Dawson smiled slightly. “My guess is he’ll be either the one without a gun, or the one who doesn’t know how to use it. Nothing in his file indicates he has any experience.”
Atlas grunted. “Files have been known to be wrong.”
Dawson shrugged. “Then we shoot them all, and sort it out later.”
Kozhin stood while Anokhin checked his gear one last time. “Are you ready?”
Kozhin frowned. “Hell, no. But let’s do this anyway.”
Anokhin grinned at him. “That’s the spirit!” Anokhin nodded at one of his men, and a door was opened to the outside. The cabin temperature rapidly dropped as the wind whistled around them. Kozhin turned to face the door and his two escorts each took one of his arms, leading him to the doorframe, the rugged landscape of a chilly Newfoundland below them. He closed his eyes and began to feel dizzy.
Not a wise choice.
He opened them and his equilibrium returned. A light turned green to his left and the first man stepped out, pulling him with him, Kozhin’s pilot chute in the second man’s hand.
“Arch!”
He completely forgot his brief verbal training, unsure of what to do, when he heard the single word yelled again. He thrust his arms and legs out and shoved his head and shoulders back, arching his spine.
Suddenly he heard a flutter above him then a jerk as the pilot chute dragged his main open, killing his speed. He took a moment to orient himself, grabbing his straps velcroed above him, and confirmed a good chute.
That was the end of what he was responsible for.
The plane roared away rapidly and two fighter jets broke off their pursuit, slowly circling this new development, no doubt radioing in the fact three people were now under parachutes, about to set foot on Canadian territory.
A rumble above and to his right had his head swiveling to figure out the source.
And he cursed.
Dawson dove out the aft baggage door of the Gulfstream G550 first, the others following rapidly. As he dove, his arms at his sides to increase his speed and close the gap with the enemy, he gave silent kudos to whoever at the CIA had figured out what the contingency plan might be.
What was surprising was that only three had made their escape. There had to be more on the plane. Kozhin would have no clue how to operate it, and there was no way two men could operate everything.
The three chutes below him were rapidly approaching. He could overshoot them and just meet them on the ground, but that would give the hostiles too many opportunities to shoot out their canopies from above.
“Deploy now.” He pulled his chute, the others around him doing the same, then prepared his MP5 as he double-checked his canopy overhead. “Control, Zero-One. Be advised, only three hostiles left the plane. Over.”
“Copy that, Zero-One. Will advise Zero-Two’s team. Out.”
Dawson took aim at the first chute on the left, trying to figure out which one was Kozhin.
“Look out!” cried Kozhin as he spotted six chutes deploying above them. Both his escorts looked up and weapons were pulled. Gunfire erupted from both, and Kozhin watched with satisfaction as a chute overhead was shredded, the man dangling under the canopy now rapidly descending.
Gunfire from overhead responded, and Kozhin turned his attention to the ground as they closed in on it. He could see a boat matching the description he had been given, near the shoreline. They were supposed to land then make their way to the shore where they’d be taken to the larger vessel. They would then steam into international waters, and onto a cargo vessel that would take them to Europe and its masses crammed into beautiful, open borders.
But all of that could only happen if they could get to the ground alive, and onto the boat. Something loud erupted below them, bright flashes coming from the deck of the boat bringing a smile to his face.
Dawson cursed as he dropped, his MP5 belching lead at the two armed men below him, the others joining in. The hostiles’ chutes were quickly shredded, but that wasn’t enough. As they lost their lift, they dropped toward the ground like he was, and he kept pace, leaving what was left of his chute still deployed rather than cutting it loose. He wanted to control his descent at least somewhat, because once he deployed his reserve, that was it.
No third chances.
One of the hostiles shook several times as Dawson’s aim was true, then the other, someone on his team taking the final gun out of the equation. He was about to cut loose his torn chute when he heard the distinctive sound of a .50 caliber from far below.
“It’s coming from that boat!”
Dawson searched for the boat Spock was referring to and spotted it, muzzle flashes erupting from its deck. “Break away, I’ll take care of it.” Dawson pulled the release, his useless chute tearing away, and he dropped. Leaning forward, he gained speed, his arms crossed over his chest as he held his weapon tight against his body so it didn’t tear free and knock him out.
He blasted past the only remaining hostile’s chute, the man unarmed, or at least not partaking in the battle that had just taken place, so most likely Kozhin. He could see three men on the deck now, one operating the .50, another feeding it ammo, the third with a pair of binoculars finding the targets.
