One of the Mongolian special forces commandos came swiftly over to Beshu's position. The commando nodded to his leader, and Beshu acknowledged the nod. He made the silent hand gestures that only a Mongolian commando would have recognized in such deep cover. Slowly, in small groups and alone, the rest of the commando force began to return to Beshu's position.
Beshu had just barely managed to escape after the attack on the Leviathan. All of his force except for himself and two others had been captured by the Americans and Australians. He and his two men had managed by some amazing feat to reach the shores of the Mongolian-friendly Pitcairn Island, from which they were transported to Mongolia proper for treatment and recovery.
In a group of gold-clad Mongolian soldiers Beshu would have stood out starkly, being the only one in drab camouflage colors and utterly without badges. He was wearing a gray uniform which was militaristic but excellent camouflage, and a gray helmet, both of which were spattered with mud and grime. He'd not taken it off since he had put it on, and would not take it off until many years later.
They were now on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Four other commando units were spread throughout Russia, many deep in the heart of the motherland. The other four squads were at Yakutsk, Tomsk, Nakhodka, and Kemerovo. They were very spread out and at very large urban centers. It would be important as a demonstration.
Beshu had a vague idea of what they were unleashing. He'd been told only as much as he needed to know. He had guessed at the rest. What he had guessed was thrilling, though terrifying.
"Let's move out to the pickup point," he whispered when the last of his people arrived.
They stealthily began to navigate their way from the woodland surrounding the city to the Onega River. They made it by dawn, just in time to meet the tiny submarine which was waiting for them. It poked downstream until the commandos were safely in Eastern Bloc territory to wait to be sent home.
The next day, when it had been confirmed that each of the five items had been set, a master transmission was sent. Five pillars of flame rose for kilometers in the air over Holy Russia.
"Manuscripts don't burn"
- Mikhail Bulgakov
Hi, I'm horror and science fiction author Steve Kozeniewski (pronounced: "causin' ooze key.") Welcome to my blog! You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Amazon. You can e-mail me here, join my mailing list here, or request an e-autograph here. Free on this site you can listen to me recite one of my own short works, "The Thing Under the Bed."
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