Stranger Things, 1988: Prologue, "West Berlin, 1987"
Tiamat
I've seen the future...
HI all, I am copying and moving this spinoff story from it's original location in the WW3: 1988 storyline under the Alternate History section. I decided to do this so that this own story that parallels the events of the WW3 timeline doesn't derail it, and vice versa. I am posting the chapters of Hawkins, the Red Room, and also adding a slightly reedited chapter from WW3: 1988 that takes place in West Berlin 1987 as a prologue. That said, I hope you enjoy this.
If you wish to read the parallel events described in the story, you can read that here: https://www.the-sietch.com/index.php?threads/world-war-iii-1988-aka-the-war-of-88.680/
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Stranger Things: 1988
Prologue: "West Berlin, 1987"
Friedrichstrasse, West Berlin
Federal Republic of Germany
May 29, 1987
West Berlin, one half of a city that was a bastion of Western civilization within the East German DDR, was teeming with life, a bit cool, and wet, even in late May. Especially wet. To John Roper, who was hardly a stranger to Berlin, East or West, he wished he was there under happier circumstances…
It was another busy evening in West Berlin tonight. Beneath the towering architecture of glass and steel, gray and black stone granite, the streets were slick with a sheen of rainwater that mirrored the streetlights that illuminated the avenue of Freidrichstrasse. The typical pedestrians, old and young alike, hurried along about their own business under the night sky, which thankfully had just turned to a slight drizzle from a more recent downpour. At a street corner, John Roper, who for all the world looked like any of the other pedestrians seen around the city, was quietly observing the comings and goings of everyone as he munched on a serving of kartoffelpuffer und apfelmus, potato pancakes with a side of applesauce on a paper tray he’d bought from the neighboring food kiosk. He was dressed in a rather nondescriptive long-sleeved shirt and matching trousers, over which was a long charcoal-gray duster. His modest head of hair, typically salt and pepper in tone had been dyed a dark blonde. A five-o’clock shadow of stubble decorated his somewhat tanned complexion and square-jawed face, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that he'd bought for appearances sake perched on his nose that framed steel-grey eyes.
Not bad, he thought, as he dipped another piece of fried potato pancake in the applesauce and bit into it, though it’s not as good as Wolfgang’s. I imagine he’s still puttering around in his blue Mercedes van selling food to the BAOR. To his left he spied two older middle-aged men, appropriately dressed for the damp evening, one was reading the latest copy of Der Welt, while the other appeared to be enmeshed in the late edition of Süddeutsche Zeitung. Both newspapers blared the headline of the shootdown of one Mathias Rust, who had foolishly attempted to fly a Cessna into Soviet airspace from Finland in some bizarre attempt to “create a bridge to the East” according to his family. The Soviet Air Defense Forces, or PVO had replied in kind with two SA-5 SAM’s that had blown the aircraft and its pilot apart. I doubt they’ll find anything left of the poor bastard, he mused, he’s probably scattered over three oblasts. Some unpleasant comparisons were already getting drawn between it and the shootdown of South Korean airline KAL 007 back in ’83, or at least some of the protesters that had tried to scale the fence of the Soviet Embassy in Bonn had shouted as much before getting arrested by the stadtpolizie. It was yet another chapter in the latest bout of insanity that the world had been experiencing ever since the ’86 October Coup that had deposed Gorbachev....if one could call getting executed via firing squad that.
I actually like working back in Europe again, John thought to himself. He was the sort that was often tasked with assignments that tended to be of the "hush hush" nature, though that was also, more often than he liked, intermingled with certain operations that involved "things that go bump in the night." John shook his head. There were many nasty things out there in the world, but some of them still paled in comparison to crossing swords with Ivan either in the shadows of Europe or in some Third World shithole like Afghanistan, like in '83. Kandahar. The hand that held another piece of fried potato stopped momentarily and began to shake....before John shut his eyes, and let out a breath, and the unsteadiness of his hand receded. No....don't go there. Forget fucking Afghanistan. It's over...move on.
For John, a present employee of what was often referred to simply as “The Company”, it had been a rather busy year so far. He’d spent an extended “working vacation” down in Mexico and elsewhere earlier that year with all the shenanigans going on, only for yet another coup to go down in March, this time in Indonesia. The local media had blared images of Suharto along with a number of his aides getting executed rather unceremoniously by firing squad, with the “People’s Revolutionary Council of Indonesia” now declaring full control. The cherry on top was the Soviet merchant convoy with a surface warship escort that had docked in Jakarta later that month, laden with military hardware that had the Australians and New Zealand screaming murder. It was yet another disaster that had the Reagan Administration screaming at the Company to take a more aggressive approach and find out what the Soviets were up to. Rumors were running rife about what just was actually going on in the U.S.S.R. ever since most of the intel-gathering network within had either been forced to exfiltrate or had been rolled up by KGB and MVD forces during the coup. Just about everyone from the Americans and British, to the French and the Israelis had redoubled their efforts to try to rebuild a new network behind the Iron Curtain and find out what was going on…which partly led to why John Roper, member of the C.I.A.’s Special Activities Division, or SAD, was there tonight.
It had just been a few days ago apparently that a “business partner” of John’s within the Company, a fairly adventurous analyst of all things by the name of Jack Ryan, had received a coded message via a courier in regards to one Arseny Semenov, who had met Ryan more than once at a few host embassy functions before the coup. Semenov was in an official capacity a cultural attaché with the Soviet embassy in Bonn, but often spent his time in West Berlin fraternizing with the youth of the city at various coffee houses and discotheques. He was the son of a high party official within the Politburo who had emerged from the coup along with Semenov relatively unscathed. Of course, like most Soviet cultural attaches Semenov was also a member of the KGB, and had been seen fairly often in the company of the more leftist-minded youth of West Germany, with at least a few suspect connections to individuals involved with the Baader-Meinhof Group. In regards to this particular man however, he had not been considered as high on the list of persons of interest to the Western intelligence agencies, at least until now.
The message had been translated, and was summarized as “Get me the hell out of here and to London, and I’ll spill everything I know.”
And so, John Roper, who had been reassigned to CIA Station London with Ryan, had been ushered into a meeting in the “tank” at Grosvenor Square, where he had been given the briefing by both Jack Ryan and another fellow from MI6, Kenneth Aubrey. Both the CIA and MI6 concurred that Semenov was very much both a political survivalist as well as careerist, and wasn’t held in the highest regard, but he was still deemed as loyal to the Soviet Union, even after the coup. If he was now begging to defect, either it was a setup, Semenov or his father had done something to royally piss off the Politburo, or Semenov had stumbled upon something that had scared the hell out of him. And thus, a rather hasty joint operation between the CIA and MI6 was set up. Two agents would make contact with Semenov in a private loft he was known to frequent above a local discotheque in West Berlin, escort him to a waiting vehicle transport, and drive him to Gatow airport where a private jet chartered by the UK would fly him directly to Heathrow airport. It all seemed rather simple…or so it was hoped.
John had grimaced at all this...he was getting a bad feeling about getting a briefing for an op from a man like Ryan who had been involved in a rather bold affair involving a defecting Soviet submarine captain and his prototype sub back in ‘83, or from an MI6 associate like Kenneth Aubrey who seemed to be jockeying for the same dubious prize by organizing the covert theft of one of the Soviet Union’s most advanced warplanes that same year. With everything that went on in ’83, I’m amazed we didn’t go to war then, he mused, before wincing as he thought about Afghanistan again....then pushed it aside. Still, why send him to grab some low-level KGB spook in West Berlin? It would’ve made more sense to have Special Force Detachment Berlin handle this themselves, but I heard they’ve got their hands full with a dozen other things since the October Coup, plus something related to Reagan’s upcoming visit to the city. Still, something’s not right. John hated that feeling…it was the same feeling he’d gotten once before in Istanbul as he’d tangled with the infamous KGB duo known as the “Hawk and Sparrow”. What a hot mess that was…and there they were again in Veracruz during that debacle. I get the feeling I haven’t seen the last of those two…
And so here he was in a city that had a well-deserved reputation of being a virtual playground for espionage and agents of all stripes, standing at a street corner on Friedrichstrasse, appearing for all the world as just another pedestrian enjoying some local street food just several blocks from the infamous Berlin Wall crossing known as “Checkpoint Charlie”. There was little traffic crossing the checkpoint these days, with a far more noticeable presence of armed guards from the “Berlin Brigade”, some of them in full “battle rattle” who were observing the Eastern side of the crossing from sandbagged positions. Backing them up were two M113A3 armored personnel carriers armed with TOW ATGM’s and M2 .50 cal. Machine guns that were also facing East. The East Germans had responded in kind with an increased presence of the ever infamous Grentzruppen border guards with AK-74 rifles visibly prominent, as well as two D-944 PSZH armored personnel carriers sporting 14.5mm KPV machine guns. At least it’s not as bad as the Berlin Crisis in ’61…yet, he thought.
Across the street from the kiosk, many colorfully dressed German youth were gathered outside, chatting amiably and smoking cigarettes in front of a discotheque from which inside the music could be faintly heard blaring out into the cool evening. Above the façade of the club hung a glowing red neon sign that was labeled Rotes Quadrat…Red Square. Whoever came up with that name must have a real bizarre sense of humor, Roper mused, I’m sure these kid’s parents didn’t have such fond memories of the Soviets back in ’45. Still, it was John’s target, and he’d quietly been observing the place for the last fifteen minutes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…yet. And now it was just a matter of waiting for his source to show up to provide a discreet way to get in without too much attention. He’d packed appropriately…a Glock 19 9mm pistol along with several 15-round magazines hidden in a quickdraw back holster on his belt, along with an ankle holster that held a backup Walther PPK in .380, and a few concealable blades that were on his person. He was a longtime aficionado of the 1911 pistol, but had quickly come to appreciate Austrian engineering with the Glock series of handguns that had exploded on the market.
His wait appeared to finally end when a tan-colored Volkswagen Derby automobile sidled up to the curb just down the street, and parked. A man of medium height and build, with a knitted cap and jacket got out of the car and proceeded to pop open the hood of the car. He fished a flashlight out of his jacket pocket, switched it on…then it appeared to switch off and on, twice as he shook it as though he were having an issue with it. It switched off and on again, twice before he began peering under the hood.
That’s the cue, let’s get this show on the road. John finished the last crumb from his paper tray, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and tossed it aside into a trashcan before proceeding to walk at a relaxed pace down the street, weaving between pedestrians toward the parked Volkswagen car and its driver who continued to pore over the engine. As he drew closer, he could hear the man muttering with a noticeable British accent, “Bunch’a rubbish, this is. Fine German engineering, my arse.” Sounds like he might be from Manchester, or around the area.
