by Tom Clancy
Two unmasked men stood at the entrance, both clutching AK-47s. They allowed the group to pass. Several large writing tables laden with maps, charts, and all kinds of papers lay directly ahead, along with books, thousands of books rising in piles like the Manhattan skyline against a horizon of more massive bookshelves lining the back wall.
Seated behind the broadest desk, a hand-carved piece of furniture as gaudy as Brent had ever seen, was a large man who had to be Juma. He had his boots kicked up, his face half-hidden behind a thick, graying beard as his stubby finger ran down the margin of a report in his hand. A pair of bifocals had slipped down to the tip of his leathery nose. Brent found it a bit ironic that the warlord still managed his forces via hardcopy documents; that was about as old-school as it got. Ghost Recon had been paperless for as long as Brent could remember.
Juma glanced up from his report. “Ah, finally!”
He immediately rose and shuffled around the desk to greet them. He was a large man, at least three hundred pounds, dressed in nondescript military fatigues and a traditional Arab headdress that might’ve been called a turban or something else, Brent guessed, because he’d never spent much time this far south. Surprisingly enough, Juma proffered his hand and said, “You must be Captain Brent of the JSF.”
He spoke perfect English with a British accent and had either spent time in the U.K. or, perhaps, been educated there. Brent didn’t have to wait long for the answers. Abruptly, a data box opened in his HUD, and information on the man scrolled downward as Grey had promised. Juma’s face had been analyzed by the teams back home, who updated Brent with more than he’d ever need to know. Juma was a cousin of the Al Maktoum family, not directly in line to lead but a highly educated businessman once intimately involved with the country’s oil exports. That he had become the leader of a militia was not too surprising, given his graduate degree education and skills.
“I see they’re feeding you the gossip on me,” said Juma, indicating the little flashes of light he detected in Brent’s faceplate. “You can take off your helmets here.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry, but how would you like to be addressed?”
The man grinned. “Juma would be fine.”
Brent removed his helmet, which clicked and hissed as he raised it over his head. “All right. I’m Alex.”
“Alexander the Great,” said Juma with a grin.
“No, just a soldier here to help. And most people just call me Brent.” He turned. “This is my second in command, Sergeant Lakota.”
Lakota removed her helmet and shook out her hair. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He issued a polite if not perfunctory grin at Lakota but refocused his attention on Brent. “First we eat, drink, then talk.”
“Excellent,” said Brent.
Lakota looked at him, a bit weary. They didn’t have time for this, but refusing the invitation would be an insult.
As they followed Juma toward a door near the back, Brent nodded at Lakota, who was donning her Cross-Com headset and earpiece so they remained in contact with the team and the network. As they walked, she spoke softly: “I’m having a hard time connecting to Grey now. WAN uplink temporarily unavailable.”
“That’s weird. Keep trying,” said Brent.
“I don’t like this, sir.”
Brent gave her a sobering look. “I’ll check back at the towers, see if LAN’s operational.” He did so, and the team reported back in sans any comm problems.
“Brent, I’ve finished my reconnaissance of the entranceway to the vault, and I’ve picked out some ambush points, if you want to take a look,” said Voeckler.
“Busy now, but I will. Run them by the others. Meantime, stand by. I’ll be in touch.”
TWENTY-ONE
Town of Al Malaiha
About Seventy-five Kilometers from Dubai
The Snow Maiden yawned as the headlights reached out into the darkness, toward the squalid desert town rising in the distance. They were heading south on Highway 55, pushing through vast stretches of nothingness. She thought she saw an oil refinery off to their right, but the shadows and dust had collected into curtains of gloom.
Patti had procured four Renault medium-sized cargo trucks with a telecom service’s yellow logo splashed across the sides. These trucks were not uncommon and wouldn’t draw much attention to themselves.
The other three trucks were driven by members of her team, only one of whom, a Captain Chen Yi, actually spoke a little Russian. Her Chinese was poor, and they’d tested their English on each other with only marginal success. Patti had sworn that every man had been handpicked by herself and Fedorovich and that all could be trusted. The Snow Maiden had grinned to herself over that joke.
Her cell phone rang: It was Patti. She answered curtly.
The woman replied, “I have someone who wants to talk to you. Hold on.”
After a moment, a man’s voice, somewhat filtered by static, came through. “Viktoria, is that you?”
She almost drove off the road. “Pavel?”
“Viktoria, it’s me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“They’re taking me to meet you, so you don’t have to say anything right now. I know what you did. I know why you did it. And nothing matters anymore. I just want to see you.”
A hollow aching woke in her chest. She was actually speaking to him, to Colonel Pavel Doletskaya, formerly of the GRU, a man she had hurt more than any other in this world, she thought. “I’m so sorry. About everything.”
About more than she could ever tell him—about leading him on, staging her death with Izotov’s help, dropping off the grid, and turning their relationship into a lie. He was the only one who had touched her after her husband’s death. Pavel wasn’t an expendable tool. He meant something, and the Ganjin knew that. He was supposed to be a bonus payment for her.
Or a source of blackmail. She would have to be ready for that, prepared to watch him die.
