Terror on Arrival: An Apocalyptic Science Fiction Novel
The Origin of Misfortune

His muscles were tense. A sinew of anticipating tendons. His veins pumped dangerous adrenaline. The sweat cambered down his temple. He was primed to execute. His breathing was steady, not sporadic. He had been in the same situation before, so it wasn’t new. It was routine.

Alexi Doshmononov was a seasoned Spetsnaz commando. He lived for traumatic situations. He ate them for nourishment. If he didn’t dance with the Devil on a daily basis, he would die as a wallflower.

He was a master at assassinations. He was the trainer of tracking and demolitions. He held the highest status in Sambo and Pancreas fighting. He was decorated countless times for retrieval and rescue, including the Premier. He was the complete package.

He had wanted to join the military when the Cold War raged. He had trained himself to be The Commando. Those Yankee idiots would be crushed under the iron boot of Communism. They would give in to Stalin and Marxist philosophy. He wanted them to bring everything they had.

They were the majestic United Soviet Socialist Republic, until 1991. That was when their power broke. They forfeited the status of Superpower. They just became the world’s largest state. Those damned Americans must have gloated at our dilapidation. They sat back on their high horses, and quietly laughed at Russia. Everything Alexi had striven for poofed like smoke.

He was still The Commando. All of those governmental antics never hindered his goal. If there was anyone with the arrogance to even think of opposing Mother Russia, they would be subjected to relentless brimstone. Enemies of the nation were not safe on this planet.

Alexi was at a uranium facility in Omsk, a town in the southwest of Russia. There was intelligence that stated terrorists would attempt to infiltrate the facility for its uranium deposits. Intelligence only pinpointed a window in which they would strike. They didn’t know who or why; just where, and a window of when.

Alexi was diligent with ambiguous attacks and infiltrations. Many of his diffusional tactics were reflex, not defense.

Alexi believed you had to be ready at all times. If you weren’t prepared to defend, you couldn’t claim the title of Commando. The definition of commando is a member, specially trained for defensive, hit-and-run, and surprise activities for the military. The phrase ‘during business hours’ doesn’t apply.

Alexi was monitoring by himself. Back-up wasn’t necessary. If he had a team, they would turn into liabilities, not assets. He had remembered that from his last team. They were excellent soldiers. They are feeding their mother now, with their blood and bones in commitment. The only thing positive about their fruitless deaths was they fed the Mother.

He decided, after that tragedy, he would never endanger a fellow soldier on one of his missions, ever again.

He worked better alone anyway. He didn’t have to worry about harming a comrade when he went berserk. He couldn’t control berserk. A controlled berserk was an oxymoron. He was good, but when he lost it, everyone died, and God was the sorter.

His first killing was devastating to him. He stayed awake for weeks after the operation. Now, termination was mandatory clockwork for him. He stopped carving notches on his belt whenever he killed an enemy. He stopped when the many notches on his belt weakened the belt to snap, therefore alleviating the purpose for a belt. It couldn’t even hold itself, let alone pants. He realized no one cared how many enemies he killed but him. As long as the job was complete, was all anyone ever cared about.

The notches on his belt were counterproductive, so he stopped carving. If he would’ve continued his diatribe of counting, he would’ve run through eight belts by now.

Alexi was pensive. Anytime a mission became active, being absorbed was his nature. Nothing was as important as the mission. Once it was complete, that was when his attention became inert. It was still a memory. Everything that transpired in his life introduced experience. He knew what to do in order to have a favorable result. The ‘just getting by’ scenario wasn’t what a veteran commando did. Success or death was the only option.

That status ran through every operation for Alexi. His commanders believed he had a death wish. Alexi was the strangest commando. He sunk himself into everything without self-preservation. He felt his life was secondary; that his mission, whatever it happened to be, was paramount.

Alexi’s commanders were happy they had a psychotic ace in the hole. If he didn’t care about his own life, how would he care about yours? It was like keeping dynamite in a briefcase, with a short fuse. As long as you had the match—replace cover and look out.

Alexi saw the silhouette of an arm motioning someone to advance in the warehouse of the facility. It was time.

Alexi grabbed his AK-12 assault rifle. He began to flank the silhouette, and came from the side. The squad leader was oblivious to Alexi’s defense. He never knew he was being intercepted, until Alexi tackled him to the ground.

With his arms pinned to the ground by Alexi’s knees, he got a ringside seat to the damage an AK-12 assault rifle could do to a human body.

The other eight terrorists in the squad were riddled with white-hot rounds. They bucked and jerked with immediate lead poisoning. Their triggers weren’t even pulled, until the aimless jerking of their dead man’s reflex response pulled them after the fact.

Alexi pointed his rifle at the squad leader. “Kto ty!?”

The squad leader was confused, and terrified. “I-I do not speak Russian!”

Alexi punched him in the jaw. “You are trying to steal Russian uranium from a Russian facility, and you do not speak Russian!?”

The punch was Alexi’s disrespectful slap in the face. It was just done with knuckles. The flowing blood accented that point.

“I only speak English and Croatian!” the squad leader said.

“Judging from your accent, you are not a native bloke, or Yank! Who is Croatia affiliated with, Russia does not know of!?” Alexi aggressively questioned.

“We have no affiliation! We thought you would be happy in assisting us in constructing a dirty bomb to be received by America!” the squad leader yelled.

“Even friends do not take the cookies from our cookie jar without permission! You should have asked first!” Alexi yelled back.

“We didn’t want an international incident. Those Al-Qadea bastards would claim it anyway!” the squad leader retorted.

“You do not conduct missions against our enemies without permission!” Alexi yelled at the squad leader.

