Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger (3 page)

Placing the stack of papers down, Mikhail allowed his gaze to wander to the window. The clouds were still gliding past, their ethereal wisps a serene contrast to the reality he was about to face. Extraterrestrials were on Earth. That fact seemed too surreal to be true. It surely hadn’t registered with him yet. Perhaps a part of him refused to believe it until he saw it, not in a photograph, but with his own eyes. He was about to get that chance.

For the remainder of the flight, Mikhail tried his best to prepare for a situation that couldn’t be prepared for. He strategized on hypotheticals and rehashed past assignments. He imagined what his team would do if they’d find themselves flanked or lost in an alien spaceship. It was all purely speculative, but nonetheless fruitful. It got his mind where it needed to be.

No mission he’d ever been on had required that more.

2

1327 hours (local time)

Kirkjubæjarklaustur, Iceland

TWO SENSATIONS HIT Mikhail as the Tu-104’s door opened: frigidity and moisture. Gray clouds had appeared the moment they’d crossed onto Southern Iceland, stretching as far as the eye could see. Though the rain was far from torrential, combined with the incessant whipping of the wind, it created a soak-storm of drizzle and mist that blasted Mikhail’s uniform with every step he took. His helmet did little to shield his face from the rain. Russia was cold; he was used to that. But this was just miserable.

Slinging the AK-47 that’d been with his gear over his shoulder, Mikhail looked across the landscape as he descended the airstairs. He searched for any sign of the alien vessel, but saw nothing. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of it from the sky, but their angle of approach had brought them down before they reached the spacecraft’s location. Reaching the bottom step, he made a small leap to the concrete strip below.

Kirkjubæjarklaustur’s base, if it even deserved that designation, was minuscule. Beyond a couple of small hangars and a building or two, it seemed to consist mostly of runways, almost all of which were jammed with aircraft. There were another two TU-104s on site, though most of the planes and vehicles there seemed to be NATO. American soldiers were everywhere, and a dreadful sensation swelled inside Mikhail. This felt wrong.

Scanning the runway, his eyes came upon a Soviet officer holding a cardboard sign, Mikhail’s name scribbled upon it. Trotting to the man, he raised his hand in salute. “I am Kirov.” The officer promptly returned the formality. “Colonel Dorokhov was with me. Do we need to wait for him?” Glancing behind, Mikhail searched for the mustached colonel somewhere in the crowd. He was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking his head, the officer said, “No. I am to escort you immediately to your assignment at NATO’s command center.”

“Where is the rest of my team?” He waved around the dossiers.

The officer was already walking to a nearby NATO vehicle, a drab green covered jeep with two Americans sitting in the front seats. “Your team is already by the command center. They arrived shortly before you did.”

Removing his AK-47 from over his shoulder, Mikhail climbed into the back seat and propped the weapon upright. His focus then went to the Americans. Both men looked at each other in a way that was as conspicuous as it was blatantly unsubtle—a Yankee specialty.

Glancing over his shoulder, the driver asked, “Y’all strapped in?”

“Da,” the Russian officer said.

Giving the officer a sidelong look, Mikhail answered with a more appropriate, “Yes.”

In a voice laden with forced camaraderie, the driver said, “Hold on.” Mikhail shifted in his seat, and the jeep rolled forward.

The drive lasted all of ten minutes, every moment of which Mikhail spent studying the NATO vehicles and personnel they passed. He gripped his rifle tighter as his eyes wandered from one sight to the next. NATO flags. Patton tanks. Soldiers with M1 rifles.

This morning I wished for Americans outside my window, just for a change. I wonder if I can take that back.

Neither driver said a word as the jeep rolled on. At long last, as it approached what seemed to be the far side of the command center, it pulled into a gravel parking area. The ignition was turned off and the American in the passenger seat climbed out.

“This is where you get out,” the Russian officer next to Mikhail said, pointing to cluster of men several tents down. “That is your team.” Mikhail’s gaze followed the officer’s indication until he found the grouping of Soviet soldiers—a sight he more than welcomed. “Good luck, captain.” A half-hearted salute was exchanged, and Mikhail exited the covered jeep back into the rain. Shouldering his rifle again, he approached his men.