And apparently ignoring the free-falling body they assumed was dead.
That should do it.
Dawson pulled his reserve, the speed and size of the chute resulting in a bone-wrenching jolt, something he had felt hundreds of times before in training and on missions. He gripped his MP5 tight, raising it to take aim, when the man with the binoculars suddenly spotted him. He could hear the shouts above the surf below, and the barrel of the machine gun turned toward him.
Dawson squeezed the trigger, pouring lead on the deck. The man feeding the ammo was hit first, and Dawson adjusted left, the next few bursts eliminating the threat, the final ones sending the spotter over the side. The engine fired up and Dawson banked to his right, taking aim at the bridge, opening fire and shattering the windows. A body slumped forward and into sight as he rapidly closed the distance between himself and the boat.
He kept his weapon aimed, his eyes searching for any movement, then mere feet from the deck, reached up and flared his chute, trimming his speed. He hit the deck hard and rolled with a grunt, immediately regaining a knee, scanning left to right for any movement. Finding none, he freed himself of his chute, letting it flutter away, eventually landing in the roiling ocean.
He cleared the deck, making sure the two manning the weapon were indeed dead, then killed the engine before performing a quick search of the vessel, finding no one else on board. Back on the deck, he stared up at the sky to see one lone chute about to land nearby on the shore, and five more chutes closing in. He smiled as he fired up the engine, making for land.
Try to take him alive, boys.
Kozhin closed his eyes, pulling down on his toggles as he had been told to do. He felt himself float back up and the sensation sent butterflies through his stomach.
Then he slammed hard into the rocky ground, the sensation merely an illusion.
Keep your eyes open at all times.
Anokhin’s warning echoed too late through his head, and as he struggled to his feet, trying to reel the chute in, he wondered what he was supposed to do next. He stared down at his chest and pulled at the buckle. The harness released and he shrugged out of the chute.
Something fluttered overhead and he looked up, cursing as he spotted the team sent to capture him coming in for a landing. An engine roared to his right and he turned, smiling as he spotted the boat he was to rendezvous with, racing for the shore. He sprinted over the craggy landscape, toward salvation. If he could get to the boat first, he just might escape these insane men who had jumped out of an airplane to pursue him.
“Halt!”
He glanced over his shoulder to see the first of his enemy touch down. Kozhin’s foot stubbed a rock and he stumbled, falling headlong onto the unforgiving ground. He cursed, his body screaming out in pain, bu
t he pushed to his feet.
He wasn’t going to prison.
Not today.
He willed himself forward, the boat now at the shoreline. He would be there in less than a minute. He just had to keep going. He waved at the pilot as he emerged from the bridge, then nearly cried out in disappointment, the man in what appeared to be a US Military uniform with a weapon strapped to his chest, returning the wave with a big smile.
Kozhin slowed then stopped, his shoulders slumping as his knees gave out. He collapsed to the ground, the sounds of heavy footfalls behind him easing, the chase over. He stared up at the heavens, his heart heavy.
Please don’t let them put me in a Russian prison.
68
Director Morrison’s Office, CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
National Clandestine Service Chief Leif Morrison grabbed his phone, the call his aide had announced, unexpected. “Petra! What can I do for you?”
“There’s something I think you need to know that might assist you in the apprehension of Mr. Kozhin and his people.”
Morrison bit his tongue, deciding he wanted to hear what she was about to say, rather than inform her that Kozhin had been captured only moments ago, and that the Il-80 was just about to land in Goose Bay, Labrador.
“What’s that?”
“In the past several weeks, General Gorokhin arranged for a number of diplomatic passports.”
Morrison’s mouth opened slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “So that’s how they plan on getting away with it. Diplomatic immunity.”
“Exactly.”
“And is your government going to honor these documents?”
“You know the Kremlin never tolerates the abuse of its citizens beyond its borders.”
Morrison frowned. “You didn’t answer my question, Petra.”
She sighed. “Even I’m surprised by the answer, my friend.”
69
CFB Goose Bay
Newfoundland & Labrador, Canada
Anokhin checked his tie. Everyone was in civilian business attire, all of their private weapons and equipment tossed over the Gulf of St. Lawrence between the island of Newfoundland and the mainland of Labrador, any weapons remaining Russian Army issue. There would be nothing incriminating found on board, and with their diplomatic passports in hand, legally, the aircraft couldn’t even be searched.
