Salby (Book 2): Salby Evolution (11 page)

Rebel Mountain Base, Gora Lyavochorr, Murmansk, present day.

When I awoke, it took me a few minutes to realise exactly where I was. The solid rock walls surrounding me seemed out of place, given the comfortable bed upon which I now sat. Noise filtered in through the carved opening. The mountain stronghold appeared to be a hive of activity despite the early hour. My body felt alive, refreshed, in contrast to my years. A khaki-clad soldier peered around the entrance to my hollowed-out room.

“Sir? Sir, you are awake?” he asked

“It’s okay. I’m up. Where is everybody? Where’s Barbie?”

“Sir, if you will dress? I will wait,” the soldier directed.

Someone had placed clean khakis on the only chair in the room, neatly folded. I dressed fast, the clothes well sized to fit, be that by luck or judgement. True to his word, the soldier stood outside the opening to my chamber, waiting patiently. He smiled as I approached.

“Good fit, yes?” he queried.

The material itched a little, starched stiff, but was clean and functional. I nodded with a half-smile as he waved me to follow.

Barbie must have been up before me as she looked radiant, dressed much the same as I was, in khaki. To be fair, the kit looked much more appealing on her frame than mine.

“Morning, Simon! You look, well, like a soldier. Did you sleep okay?” Barbie asked.

“Like a baby. I was exhausted, how ‘bout you? What’s going on? This place is buzzing,” I added. My eyes tried to take in the various activities around us.

“Come on, this way. You look like you could use some coffee. General Volkov wants to see us both in an hour. Petrov said he’s not here right now. They’re getting ready for someone important to visit, they’ve been at it all night,” Barbie added as if this was a completely normal situation to be in.

“Petrov? You like him, don’t you?” I smiled.

“Well, I, um, yes, I suppose I do,” Barbie giggled.

We entered a basic canteen area. Folding chairs and a couple of tables made up the furniture content. The alluring smell of coffee was a welcome one. Barbie found us a couple of tin mugs, dented and battered but still functional, and she filled them both as I found a place to sit.

“Not sure how you like it, but here. It’s better than nothing. It’s Russian. Strong,” She smiled.

The coffee really was strong, but it took away the dry, raspy feeling in the back of my throat and collated the jumble of incoherent thoughts in my mind.

“There’s eggs and some sort of baked bread too, if you’re hungry,” Barbie added.

I fished for the smokes from my leg pouch. “Breakfast,” I smiled, as I lit the aromatic Russian cigarette. I blew the smoke skyward, aware that Barbie didn’t partake of my addiction, followed by a long slurp of the hot coffee.

I could see boxes and boxes of ordnance being loaded into the backs of lined-up trucks—it looked a lot like these guys were preparing for an all-out war. I couldn’t help but wonder if our arrival had something to do with that. Bipod mounted machine guns followed the green metal ammunition boxes, along with tubular launchers, similar to those I’d seen on the news in the last few months.

“Good morning, Simon. Barbie, the uniform suits you,” General Volkov boomed.

He was followed by a couple of soldiers to whom he gave instructions. The soldiers immediately turned on their heels, set to task.

“Good morning, General. Thank you,” Barbie smiled, coyly.

I appraised the officer, whose eyes, in turn, appraised Barbie. He carried himself with a subtle air of power, always underpinned by an excess of confidence both in himself, and his men.

“Morning, General,” I began simply. “What’s going on?”

“Come. Sit. I have news,” he replied.

Barbie refilled the tin mugs, also bringing fresh coffee for the general.

“In a little under an hour, my superior, Viktor Seuchencko, will arrive here. He is keen to meet the two of you. He is the largest supplier of oil in the Russian Federation but supports our cause. Much of what you see here is financed by him. He will update you as to the current situation. I think it best that you hear what he has to say, directly,” Volkov stated.

Barbie met me with the same befuddled stare that I surely must have mirrored. The rebel officer, clearly astute enough to pick up on our joint expressions, chuckled at our reactions.

