Fedor spit into his hand and held it out.
Reluctantly, Tucker shook it.
1:15 P.M.
After the fierce negotiation, Tucker and Kane spent the remainder of the morning in the church, while Dimitry and Fedor ran various errands, gathering supplies and readying the plane.
Early in the afternoon, Dimitry returned with provisions and news. “I learned there are two other GRU units in the region.”
Tucker stood up from the woodstove. “What? Where?”
“They are positioned west of here, around the town of Chita. But like here, they are lazy, just smoking and lounging in hotels, da?”
Chita?
That was the next major stopover along the Trans-Siberian Railway. But what did that mean? He gave it some thought and came to only one conclusion. The fact that the search teams weren’t actively patrolling for him, only lounging about, suggested Felice might not have had time to get out word that he had escaped the train. She must have hoped a sniper’s bullet could correct her failure before her superiors learned the truth.
That was good—at least for the moment.
But as soon as the train reached Chita, and it was discovered he wasn’t aboard, the search units would shift into high gear, including the unit here.
Tucker pulled out his train schedule and checked his watch. The train would reach Chita in three hours, about four hours before sunset. That meant he and Fedor couldn’t wait for nightfall before departing.
“We need to take off early,” he told Dimitry. “Now, if we can.”
“Not possible, my friend. The fuel bowser is broken down. Fedor is working on it.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, but I will go find out.”
As Dimitry left, Kane walked over, sat down, and leaned against Tucker’s leg, sensing the tension.
Tucker patted Kane’s neck, reassuring his partner. “We’ve been in worse spots than this.”
Not much worse, but worse.
He set his watch’s countdown timer.
Three hours from now, when it was discovered he was no longer aboard the train, Nerchinsk would be swarming with Spetsnaz soldiers, all hunting for him.
2:36 P.M.
An hour later, Dimitry burst through the church’s doors. The panic in his face drew both Tucker and Kane to their feet.
“They are coming!” Dimitry called out, quickly shutting the doors behind him. “The Spetsnaz.”
Tucker checked his watch. It was too early. The train hadn’t reached Chita yet. “Slow down. Tell me.”
Dimitry crossed to them. “The soldiers are out patrolling the rest of the town. They do not seem to be in a hurry, but one is coming here nevertheless.”
What did this sudden change mean? If the GRU unit had been activated, the Spetsnaz would be breaking down doors and moving Nerchinsk’s inhabitants into the open. Maybe the local commander was only trying to break up the monotony.
Bored soldiers are ineffective soldiers, he thought.
Still, as Dimitry had said, it didn’t matter. One of them was coming.
Tucker donned his pack and tightened the straps on Kane’s vest.
“This way,” Dimitry said.
He led them toward a side corner of the sanctuary and knelt before a tapestry-draped table. He scooted the table aside, lifted the rug beneath, then used the hunting knife in his belt to pry up a section of planking. It lifted free to reveal a vertical tunnel.
“What—?”
“Cossacks, Nazis, Napoleon . . . who can say? It was here long before I arrived. Get in!”
“Jump down, Kane,” Tucker ordered.
Without hesitation, the shepherd dove into the opening. He landed in the dirt, then disappeared to the left.
Tucker followed, discovering the shaft was only a meter tall.
Dimitry hovered over the opening. “Follow the tunnel. It exits about two hundred meters north of here. Make your way to the east side of the air base and wait for me there. There is a shack near a crushed section of fence. Easy to find.”
With that, Dimitry shut the hatch. A moment later, what little light filtered through the slats was blotted out as the rug and table were slid back into place.
A stiff pounding on the church’s door echoed down to him.
Dimitry’s footsteps clopped across the wooden floor, followed by the creak of hinges. “Dobriy den!” the bishop called out.
A sullen voice replied in kind, but Tucker didn’t wait to hear what followed.
