It's Going to Take Some Hard Nasty People to Stop the End of the World



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It's Going to Take Some Hard Nasty People
to Stop the End of the World

Unto The Breach

John Ringo





This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by John Ringo

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

ISBN 10: 1-4165-0940-2


ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-0940-0

Cover art by Kurt Miller

First printing, December 2006

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ringo, John, 1963–
Unto the breach / John Ringo.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0940-0
ISBN-10: 1-4165-0940-2
1. United States. Navy. SEALs—Fiction. 2. Retired military personnel—Fiction. 3. Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction. 4. Weapons of mass destruction—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3568.I577U58 2006


813'.54—dc22
2006023925
2005035468

Distributed by Simon & Schuster


1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)


Printed in the United States of America

To Jim Baen: My publisher, mentor and friend.


Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.


And as always:
For Captain Tamara Long, USAF
Born: May 12, 1979
Died: 23 March 2003, Afghanistan
You fly with the angels now.

Acknowledgments


There were a bunch of people I had to get research help from on this one. As usual, Ryan Miller and Mike Massa contributed to technical operational help as well as HALO training details. As founding members of RingTAB (the Ringo Tech Advisory Board), they have put up with much.

I'd like to thank Christopher Austin, former member of the Army High Altitude Rescue squad, for really professional input on the mountaineering portion. My experience in mountaineering is decades past, and techniques and equipment have, ahem, changed considerably. It turns out serious mountaineers hardly ever wear leather boots and wool sweaters anymore . . .

Retired Master Sergeant Sean Fleenor contributed helpful smacks to the head over weapons-use while failing to convince me not to issue the Keldara beer.

Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman, author of On Combat and On Killing, sent me an incredibly detailed proofread of an early version of this manuscript. Among about a billion other things, he pointed out that Ranger School was longer than I'd remembered. In addition, both of his books were seminal to several aspects of this novel. On Combat, especially, is highly recommended to anyone who is in the business of regularly or occasionally bringing violence upon others.

James Cochrane, husband of my coauthor Julie, and Emil "Praz" Praslick, of the Army Marksmanship Training Unit, supplied helpful advice on long-range shooting about which I previously knew virtually nothing. (Much as I write about it, I'm a "broad side of the barn" shooter.) I'll add that James, on the spur of the moment, took over a necessary four-hour drive when I was so sleep-deprived from writing I was babbling. The fact that I didn't die in the midst of writing this novel is probably due to James and Julie. Thanks.

As usual, any mistakes are mine.

Last but not least, I'd like to thank my daughters, Jennifer and Lindy, for accepting "Daddy's under deadline" as a reason for my almost total mental absence over the last couple of months. Hoowah.

Baen Books by John Ringo


Ghost
Kildar
Choosers of the Slain
Unto the Breach

There Will Be Dragons


Emerald Sea
Against the Tide
East of the Sun, West of the Moon

Princess of Wands

Into the Looking Glass

A Hymn Before Battle


Gust Front
When the Devil Dances
Hell's Faire
The Hero
(with Michael Z. Williamson)
Cally's War
(with Julie Cochrane)
Watch on the Rhine
(with Tom Kratman)

The Road to Damascus (with Linda Evans)

with David Weber:
March Upcountry
March to the Sea
March to the Stars
We Few

with Travis S. Taylor:


Von Neumann's War

Prologue


"Working late, Doctor?" Boris asked, yawning and glancing at the scientist's identity card.

Dr. Tolegen Arensky nodded, trying not to appear nervous. "One of my samples is done cooking; I have to test it when it's fresh."

"Better you than me," Boris replied, handing the ID back and making a note on his log-sheet. "If I ever have to pass the doors of even Level One, it will be too soon, yes?"

"The day we have to call security into the quarantine zones is the day I quit," Dr. Arensky said with a weak smile. "I barely trust our research assistants in there, no offense."

"None taken," Boris replied with a shudder, pressing the solenoid under his desk. At the sound of the all-clear buzzer the over-watch, observing the entry room from a remote security station, opened the sliding steel entry door and Dr. Tolegen Arensky started the last hour of his tenure in Russian biological research.

