Lion - Escape from Russia: Escape, #1

By Douglas Misquita

The Syrian War has spilt into its sixth year. The bloody contest between the Syrian National Army and the Free Syrian Army is confounded by rebel factions, terror outfits, fundamentalists, unscrupulous businesses... and a proxy war between the United States and Russia.

Aslan 'The Lion' Terzi, a political prisoner incarcerated at the notorious Tadmor Prison, is near suicide when a Daesh commander inexplicably gives him a new lease on life. Disillusioned by the depravity of the War, he chooses to flee Syria. But, a chance encounter at the border draws him back... for the love of a woman.

Goldline Solutions is the security contractor of choice for Sheikh Akhmed bin Rashid. When the disappearance of Goldline client, Leonid Rashnikov, threatens a lucrative multi-billion-dollar deal, CEO Samuel Goldsmith will put everything on the line to restore the sheikh's confidence.

Russian FSB agent Illiya Pushkin sanctions an illicit operation in Syria. With a vindictive colleague on her trail, she finds herself complicit in a crime that propels her into the FSB's most-wanted list. 

Five strangers. Working on assumptions. No elaborate plan. No inside help. They will attempt the most audacious supermax prison breakout ever attempted on Russian soil.

In an imperfect world, the singular human instinct of survival is all that matters.

And there will be a heavy price to pay.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Misquita
• Release date: May 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393839057

Douglas Misquita

Douglas Misquita is a thriller novelist, musician, and artist from India. He penned his first adventure in school and first novel while studying for an engineering degree. Since 2010, he has produced a book a year. His stories are praised for their quick pace, interweaved plots, and basis in contemporary events. He is a consecutive Literary Titan Gold Award winner and won Bronze at the Global Book Awards in 2021 for Trigger Point. 'Relic' is the first book in a series featuring former Indian paratrooper Izak Kaurben and the multi-billion-dollar antiquities black-market. Find out more and download free stuff at www.douglasmisquita.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Tadmor Prison, Homs, May 2015

The insurgent lay naked on the cold stone floor of his prison cell. Iron shackles stretched the extremities of his pain-numbed limbs in a perpetual spread-eagle position. Leather straps, the ends of which were nailed into the floor, held his neck and head immobile.

His chest rose and fell feebly with each shallow breath, the protuberances of his rib cage clearly visible, like dollies under a taut tent of skin. His eyes were closed. He had succumbed to the sweet embrace of semi-consciousness after another bout of a senseless beating from the guards. To them, he was another nameless, captured rebel soldier of the Syrian Civil War, delivered to them by the regime, for their sadistic pleasure.

The beatings, however, had grown less frequent, and the sodomy rarer. Probably his persecutors had realized their victim was nearing the end of his tether on life and wished to prolong his suffering.

His home for the last six months was a six-by-six-by-six-feet hollow stone cube. By day it baked like an oven in the sun; by night, a minuscule cross-barred window near the roofline permitted a chill draft to creep in. The cell stank unbearably, of urine, faeces, blood, old vomit and sweat, but its occupant had, over the time of his incarceration, grown accustomed to no other smell.

A rust-streaked iron door barred entry. A narrow slot in the door, shuttered by a spring-loaded flap, doubled as a tray when laden. This was how the sludge that passed for food, and tepid water was delivered to the inmate. With his resolve to live broken, the prisoner had stopped eating a week ago. With nobody to tell them otherwise, the jailers had simply withheld meal service. The cell was devoid of a basin or even a cot; anything that could serve as a tool of suicide. In the past, prisoners had banged their heads against the basins or attempted to gouge their necks out on the edges of the cot. The warden had confiscated the rags that were his clothes, depriving him of the means to fashion a noose. The shackles served the same objective, when, the previous evening, in a fit of weakness, he had attempted to crack his skull against the wall.

Within a month, or earlier - the jailers wagered, another hapless soul would occupy the cell.

