The Sniper and the Wolf (28 page)

73

THE WHITE HOUSE

The president looked up from behind his desk in the Oval Office. “Is he going to live or not?” He was asking about Pope.

“The hospital gives him a ninety percent chance.” Brooks took a seat in front of the desk. “They just brought him out of surgery. He’s in what they’re calling
guarded
condition.”

“We sure can’t afford to lose him now,” the president said, stroking his lower lip. “Walton must’ve been out of his damn mind. What the hell made him chance something like that?”

Brooks shrugged. “I think your guess is as good as any, sir.”

The president shook his head, putting the mystery from his mind. “Has Couture heard anything more about Major Dragunov’s condition?”

“Yes, sir. Dragunov’s going to be fine. His abdominal wall was pretty badly torn up, and they had to remove a small portion of his large intestine, but he is expected to make a full recovery. Secretary Sapp is in contact with the Russian ambassador, and Moscow
has been advised. To quote Sapp, ‘They are intensely curious as to how their man got out of Russia.’ At the moment, Dragunov’s in a Tbilisi hospital under close guard, which is another embarrassment for Putin—having a top Spetsnaz operative end up under Georgian care.”

“And a big risk for the Georgians,” the president added. “Imagine if somebody gets in there and kills Dragunov before the Russians can pick him up.”

“I’m sure that’s why there’s the close guard, sir.”

“Speaking of which,” the president went on, “how the hell did Walton get past the Secret Service?”

Brooks smiled a dry smile. “That’s an entirely different can of worms.”

The president was not amused. “Spill it.”

“One of Walton’s specialties was phony identification: passports, driver’s licenses. He made himself a doctor’s ID tag and used it to get past Pope’s guards. Hospital security says the ID is perfect. Even they can’t tell it’s a phony.”

“So the Service agents are in the clear? They followed procedure?”

“Yes and no,” Brooks said. “Yes, they’re clear. No, they didn’t follow procedure.”

The president cocked an eyebrow. “How the hell does
that
work?”

“Well, procedure dictated they check the doctor’s name against a list of docs cleared to be in Pope’s room. Whatever Walton’s made-up name was, it wasn’t on the list, so they couldn’t have checked it. That’s enough to establish they didn’t follow procedure.”

“Then how are they in the clear?”

“Because Pope shot Walton in the head after the agents had already put him down and disarmed him. He had a pistol concealed beneath his blanket. We’re still trying to figure out how he got it into the room.”

The president stared for a moment. “So the agents are covering for him, or what?”

“Sort of. They were debriefed separately—before they had time
to corroborate a story—and they both describe the event the exact same way.”

“They obviously had time enough to agree on throwing Pope under the bus,” the president muttered.

“The initial debriefing was off the record,” Brooks said. “Both agents refused to talk on tape until
after
they were allowed to tell the unfettered version of what took place.”

The president sat back. “Sounds like they’re offering to keep their mouths shut in exchange for keeping their jobs.”

“They haven’t been so impertinent as to verbalize it quite that way, but that’s what they’re hoping for, yes.”

“Fine. I’ll play ball, but no more high-profile security details for those two jamokes. They can babysit some moron in the witness protection program. Or better yet, they should be chasing counterfeit twenties around the Midwest—somewhere far away from DC.”

“I’ll pass the word, sir.”

“Do that. Now, what about Chief Shannon?”

“Couture says they’ve projected his movement, and it looks like he’s headed for a camp presently under the control of a Dagestani militant named Ali Abu Mukhammad. Mukhammad is rumored to be next in line to take over the Caucasus Emirate if Dokka Umarov is ever killed.”

“How many people in this camp?”

“Over two hundred, sir.”

The president sucked his teeth. “That’s another way of saying Shannon doesn’t have a chance.” Then he smirked and shook his head. “Which is, of course, exactly why he
does
have a chance.” He sat scratching his head. “Give the general my regards and let him know that I won’t be coming over to the Pentagon to watch.”

“You don’t care for the stress, sir?”

“Oh, the stress isn’t a problem,” the president said. “Stress comes with the job, but this is likely to be Shannon’s swan song, and I know how hard it is for the good general to maintain his composure with me in the room.”

