Mother Russia

Chapter Eleven

“Congratulations,” Hunk said, his hands folded behind his back. He allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. “I don’t say that often. You may have noticed that I’m not the kind of person who gives lots of compliments and positive comments.”

A few of the soldiers gathered in the room chuckled at this. Hunk continued, “But the truth is that you’ve all done very well. On behalf of myself, Ms. Robertson, and the Tricell Corporation, I thank you for all your hard work and dedication to this training program. So kick back, relax, and have a drink on us.”

The soldiers let out a little cheer and some of then clapped jokingly, and then they were talking and getting up to grab their share of the sub sandwiches and potato chips Hunk had supplied. Most of the soldiers were not fond of the local Pakistan cuisine, so he had arranged some standard American fare, even though most of the soldiers weren’t American either. It was good to have a break like this, good for their morale and good for their sense of teamwork.

For six weeks, Hunk had been throwing his trainees into progressively more complicated and difficult training sessions. For six weeks, he’d been hammering into them the basics of survival in an outbreak situation. And for six weeks, the three squads had gotten better and better. They remembered his lessons, learned from them, and put that knowledge to use. Each time they went into the training area, they defeated more infected hosts and lost fewer of their own. They worked as a team, and in many ways performed even better than Hunk had anticipated.

Two days before, Hunk had arranged the most complex and challenging training mission they had attempted to date. All three squads at full strength, starting at opposite ends of the training complex, were ordered to meet up at a predetermined location, which Hunk then changed in the middle of the mission, and rescue ten survivors all hiding in different places in the middle of the night, while facing a veritable army of over one hundred infected hosts. It was almost a worst-case scenario, and the only way that Hunk could have made it harder was to introduce Lickers or Tyrants to the mix, but unfortunately there were some things that he could not replicate in training.

The squads finished the mission having rescued six of the ten survivors, and they only lost five soldiers. Under the circumstances, Hunk would have been happy with half the number of survivors and twice the losses. As far as he was concerned, it was a smashing success.

And so to celebrate the completion of their training, Hunk had arranged a little party, complete with catered food and a few drinks. Earlier that morning, all of the local civilians who had played the part of the infected hosts for the last six weeks also had a party, but Hunk had always kept the soldiers and the other workers separate outside of the training sessions. He didn’t want them becoming too familiar with each other because it might change the soldiers’ reaction times. Although he briefly toyed with the idea of training different soldiers to play infected hosts, in order to have the squads confront the possibility of taking down their former comrades, but decided against it. He could only train them for so many situations.

Chanelle Robertson came up beside him, a can of soda in her hand. “I have to admit, this worked out better than I thought it would. I had my doubts, but I think you’ve pulled it off.”

“I’m pleased with the results,” Hunk admitted. “They’re certainly better prepared than they were then they first got here.”

“Have you looked at my recommendations for the next phase of the training program?”

“I have. You made some good suggestions. Next week I have a conference scheduled with the head of our department. I’ll confirm whatever changes we decide to make. At the very least, I’d like to extend the program from six to eight weeks.”

The “head of the department” was Albert Wesker, but Chanelle didn’t know that. Wesker was legally dead, after all. Chanelle believed their direct superior was a man by the name of Greg Smith, but as far as Hunk knew, that man was a ghost who existed only in Tricell paperwork. Wesker’s existence was such a closely-guarded secret that even some high-level executives like Chanelle didn’t know about him.

“I wish we had a modular training facility,” Chanelle said. “Imagine if you could change the arrangement of the streets and buildings.”

Hunk nodded. “That would require a significant funding increase. One more thing to bring up to the boss.”

Chanelle took a sip of her drink and sighed. “And in a few weeks, we get to start over again with new recruits.”

Ultimately, the goal was to train ten full squads in what was being dubbed “advanced counter-biological combat and survival.” Hunk supposed that eventually Tricell would come up with a cute acronym like UBCF for their newly-formed units, probably TBCT or something like that. These three squads were just the first to be trained. Over the next year or so, Hunk would train seven more squads, and as their training methods became more streamlined and efficient, they would complete additional training with all the squads on a yearly basis. In time, Hunk’s personal goal was to create a unit of soldiers whose specialty was dealing with biological outbreaks. This was merely the first step.