A concussive blast rocked the prison, shaking loose a shower of dust from the ceiling. The prisoner opened his one unscarred eye, and stared at the featureless ceiling, as his senses rose from the murkiness. Another blast. Then over the ringing in his ears, he heard the distinct chatter of rifle fire, drawing nearer, punctuated by shouts and screams. To a near-forgotten corner of his mind, one that still could make associations, it sounded like the prison was under attack.

The prisoner was uncaring. He had fought a good fight, only to be betrayed. And in the torturous months that followed his capture, he had witnessed the depravity of human civilization – civilization? - at the hands of his captors. There were no more battles that he wished to be a part of.

He heard running footsteps in the corridors outside, and more shouts which he now discerned as confused orders. That was followed by a prolonged gun battle. Bullets ricocheted, twanging, off the metal door. Another explosion, dangerously near, and the agony of the humans ravaged by the blast. Then he thought there was silence because he could no longer hear gunfire, explosions, shouted orders nor screams. Or maybe he had finally gone deaf. He did not hear the shuttered slot opening, nor see the pair of dark eyes that peered into the cell, nor the orders that preceded the sound of a key scraping against the keyhole.

His cell door clanged open, exposing him to the sharp odour of cordite. His eyes fluttered and he saw shadowy figures crowding his cell. They were dressed in black. One of them pointed a rifle at him, his intent clear. The prisoner detachedly noticed it was an AK47, ubiquitous, battle-tested and thoroughly reliable. The prisoner would know because he had used an AK47 to great satisfaction. It was next to impossible that the rifle would misfire or not accomplish the execution that its wielder intended.

The prisoner stared vacantly at the barrel, unafraid, at peace with his imminent death. His would-be executioner paused. He was accustomed to pathetic pleading for mercy or a pitiable display of fear. But the naked, skinny prisoner lying before him displayed none of these emotions.

There were more footsteps from outside, and another man crowded the doorway. He looked over the shoulder of the man with the rifle and nudged him aside. The newcomer crouched beside the prisoner and stared long and hard at him.

In the background, the prisoner heard sporadic shooting again. His hearing was recovering. The gaps in the rifle fire were longer, as the raiders cornered and eliminated all of the prison's guards. There was another tremendous explosion and one of the men in the cell nervously muttered that they should leave, lest they risk being levelled with the prison. This did not bother the newcomer, who caressed the prisoner's sallow cheek. He addressed his men, and his order perplexed them greatly. Let him live. But they did not question their commander's desire.

For as long as the commander lived, he could not explain his mercy. When his direct subordinates asked him, he put it down to allowing the prisoner more time to wallow in abject depression. But secretly, he knew it was an untruth: it was one of those inexplicable events in life.

When the total demolition of Syria's notorious Tadmor Prison by the Islamic State made the news, there was no mention of the prisoner whose life had been spared.

CHAPTER 1

Over the Aegean Sea, January 2016

The pilots of the Dassault 8x were pleased with what they saw on their radar. Except for a Boeing 747, broadcasting the callsign of a Turkish Airlines' cargo jet, flying at the regulatory-approved vertical distance above them, they were alone in the blue sky. Clear skies ahead, no perceived hostiles. It implied that their employer was safe. The pilots had a vested interest in ensuring his longevity, namely the handsome salary that fattened their bank accounts. Their shoulders relaxed, they relinquished control to the Dassault's autopilot.

Had they known that the real Turkish Airlines cargo jet was offloading in Mumbai, they would not have been so complacent.

The Dassault's main cabin was occupied by five men. Four were severe looking, suntanned, weathered individuals. Their t-shirts accentuated their beefy torsos, and their forearms were ripped. Each wore a chequered scarf, wrapped loosely around the neck, that could be easily drawn up to cover the lower half of the face. Sunglasses were perched upon their heads. Within quick reach of each man was an Israeli Galil MAR or Micro Galil assault rifle. In addition, each carried a Glock sidearm in an under-shoulder holster. The earpiece and curly cable of a comms headset peeked around their left ears. The four men were engaged in reading, or staring out the window, or surfing the Internet. But at any given time, at least one had an eye on the fifth man in the cabin.

