Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger Read online

  Dorokhov went on. “I want to be clear. Our official mission is to assist the Americans in a conjoined operation to capture the extraterrestrial spacecraft. Do you understand?”

  “I understand—”

  Cutting Mikhail off before he could finish his statement, Dorokhov once again said, “Allow me to repeat myself. Our official mission is to assist the Americans in a conjoined operation to capture the extraterrestrial spacecraft.” Turning to look at Mikhail straight on, the colonel asked, “Do you understand, Captain Kirov?”

  He did now. Offering a single nod and looking forward, Mikhail said, “I understand, colonel.”

  Inhaling deeply, Dorokhov joined Mikhail in staring ahead. Neither man was looking at the other. “Some people cannot be trusted with power. When a big boy gets a big stick, he will use it. History has taught us this. How much sleep do you think Truman lost on August 6th, 1945?”

  Mikhail’s gaze sunk slowly. A public thanking to God—that was what Truman offered in the wake of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. An atrocity that left hundreds of thousands dead. Not military personnel or soldiers. Civilians. And they thanked God for it. This was the United States of America. Yes…Mikhail knew exactly what Dorokhov was getting at.

  “We do not have the on-site manpower to capture this spacecraft and its technology alone,” the colonel said, “but the Americans do.” He looked at Mikhail again. “We have been asked to join this operation as a show of good faith by the American government, but do not fool yourself into thinking that that good faith goes very far. We were invited because America cares about its image, not because we are actually wanted. If they can lay sole claim to the technology in this spacecraft, rest assured they will.”

  “Then how can we stop them?” Mikhail asked. “This is in NATO territory. It’s an American offensive. What forces do we have there to keep them in check?”

  Shifting in his chair, Dorokhov answered, “None. That is why your number one priority is to survive. You will be entering this vessel with U.S. Special Forces. If something should happen to your team inside the craft—be it at the hands of the aliens or the Americans—no one will be left to hold the Americans accountable.” He leaned closer. “A Special Forces strike team can keep a secret, but an army of men cannot. It would be nothing for the strike team to kill you inside the vessel and later claim it was at the hands of the extraterrestrials. But if you survive until the American offensive reaches you, they will not be able to touch you—there would be too many potential witnesses. America cares about its image. To have treachery like that leak out to the world would destroy America’s global reputation.”

  “I understand, colonel.”

  The colonel nodded and leaned back. “You will meet your Soviet comrades for this joint operation in Kirkjubæjarklaustur. There, you will also receive information on the extraterrestrials—or at least what has been observed from them on the ground. There are some details even I do not know yet.”

  Mikhail nodded.

  “Now get your gear and read over your papers,” Dorokhov said, motioning to the documents Mikhail had been handed upon boarding the flight—English translations of standard military commands. “We land at thirteen hundred.”

  The hours passed as fleetingly as the clouds outside Mikhail’s window, with plenty to keep Mikhail’s mind racing the whole while. Aliens. Capitalists. The only thing worse than either of those was both of them together.

  This was an event the likes of which he’d never fathomed. His morning with Kseniya seemed like another day entirely, and now he fully understood why his leave had been unceremoniously interrupted. This warranted interruption. This was serious. As was always the case in the midst of wartime activity, it was all too easy to block out the personal side of his life in favor of the military one. This was the here and now, and here and now, nothing else mattered.

  Turning to a photograph of the spaceship, Mikhail examined it more closely. The ship was ray-like in design, with a large, circular central saucer flanked by two massive wings—almost like arms. It was hard to make out any distinguishing characteristics such as openings, hardpoints, or possible weapons, though he wasn’t positive those would be visible anyway. He was sure that damage from the nuke and the impact was obscuring the photograph, too.

  “So the Americans want to enter here,” he murmured to himself, fixating on the rear of the vessel. “Maybe that was where the warhead hit?”

