|The Age of Nuclear Terrorism
Author: Red Crown PM
The most advanced Russian nuclear weapon is stolen by terrorists who desire for nothing but to watch the free world burn. The safety of liberty falls on the shoulders of a rag tag special forces team that was brought together by accident.Rated: Fiction T - English - Suspense/Adventure - Words: 5,206 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Published: 07-12-08 - id: 2544519
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Author's Note: I am not a politically correct person. Please enjoy my story.
Extra Note: This is not to be copied or used by anyone, anywhere in anyway for any reason without my consent.
"The probability of a fatal nuclear detonation is greater now than at any time during the Cold War. As the Russian military deteriorates, and as rogue governments and terrorists seek to acquire nuclear capabilities, the threat continues to grow."
CHAPTER ONE: "Traitor"
Date: November 5, 2012
Time: 2200 hours, 10:00 P.M. (Moscow Time)
Location: Russia, Western Siberia near the Former Soviet Underground Missile Silo base north of Moscow
The sound of trucks equipped with chains rolling along an ice coated road filled the night air. The sky was dark and appeared as a deep, endless black void that continued on for eternity. A fairly thick snowfall, made it all but impossible for the drivers to see the narrow road, even with their powerful head lights. The road had several curves and went along the edge of a cliff to the left side and a steep mountain wall to the right, which made it extremely nerve racking for the drivers on the slippery road.
However, the snowstorm also provided cover for the deadly cargo that these vehicles held. There were seven vehicles traveling in a single column in all, one T-90 main battle tank, two Vodnik armored combat vehicles, two BTR-90 APCs (armored personnel carriers), and two mobile ICBM missile launchers. The tank, led the pack, used mostly for crushing obstacles and, if need be, to tow another vehicle out of mud. The ICBM missiles were in the center of the pack and had the Vodnik and APCs on the outer sides to stave off an attack if need be.
Sergeant Vaska Novak, squad leader of one of the elite Spetsnaz special forces of the Russian Federation sat in the trailing APC right behind both of the ICBMs with nine other soldiers and sipped his coffee that had quickly went from being steaming hot to ice cold in the negative 25 degree weather. At the age of 29, Novak was in peak physical condition. He was not tall, but neither was he short. His dull, weary blue eyes had seen many horrific things and much blood shed, most of which was his own doing. He liked to keep his raven, black hair cut short; yet, his beard seemed to grow rather fast and his shadow was already appearing once again.
On his head he had a dark grey ushanka, ear flaps tied on top and a red star with a hammer and sickle in the forehead, reminiscent of the Soviet era. His body was dawned in dark grey fatigues and body armor, the Russian flag displayed on a patch located on his right shoulder. Dark gray tactical gloves covered his hands. His heavy clothing and gear helped keep him warm. Slung around his chest was his weapon, an AK-103 automatic rifle with a GP-30 under barrel 40mm grenade launcher attached to it.
Novak had parents that had been in the military and he decided to serve his country out of tradition. However, he found that he actually enjoyed the military life style and decided to reach for the elite with the aim of joining Spetsnaz. He got it and saw much combat action with many successes. He had nightmares at night of his conflicts, seeing storms of war and the faces of the people whose lives he had extinguished. Combat had taken its tole on his mind.
He now longed for a peaceful life, but he knew the bitter truth was that the many terrorist groups, such as the Russian Ultranationalists and the Islamic terrorists in Chechnya, would never let his country rest. He was also aware of the threat that the American Imperialists posed to his nation, or so told he was by his superiors. As if to make things more perilous, the heartless monsters of the Russian mafia ruled the streets of the civilian world and even the normal citizen's life was difficult and dangerous. These were indeed poor times for his country.
The soldiers under Novak's command found his calm demeanor to be something admirable. He rarely ever showed any emotional expression on his face, even in combat. His rather cynical sense of humor quickly found him favor in the eyes of his men.
The Spetsnaz operative just hoped that this simple trip would go smoothly. He and his team weren't expecting any action since most of the terrorist attacks happened in the southern part of his country, but with the things that they were guarding it would be wise to stay alert.
Between his APC and the other armored vehicles sat two of the most advanced nuclear weapon delivery systems on the planet, the Topol-M Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile. Each multi-nuclear tipped missile was capable of defeating any air defense system and targeting several sites with multiple nuclear warheads to destroy any country of any size on earth, including the United States. It would be an incredibly horrible situation if they fell into the wrong hands. These two specific Topol-Ms were scheduled to be deployed at a top secret location in case of the need to launch them.
