No one emerged from its interior.
However, Vasilyev learned the truth of a saying attributed to Stalin and used widely ever since, “Quantity has a quality all its own.”
One of the hundreds of rounds fired by the attackers had found its mark.
It had lost most of its energy as it punched through both sides of the sedan that had protected them so far. That was the good news.
The bad news was that it had struck Vasilyev in the shoulder, in a spot unprotected by the ballistic armor he and Grishkov were both wearing. It had passed through rather than remaining lodged in his shoulder, but the shock of the impact knocked Vasilyev to the ground, and made him briefly lose consciousness.
When he came to, Vasilyev saw Grishkov’s concerned face hovering over him, and felt the bandage that Grishkov had placed over his wound. He was surprised to feel little pain.
Grishkov smiled with relief. “So, you’re still with us! Don’t they teach you to duck in the KGB?”
Vasilyev licked his lips and said with a tired smile, “Don’t you remember?
We’re the FSB, and we’ve reformed!”
Grishkov shook his head and his smile faded. “Don’t be fooled by how you’re feeling now. I’ve injected you with a combination of painkillers and stimulants that the doctor on the Admiral Kuznetsov was very unhappy to give me. We came up with it in the field in Chechnya, for situations where long-term effects took a back seat to surviving the next half hour. I think this is one of those. Now, try sitting up, but do it slowly.”
Vasilyev felt a little dizzy once he was sitting upright, but the feeling passed after a few seconds.
“I think I can go on. It sounds like the gunfire is tapering off.”
Grishkov nodded. “Yes, the only movement I see is around the truck. Did I see flashbang grenades in that case?”
Vasilyev smiled weakly. “I insisted on packing some. At some point I was hoping we could capture the vehicle with the weapon, and I think throwing regular grenades at it would be a bad idea. Simply strolling up to the men guarding the weapon would probably be just as bad.”
Grishkov grunted. “Yes, especially for us. These look odd to me, so please pull out the ones you know are flashbangs from the case.”
Vasilyev picked up two grenades. The first had a metal rod with the arming pin, attached to a plastic ball containing the charge covered on top with short spikes. The second had a shorter metal rod with the arming pin, attached to a smooth oblong plastic body. He held the first one up before slipping it into his pocket.
“The first one is the Zarya-3, and the second the RGK-60SZ. Both should be effective at incapacitating the remaining gunmen until we can reach the truck. I suggest we work our way through the parking lot using the cars for cover until we are close enough to be sure of an effective throw. Fortunately, I was not hit in my throwing shoulder,” Vasilyev said.
Grishkov sighed and shook his head as he picked up one of the grenades, and pulled the strap of a submachine gun across his neck. Putting his arm around Vasilyev for support, he asked “Why bother telling me the grenade models? Doesn’t every second count?”
Vasilyev shrugged as he bent and picked up a submachine gun as well.
“Well, yes. I just wanted to reassure you that these really are flashbangs. I understand mistakes can happen in combat.”
With a sharp nod Grishkov said, “Fair enough. Let’s work our way to the corner of the building, where we’ll have some cover when we throw.”
Vasilyev hunched low as he shuffled forward with Grishkov, moving carefully forward from car to car. Fortunately, the men around the truck had their attention focused on the guards firing at them from inside the plant’s second and third story windows. Since the attackers’ car had made its mad dash towards them and hit Vasilyev, he and Grishkov had ceased firing in the direction of the gate, so the attackers assumed they were dead.
In just a few minutes they had reached the corner of the main desalination plant building, and Grishkov took a quick look around it.
“There are still at least three men around the truck, maybe four. We’ll have to move fast once we throw these grenades. Are you ready?”
Vasilyev nodded.
“Good. On three. One, two…”
As Grishkov said “three” both of them threw their grenades, and then ducked back behind the building’s corner. Even from there, and with their eyes closed and hands over their ears, they had no doubt that the grenades had detonated successfully.
They ran towards the truck as fast as they could, knowing that the attackers would start to recover from the effect of the grenades in less than a minute.
When they got there, they found that all of the four remaining gunmen were still stunned, disoriented and unable to defend themselves.
Grishkov and Vasilyev shot them all without mercy. With a nuclear weapon still to deal with, there was no time to waste and no useful information to be gained by taking prisoners.
One of the men had been Farhad Mokri, who became the first of the Iranians who had plotted the attack on Saudi Arabia to die that day.
Grishkov and Vasilyev had been worried that the guards firing from the plant’s windows wouldn’t take the time to distinguish them from the attackers, but apparently the grenades had helped to establish that they were on the guards' side. Still, they were just as happy that their current position next to the truck’s cargo bed happened to shield them from view.
Grishkov shook his head as he saw the size of the device. “It would have been tough to move that thing even if you were uninjured. But with that wound in your shoulder, I don’t see how we’re going to get it out of the truck and into the water. Think we should take a closer look at it to see how much time we’ve got left?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “Why waste time, when we know the answer is ‘not much’? As to getting the weapon out of the truck and into the water, I’d say let’s get it to the pier before the guards decide to join the party and make us waste even more time.”
Grishkov was starting to nod agreement when both of them turned involuntarily towards a brilliant dot that had appeared on the northern horizon. In the following seconds it was crowned by a small mushroom cloud.
“The other plant…” Grishkov said, as he felt an arm close around his throat.
“Sorry, my friend,” were the last words Grishkov heard as he lost consciousness. He didn’t clearly hear Vasilyev’s next words, “I made a promise to Arisha.”
Vasilyev checked Grishkov’s pulse and breathing and nodded with satisfaction. He would be out for a matter of minutes, but it would be long enough for what he needed to do.
Vasilyev pulled Grishkov into the shade of a nearby car, and propped his head up. There was a chance he would still be unconscious when the guards finally emerged from the plant, but Vasilyev was optimistic, especially since he was sure the guards had seen the other desalination plant disappear in a nuclear fireball.
No, Vasilyev thought they would probably consider it a good day to stay indoors, at least for a while.
Wincing, Vasilyev pulled himself up into the truck’s driver's seat.
Thankfully, the keys were in the ignition.
At first, he had to drive with care around bodies, debris and wrecked cars.
Then Vasilyev had to weave the large truck through the parking lot, until he finally reached the exit to the narrow service road leading to the maintenance pier. The road was obviously intended for a smaller vehicle, but he drove carefully and soon was at the entrance to the pier.