Vektor (45 page)

Odenko lowered himself into the vehicle just as the lieutenant arrived at the hatch, tightly gripping an AK-74.

“You cover any direction Marakev isn’t watching,” he said, adjusting the young officer’s night vision goggles and patting him on the shoulder.

He had no idea what they were headed into behind the rapidly approaching tree line, but as a reconnaissance battalion, scouting the unknown was their primary mission, and he was excited to finally do what he had trained a lifetime to do. He just hadn’t expected his vehicle to lead the way on the battalion’s first combat reconnaissance mission since he’d taken command two years earlier. If he’d known this ahead of time, he would have put a few more experienced soldiers on the guns of his Tiger.

Chapter 60

2:55 AM

82 miles from Kazakhstan border

Russian Federation

Farrington stared intensely through the night vision goggles at the featureless green road ahead of them. The chilly night air blasted his face through the missing windshield, pelting his cheeks and neck with stinging pebbles. A small price to pay for a better off road vehicle and armor that could stop most small arms fire. He strained to see as far ahead as possible and make what little sense he could of the deeply rutted dirt road.

Travelling at thirty-five miles per hour along this confusing jumble of jeep trails for the past twenty minutes had put them into the trees twice, costing them precious time. He desperately wanted to avoid any more involuntary off-road trips, but he had no intention of slowing down any further. He needed to close the distance to the border while they were alone on the roads. Once they started to attract company, travel would become perilous and require more caution, which was why they had detoured slightly from his original plan twenty minutes earlier and found themselves on these miserable trails.

They had just completed a shortcut through a small hamlet of dirt roads and corrugated tin huts called Verkh Payva, in an attempt to link up with a road that could support another high-speed run. They hadn’t seen a single light in the village as they sped through at seventy miles per hour. Every small settlement they’d encountered west of Highway 380 had been the same—eerily quiet and dark, just the way he liked it.

His original plan had been to travel north of the town and continue on what had turned out to be a reliable jeep trail, but he had become hopelessly addicted to travelling at seventy miles per hour. They’d already made up the time lost at the checkpoint and gained a few minutes on their exfiltration deadline. The road they sought through the thick trees and washed-out trails ran for fifty miles to the town of Znamenka, on the northern tip of Lake Kulunda. If he could hit sixty miles per hour on the road ahead, he could gain more time. Based on Sanderson’s last report, elements of the 21
^st
Motor Rifle Division had started to set up roadblock positions in the towns closest to the border. Znamenka was thirty miles from the border, so he didn’t anticipate anything more than local law enforcement.

The Tiger’s chassis crunched and shook as they hit a sizable washout along the road, seriously testing the vehicle’s supposedly undefeatable suspension system. He wasn’t sure how many times they could plow over a downed tree or crash through a washout at forty-five miles per hour before they threw an axle or bent a pin, disabling the vehicle permanently.

“You can slow down if you see stuff like that,” Farrington said, “no point in walking the rest of the way.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m not sure how much more this thing can take,” Misha said from behind the wheel.

Farrington’s satellite phone rang, and he plugged it into his communications rig.

“What are we looking at?” Farrington answered.

“I noticed you took a little detour,” Sanderson said.

“I’m going to make up some time on the road between Verkh Sayva and Znamenka,” Farrington said.

“Just be careful. The 121
^st
Recon battalion started moving west a few minutes ago, which means they found the ambushed Tiger. You bought some extra time with the booby traps, but they know you’re headed west. High-profile roads might not be the best idea. The 21
^st
Motor Rifle Division will respond accordingly and likely expand east from the border area. We can’t track all of these units.”

“I understand. Has the 21
^st
shown any movement?”

“Negative, but it won’t be long, and you have a Border Guard barracks in the area. They know the area better than you do. If there’s a quick way to get to that road you’re taking, they’ll show the 21
^st
the way. We’ll keep a close eye on Znamenka.”

“That’s all we can do. Two hours and this is over,” Farrington said.