“Guten Abend, mein herr. Gibt es ein problem mit ihrem auto?” Roper inquired nonchalantly with what would have passed as a typical inner-Berlin accent.
The man turned from his engine, tufts of reddish hair peeking out from under his knitted cap that matched the mustache on his somewhat youthful features, regarding John with hazel eyes that appeared to study him carefully. “Sorry mate, but I’m afraid I don’t speak much German, I’m not from ‘round ‘ere. Just another tourist, I am.” He looked overall like the sort of nondescript man anyone would forget if they didn’t know better. Probably MI6, John thought.
“Ah, my apologies, I do speak English as well. You are having trouble with your automobile, yes?” John inquired with that faux Berlin accent he’d used more often than he’d cared to remember…which had also gotten him out of a jam more than once.
“Aye, this bloody auto has been squealing like a pig off and on since I started putterin’ about wit’it this mornin’. Blasted thing,” he growled as he turned back to look over the engine again with his flashlight.
“Ah, I’m afraid I do not know much about automobiles good sir. But by chance, would you happen to be able to recommend any good clubs around here? I am hoping to be a bit, ah, lucky tonight.”
The English fellow turned to regard Roper again incredulously. “You’re askin’ me about clubs around ‘ere? Well, I’d say you should try your luck with that one right across the street there…the Red Square, they call it,” gesturing to the discotheque across the street with his flashlight. “Just be mindful of the locals in there…they’re young and tend to be a bit more of the Karl Marx persuasion, if you get my meaning.” He fished a small card with a bit of handwriting stenciled on it out of his pocket, then deftly passed the card underhand to John who quickly pocketed it. It was a VIP pass for Red Square, with a signature of what was presumably the club’s owner on it. “I’d suggest the VIP entrance ‘round the back, if you’re truly feeling lucky. Then again, I think you’d have better luck in Vienna, mate,” he said, seeming to quickly repress a chuckle before turning back to the car.
John grimaced slightly at that. MI6 is still snickering about Vienna? Go figure. “Danke schoen, I appreciate the kindness,” he muttered, before whispering under his breath, “Jackass”.
“Wanker,” the Englishman muttered, not looking up from the engine.
Roper turned away and walked just a little further down to a crosswalk by an intersection and waited for the signal to turn green. He fished out a butane lighter from one pocket of his jacket, in the process deftly thumbing the switch that activated the throat mic that was woven into the collar of the shirt he wore, along with the hidden miniature receiver that he wore in his left ear. With his other hand he pulled out a pack of a local brand of cigarettes and inserted one in his mouth, then cupped his hands and flipped the wick, acting as though trying to light it.
“Observer, Spider, this is Horseman, made contact with the vendor, got what I needed from the concession stand. Making my way toward the club now,” he whispered under his breath as he finally lit the cigarette and proceed to puff, trying not to grimace. Dominican-made cigars were much more his personal poison, along with a good bourbon or whiskey.
A moment passed before a somewhat scratchy, yet clear response could be heard through the receiver in his ear that was clipped, professional and American in tone. “AFFIRMATIVE HORSEMAN, THIS IS OBSERVER, PACKAGE RETRIEVAL REMAINS A GO. SPIDER, ARE YOU IN POSITION?”
Another voice came over the receiver…and this was one, in spite of the faint static feedback, was a voice that John immediately recognized, a lilting female Russian-accented voice that was unmistakable. “AFFIRMATIVE OBSERVER, I’M IN POSITION. THE PARTY IS ON THE THIRD FLOOR, WITH THE PACKAGE. HORSEMAN, MAKE YOUR WAY HERE AS QUICKLY AS YOU CAN, I’VE OBSERVED NOTHING UNUSUAL YET, BUT I’M EXPECTING TROUBLE. I’LL MEET YOU ON THE STAIRWAY AT THE BACK OF THE CLUB.”
Shit, if SHE of all people is here, something’s definitely up, John thought. But there was no time to dawdle. He quickly hurried across the street once the signal turned green and city traffic halted momentarily at the intersection. He walked a bit further, then turning down into a narrow, not-so-well lit alley that skirted the discotheque. His footsteps echoed through the alleyway as he kept his head on a swivel, staying alert for a potential ambush. Discarded wooden pallets, dumpsters full of trash and graffiti lined the alleyway as he made his way toward a door set in the rear of the club building that was illuminated by a single yellow sodium lamp. By the door stood a rather burly, balding man with a bored expression that indicated he’d rather be inside enjoying himself rather than guarding a door. Roper continued to casually smoke his cigarette as he idled toward the bouncer, who regarded him warily. The American carefully fished the card out of his jacket pocket, noticing the tense expression on the bouncer’s face. Looks like he might be former military by the way he carries himself, emphasis former. Still, that bulge he’s got under the left breast of his jacket is obvious enough. He flashed a casual smile and showed the VIP card to the bouncer who warily took it, along with the 50 Deutsche Mark bill folded with it.
“Arseny hat nach mir geschickt,” John spoke again with his faux Berlin accent as he continued to casually smoke his cigarette. The bouncer looked the American from top to bottom with a rather skeptical expression…before handing back the card, minus the 50 Deutsche Mark and unlocked it, gesturing him to go inside wordlessly and rather impatiently. The pounding music of the club gushed out of the club from the doorway like a flood. John quickly walked inside as the bouncer unceremoniously locked the door behind him.
The agent took a moment to regain his senses in the dimly lit hallway before him. The music continued to pound in the air that was heavily laden with the cocktail scent of harsh cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, perfume, and body odor. Along the hallway were lined several youthful couples who seemed far more enmeshed with each other than anything else, heads nodding slightly to the music that continued to blare. John carefully weaved his way through them, passing by a busy kitchen that was alive with the sound of shouted orders and clinking kitchenware. Finally, after passing through another set of doors, he found himself in the main dance room of Red Square.
The music in the large space vibrated through every inch of matter in the club, the melodic beats of Depeche Mode’s “Strangelove” thundering through speakers throughout the area. Kaleidoscopic lights strobed throughout in an epileptic manner. On one side, was a lounge area consisting of several tables, chairs and couches that sat numerous lounge lizards, prospective dates and groupies. In the middle was an immense dance floor upon which numerous couples writhed and danced to the music. On the other side was an immense sound system setup that was attended to by a DJ. On the walls throughout the Red Square was various portraits of Karl Marx and other Socialist figures, and paraphernalia proclaiming “Power to the Proletariat” and “Down with Western Imperialism”.
Fucking wannabes, John mentally snorted in derision. Charging admission for a “socialist” club, how very capitalistic. Still, he needed to stay on task, and saw where he needed to go…a stairwell on the far end of the lounge area. He tossed his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, ignoring a curse from some youths as he weaved through the lounge toward the stairwell. At the foot was a man and a woman, the man sporting a typical mullet haircut while the woman wore bangs. Both were decked out in haute leather as they also seemed to gyrate to the music and each other…until the man turned at the woman’s gesture when she saw Roper approaching them. Both stepped in front of the stairwell blocking his way.
“Mal ganz langsam hier. Warum so in Eile?” The mullet man made a “talk to the hand” gesture to Roper’s face, indicating nothing got past without his permission.
John for his part had the mind to break Mullet Man’s arm and shove it in The Girls with Bangs face, but knew for the sake of the operation he had to act subtle. Both appeared very wry and fit, and were constantly scanning him top to bottom, sizing him up. The couple had their hands intertwined behind each other’s back, though Roper had a nagging feeling their hands were resting on pistols ready to draw…so Roper assumed the role of “Max Kohler”, a West Berlin resident and art gallery owner who was also an informant for Arseny Semenov.
“Arseny hat mich angefördert. Mein Name ist Max. Ich besitze eine Kunstgallerie; Arseny hatte Interesse gezeigt, eines meiner Picasso zu kaufen.” Roper hoped they took the bait, and that the sign/countersign was correct. Arseny sent for me. The name's Max, I own an art galleria, Arseny was interested in purchasing a Picasso.
Mullet Man appeared to give Roper a nonplussed look. “Oh? Ich wusste nicht, dass Arseny sich für solche spießbürgerliche Kunst interessiet.” Oh? I didn't think Arseny was into such bourgeious art.
“Ja! Tatsächlich hat er sich auch an einem Rembrandt Interesse gezeigt,” Roper replied patiently. Yes! In fact, he was also interested in a Rembrandt.
At this, the man and woman seemed to relax, if just a little. The man appeared to brighten his expression slightly. “Ach, wirklich? Arseny wartet oben, in der zweitem Etage, zweite Tür auf der rechten Seite.” Oh really? Arseny is waiting for you upstairs, third floor, second door on the right.
John gestured upstairs casually. “Dann passt alles?”
“Alles passt,” the Mullet Man replied as he moved back to his spot with the Girl with Bangs by the wall, waving him past dismissively as they went back to gyrating to the constant flow of music in the club.
John gave the two an aside glance as he started to ascend the soot-stained concrete stairs, before looking upwards to the steel-bannister lined stairwell ahead of him. Wonder if they’re gonna be a problem on the way back, he pondered. Still, one bridge at a time, let’s see if our itsy-bitsy Spider is hanging around. The music echoed along the granite walls of the stairwell, while the faint scent of mildew with the not-so-pleasant faint odor of piss and vomit reached his nose. As he climbed and turned one flight of stairs and reached the second floor, he saw who he was looking for.
The woman was leaning easily against the doorway leading to the second-floor hallway, casually smoking a cigarette. She was clad in a stylish blue halter top that showed off her impressive bust and toned midriff underneath an equally stylish leather jacket, with a matching miniskirt that showed off perfectly toned long legs encased in black hosiery and leather calf boots. Her fine porcelain features that were just a touch of exotic was framed by silky blonde hair, her blue eyes twinkling as she spied the gentleman approaching him.
“Well, hello there, handsome…and where might you be off to this fine evening?” She purred in a lyrical British-accented voice, sensuously blowing a puff of smoke off to her side.
John made an innocent gesture of holding up empty hands, though he had to admit the sight of this woman was always a pleasant surprise. “Ich spreche keine Englisch,” he offered casually.
The woman smiled wickedly and gently blew another puff as she idled up to him, the cigarette smoke contrasting the scent of a rather enticing perfume that tickled John’s nose, something he thought was French or Italian in origin. She brought up a slender hand and brought it to his chest, bringing a sharp intake of breath in spite of himself, and an even wider smile from the woman. “Don’t worry love…I can see you’re rather alone tonight, and it just so happens I’m very well versed in another sort of language as well.” She eyed the janitor’s closet, wriggling her well-manicured eyebrows suggestively. Roper in turn indicated the closet with questioning gesture…which brought a wide grin to the woman’s gorgeous face before she pulled him in.