Each missile was carried on an 18 wheeled self-propelled mobile launch truck that was the size of two houses, capable of moving through roadless terrain, and launching it right on the spot. The missile was held along the length of the truck with the top end facing forward and jutting out past the front of the driver's seat. The missile was just as big as the truck and the truck was designed to accommodate the missile by having its body bend around the missile with two driver's cabins, one on the right and another one on the far left. Each driver's compartment was capable of launching the missile on it's own control panel.
"Sure is quiet," said the soldier next him, Corporal Yuri Glaskov.
The same age as his Sergeant, Glaskov was from Georgia, one of the break away nations of the Soviet Empire. He and Novak had gone through training together and became very good allies. He had blond hair and blue eyes that were nearly as weary as Novak's. Much of the battles that Novak fought were often with Glaskov watching his back.
"Looks like I won't get a chance to pay you back anytime soon," replied Novak. "What's the score again?"
"I believe I saved your life seven times, while you saved mine only five."
"What about that time in Moskva?"
"That one doesn't count," Glaskov quickly shot back. "We weren't even in combat and I had everything completely under control."
"Of course you did," calmly replied Novak with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "The Vodka had gone to your head and you were only about to see if you could fly off a five story hotel with a kite strapped to your back."
"Fine, six times, but you are still trailing behind me."
"The time will come, Glaskov."
Novak felt the BTR-90 slowly come to a halt.
"Why are we stopping? It is a two hour drive. We could not possibly be there yet."
Just then the doors burst open and he soon found himself staring down the barrels of several guns. A bright light was blasting in his face and made it impossible for him to see his adversaries. One by one they dragged out his men and threw them on the ice cold ground.
Glaskov drew his pistol and pressed it to Novak's temple.
"What are you doing, Glaskov?" asked the shocked sergeant.
"I am sorry, Comrade," he said as he dragged his leader out of the APC and threw him on the ground. "Since our government does not have the stomach to crush its own enemies, some one must do it for the good of the Motherland."
The ice cold air felt like needles prickling his naked cheeks and face. Novak looked around and noticed six pickup trucks with chains on the wheels and large machine guns in the beds. Each machine gun was manned.
The Russian Sergeant watched as twenty men, each in cheap light blue camouflage uniforms, the uniforms of the Russian Ultranationalists, lined up his men along the cliff and opened fire on them. The constant rattle of automatic weapon's fire filled the air. The rounds tore through the bodies of his men as if they were toilet tissue. Crimson red stained the once pure snow. Their lifeless forms fell over the edge and disappeared into the darkness.
It was a common torture tactic for Ultranationalists to shoot soldiers in front of their commander in order to cause the commander agony. Novak was only slightly shocked to see his men die. He had seen so much death that even the loss of friends seemed to hardly affect him. Maybe it wasn't going to affect him instantly, he thought. Since they were dead there was no sense in worrying or mourning over them. Now he had to worry about saving the nukes.
He then watched as they did the same to the drivers. The Russian Sergeant, the highest ranking of the Spetsnaz operatives there, was going to be last to die.
Glaskov took his rifle and his side arm, then motioned for him to hand over his vest. The Sergeant yielded; however, as he was handing over the vest that contained his grenades, equipment, and spare ammo magazines he stealthily pulled all the pins out of his three flashbang grenades, grenades that were designed to give off a bright, blinding flash and a deafening, loud noise to stun their victims. The victims could not see or hear for five to ten seconds depending on how close they were to it when it went off.
The grenades had ten second fuses and Novak began counting them in his head. One of the Ultranationalists grabbed him and pulled him to his feet before forcefully pulling him to the edge of the cliff. Novak moved slowly on purpose. He was both trying to buy the grenades time to go off and frantically deciding what he would do with his precious five or ten seconds.
As he reached the edge he looked down into the darkness. He was afraid of heights and could feel the panic eating at the edges of his mind.
He quickly surmised that he could only save one of the nukes and would try to climb into the driver's seat of the closest ICBM missile launcher, hit the gas, and get out of here. Before he did that he also wanted to retrieve his rifle. Spetsnaz soldiers were always trained to never leave their AK rifles.
When he got to nine seconds, he covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes tightly as three thunderous claps and blinding white flashes suddenly exploded behind him.
He turned around and found the men blind as bats, deaf as old people, and wondering exactly what had just hit them. The Spetsnaz soldier immediately ran toward his traitorous friend and stripped the rifle from his hands. In that split second he had a perfect opportunity to kill him just then; yet, he remembered that he still owed him one and swiftly smashed the butt of his rifle into his face.
"Now we're even," he said.
He didn't take time to watch Glaskov fall to the ground. Instead he made a mad sprint for the nearest ICBM missile launcher. His heart jumped with hope as he saw that the left driver's cabin door was open and the engine was still running.
