Sokolov realized that the blasts were not so much intended to demolish the laboratory as to cause a raging fire inside. Already the entire first level was devoured by flames.
Within seconds, new detonations sounded distantly as other facilities beyond the fence exploded.
As the flames crept up the first level of the lab, gunshots flashed from the third floor windows. From the vantage point, shooters pinned down the stunned Vympel team.
“Return fire!” Colonel Grishin shouted. “Group V under attack, return fire!”
The Alpha men aimed for the top floor, AK bursts suppressing the enemy. The BMDs joined in, their PKT Kalashnikov machine guns thrashing out tracers across the face of the building. The shots from the lab did not abate, as if there had been a replacement ready for every gunman hit by Alpha. Slugs rained down in every direction, dust bursting from the scorched ground. Petrov’s group made it behind the shield of their BMD, but several prone figures lay helplessly before the laboratory. Some Vympel men rushed out to pull out their wounded teammates, but were held back by relentless gunfire.
“Use your cannons, grenades, whatever you’ve got!” Sokolov told Grishin.
The colonel faced him. He had to make a decision immediately.
“Save your men, Colonel!” Sokolov urged. “We’ve lost the lab!”
The blaze had now reached the second floor, but it would take some time until it reached the top. But the building was inaccessible now. Any equipment or data inside would be destroyed by the flames. Clearly, their most pressing goal was to eliminate the suicide shooters.
The BMDs recoiled as the heavy weapons thundered again. One by one, the shells bombarded the enemy positions, pulverizing every window and the exterior around them. The hits ripped yawning cavities in the facade. Smoke curled up as bright orange flames flickered inside. The Vympel troops lobbed a couple of grenades into the windows.
Sokolov watched the scene in numbed silence, as if revisiting Beslan.
Burning debris sailed down. No one fought back, and the barrage set off another fire on the third floor. The conflagration now engulfed the laboratory over all levels, spreading along its length at an astounding rate. It had to be pre-arranged, the incendiary rounds igniting a combustible substance inside. In any case, Aralsk-7 was finished. Several volleys from the AKs sounded, and then the laboratory was left to burn out on its own.
Sokolov dashed over to Vympel’s BMD. Asiyah was still on the ground. Kneeling, he picked her up by the shoulders, and held her in a semi-sitting position.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
To Sokolov’s relief, she could hear him and she breathed normally as she talked. The main cause of mortality after high-order explosions was damage done by a shock wave of over-pressure impacting the body. The supersonic impulse of compressed air led to ruptured lungs, eardrums or eyes, brain concussions and even internal hemorrhaging. But the blast wave had lost its strength over the distance to the BMD, the pressure well below the dangerous threshold. Pulmonary traumas could kill within a span of seconds or hours, so Sokolov thanked God that Asiyah was unscathed.
She quickly got to her feet.
“It’s not over yet,” she said with alarm.
Sokolov turned.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
From the other end of the complex, a crowd charged at them. The black mass of figures flooded from around the corner at the far side of the destroyed compound, heading in the direction of the BMDs. As far as Sokolov discerned, they numbered over fifty. Their individual silhouettes were tall physically, but still had to bulk up in muscle. He knew who they were.
Batyr soldiers.
Children.
Sokolov grabbed Asiyah and they ducked behind the vehicle as bullets zinged past their heads.
Quick to react, the FSB assault team fired back, the sounds of the AKs and PKTs overlapping intensely. Still, the crowd advanced in some last-ditch attempt to overpower the assault team.
Their shots pinged all over the BMD’s armor like pellets of hail, but could not hit the intended human targets.
The ranks of Batyr soldiers were up for slaughter. Moving in open ground, the distance at which they had engaged the assault team gave them no chance. Sokolov heard their screams, growing ever louder. Tracers streaked.
In a frenzy, the few survivors still went at Alpha, as though oblivious to the fallen. There was no stopping them, even if no more than a dozen stayed on their feet.
Black-clad bodies toppled, spilling blood. But the child soldiers were determined to break within point-blank range of Alpha, who were desperate to gun them down before it happened.
Hit by a volley, the last running attacker fell, his young face twisted by hatred.
Still, the tracers swept over the prone bodies, finishing off those that moved, making sure none ever did.
The scene was barbaric. The young soldiers had been turned into mindless killers, first robbed of their childhood, their humanity, and now their lives.
Corpses everywhere, the dusty soil blood-soaked.
Now everything was truly over.
8
In the aftermath of the battle, Sokolov turned his immediate attention to the casualties of the Vympel team. Walking over to their vehicle, at once he saw three dead bodies lying on the ground. One of them looked like he had been killed by fragments, his face mutilated. Another had taken a slug in his throat, which had produced a grotesque blood stain on his chest. The third was riddled with bullets, hit in his limbs and armor, including a hole between the plates in his vest, which had proved mortal. Sokolov’s job involved direct encounters with death, but the sight of wasted human life was not something he could get used to. But he never allowed himself to lose his composure, knowing that others depended on his actions.
Several men were standing near the bodies solemnly, the rest flocked around the BMD.
Cyril Petrov was sitting propped against it, pressing a hand against his bleeding left arm.
Next to Petrov, a lieutenant was working his way through the contents of a medical kit. He was sinewy, with an angular face and deep-set eyes. Polevoi was his name, Sokolov remembered.
“Let me handle it,” Sokolov said. “Just find some gauze and peroxide. And give me your knife.”
The lieutenant obliged.
Expertly, Sokolov cut off the sleeve of Petrov’s uniform and examined the wound. Below the shoulder was an opening.
“How much did it bleed?” Sokolov asked.
“Not an awful lot. I don’t think it damaged the artery,” Petrov replied. “Just a graze. Nothing serious.”
Sokolov nodded, satisfied, not so much by the answer as Petrov’s condition. If he had lost too much blood, shock would be setting in, his systems shutting down. But the major showed no symptoms of it, his speech clear, his skin color, breathing and pulse all normal. In fact, only the soft tissues had been damaged. The bullet had gone through the outside of his arm, missing bone and vessels. The exit wound was spaced a few centimeters away. Both wounds were small, typical of low-energy shots. Petrov had been lucky.
“Anyone else injured, Lieutenant?” Sokolov asked Polevoi while he treated the wound.
“Negative. A few cuts and bruises, nothing penetrating. We were out quickly.”
Sokolov glanced at Polevoi. Around the spot where bullets had hit his vest, the uniform was ripped to shreds.
“I’m glad you did.”
Polevoi nodded gravely, grief over three of his teammates flashing across his face.