The men pivoted to face him as soon as they saw him. “Captain on scene!” the rightmost man said. Each one fell into a salute. Mikhail returned it, then surveyed the soldiers. Five were present. Where was Nina?

The same man who’d announced Mikhail’s arrival spoke again. “I am Senior Lieutenant Sevastian Tyannikov, captain. I am ready to assist you in whatever you need.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.” He scrutinized his XO. Clean-cut brown hair, sharp facial features. A focused expression. Sevastian looked like a professional. “Where is Andrianova?”

Sevastian looked at him oddly. “Andrianova, captain?”

“Nina Andrianova. She is supposed to be here.”

At the mention of the sniper’s name, Sevastian’s eyes widened. The other men bore similar reactions. “Nina Andrianova is here?” he asked. “Going in with
us
?”

Mikhail turned around, scanning the surrounding area. There was no sign of Nina, nor of any other Soviets. Could her inclusion have been an error? Facing his team, he waved off the murmurs. “I do not know.” He scrutinized them again. As a whole, they looked as uncomfortable as he did. As individuals, they looked like an elite unit should. Iosif Mednikov, his supposedly ultra-aggressive lieutenant, was a hulk of a man. Sporting curly black hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, he looked more than capable of holding his own. Firm in his grasp was a PPSh-41 submachine gun.

In contrast, Valentin Rubashkin, his other lieutenant, was slender and solemn. No hair was visible under his helmet, leading Mikhail to figure that the man was either bald or shaven. Whereas Iosif looked rough, Valentin’s keen gaze conveyed perspicacity. He looked like a thinker. Just the same, both men sported the same weapon. Close-quarters specialists.

Nikolai Lukin was a smaller-framed man, though he appeared decently cut, particularly for a medic. The same could be said for their engineer, Yuri Vikhrov. All-in-all, the crew looked quite capable.

“All right, listen,” Mikhail said, taking a position front and center before them. “I am Mikhail Kirov, your captain, as Lieutenant Tyannikov has pointed out. I am sure you must have many questions, as I do myself. I assure you, everything that is relayed to me will be relayed to you. No one can be left in the dark for an operation as challenging as this.”

Though the men stayed at attention before him, their eyes shifted about noticeably. From a crew of such high pedigree, it struck Mikhail as oddly uncertain. And so he paused. “You do know what this operation is about, correct?” For the first time, the men broke their attentive stances, looking at one another blankly. Sevastian finally broke the silence.

“We assumed it was in response to the nuclear incident, captain, but none of us were told specifics—only that we would be working alongside American forces. None of us were told why.”

They don’t even know.
How in the world was he going to explain this? Aliens were attacking? Spaceships were crashing to Earth? Would they think this was a joke? Mikhail opened his mouth to begin as best he could, but before he could say anything, an American officer stepped out from a nearby tent and addressed him.

“Captain Kirov! You Captain Kirov?”

Mikhail faced the man. “Yes—”

“The general’s ready to begin. We need you in the tent now.”

“Wait,” said Mikhail, holding his palm out. “I need to speak with my team first.”

The American shook his head. “We don’t have time for that. Do it later.”

Later? This mission wasn’t exactly one that could be thrust upon someone without time to prepare. Not for something as surreal as this. “If I were not Soviet, would you give me time then?” The man said nothing. “If I cannot address them here, then you will allow them to accompany me into your tent. You make the choice.”

Mikhail could tell by the look on the man’s face that he’d offered an unpalatable ultimatum. Prompting Mikhail to wait, the man disappeared back into the tent, leaving the Soviets waiting in the blustery rain. Moments later, the American appeared again. “Bring them in.”

“Thank you,
comrade
.” Mikhail’s emphasis was intentional. And less than well-meant. His expression darkening, the American held the tent open for Mikhail’s team to enter.

The tent was packed. From one end to the next, American soldiers and officers lorded over an assortment of equipment ranging from weapons racks to radio stations. Chatter came from every direction—until Mikhail and his men were inside. The Americans looked up from their stations and all sound stopped.

The Soviet Union and the United States of America. Communism versus capitalism. Progress versus prosperity. Never before had those differences felt so tangible. In the midst of the deafening silence that surrounded Mikhail and his men, an unsettling chill rose from the floorboards. For the Soviets, this was enemy territory. For the Americans, this was inviting the enemy in. Never before had a situation felt so conflicting. It was enough to make Mikhail miss Hungary.

