Once the team had arrived at the farmhouse, they reviewed the surveillance package provided to them by the GRU, the Russian version of the American Defense Intelligence Agency. Their primary target was the General Dynamics land systems factory in Lima, where the Americans were mass producing their main battle tanks. Major Popov had been proud to accept this mission. Destroying or severely damaging the factory would go a long way toward helping the war effort.
Adjacent to their primary target was the Husky Lima Refinery, which produced a large portion of the gasoline for the Midwest. In addition to destroying the tank manufacturing, Popov’s team intended to obliterate the refinery as well. The large fuel storage tanks there would make for a spectacular explosion once they caught fire, which would lead to additional damage to the tank factory across the street. It was going to be a campaign of shock and awe.
Deep in thought, Sasha heard the front door to the farmhouse open, letting some of the cool air enter the hallway that led to the kitchen. A second later, the door closed, and two men walked into the kitchen, looking for an empty coffee cup.
“I do love American coffee,” Major Popov thought as he poured himself a full mug of the black liquid brain juice.
“Are the weapons there?” asked Popov. He was anxious to get the mission going. While his team was not actively fighting in Europe, the work they were doing here in the US was just as important. What they had seen on the American news, albeit with a Yankee bias, did not look good. The US was massing a massive army in Europe, and it wouldn’t be long until they unleashed that destructive force on their beloved homeland.
Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev took two large gulps of the hot liquid before placing his coffee mug on the kitchen counter to answer Major Popov’s question. “Yes. They were in the storage locker, just as the handler said they would be,” he responded. He held up his hand to prevent Popov from asking further questions before he continued.
“We did a quick inventory of the weapons to make sure everything was there. All three of the 120mm mortar tubes were present, and while they are old, they appear to be in good working condition. We checked the other crates as well. There are 36 rounds for the mortars, exactly twelve mortars per tube, exactly as we had been instructed.”
Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev, like many of the other Spetsnaz members, had entered the US nearly four months ahead of the hostilities between Russia and the West. The group of twelve members had entered the US through the H-1B visa program. Their applications had listed them as computer and engineering experts for an Armenian-owned and operated computer software company, LAD Solutions.
Vasiliev, like the other members of this elite Spetsnaz team, was part of the secretive Special Operations Command or KSO within the Ministry of Defense. Prior to being designated as a direct-action sabotage team in the Americas, they’d had to rotate to America and serve a three-month stint with LAD Solutions, where they’d learned more about the specific geographic region of America their unit had been assigned to. They were instructed on the top military targets in their region and the locations of safe houses they could fall back to if discovered. Most importantly, they’d spent a great deal of time driving around their assigned location, so they could better understand the layout of the roads, the surrounding cities, and the people who lived in the region they would be operating in. This familiarization of the battlespace had aided some of their earlier teams in being able to elude capture.
Sergeant Vlad Volkov had been smiling as he thought about the damage they would be able to do with thirty-six 120mm mortars. The mortar system was American, which meant it was reliable. How the GRU had acquired the weapons was not his concern. The fact that they had was all he cared about. “I checked the weapons myself, Sir,” he added, backing Vasiliev up. “They’re in good working order and should not cause us any problems.”
Popov nodded as a slight smile spread across his face. “What about the launch site? Have we found a point that is secluded enough to set up the mortars and still allow us to get away?”
This was the trickiest part of the operation. Granted, each of them would be more than willing to die in the service of their country; however, they wanted to make their efforts matter in the larger scheme of things, which meant they needed to carry out more than just one or two missions. They needed to be able to do their damage and then escape to fight another day.
Vasiliev chimed in. “On our way back from the storage facility, we checked a couple of the locations our surveillance package had identified. Two of them are a bust. A new housing development is where one of them used to be, and the other had a school on it. The third position they identified is still viable and is probably the best position to use. It’s still somewhat remote, but it’s close enough to the highway for us to be able to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the attack.”
“Excellent,” Popov responded. “Tonight, I’ll be purchasing the three Suburban SUVs. The vehicles should be ready in a couple of days, once we’ve the added brush guards. When I have the vehicles, I want you to take your team to the storage facility and move the weapons back here. Things need to be ready to go when the time comes.”
Deputy Eric Clark had just celebrated his tenth year on Patrol 6-Delta with the Sheriff’s Department on Sunday. He had several friends and family over for a BBQ, which turned out to be a great time of reflecting on the major milestone he had just hit in his new career. It was hard to believe it had already been ten years since he had gotten out of the Marines.
Eric and his partner, Cindy Morrison, had patrolled together for three years out in Allen County. At first, Eric was not thrilled with the prospect of having a green young woman for a partner — Cindy had only been twenty-two and fresh out of college when she’d joined the Allen County Sheriff Department. Like most idealistic young people, she wanted to change the world, and she was hell-bent on changing the way police interacted with the people they served. Despite a lot of antipolice sentiment on college campuses, Cindy had pressed forward in becoming a police officer, but she clearly wanted to change the organization from within.
After her six-month probationary period ended, she had changed her tune a bit. She realized the vast majority of calls they were responding to involved having to deal with the bottom of the barrel of society, like the backwoods hicks who thought it was cool to smack their women around, or the young gangbangers who felt the world owed them something, or her least favorite, human traffickers who routinely sold women and children into the sex trade. Cindy marveled at how Eric was able to wade through all the crap and still keep a happy demeanor. She respected his willingness to give each person the benefit of the doubt, even if he was a bit old-fashioned when it came to gender roles.
Eric and Cindy worked the night shift together, patrolling from eight at night until four in the morning, a time that most people tended to be asleep. The ones who were out and about tended to be the riffraff who had nothing better to do than to cause trouble. One night, during their shift briefing, an FBI agent took a couple of minutes to speak with them.
“I’m Special Agent Rich Demarco with the FBI, and I’m here to ask for your help,” he began. “We received a report that a Russian Special Forces unit may be operating in the area with the intention of carrying out some sort of sabotage mission against the General Dynamics land systems factory in Lima. While we don’t have any further details or leads at this time, we want to make the Sheriff’s Department aware of the possibility of an attack. If you see something suspicious, please investigate it. Radio it in and verify that nothing nefarious is going on.”