“Something like that. They are not nice people.”
“Then why work for them?”
He snorted. “As I say, you don’t know them. With Tambov, once you’re in, you can never leave.”
From outside, he heard the urgent, pounding yammer of a machine gun, and he knew the captain had gotten one of the PKs set up to sweep the outside companionway. It wouldn’t stop the enemy commandos for long, but it would slow them up long enough for him to get his prisoner to their destination.
And then the Americans could have the damned ship, for all the good it would do them.
Drilling Tower CFS Akademik Petr Lebedev Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1034 hours, GMT-12
Forward of the Lebedev’s smokestack, a miniature oil derrick rose forty feet above the aft superstructure. The Lebedev’s mission included taking core samples of the bottom, and the derrick, presumably, was used for drilling into the sea floor to get them. A ladder, steel rungs welded up one corner of the tower, gave access to the top of the structure. Slinging his Master Blaster, Dean grabbed the nearest rung and started up.
He needed to climb about twelve to fifteen feet to get a clear shot. While the ship’s aft superstructure was one level high, not counting the smokestack and several small buildings off to one side, the forward half was a solid block rising three stories above the main deck, with the much smaller bridge house on top of that. The bridge wings extended to either side of the bridge, and he needed to get high enough that the forward structure didn’t block his line of sight.
He could hear the hammering of the PK, though, and the shouts of Russian troops rallying somewhere forward. The two SEALs were still pinned down, unable to move back or forward, and there was no other way to get at the machine gun that was causing the trouble.
There they were, two men crouched over the machine gun as they trained it on the deck four stories below. As Dean climbed higher, though, one of the Russians noticed him, pounded his partner’s shoulder, and pointed.
Looping one arm through a support beam on the derrick, Dean unslung the MGL-140, checked that the next round up was a Hellhound, and brought the weapon to his shoulder.
Through the sights, he saw the magnified image of the two Russians as they swung the PK machine gun around to bear on him. If they fired first, the sheer volume of fire would sweep him from his perch like a fire hose. He squeezed the trigger.
An important innovation on the MGL-140 was the two-stage trigger. You needed to squeeze hard to get to the first detent-an important safety consideration when you were humping a weapon loaded with this much high explosives. After that first tug, though, a relatively light squeeze was all that was necessary to actually fire the round.
What that meant for Dean was that he could actually use the thing, unlike any other grenade launcher, as a sniper’s rifle… a sniper’s rifle with one hell of a kick when the round detonated.
In his sight, the PK’s muzzle flashed. Rounds struck the tower just above his head, whining into space and sending a shard of hot metal sizzling past his head and tugging at his ear. At the same moment, Dean fired the MGL, sending the hyper-lethal round hissing downrange.
The grenade struck the bridge wing railing or the PK-he couldn’t tell which-and detonated with a savage flash. One of the Russians was torn apart by a round identical to one that had just torn out a thick steel door, while the other was lifted and tossed over the disintegrating railing in a flailing of bloody arms and legs.
When the smoke cleared, the starboard-side bridge wing was completely gone, reduced to tangled fragments of metal on the deck below or tossed into the water alongside. Smoke continued to emerge from the open doorway leading onto the bridge as well, suggesting that the blast had caused damage there as well.
Climbing higher, Dean could see past the bridge and down to the forward deck, where several Russian troops were gathered. Taking aim, he placed a second grenade on the deck just behind them. The explosion thundered across the vessel and sent a column of smoke boiling into the pristine sky.
“Two-one and Two-two are clear,” Taylor said over Dean’s radio headset. “And team three is bringing out the hostages. Come on back to the fantail, Dean. We’re gonna hotfoot it out of here!”
But Dean had just seen something else. Through the MGL-140’s sight, he could see a man in a heavy military-style parka emerging from a doorway onto the main deck forward, just beyond the point where the bridge wing had collapsed. He was leading a woman in baggy pants and a T-shirt at gunpoint.
“You didn’t get all the hostages,” Dean said over the radio link, slinging his weapon. “I’m going after one.”