He passed through another metal door, nodded at the sleepy guard on the far side and turned right towards his office. If he had turned left he would have quickly confronted a third steel door and the various processes required to enter Quarantine Level One. Since he generally worked in Level Four or even Five getting to his primary labs was a daily chore.

Staying in the outer "nonquarantine" zone of the hexagonal building, he passed seven office doors, all on his right and representing by their names and title plates descending levels of power in the institute. His own was the seventh. Any sample, of course, would be cooking away in Level Four—nobody did any more research in Five since the "incident" nearly ten years ago—but he hoped that the guards would be their usual efficient self and ignore that.

He went past his room, however, and stopped at the very end of the corridor. There was one more door there, a janitor's closet. He entered the janitor's closet and removed some bottles of ancient and dust-covered bleach from the third shelf on the left. From under his bulky winter coat he removed a vaguely pyramidal object and stripped a coating from the flat underside, revealing a sticky tape. He pressed the object against the wall, then very gently unscrewed the tip of the object, which was cylindrical. On the base of the screw device was a plastic plug with a round plastic tab jutting from it. He grasped the tab and pulled, removing the plug with a vaguely "pock" sound. As he did a blue LED on the other end of the cylindrical device began to blink. He carefully screwed the cylinder back into the device and then placed the plastic plug in his jacket pocket.

That done, he proceeded back to his office.

As he entered the room, which was not much larger than the janitor's closet he'd just left, he removed his heavy outer coat and fur hat, hanging them on the coatrack by the door, then followed them with his suit coat and donned his lab coat. After a moment's thought, after actually turning to his desk, he paused, removed the lab coat and redonned his suit coat. After another moment's thought he removed the heavy jacket and fur hat from the coat rack and placed them on his desk.

The office was small, barely adequate to fit his desk, a safe in one corner and a filing cabinet. It was also spartan. On the desk was a lined pad, a pencil and a framed photograph. On the back wall was a picture of the current Russian president. A slight discoloration around the frame indicated that there had once been a larger picture in the same spot. It also indicated how long it had been since the office was painted.

He picked up the briefcase that was already in the room, set it on the desk and opened it. Turning to the safe, the combination for which the facility administrator did not have even if the idiot thought he did, he dialed in the combination from memory and opened it. Inside were four steel containers. Smuggling them to his office had taken the better part of two nerve-racking months but getting them out of the building was impossible; everything leaving was searched with otherwise abnormal efficiency.

Which was why he was here at three o'clock in the morning.

He opened the briefcase and slitted the containers into the pre-cut slots in the foam rubber inside. He then removed ten CDs from the safe and carefully arranged them on the face of the foam rubber. He started to close the case then paused and picked up the framed picture on the desk. He looked at it for a moment and then carefully removed the picture itself, sliding it into the briefcase before closing and locking it.

His preparations complete, he centered the briefcase on the desk, sat down on his hard wooden chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. After a moment he looked at his watch. He would continue to do so every nine seconds, unthinkingly and really unseeing, for the next three minutes and forty-seven seconds.

At the same moment Boris was questioning the doctor on why he was arriving to work at three in the morning, on a narrow road nearby a delivery truck was stopping at a police checkpoint.

Police checkpoints were so ubiquitous, and greedy, in the Confederation of Independent States, the former Soviet Union, the only surprise on the part of the driver was to find one at this time of the morning at such an out-of-the-way spot. However, based upon their standard police car and there being only two of them it was probably a roving patrol that had chosen a side road to "raise some revenue." If they were on the main road it would be obvious and they'd have to cut their watch supervisor in on their take. Out here nobody was going to notice.

The driver braked to a stop and pulled out his license and registration, slipping a ten-ruble note between them. He'd put it in an expense report and probably be paid back, eventually. Argenia Pharmaceuticals could afford the bribes; they were after all a part of doing business in Russia. They were so common, they weren't even considered bribes. Given the way that all public servants were paid these days it was almost reasonable for the cops to increase their salaries in this way. But they could be god-damned greedy about it.

"License and registration," the officer said as the driver rolled down the window. There was another officer on the passenger's side, waiting patiently. Not common but not unknown. Generally they were both on the driver's side so that the partner could be sure of the take.

"Please step out of the vehicle," the policeman said, stepping back and gesturing. He also hadn't pocketed the money.