As he jumped inside a shower of bullets rained around him. He heard the sound of a meaty impact and felt something strike his outer left thigh. Hastily he shut the bulletproof door, grabbed the freezing cold steering wheel, and hit the gas pedal.
The engine howled as the wheels whirled ferociously. The large mechanical beast jerked forward and started up the road. It was then that Novak realized that the road was extremely narrow and the vehicles in front of him were blocking his path. Panic began to weld up inside him as he felt like prey stuck in a trap with several predators closing in on him. He decided to just push forward anyway.
The first vehicle was the largest, the other Topol-M missile launcher. He steered the monster to the right where there was a narrow crack between the other ICBM and the steep mountain wall. With the gas pedal to the floor he shoved his way in. He got the head of the launcher in and felt a violent jerk as he muscled the machine through, the sides of the beast scraping on its sister and the hard rock of the mountain. Finally he cleared the other launcher.
He then muscled his way past the other BTR-90, the third largest vehicle in his path. The Vodnik was as small as a U.S. Humvee and light compared to the massive Topol-M launcher and he was able to bash it out of the way like a toy, sending it over the edge of the cliff and off into the deep.
The last and most troublesome obstacle was the tank, which he knew was too heavy to be muscled out of the way. With the gas pedal still to the floor and bullets pounding the outside of the truck he steered to the left of the road where there was another narrow opening between the tank and the guard rails that kept vehicles from going over the edge and into the bottomless pit below. The possibility that he could go off too far and accidentally fall over the edge was hanging over his mind like a noose, but he knew had no other choice.
As he tried to squeeze his way through he struck the guard rails and felt each one of them strike the truck as he mowed them down. He took a look in his left rearview mirror and saw that only the inner most edges of the bottom of his tires were on the road and a good portion of the truck was actually hanging out over the cliff. Once he was clear of the tank he steered right back onto the road.
A wave of relief washed over him as he cleared his final obstacle.
The snowstorm had not died down at all and it was still near impossible to see the road.
He quickly put his gloved hand down to his left thigh to see how badly he had been hit. Novak could feel warm liquid surrounding the spot where he had felt the impact. He lifted his hand to his eyes and found his glove stained thick with blood. Too much adrenaline was pumping through his system for him to feel any pain.
He also remembered that when he grabbed his rifle from Glaskov he forgot to get his vest with his spare ammo magazines. It was then that the thought hit him if he had used the time he spent hitting Glaskov to grab his vest instead then he would have had some more ammo just in case there was another ambush further up the road. He mentally cursed himself for not doing so.
Now all he had left was the magazine already in his AK-103, which held thirty rounds of 7.62mm ammunition, and the single 40mm grenade that he had in the GP-30.
He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment and looked down in the truck. Maybe the driver had a side arm stored nearby. His eyes discovered a small pocket underneath the seat. Switching his focus between the road and the seat he reached into the pocket and touched something cool and metal. It was an MR-444 hand gun and two extra mags came with it.
"The driver must have kept himself armed," he thought. "He was wise."
Novak grabbed it and put it on his person.
He wished that all his problems were over, that he would be home free, but it was not meant to be.
It was then that three pairs of head lights flared in his rearview mirror. As they grew nearer he was able to recognize them as the pickup trucks he saw the Ultranationalists with. Bright muzzle flashes roared from the bed mounted machine guns as the large rounds tore through the body of the truck.
Novak looked forward and found that the road was beginning to curve to the right. He steered accordingly.
The realization that he needed a plan soon hit him. He had no idea where he was going and he needed to find the nearest Russian military base or police station to stave off the attack. He also needed to find a hospital or he might bleed to death, but saving the nuke came first.
The road began to descend, going down hill. His monstrous machine picked up momentum like a magnet and he began to speed up, quickly passing 95 miles per hour. The pickup trucks in his rearview mirror began to grow farther away. Fearing that he would lose control of the launch vehicle at the speed he was moving at, he hit the brakes only to find that the road he was on happened to be coated with layers of pure ice.
Dread spread through Novak's mind as the knowledge that he had no control over the massive armored, nuclear-armed beast he was riding at over 115 miles per hour and accelerating down hill began to sink in. Even worse, he could hardly see what was ahead of him in the thick snow fall. Everything outside seemed to warp past him as a blur.
Steadily the ice coated path began to level out. Suddenly he saw the road split into a fork ahead of him. Without the ability to steer the vehicle to the left or to the right, Novak watched as the beast plowed its way off road and into four foot deep snow. The white powder helped to slow it down somewhat, but not nearly enough for him to regain control.