  That this ship had survived a nuclear strike was unbelievable. What kind of material was this thing made from? Metal? Something else? Something light enough to fly, but strong enough to survive a nuclear attack. He slid his fingers into his hairline and rested his forehead against his palm. How deep will they have to dig to reach this entryway? Meters? Or is it just below the surface? Even without fine detail, it was apparent that the ship was partially buried. He just didn’t know what that constituted in relation to the dig site.

  The thought of cooperating with Americans was as new to Mikhail as the aliens themselves. The United States may have been touting cooperation, but as Dorokhov indicated, there was always an ulterior motive when dealing with Yankees. The very nature of capitalism was rooted in insatiableness. The Americans would not be eager to share alien technology. But they would be eager to use it. On the Soviet Union. On Japan. On Europe and the Middle East. On anyone they could justify a necessity to surpass.

  The extraterrestrials fired first—they are obviously here to harm us. But I trust them far more than I trust Americans. At least the aliens are honest about their intentions.

  U.S. Special Forces. Some of America’s most ruthless killers. At some point during this joint operation, if things were going as planned and the alien vessel was being successfully breached, those Special Forces would turn their guns on Mikhail and his comrades the moment Soviets were no longer needed. That was what Americans did.

  I need to be ready for that.

  He turned to the next page in the stack—the first page he hadn’t yet seen. It was a list of names. Soviet soldiers. Mikhail’s brow furrowed as he made the realization: these were going to be his comrades. He wondered if any of them were on board the plane.

  Six names. I make seven.

  Mikhail focused on the topmost name. Senior Lieutenant Sevastian Tyannikov. His XO. For some reason, Tyannikov’s last name felt familiar. Maybe they’d served together before. Two lieutenants were listed next, Iosif Mednikov and Valentin Rubashkin. Mikhail had never heard of them. Onto the next. Sergeants Yuri Vikhrov and Nikolai Lukin, an engineer and a medic, respectively. An unconventional, though understandable assortment considering the situation. He looked at the final name. Nina Andrianova.

  Mikhail blinked, his hands going rigid. “Nina Andrianova?” He blurted the words aloud, though no one nearby seemed to notice. “What?” he whispered as he stared at the name. Slowly, he lowered the paper and looked ahead.

  Mikhail had never met Nina Andrianova. He didn’t even know what she looked like. But he knew her name. Everyone in the Soviet Army did.

  Nina was a legend among snipers, having served in a multitude of operations dating back to World War II. Finland. Eastern Europe. Manchuria. She’d even been present for the Hungarian Revolution. Legend stated obligatorily that she was beautiful. It also stated that she’d sent five hundred men to their graves. Both claims were likely exaggerated. Just the same, the fact that she was a part of his team stated something clearly: this was a take-no-chances operation.

  As Mikhail suspected, the pages that followed contained a full dossier for every member of his team. With time to spare, he pored over their contents.

  Sevastian, his XO, had also served in Hungary—undoubtedly the reason Mikhail recognized his name—albeit in a different district. The remarks left by his superiors were strikingly similar to the ones Mikhail’s superiors had always attributed to him, minus the ability to speak English. All in all, Sevastian had the look of an ideal executive officer.

  The first of his two lieutenants, Iosif,
seemed nothing short of brutal. After serving as military aid in North Korea, he had been sent to Estonia to supervise fortification efforts against the Baltic states. Apparently, Iosif had been a captain in North Korea. The demotion came shortly after his tenure there ended. Phrases like overly aggressive and needs strict guidelines stood out like sore thumbs. That was probably why he’d been sent to Estonia. There was much less to do there. It was a relatively safe place for a hothead to be.

  His other lieutenant, Valentin, also fought against the Baltic states, though in Lithuania. His comments were considerably less alarming, consisting of words like integrity, dedication, and resourceful. From the looks of it, Valentin’s superiors had tried him briefly as a senior lieutenant, only to realize that he had no leadership instinct. He was a follower. But a great one.

  As for Yuri and Nikolai, his engineer and medic, both had been serving in Berlin for some time and held above-average marks across the board, most notably in their chosen fields. Nothing stood out as extraordinary, but nothing was required to. As long as they could function decently, Mikhail would be pleased. By the look of their records, they could.