Finally, after ten full seconds of tension, someone across the room spoke. “Somebody get those boys some chairs. And some coffee, pronto.” Following the voice, Mikhail’s stare came to rest on a man across the room. He seemed older than most of the others present, maybe in his fifties. Pushing his glasses up against his nose, he motioned for the Soviets to approach. “Have a seat over here, gentlemen.”

Stepping through the crowded tent, Mikhail and his men made their way over. Maps and photographs were posted everywhere. The extraterrestrial spacecraft was plainly visible in each one. Mikhail spared a quick glance behind him to see if his team had taken notice. Based on their looks of wide-eyed perplexity, they had.

“Hope you like your coffee black,” the man said, stepping closer to meet Mikhail’s approach. “General Thomas Palmerston, NATO command. Pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand, a gesture Mikhail accepted.

“Captain Mikhail Kirov, Soviet Fourth Army. My…team.” He realized in that moment that he didn’t even know their names well enough to recite off the cuff.

Palmerston seemed sympathetic. “Long day and it hasn’t even begun, I know. Your team paratroop in?”

“Paratroop? No.”

“Mm.” The general nodded and motioned for the Soviets to follow. “Thought you might have come in with the first batch.” As they approached the newly-formed row of chairs set up for the foreign arrivals, Palmerston pointed to a small group of men standing along the tent wall. Dark green uniforms, M3 submachine guns. But it was their hats that gave them away.

Green Berets.

Palmerston beckoned the nearest Green Beret toward them. He was a man with an unwavering gaze—intensity personified, with brown hair and green eyes. The general stepped aside to allow the man to greet Mikhail. “Kirov, I’d like you to meet Captain Charles Hemingway, 10th Special Forces Group. He and his team will be accompanying you inside the spacecraft.”

“
Spacecraft
?” Sevastian blurted out behind them, apparently recognizing that particular English word. The rest of Mikhail’s team looked equally stunned.

Hemingway’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Sevastian briefly, then back to Mikhail. “They don’t know?” he asked, his voice deep, yet crisp.

“They have been told nothing,” Mikhail answered. “I was hoping to explain the situation when I got called in here.”

“Well, let’s get these boys an explanation,” Palmerston said, walking toward the largest photograph. The Soviets took their seats as the general proceeded to explain the situation.

Every detail that Mikhail had heard from Dorokhov on the jetliner was covered again, from the initial nuclear strike to the arrival of military personnel on the scene to secure the perimeter. It wasn’t until Palmerston got specifically to their assignment—the infiltration of the craft via rear, buried hull breach—that things took a turn for the different.

“Washington and the Kremlin made it very clear that this is a joint operation. I know we’ve had our differences, but now’s not the time to focus on them. For the sake of this operation, we can’t afford to.”

As the general spoke on, Mikhail translated quietly for his Russian comrades.

“This operation, which we’re calling
Crimson Dagger
,” Palmerston said, “falls under our special access programs for operations and support. That’s top secret, for you red boys. Officially, you’re here to borrow some trucks for civilian crowd control. If any word of this operation leaves this tent, both sides will deny everything—and of course, you’ll deal with your government. I’m sure that’s not something you want to do.”

In that, Palmerston was right. Mikhail glanced briefly to his comrades, who were taking in the translated information as best they could, glassy looks showing on their faces. His focus returned to the general.

Casting a brief look to Hemingway before going on, Palmerston paced across the front of the sectioned area. “Now, you boys extended us a favor by not jumping the gun when we set off those nukes. It’s for that reason we’re extending our trust to you. Kirov, you will be serving as commanding officer for this entire operation, yours and ours alike.”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow.

“Captain Hemingway will assume the role of executive officer. Should something happen to you, he and his men will assume command of the entire operation. But
you’re
the crimson in this.”

So the chain of command began with Mikhail but continued only with Americans. He was just a Soviet figurehead for a Yankee operation. This reeked of ill intent, just as Dorokhov had suspected. He had no doubt that one of the Green Berets’ bullets was meant for him—a friendly-fire “accident” waiting to happen. Once Mikhail went down, the Americans would be in charge. He had to survive at all costs. For Russia and the world.