The wind coming down off the mountains was cold, the clouds low with September rain that was threatening to pour down on the woods on either side of the roughly paved road. The ferns that coated the ground beneath the trees were waist high and slowly waving with the wind that pulled down the leaves from the higher branches. The woods were hushed, silent, although faintly in the distance the sound of heavy vehicles could be heard once in a while as well as the constant sound of the Americans practicing with their weapons on the firing range on the west side of Site-317. The sunshine was muted, largely blocked by the heavy clouds, providing no warmth in the cold September day.

Junior Sergeant Stepan Sokolov shifted in position, the wet of the ground from the rain of the night before having soaked into his uniform. His AK-74 was covered by a cloth to keep any chance of it being spotted early, the curved 30-round magazine fully loaded with 5.45mm Soviet rounds.

Captain Lobanov's plan was simple. When the OD green van returned, the board with nails in it would be slid into the road, blowing out the tires. The Spetsnaz Alfa Group team would then show themselves, weapons ready, to show the Americans that resistance would be useless, as the team had seen the Americans were not carrying their weapons when they had left Site-317.

It seemed solid to Stepan, who had taken part in operations taking Mujahideen prisoner in Afghanistan. Stop the vehicle, make a show of force, take the prisoners into custody. It had worked the dozen or so times that Stepan had carried out those kinds of missions, he couldn't see any reason that it wouldn't work this time.

Stepan knew that Captain Lobanov and the two dozen members of the team were scattered around, carrying either AK-74's or OTS-02 submachineguns, although two men were carrying KS-23 shotguns. Personally, Stepan doubted any of the weapons would come into play. There was only a half dozen of the Americans, and the Soviet troops outnumbered then four to one and were armed where the Americans were unarmed.

For all of the Vympel team's caution regarding the Americans, the last few weeks of surveillance Stepan had seen little more than joking around, leisure, and exercise. Sure, a lot of American and NATO soldiers had shown up, there had been a lot of weapon fire, and plenty of helicopters, but it became obvious that it was all practice of some type.

It reminded Stepan that the Americans had not been involved in an actual war since they had lost Vietnam to a bunch of rice patty Asian peasants armed with outdated weaponry and nothing beyond infantry forces.

Like Afghanistan? the thought bubbled up before he could stop it, and he pushed the thought away.

Stepan heard the sharp whistle from further up the road and whistled himself to pass on the message that the little van was heading toward their position. He held tight to his AK-74 and felt sweat bead up on his lower back. Like usual, he had to pee suddenly, his bladder insisting it was full as soon as the prospect of confrontation reared its ugly head.

The putt-putt of a small engine filled the air and Stepan tensed up, peering at the road from between the ferns. Across from his was Senior Sergeant Boystov, ready with the board that they had hammered nailed into all four sides, so that the pointed ends stuck out no matter which was it landed, guaranteeing that at least one of the tires would pop.

Simple and effective.

Stepan had been the one to suggest it. The Mujahideen used it to stop vehicles in Afghanistan to ambush the convoy. It was simple, effective, cheap, and easy.

The little green van, a Volkswagon, came into sight and Stepan saw Sergeant Boystov slide the nailed board into the road. Senior Sergeant Delov, a feet to Stepan's left, did the same.

With a loud bang the front of the van ran over the boards, both front tires going out. Immediately afterward the back tires blew out and Stepan saw the front passenger side tire roll mostly off the rim.

Just like clockwork, Stepan thought, standing up with the others as the van slewed to a stop.

The rest of the team straightened up out of the ferns, leveling their weapons at the van.

"Exit the vehicle slowly," Captain Lobanov said, pointing the shotgun at the driver.

Stepan couldn't hold back the smile as the doors opened, the Americans filing out.

The Beast AKA Sergeant Cromwell. The Amazon AKA Sergeant Stokes. The Deadman AKA Specialist Foster. The Chernobog AKA Sergeant Stillwater. The Cowboy AKA Sergeant Bomber.