Suddenly a house appeared in front of him. At 90 miles per hour he plowed right through the house, losing little speed. He recalled seeing two kids watching TV in a living room and an old man sitting on a toilet. Behind the house was a woodland area with many thick and tall trees and only a foot deeps worth of snow.
Novak tried to steer to the right to avoid the woods. The truck slowly began to twist, but it did not change its direction or lose any of its momentum and skid into the trees.
The first tree smashed into the back end of the truck and filled the driver's cabin with the loud sound of metal being beat. The force of the impact caused the whole machine to twist to the left, throwing Novak against the right wall of the inside as he realized that he had been too stupid to buckle his seat belt.
The launch vehicle lost only a little momentum and it was now sliding sideways at roughly 75 mph. The Spetsnaz soldier looked toward where he was headed and saw a wall of tall strong trees. He pushed his back against the wall and braced himself for impact.
The launch vehicle slammed against the trees with enough force to shatter a brick house. The entire right side of the machine crumbled upon contact. The sound of steel tearing and moaning under punishment rang throughout the night. Novak felt the force of the impact shove him into the wall with immense power. It was as if gravity decided to pull on him six times harder for a split second. His bones groaned under the stress. All the blood in his body shifted to his back and caused him to feel nauseous.
As soon as it had started, it had ended and all was silent. The trees had stopped the truck cold in its tracks.
Novak fell on his seat. His whole body was sore and as the adrenaline started to wear off his wound began to fell like a dagger buried in his flesh.
He pressed the gas pedal one more time, but nothing moved. The engine was dead.
The Russian soldier scanned outside only to find that the three pickup trucks were slowly approaching his position, striving through the snow.
He now had one last option to keep the nuke from falling into the wrong hands: launch the missile.
He looked around for the launch controls and found them all labeled in his native language. The missile was currently targeted at 38 degrees by 58.8 north and 076 degrees by 29.3 west, a location near Washington DC. He reset the location to 90 degrees north: the desolate and uninhabitable lands of the North Pole. He flipped the switch to prepare it for launch.
A protective cap that covered the point of the missile popped off and fell on the ground. The ICBM missile, suspended on a long mechanical arm, began to lean back on the truck, pointing straight upward.
Just then, the computer asked for an launch code phrase.
Novak immediately reached for the radio inside the truck and switched it to a certain emergency frequency that he was told to go to in his Spetsnaz training should he encounter such a situation as this.
"This is Sergeant Novak of Spetsnaz Moskva district. I need immediate assistance! Ultranationalists are trying to steel the Topol-M missiles that I was protecting! The others are dead! The missile is targeted toward the North Pole! I need the launch code to get the missile out of here now! Please respond!" he shouted over the radio.
He was met with static on the other end. He repeated his words and was again met with static. The weather must have been interfering and he was already in a place with bad reception.
He took another glance outside and saw that he was out of time. The Ultranationalists had arrived.
They drove right through the house that he demolished and followed his exact path to him.
Novak grabbed his rifle and climbed out of the truck. The icy atmosphere attacked him as soon as he got out. The freezing air assaulted his wound and left it with a burning sensation. The operative limped around to the middle of the truck. He laid prone on the ground and rolled underneath it and behind the third wheel for cover. He leaned out beside the wheel slightly and eyed the vehicles.
He only had thirty rounds so he needed to make sure that each one counted. Two clicks emitted from his rifle as he cocked it, then flipped off the safety. He set it to semi-automatic, which meant that each time he pulled the trigger it would fire one round, which was better for accuracy and conserving ammo.
The AK-103 felt comfortable against his shoulder and was easy to hold. He immediately decided to take out the driver in the nearest car and aimed down the sights on his rifle. Taking into account the wind and distance, he adjusted and leveled his rifle on the driver's side window. He rested his finger on the trigger and pulled once.
The rifle snapped and its wielder saw the pickup's windshield crack as the round penetrated and buried itself in its intended target. The truck veered to the right and stopped.
The two other pickups turned their broad sides toward him and stopped about 120 feet away from him.
Three heavily armed men climbed out of each pickup as their bed-mounted machine guns roared and sprayed his position with high caliber rounds.
Novak switched his rifle to automatic and opened up on one of the pickups. He struck the gunner several times in various places. The terrorist's body jerked violently and he fell out of the truck.
The Spetsnaz operative then rested his left trigger finger on the trigger of his GP-30 grenade launcher. He fired the 40mm grenade at the other pickup and the grenade landed underneath the truck. It exploded and ignited the gas tank in the process. The car erupted in bright orange flames and set the three men who were around it and the gunner ablaze. The men let out blood curdling screams of agony as the fires consumed their flesh.