The fifth man was their client, millionaire, Leonid Rashnikov.

Rashnikov, a Russian by birth had arrived in Turkey as a boy and now enjoyed dual citizenship. He had established himself in Istanbul as a prominent businessman who counted many high-ranking ministers in Turkey as his partners, or acquaintances. Like many who had grown accustomed to the power of money, he was of the opinion that any problem could be overcome if you threw enough money at it. Yet, and to his frustration, one problem defied the rule. Rashnikov wished to expand his ambitious gas delivery business into and through Syria. The incumbent competition had the ear of the Syrian president, leaving Rashnikov with humble pie. No amount of money could sway key players.

Then the Syrian Civil War came. Rashnikov saw an opportunity to overcome the barriers to entry if the regime was toppled. With money to spare, he made a decision to finance the rebellion. That single decision changed his life. Before he knew it, he had been unwittingly sucked into the mire of the proxy war, unknowingly channelling money and equipment for the CIA, providing them with a means to circumvent diplomatic embargoes. Then the CIA referred him to ISIL, and Rashnikov began dealing with the jihadists through shell companies and well-attired, educated representatives. By the time he realized who his real partners were, it was too late. To exit would mean an accidental death. Rashnikov had offered no resistance, allowing his manipulators to do as they pleased if it insured his life.

Rashnikov's involvement in the rebellion had brought him in contact with the Free Syrian Army (FSA). His only daughter, Sarah, had fallen for a young FSA soldier, Farid Sadaat. Since she was in Turkey and he in Syria, the Rashnikovs did not pay the matter much attention, believing that their courtship would be defeated by their time apart and geography. But like his handling of the rebellion, he had been blind to the strengthening tryst between the lovers. When Sarah announced that she intended to marry Farid, the Rashnikovs flew into a panicked rage, which only prompted the stubborn girl to elope. They resorted to entreaties, but the damage and the deed were done. Helpless, Rashnikov turned to another soldier by the name of Aslan Terzi.

Terzi had served in the Syrian army before defecting and rising to leadership within the FSA. He was ten years Rashnikov's junior, but in him, Rashnikov saw nobility, reliability, and maturity. More to Rashnikov's end, Sadaat idolized Terzi. If there was anybody who could ensure Sarah was safe, it was Terzi. Partially mollified by Terzi's assurances, the Rashnikov family limped on, grudgingly accepting the son-in-law.

Those years aged him in body and spirit, leaving him but a husk of the energetic businessman he once was. Then, thankfully, his war partners expanded their networks, and Rashnikov was no longer as critical as he once was. He was free to start over. Just when he sensed a semblance of normalcy on the horizon, his wife was taken by cancer. And then came the final blow: the exacerbated plight of Sarah.

Aslan Terzi was KIA in the Battle of Aleppo. In his place, rose a vengeful and bloodthirsty Farid Sadaat, now backed directly by the CIA. The war had made a warlord out of him to the extent that even Sarah – who once adored him – now feared for her life. She re-established contact with her estranged father and pleaded for his help.

No father can ignore the cry of an only daughter. Rashnikov turned to the CIA, but they curtly told him to sort his personal problems out himself. At about the time, he learned that the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service and her Syrian ally were out for him. They wanted to put him away for all the trouble he had brought them. And they wanted, no doubt, to wring out names from him, which, dated as they were, would give them political leverage. As the noose tightened around his neck, he had found his alliances with the aforementioned partners and associates fragmenting.

So, it was a very lonely, afraid and troubled Leonid Rashnikov who secured the services of a private security contracting firm, Goldline Solutions, while he tried to unravel the mess that he called life.