Brooks pursed his lips. “Then we won’t be lending Shannon any support at all?”

“He’s still in Russia, Glen. I already took a huge risk to bring him out, and he took a pass. There’s nothing more I can do. And with Bob Pope lying in the recovery room?” The president shook his head. “I’m afraid Gil Shannon may well have overplayed his hand this time.”

74

THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS

Gil heard the safety lever eject from a grenade to his right. He saw the orb flying toward him on an almost level trajectory, and his brain calculated a solution with computerlike speed. The fuse on a Russian grenade was only 3.8 seconds, and after the first 1.8 seconds, it would detonate on impact. So when he reached up, it wasn’t to catch it—but to fling it past him. The grenade detonated on the other side of a tree, and he sprang into a crouch, firing a 40 mm grenade into the trunk of a tree on the far side of a rotting log forty feet to his right. The grenade exploded, and the Chechen hiding behind the log was killed by the blast.

Gil knifed him behind the ear to make sure and ran to get back on course for Mukhammad’s camp. He was moving fast along a well-worn foot trail when he ran headlong into a patrol of four men running north to investigate the explosions. He shot three of them down, firing from the hip as he charged into the column and taking
out the last man with a butt stroke to the face. He kept going, reloading the AN-94 on the run.

There was shouting up ahead. Smoke from a cooking fire drifted through the trees among a number of well-camouflaged lean-tos, where men grabbed for their weapons. This was an Umarov outpost—an outpost not designated on the Russian map—and without a doubt, the garrison would be in radio contact with Mukhammad’s main force.

Once again, Gil had lost the element of surprise in his pursuit of Kovalenko.

He lobbed a grenade over the rhododendron as he moved to skirt the encampment. It detonated near the cooking fire, blowing away three men and sowing confusion as everyone in the camp realized the perimeter had been breached. He wanted no part of these people in daylight and needed to break off contact before they realized he was only one man. Taking cover behind a tree, Gil hurled another grenade toward a cluster of men receiving hurried instructions from an officer. They didn’t see him, but they spotted the grenade in the air and scattered for cover as it detonated harmlessly on the roof of a lean-to with a radio antenna sticking out of it.

He disappeared down a trail to the south, knowing the dangers of sticking to the trails, but the rhododendron left him no other choice. His only chance was to put as much distance between himself and the outpost as he could, hoping for a break in the rhododendron grove. Gil stopped behind a rock to reload the GP-34 and to attach another hand grenade to the ready-hook on his harness. He heard footfalls coming down the trail and drew the suppressed pistol, aiming over the rock as a man came through the curve in the trail. He shot him in the base of throat, and the guy grabbed his neck, pitching forward off the trail.

Gil got back on the move and after twenty minutes began to believe he may have shaken them, but his fantasies were dispelled the moment he heard the faint rattle of equipment moving parallel to him on the far side of an impenetrable thicket. He slowed and stopped, and the rattling stopped as well. There were at least two men
shadowing him, but he didn’t have time for a cat-and-mouse game, so he took off running.

The two paths came to an abrupt intersection a hundred feet down the trail, and he slammed broadside into one of the men, sending him flying. The second guy jumped on Gil and knocked him down. Fortunately, the impact knocked the man’s AK-47 from his hands, and the guy had to turn around to pick it up. Gil machine-gunned them both from his back and sprang to his feet. There was a burst of fire behind him, and the rounds impacted against the armor panel on his back and sent him sprawling forward. He rolled to his back as the Chechen charged, catching his toe on the nub of a root and stumbling forward off his feet, landing in Gil’s guard.

Gil wrapped his legs around the Chechen’s waist and grabbed him around the neck with his arm, gouging out the Chechen’s eye with the thumb of his free hand. The guy screamed and tore off Gil’s helmet, trying to get free. Gil released his guard and performed a hip escape, bashing him in the temple with his knee as he got to his feet. He grabbed the AN-94 and finished him with a rifle butt to the head before taking off again.