“Don’t worry, Viktoria. I have always been here. It’s not too late for us. If you will have me ...”
She began to choke up.
“Viktoria? Are you still there?”
She summoned the strength and coldness back into her voice as she imagined Patti slashing his throat and the blood pooling at his knees. “I can’t talk right now. But as you say, we’ll meet. Take care, Pavel.”
Chopra was seated beside her, with Hussein next to him across the long bench. “Is everything okay?” asked the old man.
“Shut up.”
The boy asked, “Are you sad?”
“Not a word from either of you.”
“What about that?” Hussein added, pointing toward the windshield.
Hearing Pavel’s voice had taken her years and kilometers away, back to her work with him, back to their affair, to the moments lying in bed with him, moments so tender and so clear that she’d failed to see the roadblock looming ahead.
She radioed to Chen Yi, who in turn called back to the other drivers. Then she alerted Patti. “You didn’t tell me about a roadblock.”
“They must have observation posts. You’ve been tagged. We didn’t count on this.”
“Some old SUVs, maybe twenty armed soldiers.”
“We can’t afford any more delays,” said Patti. “The Euros are on their way. Haussler is moving toward his trap. You’ve got your own troops. Deal with it.”
The Snow Maiden cursed, then called to Chen Yi and told him to be ready. She mashed the accelerator pedal, and the truck lurched forward.
“They’re going to shoot us!” cried Hussein.
The kid’s appreciation of the obvious was not lost on her. As they barreled toward the roadblock, the soldiers lifted their rifles and took up defensive positions alongside the cars. She braced herself.
And not three heartbeats later, the hailstorm of fire began, incoming rounds pinging along the truck, sparks dancing over the hood and side panels as she throttled up even more and both Chopra and the boy holl
ered for her to pull over.
And then, resigning to the situation, she spun the wheel, pulling off the road, as the other three trucks roared by, now taking the brunt of all those rounds. Her truck bounced violently over ruts and through small dunes.
Not a second after the last truck blew by, she cut the wheel again, bringing them into the draft of the last vehicle and keeping tight on that driver’s wheels. They had a temporary shield, but they still had to pass those combatants.
The lead truck blasted through the SUVs blocking the road, knocking one onto its side, the other sideways. Steel and glass groaned and shattered while tires screeched across the pavement.
Then the next two trucks hammered through the gap, taking fire from both sides as though going through a car wash using bullets instead of water. At the same time, all that glass rained like diamonds glistening in the headlights.
She took in a long breath. Held it.
Now it was their turn.
They thundered into the opening, past the cars lying askew, gunfire riddling the side of their truck.
Just a second more ... a second ...
But in that second the window beside Hussein shattered and Chopra let out a scream.
She breathed, cursed again, turned, and the stench of gas immediately filled the cabin.
A glance to one of the side mirrors showed a string of winking lights—muzzle flashes to be sure—and the thumping continued, punching holes in the back of the truck.
Next came a crack and loud bang, then a steady hissing as the driver’s-side rear tire went flat.
Before she could clear the second truck, a dull thud came from beneath the hood, and flames licked up toward the windshield.
You didn’t need auto-mechanic training to conclude that the fuel line had been hit and had now ignited.
And you didn’t need a driver’s safety lesson to realize that if you didn’t abandon the truck, you’d die in the fire, the explosion, or both.
With Chopra and the kid still hollering, she swung once more to the side of the road, booted the brake pedal, and brought the truck to a rattling halt.
The gunfire continued, AKs popping, triplets of fire ricocheting off metal or stitching across the asphalt.
“Get out!” she ordered the kid. “I’ll get him!”
“I’ve been hit in the side,” said Chopra. “I can feel the blood. Terrible pain.”
“I don’t care. Come on!” she cried, wrenching open her door, seizing him by the arm, and dragging him out of the cab as he shrieked and shuddered.
They hit the sand, and, as more gunfire suddenly woke around the truck, Chen Yi’s vehicle stopped short just ahead. The rear door rolled open, and three of his men jumped out and began firing a barrage that suppressed the incoming fire. The Snow Maiden glanced out to the roadblock, where the soldiers there began shifting positions and returning fire.
“We need a doctor,” shouted Hussein.
The kid’s power of observation was astounding.
The Snow Maiden brought Chopra around the burning truck, using it as temporary shield while guiding him back and away, with more thick smoke pouring from beneath the hood.
They dropped into the deeper sand along the embankment. Chopra continued wincing.
“One of those men is a medic,” she told the boy. “In the back truck, in the cab. Go get him.”
Hussein remained a moment, his gaze torn between the incoming gunfire and the trucks up the road.
“I’m bleeding a lot,” said Chopra. “Please, Hussein. I need help ...”
The Snow Maiden put pressure on Chopra’s wound. “Either you get the medic or he dies,” she told Hussein. “And if he dies, we don’t get into the vault. Then I’ll have no use for you, right?”
Hussein swallowed. His eyes welled up.
She could almost see the tug and pull of his thoughts.
With a start, he darted away, carrying his flabby little body toward the trucks.
It was about time the kid showed some courage. He’d obviously been raised by cowards and fools, and she was probably the best influence he’d ever had. Without her, he’d been stuck in his pathetic hole.