The Dassault banked, and sunlight streamed in through the windows. Dressed in a coal black business suit, that matched the colour of his eyes, Rashnikov stroked his greying beard, his brow furrowed pensively. The stewardess approached, under the watchful gaze of his bodyguards. She placed a serving tray laden with a cloche, fruit, and dark coffee before him. She raised the cloche with a flourish, liberating the delicious aroma of lamb kebabs, buttered naans, and a steaming bowl of a deep-brown gravy of lentils. The gravy was his favourite, its recipe had been refined over numerous tastings, to match the taste and olfactory memory of the dish his mother used to prepare. Rashnikov nodded in appreciation and dismissed the woman. Ordinarily, he would have immediately partaken of the meal. But today felt different. He took a breath, passed a tongue over his dry lips, and stared at the glistening kebabs. Then he squinted as he looked out the window, into the sun's glare...

... which prevented anybody aboard the Dassault from noticing that the masquerading Turkish Airlines cargo jet had deployed a payload in the form of two skydivers.

The skydivers were Spetsnaz — special forces soldiers of Directorate A of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB) Special Purpose Centre, known around the world as the elite Alpha Group.

Because the operation was unanticipated, there had been no rehearsal. 48 hours earlier, on the pretext that it was a simulation, the best minds available to the FSB were assigned to a 'task'. They factored in the optimum cruise speed of a Dassault 8x, the expected atmospheric conditions over the Aegean, the gravity of the earth, the weights of the two skydivers and their gear, the rotation of the earth, and a host of other variables. They plugged these into a jumble of mathematical equations in a computer, which produced more equations before arriving at a range of solutions, caveated by plenty of assumptions. Then, the mastermind of the operation, Igor Sokolov, directed the analysts to discard some assumptions and solutions and whittle his options to something practical.

Next, the math was translated into a covert human operation, and the Spetsnaz were brought in.

Ensconced in thermal wear, breathing through oxygen masks, the skydivers hurtled toward the earth at terminal velocity. The timing of the jump was crucial: they needed to be 100 feet over the Dassault when it passed directly beneath.

They met that requirement.

At that moment, both simultaneously activated the jetwings that were strapped to their backs. The swept-back Kevlar wings locked into the outstretched position, and the jet engines in the wings ignited, bringing the skydivers out of free fall, into controlled flight. Their contrails chased the larger contrail of the Dassault. The jetwings would catch up in 120 seconds, leaving 60 seconds of headroom before the over-stressed jetwing engines burned out. When that happened, the plan would fail. And neither soldier wanted to be responsible for the failure of the mission.

They angled toward the Dassault, staying out of its exhaust and slipstream. To their insulated senses, they were shielded from the roar of the Dassault's triple Pratt and Whitney engines, in a zone of extreme silence. The gentle curvature of the earth spread below them, shades of blue, white, green and brown. They arrived on either side of the tailfin, and each soldier put out a hand, reaching for the fuselage, in preparation for boarding. They killed the jet engines. And dropped to the fuselage.

Their outstretched hands contacted the fuselage, a little aft of the door, and they were held fast, aided by Active Limpet Gloves – high adhesive gloves – that could detect the increase/ decrease in pressure thresholds to intelligently activate or deactivate suction. As one, the duo affixed ultra-portable tactical ascenders/ descenders to the fuselage, augmenting their anchor. They looked like moths that had landed on a bird. Thus secured, they jettisoned their jetwings, aware that the slipstream would snatch the gear. It did, and the jetwings were sucked into the tail-mounted engines.

The engine explosions were so near, they sounded as one. Kevlar shrapnel tore the cowlings and penetrated the central engine housing. With all three engines blown, the Dassault was instantaneously robbed of all power, trailing thick black smoke and fire.

Heedless of the Dassault's death dive, the Spetsnaz operators pivoted on their anchors so that they were in an upright position, relative to the Dassault, which was pointing vertically down.

The Aegean Sea was rushing upward to greet them. It would be like striking concrete – the 8x would be obliterated, human bodies would be pulped. Both Spetsnaz had been medicated against nausea and to keep from passing out from the intense G-forces. But there was no medication to suppress the human instinct of self-preservation. Every fibre of their being screamed for them to jump to safety from the doomed Dassault.