Most of the soldiers naturally segregated into their respective squads, but there was some overlap as well. Watching the men and woman chat and joke around reminded him briefly of his former squad when he was still a member of the Umbrella Security Service. During their downtime, his old squad had been pretty social with each other, Hunk excepted. He wasn’t a social person by nature. Of course, they were all dead now, killed in the Raccoon City lab by a man named William Birkin.

A few soldiers came up to him and talked for a few minutes, asking him questions about their training or about his time in Raccoon City. Their questions were less about his personal experiences and more about the actual mission. How many squads had entered the city? What were their tactical objectives? What was the command structure? How did they divide the city in regard to strategic planning, and how were the squads divided across the entire city? Hunk did his best to answer their questions, but even his knowledge of the overall strategic plan was limited.

Darby, one of the squad leaders, walked over while some of the others were talking to him. Aside from his first disastrous mission at the training complex, in which the entire squad was killed in barely fifteen minutes, Darby had done well as squad leader, and at the end of their training, Hunk had promoted him to Squad Captain, making him the commanding officer for all three squads.

When they all wandered away, Darby asked him, “Sir, can I ask you something? Do you think they did the right thing? About the city, I mean? Do you think it could have been saved?”

“That’s a complicated question,” Hunk said. “Could the city have been saved? No, absolutely not. They did what they did to prevent the infection from spreading, and it had to be done. But could they have waited another day? Maybe spent more time trying to locate survivors? Yes, I believe they could have.”

“Do you have any regrets about it?”

Hunk already knew the answer to that. “My only regret is that the men Umbrella sent in weren’t better trained. If this program works, then maybe next time I’ll get my wish.”

“I hope so too, sir.”

He shook Hunk’s hand and walked off to join his squadmates. Chanelle had listened to their conversation but didn’t interrupt. Hunk figured that she felt strangely out of place, since she was the only person here who wasn’t a soldier. The squads treated her politely, but they didn’t offer her the same respect they gave Hunk.

“You know,” she said, “that raises another question. An uncomfortable one, I suppose.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you think it would have been better for them to bomb the city right away? As soon as they learned the scale of the infection, do you think they should have authorized Final Decontamination immediately?”

“Is that your opinion, Ms. Robertson?”

“Of course not. But some people feel that way. The argument is that the number of survivors they took from the city was lower than the number of personnel they lost during the mission. They could have essentially saved more lives by not sending in the UBCF at all, and just ordering the city to be bombed right off the bat. In theory, it would also have made it even less likely for the virus to spread outside the city, since they would have stopped it sooner.”

Hunk frowned. “If I believed all that, I wouldn’t have started this training program.”

“I know,” Chanelle said. “Like you said, it had to be done. I guess the only real argument is when they should have done it.”

It was almost certainly true that the UBCF had lost more people than they had rescued. The final list of survivors only had 280 names on it. By comparison, over five thousand Umbrella personnel, mostly UBCF, had been killed. They lost seventeen people for every person they managed to save. In purely numerical terms, destroying Raccoon City on the morning of the outbreak would absolutely have saved more lives. But that wasn’t the point.

Hunk didn’t fancy himself a hero. During his time with the USS, he had done some pretty terrible things. He was just a soldier, and he followed orders. Their mission in Raccoon City was to rescue survivors, and Hunk had intended to do exactly that. And if he believed that he could have rescued an innocent person in Raccoon City by sacrificing his own life, he would have done it. He just never had the chance.

Deep down, Hunk knew that was what this whole training program was really about. It wasn’t just about saving the lives of the squad members, it was about saving innocent people as well. The only reason that there were so few survivors from Raccoon City was because almost all of the UBCF troops who were sent to rescue them were killed. If the UBCF had been better trained and better prepared, they might have saved the lives of thousands of civilians instead of just a few hundred.

A little while later, Chanelle wished everyone a good night and left the party. One of the squad members brought out some playing cards and a group began to play poker. A few soldiers retired to the barracks for the night. Hunk took the last sandwich and began dumping some of the wrappers and plastic cups in a trash can, just for something to do. His mind was already on the upcoming week and his meeting with Wesker.