They and more filed out of the van, holding their hands up. The Beast had a heavy bag with a red cross on it bouncing on her hip. They all moved slowly, lacing their fingers at the back of their necks. Chernobog dropped something on the pavement and stomped on it, shattering the plastic case and revealing broken electronics. The big American Sergeant snapped something out and Captain Lobanov stepped forward, slapping Stillwater across the face.

"You should have brought more men, you Russian cocksucker," Stillwater growled out in English. "You couldn't take out an Air Force barracks whore with this group of vodka swilling dipshits."

"I brought enough. Look around you, you are outnumbered," Lobanov sneered. "You are surrounded with no way to escape."

"This all you brought?" Stillwater asked, shaking his head. He looked around and sneered before speaking in Russian. "You sorry cocksuckers were obviously scraped out of the bottom of the nearest vodka bottle, you peasant raping sodomites." The gathered up Spetsnaz troops muttered angrily at Stillwater's words, moving closer to the Americans.

Sergeant Boystov grabbed Stillwater's left arm, pulling it down in preparation to pulling it behind his back.

"Enough. They are enough. There's nothing you can do, American," Lobanov said, slapping Stillwater again.

At  first, Stepan didn't even realize things had gone wrong. Stillwater gave an awkward looking punch into Captain Lobanov's stomach, then turned and punched Sergeant Boystov twice in the side. The punches didn't look all that strong, didn't look like they'd hurt too bad.

Captain Lobanov staggered back, his hands going to his stomach and his face going gray. Sergeant Boystov just slumped down, going to his knees, his hands holding onto where he'd been punched.

The Beast's hand came out of the bag, holding something short and gleaming in the wan sunlight, and swiped it across Sergeant Mirov's throat. Blood sprayed out, coating the heavyset woman's face as she kept turning, the pencil-like object in her hand slashing across Sergeant Silin's eyes.

The Americans were moving, without hesitation, and it was Sergeant Silin's scream that galvanized Stepan's comrades into doing more than just staring as the Americans immediately moved within close combat range.

A rifle butt hit one of the men, one that wasn't listed as part of the soldiers assigned to Site-317, thudding into the right side of his chest. The man went down, gasping, holding onto his chest. A short woman stepped into Sergeant Fedin, throwing rapid fire punches and kicks until the big soldier bent forward and she grabbed him around the neck. Right before she would have snapped his neck Sergeant Entin smashed her in the back of the head with his rifle, dropping her to the ground. She got back up, weaving away from the followup buttstroke and lashing out with a foot. Sergeant Entin's knee broke with a loud snap that was covered up by Sergeant Repin's death scream as Chernobog stabbed him twice in the neck.

Someone, Stepan wasn't sure, fired their weapon, the sound echoing and merging with the sound of the weapon practice that had been going on for nearly a week straight. Another weapon fired, the bullets hitting the tree next to Stepan.

Most of the Americans were down, unconscious or stunned, the short woman going down as another blow to her head threw her to the ground. The big Texan was tackled to the ground and two others started beating him with the butts of their weapons. The Amazon taken to the ground by three men while her hands were full with a fourth. The Beast was still slashing at people with the small blade that Stepan recognized as a scalpel until a blow to the back of her head put her down.

Only Chernobog remained.

Two of the Captain's GRU team stepped forward, but Chernobog stepped forward at the same time, his hand pulling the bayonet from Lieutenant Noskov's sheath, that long knife in his right hand vanishing into Lieutenant Orlov's chest.

"DO NOT KILL HIM!" Captain Lobanov managed to yell out as Chernobog buried Noskov's own bayonet into his stomach.

Chernobog turned around, stepping toward Captain Lobanov.

Less than ten of the Spetsnaz were still alive or on their feet. One looked up from where he was cuffing the Amazon's wrists, just in time for Chernobog to stab him in the hollow of his throat.