Alexi rose cautiously from the squad leader, cuffed the disheveled man, and walked him out of the facility to an A4 AVL transport vehicle. They traveled to Kiev, and Alexi presented the Croatian squad leader to his superiors.

His superiors looked at the man, and they were in a quandary.

“This man is Croatian! He can’t be a terrorist!” one superior expressed.

“Even the security guard can shoplift, Commandant,” Alexi said.

The commandant kept looking at the man. As impossible as it seemed, it must have been correct. Alexi was loyal enough in the commandant’s eyes to babysit his infants.

“You are our best commando, Doshmononov. You complete impossible jobs,” the commandant said.

“There are only two outcomes in my missions, Commandant, completion or death,” Alexi said.

“I hope death won’t punch your ticket for some time, Doshmononov. Your value is of a singular importance,” the commandant said.

“Send me your impossible missions, Commandant. I take what others run from,” Alexi said.

“All the threats have been completed with your terrorist capture. There are no more dangerous missions,” the commandant said.

“I am hungry, Commandant,” Alexi said. “I will take anything, even tasks that are below my level. I would consider a mission like that a vacation.” Alexi wanted more.

“This mission is beneath your expertise, Doshmononov. I was going to kick it back, away from Spetsnaz even breathing near it.”

“If it is military, Commandant, I will execute,” Alexi said.

“This will be a lowly escort mission, Doshmononov. You will be an incredibly, overqualified baby sitter,” the commandant said.

“Any mission would be my pleasure to accomplish, Commandant,” Alexi said.

The commandant reached into a drawer from his large oak desk, picked out a file folder that had TRANSFER in red stamped on it, and explained the particulars to Alexi.

“This woman is an aqua-horticulturist. She studied marine plant life in remote areas of the world. There has been a disturbance near the Light House Reef in Belize, Central America. This scientist is worried about pirates. They’ve been hijacking cruise ships all over South America, and she wants to know what is disrupting the Honduran ecosystem,” the commandant explained.

“If you do not mind me asking, how does this affect Mother Russia, Commandant?” Alexi asked.

“The Belize Barrier Reef contains some of the most exotic plants, which feed the most exotic fish. It has abundant marine life. We consume that marine life, as well as the deadliest sharks. Sharks that don’t like to eat people, but they will if they have to, because all their food has become extinct,” the commandant explained.

“So, our ecosystem is a house of cards, and this scientist wants to make sure the cornerstone is solid,” Alexi clarified.

“You don’t want your grandchildren to be eaten by sharks, because Belize had a hiccup, do you?” the commandant asked.

“If it affects Mother Russia, I will fix it!” Alexi expressed. “Where, may I ask, is the scientist, Commandant?”

“She is coming over on a transport from New York. We have about four hours before she arrives,” the commandant said.

New York!? This woman was a Yankee Dog! The same people he vowed to obliterate from this world! Now Alexi is going to be Yankee Chick’s bodyguard!? When life hands you lemons...

Alexi remained at attention; however, his left eye began to involuntarily twitch.

“For Mother Russia, Commandant!” Alexi yelled.

The commandant saw the twitch of his left eye. “Are there any problems, Doshmononov?”

“I do all I can for the Mother, Commandant. This operation, however, will be slightly... difficult,” Alexi admitted.

“You have quashed a legion of men trying to perform a coup by yourself!” the commandant claimed.

“True, Commandant,, that is what I train for!” Alexi said. “Those men were dangerous, but none were American.”

That was when the commandant had the reason for Alexi’s disdain revealed. It wasn’t difficulty, it was disliking.

“Your views are not individual, Doshmononov. American’s are considered friends at this point.” The commandant showed his understanding of the situation.

“I would modify that statement to estranged bedfellows, Commandant. I would not invite them to dinner,” Alexi said with angst.

“You must do as I have, Doshmononov, stifle your hatred for them. I haven’t stepped on American soil, and I’m speculating you haven’t either. Our Soviet propaganda works very well,” the commandant said.

“They are masters at misdirection themselves, Commandant. Once a radical terrorist cell destroyed their iconic World Trade, they made every American hate the entire Middle East. We are not the only propagandist,” Alexi said.

“You, being intelligent enough to point that out should replace it helpful in alleviating your anger,” the commandant said.

“I have studied their culture, Commandant. They do not care about their people. They think Socialism is oppression. The entire nation is the largest group of people that are only striving to benefit themselves,” Alexi said. “Our propagandist just put the icing on the cake.”

The commandant pondered what Alexi said. He had no recourse. He couldn’t rebut Alexi’s statement with any force. If he spoke of all the charity America’s millionaires gave, Alexi would counter with the amount of millionaires, and compare it to the economy. There was no winning this argument.

“You are a Spetsnaz operative, Doshmononov. Politics shouldn’t affect your performance. You should be proud to perform your job for Russia. That is what you will do. My order to you is to perform your job.” The commandant did the only thing he could do to complete his goal; pull rank.

Alexi snapped back into a sharper form of attention, and yelled vociferously. “DA SER!”

As opinionated as Alexi was, being a faithful soldier to Russia destroyed his manufactured ill will.

The commandant saw how quickly Alexi snapped back into place. He was a good soldier. The commandant had no worries about his demeanor. Doshmononov would treat the woman cordially. At least he would hold his uneasiness until they arrived in Belize. At least it wouldn’t be on his soil.

“You are dismissed, Doshmononov. You have four hours to argue with yourself. Just remember; you are a soldier, and this is for Mother Russia,” the commandant said.

“Commandant!” Alexi yelled, did an about-face, and exited the commandant’s office.

The commandant thought, Doshmononov will portray Russia with pride, and poured a snifter of vodka.