“Hunk! Hunk, we have a call!”

He went to the door and saw Chanelle running down the hall towards him, her eyes wide open in shock, her phone in her hand.

“What’s going on?”

“Here, here,” she said, shoving the phone into his hands.

He put it to his ear. “Yes?”

“Get your team ready to ship out immediately,” said Albert Wesker. “We’ve received a report of an outbreak in Yatovska, Russia. Umbrella has facilities there. I want you and your team on a plane in less than an hour, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Hold on one second.”

Hunk placed his hand over the receiver and turned back to the room, where the soldiers had stopped their poker game and were looking at him expectantly.

“This is not a drill,” he said. “Get your gear and load up. There’s been an incident in Russia and we’ve been ordered to ship there right away.” To Chanelle, he said, “Go open the armory. And contact transport. Tell them to get the plane ready for us.”

Chanelle took off. The soldiers got up and after a moment of disbelief began to hurry out of the room, leaving the poker cards lying on the table.

“Sir,” Hunk said into the phone. “I’m sure you know this, but Russia is a long way from here. We won’t arrive probably until tomorrow morning.”

“Can’t be helped,” Wesker said. “We’re working to coordinate our response with Umbrella. Officially, you and your team will be under orders of the UBCF Commander on site. It will be a long flight. I’ll contact you and give you additional information when you’re in the air.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your orders are to work with the UBCF to contain the outbreak and rescue survivors.”

“I understand.”

“Your other orders,” Wesker added, “are to locate and rescue a Tricell employee who is currently in the city. It’s Ada Wong. I’m sure you remember her.”

How could he forget? “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good, now get going. I’ll call you when you’re in the air.”

Hunk followed the troops to the armory, which was a secured vault next next to the mission briefing area. Unlike the paintball guns and firecracker grenades they used in training, these weapons were the real thing. When he got there, both squads were busy storing gear and checking their weapons. Three black humvee trucks were parked just outside, the engines running. Hunk had to give Chanelle credit, she didn’t waste any time getting their transportation ready.

He entered the armory and grabbed one of their Remington ACR assault rifles and an armload of other items. As he was arming himself, Chanelle returned. She noticed Hunk was there and went over to him.

Hunk snapped a magazine into his rifle and checked to make sure the gun’s safety was on. He dug into his pocket and handed Chanelle her cellphone back.

“You’re going with them?” she asked in surprise.

“I am,” he replied coolly, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “You can come along too, if you like.”

“I can …?” she blinked at him and then shook her head. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You’re supposed to be the training specialist here. The squads have completed their training. Shouldn’t they go off on this mission by themselves? Isn’t that the whole point?”

“Yes, technically their training is done,” Hunk said. “But that doesn’t mean they’re ready to deal with a situation like this yet. I’m going with them to supervise. The squad leaders will still be in command of their respective squads.”

“But you’re the most experienced person,” Chanelle said. “Maybe you should take command.”

“Make up your mind,” Hunk said. “First you don’t want me to go, and now you want me to be their squad leader.”

“I don’t think you should go, but if you’re going then you should be in charge.”

Hunk buckled a combat harness around his waist and stuck a Beretta into the side holster. He stuffed four spare magazines for the Beretta into his pocket. Already, the other soldiers were heading out to the humvees.

Hunk had a private reason for not putting himself in command. The last two times he had acted as a squad leader both ended in disaster. First his USS squad was slaughtered by Birkin, and then the squad of UBCF soldiers he led into Raccoon City were killed in the early hours of the outbreak by mobs of zombies. Hunk hadn’t had much luck being in command of a squad lately. He did not share that information with Chanelle.

He ran out to the humvees, the last few soldiers coming after him. Chanelle chased after them and watched helplessly as they loaded up.

“How do I keep in contact with you?” she asked.

“Call the boss,” Hunk suggested. “He’ll be able to patch you through. Once we reach the target, all communications will be jammed.”

Captain Darby shouted from the other humvee, “Let’s go! Move out!”

Hunk climbed into the truck and slammed the door. “Be seeing you, Ms. Robertson.”

“Good luck!” she shouted as the humvees peeled out of the lot, kicking up dust.

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