Vektor (49 page)

The vehicle bucked again, slamming the side of his head into the metal doorframe.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Serves you right,” Misha said.

The left, front side of the vehicle dropped and rebounded, shaking the entire vehicle, but sparing Farrington any further physical damage. Sasha moaned from the rear compartment, feeling the full impact of their off-road voyage, strapped against the thinly cushioned troop bench. His morphine had started to wear thin before reaching Slavgorod, but they didn’t feel comfortable giving him more painkillers without a better assessment of his condition, and so far they hadn’t been able to spare the time for a more comprehensive examination. He was moaning, which meant he was still alive, and that was about the best they could manage at the moment.

Farrington’s satellite phone vibrated, and he immediately answered.

“Blackjack, this is control station. Black Rain has detected helicopters inbound from the north—”

“Is this our pickup? We’re not over the border yet,” Farrington said.

“Negative. Two Mi-8 Hips at low altitude. Scan north to northeast of your position. We’re trying to find them on satellite…shit, check your four o’clock!” Karl Berg said.

“Scan four o’clock for hostile helicopters!” Farrington yelled.

“Scanning!” Gosha yelled.

“Where the fuck are my helos, control?” Farrington said.

“En route to primary extract. ETA three minutes,” Berg said.

“You need to redirect them to our position. We can’t fight off armed helicopters,” Farrington said.

“I’ll do what I can. Until then, I have one last parting gift for you,” Berg said.

***

Gosha spotted the helicopters and swiveled the grenade launcher as far to the right as possible, unable to line them up in the launcher’s sight. Unlike the American “Humvee,” the GAZ Tiger didn’t feature a fully rotatable gun ring enabling gunners to engage targets in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc. He was limited by the Tiger’s forward direction of travel.

“I have two helicopters coming in low at four o’clock,” Gosha said.

“How far?” Farrington said.

“Not far enough.”

He couldn’t guess their distance in the dark and had no intention of taking his hands off the grenade launcher to try and mark them with his rifle-mounted laser. By the time he determined the range, projectiles of various calibers would start arriving. He assumed the helicopters hadn’t been armed with air-to-ground missiles, or they would have fired them already, serving up the same result as the Hellfire missiles fired from the drone overhead.

Without air-to-ground missiles, the transport helicopters would have a limited number of attack options, all strictly dependent upon the types of guns installed. The most typical weapons arrangement for the Mi-8 Hip troop transport involved door guns, which would leave them with two options: high-speed strafing runs alongside the Tiger or standoff gunnery at low speed. The Tiger’s grenade launcher could outrange most of the weapons mountable in the Hip’s doors, making a slow or stationary standoff attack unlikely. One 30mm grenade could cripple the lightly armored Hip, and the pilots would be unlikely to take that chance. Gosha counted on them to favor less accurate, high-speed tactics which, combined with the one Hellfire missile still owed to them by Black Magic, gave them a fighting chance to reach the border.

Almost on cue with this thought, the lead helicopter exploded in midair, spinning ninety degrees and dropping to the horizon. Upon impact with the ground, a secondary detonation expanded skyward, blinding his night vision goggles. He couldn’t tell if the explosion had simply masked the second helicopter from sight or enveloped the second helicopter in the storm of shrapnel and fire that illuminated the countryside. He prayed for the latter. He raised his NVGs and scanned for any sign of a second crash site, unable to see past the firestorm that appeared well within his grenade launcher’s range.

“Splash one helo! I don’t have a visual on the second,” he said.

“Second helo peeled off in a wide arc,” Farrington said. “We might have caught a break. Get us to the border, Misha. I don’t care how you do it.”

Misha accelerated the Tiger forward through the rough terrain, making a final push for the border. They travelled several seconds before Farrington broke the bad news over the intrasquad radio.

“Control reports that the second Hip appears to be back in the fight, approaching from our seven o’clock. They have a bird’s-eye satellite view of the situation and can estimate range. We’ll turn into them at 2000 meters so you can engage with the grenade launcher,” Farrington said.

“How far to the border?” Gosha asked, pushing his NVGs down over his face.

