One of the officers raised a hand to ask a question, and Agent Demarco nodded to him. “If we do encounter a Russian Special Forces unit while on patrol, how are we supposed to deal with that? The most firepower we pack in our cruisers is a twelve-gauge shotgun.” He knew he wasn’t the only one to think of that angle.
“That is a fair question, Deputy,” Demarco answered. “If you encounter an armed group of Russians, radio it in and wait for backup. Don’t try to be a hero. These guys are highly trained and will probably be well armed. Since we’ve received this tip, security has been increased at the factory. We also have a joint FBI-Sheriff Department SWAT team on 24-hour standby. The SWAT team can be deployed quickly, so please wait for them to arrive if you believe that you have encountered this Russian group.”
With that said, the briefing broke up, and the officers went about their normal patrols, hoping that today would be like any other day.
Four hours later, Eric paid the cashier at the 24-hour Denny’s and proceeded to head back to their patrol car.
“I love the Eggs Over my Hammy sandwich,” Cindy said to her partner. She held the door open for him as they exited the building.
Eric laughed at his partner’s addiction to the fat-laden, calorie-inundated meal Denny’s called a sandwich. “Enjoy it while you can, Cindy,” he said with a smirk. “When you get to be as old as me, your metabolism will change, and suddenly you’ll get fat just drinking water.” He patted his stomach. It felt like he had just gained a few extra pounds, even though he’d just had a salad.
Walking over to the passenger side of the patrol car, Cindy opened the door and climbed on in. “Come on, Eric, it can’t be that bad, and you’re not that old,” she said, snickering a bit. She knew her partner was self-conscious about his weight. He really wasn’t advanced in age, having just turned thirty-six, but he was packing on a little bit of a beer belly.
As they got themselves settled in for another couple more hours of patrolling, the radio came to life. “Any units in the vicinity of Amherst Road and McClain Road, please respond. There are reports of suspicious activity in the area,” came the call from dispatch.
“Wow, could they be any more vague with that description?” Cindy remarked.
“It’s probably nothing, but we should check on it. We’re only a few miles away,” Eric replied.
He picked up the radio handset. “Dispatch, this is Six Delta. We’ll check it out,” he answered, hoping it was just a wild animal or something benign.
It was nearly 0100 hours as the Russian soldiers pulled the mortar tubes out of the back of their black Suburban SUVs and got them set up. A soldier used a mallet to pound in a rod used to hold the baseplate in place, making sure it was nice and snug in the ground before they set the tube up and began to use it. Once they fired the mortars, the blast from the propellant had a way of shifting the baseplate, which would affect its aim. Seeing that they were firing these mortars from near their maximum range, they didn’t want to spend a lot of rounds having to rezero the mortars if the baseplate moved.
Lifting a small encrypted radio to his lips, Major Popov whispered, “Viper Two, are you prepared for fire mission?” he asked.
Sergeant Boris Stepanov had positioned himself in a forest preserve that was directly across from both their primary and secondary targets. During his recon of the area, he had spotted a tree that he could climb, which would provide him with an excellent view of the targets. He had marked the tree with a chalk mark a couple of days before and had found his way back to it easily enough. He had waited up in his perch there for several hours before his radio had finally crackled to life.
Stepanov smiled. “This is Viper Two. Send one round, grid OH 4561 6823. Stand by for adjustments,” he directed. Depending on where it landed, he would fine-tune to make sure the next set of rounds would land amongst the factory they needed to destroy.
“Fire one round. Stand by for adjustments,” Popov responded.
Sergeant Vlad Volkov lifted the 31-pound HE round above his shoulder and dropped it down the tube. The second the round hit the base of the tube, the charge wrapped around the stem of the round ignited, ejecting the projectile high into the air at a heavy angle. The round whizzed through the air for what felt like an eternity before it traveled the nearly five kilometers to land in the parking lot of the tank plant with a thunderous explosion.
As the initial flash dissipated and the fireball swelled into the night sky, Sergeant Stepanov called in an adjustment to the next fire mission. The Spetsnaz team fired another single round, hoping this next one would hit the mark so they could drop their ordnance as quickly as possible and get out of the area before they were discovered.
A minute and a half later, a second round hit the roof of the tank manufacturing facility, causing another bright flash and a fireball.
Sergeant Stepanov smiled broadly. He lifted his radio to his lips. “Start dropping the rounds in,” he directed.
Major Popov yelled at the mortar team. “Fire right away!”
As the rounds continued to sail through the air, Popov made sure they reserved the last four rounds for the secondary target, the fuel refinery. With each thump of the mortars, he could hear the echo as the noise bounced around the forests and the few houses near them. He looked down the dirt road they had traveled down and saw Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev with three other soldiers, guarding the entrance to the field they had set up in.
Looking at his watch, Vasiliev could see that nearly five minutes had gone by since they first started firing the mortars. “We need to hurry this up,” he thought. “We’re going to have police on us anytime.” He knew that the American police, unlike those in Russia, had a pretty good response time if they were called to investigate something.
Just then, he saw a set of headlights turn down the county road toward their position. As the horizon lit up with yet another mortar round, Vasiliev realized that whoever was traveling toward them would definitely have seen the mortars launching out of the forest.
“Stand by and remain ready,” he said to the three other soldiers with him. “That could be a police car coming our way. If it is, we need to destroy it quickly before they can radio in for help,” he ordered, making sure everyone knew what was at stake.
Driving down National Road, Eric saw a red-hot projectile launch into the sky from a farm field not that far away from them. Cindy saw it too. “What the heck was that?” she asked, pointing at yet another projectile that flew into the sky in the direction of the city of Lima.
“That’s a mortar round,” he said, matter-of-factly. He grabbed his radio mic. “Dispatch, this is Six Delta,” he began. “We have confirmation on the Russian Special Forces unit near the intersection of National Road and McClain. Requesting SWAT to our location immediately!”
“Six Delta, this is Seven Delta. Did you say you found those Russians?” another patrol car asked almost as quickly as they had called it in.
“That’s affirmative,” Eric responded. “We’re less than a quarter mile away, and we’re observing them launch mortars in the direction of Lima. I’m not sure what they’re hitting, but my money says they’re going after the tank plant.”
Cindy looked terrified. “How do you know those are mortars?” she asked. “Maybe they’re fireworks or something,” she said sheepishly. She had never seen a mortar — she wasn’t sure if Eric had, either.