by Peter Nealen
“We might not have time for slow and careful,” Hancock said. “Our competition’s already gotten inside our OODA loop.” The Observe-Orient-Decide-Act loop had become a slang term in the military ever since it had been popularized from the research of Colonel John Boyd. It might be somewhat over-used, and in this case, Hancock kind of hated himself for slipping into using it. The enemy hadn’t necessarily outmaneuvered them; they’d beaten them to the punch by minutes. It might have simply been a matter of bad timing.
“Again, I suspect that they’ll lie low for a while, and wait for the local security forces to get un-ruffled,” Brannigan said. “This hasn’t gone like the Mexico op; they’ve stayed fairly low profile so far. I think they want to avoid getting flashy, which is going to make them cautious. They wanted the world to see Mexico. They don’t want anyone to see what’s going on here.” He gusted a sigh, his breath steaming the window in front of him. “At least, that’s my read on it.”
“That’s of course assuming that it’s our friends from Mexico that grabbed Codreanu,” Hancock pointed out. “We don’t know that.”
“We don’t,” Brannigan admitted. “But it feels right. Who else would have the means or the motivation to do it? Come on, we go after Codreanu, and somebody else with an entirely different agenda just happens to swoop in on him at the same time? That’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Maybe it’s the Russians,” Hancock suggested. “If Dalca’s information’s right, then he did sell a Russian submarine, that he probably stole before that. Maybe he pissed Moscow off.”
Brannigan tilted his head to one side to give his second-in-command an arch look. “Really?” he said. “If the Russians wanted him, why wouldn’t they just come in force and arrest him? This place is essentially a Russian proxy, remember?”
Hancock grimaced. “Good point.”
“We’re wasting darkness,” Brannigan said, folding the map up. “You good with the plan?”
“Yeah,” Hancock replied. “What’s our drop-dead time?”
Brannigan checked his watch, the tritium hands glowing faintly. “Sunup’s at about 0745,” he said. “Let’s be set in no later than 0645.”
Hancock did some quick calculations in his head. “Gonna be tight,” he said.
“Which is why we should quit jaw-jacking and get going,” Brannigan said. “As long as you’re clear on the plan.”
“Got it, boss man,” Hancock said. “We’ll see you in a few hours.” Turning, he started to jog back toward his van, started to slip, caught himself, and kept going at a more sedate pace.
I really should have packed better clothing for this.
***
It was closer to 0700 by the time the two vans were set in deep under the trees in a valley north of Molochisul Mare. Hancock’s team had been there early, but it had taken Brannigan’s element a little bit longer to work their way around from Belochi.
Gomez, Jenkins, Wade, and Childress were on security, crouched near trees, their weapons trained outboard. Flanagan had started a fire back behind the blue UAZ van, carefully set beneath the spreading branches of one of the trees. Even with all the leaves off, the branches were filtering away the smoke before it could get far. Flanagan’s callsign wasn’t “Woodsrunner” for nothing.
They’d dressed warmly, but none of them, except maybe for Brannigan, were entirely acclimated to this kind of climate. Some lived down south, where it was warmer. Others simply hadn’t been out in the cold enough once winter had descended. Santelli had set up a rotation, to make sure the guys on security got switched out to take a turn warming up by the fire. The vans were still holding in some warmth from the night’s driving, but they didn’t dare leave them running, and the heat was going to dissipate quickly.
It was going to be a long day.
“Okay,” Brannigan said quietly, standing against the tree trunk facing the fire. “Last night was a bust. No sign of our quarry in Belochi or Molochisul Mare. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not there. Just that we didn’t spot them in the dark.
“Wade and Childress will take Belochi once the sun goes down,” he said. “Flanagan and Gomez, you guys will work your way up this valley to Molochisul Mic. It’s just over eight klicks; you should be able to cover it and get back in a night. Jenkins and Hancock, you’ll take the next valley over, toward Haraba. Herc and Curtis will go east, and snoop around Crasnencoe. I’ll take Hart and Santelli with one of the vans, and head up by Vadul Turcului. I’m sure I’m butchering most of these names, but I don’t really care.