He headed off in a low crouch with Kane. After ten paces, he felt it safe enough to pull out his LED penlight and pan the cone of light down the tunnel. The dirt walls bristled with tree roots, while the roof was shored up with planks, some rotten, others new. Clearly someone had been maintaining the tunnel.
They continued on. For Kane, the going was easy as he trotted forward, scouting. Tucker had to move in a low waddle that had his thighs burning after only a few minutes. He ignored the pain and kept going. After another ten minutes, the tunnel ended at a short ladder entangled with tree roots.
A few inches above his head was a hatch. He craned his neck and pressed his ear against the wood and listened for a full minute. He heard nothing. He crouched back down beside Kane and checked his watch.
In a little over an hour, the train would reach Chita.
He had to be airborne by then.
Tucker recalled his mental map of the area. If Dimitry was correct, the hatch above his head should exit somewhere in the patch of forest that bordered the church grounds. From there, the air base lay more than a mile away, through scrub forest and open fields. Normally an easy hike, but he would have to contend with deep snowdrifts, while keeping out of sight of the newly patrolling soldiers.
He was not normally a pessimist, but he could not dismiss the pure logistics of the situation.
We’ll never make it.
11
March 10, 2:48 P.M.
Nerchinsk, Russia
Tucker crouched beside Kane and carefully swung the hatch closed. The tunnel had exited beneath the shelter of a pine. Still, he swept fresh snow over the hatch to keep it hidden. Once satisfied, he wriggled his way out from beneath the boughs and into the open.
Kane followed, shaking snow from his fur.
“Ready for a little jog?” Tucker asked, acknowledging the press of time. He pointed east through the edges of a scrub forest. “SCOUT.”
Kane took off, bounding through the snow, bulldozing a path.
Tucker trotted after him.
They made relatively quick progress, covering three-quarters of a mile in an hour. He could have gone faster, but he did his best to stay below snowy ridgelines, out of direct sight of the town proper. Now was not the time to be spotted by a stray soldier.
As they reached a stand of birches, within a few hundred yards of the airbase, Tucker’s watch vibrated on his wrist.
He glanced down, seeing the countdown timer had gone off.
Grimacing, he pictured the train pulling into the Chita station.
How long until someone realizes I’m not on board?
With no choice, he urged Kane onward and followed, pushing through his exhaustion, focusing on his next step through the deep snow.
After another ten minutes, they reached the edge of the air base. The perimeter fence lay fifty meters ahead, topped by barbed wire.
Suddenly, Kane stopped in his tracks, cocking his head.
Then Tucker heard it, too.
A rhythmic clanging.
He waited, then heard it again, recognizing it.
A hammer striking steel.
The sound came from ahead and to the left, not too far away. He pushed to a break in the trees, where Kane had stopped.
Beyond the fence stretched a single long runway, lined by six hangars and twice as many outbuildings, most of which seemed to be bolstered by a patchwork of sheet metal. The eastern side of the base lay a little farther to the right, out of direct view. Somewhere
over there was the shack where he was supposed to rendezvous with Dimitry.
But the loud clanging continued, closer at hand, coming from the base.
Curious, Tucker pulled out his binoculars, zoomed in on the buildings, and began panning. He searched for the source of the clanging and found it at the side door of a rusty hangar.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Standing in the doorway was Fedor. Under one arm, he clutched an aircraft propeller; in his opposite hand, an eight-pound steel mallet, which he slammed down on the propeller’s leading edge.
Gong.
The sound echoed across the base to where Tucker was lying.
Gong gong gong.
He lowered the binoculars and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. It was too late now. For better or worse, he’d hitched his wagon to this Russian bear.
He set out again, aiming right, searching ahead for the crumpled section of fence that marked the shack. At least, from here, the terrain offered decent cover. The air base had been abandoned long enough for the surrounding forest, once cut back for security purposes, to encroach upon the fence line. He kept to those trees, moving steadily, circling around to the eastern side of the base.