There was plenty of shouting to his rear now, and Gil knew that the rest of the outpost wouldn’t be more than thirty seconds behind him. He guessed there were a dozen men or so bearing down on him, but who the hell knew? It may as well have been a hundred, because his reserves were spent. Every time his right foot hit the trail, it felt like he was stomping on a bowie knife. His lungs burned with fire, and the calves of his legs were beginning to knot up with lactic acid. He desperately needed a chance to catch his wind, but the hounds never allowed the fox that kind of time.

What was it Dragunov had said the night before, that running back toward the hounds was never an option for the fox?

“Fuck it. Better to meet it head-on than to let ’em run you down.”

He turned and charged back up the trail.

A dark figure leapt out of the undergrowth and tackled him. Two more men fell on him a second later and pinned him fast to the
ground. Gil screamed and went berserk, slugging away and trying to throw them off, but they were too heavy and too strong. They immobilized him, and one of them sat on his head while his hands were zip-tied behind his back. They dragged him into the undergrowth, and Gil lay on his back watching as six men in black quickly fanned out to either side of the trail with AN-94s.

Thirteen Chechens rounded the bend and were met by a hail of fire. The two men at the front of the column virtually disintegrated. Those to the center were cut down without getting off a shot, and those at the rear turned to run—but they didn’t make it far. The forest fell silent, and the men in black rose to their feet, dumping the empty magazines from their rifles.

Gil struggled to sit up as one of them came forward. The man knelt in front of him and lowered a black balaclava to reveal his unshaven visage.

“I am Colonel Yablonsky of the Spetsnaz Spetsgruppa A,” he said, his eyes almost black beneath dark eyebrows. “Where is Major Dragunov?”

Gil swallowed. “He was medevac’d out by an American mercenary unit.”

Yablonsky said something to his lieutenant in Russian. “When?”

“Around noon.”

“Why were you left behind?”

Gil watched as the other Spetsnaz men took up defensive positions. “Because I’m going to kill Dokka Umarov and Sasha Kovalenko. Did Moscow send you in?”

Yablonsky shook his head, looking pensive. “We jumped in on our own—against orders. Dragunov is a good friend.”

Gil was exhausted, but he found the energy to smile. “My kinda group.”

“How badly is Ivan wounded?”

“Bad enough to take him out of the fight,” Gil said, “but he’ll survive. He’s tough.”

“And where exactly are you going?”

“Mukhammad’s camp.”

Yablonsky spoke again with his lieutenant and then returned his attention to Gil. “Do you know Mukhammad has more than two hundred men in that camp?”

Gil nodded. “It was mentioned, yeah.”

“And you’re going anyway? In this condition?”

Gil shrugged. “Nothin’ better to do out here.”

Yablonsky told the lieutenant to cut him loose, and Gil dug a couple of dextroamphetamine capsules from his medical kit.

“Do you really think you’re capable of completing such a mission in your condition, Master Chief?”

Gil swallowed the capsules with a gulp of water from the CamelBak inside Mason’s rucksack. “Yep.”

“One man against two hundred? Two hundred who probably know you’re coming?”

Gil smiled. “Well, there’s seven of us now, Colonel.” He chuckled. “Which cuts the odds to something like twenty-eight to one, doesn’t it? Unless you guys are leaving, in which case I’d appreciate some ammo and grenades.”

Yablonsky was unsure of what to do.

“You say you guys jumped in here against orders?”

The Russian nodded and stood up. “And by now Moscow will know.”

Gil got to his feet slowly, testing his weight on the titanium implant and rubbing his wrists. “I’m not Spetsnaz, Colonel, but with Major Dragunov already out of danger . . . well, I’m guessing it might be a good idea for you guys to take Dokka Umarov’s head back to Moscow.”

Yablonsky smiled. “Even if we fail, it’s a story that will grow in the telling.” He looked at his men, saying to them in Russian, “The American has challenged us to help him kill Umarov. Anyone want to refuse?”

No one did.

75

HAVANA,
Cuba

After a couple of hours in the bathroom, Mariana emerged. She glanced at Crosswhite, who sat on the bed in front of the television. Then she leaned against the wall, folding her arms in a protective embrace. “What happened to the—to the bodies?”