Two of Chen Yi’s men from the lead truck sprinted past them carrying shoulder-mounted weapons. The Snow Maiden did not recognize that ordnance, but she quipped that the weapons were no doubt Chinese knock-offs of something engineered by the Americans, Russians, or Euros.
The two soldiers got down on one knee, balanced the cylindrical launchers, and nearly in unison fired not one, not two, but three rockets in a single trigger pull.
It all happened in a gasp.
The road between Chen Yi’s men and the roadblock lit up in a surreal fireworks display of green-blue rocket engines. Smoke trails extended like powdery threads to sew up the air for a second before a cacophony of explosions rose from the SUVs being used for cover. Soldiers were hurled into the air by the massive detonations, and multiple fireballs swelled beneath them, casting a blinding glow that had the Snow Maiden shielding her eyes as the heat wave struck and pushed over them.
Chen Yi ran up behind the men, barking orders in Chinese. They retreated to the trucks as Hussein returned with the medic and Chen Yi approached with them.
“Please help him,” said Hussein.
The medic, a middle-aged man with a snake’s eyes, produced a pair of shears and got to work exposing Chopra’s wound.
“He has to work in the truck,” said Chen Yi. “We have to move him now.”
The medic yelled something in Chinese to Chen Yi.
“I don’t care,” Chen Yi answered.
“We have to move him,” the Snow Maiden echoed. She batted away the medic’s hand. “We’ll get him into the back and you work on him there.”
“Not good to move,” said the medic in broken Russian.
“No time!” snapped the Snow Maiden. “We’re moving him right now!”
“I can go,” said Chopra, glancing back to Hussein. “Thank you. Thank you for getting him.”
The boy looked scared. Really scared.
“All right,” said the Snow Maiden. “Here we go!” She and Chen Yi helped Chopra back to his feet.
And that’s when the old man fainted.
Brent and Lakota had sat on the floor, sipping tea and eating rice, beans, and a lamb dish that Brent had found a bit too spicy for his tastes, but he’d eaten it nonetheless. Juma was, as expected, a gracious and painfully ceremonial host who spent several hours discussing his family’s history, his commitment to restoring Dubai back to power, and the extensive needs of his militia. It was clear to him that the JSF had arrived to strike a deal of sorts, and he was not shy in making his demands. Ironically, he never asked why Brent and his team were in the country. He’d assumed that it was all about him, as a man in his position might be wont to do.
The conversation had then drifted to Brent and Lakota, and he’d asked them pointed questions about their lives in the United States, why they’d joined the military, and what thoughts they had about the war and when it all might end.
Both were noncommittal in their responses, trying to feed the man what he wanted to hear. Ironically, he called them out on that, and Brent had been forced to apologize. For the better part of two minutes, Brent went on a rant of everything he thought was wrong about the war and the military.
Juma had grinned. “Now that is the truth!”
Finally, growing weary of any more delays, and believing they had indulged Juma enough, Brent got down to business. “We’re actually here because we’re after a woman who might have access to your vaults. She’s captured a man named Manoj Chopra.”
Juma’s mouth fell open. “Chopra? I thought he was dead. I thought the Russians were using his name to try to contact me. Maybe that was him all along. We could never verify ...”
“She has Chopra, and she also has Hussein, son of the late sheikh and heir to Dubai.”
“My cousin. We all thought he was dead. I heard rumors of his sisters being a
live. Why didn’t you tell me this immediately?” Juma glanced around the room, his thoughts obviously racing, his eyes widening.
Brent winced. “I didn’t want to offend you or dismiss your hospitality.”
Juma rose quickly to his feet. “Who is this woman you’re after?”
“We can brief you, provide all the intelligence we have, but we need a commitment. We brought in a small team to fly under the radar. We need your militia.”
“Of course, you have it!”
“All right, then—”
Brent didn’t finish his sentence.
What felt like an earthquake rocked the entire room, dust trickling down from the ceiling, the floor feeling as though it were about to buckle. A bookcase behind Juma began shaking, the books spilling to the floor.
One of Juma’s men came charging into the room. “Sir, gunships! Troops! We’re under attack!”
“Get to the big guns!”
As Brent and Lakota donned their helmets and sealed their suits, Juma bounded after his men, seizing a rifle propped up near the doorway.
When they reached the bombed-out entrance, they spotted a pair of gunships arcing across the night sky.
Brent’s camera zoomed in and the computer immediately identified the aircraft. Data windows opened along the margins of his display. They were looking at a pair of PAH-6 Cheetahs, the main attack helicopter of the European Federation. They were dark, sleek, futuristic-looking birds that boasted hydrogen-powered turbo shafts, shrouded tail rotors, and HOT-3 optically tracked laser-guided missiles with tandem warheads to minimize collateral damage.
A rotating three-dimensional image with engine cutaways glowed alongside the windows, but Brent didn’t need the virtual picture—the real-life picture was clear enough. The gunships streaked through the night as though riding on rails, suggesting they could outmaneuver anything thrown at them. Brent had seen these choppers only a few times during joint operations with the Euros, and he’d certainly never found himself poised beneath their gunners’ sights.