"Why?" the driver said. "I'm not drunk."

"I need to ask you a few questions," the policeman said, waving again with is left hand and placing his hand on the butt of his service pistol. "Out of the truck!"

At this the passenger-side door was yanked open and the officer on that side grasped the driver's mate, pulling him down to the road.

"Okay, okay!" the driver said, raising his hands then lowering them to open the door and climb out. "What's the big deal?"

"To the side of the road," the policeman said, sternly. "Hands above your head."

"Fine, fine, whatever," the driver replied, shaken. "What is all this about?"

The answer was a cold sensation in the back of his head and then blackness.

* * *

The "police officer" slid the silenced pistol back into the rear waistband of his perfect uniform trousers and looked at his watch. As he lowered his hand, a man wearing coveralls identical to the driver's, right down to the Argenia Pharmaceuticals badge on his left breast, walked out of the woods carrying a body bag. He unrolled it next to the body and then the "driver" and the "policeman" lifted the driver's body into the bag. The "driver" zipped it shut and then the two lifted it and carried it to the rear of the panel van.

When they got there six men in heavy battle dress were already there, opening up the back door. Four of them boarded and caught the tossed bodies, rapidly stacking them on the shelves lining the side of the panel van. The remaining two were carrying weapons, coveralls and body armor. As the bodies were being stacked one of the policemen slid on the coveralls as the two porters handed off their burdens to the four stackers in the van. The second stripped off his police uniform, revealing the uniform of a Federal Security executive underneath. He was handed a heavy jacket, a fur hat and correct equipment for his position. When the "policemen" were dressed, all four climbed into the now crowded panel van.

Three seconds after the door slammed, the panel van started rolling again. From braking to a stop until moving the van had been in place for two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, three seconds ahead of plan. The "driver" considered this and reduced his speed by one kilometer per hour. It wouldn't do to be there early.

A rubber boat crunched to a stop on the shingle of the island and the six men in black immersion suits and body armor spread out in three teams of two. Each team had one man carrying a dual-tubed Russian RPO-A disposable rocket launcher while the second carried an SV-98 sniper rifle. Each man was wearing night-vision goggles and ran through the darkness as if he had done it a thousand times, easily avoiding the many large rocks that littered the beach.

One of the teams paused and took a knee as the team member carrying the sniper rifle pulled a heavily weighted device from his belt. The device was, essentially, a tomahawk with a heavy head. The "front" side of the head was a razor-sharp axe blade. The "back" side was a hammerhead.

After a moment there was a crunch of shingle as a sentry stepped off a worn trail and started walking to the east, away from the crouched team.

The team sniper stepped forward silently, placing his feet carefully to prevent the shingles crunching and pausing to let the wind carry the slight sounds he was forced to make away from the sentry. This silent, but rapid, stalk brought him to within an arm's length of the sentry in less than a minute. As soon as he was within reach he brought the axe, which had been held up over his right shoulder the whole time, down and across from the left, burying it slightly sideways at the very top of the sentry's neck. Leaving the axe in place, he caught the falling body and lowered it to the ground, then gestured to the trail and followed the rocketman up.

Just over the slight rise to the north was a hexagonal building, guarded on its vulnerable rear by three heavily armed, and armored, bunkers. . . .

As Dr. Arensky was screwing a blue blinking cylinder into a pyramidal device, the regular morning delivery from Argenia Pharmaceuticals pulled to a stop at the outer gate of the facility.

The outer gate was on a narrow causeway that led to the mainland. The hexagonal facility was on a small island in Astrakhan. The only ways on and off were by helicopter, boat or across the narrow, kilometer-and-a-half, causeway.

"Where's the regular guy?" the guard asked, blinking. It was breezy as hell on this guard post and he'd been huddling in his unheated shack trying to survive until he saw the headlights. Being out in this whipping wind wasn't his idea of fun, either.

"Drunk? Sick? Quit? I dunno," the driver said, unpleasantly, handing over an Argenia ID and manifest stating that he was Ivan Sorvoso, Argenia Pharmaceuticals Employee Number 54820, and that Ivan Sorvoso, Argenia Pharmaceuticals Employee Number 54820, was the correct driver for the vehicle on this day for this load of biological chemicals, precursors and testing samples, inventory enclosed. "All I know is I got called at damned midnight for this shit. So I'd like to be done and gone as soon as possible."

