Mikhail watched the film. He recognized the front view of the fallen spacecraft. NATO forces were moving in. No Soviet soldiers could be seen anywhere. So they didn’t wait for us to arrive after all. All of a sudden, a flurry of bright flashes emerged from the rock formation. Mikhail’s crew collectively gasped as several NATO soldiers were struck. It was like watching men struck by lightning. Bright blue energy erupted with every hit on human targets. The soldiers were being fried alive.
Hand covering his mouth, Mikhail was transfixed on the scenes of carnage unfolding on the screen. Several more NATO soldiers were struck. The fallback began. Flashes of energy zipped past the camera. The retreat was in full swing. Then the film froze—an image of a man caught mid-blast lingering in the final still.
Silence.
For what felt like a minute but had to be much less, no one spoke a word. The Americans were letting what the Soviets had just seen sink in.
Mikhail had been in numerous campaigns. He knew how to survive. But nothing he’d been through compared to what he’d just witnessed. His blue eyes stayed locked on the soldier in the film—a faceless man meeting a horrible death the likes of which Mikhail had never seen before. A knot formed deep in his stomach.
Palmerston’s reverence for the moment lingered for several more seconds, before he inhaled slowly and took front and center again. “And that, gentlemen, is what you’re about to encounter.”
Mikhail’s mind was racing through tactics. Guerilla-style warfare. A lot of hitting and running, a lot of flanking. Counter the aliens with speed. If we can.
The general continued on solemnly. “The element of surprise is our only advantage. Obviously, their technology is superior, in the air and on the ground.”
Hand-to-hand is out of the question. We wouldn’t get close enough. We wouldn’t win even if we could—not against creatures seven feet tall.
“If you can make the aliens turn to focus on you, we can move in from the front. We can hit them from both sides, so long as the diversion is there.”
How can we win this? Rubbing his temple, Mikhail racked his brain for an answer.
Palmerston stepped aside. “You now know everything that we do. I know you have a lot of concerns. I know you have a lot of questions. But frankly, there isn’t enough time. You’re here because you’re some of the Soviet Army’s best. Our boys are some of the best, too. There’s no doubt you’ll succeed.” With nothing else to present, Palmerston motioned for them as he stepped away. “Come this way and I’ll take you to the jeeps.”
The whipping winds showed no sign of slowing down; the rain continued to blast the landscape in horizontal sheets. Somewhere out there, an American dig team covered by a Soviet sniper was clearing out a path into a spacecraft from another world. Climbing into the jeep and soaked to the bone, Mikhail looked down at his AK-47. Compared to the strange weapons of the extraterrestrials, it looked clumsy and primitive. But in the hands of the right humans—the right killers—it would take a life just like anything else.
This is not a suicide mission.
Hungary was dense urban combat. Getting shot at from every angle in its worst moments, being tactically superior in its best. That’s what this would boil down to: intelligence. Not the kind of intelligence that could build spaceships and fire energy weapons, but the kind that was aware of its toe-to-toe inferiority. The kind that knew there were other ways to win. Like digging a hole to enter a breach.
Crimson Dagger, indeed.
Splashing through the gravel and mud, the small convoy of jeeps began their journey to the crash site, the NATO tents disappearing in the distance behind them. What waited ahead was an unknown enemy. But that was fine.
The enemy didn’t know humanity, either.
3
1439 hours
HE’D SEEN THE photographs. He’d heard the description of the site and examined the map
Hand covering his mouth, Mikhail was transfixed on the scenes of carnage unfolding on the screen. Several more NATO soldiers were struck. The fallback began. Flashes of energy zipped past the camera. The retreat was in full swing. Then the film froze—an image of a man caught mid-blast lingering in the final still.
Silence.
For what felt like a minute but had to be much less, no one spoke a word. The Americans were letting what the Soviets had just seen sink in.
Mikhail had been in numerous campaigns. He knew how to survive. But nothing he’d been through compared to what he’d just witnessed. His blue eyes stayed locked on the soldier in the film—a faceless man meeting a horrible death the likes of which Mikhail had never seen before. A knot formed deep in his stomach.
Palmerston’s reverence for the moment lingered for several more seconds, before he inhaled slowly and took front and center again. “And that, gentlemen, is what you’re about to encounter.”
Mikhail’s mind was racing through tactics. Guerilla-style warfare. A lot of hitting and running, a lot of flanking. Counter the aliens with speed. If we can.
The general continued on solemnly. “The element of surprise is our only advantage. Obviously, their technology is superior, in the air and on the ground.”
Hand-to-hand is out of the question. We wouldn’t get close enough. We wouldn’t win even if we could—not against creatures seven feet tall.
“If you can make the aliens turn to focus on you, we can move in from the front. We can hit them from both sides, so long as the diversion is there.”
How can we win this? Rubbing his temple, Mikhail racked his brain for an answer.
Palmerston stepped aside. “You now know everything that we do. I know you have a lot of concerns. I know you have a lot of questions. But frankly, there isn’t enough time. You’re here because you’re some of the Soviet Army’s best. Our boys are some of the best, too. There’s no doubt you’ll succeed.” With nothing else to present, Palmerston motioned for them as he stepped away. “Come this way and I’ll take you to the jeeps.”
The whipping winds showed no sign of slowing down; the rain continued to blast the landscape in horizontal sheets. Somewhere out there, an American dig team covered by a Soviet sniper was clearing out a path into a spacecraft from another world. Climbing into the jeep and soaked to the bone, Mikhail looked down at his AK-47. Compared to the strange weapons of the extraterrestrials, it looked clumsy and primitive. But in the hands of the right humans—the right killers—it would take a life just like anything else.
This is not a suicide mission.
Hungary was dense urban combat. Getting shot at from every angle in its worst moments, being tactically superior in its best. That’s what this would boil down to: intelligence. Not the kind of intelligence that could build spaceships and fire energy weapons, but the kind that was aware of its toe-to-toe inferiority. The kind that knew there were other ways to win. Like digging a hole to enter a breach.
Crimson Dagger, indeed.
Splashing through the gravel and mud, the small convoy of jeeps began their journey to the crash site, the NATO tents disappearing in the distance behind them. What waited ahead was an unknown enemy. But that was fine.
The enemy didn’t know humanity, either.
3
1439 hours
HE’D SEEN THE photographs. He’d heard the description of the site and examined the map
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