  Placing the stack of papers down, Mikhail allowed his gaze to wander to the window. The clouds were still gliding past, their ethereal wisps a serene contrast to the reality he was about to face. Extraterrestrials were on Earth. That fact seemed too surreal to be true. It surely hadn’t registered with him yet. Perhaps a part of him refused to believe it until he saw it, not in a photograph, but with his own eyes. He was about to get that chance.

  For the remainder of the flight, Mikhail tried his best to prepare for a situation that couldn’t be prepared for. He strategized on hypotheticals and rehashed past assignments. He imagined what his team would do if they’d find themselves flanked or lost in an alien spaceship. It was all purely speculative, but nonetheless fruitful. It got his mind where it needed to be.

  No mission he’d ever been on had required that more.

  2

  1327 hours (local time)

  Kirkjubæjarklaustur, Iceland

  TWO SENSATIONS HIT Mikhail as the Tu-104’s door opened: frigidity and moisture. Gray clouds had appeared the moment they’d crossed onto Southern Iceland, stretching as far as the eye could see. Though the rain was far from torrential, combined with the incessant whipping of the wind, it created a soak-storm of drizzle and mist that blasted Mikhail’s uniform with every step he took. His helmet did little to shield his face from the rain. Russia was cold; he was used to that. But this was just miserable.

  Slinging the AK-47 that’d been with his gear over his shoulder, Mikhail looked across the landscape as he descended the airstairs. He searched for any sign of the alien vessel, but saw nothing. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of it from the sky, but their angle of approach had brought them down before they reached the spacecraft’s location. Reaching the bottom step, he made a small leap to the concrete strip below.

  Kirkjubæjarklaustur’s base, if it even deserved that designation, was minuscule. Beyond a couple of small hangars and a building or two, it seemed to consist mostly of runways, almost all of which were jammed with aircraft. There were another two TU-104s on site, though most of the planes and vehicles there seemed to be NATO. American soldiers were everywhere, and a dreadful sensation swelled inside Mikhail. This felt wrong.

  Scanning the runway, his eyes came upon a Soviet officer holding a cardboard sign, Mikhail’s name scribbled upon it. Trotting to the man, he raised his hand in salute. “I am Kirov.” The officer promptly returned the formality. “Colonel Dorokhov was with me. Do we need to wait for him?” Glancing behind, Mikhail searched for the mustached colonel somewhere in the crowd. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Shaking his head, the officer said, “No. I am to escort you immediately to your assignment at NATO’s command center.”

  “Where is the rest of my team?” He waved around the dossiers.

  The officer was already walking to a nearby NATO vehicle, a drab green covered jeep with two Americans sitting in the front seats. “Your team is already by the command center. They arrived shortly before you did.”

  Removing his AK-47 from over his shoulder, Mikhail climbed into the back seat and propped the weapon upright. His focus then went to the Americans. Both men looked at each other in a way that was as conspicuous as it was blatantly unsubtle—a Yankee specialty.

  Glancing over his shoulder, the driver asked, “Y’all strapped in?”

  “Da,” the Russian officer said.

  Giving the officer a sidelong look, Mikhail answered with a more appropriate, “Yes.”

  In a voice laden with forced camaraderie, the driver said, “Hold on.” Mikhail shifted in his seat, and the jeep rolled forward.

  The drive lasted all of ten minutes, every moment of which Mikhail spent studying the NATO vehicles and personnel they passed. He gripped his rifle tighter as his eyes wandered from one sight to the next. NATO flags. Patton tanks. Soldiers with M1 rifles.

  This morning I wished for Americans outside my window, just for a change. I wonder if I can take that back.

  Neither driver said a word as the jeep rolled on. At long last, as it approached what seemed to be the far side of the command center, it pulled into a gravel parking area. The ignition was turned off and the American in the passenger seat climbed out.

  “This is where you get out,” the Russian officer next to Mikhail said, pointing to cluster of men several tents down. “That is your team.” Mikhail’s gaze followed the officer’s indication until he found the grouping of Soviet soldiers—a sight he more than welcomed. “Good luck, captain.” A half-hearted salute was exchanged, and Mikhail exited the covered jeep back into the rain. Shouldering his rifle again, he approached his men.

