The Sniper and the Wolf (22 page)

56

BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL,
Bethesda, Maryland

“I understand that,” Pope said patiently, speaking with his opposite number in the Moscow bureau of the GRU, Bureau Chief Galkin. “But we’re watching them on satellite in real time, and they’re in serious trouble. You’re telling me your people don’t have a visual on them?”

“I am not authorized to answer that question one way or another,” Galkin said. “What I can say is that we have received no request for assistance.”

Pope had one eye on his laptop and saw Gil and Dragunov slowly emerging from their hide. He had already known that Russian spy satellites for that part of the world were tasked over Ukraine, where the fighting had intensified over recent months.

“Do you have any assets available to provide them support?” he asked.

“There is a helicopter available for emergency evacuation,” the Russian answered. “But so far we have received no such request.”

Pope was also aware that much of Russia’s military assets, too, had been sent to Ukraine, and that it had recently lost a pair of Hind helicopters during a mission to kill Dokka Umarov. He was beginning to doubt their willingness to risk another helo pulling Gil and Dragunov out of the fire.

“Have you attempted to contact them?”

Galkin hesitated. Then he said, “Not recently.”

“I see,” Pope said, putting it together. “You’re no longer in contact with them, are you? You’ve lost contact with them altogether.”

Galkin let out a sigh. “If they’re as heavily engaged as you say, Mr. Pope, it’s no surprise we haven’t heard from them.”

Pope felt his pulse quicken, piqued by the inanity of the remark. “I would say the exact opposite was true, Mr. Galkin. I don’t know Ivan Dragunov, but I know Gil Shannon, and I’ve been watching this battle very closely. Believe me, if our man could request support, he would do exactly that. It’s obvious from the way they’re moving that both men are wounded.”

“I understand your distress,” Galkin said, “but how can we possibly organize an evacuation if we are unable to communicate with them?”

“You could insert another team.”

“Out of the question,” Galkin said. “We just lost one of our best Spetsnaz teams in that region two days ago, and judging from what you’ve apparently seen tonight, this mission is completely compromised. To send another team in there now would be suicide.”

After another couple minutes of chasing Galkin around the bush, Pope ended the call knowing little more than he had before picking up the phone.

He looked at the computer, watching Gil and Dragunov stalking through the Caucasus, and then turned to agent Mariana Mederos, who had just arrived from Mexico. “You look tired.”

“It’s late,” she replied irritably, secretly intrigued by what was taking place on the computer screen. “Why wasn’t I told that Crosswhite was in Mexico to do your wet work?”

Pope couldn’t help chuckling at her choice of words. “What did you think he was there for?”

“My security.”

“He was there for both,” Pope said. “Crosswhite is what we call a pipe hitter.”

“I know what a pipe hitter is,” she said pugnaciously. “What I
don’t
know is why I was there. Crosswhite could have conducted the interview just as easily as me—even easier. You didn’t have to make me a party to murder.”

Pope gazed at her. Mederos was pretty, and her anger only increased the severity of her beauty. “You were there because I needed Castañeda’s full cooperation—and he has a thing for you.”

She didn’t immediately respond to that, wondering how Pope had known.

“I’m an asset manager, Mariana. That’s all the director of the CIA is, an asset manager. You’re an asset, Crosswhite’s an asset . . . and Castañeda’s an asset. It’s my job to utilize the agency’s assets however I can.”

“What if there’s an inquiry?” she snapped. “What if I’m called to testify?”

“There won’t be any of that.”

“What if there is? What if I’m offered some kind of immunity?”

Pope shrugged. “Then I suppose you’ll have to follow your conscience.”

She stared at him, disliking him for putting her in a compromising position. “I want you to know that I don’t trust you anymore. I did before, but now I don’t.”

He smiled at her. “Good for you,” Pope said gently. “You’ve clung to that innocence long enough. Now I need you to go to Havana. Crosswhite is already there.”

Her eyes widened. “I was just in Mexico City. Why couldn’t you send me direct?”

“Because you needed to get that business about Hagen off your chest,” Pope said. “And I need you to have a clear head when you get
to Havana. The CIA has assets in Cuba, but every one of them has been compromised, and Crosswhite is entirely on his own there.”

“He’s there for more wet work, I assume?”

Pope grinned. “He’s not down there collecting for the Red Cross.”

She frowned. “How many targets?”

“Peterson and Walton.” Pope handed her a yellow envelope. “For your travel expenses.”

She tucked the envelope under her arm, her anger beginning to abate. “I thought Walton ran off to the Arab Emirates.”

“He did, and he sold them a rather comprehensive dossier on our operations in Eastern Europe. Lives will be lost because of what he’s done. Now he’s en route to Havana, where Peterson and the rest of their rogue faction think they’re beyond my reach.”

“This is beginning to sound personal to me.”

Pope glanced around his hospital room. “I didn’t put myself in here.”

“So Crosswhite’s carrying out your personal vendetta . . . and you’re using me to help him do it.”

