by Tom Clancy
The next five minutes went like this:
Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, until, finally, something important caught his attention—
“... and you’ll have two Splinter Cells attached to your team. The target will be Viktoria Antsyforov, aka the Snow Maiden. Her dossier will be available on the network. Suffice it to say that we want her alive if possible. You are, however, authorized to shoot to kill. But that’s a last resort. This woman is former GRU and more valuable to us than you know.”
Dennison gave them more details about the Snow Maiden’s last known location and how they would be heading off to Europe within the next four hours.
They’d been formally introduced to the two Splinter Cells at the back of the room, George and Thomas Voeckler. George was the clean-cut one, Thomas the looser free spirit.
Brent had already decided to request full dossiers on the two spies, and he hoped Dennison would divulge that information. Bottom line: You wanted to know who had your back—and who might not.
As they left the room, Brent reached to shake George’s hand.
The spy frowned and accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”
“It’s not easy, I know,” said Brent. “You guys are used to working alone.”
“That’s right,” said Thomas. “I don’t even like to work with my brother. And all this military talk gives me an upset stomach. We’re spooks, not soldiers.”
“I apologize for my brother,” said George. “He suffered some head trauma as a child and he’s never been—”
Thomas jabbed George in the ribs, then faced Brent. “Don’t worry about us, GI Joe. Just give us a long leash, and we’ll deliver that bitch on a silver platter.” Thomas tossed his head back, hair flying, and for a moment, Brent wondered if the man was on drugs. No, just a little weird.
Back in their barracks, Brent gathered his team into a half circle. “You got your wish. No more training. Live fire now. Test of fire. Are we up for this?”
A few of them shrugged.
“Look, they gave us a good operation.”
“Yeah, but something’s not right,” said Lakota. “They wouldn’t give us something this important—unless they’re making it seem important and it’s really not ... or maybe we’re just part of some bigger plan and acting as cover ... or bait. The spooks got the real work. We’re just the bulldogs waiting outside to cover them when they leave.”
“Not true. And don’t get paranoid,” said Brent. “Higher knows I’ve had some nice captures in Afghanistan, seven in all, and those ops went well. Maybe they figure me for a guy who can abduct people. I’m like a UFO, so they gave us this. That make you feel better, Lakota?”
She shrugged. “A little.”
Park, the Korean guy who never talked, widened his eyes and lifted his chin. “Captain, I don’t think we should trust the spies.”
Brent frowned. “What makes you say that?”
Heston cursed under his breath. “Captain, he never talks, but when he does, you should listen.”
“Park?” Brent asked again.
“I don’t mean to sound unprofessional, sir, but I do have some experience with the NSA through joint operations in the Helmand Province. They always have another agenda. And you heard what the director said about those CIA agents who went after the Snow Maiden. Two dead, two still missing.”
“Well, we sure as hell ain’t the CIA.”
Park’s tone grew more grave. “No, but those teams all had one thing in common—they had Splinter Cells attached to their units.”
“Could be just a coincidence, but if you haven’t learned this about me by now, here’s a quick lesson—you need to earn my trust. And so will they.”
“I’m not worried, sir. But you should be.”
Brent sighed. “All right, everyone, let’s pack up. Bring your civvies. We need to look like tourists. We finally get to insert with real cover. I always love it when they drop us into a city wearing unmarked fatigues—but we’re not supposed to look like soldiers.”
“Can I wear a dress and heels?” said Riggs.
That query was met by the hoots, hollers, and catcalls of all the men, save for Park.
“Calm down, wolves. Riggs, that sounds good. Just be ready to ditch the heels when I need you.”
“You got it, sir.”
“All right, on the ready line in twenty minutes.”
They muttered behind him as he spun on his heel and left, heading back to the office to pick up their travel docs.
While en route, Schoolie caught him on the sidewalk. “Heard you’re shipping out, got a big mission.”
“Yeah, we’re going to rescue your father from the backyard kiddie pool. He’s been lying in it all day, getting drunk.”