The closet was narrow, slightly claustrophic, and smelled of old cleaning chemicals and mildew, and was lit by a single lightbulb. Roper turned and, seeing the door could be locked from the inside, did so and turned to face the woman who now regarded him with a more casual look, one hand resting on her slim hips. “Ty takoy draznish', Natasha.” He gestured at a stray lock of blonde hair. “Like the wig, by the way. Doesn't do your red mane justice."
Natasha Romanoff, ex-KGB agent and now turncoat, the infamous Black Widow herself, shrugged in a nonchalant fashion. “It was the best I could get on such short notice, John…at least you didn’t trip over yourself getting here,” she replied in her normal Russian-accented lyrical voice, now more businesslike as she pulled out a nondescript gray gym bag from a lower shelf in the closet. “So…shall we do this?”
“With you? Anytime, snookums.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow again before unzipping the bag. “I brought protection.” Inside were two Heckler and Koch MP5K 9mm submachine guns, with attached one-point shoulder slings, two specially designed shoulder rigs with pouches for spare magazines, two threaded suppressors, eight 30-round 9mm magazines, four German DM-51 grenades set to the “offensive” concussive configuration with the fragmentation jackets removed, and four “flashbang” stun grenades.
John nodded his head in appreciation. “Awww, you shouldn’t have.” The two then quickly doffed their jackets and proceeded to gear up. As they did so, John gave Natasha a querying look. “So…anything else to report? How much trouble you think we’re expecting?”
Natasha picked up two of the magazines and did a quick inspection before sliding them into the pouches on her shoulder rig. “Nothing else I’ve seen besides the usual, yet, but I expect my old ‘friends’ probably suspect that Arseny now wishes to seek different employment…and will be sending some friends to convince him otherwise. I think Stasi, perhaps from Hauptabteilung Zwölf…they are of that particular mind after all, little lapdogs they are.” She picked up two DM-51 grenades and two flashbangs and attached them to her rig and belt.
“Or KGB Vympel,” John muttered, doing a quick safety check on his MP5K and pulled back the charging handle, checking the operation and ensuring the chamber was clear, before he inserted a 9mm magazine and ensured it clicked before charging the cocking handle with a distinct metallic CLACK. He then regarded Natasha with a more serious expression. “’Tasha…I know we've been through this rodeo plenty times before, but if this gets ugly, and you’re not comfortable with this…”
Natasha’s face, once flirtish and sensuous, was now one of cold stone. “No John…far too late for that now, I made my choice long ago, remember?” Her voice was now a bit more hushed. “To them, I am now not just a traitor to the Motherland…I am worse.”
“Yeah…well, I know you had a bunch of shitty choices and no good ones. I confess I have to give credit to Fury and ‘Cap’, of course, they did what they could.”
“Yes, I have chosen my own path now, thanks to them,” she noted softly, then gave a slight smile to John…a slight one of course, but it was enough to illuminate her face again. “And I have you to thank as well.” She gestured to herself, now all fully kitted up. She rose and did a check on her own MP5K and loaded it, then safed it and tucked it under her jacket on her rig. “Shall we go?”
John nodded and did one last check himself. “Once more unto the breach, dear friend.” With that, both stepped back out into the hallway and proceeded to climb the stairwell to the third floor.
“OBSERVER, THIS IS HORSEMAN, MADE CONTACT WITH SPIDER, HEADING TO THE LOFT.”
“AFFIRMATIVE HORSEMAN, LET’S WRAP THIS UP AS QUICKLY AS WE CAN, EXTRACTION TEAM IS STANDING BY.”
“So, how is ‘Cap’ and Fury doing? Waging mayhem in the name of the flag, mom and apple pie?” John queried as the two climbed the stairs.
“They said they knew you’d ask that, and said to ask how your many ‘lady friends’ are doing…Sadie and that other woman, Lorraine I believe is her name, among them…?” Natasha replied with a lilt.
“Oh, just keeping our ends up, and all that,” he replied casually. "Though last I heard Sadie’s busy with something in Italy, again...just hope it's not another repeat of Rome. As for Lorraine…she just barely got away from the Stasi by the skin of her teeth." The two made a quick look around as they reached the third floor. The hallway was somewhat lit, as a few of the hallway light fixtures had begun to flicker or go out. Worn red carpet led down the hallway to the end by a window from which the ambient light from a neon sign spilled inward. The music from the club still thundered from below, echoing off the granite walls. There was no one in sight. Both saw their destination, the second door down the hallway on the right. No point in waiting then. John took the lead with Natasha right behind him, the Russian watching their six as John sidled up to the door and knocked thrice, careful to keep himself to the side of the doorway in case someone decided to reply with an automatic weapon burst.
“Arseny? Ich bin es, Max. Ich bin hier, um den Kunstkauf zu besprechen.” There was no reply. John knocked again…and received no response. He leaned in slightly, listened…other than a muffled sound that seemed to be like a television or stereo playing, there was nothing else. Not good. John looked at Natasha, who nodded and quietly moved to the other side of the door. Both of them pulled out their MP5K’s and screwed on the suppressors.
Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way then. He reached out and tested the doorknob with his free hand….it opened without a hitch. There was still was no sound other than the usual ambience. Definitely NOT good. He pushed the door carefully about an inch, and looked at Natasha, who looked at the crack in the door jam up and down before giving a thumbs-up. No sign of a tripwire, okay then… The Russian and the American looked at each other, and John held up a hand and mouthed “On me, at my mark.” The Russian woman nodded before John counted down with his hand.
Three…
Two…
One…GO.
John kicked in the door first, MP5K held up in a ready stance as he “scanned his lane”. No sign of anyone yet. He scanned the interior with his weapon and quickly sidestepped to the right of the door, allowing Natasha to quickly step in, weapon raised to his left. The apartment was a studio-type establishment, dimly lit and arranged in a neo-decor fashion. The foyer opened into a living room with a television that was playing a rerun of the latest Bundesliga football game. Neon lights decorated the walls with additional ambient light emanating from the patio window. Beyond was a kitchen with bar and a hall leading to what was presumably the bedroom. Nothing quite seemed out of the ordinary, yet. John gestured forward with his free hand to Natasha, who nodded and quietly shut the door behind them, and then slowly proceeded forward on the left flank while John proceeded on the right. Each took bounding overwatch, with one taking up a position to observe with their weapon and signaling the other to move ahead, watching where they stepped to avoid any tripwires, and back and forth it went…until John stopped when he saw a foot peeking out from behind the bar. He swerved with his weapon around the bar to see a man and woman, apparently in their 30’s lying on the floor. Both stared upward with lifeless eyes, ichor blossoming and beginning to pool on the tiled floor from two shots to each of their chests. Each had pistols, Browning Hi-Powers from the looks of them on their belts, but were holstered. Shattered glass presumably from a pair of drinking glasses lay on the floor by them. Semenov’s guards, looks like they were shot as they were either flirting or getting a snack. He signaled to Natasha, two shooters down here.
Natasha nodded and moved up as John observed from his position. She moved up to a bathroom door and carefully pushed it open…revealing a middle-aged man on the toilet with his pants down, a look of utter surprise on his lifeless face , crimson fluid spilling from a gunshot wound to the head, with an additional spray of ichor and brains decorating the tiled wall. She signaled to John, got another down here.
Goddamitt, John silently cursed. It looked like an inside job, a hit carried out by someone they hadn’t suspected. “OBSERVER, WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM, SOMEONE’S BEEN HERE BEFORE US. WE’VE GOT THREE DOWN HERE IN THE LOFT SO FAR, NO SIGN OF THE PACKAGE YET.”
“COPY HORSEMAN, FINISH YOUR SWEEP, FIND THE PACKAGE AND GET OUT OF THERE.”
John and Natasha shared a look before gesturing in unison down the hall. Both advanced with their weapons raised, to the last door at the end that was presumably the bedroom. They reached the door, each taking to a side of the doorway just like they’d done before, and on the count of three kicked open the door…
Arseny Semenov was laying on his back, nude, staring upward into eternity on a king-size bed in a modestly decorated bedroom. Crimson gore was leaking from a noticeable shot to his forehead that had splattered out behind him and stained his pillow. A slender brunette-haired woman, perhaps no older than in her 20’s, was in a rather compromising position lying face down, head turned and resting on her right check, splayed nude over Semenov. Dark crimson liquid was also pooling from a shot to the rear of her head as well as two to her back.
“Too early to say he at least went out with a bang?” John queried, bringing a glare from Natasha. “I don’t recognize the girl though.”
“Neither do I…probably a local girlfriend, or prostitute. She just happened to be here at the wrong time,” she noted softly.
John grimaced. “OBSERVER, WE FOUND THE PACKAGE. HE’S DOWN, ALONG WITH ONE OTHER UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE. THIS LOOKS LIKE AN INSIDE JOB.”
Both of them could hear a muffled curse on the other end of their receivers. “IT’S A SETUP HORSEMAN, SPIDER, BEGIN YOUR EXFIL NOW.”
“Not yet,” Natasha spoke, as she went to look at the corner right post of the bedframe. It was a traditional steel bedframe with a woven pattern. She knelt down and fumbled with the bottom of the post. “Help me,” she snapped at John.
“NEGATIVE SPIDER, NO TIME, GET OUT OF THERE NOW.”
“REPEAT YOUR LAST TRANSMISSION, OBSERVER? WE’RE GETTING A BIT OF STATIC FEEDBACK, OVER,” She replied dryly, indicating to John to lift the corner of the bed. He did so, shaking his head grunting.
“This better be good Natasha.”
“I always have a reason John, trust me.”
“Yeah…doveryáy, no proveryáy…’Trust, but Verify’, remember?” He growled.
“Then at least trust me now,” she growled back, popping open the bottom of the raised bedpost with a twist and felt inside…only to come away with nothing. “Der'mo,” she hissed. She then leaned over and pulled out the third shelf from top on the nearby dresser and felt underneath....and triumphantly pulled out a manila envelope that she hastily stuffed in the fold of her jacket. She then rose and brought up her MP5K to a ready position. “There’s nothing more we can do here John…after you.” Both exited out of the bedroom and into the hallway…only to see the door on the far end burst open revealing two figures that rushed in, spitting a hail of fire from AKSU-74 carbines with PBS-1 suppressors attached.