Crosswhite lifted the remote and turned off the television. “Ernie’s people are taking care of things. Do you need him to call the doctor?”

She pulled her hair back behind her ears and then folded her arms again, sniffling. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

“I should have cleared the room. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.

“We’ll get you on a plane to Mexico City. I’ll meet you there after the mission, and we can get our stories straight. There’s no reason for Pope to know about this—unless you want him to. And don’t worry, I’ll tell him I’m willing to work with you again.”

She stepped over to the bed and sat down on the corner of the mattress, keeping her arms folded. “How did you know to come in?”

“It’s an old building,” he said. “I heard him peeing in the toilet through the wall. It didn’t sound right. Then when he dropped the lid to flush, and I knew somebody was over here.”

She sat staring at the floor. “I must’ve washed fifty times. I still feel dirty.”

“It’s normal,” he said.

She looked at him. “I’d like to stay and finish the mission. I’m focused now.”

“No. You need to recover from this. You can spend as much time as you need in Mexico City. There’s plenty of money, and Pope’s been—”

“I need to finish this, Dan. If I go back now, it’s like it happened for nothing.”

“You might feel that way at the moment, but—”

“Listen to me!” she said. “You didn’t just save my life. You stopped him before he could finish—and that means more than you have any idea. I can do this. Please trust me.”

He sat thinking things over for a long time. He thought about Sarahi bleeding to death in his arms. He thought about his friend Sandra Brux, raped and brutalized at the hands of the Taliban two years earlier—his failed mission to rescue her—and he thought about Paolina. Did he even dare step into her world? What specters of evil might follow him there?

“Dan?”

He looked at her.

“Let me stay.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But you have to follow my every instruction.”

“I promise.” She stood up. “Think we can get outta this room?”

“Sure.”

They slipped into Crosswhite’s room, and he gave her a bottle of water from the fridge. “I talked to Midori over the sat phone. Pope’s been shot again.”

Mariana nearly choked on the water. “What?!”

“Ben Walton walked right into his hospital room and shot him—with two Secret Service agents out in the hall. Believe that shit?”

“By now, I’ll believe anything. Is he going to live?”

“Sounds like it.” He took the Cuban assassin’s cellular from his pocket and dropped it onto the bed. “Midori worked the call list and figured out where to find Peterson. Looks like he bought a small
finca
outside of town last year.” A
finca
was an estate. “She’s going to email us the sat photos and whatever other intel she can come up with. We’ll recon the place later and put together a plan of action.”

Mariana capped the water bottle and set it aside, rubbing her hands on her legs. “So what do we do while we’re waiting?”

“Dunno. You hungry?”

“Yeah, but can we have Ernesto bring us something? I don’t feel like going outside right now. I feel like the whole world will know what happened the second they see me.”

“Sure.”

Ernesto brought them food from a restaurant down the street, and they sat on the bed eating. When they were finished, the two of them stretched out and lay staring at the ceiling. Crosswhite kept the 1911 beside him on the bed.

Mariana rolled to her side and propped up her head on her hand. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier . . . about getting another one killed. That was a cunt thing to say.”

“Forget it. We’re in another life now.”

“I guess that’s true, isn’t it? For me, anyhow.” She stared into space. “They were absolutely going to kill me. Peterson ordered it. The smaller guy said so.”

“Well, we’re going to return the favor.”

She lifted her head and her eyes filled with tears, her voice shaking as she spoke. “They slugged me in the stomach, and I couldn’t even scream for help.”

“When he was on top of me . . .” Her voice cracked. “When he
was on top of me, I
begged
God for you to come through that door. I’ve never begged for anything like that in my life . . . but I knew you wouldn’t come . . . I
knew
it was impossible.

“But then there you were. I still can’t believe it.”

He smiled. “Well, I guess that just proves the old saying.”

She wiped her nose with the backs of her fingers. “What old saying?”

He looped a lock of hair behind her ear with his finger and then rested his hand on the bed.

“Trust in God and the Eighty-Second Airborne.”