Kaliningrad. Warehouse District.
Propenko snapped his team to attention. He scowled over the nine men standing in line as if he might just condescend to let them lick his boots, but only the soles. He shook his head in disgust and pointed at McCarter. “This man is God! I am prophet! Do you have any questions?”
None did.
Manning smiled and spoke low to McCarter. “Nice touch.”
Gaz the Bagman had turned out to indeed be a bag of money.
Rather than accept bully boys from Moscow, Propenko had taken the money and privately gone shopping. It had been a risk, but McCarter had gone along with it. Propenko had used his personal connections and found ten Russian military policemen of the Western Military District, special oblast unit, who were more than willing to make some cash on the side. Save that one was missing; McCarter was pleased with the transaction.
All of the assembled men had the Russian Federation equivalent of fast-reaction-team training and all of them spoke English. Several were local boys and spoke Polish. All had proved themselves as tough, capable and utterly corruptible soldiers. Being utterly corrupt military police in Fortress Kaliningrad, they had easily been able to acquire high-quality weapons and gear. They had brought a truckload of body armor, night-vision goggles, com gear and stubby, Kashtan submachine guns with sound suppressors and red-dot sights. As well, there was an assortment of grenades, though, the Phoenix Force leader knew, they were less than lethal flash-stuns and sting-ball, blunt-trauma weapons.
McCarter and Manning had helped themselves. It was good kit, but it was light, “slender gear’” as McCarter’s father would have said.
Every scenario the group had run ended up with the real enemy force coming in hard and heavy. Phoenix Force would have to rely on the reinforced Able Team and Dragonslayer to make up the difference.
Propenko strode up to McCarter and saluted. “They are ready for your inspection.”
“You said you’d hired ten.”
“I did.”
“Where is our missing military policeman?”
“Do not know. Missing man is youngest. Perhaps he is late, or screw up getting off duty tonight.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to make do, won’t we?” McCarter scanned his squad. “They seem likely enough, I’ll give them that.”
“Good news is they are Russian boys. They have seen far too many action movies and shows on cable television. Trained from childhood to think officer with English accent is best of best. They will think you are James Bond or General Montgomery or both if you let them believe. I suggest you do.”
“Right.” McCarter strode forth and stopped just short of being a Monty Python skit as he laid it on thick. “Right! Listen here, you communist heathens!”
Several of the men smirked.
McCarter allowed it. He wanted cohesion and camaraderie on this one. Propenko could instill blind fear and obedience if the situation warranted. “The situation is simple. There happen to be some right bloody bastards in Poland who don’t belong there, and there are men in Moscow with money. Manna from bloody heaven, amounts of money, my lads!
“The pricks in Poland, who are squatting there quite unreasonably, have given the men in Moscow grief, added insult on top of injury, and cost them blood and money. The men in Moscow have shown the infinite good taste and wisdom to hire me. I have sent forth Mr. Propenko, and he has hired you. I am informed you are all Military Police—Voennaya Politsiya, VP—Western District, special unit. The best of the best! You know how to conduct a raid, how to kick ass and know how to take prisoners and collect evidence! The money men in Moscow would dearly love to speak with these men, so alive if possible. I am informed we will have satellite and ground level intelligence.”
The Russians nodded and made affirmative noises.
“You are all being issued communication gear. All battle instructions will be in English. This is Operation Red Wolf. We are Wolf Pack.”
The Russians liked the sound of it.
McCarter snarled. “Wolf Pack! Sound off!”
The Russians shouted out in domino effect. “Wolf One. Wolf Two. Wolf Three. Wolf Four, Wolf…”
“Memorize it,” McCarter ordered. “From now on we have no names. I am Alpha.” McCarter snapped his head toward Propenko. “He is Lobo.”
Wolf One was a black-haired, bearded, buff individual and he gave Manning a wary look. “Him?”
“He is Werewolf. He will be operating independently, with the biggest bloody rifle you have ever seen. If all goes well, we go in tonight. Until then, I am told we have been given unlimited privileges at Luffy-Land.”
Several Wolf Pack men made smothered throw-up noises. Others laughed.
“Right!” McCarter nodded at a table covered with steaming aluminum takeout dishes. “We have cots and Kazak barbecue. I personally recommend you stay here, eat your fill, check your weapons and sleep if you can. If we get the go-ahead? It will all happen very fast.”
The men nodded and started to break up.
Propenko roared something Old Testament in Russian. The nine men snapped to attention.
McCarter gazed long and hard at his squad. The nine men absolutely refused to meet his gaze. McCarter suddenly pumped his fist and bellowed as only an old-school British Officer could. “Wolf Pack!”
The squad roared in return. “Wolf Pack!”
“Right! Fall out!”
The men fell out nodding and making enthusiastic noises. They seemed excited about the plan and thankful to be a part of it.
Outside the warehouse a motorcycle screamed to a halt. A lanky, blond young man came running in breathlessly laden with two heavy, bulging, XL gear bags. Propenko already had a face like a skull. Filled with fury, it was a death’s head to behold. He rounded on the young VP soldier. He didn’t yell. The young man went pale as Propenko read him the riot act in a guttural hiss only the two of them could hear.
“Mr. Propenko!” McCarter shouted.
Propenko snapped around. “Dah!”
“Bring that man to me!”
Propenko escorted the man into McCarter’s presence. McCarter nodded at Gary Manning, who drew his pistol. Propenko shoved the man to his knees. The nine Russians stared in sudden shock and apprehension at their young comrade.
“Mr. Propenko. Who the bloody hell is this and what is he doing in my warehouse?”
“The late one.” Propenko glared bloody murder at the young man. “The…how do you say? The rookie!”
McCarter’s voice suddenly dropped to a frighteningly conversational tone. “And where have you been, my good man?”
Manning pointed his pistol at the young man’s head.
The young man gulped. “Ukov, Maksim. Reporting for duty! Regretting delay!”
“You weren’t talking to someone, were you? Perhaps telling them you were coming here?”
“No, sir. I am told we are perhaps performing raid. Perhaps snatch-and-grab. I was acquiring materials.”
“What materials?”
Maksim Ukov shrugged off his pack straps and opened one of the bags. “Gas masks and—”
“What the bloody hell do I need gas