Tucker had just stopped to catch his breath when be heard the thumping sound of helicopter rotors. Swearing, he pushed into the shadowy bower of a Siberian pine. He whistled for Kane to join him.
As the shepherd rushed to his side, he craned his neck to the sky. The noise grew thunderous, making it difficult to discern the direction. Then the dark belly of the Havoc streaked overhead at treetop level.
The rotor wash stirred the powdery snow into a stinging whirlwind. Branches whipped overhead.
Had they been spotted?
What about their tracks through the snow?
There was something especially unnerving about being hunted from the air. His every primitive instinct was to run, but he knew that path was the quickest way to get cut in half by the Havoc’s chain gun.
So he stayed hidden.
The chopper moved past, slowly circling the air base, seeming to follow the perimeter fence. He watched its slow passage, staying hidden, until he could no longer hear the rotors.
Tucker waited another ten minutes, just to be sure. He used the time to reassemble Felice’s PSG-90. Once completed, he did a final check of the sniper rifle. Only then did he set out again, comforted by its weight.
In less than a hundred feet, he reached a corner of the air base. He stopped and used his binoculars to survey the eastern perimeter.
As Dimitry had promised, a section of fence had been flattened beneath a fallen tree. It lay about three hundred meters away—and there stood the shack.
The impulse was to hurry toward its relative safety, but he ignored it. Instead, he took a mental bearing and headed deeper into the trees, intending to circle wide and come at the shack from behind. He took his time, using the deepening shadows and snowdrifts as cover.
Finally, the shack came into view again. It was small, twelve feet to a side, with a mossy roof and timber walls. He saw no light and smelled no woodsmoke.
Satisfied, he bent down and pulled up Kane’s camera stalk. He also made sure the radio receiver remained secure in the shepherd’s left ear canal. Once done, he did a fast sound-and-video check with his phone.
With the GRU unit on the hunt, he wasn’t taking any chances.
And he certainly wasn’t going to enter that cabin blind.
Tucker pointed at the shack, made a circling motion with his arm, and whispered, “QUIET SCOUT.”
Kane slinks from his partner’s side. He does not head directly for the cabin, but out into the woods, stalking wide. His paws find softer snow or open ground, moving silently. He stays to shadow, low, moving under bowers that burn with the reek of pine pitch. Through the smell, he still picks out the bitter droppings of birds. He scents the decaying carcass of a mouse under the snow, ripe and calling out.
His ears tick in every direction, filling the world with the smallest sounds.
Snow shushes from overburdened branches, falling to the ground . . .
Fir needles rattle like bones with every gust . . .
Small creatures scrape through snow or whisper past on wings . . .
As he moves, he sights the cabin, glances back to his partner, always tracking. He glides to the far side of the shack, where the shadows are darkest, knowing this is best for a first approach, where fewer eyes will see him.
A command strikes his left ear, brash but welcoming.
“HOLD.”
He steps to the nearest cover: a fallen log musky with rot and mold. He drops to his belly, legs under him, muscles tense and hard, ready to ignite when needed. He lowers his chin until it brushes snow.
His gaze remains fixed to the structure. He breathes in deeply, picking out each scent and testing it for danger: old smoke, urine of man and beast, the resin of cut logs, the taint of thick moss on shingles.
He awaits the next command, knowing his partner watches as intently as he does. It finally comes.
“MOVE IN. CLOSE SCOUT.”
He rises to his legs and paces to the cabin, scenting along the ground. His ears remain high, bristling for any warning. He comes to a window and rises up, balancing on his hind legs. He stares through the murky glass, deeply and long, swiveling his head to catch every corner.
He spots no movement in the dark interior—so drops back to his paws.
He turns to stare at where his partner is hidden among the trees and keeps motionless, signaling the lack of danger.
It is understood.
“MOVE OUT. QUIET SCOUT AGAIN.”
He swings away, angling around the corner. He checks each side, spies through another window, and sniffs intently at the closed door. He ends where he started.