“If we still come up empty, then we’ll relocate our lay-up site and wait for the next night.”
He checked his watch. “Sundown’s in about seven hours. Carlo, you’ll set up the rotation. I know we don’t have a lot in the way of warming layers, but get as much rest as you can, unless you’re on security. We’ll be rolling as soon as it gets dark.”
***
Javakhishvili took one of the vans late in the morning. “I can blend in here,” he said. “Maybe I can hear something useful.” Since he was right, Brannigan let him go. He trundled away, heading back south, toward Ribnitza.
The men on security might have been slightly more alert for a while after that. But no Russians or Transnistrian troops appeared, and they resumed their vigil, catching scraps of sleep when they could as the day crawled by.
The same thought was in every man’s mind. What if they’re getting away while we’re sitting here? But there was nothing for it. Javakhishvili was right; he could blend in. The rest of them couldn’t, at least not for long. And running around the fields with weapons in daylight was sure to bring the hammer down on them quickly. The only consolation was the hope that the same concerns were keeping their opposition in one place.
Early in the afternoon, Javakhishvili returned, and the men on security got paranoid again, watching his backtrail keenly, alert for anyone who might have followed him, even out of pure curiosity. None of them imagined that the local Transnistrians saw too many outsiders, and even their Russian-speaking comrade would have stood out as an outsider, even if one from a nearby country. But the road stayed clear.
Javakhishvili climbed out of the van. “I don’t think they doubled around to the south,” he said, “but there are patrols everywhere. Somebody’s had their cage rattled. I did hear that there’s talk of closing down the entry ports. The Transnistrian Army is really paranoid after last night.”
He reached into the back of the van and pulled out a big bundle. A couple of the Blackhearts frowned. “What’s that?” Jenkins asked, his hand on his Vz.58 as if he was half expecting it to be a bomb.
Javakhishvili grinned. “Bedsheets!” he said. Flanagan and Childress both started nodding, but Jenkins looked perplexed.
“What the hell do we need bedsheets for?” he asked. “Did you get mattresses and pillows, too?”
“Overwhites, dumbass,” Wade said. “Camouflage.” Jenkins had the good grace to look chagrined.
“I didn’t think we wanted to go crawling around the snowy fields tonight in just our civvies,” Javakhishvili said. “And they were cheap.” He started opening one of the bundles of folded sheets. “I hope that means they tear easily; I couldn’t bring my knife into this stupid country.”
The Blackhearts who weren’t on security gathered around and started pulling the white sheets out as he divided up the bundles.
Chapter 14
Childress hadn’t been all that sure about going on recon with Wade. Sure, the guy had been a Ranger, but in Childress’ experience, Rangers were good for smashing things in large groups. Not so much for sneaking around in places where Americans with guns weren’t supposed to be. Give ‘em a target and some Strykers or Little Birds, and they’d shoot the hell out of it. But he had yet to meet a Ranger who was good at going Sneaky Pete in the weeds.
Of course, Sam Childress had grown up in the backwoods, and his standards for being stealthy and quiet were a little higher than most people’s. Flanagan cou
ld match him. Gomez was downright scary. But those were about the only ones he considered anywhere near his level.
But Wade was keeping up, and he wasn’t making quite as much noise as a herd of elephants in the brush. It helped that they were working their way along the edges of fields, staying low to let their crude bedsheet ponchos blend in with the snow. They weren’t going through any thick stuff. And Wade was keeping his dispersion; his patrolling experience hadn’t gone to seed. But his footing obviously wasn’t quite as practiced as Childress’. Several times, he’d slipped or cracked something under his boot, prompting Childress to freeze and look back at him with some annoyance.