“And there’s no wiggle room. Berg is worried that the White House might yank the helos early if things get too hot. We still have a few cards to play, but I don’t have a trump card this time,” Sanderson said.

“Understood. Is Black Rain still online?”

“Affirmative. ETA 0425 over Lake Kulunda. We’ll track your progress and adjust accordingly. It looks like you’ll be past the lake by 0425, so we might head it straight to your position. That should shave a few minutes off the ETA.”

“I think that’s the best plan. I’d send it to Slavgorod,” Farrington said.

“You’re not punching through Slavgorod.”

“I’m not planning on that, but I estimate that we’ll be somewhere northwest of Slavgorod at that point. At least I hope so. If not, we’re fucked.”

Slavgorod was fifteen miles from the border, but not directly connected to Kazakhstan by a major road. Hundreds of jeep trails and unmarked dirt roads snaked west into the fields and rolling hills, crisscrossing and emptying directly into Kazakhstan. They anticipated a sizable military presence in Slavgorod, so the plan was to run well north of the city through the myriad trails winding through trees, streams and mild gradients. Once they reached a point less than a mile from the border, they would turn due west and take the Tiger on a true off-road journey, relying on Berg and Sanderson to avoid any final patrols. If they hadn’t swung past Slavgorod by 4:25, they were unlikely to reach the border in time for pickup, especially travelling north of the city.

“All right. I’ll reroute Black Rain to Slavgorod. How is Sasha holding up?” Sanderson said.

“He’s holding up better in the Tiger. We have him lying down, strapped to one of the troop benches. His vitals are stable, but we have him fully drugged up on morphine. The road would have killed him,” Farrington said.

“And Seva?”

“Severe concussion from what we can tell. His vision seems fine, and he’s one hundred percent mission-capable, but he’s started to vomit frequently. I’ll be glad to get these two on a bird heading home.”

“I want
all
of you on a bird heading home. Be careful on that road,” Sanderson said, ending the call.

“I think this is our road,” Misha said, slowing the Tiger down to a crawl.

Farrington grabbed the RPDA and activated the screen, scrolling to a tighter view of the digital map. Examining the map for several seconds, he agreed. “I concur. Viktor’s people ran this road at sixty miles per hour during the day, so what do you say we try fifty?”

“That’s all?” Misha said.

“Feel free to push it if you can keep us on the road,” Farrington said, feeling the Tiger accelerate onto the wide dirt road.

“You up for sixty, Seva?” Misha asked.

“I might get some splash back from my own puke at sixty. Ten would be nice,” Seva said, eliciting a laugh from the team.

“Might get some splash back? I’m already getting a taste up here. Maybe you could aim lower?” Gosha said from the gun turret.

“I’ll send the next batch right up your way. Sixty it is,” Seva said.

“Fucking great,” Gosha said.

Once the Tiger stabilized on the road, Misha rocketed them forward at a speed that brought a smile to Farrington. He leaned over to examine the speedometer. Sixty-three miles per hour. At this speed, they’d cruise through Znamenka before any of the 21
^st
’s vehicles could mobilize.

Chapter 61

4:01 AM

Outskirts of Znamenka

Russian Federation

Farrington didn’t have time to further articulate his decision to run the blockade. Their Tiger was rapidly approaching the maximum effective range of the weapons likely to be mounted on the vehicles at Znamenka, and he didn’t have much time to coordinate a strategy before 30mm grenades started raining down on them.

“We’re running it. I’ll call you once were through, out,” he said, jamming the satellite radio into the center console.

“Gosha! Anything yet?” he said.

“Nothing. I don’t see shit!”

Sanderson reported the sudden appearance of three vehicles on the edge of Znamenka. Two Tigers with multiple weapons mounts and one Ural 4320, heavy off-road trucks capable of transporting an infantry platoon. All of this was supposedly in the open, but nobody in his Tiger had been able to spot the blockade force through their night vision goggles. Still more than two kilometers away, the unmagnified NVGs couldn’t provide a crisp enough image to pick them out of the background. He also wondered if the rolling hills didn’t play a major role. If the vehicles were situated in a small depression outside of town, they might not see them until the last second. He wanted to believe that the Russians would have the same problem, but he knew better.