Stepan finally moved, lunging toward Chernobog, who whirled suddenly, slashing Stepan across the face with the black steel blade. Stepan reeled back, crying out, dropping his rifle as Chenobog slashed against, laying open the side of Stepan's face from his chin to hairline, narrowly missing his eye.

Captain Lobanov drew his pistol, aiming it at The Beast as Stepan went down to his knees, holding onto his cruelly carved face.

"Don't move or The Beast dies," Captain Lobanov yelled in Russian.

Stepan looked up as he reached out, half-blinded from the blood, and grabbed his AK-74. Chernobog turned and stared at Captain Lobanov, rolling his shoulders, and took a single step forward.

As he lifted up his rifle, Stepan realized that Chernobog was growling. A low rumbling savage noise that promised pain and suffering.

"Even in Hell, your suffering will be legendary," Chernobog growled at Captain Lobanov, snapping his knife so that blood spattered on the GRU officer's face.

Captain Lobanov screamed, high pitched and terror filled, staring at the big American with his eyes wide. He changed his aiming point from The Beast to Chernobog, still screaming.

Stepan lunged to his feet, pulling his rifle back behind his head, pointing at the woods, the metal shod butt of the weapon forward.

"Your soul is mine," Chernobog snarled.

Captain Lobanov fired twice, the shots flat and quiet sounding. Neither shot seemed to hit the big American, who took another step forward.

"Gonna crucify you, Ivan," Chernobog said, taking another step.

Stepan lunged forward, slamming the butt of his weapon against the back of Chernobog's head, using a crossed surgical scar as his aiming point. The impact split the skin and skewed the strap for Chernobog's eyepatch so that it dropped around his neck.

The butt of the weapon hit with the sound of a melon being dropped on pavement.

Chenobog slowly turned in place until he was facing Stepan.

The stocky American's face was spattered with blood. One eye a bright green with a small circle of gold in the middle of the green. The other was red, as if the entire eye was full of blood. He was smiling, no, his teeth were bared in a grimace that was more a rictus than a smile.

Nothing in the American's face hinted at Mercy.

Stepan backed up, trying to get his rifle into play.

Chernobog took a single step forward, the heavy brace creaking.

The braced knee kept folding and Chernobog went down on one knee.

Before the American could move, Stepan slammed the butt of his weapon into Chernobog's forehead.

Chernobog started standing up and Stepan slammed the butt of the weapon into his forehead again, driving him to his knee again.

Again Chernobog started to stand up, his right eye rolled back in his skull, that one red eye staring at Stepan.

Stepan hit him again.

And again.

Chernobog went face first into the pavement. He tried to roll over, got onto his back, and went limp, that black knife held tight in his fist.

Time started flowing normally again as Stepan stared down at the big American.

"You got him," Sergeant Olenev said. "Nicely done."

Olenev bent down, grabbing at Chernobog's arm, reaching for his knife.

Stepan saw Chernobog's ruined red eye lock onto Olenev and opened his mouth to warn the other man.

Chernobog stabbed Olenev in the throat, the leading inch of the blade erupting from the back of Olenev's neck before suddenly vanishing when Chernobog yanked the knife free.

The dead man fell on the big American, pinning him.

The trees started whispering as the rain, promised all day, began falling.

Stepan looked around. Over two thirds of the GRU Spetsnaz team was dead. The remainder worked quickly to handcuff the downed Americans. They used two pair of cuffs on Chernobog.

Outnumbered. Unarmed except for four with knives. Less than two minutes and most of the Spetsnaz were dead or dying.

"Does your face hurt?" Lieutenant Merkulov asked Stepan. "I can see your teeth."

"Now it does," Stepan slurred.

"Bring up the vehicle," Captain Lobanov coughed into his walkie-talkie.

He looked at the unconscious Sergeant Stillwater.

"Let's not take chances. Tie Chernobog securely," Captain Lobanov coughed.

Oh, now you call him Chernobog...