July 8, 1996
Demodovo Mikhail Lemonosov Airport
8:04 Local Time

It seemed like it would be a typical sunny, summer Monday in Moscow, the economic heart of the Russian Federation; the old scars from the Second World War had faded and the city was a bustling metropolis. The city center that once housed the Soviet government was now a maze of towering concrete and steel skyscrapers, the Kremlin was now a museum dedicated to Moscow’s long, sordid history. The airport on the city’s southeast perimeter was the third largest and busiest in all of Russia, after Sheremetyevo Alexander S. Pushkin and Pulkovo Airport in Petrograd and saw air traffic from all corners of Eurasia.

The Gazelle van pulled off the road onto the parking garage entrance and, passing through the security checkpoint, drove around the crowded spaces in the search for an unoccupied one. The van was plain white and looked to the average passerby like any other in the garage, except for the tinted windows. Once it found a suitable spot to park (on the garage’s second level), the occupants started getting out. First the driver and the front seat passenger, then the slide doors behind opened for the rest of the group. All of the occupants were clad in costly casual attire befitting of travelers about to board a flight to wherever from the busy Russian airport and were carrying duffel bags.

There were six in all, five sars and one wosar, four of them (the female included) had broad, muscular builds while the last two were slimmer and more average in their physiques. One of the latter, the front passenger, led the others and was one of the few not to wear sunglasses; he was also one of two to not be identifiably Russian in appearance, being an American. His name was Walter FitzGerald, an OSS Field Agent, on assignment from his boss Pearson.

FitzGerald knew what that assignment entailed and he had briefed the other American, Private Rachael Allen, on it; she was horrified by what she was told but followed orders, as a good grunt does. She was an Army Ranger in the 5th Battalion and she had showed excellent conduct during the deployment to Haiti in ‘94, so she was handpicked by Agent Pearson for this assignment. Her Russian was rudimentary, so she had to rely on FitzGerald and their accomplices who could speak good English for helping her chat with others.

Their accomplices were led by one Viktor Dimitrievich Arbatov, a notorious Ultranationalist terrorist who conducted many heinous acts across Russia, including bombings, targeted killings of politicians, bank robberies, prison breakouts, and more. A former VDV sergeant during the war in Turkestan, Arbatov was kicked out of the Russian Fascist Party for insubordination and had forged his own path to his vision for Russia. It wasn’t the first time the OSS had backed known terrorists, in fact FitzGerald was involved with the fanatics who attacked the Russian embassy in Nairobi back in ‘88 but it wasn’t with anyone who possessed Arbatov’s fanaticism or penance for cruelty.

The six of them entered the elevator that would take them to the terminal, passing by a civilian who only gave them a cursory glance as he left to walk to his car. It was good for his sake that he never paid much attention to who these people stepping into the elevator were, FitzGerald thought, else Arbatov’s sars would have killed him on the spot. No, he would simply learn about it later and get a horrible realization about who those strangers he passed really were. FitzGerald reflected as the doors shut, glancing at Allen before they began preparation.

As soon as the elevator doors shut and it began lifting, everyone dropped their duffel bags and zipped them open to reveal weapons and ammunition. The firearms were all US in origin: Sieg M1946s, Colt M1964s, ARES M1986s, Saco M1957s, and Mossberg 590s; these were provided by FitzGerald and his OSS handlers, for use for this particular mission. Everyone loaded up and stored the extra ammo wherever they could on their clothing before taking a deep breath. There was a moment of tension in the air, some of them began whispering prayers while Arbatov broke the silence with “S nami Bog” - ‘God with us’.

When the doors finally opened to the terminal lobby, Arbatov turned to his sars and said something in Russian that Allen couldn’t quite catch. FitzGerald in turn looked at the Private and told her, “Just remember your training” before turning back joining the Russians. Allen, wide eyed and trying to maintain a steady breath, followed him out of the elevator to where the Russians had formed a crescent line just outside the elevator doors, facing a large crowd that had formed outside a security checkpoint. Allen swallowed her spit as the Russians and Fitzgerald steadied their weapons, the weeks of preparation flashed in her mind; the training, the memorization, the routines. All of that was about to bear fruition as Arbatov and his sars pointed their guns at the crowd, a few civilians noticing and turning around to face the barrels pointed at them and they would be the first to fall.

There was a cacophonous noise as six guns fired off all at once, hundreds of bullets and shotgun pellets perforating the crowd and the guards by the checkpoint and people were screaming either in pain or in panic as they tried to flee the scene. There was a pause as the terrorists reloaded, a mangled pile of corpses arrayed by the checkpoint and more civilians fleeing the area, both up flights of stairs and escalators to the right or out a doorway to the left which led to other terminals. The gunsars steadily walked through the checkpoint, ignoring the beeping metal detectors as they climbed up the stairs to where there were stores and restaurants for would-be travelers, following the fleeing civilians like hungry sharks pursuing panicked prey.