“Don’t worry, at least, not yet. My troops are preparing. We will be ready. Mr Seuchencko will explain everything for you. While we await his arrival, Petrov will allocate weapons and give you some basic training. Be sure to pay attention, we will not have time for more lessons, understood?” Volkov finished.

“Weapons? You mean, guns?” Barbie blurted, her eyes wide at his suggestion.

“Yes, Barbie. Guns. For your protection. It is imperative that you can fire a gun, and that you carry at least a sidearm. Petrov is trained in multiple weapon uses, he will teach you what you need to know and find suitable handguns for each of you, with spare ammunition. You are to keep the weapons on your person at all times from then on,” General Volkov instructed.

Her face was a mixture of amazement, excitement, and fear. I empathised, never having touched a real weapon, let alone fired one before. The closest I’d ever come was to see the firearms officers in action on the weekly fly-on-the-wall television series. I didn’t have time to worry about my woes for long.

Petrov strolled confidently to the table. His initial wide grin at Barbie faded, just slightly, as he turned briefly to me. He braced up to acknowledge the general, who nodded at his son in return. Now that I took the time to look at the young soldier, his resemblance to the commanding officer became more evident. The same chiselled jawline had been genetically bestowed from father to son, along with intense eyes that seemed to see far more than they should. Easy to see why young Barbie could be so smitten with the man, so soon.

“If you are both ready? You shall begin immediately!” General Volkov stated.

*****

Petrov led us to one of the parked trucks. He climbed into the back, clattered among the boxes for a couple of minutes, and returned with the same wide smile towards Barbie that he had earlier. Hooked around the finger of one hand, he held two automatic pistols. Clutched with some effort in the other, he held a metal ammo box. I reached up towards the heavy item, to help him, as he jumped from the back of the truck. The cold metal box was much heavier than its size implied.

The young soldier walked us towards the perimeter of the clearing that formed the outskirts of the mountain base. There, he set the weapons down on the ground and unfolded a small cloth. Expertly, he stripped one of the weapons down into its component parts, laying them out on the cloth, next to the other assembled weapon.

“You watch. I strip next one in stages,” he smiled.

He stripped and re-assembled the second weapon twice, slowly enough for us to take it all in. Once confident that we had seen it enough to remember it, he stripped the automatic down once more and laid it next to the second stripped pistol.

“Now, you do it. Assemble first, then strip,” he urged.

What this young soldier had done, in under two minutes, took Barbie and me nearly a quarter of an hour to figure out. We both felt confident of success when we stood, two assembled weapons at our feet. Petrov nodded, smiled, and handed each of us an empty magazine.

“Good. Very good. Now, we load. Watch,” he stated, again.

He took a handful of bullets, set them on the cloth, then picked up one, positioned it at the mouth of the magazine, and pushed it down and back, into place. He repeated the process on his own mag, and then handed a magazine to each of us.

“Now, you try. 9mm rounds, 17 per magazine. Go ahead. Load,” he smiled.

It was surprisingly fiddly to get the bullets to load into the mag. After dropping several, when all seventeen were in place, the weight of the full clip more than trebled. Barbie beat me to fill her magazine. It seemed she had a natural aptitude for guns. Petrov picked up the first of the assembled weapons. He looked it over, checking our handiwork, before he placed the full magazine into the base of the handle. I noted that he pushed it in until a click could be heard, though he didn’t appear to force the movement. He called us in close to watch as he tilted the weapon over and used his thumb to release the attached magazine. He pulled the clip clear and then inserted it again as we watched, applying just enough pressure to facilitate the retainer.

We nodded our acceptance of the new information, and Petrov exchanged the loaded weapon for the empty one on the ground. “Observe now, my grip and stance,” Petrov stated.