Determinedly blotting out the distraction of the clock ticking to impact, the left Spetsnaz operator aimed an RG6 six-shot grenade launcher and released three shaped charges that clung to the curvature of the door on their gooey adhesive. The explosions ripped the door from its mount. It tumbled end-over-end, sucked upward in the slipstream, lost in the spewing black smoke. The operator activated his descender, lowering himself toward the level of the door... just as the body of the stewardess was sucked out into space. During the formulation of the plan, everybody had accepted the high risk of Rashnikov being sucked out of the 8x. It had fallen upon the left Spetsnaz operator to eliminate that risk. However, everything had happened so fast... He was glad it wasn't the target. Among such an elite group of soldiers, tardy reflexes would be looked upon with disdain and gloating. Gripping the door jamb, he worked himself into the cabin, followed closely by the second operator.

The passengers were harnessed to their seats. One unfortunate contractor was draped over a table in the Dassault's Sky Suit, his neck at an unnatural angle. The passengers' faces behind their hurriedly donned oxygen masks were puffy, their chins lolling on their chests. The alarms in the cockpit were blaring, unheeded by pilots who, like the passengers, would have passed out from the sheer positive G-forces, which would have drawn blood away from the brain. The sustained G-forces could kill, and the Spetsnaz were to prevent that from happening to Rashnikov.

Using the backrests of the seats, one operator climbed upward, deeper into the cabin. His companion was watching from the door. The operator came upon the form of Rashnikov and braced himself against the table and the wall of the cabin. Working in that awkward position, he released the seat belt, and Rashnikov's body fell onto his chest. The soldier harnessed Rashnikov to his body like a tandem skydiver, only, in this case, both men were facing each other. Out of his periphery, he saw the Goldline contractor opposite Rashnikov move. The Spetsnaz operator was stunned that the contractor had not succumbed like his companions. The contractor grimaced as he struggled to reach his Galil. But his movements were in super slow motion, retarded by gravity, and the contractor was put out of his misery by a headshot from the Spetsnaz in the doorway.

Seeing no other threats to the kidnapping, the Spetsnaz in the doorway activated his ascender. The winch spooled him out the cabin. The second Spetsnaz stepped into the free space of the cabin's central aisle with Rashnikov and activated his own winch. Both operators convened momentarily on the fuselage above the door. They shared mutual nods. Then both men released their anchor points, kicked hard, throwing themselves clear of the plummeting Dassault.

The Dassault impacted the Aegean's surface and crumpled like an accordion, amid an almighty geyser of water. It sank beneath the depths trailing smashed inanimate and human debris.

Over the Aegean, the blue canopies of two parachutes unfurled. The skydivers began a controlled descent to the sea. They landed with their ‘package’ and activated their homing beacons. Twenty minutes later, they were plucked out of the water by a fishing trawler. In the sky, its mission complete, the B747 banked north and switched call signs.

CHAPTER 2

Syria, southwest of Aleppo

This is all — up!

Yuri Markov's plaintive cry was interrupted by the chatter of his AK47. Crouched beside him, his commanding officer, Aleski Pushkin, ex-Colonel in the Russian army, poked his own worn AK47 out the dirt-streaked window and emptied an entire magazine into the street. Pushkin swung back in, into a sitting position beside the window, as return fire peppered the outside walls. Pushkin looked askance at Markov, who had served in the army as a captain, under Pushkin, while he expertly switched magazines. Peeping over the window sill, Markov saw that their defence had been partially effective: their response had dissuaded the Syrian rebel faction that had been charging the villa that Markov, Pushkin and three Russian ex-privates were sheltering in. On the flipside, the rebels were fanning out, hunkered behind abandoned vehicles and rubble in the road, making it difficult for the Russians to get a bead on them.

