Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger (2 page)

The Tu-104 was the king of the sky: a twin-engine turbojet officially classified as a
jetliner
—the first of its kind. While mainly used for Russian civilian transportation, the Soviet military had purchased a respectable number of them for large-scale troop transportation. With speeds of almost a thousand kilometers per hour, it was a tremendous asset to Soviet forces. They were fortunate to have one at Zossen Wünsdorf.

The cabin was alive with chatter from what appeared to be a mix of officers and soldiers. Mikhail craned his neck to look for an open seat. His name was called before he found one.

“Captain Kirov!”

In a seat far ahead and motioning for Mikhail to approach was Colonel Anton Dorokhov. He was a man Mikhail worked with frequently at the base. Hurrying down the aisle, Mikhail offered the mustached colonel a formal salute.

“Sit down,” Dorokhov said simply. Sliding into an adjacent vacant chair, Mikhail gave Dorokhov his full attention, lowering the papers he’d been handed onto his lap. “Your uniform and gear are by the boxes in the rear,” Dorokhov said as the jetliner rolled forward. “How much do you know about the situation?”

“Nothing, colonel. I was told it would be explained. Thirty minutes ago, I was teaching my daughter division.” As the plane’s speed increased, Mikhail leaned back in his chair. He had never flown in a Tu-104 before. He felt a slight swell of lightheadedness at the sheer newness of it, though he maintained his composure. “I was told we are en route to Iceland. Did something happen with NATO?”

Dorokhov looked out the window. “There is much to explain and very little time. This is only a three-hour flight.” After a pause, his attention returned to Mikhail. “America launched and detonated several nuclear missiles over the Atlantic.” Mikhail’s eyes widened. “It was not an act of aggression. It was an act of defense. At 0523 hours local time, a squadron of American fighter jets was engaged by an unknown aircraft over the Atlantic coast.”

And this needed nukes?
Mikhail listened on as the jetliner lifted.

“From what we understand, the American aircraft were either damaged or destroyed. Nuclear missiles were fired, and the unknown aircraft was shot down north of Kirkjubæjarklaustur.”

At that, Mikhail couldn’t contain himself. “Shot down? Not destroyed?”

Dorokhov’s attention shifted to the window; the jetliner ascended. For a moment, the colonel’s jaw set. “The aircraft in question is believed to be extraterrestrial in origin.”

Mikhail blinked. Was this a joke?

“NATO forces are already on scene,” Dorokhov said. “They have set up a perimeter and are awaiting our arrival to proceed.” He reached for a folder tucked into the armrest of the chair, handing it to Mikhail. Before Mikhail could open the folder, the colonel continued. “I will explain this as simply as I can. You will be assisting the American forces in a conjoined assault on the aircraft. Spacecraft,” he corrected. “The request for cooperation was made by the American president, straight to the Kremlin.”

As Mikhail listened, he flipped through the contents of the folder. Various aerial photographs were inside. He rotated them several ways in an attempt to sort them out.

“These were faxed to us from Tu-16 flyovers. This is the spacecraft, here.” He pointed to a large vessel entrenched in the earth in what looked like a giant mud field. Or a crater. The shadows of elevated outcroppings could be seen strewn across the landscape. Impact debris. “You can look at this cluster of trees to get the scale.”

“Good God…”

“According to Voroshilov, NATO forces have already been engaged and are fighting to hold their ground. Upon our arrival, an offensive push will be attempted.”

Cycling through the photographs, Mikhail stopped at one that was different. It wasn’t aerial—it was taken from the ground. It appeared to be looking down upon the vessel from atop a hill. There were no forces, terrestrial or otherwise, anywhere to be seen. “What is this?”

“That is why we were called. Infrared of the buried portion of the craft indicates there may be a hole in its rear. It did not crash forward, but in somewhat of a free-fall, leaving much of the rear buried. At this particular place, it is visible only four meters above the surface.” Crinkling his nose and subsequently his mustache, Dorokhov leaned back in his chair. “The Americans wish to attempt a breach of this potential entryway. They believe there is the chance for a flank attack on the forces inside the vessel, thus strengthening a frontal push. With a small team of your own, you will be working cooperatively with U.S. Special Forces to infiltrate and engage the extraterrestrials.”