“One point five kilometers. We just have to stay in the game for three minutes! Control is telling me to stand by to maneuver. Three, two—” Farrington said.

“I don’t have a visual,” Gosha said, scanning the indicated sector for a dark object hovering over the horizon.

“Hard left! Accelerate!” Farrington said.

The vehicle banked left, swinging Gosha into the metal lip of the hatch and breaking his grip on the grenade launcher’s handle. When the Tiger straightened on its new southerly course, Gosha swung the launcher left, expecting to see the Hip lined up within a few degrees to either side of the weapon’s barrel. Instead, he saw nothing in a one hundred and eighty degree arc.

“I can’t see it!”

Before Gosha figured out his error, a continuous line of green tracers hit the ground in front of the Tiger, ricocheting in every direction. Misha managed to turn the vehicle out of the rapid-fire onslaught less than a second before the flow of 7.62mm projectiles hit them. The buzz-saw sound of the Hip’s minigun filled the air, competing with the general panic on their internal communications net, as he followed the last line of tracers back to the source. The helicopter had attacked them from a high angle, which he clearly hadn’t expected.

Misha’s quick maneuver had saved them from certain oblivion. This Mi-8 Hip was fitted with GShG 7.62mm miniguns, capable of accurately firing 6,000 rounds per minute out to 1000 meters. The gunners aboard the Hip only needed to line the Tiger up in their minigun sights for one second to shred the Tiger with over one hundred steel-jacketed projectiles. While his grenade launcher could saturate a stationary target at twice the range of the minigun, hitting a moving target was a different story altogether. The grenades took forever to reach their target and didn’t travel in a straight trajectory, making it nearly impossible to calculate the necessary trajectory to successfully lead a fast-moving target. He wasn’t the least bit optimistic about hitting a helicopter moving at 150 miles per hour with one of his grenades. Not before they were torn to pieces by the Hip’s miniguns.

Instead, they would have to work together to dodge the obtrusively lethal green line of tracers. If they could maneuver wildly enough at the last moment, the gunners would have a hard time lining up a shot. The last gun run had lasted fewer than three seconds, which was all the time the Russian gunners would get if the pilots continued to play it safe and conduct high-speed strafing runs. He watched the Hip bank left and commence a slow turn, while Misha pointed the Tiger toward the border and floored the engine.

Chapter 67

5:42 PM

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

The president turned to General Gordon and demanded an explanation for what they had all just witnessed on the screen.

“Did one of our helicopters just crash in Russia? I did not authorize the extraction force to cross the border!” he said, turning to Manning next. “Find out what the hell is going on there!”

“That was not one of our helicopters. Black Magic is sitting three kilometers west of the border. I’m talking with the SOCOM air controller right now,” General Gordon said, putting his right hand over his ear to drown out any noise from the room. “I’ve just been told that Black Magic saw the explosion. They also report another helicopter in the area firing on Blackjack.”

“Mr. President,” Manning said, “Blackjack reports that they are under attack by Russian helicopters. Heavily armed Mi-Hip transports. Blackjack is less than a kilometer from the border and requests immediate extract.”

“Black Magic Zero One is armed, Mr. President,” General Gordon said.

“We don’t know how many Russian helicopters are out there. What if there are more? We don’t even know where these helicopters originated!” Jacob Remy said.

“Our analysts are pretty sure they came from the airbase at Novosibirsk,” Manning replied. “Probably helicopters in transit to Georgia or Murmansk from a squadron based in Irkutsk. They feel confident that this is all we’ll see.”

“All I heard was ‘pretty sure’ and ‘probably,’ Mr. Manning. We can’t afford any more surprises here. General Gordon?” the president said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get Black Magic out of there. Roll the whole package back to Manas.”

“Understood, Mr. President.”

Manning couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Against all odds, Farrington’s team had made it close enough to the border to get within visual range of Black Magic, and they were still going to pull the plug on the operation.

“We could have them onboard our helos in less than three minutes, Mr. President. We’ve come too far to give up at this point,” Manning pleaded.