“How do you come up with this stuff?”
“You inspire me.”
“Seriously, Brent, just wishing you good luck.” Schoolie proffered his hand.
When Brent glanced down at that hand, he saw another one, darker skinned, and when he looked up, there was Carlos Villanueva, grinning. “All I want is a race. Just shake hands and tell me you’ll race so I don’t have to kick your ass.”
Brent blinked hard and faced Schoolie. “I’ll shake when I get back. Don’t want to jinx myself, okay?”
“Okay, Brent. I heard you were superstitious.” Schoolie lowered his hand. “Make old Buzz proud.”
“Roger that.”
Schoolie had just referred to Major Harold “Buzz” Gordon, born March 17, 1955, and one of the first soldiers assigned to the Ghosts when they were formed in 1994. He’d gone on to become a lieutenant colonel and company commander, working extensively with Scott Mitchell. Buzz was now considered the “father” of Ghost Recon, while Mitchell was considered its greatest living Ghost. Brent hoped history wouldn’t record him as the black sheep of the unit, but you had to do more than hope to change history ... you had to act. And he would.
FOUR
Château de Menthon-Saint-Bernard
Lake Annecy, France
Brent and his Ghost Recon team, along with the Voeckler brothers, had traveled to a locale so spectacularly beautiful that it was hard to remember he was working. The juxtaposition between this part of France and some of Brent’s old duty stations—little hellholes in Afghanistan draped in “moon dust”—was enough to weaken his knees.
The Château de Menthon-Saint-Bernard, a medieval castle built in the tenth century, towered some two hundred meters over Lake Annecy, the second-largest lake in France. The castle was like something out of a movie, with great stone walls, spires, and ornate turrets set against a verdant hillside. Walt Disney might have taken his inspiration from the place when he’d planned his Magic Kingdom castle because the environs had a distinct fairy-tale air. Behind the fortress’s ancient walls were 105 rooms on four levels, and Brent presently stood in the main banquet area on the second floor, watching as partygoers slowly filtered in past the orchestra.
A banner hung across one wall. In Cyrillic it read, Congratulations Team Katusha, victors of the 2021 Tour de France. Despite the war, sporting events like the Tour de France, the Super Bowl, and the World Series forged on and were more popular than ever; however, the Americans, the Euros, and the Russians were all prone to banning certain groups from their international events. Brent had read in the papers how the Russians had threatened to pull the oil plug on the Euros, because the French were talking about banning the Russian team from the tour. Well, the French had bowed to the pressure, and the Russians had won, with their best rider, Andrei Eskov, claiming the yellow jersey as rider with the best time and another of their riders claiming the “king of the mountains” competition. The Russian had conquered the tour, and the French now wore their dismay like moth-eaten coats. Nathalie Perreau, the president of the European Federation, called the victory a travesty and insisted on more anti-doping checks for the Russian team. None of that mattered.
Now the team was celebrating its victory in a French castle t
hat had been rented, no doubt, through extreme pressure on the French as the Russians continued dangling the keys to all their oil.
Admittedly, Brent was glad the Russians had won, otherwise he wouldn’t be standing in a French castle. It seemed that Andrei Eskov was the Snow Maiden’s cousin, and there had been a shooting near Montereau-Fault-Yonne, a stop along the tour. One man had turned up dead and been identified as a member of the Green Brigade Transnational. Death always lay in the Snow Maiden’s wake, and so Brent and his team had prepared their trap.
The others were in position outside the castle and in the surrounding hills, while he and George Voeckler were inside, with Voeckler posing as a guest and Brent as part of the French security team. Dennison had worked out this arrangement, and the security team, while sarcastic and aloof, were playing along as they repeatedly slipped outside for their cigarette breaks.
Brent’s wireless earpiece buzzed. Lakota and the others reported the arrival of the next group and were scrutinizing every woman. Viktoria Antsyforov would be disguised with a wig, heavy makeup, who knew ... The more Brent had read about the Snow Maiden, the more uneasy he’d become. Capturing her would be like trying to wrestle a Siberian tiger into a pair of handcuffs.
