//------------------------------// // Chapter 6: Russians // Story: Battlefield: Causatum // by Obvious German //------------------------------// March 21st, 2014/ Khodinka, Moscow, Four hours after Markaz incursion, Moscow Standard Time, The cold office was reflecting on the man’s mood today; cold and unforgiving. Such was the life of normal Russian citizens, but he was a little more different. He was the head of GRU, Russia’s premium foreign intelligence agency and he had lost contact with four heavily armed agents in Iran in search for their stolen nukes. He had a bad enough day, but it was going to go downhill from there as he slowly shifted the mouse on the computer, responding to a new email from his secretary, concerning the drafting of two elite GRU agents to deal with the matter. He sighed again, and took out a cigar, lighting it up with an aged chrome lighter. Just then, he saw the contents of the email being lit up by the dim sunlight. Written there was something he rued, that today would be the arrival of those very agents. In less than a minute, he had put on a trench coat and walked outside of his office, flipping over the sign to say it was closed. Walking past rows of cubicles and computers accompanied by his secretary, he reached the main lobby where two heavily armed Russians stood, their dark black uniforms reflecting on their tales of black ops brutality. He shuddered; even he wouldn’t toy with these men. “So you are Igor Sergun, are we right?” The one on the left said, looking around and waiting for something to happen. “Indeed, and you are the men that Putin has sent over for the mission?” “You’re looking at them right here,” The one on the right responded as his comrade pulled out a small revolver to polish it before his comrade nudged him, causing him to re-holster it. “Sorry about that, Ivanich here likes his guns a little too much.” “Never mind that, Tatyana?” The secretary straightened herself up and quickly handed a dossier full of classified information, which Sergun took the liberty of waving them back towards his office. “This is the dossier on your mission. Classified stuff, so you two have to meet me in my office.” “Affirmative, Director,” Ivanich responded as their gear bounced around as they strode over to Sergun’s office, to the staff’s amazement at the sight of such elite agents. Once reaching his room, he waved for Tatyana to close the door leaving the three men in silence in a soundproof office illuminated by a desk light. “Feels a little like those American noir movies,” The agent next to Ivanich responded as Sergun tossed the dossier onto the table, revealing a picture of an Iranian man. “Cut the chatter, we have to get to the point ASAP,” Sergun gruffly responded, having no time for such trivial entertainment. “This man right here,” he plucked the picture of the Iranian out of an observing Ivanich who groaned in dismay. “He is the leader of Iran as of right now, Farouk Al-Bashir. An unknown inside agent has somehow procured three of our highly prized nukes and has given them to this man,” Sergun explained as he pulled out a white sheet of paper, listed on it were the first response team sent to pursue after the nukes. “Our first team was sent to go after these nukes and promptly eliminated by a well placed PLR ambush near the location of Tehran.” Sergun pulled out another one of the sheets, as the agent next to Ivanich yawned causing Ivan to slap him on the back. “Ow! What was that for?!” “Are you even paying attention, Reznov? You look like a disgrace if you do that!” Sergun grunted, causing the bickering man to quiet down. “As I was continuing, we’ve sent another team over, this time accompanied by a friendly tank and a light helicopter. We lost contact with them this morning. Judging from their radio chatter, we’ve deduced that the assailants,” Sergun sighed, he was going to feel very ticked off with what killed his men after he would say the name of the responsible party. “Are the US Force Recon Marines.” This caused Ivanich and Reznov to growl in anger at the term of the pigs. They knew very well that they’ve been combating against the terror of the PLR in Iran for a few months now, and Russia’s second attempt to get what they had back was promptly ended by a group of rugged Americans instead. “How did that happen and how many were there?” “Four Marines and one tank. If you want how many PLR troopers were there, let me put a load of tadpoles into an Antonov, shall we?” The GRU director responded as he reached the actual explanation of their objectives. “Now then, as for