Nemesis

By Richard Turner

When a brutal terrorist attack maims dozens and kills someone close to Ryan Mitchell, he decides to take the law into his own hands and sets out to kill whoever was responsible. He, however, learns things are not as they appear. Before long, Mitchell and his friends are dragged into a deadly struggle with a foe from the past and a man who has waited decades to settle an old score. From Greenland to Zimbabwe, to Libya and Russia, the clock is counting down toward Armageddon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Turner
• Release date: Mar 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310613609

Richard Turner

Richard Turner proudly served his country for more than thirty years, all across the globe.He wanted to try something new and now spends his time writing.I am an avid reader and especially like reading all about history. Some of my favourite authors include: James Rollins, Andy McDermmott and the many novels of Clive Cussler.

Book preview

1

Greenland

February 24, 1968

With pain racking his body, Lieutenant Vasily Chesnokov opened his eyes. What he saw didn’t make any sense. The world seemed to be turned upside down. His arms hung loosely beside his aching head and the instruments on his navigation workstation were shattered beyond repair. The acrid smell of smoke assaulted his nose. He pulled the gloves from his hands, reached for his safety harness, and pressed the release latch. At the last moment, he realized that he shouldn’t have done that. It was too late. His body fell down and crashed onto the roof of the plane.

Chesnokov let out a pained moan as he tried to move his right leg. He rolled over, dug out a slender flashlight from a pocket, turned it on, and shone it at his leg. He gritted his teeth when he saw a jagged piece of bone protruding through a long gash in his bloodied flight suit. He tried to recall what had happened. He remembered the flight engineer reporting that an electrical fire had broken out and he was going to try to deal with it. Through the fog in his mind, he could hear the pilot telling the crew he had been able to jettison the two nuclear bombs they were carrying. Their only chance for survival was to try to make an emergency landing on the Greenland ice shelf. After that, there was only darkness. He struggled to sit up. Pain shot up his leg, telling him to move slowly.

To add to his discomfort, a bitter wind whipped inside the wreckage of the TU-95 bomber, showering Chesnokov with snow. Called a Bear Bomber in the West, the plane was the Soviet Union’s main strategic bomber. It had been on a routine nuclear deterrence patrol off the east coast of Greenland when disaster struck.

Chesnokov turned his head and looked back toward the cockpit. Perhaps the pilot and co-pilot were unhurt. Major Zelin . . . Captain Anodina, can you hear me? Are you okay?

Silence met his calls.

The light from his flashlight faded. He hadn’t changed the batteries in the device in months and now it was dead. He began to panic. What if he was all alone? Who would treat his wounds? He was far too injured to look after himself.

The only light he could see came from the burning debris flickering in the storm raging outside.

Chesnokov bit his lip and began to crawl. He had to find a first aid box and put a bandage on his wound or risk bleeding to death. As he pulled himself along the roof of the bomber, he spotted a body. He tried to ignore the crippling pain as he hurried to the side of the man lying nearby. A couple of seconds later, he stopped crawling and pulled the man’s body toward him. A pair of cold, blank eyes stared up at him. Chesnokov let out a mournful cry when he recognized the man as Alexey Sergun, the plane’s communications operator, and his closest friend. Sergun, thrown from his seat, had broken his neck when the bomber crashed onto the ice. With a heavy heart, Chesnokov reached over and closed his friend’s eyes before carrying on. He cursed his bad luck when he found a first aid box under a piece of smoldering debris. Blackened, the supplies had been burnt in the fire. It was hopeless. The next box was located a good ten meters down the fuselage. However, that portion of the aircraft was gone. From where he was, Chesnokov could see contorted pieces of burning wreckage spread out on the snow. He was tired and in agony. He didn’t have the strength to crawl out into the dark to try to find the medical supplies he needed to live.

It was over and he knew it. Chesnokov let out a deep sigh and sat back against the wall. There was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable. There were far more horrible ways to go than freezing to death, he thought to himself. He fumbled for a package of cigarettes he carried inside his leather jacket. He took hold of a cigarette and lit it. Chesnokov took a long drag and felt the rush of nicotine in his body. He hoped his body would be found and brought back to Russia so his parents could bury him alongside his older brother who had died in a car crash less than a year ago.