“SHIT!” Both John and Natasha dove behind the kitchen counter as staccato bursts of 5.45x39mm rounds lanced out and stitched the walls behind them, ripping apart wood panels and tiles alike. The bursts, while suppressed were still quite audible, more like a rather loud rapid-fire nail gun as steel-cased cartridges were ejected violently across the room, typical for Kalashnikov-style weapons. As the man and woman huddled on the floor by the counter, they soon heard more echoing footsteps, along with several muffled commands and whispers in German. Stasi…and sounds like there’s more than two, fuck. Might as well join the party then. He pulled out a flashbang and looked at Natasha who nodded. He pulled the pin, then gently tossed it underhanded around the corner of the bar before he and Natasha covered their ears and opened their mouths…
The flashbang grenade went off with a deafening BANG of over 170 decibels, plus a blinding flash of over one million candela with a cloud of white acrid smoke that caused the two shooters to cry out and stumble around almost like drunks, moaning in pain from the effects. John and Natasha rose in unison with each snapping off a three-round burst from their MP5K’s, hitting both figures squarely in the chest area, ichor bursting from their chests as they shuddered and dropped like rocks. Both the American and the Russian rose from the counter, moving forward again…only to dive for cover once more behind a couch when another fusillade of suppressed automatic weapons fire erupted, this time ripping into the apartment from the outside hallway through the apartment wall, tearing it apart in a rippling explosion of wood and plaster. Multiple rounds arced like a swarm of angry bees buzzing overhead as they impacted and tore into walls, light fixtures and furniture, kicking up more dust and debris. Roper swore under his breath as he and Natasha gritted their teeth. Well, this sucks.
“HORSEMAN, SPIDER, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THERE?!”
“A little busy right now,” John growled into his mic. As he heard a rush of footsteps the duo peered from the couch to see the snarling face of a man and woman entering the apartment, both with suppressed full-length AK-74 assault rifles sporting 75-round drum magazines, wisps of smoke still curling from the muzzles. Another man was right behind them with a similarly configured AK-74. Both John and Natasha spun away from the couch, each firing off another burst of 9mm rounds that caught the other man and woman in the chest and head, causing a visceral spray of gore that dropped both of them like string puppets. The American and the Russian then fired their weapons as one against the third shooter, ripping his chest apart before he shuddered and fell with his weapon clacking against the floor. The two then cautiously rose, scanning for more targets…there were none at the moment.
A loud commotion behind them caused the two to spin around with their MP5K's...only to see a supply closet had popped open. Out fell what could only be described as a life-sized blowup sex doll...with hints of some sort of residue on it. Wait...is that supposed to be Princess Caroline of Monaco....?
“Let us just forget we saw that," Natasha noted dryly.
"Good idea," John concurred.
"I think this is the part where one would say 'let's get the fuck out of here'," Natasha added.
“Great idea,” John noted with agreement. Both stepped over the fallen bodies of the shooters and advanced to the doorway. Each of them reloaded their MP5K’s, then paused a moment before the two advanced out, Natasha going left and John going right, each of them covering both ends of the hallway. No other shooters were present yet. Natasha keyed her mic. “OBSERVER, THIS IS SPIDER. HORSEMAN AND MYSELF JUST RAN INTO TROUBLE. FIVE SHOOTERS DOWN, HEADING FOR EXTRACTION NOW.”
“COPY THAT SPIDER, EXTRACTION TEAM IS WAITING IN THE ALLEY, NO SIGN OF ANY POLICE YET BUT EXPECT MORE GUESTS, OUT.”
“Didn’t I tell you a date with me would always be exciting?” Natasha demurred as they carefully made their way to the stairwell.
“Ever since goddamn Rio de Janeiro, sure,” John muttered.
“I rather liked Rio de Janeiro, we should go back there sometime, see more of the city, especially during Carnival…without the shooting, stabbings and explosions that is.”
“I might hold you to that…especially if you wear that green sequined two-piece bikini again.”
Both made their way to the stairwell and cautiously peered over, only to narrowly pull away and dodge a burst of fire from a suppressed Vz. 61 Skorpion machine pistol that buzzed and ripped into the staircase around them. The fire came from another shooter, a dark-haired man in casual street clothes. The shooter ran back down the stairs, shouting into a handheld radio. “Sie sind hier! Sie sind hier!”
Both John and Natasha gave each other a look, sighing in unison before they made their way down the stairs. The shooter had apparently gone on ahead as there was no sign of him on the second floor. Probably alerting his friends down in the club right now…great. The music became louder again as they descended the last flight of stairs…only to see the shooter and the Girl with Bangs along with Mullet Man. The man shouted and gestured to the American and Russian descending the stairs…bringing Mullet Man and his girlfriend to pull out Browning Hi-Power pistols from hidden holsters to bear on the duo.
Fuck, here we go. John instantly crouched and brought up his MP5K and switched to semi-auto, letting off two shots that nailed Mullet Man in the chest and sent him falling backwards with blood spurting from his chest, while Natasha leaned and fired over John’s shoulder with two shots center mass into the Girl with Bangs, dropping her. Talk to Herr Heckler and Herr Koch, assholes. Unfortunately, the aforementioned shooter who, along with the two now very dead man and woman who fell backwards onto the floor caught the attention of nearly everyone else in the club who stared momentarily…before proceeding to scream and panic en masse.
Not all the club goers panicked…several more men and women in the club pulled out various weapons from hiding spots to train on the man and woman, starting with the nearby bartender who pulled out another AK-74.
“SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT!” Both John and Natasha jumped and flew over the stairwell balcony to narrowly avoid a hail of gunfire from several weapons that ripped into the stairwell wall, landing rather unceremoniously onto a couch that had been previously occupied by several teenage girls who ran screaming, like most everyone else in the club who were now panicking and running for the nearest exits. Meanwhile the various shooters converged on John and Natasha, led by the bartender with his AK-74 held at the ready. Overhead, the speakers were playing the tune of New Order’s “Blue Monday”. It felt surreal, to say the least.
John rose and seeing that he didn’t have a clear shot with everyone running about, did something he admitted might have bene stupid…he charged headfirst into the AK-74 wielding bartender, tackling and shoving him hard onto the ground. The two wrestled on the ground while Natasha dropped another shooter with two shots from her MP5K before another blindsided her and the two went hand to hand, trading jabs and kicks. On the ground, Roper, grunted as he fought for control of the rifle with the bartender, before he spied a nearby bottle and grabbed it, swinging it onto the bartender’s head and smashing it, glass spraying everywhere and bringing a cry of rage from the bartender as bits of glass got into his eyes. He didn’t cry for much longer before John shoved the sharp end of the broken bottle into the bartender’s throat, bringing a gurgle of blood before the burly man struggled, then sagged and stared off into eternity.
The American pushed away from the corpse to see Natasha deliver a kick to the man she’d been trading blows with, before leaping and performing a scissor-takedown, wrapping her long legs around the man’s neck and vaunting him headfirst into the ground. One side effect though, was for Natasha's blonde wig to fall away completely, inadvertently letting her scarlet hair run free and loose. The Russian beauty then rose, growled and with a sharp jerk of her thighs that held the man’s neck, snapped it.
John was very appreciative that Natasha Romanoff did indeed have very nice legs.
Both were also very appreciative of the fact that beyond the din of screams of panicked club-goers, the music of New Order, and other chaos, one could also begin to faintly hear the din of police sirens.
Natasha was the first on her feet. “Come on!” she barked as she led John through the crowd of panicking young adults. The remaining shooters for their part had apparently gotten the same hint and were now nowhere to be seen. It was indeed high time to get out of Dodge, fast. They made their way to the back, shoving past other adults, past the kitchen full of panicked cooks who were shouting and huddling in fear, to the back and finally out of the club and into the alleyway. Suddenly a gray Mercedes van pulled up and the side door slid out, revealing two grim-faced men with MP5 submachine guns. One of them, a fellow with a mullet hairdo of brown hair and a matching mustache, aimed his weapon along with another man who had the appearance of one who had spent quite a bit of time out on the ocean. John instantly recognized both men. “Wary Race!” The first man shouted with a noticeable Virginia Tidewater accent.
“Quick Flash!” Natasha countersigned.
Both men nodded. “Right, lovely, now get your arses in the bloody lorry!” the second man shouted with a London accent. No more questions were asked as everyone piled into the van. Special Force Detachment Berlin and Special Air Service…shit, guess I’m gonna owe both Fort Bragg AND Hereford another keg, again, Roper mused as the door was slammed shut and the van pulled out of the alleyway and onto another street away from Red Square, as several polizei cars with flashing lights and wailing sirens could be heard pulling in. Soon, the van was out onto another street and well on its way into the night.
“Well, that was a wash…and a clusterfuck,” John muttered. The other occupants of the van shook their heads but said nothing.
“Yes…but it wasn’t all for nothing, John,” Natasha spoke assuredly.
“Oh? Wanna fill me in?”
“Yes…you remember we checked that bedpost in Semenov’s bedroom?” John nodded. “There was important notes that Semenov claimed he had that I instructed him to stuff in that bedpost. I also instructed him to tell no one of its exact location…other than the courier who delivered his message requesting to defect. Of course, when we found nothing inside that specific hiding spot, it told me what I needed to know.”
“The courier tipped off KGB, or Stasi?”
Natasha nodded sagely. “Yes, she’s been suspected in the disappearance of a few other Soviets and East Germans who had wished to defect. As we speak, she is being picked up now by some friends of ours for a rather extensive discussion. It’s why you were brought along John.” Natasha leaned over and offered a ghost of a smile that was yet genuine. “I needed someone I could trust.”
John offered a ghost of a smile in return. “Trust, but verify.”
Natasha nodded wordlessly and leaned back, before pulling out the manila envelope that was still stowed in her jacket. "Of course, I also told Semenov to store this under the dresser drawer and tell no one...and I wonder what we have here." She fished out what appeared to be a series of photos and began looking them over...then frowned. "John....have a look at these."
John took the photos and studied them as the van trundled on along the autobahn....then began sharing the same expression as Natasha. "'Tasha, they're all kids and teenagers, was Semenov a damn pedo....wait, I recognize some of them." He flipped the photos and saw several notes scribbled hastily in Cyrillic on the back of each...but what really caught his attention was what was written in larger letters on the back of several of the photos.
"Hawkins..."
Natasha looked at John....a tone of worry and suspicion creeping into her accent. "John....the Hawkins, Indiana '84 Incident?"
John stared at the photos again momentarily...and noticed that the pictures of two girls in particular were particularly highlighted with circles in red ink before handing them back to Natasha, who stuffed them quickly back into the manila envelope. He remembered the case he'd been quietly assigned to before all the bad business with the October '86 coup went down...and to find this again left an uneasy feeling in his gut. "We're gonna have a long talk with Ryan back in London. What the hell did Semenov dig up?"