I watched as he held the gun in his right hand. Fortunately, both Barbie and I were righties. A lefty could have been an issue. Petrov demonstrated what he called a “thumbs forwards grip” so named because both hands, when holding the weapon, had thumbs pointing directly towards the target. The right thumb, up close and personal, spooning the left.

I used to hold Charley that way just before we slept, pressed into her as my arms encircled her waist, my face nuzzled in her hair. Damn, I miss her scent.

“Okay, take your weapons,” he instructed, as he handed me the empty pistol. His tone broke my daydream. “Simon, load your magazine.”

I recalled how I’d seen him do it, sure not to force the magazine’s entry. The weapon, without the magazine, was of light plastic construction mainly. The bulk of the weight was in the ammunition. I gripped the butt of the gun as I’d seen him do it, or so I thought.

“Okay, both of you. Your right hand as high as you can below the sliding breech. Here,” he directed.

I noted the slightly raised section at the top of the handle, which prevented the breach hitting the hand as it auto-loaded. Barbie had much smaller hands than I did, and it took a little more guidance for her to find a comfortable, stable grip.

“Now, with your left hand, place it so,” Petrov instructed.

I checked his position and attempted to place the face of my left palm over the fingers of my right, not cupping the butt while encompassing the digits beneath the trigger to fold around the other side. My long, piano-player’s fingers had no problems adopting the position. Barbie, however, had some trouble with her smaller, feminine hands. Petrov stood at my left shoulder and pushed both thumbs flat towards the barrel foresight of the gun. He did the same for Barbie as she stood poised, gently turning her shoulders square to the weapon.

“Good. Now look at my feet. See where they are positioned at about same width as my shoulders. Not too wide, or you will lose balance. See how I lean slightly into the weapon, arms straight. I am pulling back with my left hand, right hand relaxed slightly. Do not put your left forefinger on the trigger housing, this will cause you to fire off to the left. Watch, like this,” Petrov demonstrated his stance, grip, and shoulder alignment before he continued. “Okay, drop your magazines first,” he ordered.

We canted the guns slightly right, and applied pressure to the mag release lever. The magazines slid out simultaneously.

“Now, take your stance, both of you.”

We stood, poised, and ready to shoot. Petrov stood directly in front of Barbie. I could see now why he wanted the mags out. As she stood, he took the palm of his hand and pushed against the barrel of the weapon quickly, just once. Barbie rocked on her heels but recovered her stance.

“Slightly more lean, Barbie. Pull with your left hand into your right, for stability.”

Barbie nodded and smiled.

Petrov applied the same test to my own stance. “Good, Simon. Very good. Now, load your magazines again,” he stated. He observed our actions. “The next point is important, watch closely.”

Petrov held his weapon flat for us to see. He pointed at what appeared to be a trigger within a trigger.

“What
is
that?” Barbie beat me to the question.

“This is the trigger safety, built into all Glock guns,” Petrov stated confidently.

“How does it work?” I asked, eager to learn.

“When you fire, your trigger finger must be square on the trigger. You must pull plastic safety in as well as pull on the trigger, like this—” he demonstrated.

After showing us what happened when the trigger wasn’t pulled correctly, he watched as we each took our weapons and showed him that we understood his instruction.

“Da. Good. Very good, both of you. We will shoot now.” He smiled.

Petrov found a tree stump on the perimeter, evidently used for practice before, judging by the holes in it, and set a small block of wood upon it. He picked up the cloth, ammunition box, and loose rounds, and walked back about fifteen yards.

“Come, we shoot.”

With our guns at our sides and pointed at the ground, we both approached his position, before turning to face our target.

“Now, take your stances, and I will show you how to cock your weapons, ready to fire.”

As we prepared, Petrov drew his gun and showed us how to load a round into the chamber. We copied his actions, and then recovered our stances as instructed.

“Barbie, when you are ready. Set your sights rear-to-front, both eyes open. Keep your shoulders straight, feet apart, arms locked, left pulling into right, then pull back gently on the trigger.”