It didn’t take long for the freezing cold air to suck the warmth from his battered body. Chesnokov didn’t fight it. He knew with temperatures well below zero he had minutes to live before hypothermia took hold and he froze to death. He took another long drag on his cigarette and stared out into the night. All of a sudden, a pair of bright lights appeared out of nowhere and moved straight toward him. Chesnokov raised a hand to block the light so he could see who or what was coming at him. A second later, an all-white shape appeared before him.

Are you an angel coming to take me to heaven? asked Chesnokov.

No, replied a woman’s voice.

He was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. Just before Chesnokov blacked out, he smiled when his eyes beheld the face of a beautiful woman with piercing blue eyes and thin red lips. Then he was gone.

2

Chechnya

January 19, 1995

The night was cold and still. High in the hills to the south of Grozny, the Chechnyan capital, waited a team of highly trained killers. Nicknamed the Night Wolves, a detachment of men from Russia’s elite Spetsnaz commandos dressed in winter camouflage uniforms lay in wait for their prey.

Captain Roman Krasnov brought up his night vision binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the small village where their target was reported to be hiding. The world became a mix of light and dark green hues. He could see six small brick houses nestled against a narrow river that ran down from the mountains. All of the homes looked deserted except for one with a stolen Russian army jeep sitting out in front of it. A veteran of fighting in Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and now Chechnya, at twenty-eight, Krasnov was at the top of his game. He was widely respected by his men and his superiors as someone who could get the job done, no matter how dangerous the assignment was.

A voice spoke in his earpiece. I’ve got twelve rebels coming up the path. The message was from one of his many lookouts hidden in the rocks.

Excellent. Do not engage them. Let them get into the village, replied Krasnov into his throat mic.

He adjusted his position slightly, brought up his binoculars, and waited until the Chechens came into view. The range of his night vision equipment was half of what it would have been had they been made in the West. He silently cursed his military for not spending the money needed to keep soldiers, like his, properly equipped in the field. A few seconds had passed before he began to get a better look at the rebel fighters. One by one he dismissed the men as the man they were looking until a man with a thick, shaggy beard, unkempt combat uniform, and a scarf around his neck appeared. To the untrained eye, the man looked like just another Chechen rebel. This man, however, was different; he wore a curved scimitar sword on his belt.

Got you, you bastard, said Krasnov to himself.

Ruslan Umarov was the most wanted man in all of Chechnya. Responsible for the deaths of over one hundred Russian soldiers and Chechnyan civilians, he had been nicknamed the Butcher of Grozny by the men under his command, as he never took prisoners.

Five days ago, an informer in his organization had sold him out for the sum of ten thousand American dollars and told the Russians precisely where to find him. Krasnov and his men, dropped off by a pair of helicopters the night before, had walked to their objective, going to ground just before first light. They had been laying low all day in anticipation of running across the butcher and putting a bullet between his eyes.

Krasnov keyed his mic. Alright, the target is here. We’ll wait until they settle down before we attack. One at a time his team leaders acknowledged his order.

He slipped down from his position overlooking the village and made his way to his radio operator. Okay, Gustaf, send the signal to brigade that we have spotted Umarov and that I intend to strike.

His radioman nodded and picked up his handset to pass the message.

Krasnov turned his head and looked up at the star-filled night sky. He sought out the North Star and said a prayer. He had picked up the habit of saying a short prayer from his grandfather, a veteran of the Great Patriotic War against the Germans. Krasnov didn’t consider himself to be a superstitious man, but if it kept his grandfather safe through that long and terrible conflict, then it was good enough for him.

Message passed, sir, said Gustaf.

When this kicks off, I want you to move to the top of the hill so you can see what is going on, explained Krasnov as he handed the young soldier his night vision binoculars.

Yes, sir, replied Gustaf, unable to mask his disappointment at being left behind.

Krasnov patted his radio operator on the shoulder. Gustaf, if this all goes to hell, I’m relying on you bring in the attack helicopters to pull our asses out of the fire. I trust you and you alone to do this for me.

Got it, sir, replied the youthful soldier.

Okay, time to see what is going on. Krasnov left Gustaf and climbed back up the hill. He crept over to Lieutenant Tormasov’s position. As the assault team leader, Tormasov would be leading the bulk of the soldiers during the attack on the village.

What’s going on down below? asked Krasnov.