Little else was said as the Mercedes van and it’s occupants sped along into the Berlin night toward Gatow Airport.
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If you wish to read the parallel events described in the story, you can read that here: https://www.the-sietch.com/index.php?threads/world-war-iii-1988-aka-the-war-of-88.680/
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Stranger Things: 1988
Prologue: "West Berlin, 1987"
Friedrichstrasse, West Berlin
Federal Republic of Germany
May 29, 1987
West Berlin, one half of a city that was a bastion of Western civilization within the East German DDR, was teeming with life, a bit cool, and wet, even in late May. Especially wet. To John Roper, who was hardly a stranger to Berlin, East or West, he wished he was there under happier circumstances…
It was another busy evening in West Berlin tonight. Beneath the towering architecture of glass and steel, gray and black stone granite, the streets were slick with a sheen of rainwater that mirrored the streetlights that illuminated the avenue of Freidrichstrasse. The typical pedestrians, old and young alike, hurried along about their own business under the night sky, which thankfully had just turned to a slight drizzle from a more recent downpour. At a street corner, John Roper, who for all the world looked like any of the other pedestrians seen around the city, was quietly observing the comings and goings of everyone as he munched on a serving of kartoffelpuffer und apfelmus, potato pancakes with a side of applesauce on a paper tray he’d bought from the neighboring food kiosk. He was dressed in a rather nondescriptive long-sleeved shirt and matching trousers, over which was a long charcoal-gray duster. His modest head of hair, typically salt and pepper in tone had been dyed a dark blonde. A five-o’clock shadow of stubble decorated his somewhat tanned complexion and square-jawed face, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that he'd bought for appearances sake perched on his nose that framed steel-grey eyes.
Not bad, he thought, as he dipped another piece of fried potato pancake in the applesauce and bit into it, though it’s not as good as Wolfgang’s. I imagine he’s still puttering around in his blue Mercedes van selling food to the BAOR. To his left he spied two older middle-aged men, appropriately dressed for the damp evening, one was reading the latest copy of Der Welt, while the other appeared to be enmeshed in the late edition of Süddeutsche Zeitung. Both newspapers blared the headline of the shootdown of one Mathias Rust, who had foolishly attempted to fly a Cessna into Soviet airspace from Finland in some bizarre attempt to “create a bridge to the East” according to his family. The Soviet Air Defense Forces, or PVO had replied in kind with two SA-5 SAM’s that had blown the aircraft and its pilot apart. I doubt they’ll find anything left of the poor bastard, he mused, he’s probably scattered over three oblasts. Some unpleasant comparisons were already getting drawn between it and the shootdown of South Korean airline KAL 007 back in ’83, or at least some of the protesters that had tried to scale the fence of the Soviet Embassy in Bonn had shouted as much before getting arrested by the stadtpolizie. It was yet another chapter in the latest bout of insanity that the world had been experiencing ever since the ’86 October Coup that had deposed Gorbachev....if one could call getting executed via firing squad that.
I actually like working back in Europe again, John thought to himself. He was the sort that was often tasked with assignments that tended to be of the "hush hush" nature, though that was also, more often than he liked, intermingled with certain operations that involved "things that go bump in the night." John shook his head. There were many nasty things out there in the world, but some of them still paled in comparison to crossing swords with Ivan either in the shadows of Europe or in some Third World shithole like Afghanistan, like in '83. Kandahar. The hand that held another piece of fried potato stopped momentarily and began to shake....before John shut his eyes, and let out a breath, and the unsteadiness of his hand receded. No....don't go there. Forget fucking Afghanistan. It's over...move on.
For John, a present employee of what was often referred to simply as “The Company”, it had been a rather busy year so far. He’d spent an extended “working vacation” down in Mexico and elsewhere earlier that year with all the shenanigans going on, only for yet another coup to go down in March, this time in Indonesia. The local media had blared images of Suharto along with a number of his aides getting executed rather unceremoniously by firing squad, with the “People’s Revolutionary Council of Indonesia” now declaring full control. The cherry on top was the Soviet merchant convoy with a surface warship escort that had docked in Jakarta later that month, laden with military hardware that had the Australians and New Zealand screaming murder. It was yet another disaster that had the Reagan Administration screaming at the Company to take a more aggressive approach and find out what the Soviets were up to. Rumors were running rife about what just was actually going on in the U.S.S.R. ever since most of the intel-gathering network within had either been forced to exfiltrate or had been rolled up by KGB and MVD forces during the coup. Just about everyone from the Americans and British, to the French and the Israelis had redoubled their efforts to try to rebuild a new network behind the Iron Curtain and find out what was going on…which partly led to why John Roper, member of the C.I.A.’s Special Activities Division, or SAD, was there tonight.
It had just been a few days ago apparently that a “business partner” of John’s within the Company, a fairly adventurous analyst of all things by the name of Jack Ryan, had received a coded message via a courier in regards to one Arseny Semenov, who had met Ryan more than once at a few host embassy functions before the coup. Semenov was in an official capacity a cultural attaché with the Soviet embassy in Bonn, but often spent his time in West Berlin fraternizing with the youth of the city at various coffee houses and discotheques. He was the son of a high party official within the Politburo who had emerged from the coup along with Semenov relatively unscathed. Of course, like most Soviet cultural attaches Semenov was also a member of the KGB, and had been seen fairly often in the company of the more leftist-minded youth of West Germany, with at least a few suspect connections to individuals involved with the Baader-Meinhof Group. In regards to this particular man however, he had not been considered as high on the list of persons of interest to the Western intelligence agencies, at least until now.
The message had been translated, and was summarized as “Get me the hell out of here and to London, and I’ll spill everything I know.”
And so, John Roper, who had been reassigned to CIA Station London with Ryan, had been ushered into a meeting in the “tank” at Grosvenor Square, where he had been given the briefing by both Jack Ryan and another fellow from MI6, Kenneth Aubrey. Both the CIA and MI6 concurred that Semenov was very much both a political survivalist as well as careerist, and wasn’t held in the highest regard, but he was still deemed as loyal to the Soviet Union, even after the coup. If he was now begging to defect, either it was a setup, Semenov or his father had done something to royally piss off the Politburo, or Semenov had stumbled upon something that had scared the hell out of him. And thus, a rather hasty joint operation between the CIA and MI6 was set up. Two agents would make contact with Semenov in a private loft he was known to frequent above a local discotheque in West Berlin, escort him to a waiting vehicle transport, and drive him to Gatow airport where a private jet chartered by the UK would fly him directly to Heathrow airport. It all seemed rather simple…or so it was hoped.
John had grimaced at all this...he was getting a bad feeling about getting a briefing for an op from a man like Ryan who had been involved in a rather bold affair involving a defecting Soviet submarine captain and his prototype sub back in ‘83, or from an MI6 associate like Kenneth Aubrey who seemed to be jockeying for the same dubious prize by organizing the covert theft of one of the Soviet Union’s most advanced warplanes that same year. With everything that went on in ’83, I’m amazed we didn’t go to war then, he mused, before wincing as he thought about Afghanistan again....then pushed it aside. Still, why send him to grab some low-level KGB spook in West Berlin? It would’ve made more sense to have Special Force Detachment Berlin handle this themselves, but I heard they’ve got their hands full with a dozen other things since the October Coup, plus something related to Reagan’s upcoming visit to the city. Still, something’s not right. John hated that feeling…it was the same feeling he’d gotten once before in Istanbul as he’d tangled with the infamous KGB duo known as the “Hawk and Sparrow”. What a hot mess that was…and there they were again in Veracruz during that debacle. I get the feeling I haven’t seen the last of those two…
And so here he was in a city that had a well-deserved reputation of being a virtual playground for espionage and agents of all stripes, standing at a street corner on Friedrichstrasse, appearing for all the world as just another pedestrian enjoying some local street food just several blocks from the infamous Berlin Wall crossing known as “Checkpoint Charlie”. There was little traffic crossing the checkpoint these days, with a far more noticeable presence of armed guards from the “Berlin Brigade”, some of them in full “battle rattle” who were observing the Eastern side of the crossing from sandbagged positions. Backing them up were two M113A3 armored personnel carriers armed with TOW ATGM’s and M2 .50 cal. Machine guns that were also facing East. The East Germans had responded in kind with an increased presence of the ever infamous Grentzruppen border guards with AK-74 rifles visibly prominent, as well as two D-944 PSZH armored personnel carriers sporting 14.5mm KPV machine guns. At least it’s not as bad as the Berlin Crisis in ’61…yet, he thought.
Across the street from the kiosk, many colorfully dressed German youth were gathered outside, chatting amiably and smoking cigarettes in front of a discotheque from which inside the music could be faintly heard blaring out into the cool evening. Above the façade of the club hung a glowing red neon sign that was labeled Rotes Quadrat…Red Square. Whoever came up with that name must have a real bizarre sense of humor, Roper mused, I’m sure these kid’s parents didn’t have such fond memories of the Soviets back in ’45. Still, it was John’s target, and he’d quietly been observing the place for the last fifteen minutes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…yet. And now it was just a matter of waiting for his source to show up to provide a discreet way to get in without too much attention. He’d packed appropriately…a Glock 19 9mm pistol along with several 15-round magazines hidden in a quickdraw back holster on his belt, along with an ankle holster that held a backup Walther PPK in .380, and a few concealable blades that were on his person. He was a longtime aficionado of the 1911 pistol, but had quickly come to appreciate Austrian engineering with the Glock series of handguns that had exploded on the market.
His wait appeared to finally end when a tan-colored Volkswagen Derby automobile sidled up to the curb just down the street, and parked. A man of medium height and build, with a knitted cap and jacket got out of the car and proceeded to pop open the hood of the car. He fished a flashlight out of his jacket pocket, switched it on…then it appeared to switch off and on, twice as he shook it as though he were having an issue with it. It switched off and on again, twice before he began peering under the hood.
That’s the cue, let’s get this show on the road. John finished the last crumb from his paper tray, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and tossed it aside into a trashcan before proceeding to walk at a relaxed pace down the street, weaving between pedestrians toward the parked Volkswagen car and its driver who continued to pore over the engine. As he drew closer, he could hear the man muttering with a noticeable British accent, “Bunch’a rubbish, this is. Fine German engineering, my arse.” Sounds like he might be from Manchester, or around the area.
“Guten Abend, mein herr. Gibt es ein problem mit ihrem auto?” Roper inquired nonchalantly with what would have passed as a typical inner-Berlin accent.