The Snow Maiden’s profile had been supplied by a man named Pavel Doletskaya, a former colonel with the GRU who had worked with and slept with the woman. The colonel had been captured in Moscow, dragged back to Guantanamo and then to Tampa, and broken by Dennison and her people, who’d told him about how the Snow Maiden had faked her death. They now had a valuable ally feeding them secrets, and Doletskaya’s information had been useful and comprehensive. That the Snow Maiden had an intense hatred for her own country fascinated Brent; that she’d already killed dozens of people in her quest to bring down her homeland kept the lump in Brent’s throat.
Brent’s attention was drawn to the main entrance, illuminated by a pair of colossal bronze wall sconces atop which rose tall, slender flames. The cycling team had arrived, and as planned, they had come in full biking uniforms: colorful blue-and-red jerseys covered with their sponsors’ logos, matching bib shorts, and even color-coordinated socks and sneakers. Their mechanics, coaches, drivers, and other support personnel wore team shirts and slacks, while the rest of the guests were suited up for this black-tie affair.
The waiters and waitresses began circulating with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres—stuffed mushrooms, fig and olive tapenade, and chutney baked Brie, according to one waiter. Voeckler, who’d been standing close to the main entrance, his gaze constantly scanning the growing crowd around the clusters of elegantly appointed tables, ambled over to Brent. “You see that woman there?”
Brent tensed and squinted across the room. The sun was beginning to set and the shadows had grown long, but he did see her, a real looker whose lithe form barely tented up her burgundy-colored dress. Her dark hair shimmered in the firelight.
“Is that her?” Brent asked with a gasp.
Voeckler sighed. “Soon as I nod at the orchestra leader, he’ll get them to play for me, and I’ll waltz with her.”
“She looks way too thin. That’s not her.”
“No, Brent, of course that’s not her. She’s just the woman I’ll dance with.”
“So this is how you guys play, huh? Come to rich people’s parties and dance with all the hot women? While me and my people eat dust and tiptoe around IEDs? Yep, there’s a world of difference between the NSA and the United States Army.”
“I thought you’d pull up my dossier.”
“I did. I know you were a Force Recon Marine, a hardcore operator. I respect that. You got the track record. It’s your brother I can’t figure out.”
“You and everyone else.”
“So he only got in because he’s your twin. Grim figured you’d have a perfect alibi with him.”
“He’s come a long way. He was a slacker his whole life. This is pretty amazing for him.”
“Well, I hope babysitting your brother doesn’t get in our way.”
“I’m not babysitting him, Captain. I’m babysitting all of you.”
“Whoa, I think you just hurt my feelings.”
“All right, enough with the BS.” Voeckler’s tone hardened. “Now listen. If the Snow Maiden is here, we’ll draw her out, just like a black widow from her web. The orchestra is going to play Tchaikovsky’s Opus Number Twelve. It’s her favorite.”
“How do you know?”
Voeckler snorted. “Opus Twelve is called ‘The Snow Maiden.’”
“Maybe she hasn’t heard it.”
“Oh, yes, she has. The NSA and Third Echelon like to do their own intel gathering, thank you. The report the JSF gave us is only fragmentary.”
“Then I’d appreciate you sharing the rest with us.”
“We will, soon as I get authorization.”
Brent sighed in disgust over the politics. “Well, all right, Mr. Voeckler. It’s your party for the time being.”
“Just get my back, Captain. I might be a little distracted.” Voeckler drifted off across the hardwood dance floor, toward his unsuspecting dance partner.
Meanwhile, Brent kept his gaze focused on Andrei Eskov, who’d taken a seat at the rectangular main table. All of the riders would be sitting in a row, facing the audience, not unlike the seating arrangement for a panel discussion. Perhaps each cyclist would be asked to speak, Brent wasn’t sure, but at any rate he had a perfect and unobstructed view of the target’s cousin, even though the room had grown crowded with dozens of guests now.