Dorokhov went on. “I want to be clear. Our official mission is to assist the Americans in a conjoined operation to capture the extraterrestrial spacecraft. Do you understand?”

“I understand—”

Cutting Mikhail off before he could finish his statement, Dorokhov once again said, “Allow me to repeat myself. Our
official
mission is to assist the Americans in a conjoined operation to capture the extraterrestrial spacecraft.” Turning to look at Mikhail straight on, the colonel asked, “Do you understand, Captain Kirov?”

He did now. Offering a single nod and looking forward, Mikhail said, “I understand, colonel.”

Inhaling deeply, Dorokhov joined Mikhail in staring ahead. Neither man was looking at the other. “Some people cannot be trusted with power. When a big boy gets a big stick, he will use it. History has taught us this. How much sleep do you think Truman lost on August 6th, 1945?”

Mikhail’s gaze sunk slowly. A public thanking to God—that was what Truman offered in the wake of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. An atrocity that left hundreds of thousands dead. Not military personnel or soldiers. Civilians. And they thanked God for it. This was the United States of America. Yes…Mikhail knew exactly what Dorokhov was getting at.

“We do not have the on-site manpower to capture this spacecraft and its technology alone,” the colonel said, “but the Americans do.” He looked at Mikhail again. “We have been asked to join this operation as a show of good faith by the American government, but do not fool yourself into thinking that that good faith goes very far. We were invited because America cares about its image, not because we are actually wanted. If they
can
lay sole claim to the technology in this spacecraft, rest assured they will.”

“Then how can we stop them?” Mikhail asked. “This is in NATO territory. It’s an American offensive. What forces do we have there to keep them in check?”

Shifting in his chair, Dorokhov answered, “None. That is why your number one priority is to
survive
. You will be entering this vessel with U.S. Special Forces. If something should happen to your team inside the craft—be it at the hands of the aliens
or
the Americans—no one will be left to hold the Americans accountable.” He leaned closer. “A Special Forces strike team can keep a secret, but an army of men cannot. It would be nothing for the strike team to kill you inside the vessel and later claim it was at the hands of the extraterrestrials. But if you survive until the American offensive reaches you, they will not be able to touch you—there would be too many potential witnesses. America cares about its image. To have treachery like that leak out to the world would destroy America’s global reputation.”

“I understand, colonel.”

The colonel nodded and leaned back. “You will meet your Soviet comrades for this joint operation in Kirkjubæjarklaustur. There, you will also receive information on the extraterrestrials—or at least what has been observed from them on the ground. There are some details even I do not know yet.”

Mikhail nodded.

“Now get your gear and read over your papers,” Dorokhov said, motioning to the documents Mikhail had been handed upon boarding the flight—English translations of standard military commands. “We land at thirteen hundred.”

The hours passed as fleetingly as the clouds outside Mikhail’s window, with plenty to keep Mikhail’s mind racing the whole while. Aliens. Capitalists. The only thing worse than either of those was both of them together.

This was an event the likes of which he’d never fathomed. His morning with Kseniya seemed like another day entirely, and now he fully understood why his leave had been unceremoniously interrupted. This warranted interruption. This was serious. As was always the case in the midst of wartime activity, it was all too easy to block out the personal side of his life in favor of the military one. This was the here and now, and here and now, nothing else mattered.

Turning to a photograph of the spaceship, Mikhail examined it more closely. The ship was ray-like in design, with a large, circular central saucer flanked by two massive wings—almost like arms. It was hard to make out any distinguishing characteristics such as openings, hardpoints, or possible weapons, though he wasn’t positive those would be visible anyway. He was sure that damage from the nuke and the impact was obscuring the photograph, too.

“So the Americans want to enter here,” he murmured to himself, fixating on the rear of the vessel. “Maybe that was where the warhead hit?”