The man turned from his engine, tufts of reddish hair peeking out from under his knitted cap that matched the mustache on his somewhat youthful features, regarding John with hazel eyes that appeared to study him carefully. “Sorry mate, but I’m afraid I don’t speak much German, I’m not from ‘round ‘ere. Just another tourist, I am.” He looked overall like the sort of nondescript man anyone would forget if they didn’t know better. Probably MI6, John thought.
“Ah, my apologies, I do speak English as well. You are having trouble with your automobile, yes?” John inquired with that faux Berlin accent he’d used more often than he’d cared to remember…which had also gotten him out of a jam more than once.
“Aye, this bloody auto has been squealing like a pig off and on since I started putterin’ about wit’it this mornin’. Blasted thing,” he growled as he turned back to look over the engine again with his flashlight.
“Ah, I’m afraid I do not know much about automobiles good sir. But by chance, would you happen to be able to recommend any good clubs around here? I am hoping to be a bit, ah, lucky tonight.”
The English fellow turned to regard Roper again incredulously. “You’re askin’ me about clubs around ‘ere? Well, I’d say you should try your luck with that one right across the street there…the Red Square, they call it,” gesturing to the discotheque across the street with his flashlight. “Just be mindful of the locals in there…they’re young and tend to be a bit more of the Karl Marx persuasion, if you get my meaning.” He fished a small card with a bit of handwriting stenciled on it out of his pocket, then deftly passed the card underhand to John who quickly pocketed it. It was a VIP pass for Red Square, with a signature of what was presumably the club’s owner on it. “I’d suggest the VIP entrance ‘round the back, if you’re truly feeling lucky. Then again, I think you’d have better luck in Vienna, mate,” he said, seeming to quickly repress a chuckle before turning back to the car.
John grimaced slightly at that. MI6 is still snickering about Vienna? Go figure. “Danke schoen, I appreciate the kindness,” he muttered, before whispering under his breath, “Jackass”.
“Wanker,” the Englishman muttered, not looking up from the engine.
Roper turned away and walked just a little further down to a crosswalk by an intersection and waited for the signal to turn green. He fished out a butane lighter from one pocket of his jacket, in the process deftly thumbing the switch that activated the throat mic that was woven into the collar of the shirt he wore, along with the hidden miniature receiver that he wore in his left ear. With his other hand he pulled out a pack of a local brand of cigarettes and inserted one in his mouth, then cupped his hands and flipped the wick, acting as though trying to light it.
“Observer, Spider, this is Horseman, made contact with the vendor, got what I needed from the concession stand. Making my way toward the club now,” he whispered under his breath as he finally lit the cigarette and proceed to puff, trying not to grimace. Dominican-made cigars were much more his personal poison, along with a good bourbon or whiskey.
A moment passed before a somewhat scratchy, yet clear response could be heard through the receiver in his ear that was clipped, professional and American in tone. “AFFIRMATIVE HORSEMAN, THIS IS OBSERVER, PACKAGE RETRIEVAL REMAINS A GO. SPIDER, ARE YOU IN POSITION?”
Another voice came over the receiver…and this was one, in spite of the faint static feedback, was a voice that John immediately recognized, a lilting female Russian-accented voice that was unmistakable. “AFFIRMATIVE OBSERVER, I’M IN POSITION. THE PARTY IS ON THE THIRD FLOOR, WITH THE PACKAGE. HORSEMAN, MAKE YOUR WAY HERE AS QUICKLY AS YOU CAN, I’VE OBSERVED NOTHING UNUSUAL YET, BUT I’M EXPECTING TROUBLE. I’LL MEET YOU ON THE STAIRWAY AT THE BACK OF THE CLUB.”
Shit, if SHE of all people is here, something’s definitely up, John thought. But there was no time to dawdle. He quickly hurried across the street once the signal turned green and city traffic halted momentarily at the intersection. He walked a bit further, then turning down into a narrow, not-so-well lit alley that skirted the discotheque. His footsteps echoed through the alleyway as he kept his head on a swivel, staying alert for a potential ambush. Discarded wooden pallets, dumpsters full of trash and graffiti lined the alleyway as he made his way toward a door set in the rear of the club building that was illuminated by a single yellow sodium lamp. By the door stood a rather burly, balding man with a bored expression that indicated he’d rather be inside enjoying himself rather than guarding a door. Roper continued to casually smoke his cigarette as he idled toward the bouncer, who regarded him warily. The American carefully fished the card out of his jacket pocket, noticing the tense expression on the bouncer’s face. Looks like he might be former military by the way he carries himself, emphasis former. Still, that bulge he’s got under the left breast of his jacket is obvious enough. He flashed a casual smile and showed the VIP card to the bouncer who warily took it, along with the 50 Deutsche Mark bill folded with it.
“Arseny hat nach mir geschickt,” John spoke again with his faux Berlin accent as he continued to casually smoke his cigarette. The bouncer looked the American from top to bottom with a rather skeptical expression…before handing back the card, minus the 50 Deutsche Mark and unlocked it, gesturing him to go inside wordlessly and rather impatiently. The pounding music of the club gushed out of the club from the doorway like a flood. John quickly walked inside as the bouncer unceremoniously locked the door behind him.
The agent took a moment to regain his senses in the dimly lit hallway before him. The music continued to pound in the air that was heavily laden with the cocktail scent of harsh cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, perfume, and body odor. Along the hallway were lined several youthful couples who seemed far more enmeshed with each other than anything else, heads nodding slightly to the music that continued to blare. John carefully weaved his way through them, passing by a busy kitchen that was alive with the sound of shouted orders and clinking kitchenware. Finally, after passing through another set of doors, he found himself in the main dance room of Red Square.
The music in the large space vibrated through every inch of matter in the club, the melodic beats of Depeche Mode’s “Strangelove” thundering through speakers throughout the area. Kaleidoscopic lights strobed throughout in an epileptic manner. On one side, was a lounge area consisting of several tables, chairs and couches that sat numerous lounge lizards, prospective dates and groupies. In the middle was an immense dance floor upon which numerous couples writhed and danced to the music. On the other side was an immense sound system setup that was attended to by a DJ. On the walls throughout the Red Square was various portraits of Karl Marx and other Socialist figures, and paraphernalia proclaiming “Power to the Proletariat” and “Down with Western Imperialism”.
Fucking wannabes, John mentally snorted in derision. Charging admission for a “socialist” club, how very capitalistic. Still, he needed to stay on task, and saw where he needed to go…a stairwell on the far end of the lounge area. He tossed his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, ignoring a curse from some youths as he weaved through the lounge toward the stairwell. At the foot was a man and a woman, the man sporting a typical mullet haircut while the woman wore bangs. Both were decked out in haute leather as they also seemed to gyrate to the music and each other…until the man turned at the woman’s gesture when she saw Roper approaching them. Both stepped in front of the stairwell blocking his way.
“Mal ganz langsam hier. Warum so in Eile?” The mullet man made a “talk to the hand” gesture to Roper’s face, indicating nothing got past without his permission.
John for his part had the mind to break Mullet Man’s arm and shove it in The Girls with Bangs face, but knew for the sake of the operation he had to act subtle. Both appeared very wry and fit, and were constantly scanning him top to bottom, sizing him up. The couple had their hands intertwined behind each other’s back, though Roper had a nagging feeling their hands were resting on pistols ready to draw…so Roper assumed the role of “Max Kohler”, a West Berlin resident and art gallery owner who was also an informant for Arseny Semenov.
“Arseny hat mich angefördert. Mein Name ist Max. Ich besitze eine Kunstgallerie; Arseny hatte Interesse gezeigt, eines meiner Picasso zu kaufen.” Roper hoped they took the bait, and that the sign/countersign was correct. Arseny sent for me. The name's Max, I own an art galleria, Arseny was interested in purchasing a Picasso.
Mullet Man appeared to give Roper a nonplussed look. “Oh? Ich wusste nicht, dass Arseny sich für solche spießbürgerliche Kunst interessiet.” Oh? I didn't think Arseny was into such bourgeious art.
“Ja! Tatsächlich hat er sich auch an einem Rembrandt Interesse gezeigt,” Roper replied patiently. Yes! In fact, he was also interested in a Rembrandt.
At this, the man and woman seemed to relax, if just a little. The man appeared to brighten his expression slightly. “Ach, wirklich? Arseny wartet oben, in der zweitem Etage, zweite Tür auf der rechten Seite.” Oh really? Arseny is waiting for you upstairs, third floor, second door on the right.
John gestured upstairs casually. “Dann passt alles?”
“Alles passt,” the Mullet Man replied as he moved back to his spot with the Girl with Bangs by the wall, waving him past dismissively as they went back to gyrating to the constant flow of music in the club.
John gave the two an aside glance as he started to ascend the soot-stained concrete stairs, before looking upwards to the steel-bannister lined stairwell ahead of him. Wonder if they’re gonna be a problem on the way back, he pondered. Still, one bridge at a time, let’s see if our itsy-bitsy Spider is hanging around. The music echoed along the granite walls of the stairwell, while the faint scent of mildew with the not-so-pleasant faint odor of piss and vomit reached his nose. As he climbed and turned one flight of stairs and reached the second floor, he saw who he was looking for.
The woman was leaning easily against the doorway leading to the second-floor hallway, casually smoking a cigarette. She was clad in a stylish blue halter top that showed off her impressive bust and toned midriff underneath an equally stylish leather jacket, with a matching miniskirt that showed off perfectly toned long legs encased in black hosiery and leather calf boots. Her fine porcelain features that were just a touch of exotic was framed by silky blonde hair, her blue eyes twinkling as she spied the gentleman approaching him.
“Well, hello there, handsome…and where might you be off to this fine evening?” She purred in a lyrical British-accented voice, sensuously blowing a puff of smoke off to her side.
John made an innocent gesture of holding up empty hands, though he had to admit the sight of this woman was always a pleasant surprise. “Ich spreche keine Englisch,” he offered casually.
The woman smiled wickedly and gently blew another puff as she idled up to him, the cigarette smoke contrasting the scent of a rather enticing perfume that tickled John’s nose, something he thought was French or Italian in origin. She brought up a slender hand and brought it to his chest, bringing a sharp intake of breath in spite of himself, and an even wider smile from the woman. “Don’t worry love…I can see you’re rather alone tonight, and it just so happens I’m very well versed in another sort of language as well.” She eyed the janitor’s closet, wriggling her well-manicured eyebrows suggestively. Roper in turn indicated the closet with questioning gesture…which brought a wide grin to the woman’s gorgeous face before she pulled him in.