“Crosswhite is hunting a pair of traitors who have gotten innocent people killed, and who will continue to get innocent people killed until they’re stopped. The fact that I’ll take personal satisfaction in their misfortune is a bonus. You’re going to Havana only as backup. Unless something goes wrong, there won’t be reason for you to even leave your hotel, so sit by the pool and enjoy yourself. Get a massage. There’s a lot of money in that envelope, and I’m not asking for any receipts.”

“Feels a lot like a bribe.”

Pope suddenly became very serious. “You’ll
think
bribe, Mariana, if something goes wrong and Crosswhite needs you to get directly involved. Now, stop your pouting. You’re a valuable operative, and it’s time to act like one. The world gets more dangerous every day, and a strong stomach is required.”

57

THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS

Dragunov was on point, keeping close to the northern tree line as they moved eastward. He suspected that more Chechens were on the way, and that he and Gil would be intercepted before they made it to open country. But by sticking to the edge of the forest, he hoped to avoid being caught up in another tiger sweep.

He had torn a strip from his
shemagh
and used it to tie his injured testicles against his leg, but they had worked loose and were once again rubbing painfully back and forth. At least he could no longer feel wet blood running down his legs. This told him the bleeding had stopped, and he was grateful for that.

A stick snapped at their two o’clock, fifty yards out, and both men froze. The first signs of daybreak were beginning to show in the sky, and they were still a full click from the valley, where they hoped to draw Kovalenko into the open.

They took cover and scanned the forest through their NVGs, watching a long skirmish line of men materialize gradually out of
its black depths. Two Chechens came directly toward them at the extreme right flank of the tiger sweep, lagging slightly behind the rest due to the extra-rocky terrain inside the tree line, where small avalanches of football- and basketball-sized rocks has been accumulating for centuries.

Gil drew his knife, and Dragunov followed suit. If either Chechen made a sound, the two compatriots would quickly find themselves cornered with nowhere to run but over the open rocks at the base of the mountain. There they would be picked off at the enemy’s leisure.

Dragunov moved forward to take cover behind a thick tree. The pair of Chechens were not walking directly abreast but were moving almost single file, with fifteen feet between them, and Dragunov knew he would have to take the one in back before Gil could take out the man in front.

He kept low as the first of the Chechens brushed past the tree with his AK-47 slung lazily over his shoulder. Then he stood and readied himself for the second one to pass.

Gil crouched in the rocks, watching the first Chechen coming directly at him. If Dragunov couldn’t take his man first, they were in big trouble because Gil wouldn’t be able to afford the luxury of waiting; he would have to act the second the Chechen drew within striking distance. His Chechen came on steadily, but Dragunov’s man stopped to take a leak on the tree. Gil braced himself, waiting until the last possible instant before coming off the ground like a striking anaconda, ramming the knife up through the bottom of the Chechen’s jaw to sever the brain stem. He stood with the Chechen twitching in his arms, while Dragunov’s man finished taking a pee.

Dragunov held his breath until the man walked past, buttoning his fly. Then he stepped out and grabbed him from behind, cupping his hand over the Chechen’s mouth and stabbing the blade into the base of his skull.

Both men lowered their kills to the ground and moved out, cutting deeper into the forest away from the rocks, where the going would be faster. They covered a little over a hundred yards before
sweeping around a formation of boulders and running smack into five Chechens left behind on the chance that Gil and Dragunov managed to slip through the skirmish line undetected.

A wild melee ensued.

Dragunov was struck in the head with the barrel of an AK-47, and his face was torn open along the cheekbone. He reeled backward against the boulder, and the Chechen’s rifle went off in his face. Had his eyes not been closed, the muzzle blast would have blinded him. As it was, the bullet creased the side of his head and took off part of his ear.

Gil managed to shoot the Chechen off of him before he was struck on the breastplate by a five-round burst that knocked him off his feet. He landed on his back, and the Chechen stood over him, banging the heel of his hand against the receiver of his jammed AK-47. Gil squeezed the trigger on his AN-94 and emptied the magazine, killing his attacker and one other man. He scrambled back to his feet and was immediately tackled by a man who was either too panicked or too inexperienced to unsling his rifle.

Dragunov grabbed the barrel of the Chechen’s AK-47, managing to deflect it and avoid taking a burst of fire to the belly. The Chechen twisted the rifle free of his grasp, and Dragunov delivered him a vicious uppercut that chopped off part of his tongue. The two men fell over in the rocks, slugging away at each other.

Gil was down on his right knee, with his left shoulder braced against a tree, barely maintaining his center of gravity as he tried to get loose from the Chechen, who had him around the waist from behind. The man was bigger and stronger than Gil, but he didn’t seem to know what to do beyond wrestling his opponent to the ground. Gil knew if he ended up on the bottom he was finished, but his right arm was caught inside the Chechen’s bear hug, so all he could do for the moment was keep his opponent in an awkward headlock with his left arm and hope the guy made a mistake.

Dragunov was shoved over onto his back and took a knee to the groin. Seeing stars, he clamped his teeth down on his attacker’s
thumb and tried to bite it off. The Chechen flailed around in a desperate bid to keep his thumb, and this allowed Dragunov to use a hip-escape maneuver to slip out from beneath him and finally draw his knife. The Chechen caught Dragunov’s knife arm with his free hand and deflected the thrust away from his belly.