Tormasov gave his superior his binoculars. Sir, Umarov and three of the rebels went into the house with the car parked in front of it. The rest have taken up positions covering the dirt path leading in and out of the village.

Krasnov grinned. Time to get to work. He pressed his throat mic. All stations this is Wolf One, commence the attack, I say again, commence the attack.

A split second later, the fire support base, commanded by a sergeant, opened fire. Tracers, shot from the barrels of a dozen light machine guns, tore through the night ripping into the Chechens caught out in the open. A few scrambled behind cover but most fell where they stood, struck by dozens of bullets.

Tormasov stood up and cried out, For Russia!

With a throaty Hurrah, the men under the lieutenant’s command stood up and charged down the hill straight at the village.

Krasnov ran with them. When they were less than ten meters from the village, a rebel poked his head around the corner of a building and fired off a burst of automatic gunfire. One of Krasnov’s men doubled over and fell to the ground. Without stopping, the remainder of the highly trained soldiers broke down into fire teams, one man covering the other with fire while he dashed forward. In seconds, the commandos were in the village. The few fighters who stood their ground and fought back were no match for Krasnov’s men. They died where they stood.

A man burst from the house where Umarov was reported to be hiding. He fired his AK from the hip as he ran for the jeep. He never made it more than a couple of meters before he died in a hail of gunfire. Another rebel stepped out into the doorway with his rifle held in his shoulder and fired into the night. A sniper in the firebase killed him with a single shot to his head.

Krasnov’s blood was up. He ran straight for the open door. Two men arrived there first, yanked the pins from their grenades, and tossed them inside the shack. Three seconds later, both devices exploded, showering anyone unlucky to be inside with thousands of slivers of jagged metal. Krasnov charged inside, firing his rifle as he ran. Dust hung like a thick cloud in the tiny hovel. He moved from person to person, shooting the bodies strewn on the floor whether they appeared to be alive or not.

Check the bodies, Krasnov called out. I want Umarov found.

The soldiers pulled the bodies from the building and laid them in a row outside. He’s not here, sir, called out Tormasov after checking the dead with a flashlight.

Krasnov couldn’t believe his ears. Umarov had to be among the dead. He looked down at the dirty carpets on the floor. There’s got to be a trapdoor. Find it!

Here it is! called out a soldier, holding a dirty rug in his hands. At his feet was a small wooden door.

Toss a grenade down inside and then go after him, ordered Krasnov.

The soldier nodded and reached for a grenade on his belt.

Krasnov walked outside and swore. His prey had eluded him. Umarov’s men had died buying him the time to escape.

The dull crump of a grenade exploding inside the tunnel made Krasnov turn his head. He didn’t doubt there was a honeycomb of tunnels under the village. He looked over at Tormasov. Check the rest of the buildings and be wary of booby traps.

Yes, sir, replied the lieutenant. Men spread out and began a methodical search of the homes.

An excited voice spoke into Krasnov’s earpiece. Sir! Sir, there’s a rebel making a run for it!

Krasnov recognized Gustaf’s voice. Where is he?

To the west of your position. He’s hobbling. I think he may be wounded.

It wasn’t too late to catch his quarry. Krasnov turned on his heel and sprinted off in pursuit. At the end of the village, he spotted a man trying his best to run away. He brought up his AK and yelled, Freeze!

The man stopped and turned about.

Drop your gun, Umarov.

For a moment, the rebel stood still, then with a cry on his lips he brought up his AK.

Krasnov fired first. His rounds struck Umarov in the chest. The man staggered back a couple of paces before falling straight back onto the ground. Krasnov jogged over to his fallen foe and prodded his body with his boot to make sure that he was dead. When he was satisfied the man no longer presented a threat, he bent down to make sure the body on the ground belonged to Ruslan Umarov and not someone dressed up to look like him. He turned on a flashlight and examined the man’s face. There was no doubt in Krasnov’s mind. He had just killed the Butcher of Grozny. Before standing up, he took hold of Umarov’s scimitar and pulled it from his belt.

You won’t need this anymore, said Krasnov as he turned and walked back to join the rest of his men in the village.