The closet was narrow, slightly claustrophic, and smelled of old cleaning chemicals and mildew, and was lit by a single lightbulb. Roper turned and, seeing the door could be locked from the inside, did so and turned to face the woman who now regarded him with a more casual look, one hand resting on her slim hips. “Ty takoy draznish', Natasha.” He gestured at a stray lock of blonde hair. “Like the wig, by the way. Doesn't do your red mane justice."
Natasha Romanoff, ex-KGB agent and now turncoat, the infamous Black Widow herself, shrugged in a nonchalant fashion. “It was the best I could get on such short notice, John…at least you didn’t trip over yourself getting here,” she replied in her normal Russian-accented lyrical voice, now more businesslike as she pulled out a nondescript gray gym bag from a lower shelf in the closet. “So…shall we do this?”
“With you? Anytime, snookums.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow again before unzipping the bag. “I brought protection.” Inside were two Heckler and Koch MP5K 9mm submachine guns, with attached one-point shoulder slings, two specially designed shoulder rigs with pouches for spare magazines, two threaded suppressors, eight 30-round 9mm magazines, four German DM-51 grenades set to the “offensive” concussive configuration with the fragmentation jackets removed, and four “flashbang” stun grenades.
John nodded his head in appreciation. “Awww, you shouldn’t have.” The two then quickly doffed their jackets and proceeded to gear up. As they did so, John gave Natasha a querying look. “So…anything else to report? How much trouble you think we’re expecting?”
Natasha picked up two of the magazines and did a quick inspection before sliding them into the pouches on her shoulder rig. “Nothing else I’ve seen besides the usual, yet, but I expect my old ‘friends’ probably suspect that Arseny now wishes to seek different employment…and will be sending some friends to convince him otherwise. I think Stasi, perhaps from Hauptabteilung Zwölf…they are of that particular mind after all, little lapdogs they are.” She picked up two DM-51 grenades and two flashbangs and attached them to her rig and belt.
“Or KGB Vympel,” John muttered, doing a quick safety check on his MP5K and pulled back the charging handle, checking the operation and ensuring the chamber was clear, before he inserted a 9mm magazine and ensured it clicked before charging the cocking handle with a distinct metallic CLACK. He then regarded Natasha with a more serious expression. “’Tasha…I know we've been through this rodeo plenty times before, but if this gets ugly, and you’re not comfortable with this…”
Natasha’s face, once flirtish and sensuous, was now one of cold stone. “No John…far too late for that now, I made my choice long ago, remember?” Her voice was now a bit more hushed. “To them, I am now not just a traitor to the Motherland…I am worse.”
“Yeah…well, I know you had a bunch of shitty choices and no good ones. I confess I have to give credit to Fury and ‘Cap’, of course, they did what they could.”
“Yes, I have chosen my own path now, thanks to them,” she noted softly, then gave a slight smile to John…a slight one of course, but it was enough to illuminate her face again. “And I have you to thank as well.” She gestured to herself, now all fully kitted up. She rose and did a check on her own MP5K and loaded it, then safed it and tucked it under her jacket on her rig. “Shall we go?”
John nodded and did one last check himself. “Once more unto the breach, dear friend.” With that, both stepped back out into the hallway and proceeded to climb the stairwell to the third floor.
“OBSERVER, THIS IS HORSEMAN, MADE CONTACT WITH SPIDER, HEADING TO THE LOFT.”
“AFFIRMATIVE HORSEMAN, LET’S WRAP THIS UP AS QUICKLY AS WE CAN, EXTRACTION TEAM IS STANDING BY.”
“So, how is ‘Cap’ and Fury doing? Waging mayhem in the name of the flag, mom and apple pie?” John queried as the two climbed the stairs.
“They said they knew you’d ask that, and said to ask how your many ‘lady friends’ are doing…Sadie and that other woman, Lorraine I believe is her name, among them…?” Natasha replied with a lilt.
“Oh, just keeping our ends up, and all that,” he replied casually. "Though last I heard Sadie’s busy with something in Italy, again...just hope it's not another repeat of Rome. As for Lorraine…she just barely got away from the Stasi by the skin of her teeth." The two made a quick look around as they reached the third floor. The hallway was somewhat lit, as a few of the hallway light fixtures had begun to flicker or go out. Worn red carpet led down the hallway to the end by a window from which the ambient light from a neon sign spilled inward. The music from the club still thundered from below, echoing off the granite walls. There was no one in sight. Both saw their destination, the second door down the hallway on the right. No point in waiting then. John took the lead with Natasha right behind him, the Russian watching their six as John sidled up to the door and knocked thrice, careful to keep himself to the side of the doorway in case someone decided to reply with an automatic weapon burst.
“Arseny? Ich bin es, Max. Ich bin hier, um den Kunstkauf zu besprechen.” There was no reply. John knocked again…and received no response. He leaned in slightly, listened…other than a muffled sound that seemed to be like a television or stereo playing, there was nothing else. Not good. John looked at Natasha, who nodded and quietly moved to the other side of the door. Both of them pulled out their MP5K’s and screwed on the suppressors.
Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way then. He reached out and tested the doorknob with his free hand….it opened without a hitch. There was still was no sound other than the usual ambience. Definitely NOT good. He pushed the door carefully about an inch, and looked at Natasha, who looked at the crack in the door jam up and down before giving a thumbs-up. No sign of a tripwire, okay then… The Russian and the American looked at each other, and John held up a hand and mouthed “On me, at my mark.” The Russian woman nodded before John counted down with his hand.
Three…
Two…
One…GO.
John kicked in the door first, MP5K held up in a ready stance as he “scanned his lane”. No sign of anyone yet. He scanned the interior with his weapon and quickly sidestepped to the right of the door, allowing Natasha to quickly step in, weapon raised to his left. The apartment was a studio-type establishment, dimly lit and arranged in a neo-decor fashion. The foyer opened into a living room with a television that was playing a rerun of the latest Bundesliga football game. Neon lights decorated the walls with additional ambient light emanating from the patio window. Beyond was a kitchen with bar and a hall leading to what was presumably the bedroom. Nothing quite seemed out of the ordinary, yet. John gestured forward with his free hand to Natasha, who nodded and quietly shut the door behind them, and then slowly proceeded forward on the left flank while John proceeded on the right. Each took bounding overwatch, with one taking up a position to observe with their weapon and signaling the other to move ahead, watching where they stepped to avoid any tripwires, and back and forth it went…until John stopped when he saw a foot peeking out from behind the bar. He swerved with his weapon around the bar to see a man and woman, apparently in their 30’s lying on the floor. Both stared upward with lifeless eyes, ichor blossoming and beginning to pool on the tiled floor from two shots to each of their chests. Each had pistols, Browning Hi-Powers from the looks of them on their belts, but were holstered. Shattered glass presumably from a pair of drinking glasses lay on the floor by them. Semenov’s guards, looks like they were shot as they were either flirting or getting a snack. He signaled to Natasha, two shooters down here.
Natasha nodded and moved up as John observed from his position. She moved up to a bathroom door and carefully pushed it open…revealing a middle-aged man on the toilet with his pants down, a look of utter surprise on his lifeless face , crimson fluid spilling from a gunshot wound to the head, with an additional spray of ichor and brains decorating the tiled wall. She signaled to John, got another down here.
Goddamitt, John silently cursed. It looked like an inside job, a hit carried out by someone they hadn’t suspected. “OBSERVER, WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM, SOMEONE’S BEEN HERE BEFORE US. WE’VE GOT THREE DOWN HERE IN THE LOFT SO FAR, NO SIGN OF THE PACKAGE YET.”
“COPY HORSEMAN, FINISH YOUR SWEEP, FIND THE PACKAGE AND GET OUT OF THERE.”
John and Natasha shared a look before gesturing in unison down the hall. Both advanced with their weapons raised, to the last door at the end that was presumably the bedroom. They reached the door, each taking to a side of the doorway just like they’d done before, and on the count of three kicked open the door…
Arseny Semenov was laying on his back, nude, staring upward into eternity on a king-size bed in a modestly decorated bedroom. Crimson gore was leaking from a noticeable shot to his forehead that had splattered out behind him and stained his pillow. A slender brunette-haired woman, perhaps no older than in her 20’s, was in a rather compromising position lying face down, head turned and resting on her right check, splayed nude over Semenov. Dark crimson liquid was also pooling from a shot to the rear of her head as well as two to her back.
“Too early to say he at least went out with a bang?” John queried, bringing a glare from Natasha. “I don’t recognize the girl though.”
“Neither do I…probably a local girlfriend, or prostitute. She just happened to be here at the wrong time,” she noted softly.
John grimaced. “OBSERVER, WE FOUND THE PACKAGE. HE’S DOWN, ALONG WITH ONE OTHER UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE. THIS LOOKS LIKE AN INSIDE JOB.”
Both of them could hear a muffled curse on the other end of their receivers. “IT’S A SETUP HORSEMAN, SPIDER, BEGIN YOUR EXFIL NOW.”
“Not yet,” Natasha spoke, as she went to look at the corner right post of the bedframe. It was a traditional steel bedframe with a woven pattern. She knelt down and fumbled with the bottom of the post. “Help me,” she snapped at John.
“NEGATIVE SPIDER, NO TIME, GET OUT OF THERE NOW.”
“REPEAT YOUR LAST TRANSMISSION, OBSERVER? WE’RE GETTING A BIT OF STATIC FEEDBACK, OVER,” She replied dryly, indicating to John to lift the corner of the bed. He did so, shaking his head grunting.
“This better be good Natasha.”
“I always have a reason John, trust me.”
“Yeah…doveryáy, no proveryáy…’Trust, but Verify’, remember?” He growled.
“Then at least trust me now,” she growled back, popping open the bottom of the raised bedpost with a twist and felt inside…only to come away with nothing. “Der'mo,” she hissed. She then leaned over and pulled out the third shelf from top on the nearby dresser and felt underneath....and triumphantly pulled out a manila envelope that she hastily stuffed in the fold of her jacket. She then rose and brought up her MP5K to a ready position. “There’s nothing more we can do here John…after you.” Both exited out of the bedroom and into the hallway…only to see the door on the far end burst open revealing two figures that rushed in, spitting a hail of fire from AKSU-74 carbines with PBS-1 suppressors attached.