"Fine by me," the guard said, but studied the documentation carefully. He was new and motivated, which was why the old guys had stuck him on the outer guard shack. That way the little snot wouldn't be grumbling all the time about them being asleep. He nodded after a moment's careful perusal and handed the documents back. "All in order," he said, stepping back into his guard shack and pressing a solenoid to raise the heavy metal pole across the road.

Without so much as a wave the truck jerked to life and headed towards the vast hexagonal building ahead.

As the panel van pulled away from the guardhouse the three sniper/rocket teams reached their pre-attack points. Each of the sniper members pulled out a periscopic night-vision device and checked the bunkers. Each was manned, with lights on in the interior. Tactically, they should have been red or blue but over the years the various users had substituted white bulbs so the bunkers stood out like neon signs. It also meant that the users would be effectively night-blind.

Almost simultaneously, although separated by eighty yards, the three snipers snapped their periscopes down and picked up their rifles.

As the sentry was being taken down, four of the eight entry specialists in the panel van slid off as it passed the front doors. The reason for the hexagonal shape was purely security; the hexagons made it possible to fit more area in while maintaining a reasonable number of external cameras. A rectangle had less internal area, a circle created too many "blind" areas.

Unfortunately, the excellent theory had run into far too typical Russian inefficiency. The front cameras, in fact, left precisely that dead zone to the left of the front doors. The eastern camera pointed slightly outwards as did the western. This was supposed to be covered by the two cameras over the door, but those left a solid gap, about six meters wide, along the wall. The team of four crouched in that gap for a moment as the lead checked his watch. Then he nodded and waved one of the armored and masked figures forward.

The figure, the "policeman," drew his silenced pistol again and fired one round. The shot took out the right-hand camera and he darted forward, reaching into a pouch. From it he extracted a small device and, quickly unplugging the left-hand camera's port, he inserted the device and replugged the assembly into it. He stepped back and extracted a small PDA and looked at it for a moment. Then he hit a button on the PDA turned his head and nodded.

As the snipers snapped down their periscopes a new vehicle appeared out of the woods of the distant mainland.

"Busy night," the guard muttered, stepping out of the shack and slapping his mittened hands together to try to get some feeling in them.

"This is a restricted area," the guard said, as the passenger slid down his window.

"I have a pass," the man said.

The guard had no time to react to the sight of the silenced muzzle.

"Camera four is out," the intercom announced to Boris on his lonely vigil at the front desk. "And five just flickered. Go check it out."

"Got it," Boris sighed, picking up his walkie-talkie and trudging to the front door. He slid his card through the reader, a newfangled innovation in his opinion and totally unnecessary, and opened the door. The last thing he saw was the masked figure in front of him.

"Security, this is Boris." The radio crackled with static and was half unreadable.

Markov set his bottle of vodka down and belched, then pressed the microphone button. "Yes? What is wrong?"

"The plug came undone again in this damned wind," Boris said. Or Markov thought he did, the reception was terrible. "There, how is that?"

The screen for the right-hand door camera flickered for a moment and then came to life. After a moment Boris stepped in view by the door. His head was down and covered by a heavy fur hat with the flaps down, but from the way his uniform was blowing it was reasonable wear for the out-of-doors.

"I'm going in," the guard said, sliding his card through the reader.

As the panel van backed up to the loading dock the new car accelerated down the causeway. The car's former passenger was now standing in place of the guard, wearing the same style uniform and markings.

"Teams," the driver said into his microphone.

"Team One, place."

"Two . . . place."

"Three, place."

"Go," he said, quietly, sliding to a stop in front of the main doors.

The back doors of the panel van crashed open and the single external guard had just enough time to wake up from a vodka-induced haze and see the four heavily armed attackers before he died. Two more shots and both cameras were out.

"Boris" opened the front doors and drew two pistols. One shot took out each of the internal cameras and then he stepped to the side as the entry team trotted past. The lead of the team slapped a ring of thermal entry plastic onto the steel door while another slapped a breaching charge in the center. All four of the entry team turned to the side, covering their eyes with their arms, as the plastic was ignited. There was a moment of searing white and a sharp "crack" and clang as the refractory steel was first burned through and then slammed backwards by the breaching charge.