“GOOD BOY. RETURN.”
He disobeys, instead dropping again to his belly by the rotten log.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, barely heard with his own ears.
A warning.
Tucker watched the video feed jostle as Kane lowered to his belly, his nose at the snow line. He heard the growl through the radio and noted the pointed stare of the shepherd toward the deeper forest to the right of the shack.
He studied the video feed on his phone. Even with the camera, his eyesight was no match for Kane’s. He squinted at the screen, trying to pick out what had seized Kane’s attention. After ten long seconds, he spotted movement, fifty yards away.
A lone figure, hunched over, moved through the trees, heading toward the shack.
Tucker swore silently and dropped quietly to his chest. He shifted the sniper rifle to his shoulder, flicking off the safety.
The trespasser was also carrying a gun—an assault weapon from its shape and angles. The figure moved through thick shadows, hard to make out, camouflaged from head to toe in a woodland winter suit. He moved deftly, someone well familiar with hunting in a forest, every cautious step cementing Tucker’s certainty that this was one of the Spetsnaz soldiers, not a local hunter.
Thank God for Kane’s keen perception.
But why only one?
If there had been others, Kane would have alerted him.
It made no sense. If the Spetsnaz knew he and Kane were here, they would have come in force. This had to be a lone scout. He remembered the Havoc helo circling the perimeter of the air base. Apparently the unit commander must have sent a man or two to do the same on foot.
He raised the sniper rifle to his shoulder and peered through its scope, getting a sight picture. Once fixed, he subvocalized into the radio mike taped to his throat, passing on yet another command to his partner.
“TARGET. QUIET CLOSE.”
It was an order Kane knew all too well from their time together in Afghanistan: get as close to the enemy as possible and be ready.
Kane began creeping toward the man.
With his partner on the move, Tucker laid his
cheek against the rifle’s stock and peered through the scope. The target was forty yards off, moving with practiced economy. He never paused in the open, only when behind a tree. His current line of approach would take him straight to Kane’s position.
Thirty yards.
Given the angle of the man’s body, Tucker knew a head shot would be tricky, so he adjusted the rifle’s crosshairs and focused on a point a few inches below the man’s left nipple.
The soldier stepped behind a tree and paused, ever cautious. Two seconds passed. The man emerged again from cover, ready to close in on the cabin.
It was Tucker’s best chance. He squeezed the trigger ever so slightly, took a breath, let it out—and fired.
In the last millisecond, the soldier’s arm shifted forward. The bullet tore through the man’s elbow, shattering bone and cartilage, but veering wide from a kill shot.
The man spun counterclockwise and disappeared behind the trunk of a spruce.
“TAKEDOWN!” he called out to Kane.
He didn’t wait to track his partner. Instead, he dropped the sniper rifle and charged forward, drawing his P22 pistol on the run.
Ahead and to his left, Kane leaped through the air and disappeared behind the spruce. A scream burst out, followed by a spatter of automatic fire that shred needles from the tree.
Tucker reached the spruce, grabbed a passing branch, and whipped himself around with his pistol raised. The soldier struggled on the ground, on his back. Kane straddled him, his jaws clamped on his right wrist. The assault rifle lay nearby, but the soldier had a Makarov pistol gripped in his free hand.
Time seemed to slow for Tucker. The man’s gun hand turned, straining to bring the weapon to bear on Kane. Then the Makarov bucked. Kane was strobe-lit by orange muzzle flash but unharmed. In his panic and pain, the man had shot too soon.
Tucker refused to give him another chance.
Stepping sideways, he took aim and fired once. The bullet drilled a neat hole in the soldier’s right temple. His body went slack.
“RELEASE,” Tucker rasped out.
Kane obeyed and backed away a few steps.
Tucker placed his boot on the Makarov, which lay half buried in the snow. There was no sense in checking the man’s pulse; he was dead. His mind switched to their next worry. The gunfire would have carried through the trees.
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