“Correction, Mr. Manning. We’ve gone too far at this point. I’m responsible for a trail of Russian corpses extending nearly two hundred miles from Novosibirsk to Kazakhstan, and now we’ve just added a Russian transport helicopter to the list. I’m already facing a hard fucking day on the diplomatic front tomorrow. I won’t risk compounding the situation with the loss of an American helicopter on Russian soil, especially not one of those prototypes. I don’t know how I let any of you convince me to authorize their use. General Gordon, are those helicopters heading back?”

“They just received the order, Mr. President,” the general said.

“You’re making a big mistake leaving them behind, Mr. President,” Manning said. “If any of them are captured alive, you’ll be facing more than a bad day on the diplomatic front.”

“Stand down, Mr. Manning,” Director Copley said.

“I want him out of here,” Remy said, prompting Manning to stand up.

The Secret Service agents standing at the door stirred, responding to Manning’s sudden movement. He wondered if they would physically remove him from the room if he refused to leave, and found himself not caring. He activated the communications channel to Karl Berg and passed information that he knew would result in his immediate expulsion from the Situation Room.

“Berg, this is Manning. The president refuses to send the helicopters to assist Blackjack. Black Magic has been ordered to return to Manas Airbase. Make sure they know who’s responsible.”

“What in the hell are you doing?” the president said.

“Informing Blackjack that they’ve been abandoned, so they can properly adjust their tactics,” Manning said. “I suggest we all cheer on the Russian helicopter gunners at this point,” Manning said.

“And why is that?” the National Security Advisor asked.

“Because if I was in that Tiger, I’d sell this pit of vipers out to the highest bidder if I managed to survive,” Manning said. He paused to listen to his headset for a moment and responded, “Negative. It appears they never had any intention of extracting the team. They’re on their own.”

“That’s a bald-faced lie!” Remy yelled.

“Good luck convincing anyone of that. I’ve sat here for the past hour watching you do everything short of breaking out the beer and chips to cheer on the Russians at every roadblock. You looked like you’d just seen a ghost when we restored the satellite feed,” Manning said.

“Director Copley, I don’t want to see this man again,” the president said. “Get him out of here.”

Manning handed his headset to Director Copley and raised his hands above his head, easing his forced departure from the conference room. The Secret Service agents grabbed his shoulders, forcibly guiding him from the room. Director Copley wore a grimace that indicated he was powerless to step in. Manning understood why. The CIA couldn’t afford a presidential coup within Langley, and the simultaneous removal of the CIA Director and National Clandestine Service Director would create a power vacuum that the White House would be eager to fill. Copley wouldn’t make it that easy for Remy. Not after this fiasco.

“Good luck explaining the Russian mafiya connection!” Manning said over his shoulder at the doorway.

“What is he talking about?” the president said, directing his question at Director Copley.

“I have no idea, but it sounds like something you might want to ask him yourself,” the director said.

“Hold on. Bring him back!” the president said. “What are you talking about?”

“Who do you think helped Sanderson’s team set up the entire operation within Russia?” Manning said.

“I thought it was an activist group. Some kind of eco-terrorist network,” the president said.

“Unfortunately that fell through. We had to pay the Solntsevskaya Bratva several million dollars to arrange the logistics, surveillance and assassinations necessary to complete the mission,” Manning said.

“You set us up!” Remy said.

“I think it’s time to crack out the chips and salsa, Jacob, you’ve got a lot of cheering to do for that Russian helicopter,” Manning said. “I’d hate to imagine what the survivor would do with that information, not to mention Sanderson.”

“Don’t think you can scare me with this last-minute revelation,” the president said. “I don’t care if you contracted with Osama Bin Laden to take down Vektor. After the biological attack against U.S. citizens less than a month ago, I could nuke Novosibirsk and not raise an eyebrow at home. A Russian mafiya connection? Grow up, Mr. Manning. Sanderson’s operatives understood the risks involved. Sending helicopters into Russia was not part of the deal. Get him out of here.”

Manning was struggling against the Secret Service agents’ efforts to push him through the door when Director Copley’s voice broke through the commotion. Manning planted a foot in the doorframe, temporarily arresting his rapid departure so he could hear what his boss had to say. Copley was a man of few words, but his brief discourses typically held far more sway than his quiet nature might suggest.