The Sergeant then fired several short bursts at the truck with the dead driver whom he had killed first and hit the individual manning the large caliber machine gun square in the head. The man's cranium jerked back before his body went limp and he collapsed in the truck.
The six remaining terrorists began using the pickup trucks as cover and started to return fire. Novak was all too happy to oblige.
He unloaded the last of his rifle rounds into one of the men.
With his rifle expended of ammunition he slung it over his shoulder. All Spetsnaz operatives were trained to never leave their AK rifles, even when they were empty.
He drew the pistol out, slammed in a mag, and pulled the slide back. The MR-444 had fifteen rounds per clip.
Novak had no idea what he was going to do next or if he even had a plan to get the nuke out of here. He just knew that the only way the Ultranationalists were going to get their filthy hands on the warheads was over his dead body.
His adversaries unleashed a volley of automatic weapons fire at him and forced him to move back behind the wheel for cover. His hearing was filled with the repetitive thuds and snaps that came from rounds pelting the bulletproof tire he had in front of him.
When he felt it was time he leaned out again and returned fire, squeezing off several rounds at the terrorists and scored a hit on one of them in the heart. The terrorist fell to the ground and remained motionless.
For a brief moment Novak hoped that he could fight his way out and kill the remaining terrorists, then try to get the launch codes from some other source and go home with one of the pickup trucks. He believed that he would be victorious and save millions of lives as well as his country, and then go home, find a wife, get married, and live happily ever after.
However, his hopes were dashed as two diesel trucks appeared out of the thickness of the storm and parked behind the three pickups. A dozen fresh, well armed men climbed out of each truck.
"Oh, great," Novak sarcastically mumbled as they began taking up offensive positions in preparation to assault him.
Just then a man with a mega phone stepped out into the open among them.
"Give it up, Vaska. You know as well as I do that this fight is over." It was Glaskov.
Novak looked at the traitor with hatred in his eyes.
"Look, Vaska, I don't want to kill you. I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for the many times that you saved my life. I'll make you a deal: Drop your weapon, give me the nuke, and you walk away a free man. I will report that you fought tooth and nail to defeat me, but failed and you will be able to go to Moskva and find a nice wife like you have always wanted. Does that sound nice to you?"
For a brief moment he was actually tempted with the offer, but the thought of millions dying because he gave up the fight brought him back to reality. Novak replied by firing a single round that landed dead in the mega phone. The mega phone exploded and emitted a loud popping sound that cause Glaskov to jump in surprise. "Over my dead body, Comrade!"
"I am sorry you see things that way," the recently reveiled Ultranationalist said, before he took an SVD Dragunov sniper rifle off his shoulder.
"Why? I'm not."
Just then Novak heard the radio in the driver's cabin flare to life. "This is Missile Operations Moskva District. Novak, please respond," said the voice of a young woman on the other end.
Crap, thought Novak. If he got out and reached for the radio now he would be an open target for the enemy. At that moment Novak remembered that he could move around to the other driver's cabin on the right side of the vehicle. Hopefully it had not been completely crushed in his crash.
Time was his enemy and he needed to stall for more of it if he was to conduct the launch.
"Actually, Glaskov, your offer seems rather tempting to me now. May I request a minute to think it over?" he said.
He crawled under the launcher to the other side and squeezed his way out of a crack he found between the trees he hit.
"No. You decide now or we will kill you immediately," the deceiver replied.
Novak hoped that he left the conversation in a spot where his former friend would think he was having trouble deciding and went around to the right driver's compartment. He found that it was severely damaged by the crash. The bulletproof doors had been dented and the glass was cracked.
The Spetsnaz soldier used the butt of his rifle to break the rest of the glass and reach inside for the radio, quickly setting it to the right frequency.
"This is Novak, go," he said quietly so as not to let the terrorists know what he was doing.
"The launch code is: покидать весь надежда," she said.
Novak punched in the code and the launch button began to glow. He slammed his fist down on the button.
Vibrations rocked the ground beneath him as the missile's engine ignited and propelled the projectile upward at a remarkable speed. The thunderous bellow of the engine filled the mountains and echoed off into the distance. The engine's wash poured smoke onto the surrounding area and gave the wounded Spetsnaz soldier enough cover to escape his attackers.
The missile was airborne and heading toward the North Pole loaded with nulcear warheads that would alert the world to a new age of history: The Age of Nuclear Terrorism.
Red Crown: When will I update? That determines on how many reviews I get and what the reviewers say. If some people out there like my story and say so, then I may decide to update. If no one likes it then, I had fun writing it and am glad to have posted it on the site. Tell me what you think of the first chapter, even if it's bad.