Hidden in a bush, not five meters away, was a young boy with tears in his eyes. His heart felt like it was going to shatter into a thousand pieces. He wanted to run after Krasnov and kill him with the small dagger he had on his belt. Instead, he closed his eyes and saw his older brother smiling at him. In his hand was their late father’s scimitar. A sword that had been in the family for generations and could be traced back to a time when Chechnya was a free country, not one occupied by their hated enemy, the Russians.

In his mind, he could hear his brother say, One day, little Emin, this sword will be yours. Remember our father’s words, ‘If I strike at the enemy, follow me. If I fall, avenge me.’

I will avenge you, Ruslan, you have my word on it, mumbled Emin to himself. His eyes burnt with the thought of revenge. He vowed the day would come when the man who had killed his brother and all of Russia would pay for what had happened.

3

Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison,

Harare, Zimbabwe

A sandy-brown baboon sat on a rock under the golden sun and surveyed the grassland looking for predators. Aside from a couple of people working on a car on a nearby road, the area was safe as far as the baboon was concerned. It had learned long ago to give men a wide berth. If it kept its distance, it knew there would be no trouble. It was about to jump down and join the rest of its troop lounging about nearby when through the shimmering heat it spotted something moving in the distance. It raised its head and watched. When it saw men with guns in their hands, it jumped down, let out a warning howl, and scurried for the safety of a grove of trees.

Steam rose like an escaping genie from the radiator of the parked Land Rover. A well-tanned man with a slim physique, wearing disheveled clothes and a dirty blue ball cap on his head, slammed the hood down, stepped back from the vehicle, and swore loudly.

Do you think they bought it? asked the tanned man.

I’m not sure, answered the man’s partner, a heavy-set African-American man dressed in a set of dirty sandy-colored coveralls.

Why do you say that?

Because I can see a couple of men getting out of that parked police car we passed earlier. They’re coming our way with AKs in their hands. That’s why.

Ryan Mitchell turned about and looked up the road. His blue-gray eyes spotted a couple of men in dirty blue uniforms strolling toward them with their weapons carried lazily over their shoulders. They couldn’t have looked more disinterested.

What do you think? A pair of real cops doing their job or a couple of bored stiffs looking for some bribe money? asked Mitchell under his breath to his friend, Nate Jackson.

This is Zimbabwe, my money’s on a shakedown, replied Jackson.

Mitchell nodded. He stepped away from the vehicle and waved over at the two policemen. Good day, officers. Our Rover has developed engine trouble. Do you know the number of a good mechanic?

The closest cop, a middle-aged man with a belly that hung over his belt and a world-weary look in his eyes, brought his AK down and pointed it at Mitchell and Jackson. What are you two doing here? Don’t you know this is a restricted area?

Sorry, Officer, replied Mitchell. We didn’t know this area is out of bounds. The man who rented us this Rover gave us a hunk of junk. Trust me, I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to. The heat is killing me.

The policeman’s partner, a slippery-looking individual, walked past Mitchell and peered into the back of their vehicle.

Jackson dug out a couple of pieces of paper from his pocket. Gents, my friend and I are nature photographers. We were on our way to Zambezi National Park when our piece of crap vehicle broke down. We have all the necessary documents signed and stamped from the government offices in Harare to prove it.

You speak English, but you don’t sound English, said the middle-aged policeman as he studied Mitchell closely.

We’re not, we’re American, said Jackson.

I’ve never met an American before. The cop slung his weapon. Show me the permits.

Jackson smiled and handed over the paperwork.

The policeman pretended to read the papers before giving them back. These are not the correct forms. You will have to come with us to the station to get the proper ones.

Mitchell looked over at Jackson. Both men had flown in and out of corrupt countries all over the world. They knew the routine. Mitchell reached into a pocket on his shirt and pulled out a crumpled up piece of paper.

Sorry, we must have forgotten this one, said Mitchell as he handed the cop the piece of paper with several one hundred dollar bills folded up inside.

The policeman opened the paper and glanced down at the money before slipping it in a pocket for safekeeping. Yes, everything looks in order. We are heading back to our station now. I’ll see if I can find a mechanic who will come out here and fix your vehicle.

Thanks, replied Mitchell, knowing all too well that the crooked cops had no intention of helping them. If a tow truck happened to come by, it would require another bribe just to get the man to look at their vehicle.

Mitchell and Jackson stood there and watched as the two crooked cops walked back to their beat-up car and jumped in. The vehicle belched clouds of blue smoke as it drove away.