More worrisome was the RPG that Pushkin had spied on the shoulder of one of the rebels. Anybody got a sight on that RPG? Pushkin cried as he rested his AK47 on the window sill and searched for targets. He saw a head appear and fired. The head disappeared, but Pushkin could not ascertain if it had been a kill shot. They exchanged another glance, and Markov could see agreement in Pushkin's eyes: everything was FUBAR.

They had arrived in Damascus on a commercial flight. On disembarking, they were met by an interlocutor, who herded them to a waiting military transport jet. They had not cared for the uncomfortable, but speedy air-hop from Damascus to Aleppo because they were accustomed to travelling in military transport jets. The interlocutor had accompanied them. The Syrian soldiers on the flight had behaved as if the Russians and their chaperone were non-existent.

That had triggered a minor concern in Markov's mind because he had expected that the Syrians would be aware that the Russians were in town as private military contractors (PMCs) to share their expertise with the indigenous forces. He had shared his worry with Pushkin who believed that the time for proper introductions would come once they were on the ground. Markov trusted Pushkin and lapsed into silence.

Upon landing at a regime-held airstrip, they were met by two dusty sedans. It was then that Pushkin demanded, What is this?

The interlocutor appeared harassed, and the tone of his reply indicated he wanted to be rid of them. You will be driven to a base three hours from here. That is where you will find everything you need. Then he had rattled off in Arabic to the drivers, and before the Russians could stop him, was trotting away, a phone glued to his ear. The Russians remained, generally ignored by everybody, except the two drivers who stared at them silently. Finally, with a shrug, Pushkin had ordered his men into the cars.

Their drivers could speak neither Russian nor English. The driver of the sedan Markov was in simply smiled ignorantly at every question thrown at him. They had driven in the scorching heat to their destination. And that was where they began to sense that they'd been conned. Any vestige of the idea that they were in Syria to train an army began to crumble at what they saw.

A small town - hardly more than a village – lay ahead. The main street was deserted, with a few vehicles parked haphazardly, like an obstacle course. The drivers navigated cautiously, slowly, constantly on the lookout, stopping at crossroads. The Russians assimilated their caution and also began searching the streets, the shadows of buildings, the roofs for threats. More than once, they saw windows being shut hastily as they drove by as if the townsfolk were expecting trouble on their account.

Pre-empting the obvious questions from his men, Pushkin tapped the driver's shoulder and angrily mimed that they turn around. The driver pointed ahead to a villa and stabbed the air with his palm: we're here.

The sedans pulled up and their boots popped open. The mercenaries seethed. Crammed inside were worn-out AK47s, bullet-riddled flak jackets and spare magazines for the rifles. Scrap, for all they knew.

What's the meaning of this? Pushkin had yelled indignantly. The driver shrugged indifferently. Pushkin had had enough. He was about to reach for his satellite phone when an obese man emerged from the villa, speaking rapidly to the drivers, who dispersed in an instant, into the villa.

Colonel Pushkin! the obese man said, I am Abu Rafiq. This is my town, Al Rafiq.

Pushkin was not impressed. It's named after your family, he clarified, certain that one of Abu Rafiq's ancestors may have had the disposition of a community leader, but definitely not the slob who was approaching them.

Yes, yes, Rafiq said dismissively, We must hurry. It is not safe outside. I hear that rebels are not far from here. He looked about nervously. Come inside and then —

We are not coming anywhere. Markov noticed that Pushkin was now worried, besides being angry.

Didn't they tell you? Abu Rafiq was ostensibly surprised, his eyes widening in the fleshy folds of his face.

They? Apparently not, since I am asking. Pushkin took a breath. Momentarily, he held Markov's green eyes, and Markov thought he detected... guilt... in his CO's gaze. We are here to assist the army.

Yes, yes. A tiny condescending smile materialized in Rafiq's jowls. Assist the army to assist my family and I. We are important people and need security until we reach the coast.

What! There followed a heated argument, that culminated with Pushkin threatening to hijack the sedans and head back and was countered by the obese man's threat that he would call his friends in the Syrian army and have Pushkin arrested unless he fulfilled