Inside the stores on both sides, there were people trying to hide from the terrorists but try as they might, they were sniffed out and gunned down in an instant. Several members of airport security valiantly stood their ground and demanded their show their hands before they were swatted like mere flies. The terrorists continued on their merry little way, killing anyone they saw, Arbatov even pulling out a Thumper grenade launcher to launch grenades at groups of security, eviscerating them instantly. As they approached the balcony of another lobby, two of Arbatov’s sars paused to unload on the civilians below before rejoining their pack. Down a flight of stars they went, to witness the carnage firsthand, passing the dead and dying as if it were part of the scenery. There was a ticking noise and Allen looked up to see that a board on a standalone wall that had a clear list of schedules was switching from green to red - no need to guess what that meant.

From this room, which had a set of large windows facing the exterior, the terrorists turned right toward a steel door that, when opened, led outside. There, they could see a large Aeroflot Tupolev and a hovering Mi-8 painted green above it, which could only mean...

“Right on cue,” Arbatov said, looking at his watch, “check your weapons and ammo.”

One of his sars quipped, “Show has only begun.”

Arbatov led the others down a flight of stairs that led to the tarmac, flanked by a maintenance shed, as smoke started billowing up by the parked Tupolev. The terrorist leader whipped out his grenade launcher and pointed it at the smoke.

“FSB, take them out.”

He fired once into the smoke, causing an explosion and a lot of screaming and moaning as his sars started firing and throwing frag grenades. When the smoke cleared, there were black-clad dead and dying all about the base of the Tupolev’s landing gear and a number of similar figures crouched or standing, holding riot shields or taking cover and firing at the terrorists. Arbatov moved up, followed by FitzGerald, firing their rifles while advancing to a baggage train for cover, one of the Russians, who had been in cover in the maintenance shed, began running for the train when the FSB shot him down.

Allen glanced at his body before one of his comrades shouted, “No! Leave him! Need suppressing fire!” The Yankee obliged, opening up with her M1957, spitting out a barrage of .30-06 at the Russian policesars, keeping them pinned as the others began moving up. They began driving the FSB back as Allen herself advanced, covering behind a concrete wall that served as part of another terminal as the others exchanged gunfire with the police as more arrived in vans. That was when a second Russian fell, this time while hurling a grenade at one van that was unloaded more riot shield-using police. The secondaries from the ensuing explosion caused the surviving officers to flee and gave the terrorists a chance to keep moving to their escape route.

That was when a third Russian was clipped by an FSB hiding behind a cart with a Baikal shotgun as he was running past, the terrorists never being able to catch the killer as he had found an excellent cover spot and wasn’t coming out. “No time for grenade, we must go!” Arbatov yelled as he ran for another steel door on the far side of the tarmac, cutting down several officers in his way before kicking the door in.

FitzGerald followed him down the steel corridor, Allen trailing behind the fourth remaining Russian as they passed through another maintenance facility before coming into a parking garage. At the end, where the door was opened, was an ambulence, another GAZelle, idling.

“Thirty seconds,” Arbatov muttered as he approached the ambulence, the back doors opening up to reveal a sar standing inside, dressed in the uniform of a Feldsher.

“Good, you made it. Get in!”

Arbatov climbed inside, followed by his remaining henchsar, and then FitzGerald, who stood in the doorway to give Allen a boost. “Good work on this op, Allen.”

Nodding, still trying to control her breath, was about to say “Yeah”  when FitzGerald interrupted her.

“It’s a shame the Office requires one of us to be left behind,” he stated as he drew out his Colt .45, shooting her in the throat. She fell back, slipping off the ambulance, onto the concrete ground, splaying out as she gurgled blood. He finished his statement, “and I’m supposed to report back to Pearson.”

FitzGerald shut the doors and the ambulance revved away, leaving the parking garage and passing through the police blockade around the airport grounds. FSB and Militsya officers began flooding into the garage from the open door, noting the dying suspect and calling for medics.

By the time a doctor was called onto the scene, Allen was dead; the hole in her throat meant her last words was just a bunch of gurgling noises.

As the ambulance began weaving through traffic to the terrorists’ safehouse to the northeast, on the opposite side of Moscow, Arbatov told FitzGerald, “you realize that, once the police discover your comrade was an American, there will be dire consequences for our nations.”

“That was the point,” replied FitzGerald, with what only could be described as a shark’s grin on his face. Unnerved, the Russians said nothing else for the duration of the trip back.

Pennsauken Townnship
6:30 AM Local Time

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Morgue, Moscow
4:30 PM Local Time

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Detective Kormovo