullets could not reach the BMDs, and before the enemy’s resistance had any chance of being effective, it was drowned in a chattering of heavy weaponry.
The loud cracks belonged to the 30mm guns working rapidly. What gave the BMD’s 30mm cannon its power was the monstrous rate of fire, expending an arsenal of 500 rounds in just over a minute.
A single burst could cripple a tank. Used against infantry, it resulted in decimation.
Human bodies tearing apart, scythed down. The weapons required no extra accuracy; even hitting the ground, the shells exploded and the fragments killed anyone in the vicinity.
Abruptly, the gunfire died down, and the sound of the diesel was again the loudest noise that Sokolov could hear inside the vehicle. It was the most harrowing silence he could remember. They had destroyed the Batyr force without ever slowing pace.
The BMDs stopped before the gravel road ended, a few hundred meters from either the burning barracks or the main compound.
“Move out!” Grishin commanded.
As the hatches opened, the FSB fighters disembarked with lightning speed. Sokolov needed no extra encouragement to leave the confines of the armored vehicle. Never before claustrophobic, he pulled himself through the opening with such urgency, as if he were breaking water for a gulp of oxygen.
Instead he felt as if he’d entered a sauna, the dry air almost too hot to breathe. The sun blinded him temporarily, the vastness of the sky overwhelming. Together with Grishin and his Alpha men, Sokolov hurried to jump from the BMD’s side to be shielded by the vehicle. His feet touched down on the arid earth carpeted by patches of desert grass. Petrov also had led out the Vympel fighters. Sokolov caught a glimpse of Asiyah for the first time since they had been inside the Ilyushin.
The assault team reassembled into two groups. Only the driver and gunner remained in each of the three vehicles. Protected behind the armor, the assault team would follow as the BMDs made their way towards the compound, and break off to storm each building.
The BMD rolled forward, and Sokolov jogged alongside the others. After the shock of the parachute drop and the cramped drive through the desert, his legs felt like jelly. Unable to stop, he ignored the feeling until his limbs recovered. Keeping his head down as instructed, he gathered his bearings as much as he could.
They were moving away from the ruined Batyr camp far to their right, the sight of the ravaging flames unsettling him. How many had died there? Were they children? He pushed the thoughts aside as the view receded. He failed to spot any survivors. The threat from the compound’s security had been eliminated. Even so, it was somehow reassuring that Vympel team was defending their rearguard.
Aralsk-7 loomed ahead.
Up close, the pragmatic design of the complex impressed. It was huge yet nondescript. It did not dominate the view, spreading out over huge territory instead of towering over it. The compound’s wall ran for hundreds of meters, and the twenty or so buildings beyond barely had their rooftops visible. The tallest laboratory building was only three-storied, but it stretched so wide that at midpoint it protruded from the boundaries of the complex like an appendix. Such odd layout was irrelevant decades ago, security taken care of by gunboats patrolling the Aral Sea. Now, however, it was the weakest spot of Aralsk-7 defensively, presenting the assault team with a direct route to the objective. Any sentries or scientific personnel left inside the complex were cordoned off by the fence, making the mission easier. Once the team captured the main building, they would have the advantage to proceed inside the area and secure the rest.
The side elevation faced them with three rows of windows and the blocky finesse of industrial Soviet architecture. Vympel continued towards the entrance, Major Petrov leading the line, Asiyah going last behind the second vehicle. Alpha stayed a hundred meters behind.
“Begin assault, begin assault!” Grishin radioed.
The Vympel team did not make it even as far as the laboratory’s metal doors.
Explosions rocked the laboratory building.
Flames lashed through the shattered windows of the first floor. Fragments flying, the Vympel men were knocked to the ground. The size of the BMD saved Asiyah from fragments but she, too, fell down.
Further away from the epicenter, Sokolov ducked instinctively, deafened, holding up his AK. He felt a gust of heat blowing past. Next to him Grishin was yelling orders.