“SHIT!” Both John and Natasha dove behind the kitchen counter as staccato bursts of 5.45x39mm rounds lanced out and stitched the walls behind them, ripping apart wood panels and tiles alike. The bursts, while suppressed were still quite audible, more like a rather loud rapid-fire nail gun as steel-cased cartridges were ejected violently across the room, typical for Kalashnikov-style weapons. As the man and woman huddled on the floor by the counter, they soon heard more echoing footsteps, along with several muffled commands and whispers in German. Stasi…and sounds like there’s more than two, fuck. Might as well join the party then. He pulled out a flashbang and looked at Natasha who nodded. He pulled the pin, then gently tossed it underhanded around the corner of the bar before he and Natasha covered their ears and opened their mouths…
The flashbang grenade went off with a deafening BANG of over 170 decibels, plus a blinding flash of over one million candela with a cloud of white acrid smoke that caused the two shooters to cry out and stumble around almost like drunks, moaning in pain from the effects. John and Natasha rose in unison with each snapping off a three-round burst from their MP5K’s, hitting both figures squarely in the chest area, ichor bursting from their chests as they shuddered and dropped like rocks. Both the American and the Russian rose from the counter, moving forward again…only to dive for cover once more behind a couch when another fusillade of suppressed automatic weapons fire erupted, this time ripping into the apartment from the outside hallway through the apartment wall, tearing it apart in a rippling explosion of wood and plaster. Multiple rounds arced like a swarm of angry bees buzzing overhead as they impacted and tore into walls, light fixtures and furniture, kicking up more dust and debris. Roper swore under his breath as he and Natasha gritted their teeth. Well, this sucks.
“HORSEMAN, SPIDER, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THERE?!”
“A little busy right now,” John growled into his mic. As he heard a rush of footsteps the duo peered from the couch to see the snarling face of a man and woman entering the apartment, both with suppressed full-length AK-74 assault rifles sporting 75-round drum magazines, wisps of smoke still curling from the muzzles. Another man was right behind them with a similarly configured AK-74. Both John and Natasha spun away from the couch, each firing off another burst of 9mm rounds that caught the other man and woman in the chest and head, causing a visceral spray of gore that dropped both of them like string puppets. The American and the Russian then fired their weapons as one against the third shooter, ripping his chest apart before he shuddered and fell with his weapon clacking against the floor. The two then cautiously rose, scanning for more targets…there were none at the moment.
A loud commotion behind them caused the two to spin around with their MP5K's...only to see a supply closet had popped open. Out fell what could only be described as a life-sized blowup sex doll...with hints of some sort of residue on it. Wait...is that supposed to be Princess Caroline of Monaco....?
“Let us just forget we saw that," Natasha noted dryly.
"Good idea," John concurred.
"I think this is the part where one would say 'let's get the fuck out of here'," Natasha added.
“Great idea,” John noted with agreement. Both stepped over the fallen bodies of the shooters and advanced to the doorway. Each of them reloaded their MP5K’s, then paused a moment before the two advanced out, Natasha going left and John going right, each of them covering both ends of the hallway. No other shooters were present yet. Natasha keyed her mic. “OBSERVER, THIS IS SPIDER. HORSEMAN AND MYSELF JUST RAN INTO TROUBLE. FIVE SHOOTERS DOWN, HEADING FOR EXTRACTION NOW.”
“COPY THAT SPIDER, EXTRACTION TEAM IS WAITING IN THE ALLEY, NO SIGN OF ANY POLICE YET BUT EXPECT MORE GUESTS, OUT.”
“Didn’t I tell you a date with me would always be exciting?” Natasha demurred as they carefully made their way to the stairwell.
“Ever since goddamn Rio de Janeiro, sure,” John muttered.
“I rather liked Rio de Janeiro, we should go back there sometime, see more of the city, especially during Carnival…without the shooting, stabbings and explosions that is.”
“I might hold you to that…especially if you wear that green sequined two-piece bikini again.”
Both made their way to the stairwell and cautiously peered over, only to narrowly pull away and dodge a burst of fire from a suppressed Vz. 61 Skorpion machine pistol that buzzed and ripped into the staircase around them. The fire came from another shooter, a dark-haired man in casual street clothes. The shooter ran back down the stairs, shouting into a handheld radio. “Sie sind hier! Sie sind hier!”
Both John and Natasha gave each other a look, sighing in unison before they made their way down the stairs. The shooter had apparently gone on ahead as there was no sign of him on the second floor. Probably alerting his friends down in the club right now…great. The music became louder again as they descended the last flight of stairs…only to see the shooter and the Girl with Bangs along with Mullet Man. The man shouted and gestured to the American and Russian descending the stairs…bringing Mullet Man and his girlfriend to pull out Browning Hi-Power pistols from hidden holsters to bear on the duo.
Fuck, here we go. John instantly crouched and brought up his MP5K and switched to semi-auto, letting off two shots that nailed Mullet Man in the chest and sent him falling backwards with blood spurting from his chest, while Natasha leaned and fired over John’s shoulder with two shots center mass into the Girl with Bangs, dropping her. Talk to Herr Heckler and Herr Koch, assholes. Unfortunately, the aforementioned shooter who, along with the two now very dead man and woman who fell backwards onto the floor caught the attention of nearly everyone else in the club who stared momentarily…before proceeding to scream and panic en masse.
Not all the club goers panicked…several more men and women in the club pulled out various weapons from hiding spots to train on the man and woman, starting with the nearby bartender who pulled out another AK-74.
“SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT!” Both John and Natasha jumped and flew over the stairwell balcony to narrowly avoid a hail of gunfire from several weapons that ripped into the stairwell wall, landing rather unceremoniously onto a couch that had been previously occupied by several teenage girls who ran screaming, like most everyone else in the club who were now panicking and running for the nearest exits. Meanwhile the various shooters converged on John and Natasha, led by the bartender with his AK-74 held at the ready. Overhead, the speakers were playing the tune of New Order’s “Blue Monday”. It felt surreal, to say the least.
John rose and seeing that he didn’t have a clear shot with everyone running about, did something he admitted might have bene stupid…he charged headfirst into the AK-74 wielding bartender, tackling and shoving him hard onto the ground. The two wrestled on the ground while Natasha dropped another shooter with two shots from her MP5K before another blindsided her and the two went hand to hand, trading jabs and kicks. On the ground, Roper, grunted as he fought for control of the rifle with the bartender, before he spied a nearby bottle and grabbed it, swinging it onto the bartender’s head and smashing it, glass spraying everywhere and bringing a cry of rage from the bartender as bits of glass got into his eyes. He didn’t cry for much longer before John shoved the sharp end of the broken bottle into the bartender’s throat, bringing a gurgle of blood before the burly man struggled, then sagged and stared off into eternity.
The American pushed away from the corpse to see Natasha deliver a kick to the man she’d been trading blows with, before leaping and performing a scissor-takedown, wrapping her long legs around the man’s neck and vaunting him headfirst into the ground. One side effect though, was for Natasha's blonde wig to fall away completely, inadvertently letting her scarlet hair run free and loose. The Russian beauty then rose, growled and with a sharp jerk of her thighs that held the man’s neck, snapped it.
John was very appreciative that Natasha Romanoff did indeed have very nice legs.
Both were also very appreciative of the fact that beyond the din of screams of panicked club-goers, the music of New Order, and other chaos, one could also begin to faintly hear the din of police sirens.
Natasha was the first on her feet. “Come on!” she barked as she led John through the crowd of panicking young adults. The remaining shooters for their part had apparently gotten the same hint and were now nowhere to be seen. It was indeed high time to get out of Dodge, fast. They made their way to the back, shoving past other adults, past the kitchen full of panicked cooks who were shouting and huddling in fear, to the back and finally out of the club and into the alleyway. Suddenly a gray Mercedes van pulled up and the side door slid out, revealing two grim-faced men with MP5 submachine guns. One of them, a fellow with a mullet hairdo of brown hair and a matching mustache, aimed his weapon along with another man who had the appearance of one who had spent quite a bit of time out on the ocean. John instantly recognized both men. “Wary Race!” The first man shouted with a noticeable Virginia Tidewater accent.
“Quick Flash!” Natasha countersigned.
Both men nodded. “Right, lovely, now get your arses in the bloody lorry!” the second man shouted with a London accent. No more questions were asked as everyone piled into the van. Special Force Detachment Berlin and Special Air Service…shit, guess I’m gonna owe both Fort Bragg AND Hereford another keg, again, Roper mused as the door was slammed shut and the van pulled out of the alleyway and onto another street away from Red Square, as several polizei cars with flashing lights and wailing sirens could be heard pulling in. Soon, the van was out onto another street and well on its way into the night.
“Well, that was a wash…and a clusterfuck,” John muttered. The other occupants of the van shook their heads but said nothing.
“Yes…but it wasn’t all for nothing, John,” Natasha spoke assuredly.
“Oh? Wanna fill me in?”
“Yes…you remember we checked that bedpost in Semenov’s bedroom?” John nodded. “There was important notes that Semenov claimed he had that I instructed him to stuff in that bedpost. I also instructed him to tell no one of its exact location…other than the courier who delivered his message requesting to defect. Of course, when we found nothing inside that specific hiding spot, it told me what I needed to know.”
“The courier tipped off KGB, or Stasi?”
Natasha nodded sagely. “Yes, she’s been suspected in the disappearance of a few other Soviets and East Germans who had wished to defect. As we speak, she is being picked up now by some friends of ours for a rather extensive discussion. It’s why you were brought along John.” Natasha leaned over and offered a ghost of a smile that was yet genuine. “I needed someone I could trust.”
John offered a ghost of a smile in return. “Trust, but verify.”
Natasha nodded wordlessly and leaned back, before pulling out the manila envelope that was still stowed in her jacket. "Of course, I also told Semenov to store this under the dresser drawer and tell no one...and I wonder what we have here." She fished out what appeared to be a series of photos and began looking them over...then frowned. "John....have a look at these."
John took the photos and studied them as the van trundled on along the autobahn....then began sharing the same expression as Natasha. "'Tasha, they're all kids and teenagers, was Semenov a damn pedo....wait, I recognize some of them." He flipped the photos and saw several notes scribbled hastily in Cyrillic on the back of each...but what really caught his attention was what was written in larger letters on the back of several of the photos.
"Hawkins..."
Natasha looked at John....a tone of worry and suspicion creeping into her accent. "John....the Hawkins, Indiana '84 Incident?"
John stared at the photos again momentarily...and noticed that the pictures of two girls in particular were particularly highlighted with circles in red ink before handing them back to Natasha, who stuffed them quickly back into the manila envelope. He remembered the case he'd been quietly assigned to before all the bad business with the October '86 coup went down...and to find this again left an uneasy feeling in his gut. "We're gonna have a long talk with Ryan back in London. What the hell did Semenov dig up?"
Little else was said as the Mercedes van and it’s occupants sped along into the Berlin night toward Gatow Airport.
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