That this ship had survived a nuclear strike was unbelievable. What kind of material was this thing made from? Metal? Something else?
Something light enough to fly, but strong enough to survive a nuclear attack.
He slid his fingers into his hairline and rested his forehead against his palm.
How deep will they have to dig to reach this entryway? Meters? Or is it just below the surface?
Even without fine detail, it was apparent that the ship was partially buried. He just didn’t know what that constituted in relation to the dig site.

The thought of cooperating with Americans was as new to Mikhail as the aliens themselves. The United States may have been touting cooperation, but as Dorokhov indicated, there was always an ulterior motive when dealing with Yankees. The very nature of capitalism was rooted in insatiableness. The Americans would not be eager to share alien technology. But they would be eager to use it. On the Soviet Union. On Japan. On Europe and the Middle East. On anyone they could justify a necessity to surpass.

The extraterrestrials fired first—they are obviously here to harm us. But I trust them far more than I trust Americans. At least the aliens are honest about their intentions.

U.S. Special Forces. Some of America’s most ruthless killers. At some point during this joint operation, if things were going as planned and the alien vessel was being successfully breached, those Special Forces would turn their guns on Mikhail and his comrades the moment Soviets were no longer needed. That was what Americans did.

I need to be ready for that.

He turned to the next page in the stack—the first page he hadn’t yet seen. It was a list of names. Soviet soldiers. Mikhail’s brow furrowed as he made the realization: these were going to be his comrades. He wondered if any of them were on board the plane.

Six names. I make seven.

Mikhail focused on the topmost name. Senior Lieutenant Sevastian Tyannikov. His XO. For some reason, Tyannikov’s last name felt familiar. Maybe they’d served together before. Two lieutenants were listed next, Iosif Mednikov and Valentin Rubashkin. Mikhail had never heard of them. Onto the next. Sergeants Yuri Vikhrov and Nikolai Lukin, an engineer and a medic, respectively. An unconventional, though understandable assortment considering the situation. He looked at the final name. Nina Andrianova.

Mikhail blinked, his hands going rigid. “Nina
Andrianova
?” He blurted the words aloud, though no one nearby seemed to notice. “What?” he whispered as he stared at the name. Slowly, he lowered the paper and looked ahead.

Mikhail had never met Nina Andrianova. He didn’t even know what she looked like. But he knew her name. Everyone in the Soviet Army did.

Nina was a legend among snipers, having served in a multitude of operations dating back to World War II. Finland. Eastern Europe. Manchuria. She’d even been present for the Hungarian Revolution. Legend stated obligatorily that she was beautiful. It also stated that she’d sent five hundred men to their graves. Both claims were likely exaggerated. Just the same, the fact that she was a part of his team stated something clearly: this was a take-no-chances operation.

As Mikhail suspected, the pages that followed contained a full dossier for every member of his team. With time to spare, he pored over their contents.

Sevastian, his XO, had also served in Hungary—undoubtedly the reason Mikhail recognized his name—albeit in a different district. The remarks left by his superiors were strikingly similar to the ones Mikhail’s superiors had always attributed to him, minus the ability to speak English. All in all, Sevastian had the look of an ideal executive officer.

The first of his two lieutenants, Iosif, seemed nothing short of brutal. After serving as military aid in North Korea, he had been sent to Estonia to supervise fortification efforts against the Baltic states. Apparently, Iosif had been a captain in North Korea. The demotion came shortly after his tenure there ended. Phrases like
overly aggressive
and
needs strict guidelines
stood out like sore thumbs. That was probably why he’d been sent to Estonia. There was much less to do there. It was a relatively safe place for a hothead to be.

His other lieutenant, Valentin, also fought against the Baltic states, though in Lithuania. His comments were considerably less alarming, consisting of words like
integrity
,
dedication
, and
resourceful
. From the looks of it, Valentin’s superiors had tried him briefly as a senior lieutenant, only to realize that he had no leadership instinct. He was a follower. But a great one.

As for Yuri and Nikolai, his engineer and medic, both had been serving in Berlin for some time and held above-average marks across the board, most notably in their chosen fields. Nothing stood out as extraordinary, but nothing was required to. As long as they could function decently, Mikhail would be pleased. By the look of their records, they could.