“Seva, take over for Gosha on the gun. Gosha, try to pick them up on your thermal scope,” Farrington said.

“Got it,” Gosha replied.

The maximum effective range for an AGS-30 automatic grenade launcher was 1700 meters, but he didn’t expect the Russians to engage his Tiger that far out. The 30mm grenades fired by the system travelled at 183 meters per second and would take an eternity to arc down onto target at that range, rendering impossible the task of adjusting fire on a fast-moving target. The automatic grenade launcher was designed to engage static or slow-moving targets with overwhelming firepower, so he anticipated a strategy better suited to the weapon starting at 1000 meters.

Tactically, the best way to stop an approaching vehicle with an area weapon like the AGS-30 was to create a wall of fragmentation and high-explosive detonations at a fixed point in front of the vehicle and let it sail through. He planned to exploit this tactic to get their lone vehicle past the initial grenade threat unscathed. After that, it would come down to speed and firepower, as it always did in open combat.

“Slow it down to fifty miles per hour, Misha,” Farrington said.

The Tiger immediately decelerated, launching him forward against his seat belt.

“Shouldn’t we be speeding up?” Misha said.

“Not yet. I just had an idea. Be ready to floor it.”

***

Gosha sat on the back lip of the hatch and peered through the thermal scope at the bouncing purple image. He was thankful they had slowed down because the jolting and bumping at seventy miles per hour would have made this task impossible. He had changed the digital scope’s settings from black-and-white to color, in order give him the best chance of picking up warm engine blocks, hot exhaust pipes and personnel in the open. Thermal returns would appear in the orange to yellow range, with yellow signifying the hottest sources. He expected to see the Ural’s exhaust pipe first, since it was located high above the cabin, followed by the gunners manning the weapons on the Tigers. His scope showed nothing but a sea of purple.

“Negative on the thermal scope. They must be masked by a hill,” Gosha said.

Seva sat on the right side of the open hatch, trying to remain clear of Gosha’s view. He swayed on the edge, which made Gosha nervous. Seva had vomited at least five times in the past hour, yielding little more than the water he was trying desperately to force down to stay hydrated. He lowered the scope for a moment to grab Seva’s vest and pull him closer.

“I’m good, man. I’m good,” Seva insisted.

He was far from good. The operative was fading fast, suffering from a severe concussion and possibly a cerebral blood clot. He needed to be strapped into the bench across from Sasha, receiving intravenous saline, but they had neither the saline nor the luxury of retiring his gun until they reached the extraction point.

“Hang in there, brother. Less than an hour to go,” Gosha said, slapping him on the shoulder.

He lifted the rifle back into position and scanned the deep purple image, sweeping left to right along the perceived level of the horizon. The Tiger hit something in the road, slamming the scope into his eye socket and dazing him momentarily. The road smoothed out again, and he got the sensation that they were climbing a gentle hill. He put the scope to his face, afraid of taking another mind-numbing punch to the head and prayed the hill’s elevation would give him the view he needed. Nothing appeared for several seconds as he anticipated the Tiger’s next jolt. Suddenly, he saw the entire formation. Three unmistakable vehicle heat signatures and a dozen smaller yellow specks surrounding them.

“Contact confirmed. Three vehicles. One Tiger on each side of the road. Utility truck behind the Tiger on the right. Marking targets,” he said, moving forward in the hatch to a position next to the grenade launcher.

He activated the AN/PQS-23 Micro-Laser Rangefinder (MLRF) and triggered the narrow beam, centering the thermal scope’s crosshairs on the rightmost Tiger. The laser was invisible to his thermal scope, but would appear as a crisp, bright line to his team’s night vision goggles, leading directly to the hostile vehicles. Unfortunately, the Russians would see the same laser and know that their blockade had been spotted.

“Got them. Three vehicles,” Farrington said.