At the side door the identical assault had opened up the loading area. Both teams were in.

A moment later an alarm began to shrill.

At the sound of the alarm Dr. Arensky sighed and pulled a small device out of his side pocket. He pulled a pin from the device and then pressed the only button on the face. There was a distant "crack" and all the lights went out: on the far side of the wall in the janitor's closet was the main electrical breaker for the entire building.

At the first hoot of the alarm, which had been right on time according to their internal clock, the three rocketmen stood up, tracked in on the narrow slit openings of the bunkers and fired, all within the span of a second.

The U.S. Marines in Iraq had recently started to use a "new" thermobaric rocket system against the insurgents. It was only "new" to the Marines, though: the Russians had been using it all the way back to the Afghanistan War.

Thermobaric, often incorrectly called "fuel-air," rounds used heat ("thermo") and overpressure ("baric") to create a devastating explosion. Early thermobaric rounds had used "fuel" as their delivery medium, spreading a gas over a wide area before detonating catastrophically. Newer systems, such as the rocket being used in this instance, used a specialized "slow-fire" solid explosive that, as it exploded, continued to carry molecules of the explosive along its blast front which, in turn, exploded.

This created massive overpressure inside of the bunkers, instantly killing everyone within, blasting off the reinforced rear doors and tossing body parts and chunks of machine gun out through the narrow engagement slots.

Immediately after they fired, the snipers peeked up beside them scanning for targets. There were two potential reactions that the internal defense team could take. They could respond to the bunkers being hit or to the attack on the inside. In the event of attempted reinforcement of the bunkers . . . there were the snipers. . . .

Team Two, the side-door team, blew down the cargo door on the side and turned immediately to the right. The internal door here was only wood, and the lock blew off at the blast of a shotgun. As the door thudded open the lights went out. The alarm continued to shrill but only spotty emergency lighting, red and dim, came on throughout the facility. The team waited patiently, however, for what was about to occur as shotgun blasts, regular as clockwork, began to boom down the corridor.

Team One, the front entry team, spread out. Two team members started down the hallway to the left, two more to the right. As each team came to a door, the lead placed his shotgun against the lock, pulled the trigger and then stepped back. The trail then stepped forward to toss a head-sized device into the room and the cycle was repeated.

The right-hand team did the same, moving down the corridor to Dr. Arensky's office then passing by.

As the two teams spread out, the driver of the sedan strolled into the main corridor and turned to the right. When he reached Dr. Arensky's office, as the right-hand team reached the end of the corridor and tossed a device into the janitor's closet, he knocked on the door, three times, with pauses between.

The door was jerked open as Dr. Arensky struggled into his heavy outer coat, the briefcase in his hand.

"This is madness," the doctor said, sputtering.

"You do have it, though, yes?" the man asked. He was tall and broad with gray-shot black hair and a tanned face lined by much time out-of-doors.

"I have it," Dr. Arensky snapped, lifting the case.

"Let us go, then," the man said, lifting his arm to look at his watch and then nodding as a sharp crack sounded down the corridor. The crack, and flash of light, was followed by a series of rapid, short bursts of fire. Seven in all. "Our ride is on the way and we don't want to keep them waiting."

He waved down the hallway as the team of two men, one of them "Boris/Policeman," walked to the door. "Boris" casually tossed his last packet in the room and the two followed Arensky and the broad man out the front door.

From out of the cloudy sky, which was now drifting snowflakes downward, a Panther helicopter dropped, twin to the one dropping to the rear of the facility. The team boarded silently, the broad man and "Boris" simultaneously pushing Dr. Arensky into one of the seats and buckling him in. When they were done, and in their own seats, the rest of the team was in and secured.

The broad man looked at his watch and nodded as the helicopter lifted into the sky.

"One minute forty-seven seconds," he said across Arensky to "Boris." "Very good time, Kurt, very good." He pulled a device similar to the one that Dr. Arensky had had out of his pocket and extended an antenna. When he depressed the plunger the entire administrative section of the Russian Institute for Agricultural and Biological Research disappeared in a blinding flash. The concussion slightly rocked the rapidly ascending helicopter.

"Very good time indeed."




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