“Dean, get the hell back here! No heroics!”
He didn’t reply. Sometimes it was necessary to pretend radio failure.
Using his gloves and his insteps to brake his descent, he slid down the drill rig ladder, hitting the deck hard before breaking into a sprint. He was angry. If he’d had the sense to bring along an M40A1, or one of the other sniping rifles available, he could have taken out the Russian with a single shot from the tower, no sweat, and he or one of the SEALs could have gone forward to recover the hostage. Using a grenade launcher as a sniper’s weapon was all well and good, but it didn’t count for a damned thing when you needed to be selective with your kill. He could have easily taken out the running man… but the blast would have killed the woman in front of him as well.
Across the aft superstructure, then, to the corner of the forward structure, rising like an apartment building in front of him. Another ladder led down the starboard side to the companionway. He swung out onto a rung and slid down, his MGL-140 bumping against his shoulder as he dropped.
He hit the deck and started running again, unslinging the grenade launcher as he moved. He might not be able to use the thing against someone using an American prisoner as a human shield, but the sight of the monster weapon might frighten the guy into compliance.
A beanbag round would have been a useful addition to his kit, Dean thought ruefully. They were riot-control projectiles consisting of soft, weighted bags that hit hard enough to knock down a man but not injure him seriously.
It was way too late to second-guess his decisions, however. He would have to make this one up as he went along. He had to slow down to navigate a treacherous part of the deck partly blocked by fallen rails and decking from the collapsed bridge wing. As he reached the forward end of the Lebedev’s superstructure, gunfire barked, the rounds snapping past his head.
He returned fire, sending a hyper-lethal grenade into a knot of Russian naval infantry crouched behind and beside a deck funnel. The blast ripped the funnel aside and scattered the men like tenpins. Ahead, a kind of wooden box, man-tall and lined with fluttering sheets of blue plastic, rose at the starboard railing. And as he approached, a man stepped from inside.
Dean had expected Braslov, who was supposed to be out here somewhere, but this man was a stranger. He wore civilian clothing, but with a military parka and with a ramrod bearing that shouted military at Dean.
He was standing behind the woman, his arm locked around her throat and a Makarov pistol pressed against her temple.
“Do not speak. You will drop that rather formidable weapon,” the man said. “Now.”
At least the guy hadn’t added a melodramatic “or the girl dies.” Instead, he nodded as Dean placed the grenade launcher on the deck.
“Good. Now kick it over the side.”
Which meant he couldn’t dive for it if he saw an opening for Hollywood-style heroics. Reluctantly he put his boot on the weapon’s heavy barrel and shoved it hard enough to send it skittering into the gunwale. Carefully the Russian used his foot to slide it over the top. Dean heard the lonely splash when it hit far below.
“You will hold your arms out from your body, please. And turn around… slowly. Good. Now remove the combat harness and throw it over the side as well.”
Dean did as he was ordered. He could see the fear in the woman’s eyes, but s
he stood calmly, not struggling or panicking.
He recognized her now. Rubens had transmitted a file photo of Katharine McMillan, the NSA agent who’d been sent up to the Arctic as a loaner to the CIA. It had taken Dean a moment to connect that photo-of a calm-looking woman wearing lipstick, eye makeup, and neatly styled hair-with this person, scared, dirty, her hair uncombed, salt-matted, and windblown.
“Your radio,” the Russian said. “I see the mike at your throat. Lose it. Over the side. I warn you, do not speak.”
A few tugs were sufficient to pull both the microphone and the earpiece out of his hood. He wondered if the SEALs had overheard the Russian giving him orders and decided they had not. The microphone was sound-powered and needed a very close voice, his own, to activate. Sounds of gunfire were crackling from the stern of the ship; they were probably pretty busy back there in any case.
“You are… what?” the man said, his brow furrowed as he looked Dean up and down. “Not a Navy SEAL, surely. You are much too old.” He looked at McMillan, then back to Dean. “Might you be one of this young woman’s associates, then?”