  The men pivoted to face him as soon as they saw him. “Captain on scene!” the rightmost man said. Each one fell into a salute. Mikhail returned it, then surveyed the soldiers. Five were present. Where was Nina?

  The same man who’d announced Mikhail’s arrival spoke again. “I am Senior Lieutenant Sevastian Tyannikov, captain. I am ready to assist you in whatever you need.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant.” He scrutinized his XO. Clean-cut brown hair, sharp facial features. A focused expression. Sevastian looked like a professional. “Where is Andrianova?”

  Sevastian looked at him oddly. “Andrianova, captain?”

  “Nina Andrianova. She is supposed to be here.”

  At the mention of the sniper’s name, Sevastian’s eyes widened. The other men bore similar reactions. “Nina Andrianova is here?” he asked. “Going in with us?”

  Mikhail turned around, scanning the surrounding area. There was no sign of Nina, nor of any other Soviets. Could her inclusion have been an error? Facing his team, he waved off the murmurs. “I do not know.” He scrutinized them again. As a whole, they looked as uncomfortable as he did. As individuals, they looked like an elite unit should. Iosif Mednikov, his supposedly ultra-aggressive lieutenant, was a hulk of a man. Sporting curly black hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, he looked more than capable of holding his own. Firm in his grasp was a PPSh-41 submachine gun.

  In contrast, Valentin Rubashkin, his other lieutenant, was slender and solemn. No hair was visible under his helmet, leading Mikhail to figure that the man was either bald or shaven. Whereas Iosif looked rough, Valentin’s keen gaze conveyed perspicacity. He looked like a thinker. Just the same, both men sported the same weapon. Close-quarters specialists.

  Nikolai Lukin was a smaller-framed man, though he appeared decently cut, particularly for a medic. The same could be said for their engineer, Yuri Vikhrov. All-in-all, the crew looked quite capable.

  “All right, listen,” Mikhail said, taking a position front and center before them. “I am Mikhail Kirov, your captain, as Lieutenant Tyannikov has pointed out. I am sure you must have many questions, as I do myself. I assure you, everything that is relayed to me will be relayed to you. No one can be left in the dark for an operation as challeng
ing as this.”

  Though the men stayed at attention before him, their eyes shifted about noticeably. From a crew of such high pedigree, it struck Mikhail as oddly uncertain. And so he paused. “You do know what this operation is about, correct?” For the first time, the men broke their attentive stances, looking at one another blankly. Sevastian finally broke the silence.

  “We assumed it was in response to the nuclear incident, captain, but none of us were told specifics—only that we would be working alongside American forces. None of us were told why.”

  They don’t even know. How in the world was he going to explain this? Aliens were attacking? Spaceships were crashing to Earth? Would they think this was a joke? Mikhail opened his mouth to begin as best he could, but before he could say anything, an American officer stepped out from a nearby tent and addressed him.

  “Captain Kirov! You Captain Kirov?”

  Mikhail faced the man. “Yes—”

  “The general’s ready to begin. We need you in the tent now.”

  “Wait,” said Mikhail, holding his palm out. “I need to speak with my team first.”

  The American shook his head. “We don’t have time for that. Do it later.”

  Later? This mission wasn’t exactly one that could be thrust upon someone without time to prepare. Not for something as surreal as this. “If I were not Soviet, would you give me time then?” The man said nothing. “If I cannot address them here, then you will allow them to accompany me into your tent. You make the choice.”

  Mikhail could tell by the look on the man’s face that he’d offered an unpalatable ultimatum. Prompting Mikhail to wait, the man disappeared back into the tent, leaving the Soviets waiting in the blustery rain. Moments later, the American appeared again. “Bring them in.”

  “Thank you, comrade.” Mikhail’s emphasis was intentional. And less than well-meant. His expression darkening, the American held the tent open for Mikhail’s team to enter.