today’s assignment. We now know that probably sending over more then three men is going to produce worst results, so we’ve decided to bring only the two of you in.” “And?” “And of course, you’re dropping into Iran to look for those nukes, avenge your comrades and as a bonus objective if you can, kill Al-Bashir and his conspirator,” Sergun finished, his cigar also almost done as he pulled it out and tossed it away into the dustbin to the two Russian’s delight “We’re happy to avenge them in any way. So where is our ride?” “Glad you asked, we’ve got a cargo plane fueled up and stationed at the nearby airport. ETA to Iran will be by dusk and drop off will be by HALO jump. So gear up, we’re leaving with haste,” Sergun said as he stood up and walked to the door, knowing that whoever sent these men here was still outside waiting for them. As he predicted, a shiny black jeep was parked outside, the driver waiting inside as if he were a robot or so. Sergun sighed and waved for the armed agents to get in the car, but not before informing Tatyana that he might be running a little late, basically putting her in temporary charge of the building. After that, Sergun managed and sat across them, slamming the door shut. With black tinted windows, the GRU director had nothing to fear as the car rumbled and began moving on the road. The trip itself took about an hour to the Khodinka airport, filled with awaiting tourists and stocked with planes of all sorts, including some military Antanovs that the agents will use to drop off in Markaz. Sergun was growing very impatient with his task and how much resources he had expended just to get three nukes back from the hands of an unknown terrorist and his lackeys. Mind you, Russian-made nukes. He sought to relieve some of his pent-up stress by trying to converse with the two other Russians, who were busy checking their pistols to his dismay. No wonder why the West always generalized them as sadistic, pistol-whipping and drunken men. Still, he couldn’t blame them entirely. “So,” Sergun began as the jeep stopped at an intersection. “Do you two have any…information that you will like to share?” “Does wrestling a Siberian tiger count?” Reznov grunted, followed by Ivanich’s stifled chuckles. “No, like shoving a T-72 up your ass loaded with a HE shell,” Sergun harshly responded, causing Reznov to back down and Ivanich’s face to turn into a sour expression. “I was only joking, sir,” he responded as he holstered his MP412 Rex and wound down the windows to take a good look at the scenery outside. “You forgot your laughbox or something?” “Son,” Sergun huffed. “I work as the goddamned head of GRU, do you think I have the time to even laugh?” “No, sir,” Reznov begrudgingly responded, clearly dismayed at the coldness of the director and sat inside the jeep in silence, much to the chagrin of Ivanich who sat in the other corner and watched the people of Russia do their own business. He sighed, knowing that he was just weeks away to permanent retirement from the black operations business, so that he could tend to his aging parents. “What about you, Ivanich?” “Oh, nothing, sir,” he responded. “I’m just hoping that I’ll come back alive before my retirement.” “Don’t worry,” Sergun responded, knowing that Russians don’t die that easily. “You’ll make it back.” The burly director then pulled out his phone, which happened to be on silent mode and therefore vibrating as per office rules and answered it, leaving Ivanich and Reznov in silence. “So,” Ivanich began as Reznov looked at him. “We’re just going to drop into Iraq, get whatever we need and get out?” “Yep, with the bonus of killing the head... Osama?” “It’s Bashir.” “Oh, Bashir,” Reznov replied, checking up on his gear as the car turned left into a busy district populated by vagrants and more businessmen and women. Seeing a 7-11, it made him hungry. “When was the last time we ate?” “This morning, standard MRE for breakfast.” “Damn, and now we’re here in town with all the goulashes in the world.” “Shut up,” Ivanich growled. “I’m hungry too.” “Ok, boss,” Reznov replied as he relaxed to the racket that Sergun was putting up, talking to his co-worker or general or whatever about some ‘misdirected teleportation device’. “Just gonna take a nap.” “Sounds good to me too,” Ivanich said as he adjusted himself to make it more comfortable to sleep, grabbing his personal pillow from his bag that was in the back of the jeep. It seemed a little silly, but it’ll have to do. As Reznov began to snore, Ivanich slowly flickered until he fell asleep; just as the radio station the