“Actually,” Dean said, reaching for a lie, “I’m empowered to negotiate for her release. What is it you want?”
“No, no, no,” the man said, shaking his head and waggling the Makarov for emphasis. “You’ve got it all wrong, my friend. First you negotiate; then you send in the commandos, after the negotiations break down. You don’t do it the other way around. It looks bad, and the insurance adjustors ask difficult questions. What is your name?”
“Charlie Dean.” There was no point in playing games.
“And you are… what, Charlie Dean? CIA?”
“Something like that. The question remains, what is it you want? Holding this woman won’t help you. Killing me won’t help you. But perhaps I can find a way to end this… standoff to our mutual advantage.”
The man chuckled. “Actually, Mr. Dean, as I see it, there is no ‘standoff,’ as you put it.” He waggled the pistol again. “I have the cards in my hand, and they appear to be a full house.” He brought the pistol back to McMillan’s temple, just as Dean had begun calculating his odds if he were to try a sudden lunge. If he could catch the Russian when the pistol was pointed somewhere else, pin the arm, wrestle him down…
“You,” the Russian continued, all lightness gone from his voice now, “will come with us. Actually, I was thinking of killing you, but it seems to me that holding two American intelligence agents might be to my advantage. I know some… people who might pay quite well for access to your memories.”
Dean raised his hands, palms out. “Take me, then. Two of us would be trouble. Believe me.”
“No. I quite like the young lady’s company. I considered bringing along her CIA companion, but decided he was too young and strong to be worth the risk. You, however, are old. I believe I can handle you, and the girl as well.”
Dean laughed at the brazenness of the statement but added a bitter, “You son of a bitch,” to the chuckle.
“Exactly. You will precede us down the ladder. Now.”
Dean did as he was told. The structure hanging from the side of the Lebedev was a wood, plastic, and canvas shelter around a ladder extending all the way to the ship’s waterline. At the bottom was a kind of flat pier, attached to the ship’s side but hinged so that it moved up and down with the lapping of the waves.
Moored to the side of the pier was something large and rounded, painted a bright yellow and with Cyrillic lettering here and there on the hull. A circular hatch on a raised combing gave access to the thing’s interior.
It took Dean a moment to realize what he was looking at. “Jesus!” he said. “A submarine!”
“Exactly,” the Russian said, descending the ladder right behind McMillan. “Permit me to show you just what it is we’ve been doing in this godforsaken wasteland. I think you will be impressed.” He waved the pistol again. “Open the hatch and climb inside. No tricks, or I will shoot the woman.”
Reluctantly, Dean stooped to obey the command.
21
The Art Room NSA Headquarters Fort Meade, Maryland 1841 hours EDT
“NIKOS-1 IS COMING OVER the Lebedev’s horizon now,” Marie Telach reported. “We’ve got the target ship onscreen.”
This time, the satellite would pass almost directly over the Lebedev, giving the observers in the Art Room the closest possible look at what was going on in the ship. Jeff Rockman entered keyboard commands that swung the spysat’s cameras up to focus on the approaching vessel, zooming in for a closer look.
Rubens studied the images with care. Fourteen minutes had passed since the last satellite had orbited over the Area of Operations. Anything could have happened in that time.
“Do we have comm pickup yet?”
“Coming through now, sir,” Telach reported.
“Three-one, One-one!” an urgent voice called, just intelligible through hissing static. “Get your people onto the bridge. The rest of you, start herding the tangos forward!”
“One-one, Four-three! We have resistance from the bow. Looks like two, maybe three November Indias behind the wreckage of that capstan!”
“Four-three! Take them down!”
“Copy that.”
November Indias-“NI,” for “naval infantry,” the Russian equivalent of Marines. And “tango” was SEAL shorthand for terrorists, in this case a generic term for the enemy. From the sound of things, the SEALs in general had the upper hand, though there obviously were still pockets of resistance. As the satellite drew closer and closer to a point directly over the Lebedev, the details of the action unfolding on her deck became clearer.