This is recon. We’ve got to be quiet. He knew that they had time constraints; they had to get to Belochi, thoroughly rule out the bad guys’ presence, and then get back. He doubted that they’d have time to go to ground for another day. If one of the teams found their targets, they’d have to move quickly, before the bad guys did.
He paused and took a knee, laying his Vz.58 across his thigh, and looked around. He didn’t have a GPS, but he’d never wanted or especially needed one. He’d grown up having to learn to keep his bearings without even a compass, and it had become practically instinctive. He knew, from studying the map, that they were sitting on the crest of the hill, just above the easternmost structures of Belochi.
The fields around them were silent and still, their blanket of white only dimly visible this far from the city lights of Ribnitza. The overcast had thinned, and it hadn’t snowed for a while, but there was always more ambient light with snow on the ground, even if there was no moon.
It was cold. His nose ached a little, and he had to resist the urge to spit the sour-tasting phlegm out of his mouth. Sucking in cold air on a movement always was hell on his lungs, and he hated it. If he hadn’t been so intent on staying quiet, he’d be complaining about it.
Sam Childress did not ascribe to Flanagan’s stoicism. Never mind whatever it was that went on in Gomez’ head.
He turned back to get Wade’s attention. The big man was down on a knee about two yards behind him, under the shadow of an overhanging tree branch. He’d picked his position well; he would just kind of disappear into the shadows if an observer didn’t know he was there.
Childress pointed into the woods. They had to go through and down the hill. Wade repeated the gesture to indicate that he’d seen it and understood.
Taking a deep breath of the bitingly cold air, Childress got to his feet and turned into the woods.
As soon as he got a few yards deep, he started kicking himself for not taking the route through the trees in the first place. He’d been worried, particularly after what he’d seen along the river bank, about thick undergrowth hindering their progress and making noise. But as soon as he was back into the forest, he saw that he needn’t have worried. The trees were fairly thick, but the undergrowth looked like it was mostly little more than ferns and moss, presently covered in snow. They could make good time through the trees, without worrying too much about noise. And there was still enough snow under the boughs to make their white ponchos blend in well.
Still keeping a careful pace and paying attention to his footing, he started downhill.
After less than two hundred yards, he saw the first house through the tree trunks ahead, and slowed. It was just after midnight, but if the bad guys were being sensible, they’d have security out. If they weren’t there, and it was just some farmer’s house, then there was nothing lost by being quiet.
The ground was just steep enough to make footing treacherous; the snow was wet and slippery, with a mat of frozen, decomposing dead leaves underneath. He forced himself to move more slowly than usual, carefully crossing from tree to tree as he advanced on the house.
It wasn’t a large structure; the house itself could only have one or two rooms inside. The walls were whitewashed plaster, with a dark roof showing through the snow in places. The windows were dark; there were no lights on inside. That could be because there was no one there, or everyone was asleep, or there just was no power.
A shed or barn loomed through the trees off to his right, and he stopped, peering at it. The barn was bigger than the house, at least twice as long. And there was a light coming from the window set high in the rear peak.
Looking back at Wade, he saw that the other man had seen the same thing. He pointed, then signaled that he was going to push back uphill a little and circle around to get a better look at the barn. Wade signaled his understanding, and Childress started moving.
It was even worse going uphill than down; his boots kept wanting to slip on the snow and frozen vegetation underfoot. He ended up struggling from tree to tree, bracing himself against the roots as he reached each one, pausing to make sure that he hadn’t been heard or seen.
So far, he hadn’t seen any movement; there was just the light in the high window. It could well be nothing. But he’d learned a long time ago that a recon patrol couldn’t afford to dismiss anything as just “nothing.” Everything had to be treated as a potential threat or target. To act otherwise meant either compromise or missing the target that the patrol was out there to find in the first place.
He froze. He hadn’t seen the man standing at the corner of the barn until the lighter flared behind cupped hands. Now that he saw him, he could pick out that he was wearing some kind of winter camouflage and a knit hat, with an AK variant slung in front of him. His cigarette ember glowed luridly in the gray dimness of the snowy night.
