To Live and Die - Chapter 1 / Persona non Grata (2 of 2)

He opened his eyes and there was a low moan from the struggling engine under the colossal weight of two and a half tons. The driver slowed down to a nauseating crawl as he tiptoed along the cusp of the cliff face. The General wore an unimpressed snarl that stretched across his thin lips as dust and stones kicked up from beneath the tires and tumbled into the murky depths below.

The driver changed down a gear and the truck bundled onto a somewhat even track of dirt road. There was a mesh of barbed wire up ahead on their right and clumps of thick bushes that rested against it. It stood out amongst the bare peach trees and dotted patches of bulrushes. The flat roof of a shabby warehouse could be seen peeking over the top of the fence. It looked as though it was investigating the peculiar looking vehicle that was so many miles away from the city. The driver indicated right and pulled into a wide parting between the two wire fences. Horishenko deduced that it would be electrified and a platoon would be guarding the perimeter of the warehouse also. But as the lorry drew up to the barrier he realised that he was completely wrong in his well-education assumptions.

There was a single man, reading a ’71 edition of Sports Illustrated, popping gum and wearing a forgotten cigarette from his lip at the guard post. He took his dirty boots off the desk and came out to inspect them with disinterest. The driver rolled down the window of his cab and the guard shined a torchlight through it. He examined the driver carefully and illuminated the passenger sitting rather confidently at his side. In Russian the General barked:

‘Get that light out of my face!’

‘Excuse me sir,’ he spluttered. ‘I mean General. We were completely unaware of your visit.’

‘Nobody knew,’ he said. ‘And it will stay that way until I conclude my inspection. Understand?’

‘Yes General,’ he answered.

            ‘Good.’ Horishenko smiled, completely in control of this young unsuspecting man.  ‘My man here will return in a moment to ask you a few questions. You are to tell him all the faults in your security measures and your possible suggestions for safeguarding the site. I will pass these comments on and the necessary equipment will be delivered. In regards to manpower, how many are staffed here this morning?’

            The guard straightened his back before the General and replied anxiously with three. The men in the truck nodded with a look of grim satisfaction smeared across their faces. The guard thanked him and saluted. He rushed to the barrier and raised it. Horishenko tilted his cap and the truck rolled on through the gate and into the compound. He and the driver bundled out of the cab and the silent agent produced a suppressed 9mm. At a range of thirty feet the guard had nowhere to run. The two shots came as one. The barrier gently lowered and the guard was lifted up into the air and cast over on his left side. The driver marched across the dirt and kicked a limp leg behind the guard post taking his place. He picked up the magazine and produced his own cigarettes and sat himself down at the dead man’s desk.

            Horishenko wore a look of dismay. The man had done nothing to earn two bullets to the back. He thought back to a dossier he had read on their man Blofeld and recalled that under his leadership that nothing was ever done by halves. This organisation were serious trouble and the squad of men who accompanied him were hard-line terrorists. He revaluated his position on the killing in his head and thought it better that the man was dead. Had he been kept alive, he would have been called as a witness in front of members of the Presidium. Or, telephoned ahead to the other guards or for further confirmation of their arrival. He looked to the rear of the truck and readied his own pistol. The men filed out in twos then took their positions at either side of the hangar doors. A small three man team stood at the back door of the building and waited for their cue.

            The General went first with his pistol ready, he pushed open the door and let it close to behind him. Two soldiers, leaning against a far wall spoke in hushed tones. Horishenko flicked the switch to his right and the cast iron doors screeched open. They were alerted at this and fumbled with their Kalashnikovs. They crossed the wide expanse in seconds and aimed for the ugly looking man with his back to them. Their threat refused to faze him and four more soldiers charged through the breach. Three enclosed them from the rear. All seven of them held assault rifles.

            Horishenko smirked and clapped sarcastically but without humour. ‘Well done gentlemen, you have failed this morning’s training exercise. Lower your weapons.’

            The two men laid them gingerly on the floor.

            ‘Good,’ he barked. ‘My name is General Horishenko, most people aren’t privy to that information so I would appreciate that this will be kept in this room for the time being. I have been sent from St Petersburg to conduct a training exercise of which all three of you have failed. Name and rank.’

            ‘Private Georgi Stachinsky, sir.’