The scene was a computer-enhanced blend of optical and IR imaging. Rubens could see individual SEALs and Russians on the huge ship’s deck now. Heat sources inside the superstructure were vague, dark gray blurs, but the people in the open were easily distinguished, right down to details of uniforms and weapons.
“Can we raise Dean?” Rubens asked.
“We have a channel,” Rockman told him. “We can try.”
Establishing a direct channel to Dean had posed a serious technical challenge for the Art Room, one that had never been fully resolved. Dean’s usual communications gear and bone implant receiver were useless without a clear satellite connection accessible through an antenna coiled up in his belt, so the only way to reach him was through the SEAL tactical comm net.
And using that net for private chitchat ran the risk of jamming up the SEALs’ tactical communications in the middle of a firefight-something the SEAL CO would not appreciate.
But it was important that the Art Room let Dean know some key information about the Russian operation, information uncovered by Lia and Ilya in Sochi and added to day by day as the National Security Agency’s master eavesdroppers continued to look over Kotenko’s shoulder as he typed out e-mails and messages on his home computer.
And they would have only a brief window of opportunity as the NIKOS satellite passed overhead-two minutes at most.
“Sparrow, this is Bird Watcher,” Marie Telach was saying from her workstation. “Sparrow, Bird Watcher.”
Sparrow was Dean’s code name for this op. Bird Watcher, obviously enough, was the Art Room.
Static hissed in response.
“Sparrow, Bird Watcher.”
“Bird Watcher, clear this channel!” a new voice said, sharp and demanding.
Rubens picked up a microphone and held it to his mouth. “This is Bird Watcher,” he said. “We need to get a message to-”
“Bird Watcher, this is Sierra Echo One-one,” the voice said. “Your pet spook disobeyed orders and has gone MIA. Now clear the fucking channel!”
Rubens replaced the microphone. Sierra Echo One-one would be the call sign for the SEAL element commander, Lieutenant Taylor. Dean was missing?
“There!” Rockman said, pointing at the big screen. “That must be him!”
The satellite was now looking directly down on the Lebedev’
s forward deck from the zenith. The watchers in the Art Room could see three figures now standing on some sort of platform extending from the ship’s side off the starboard bow. It looked like a mooring platform for a small boat against the larger ship’s waterline, and there appeared to be an oval hull tied up alongside, bobbing in the water. One figure was standing close beside the Lebedev’s hull, and even at the resolution of an image captured from space, the object in his hand was obviously a small pistol. The other two figures appeared to be unarmed, one a woman, one a man. The man had just opened a circular hatch on top of the oval hull and was now climbing down inside.
Rockman continued jockeying the satellite’s camera array, keeping the scene on the monitor locked on the mooring platform.
Rubens picked up the microphone again. “One-one, this is Bird Watcher. Dean is being taken on board a small submarine off the ship’s starboard bow!”
“Bird Watcher, this is Overwatch,” another voice said. “Clear the channel. You are jeopardizing the operation!”
Rubens scowled. Overwatch was the handle for the Special Operations Command HQ team overseeing the SEAL op in the Arctic. The airwaves over the ice suddenly felt uncomfortably crowded.
It would be a mistake to keep pushing, Rubens decided. The opportunity to communicate with the SEALs would come again, if he didn’t force the issue now. Right now, the SEALs had their plate full trying to take down a ship full of Russian marines, and Desk Three would not be helping things by screwing up their communications channels.
“Sir!” Telach called from her station. “We’ve got something new developing!”
“What is it?”
A monitor above her workstation showed the view from another satellite, this one looking down on a barren coastline, ocean surf on a gravel beach, and a long, obviously military airstrip. Two jet aircraft were lifting off from the runway, afterburners flaring. Two more military jets were in the process of taxiing to begin their takeoff roll.
“It’s Mys Shmidta,” Telach said. “Four MiG-35s are taking off from the base there. Two MiG-31s apparently took off ten minutes ago. They’re all headed north… toward the Lebedev.”
Arctic Gold Page 31