“Captain, it’s Lakota. Is it okay if we order a pizza?”
Brent grinned inwardly—“ordering a pizza” was her way of saying no contacts or anything else worth reporting. “Still clear out there?”
“Good to go,” she responded curtly.
A familiar face appeared at the doorway. Riggs. Now it was her turn to join the festivities. God, she looked stunning in her blue dress, matching purse, and heels. The spiky hair had been toned down and softened, and her makeup appeared delicate and expertly applied. She had a folder tucked under her arm as she sashayed across the room and homed in on Eskov. Okay, Brent was a man and couldn’t help but gape at her cleavage, though as her commanding officer he did feel guilty about that. She reached Eskov, said hello, and asked for his autograph.
The young Russian was all too eager to comply, wearing a silly grin fueled by raging hormones. As Riggs continued to chat with him, the orchestra, numbering some thirty musicians, began Opus Number Twelve.
Voeckler took his lady onto the floor and began to waltz. They looked dramatic and stunning, and Brent frowned. Voeckler was taller and better looking and had a better job. He could pick up women with ease, and his organization seemed to have better intelligence than Brent’s.
“Brent, Schleck here,” began the team’s sniper, positioned in the hills overlooking the castle. Schleck was a bird with long torso and pointy jaw, the “string bean” Brent had called him on his cheat sheet. But the bird ate like a pig and gained nothing. “Car just pulled up. Got three guys in tuxedoes getting out. Looks like the Mafia or the Secret Service. You hear anything about added security, Captain?”
“Negative. Stand by.”
Brent slipped off toward the back of the room, where he discreetly donned his Cross-Com: an earpiece with integrated camera, microphone, and attached monocle that curved around his eye. He tapped a button on the earpiece and whispered, “Cross-Com activated.”
Brent’s monocle glowed with screens displaying his uplink and downlink channels and icons representing his support elements, among other bits of data. These images were produced by a low-intensity laser projecting them through his pupil and onto his retina. The laser scanned horizontally and vertically using a coherent beam of light, and all data was refreshed every second to continually update him.
The system was connected via satellite to the entire Joint Strike Force’s local–and wide-area networks LAN/WAN) so that even President Becerra in the White
House could see what he was doing and speak to him directly on the battlefield (not good, according to Brent). That level of Network Centric Warfare—all part of Ghost Recon’s Integrated Warfighter System (IWS Version 9)—was just a leash of technology. But that’s the way the game was played. Fortunately, the old tricks still worked: “Uh, sorry, command, uh, you’re breaking up. What was that order? Oh, I think the signal is dropping ...”
He issued a subtle voice command to bring up the camera built into Schleck’s Cross-Com. Now he took in the scene from the sniper’s point of view. “I see your boys, Schleck. What do you think?”
“I think I don’t know what to think. Heads up, though.”
“Roger that. They could be team security.”
“Okay. Standing by.”
Brent removed the Cross-Com and shoved it back into his inner jacket pocket, replacing that earpiece with the one issued to him by the French security force.
The guys Schleck had spotted now moved toward the security line and metal detector. They would have to pass through those checkpoints before they could get anywhere near the main banquet room. Schleck was just being paranoid, but you wanted your sniper to be hypersensitive to his surroundings.
Brent retuned his gaze to the banquet room.
Voeckler was now wooing the entire crowd with his dance moves; he could probably win a national contest, billing himself as the “dancing spy” after he retired. His partner was fully in lust with him, and again, Brent thought of murder.
Riggs was now surrounded by Eskov and two other cyclists, and if the Snow Maiden wanted to get near her cousin, she’d now have to rub shoulders with a very sexy Ghost Recon operator.
Once more Brent scrutinized the guests, focusing on each female. He assessed, dismissed, and moved on. He took a deep breath, and something ached deep down in his gut.
The first salvo of gunfire—originating somewhere outside near the security checkpoint—sent his head jerking back. The second drove him toward the wall and reaching for his pistol as the three men Schleck had spotted burst into the room, brandishing snub-nosed machine guns.