jeep was somehow on began talking about the recent Iraq-Iran earthquake and the continued presence of the Americans there. “Can’t wait to fucking find out what’s going to happen in the desert.” The dusty atmosphere of the room was hard enough for your standard militant, and to Bashir it was unbearable. Taking the reins of a scattered and disorganized community was even harder than it looks like. And now, he was just sitting on a metal foldable chair, slowly being fried by the scorching sun through the uniquely carved out windows of the residence as he groaned under the sounds of his men barking at the struggling citizens below. “Be quiet and you will all get your food!” This only caused Bashir to groan again. The way his men were treating the people was a little… worrying. But at least he had them under his control, or else the whole situation would’ve gone out of hand. “Ugh… I need to find an AK and shoot some Marines…” he grumbled to himself, just as his two sub-ordinates walked it with RPDs, talking about something he never thought was something we would hear about in the Middle East. “… So you like Applejack more?” “Of course!” “Well, I can’t blame you.” What the fuck? Are they really talking about…? “My favorite pony is Rarity, no doubt.” “Allah, she’s such a bitchy one, just like American wife,” the one on the left said, causing the two of them to start laughing to Bashir’s dismay. He expected better, but this? This was just one way to get pissed off. Finding out that your men watch a girls’ TV show, especially when they’re your second-in-command. Bashir got up and started walking to the toilet to wash his face, cursing away at his two comrades for liking the show. He remembered his daughter watching it, but not anything else. He hated it, for it was too bright and colorful for him. As he went about his business to the toilet, someone called out to him through another dark doorway unlit by the sun. “So, how are you doing today?” “Solomon,” Bashir responded, knowing about his Russian assistant. Solomon was an intriguing fellow, a man of few words. With his surprising amount of intelligence about both Russian GRU and American CIA, he was one of Bashir’s most trusted assistants before and after the coup of the Iranian government. “Yes, it’s me again,” the former CIA operative said as he emerged from the cover of the shadows while adjusting his personal Taurus Model 44. “I’ve been snooping around the Americans' databases, nothing much except for a tank convoy they’re sending in later this year.” “We’ll be ready for that,” Bashir said as he went over to the sink and turned it on, letting cold water pour over his clammy hands. As he washed his face, Solomon took this opportunity and went to tell him about today’s journey into the abyss of Iran. “So, our men came back today with a… severe amount of causalities.” “How many?” “Three T-72s gone, almost five technicals and quite a number of our men.” “Who took them out?” “Four Marines, one tank and two pilots of a helicopter,” Solomon responded, Bashir lifting his face up to the mirror. “And from what they say, there’s something else very strange.” “What is it? Your dating service managed to pick someone up?” “No, and shut up about it,” Solomon growled in response to that silly phone number he bought and disguised as a dating service when it was actually a PLR line. “Anyway, your men say they saw an speeding angel from above into Markaz, and actually caught it.” “An angel from Allah? Impossible. What did it look like?” “Well, it’s a little sketchy,” Solomon said. “But judging from what they have left, it was…blue, looked like a horse or a pony to be exact, had wings and was very, very pissing to deal with.” That was when Bashir’s eyes widened. There was only one thing that looked like that. And to find that, he had to go all the way back before the coup… No, not now. “So what do you want me to do about it?” “Well, I’ve calculated how fast this…angel can go, from what the men have said,” Solomon responded, twirling the revolver before holstering it and pulling out a cigar. “Just as fast as a Su-25, and certainly faster than your regular ICBM.” “Wait,” Bashir said walking out of the toilet and into the room again. “So what does this have to do with my men and our nation?” “With all due respect,” the Russian began. “I think that the capture of this so-called angel would be imperative.” “Why so?” Solomon grinned and pulled out a picture from his pocket, revealing a nuclear device that Kaffarov had provided for him two months back. “Because I have just the perfect plan for it.”