If this isn’t it, it’s something. For some reason, he didn’t think that the guy smoking was Transnistrian Army. He couldn’t say why he didn’t think so, but there was just something ever so slightly off about him. He stayed put, motionless, and watched.
A voice called out and the man in the winter camo dropped the cigarette to the snow and crushed it out with his boot. Childress’ eyes narrowed. The voice was too far away and pitched too low to pick out words, but he was reasonably certain that it hadn’t been speaking Russian.
He gulped as he realized just how close he really was. Ordinarily, any closer than half a klick was a bad idea for a recon patrol; soft compromise from unavoidable noise was extremely likely any closer than that. But he was less than a hundred yards away.
Another man in winter camo and carrying a rifle approached from the front of the barn, appearing around the corner of the farmhouse. He said something else, and this time, even though he still couldn’t understand the words, Childress was pretty sure he was speaking English.
Jackpot. It had to be. There was no other reason for English-speaking shooters to be in Transnistria.
It also confirmed, at least to him, that their rivals were, in fact, the same terrorists who had been responsible for the Mexico incident.
He held his position as the second man bitched out the first, apparently pissed about the guy smoking on security. The smoker argued about it, but finally sullenly subsided. Just by watching body language, Childress was pretty sure that death or severe bodily harm had been threatened.
That was interesting. The clinical, Recon Marine part of his mind filed the information away for later. Brannigan and Hancock would want to know about it.
With the dispute apparently resolved, the two men moved away, back toward the front of the barn. It looked like they were patrolling the grounds. The one had just slipped away for a smoke break and gotten caught.
He waited a handful of minutes after they’d disappeared. A lot of men in that position might have felt a burning urgency to confirm and report. But Childress didn’t move. He was a hunter. He knew the value of patience. He also understood that he didn’t know the enemy’s patrol pattern, so until he got a better idea of it, he didn’t dare move. If he moved too soon, he’d risk being exposed when they unexpectedly popped around a corner.
The two of them appeared on the other side of the house, walking a few paces toward the woods and stopping, muttering in low voices. They didn’t seem eager to go into the trees, and Childress w
as thankful for that. Especially when he glanced sideways and saw that Wade was posted up behind a tree, his rifle braced against the trunk and aimed in at the two of them.
Not a good idea. Childress didn’t know how it worked, but he knew from experience that people and animals could sense, over time, when they were being watched intently. Add in the threat of the rifle, and it was even riskier. But he didn’t dare move, while he was within line of sight of those two down there, to signal Wade to lower his weapon. He just had to hope that they stayed oblivious.
Finally, they turned back and disappeared around the front of the house again. Still, Childress waited, even as he could feel Wade’s eyes on him, feel the man’s impatience.
Only once he’d seen them come back around the far corner of the barn, check the woodline, and then turn back toward the front did he finally slowly rise to his feet.
Even more carefully than before, he continued to work his way uphill, trying to circle around to where he could see more of the barn, while maintaining his distance. It took some time, moving from tree to tree, hoping that his white poncho would sufficiently disguise him in the spaces between, just in case the patrolling bad guys happened to pop out and look up at an inopportune time.
He kept pausing at each tree, scanning the little farmstead, his rifle not quite pointed directly at it, but still held in such a position that he could quickly bring it to bear. This close, there was no such thing as “too careful.”
That was how, as he paused for what felt like the fiftieth time, he saw the final confirmation that they were on target. The old, beat-up ZIL truck was parked alongside the barn, between it and the house.
It was possible that it could be a different truck. But the shooters holding security on the farm told him that it was the same one. It was too much of a coincidence, otherwise.
He turned slowly, making sure that the tree trunk shielded his hand from the farmhouse and the barn, and signaled to Wade. They needed to fall back, up the hill.