            ‘Private Alex Kuznetsova, General.’

‘Thank you,’ Horishenko said, looking to the nearest man next to him and nodding. The ratty-looking man raised an M-16 and gave three tugs on the trigger. A torrent of nine consecutive rounds sent Stachinsky and Kuznetsova to the floor. Kuznetsova had fallen lifelessly on top of his comrade. The shooter stepped over his limbs and checked to see if the bottom man was still alive. He knelt down and pressed his ear against the Stachinsky’s bloodied mouth. The ratty-looking man looked to Horishenko and shook his head.

Meanwhile the other men went to work, armed with crowbars they crossed the other side of the room deftly, pulled open another hangar door and made their way into the main storage unit. There they went about tearing the piled crates and boxes open. The ratty-looking man stood next to Horishenko and admired the carnage. The men looked desperate before one of them cried ‘here’ in Korean.

‘Why did you use that gun?’ the General asked, looking to the nasty little man.

‘Who else to suspect but the Americans?’

The General nodded and the man, who he deduced to be an Italian, hurried over to a perfect square crate on the far right side of the hangar. It had ‘WARNING’ stamped on its front in foot high red lettering and was stacked neatly on top of an equally bigger box. As he approached the Korean sprinted past him clutching an RPG in each hand. The General turned to look back at him and he was headed for the truck. He returned his gaze to the ratty Italian who was tearing the front of the crate open. A thick bead of sweat travelled down his little face as he bit his lip and forced the box open. SPECTRE One stood around the pile of boxes in complete silence.

            Inside sat a nuclear warhead that resembled the blunted end of an ice cream cone. It was protected by a clear plastic sheet and had circular rings of a golden yellow spiralling down it to the nose. The rest, from what Horishenko could make out, was mismatched with red and black and it looked awfully menacing to him. The men breathed a sigh of relief and the Italian clambered to the top of the tallest crate in the room. He waved his arms frantically and the truck reversed back to them slowly. Standing in the back of the lorry holding the side was a huge beast of a man. The General looked to the rest of the squad who seemed as frightened as he was.

            The M35 growled to a halt and the beast climbed down in one deft movement. Horishenko made him out to be at least 6’6” and his bulky yet muscular framed enhanced it. He was black and looked like a callous bastard. A scar linked the right side of his lips down to his chin which stood out due to the shade of his black skin. The apparent leader wore a cream pin-striped suit, it was tailored and accompanied with a waistcoat. A black polka dot handkerchief drooped down from the breast pocket. He cracked his ringed knuckles and knelt down over the open box of RPGs. There was one left and without looking from it, he tossed it over his shoulder. The Italian rushed to catch it and climbed up into the rear of the truck. The leader of the unit stood up from the empty box and shouted to them with a sharp southern drawl.

            ‘Go on then!’

            ‘Yes Number Two,’ cried one of the agents as they slid the crate across the others, pushing it slowly and delicately into the truck. The Italian guided it to the very back and carefully climbed over it. He jumped down and leapt into the cab, giving a loud blow on the horn.

Horishenko went over to this Number Two, and it was only as he reached him that he recognised the look of anguish in his eyes and at that same moment he felt something pressing into him. He looked down and saw, surprisingly, the butt of a gun protruding from his stomach. It had been a mistake. He was a partner in this. He got them into the compound. But then he looked up and into a red blaze in his eyes. He tried to mutter something but Number Two had squeezed the trigger twice. It took his breath away in an instant. Horishenko held the man away from him and stepped back. He tripped on the crate and tumbled back into the coffin, making an empty thud as the hay cushioned the blow.

            Number Two looked down at him and shrugged. The driver appeared from the guard post  with a hammer and nails and Number Two himself settled down. He slid the top over the crate and nailed it shut. He holstered his gun and told the men to evacuate. All charges had been rigged to blow by the driver. He took the coffin and raised it, barely flinching under the weight of the dead man, and pushed it up against the other stacks of brown boxes neatly. The other men clambered into the back and dropped the tarpaulin.

            He rushed over to the truck and climbed in next to the driver. They floored it before turning out of the compound. The driver made a harsh right back along the road they came up. They did so without looking back and didn’t see the single spark from inside the warehouse as the roof was blown clean off. A gust of dense black smoke weaved up with the morning air and stained the sky.