How much did you give him? asked Jackson.

Five hundred.

Jackson let out a low whistle. He’ll be lucky to keep fifty bucks after his boss and his boss above him take their cut.

Mitchell shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care. It was all part of doing business in this part of Africa as far as he was concerned. A voice in Mitchell’s near-invisible earpiece spoke. Gents, looks like they’re gone. It was Gordon Cardinal reporting in from his hiding spot three hundred meters away in the brush.

What about the prison? Any sign of movement? Mitchell asked.

None, replied Cardinal as he surveyed the front entrance of the jail through his high-powered binoculars.

Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison was a hellhole known for the brutal treatment of its inmates, many of whom were political prisoners on trumped-up charges. Anyone with the courage to stand up to the current regime quickly found themselves incarcerated. Vicious beatings and torture were common. In cells designed for eight, it was not uncommon for twenty or more men to be jammed into the fetid rooms. Disease ran rampant throughout the crowded jail.

Mitchell and his team had been dispatched to Zimbabwe to rescue Oliver Mambo, a priest who had rallied international attention to the plight of the poor in the country. Two years ago, he had been arrested for sedition and locked up in Chikurubi for the rest of his life. However, an appeal by the European Union to re-open his case or face possible economic sanctions had forced the government’s hand. It was announced by the country's president that he was going to be given a new trial. No one outside of the country expected it to go any better than the last one. All Mitchell knew was that sometime today, Mambo was to be moved from the prison to a courthouse in Harare to hear the state’s new charges against him.

Mitchell’s people had flown into Zimbabwe on separate flights, trying to avoid drawing any attention to themselves from the nation’s paranoid security services. Mitchell and Jackson had gotten together the day prior at their hotel while Cardinal clandestinely rendezvoused with a group of rebels opposed to the president. They had supplied him with all of the team’s equipment, smuggled in from neighboring Botswana. Sam, Cardinal’s girlfriend, and the team’s combat medic, was with Yuri Uvarov at an airstrip fifty kilometers outside of the capital waiting for the word to come and get them.

The people who had hired Mitchell’s team were pacifists and had made it clear that there could be no killing. If a single policeman were to die in the rescue attempt, the consequences for the villagers in the region where Mambo was from would be horrendous. It was a restrictive rule of engagement, but one that Mitchell and his people could live with. Self-defense was never off the table; however, they would just have to be creative when the time came.

Cardinal reported in. Folks, my contact in the prison just called and said that Mambo is being cleaned up and given some new clothes for the ride to the courthouse.

Mitchell called Sam on his cell phone. Time to earn your pay. Wake up Yuri and make your way to our location.

I guess we can step away from the bar for an hour two, replied Sam.

That would be nice. Mitchell knew Sam and Yuri had probably been sitting in the cockpit of their rented helicopter for hours waiting for the call. His friends’ dedication and professionalism were never in doubt.

Fifteen minutes later, looking through his sniper rifle’s scope, Cardinal broke the silence. Ok, here we go. The front gate is opening. There are two Land Rovers packed with soldiers coming your way. I have positive ID of Oliver Mambo. He is in the backseat of the rear vehicle. ETA your position, one minute.

Game time, said Mitchell to Jackson. Together they walked over to their Rover and pulled out the hard plastic suitcases that held their camera equipment. The cameras were for show; hidden underneath were the non-lethal weapons they would need to rescue the hostage.

Jackson grabbed a futuristic-looking pistol and made sure it was on safe before turning it on. A loud whine emitted from the large weapon in his hands as it powered up.

Mitchell extended the folding butt of his shotgun and clicked it into place. He quickly checked that it was loaded before placing it down on the hood of their Rover.

Thirty seconds, reported Cardinal.

Jackson pulled out a small pack from the front of their vehicle. Here, you’re going to need one of these, Jackson said to Mitchell as he handed him a gas mask along with several canisters of fast-acting tear gas.

Lieutenant Christopher Olonga glanced down at his watch. They were late. He cursed the guards at the prison for their sluggish behavior. He knew his superiors would be unimpressed that they were going to arrive at least fifteen minutes late at the steps of the courthouse. The international media would be waiting to film Mambo’s

Reviews for Nemesis

[thomas rea · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really incredible how they keep getting out of jam after jam and it's nothing like a great couple getting married