Meanwhile, Gil shoved upward with his right leg, using every ounce of strength he had, nearly blowing out his anterior cruciate ligament in the process of forcing himself to his feet. This must have surprised the Chechen, because he seemed to lose focus for a moment. Gil broke free of his grip, twisting into him and jamming both thumbs deep into his eye sockets. The Chechen screamed and grabbed for Gil’s arms, but Gil locked his legs around his waist and delivered a nasty head butt. The Chechen’s legs gave out, and Gil rode him to the ground, clawing out both of his eyes and then jumping to his feet.

“Now,
fuck
you!” he snarled at his howling opponent, grabbing the AN-94 and jumping to where Dragunov still fought for his life. He stuck the muzzle into the Chechen’s side and squeezed the trigger without result. The magazine was empty.

Swearing, Gil drew the knife and rammed it into the side of the Chechen’s neck. The Chechen went limp, and Gil stabbed him again for good measure.

Dragunov rolled clear of the body, spitting out the Chechen’s thumb and struggling to his feet. Both men were too exhausted to speak, so they bumped each other on the shoulder and took off toward the east. Day was beginning to break. They knew that every Chechen in the world would soon be hot on their heels—and that Kovalenko would be with them.

58

THE PENTAGON

The president of the United States glanced away from the screen to see General Couture lighting up a Pall Mall cigarette with a First Air Cavalry Zippo lighter. They had all seen the melee, and no one in the room could believe that Gil and Dragunov were still alive.

“Is smoking allowed in here, General?”

Couture shook his head. “But you’re the only man in the room who outranks me, sir. Would you like me to put it out? It’s Shannon’s fault. He does this to me every time.”

The president had recently given up smoking a pipe at his wife’s insistence. “May I have one?”

“Certainly.” Couture reached into the arm pocket of his starched, digitally camouflaged ACUs and gave him the red pack of cigarettes.

The president took one and tossed the pack onto the table. “Help yourselves, gentlemen.”

Brooks was the first to reach for the pack, and the president
smiled as Couture leaned forward to light his cigarette for him. “I’ll make sure to buy you another pack, General.”

Couture shook his head. “Won’t be necessary, sir.”

The room filled slowly with a smoky gray haze as they sat watching Gil and Dragunov make their way through the forest. On the other screen, a force of more than fifty men were chasing after them from the west, easily moving twice as fast.

An aide-de-camp stepped into the room and whispered into Couture’s ear.

“Mr. President, Bob Pope on line four, sir.”

The president picked up the phone and pressed the button. “This is the president . . . Yes, I saw it. We all did . . . You’re kidding me! You mean they have to fight their way back to Moscow on their own? Hold on a second, Robert.” The president turned to Couture. “The Russians have fallen out of contact with our men on the ground. Apparently there’s no help coming.”

Couture snapped his fingers at the air force liaison. “Find our nearest Predator and get it flying in that direction!”

“We can’t do that,” the president said. “They’re in Russia.”

“Barely, Mr. President.”

“Russia is Russia, General.”

“Can Pope get us permission?”

“Robert, can you get us permission for a Predator strike?” The president looked at Couture and then shook his head. “He says he already tried that, and they won’t even consider it. Moscow says this is a Russian operation and that Shannon volunteered to operate under Russian command.”

Couture sucked from the cigarette in frustration. “How about asking them to send in one of those flying washing machines of theirs?”

The president conferred with Pope. “He says not before first light, and even then he’s not sure. The Russians say Umarov has acquired MANPADS. I assume you know what those are. I don’t.”

“It’s a shoulder-fired antiaircraft missile, sir. Does Pope have anything in mind at all?”

“He says not at this time.”

“Where the hell is the Russian air force?” asked the air force chief of staff.

“Pope says that’s a very good question, General.”

“Unbelievable,” the air force general muttered. “The mission’s a failure, so they’re just going to let them die?”

“Pope says it’s beginning to look that way,” the president said. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Robert?” The president listened and then replied, “Call me the second you learn anything new.” He hung up the phone and looked at the men sitting around the table. “Unless one of you has a suggestion that doesn’t involve starting World War III, I think President Putin is about to have his revenge for Operation Bunny Ranch.”

None of the generals had any ideas, but the president spotted a young air force lieutenant sitting back in the corner in front of a computer with his hand partially raised.

“What is it, son?”

“Well, sir,” the lieutenant said. “What about calling Tbilisi for help? The Georgian army has helos on the ground right across the border. If they fly low between the mountains, Russian radar will never even pick them up. And they might not mind invading Russian airspace for twenty minutes or so, given that Russia still occupies Georgian territory in South Ossetia.”

The president looked at Couture. “What do you think?”

Couture shrugged. “It can’t hurt to ask, sir.”

The president grabbed the phone and pressed zero. “This is the president. Get Secretary of State Sapp on the phone immediately. And call the Georgian Embassy. We’re going to need to speak with the Georgian ambassador.”