The pilot brought the massive craft to a halt and powered down the engines on Canadian soil, the decision having been made quite early on that there was no way they would land in the United States. At least with Canada, their diplomatic rights would be honored, and they’d probably be on a plane to Moscow within days, if not hours.
But in the United States? They might be shot the moment their feet hit the tarmac.
Anokhin opened the door, muttering a curse as a Siberia-worthy wind howled into the cabin. He turned to the others. “It’s like Mother Russia out there, boys!”
Laughter greeted him, and he was pleased to see his men were in good spirits. They were about to get away with some pretty serious crimes. He had no doubt when they were returned to Russia, there would be some questions asked, but they were contractors for Medved Corps, linked very tightly with the Kremlin, and too many generals and admirals to count. Publicly they might be condemned, but they wouldn’t serve a day behind bars, and would be back at work on Monday.
Russia loved its heroes, and anyone who stuck it to the West was a hero, especially these days with the elected dictator controlling the message its citizens were allowed to hear. Russia was strong again, and that was a good thing, but even he had to admit at times that it was Stalin strong, not Communist Party strong. The Soviet Union after Stalin had been essentially led by committee. Today’s Russia was again led by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to kill his enemies in gruesomely public ways, assert his will over helpless states, and publicly ridicule anyone who dared challenge him.
Russia was powerful, but at what cost?
Which was why he kept his money in Swiss accounts, not Russian. One day, the other shoe would drop, and he had no intention of being around to be squashed by it.
He tapped his handgun stuffed into his belt, and stepped into the winter that awaited them outside, half a dozen heavily armed soldiers, their weapons aimed at them, spread out to greet them.
He held up his red diplomatic passport. “Pavel Anokhin. I have diplomatic immunity, as do my companions.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward, his shaved head covered by an ever-increasing helping of snow. “I have been instructed to inform you that Moscow has revoked all diplomatic passports issued by General Gorokhin, including yours and those of your men. Cooperate, and you’ll survive the day, sir. Now, all of you, on your knees, hands on your head!”
Anokhin stared at the man, still processing what he had just heard. Could he be telling the truth? Could Moscow have revoked the passports? The fact these men knew that General Gorokhin was involved, proved that he had indeed been compromised. But would Russia abandon its citizens so easily?
He couldn’t see it. Something was going on here, and he wasn’t about to let these soldiers, who appeared to be a mix of Canadian and American, dictate the terms.
He slowly raised his hands, backing away from their hosts, and toward the aircraft. “Get back on board,” he whispered in Russian.
The bald man responded, in perfect Russian. “That’s not going to help you, sir.”
Anokhin continued his slow retreat, a smile spreading. “You speak Russian.”
“Know thine enemy.”
“Are we your enemy? I thought we were friends.”
The bald man shrugged. “We tried it for a while. You guys decided you didn’t like it.” He raised his weapon slightly. “Now stop moving, or I help you stop moving.”
“You’d shoot an unarmed man?”
The man tapped his ear. “All of your men have been identified. Your file has been read to me while we’ve been standing here. Even in your skivvies, you’re armed.”
Anokhin grabbed his package. “You have this in your file.”
The man chuckled. “I think you know what I mean.”
Anokhin reached the steps of the plane, his men flanking him on either side. “I think our conversation is over.”
“Take one step onto that plane, and I put you down.”
Anokhin sneered at him. “I don’t think you have the balls.” He put his foot on the first step and a shot rang out, a hole torn into the fuselage, just to the right of his head.
I guess we do this the hard way.
He reached behind his back and pulled his gun, the others doing the same.
Niner lay prone on the roof of Hangar 7, overlooking the tarmac and the proceedings below, Jimmy at his side. “Well, that’s disappointing.” He squeezed the trigger, the target on the far right dropping, the red mist of what were once organs and other vital tissues now decorating the fuselage of the Il-80. Another shot from his left rang out from the Canadian sniper team, the target on the far left down.
Niner already had the second target on the right lined up, and he squeezed the trigger as the guest of honor’s weapon appeared and his body shook repeatedly as the half-dozen men on the tarmac opened fire.
It was over in seconds, and not a single hostile had got off a shot.
Niner rolled onto his back, staring up at the snow gently floating down from above. He activated his comm. “Charlie Zero-One, this is Bravo One-One. I think it’s time for BeaverTails, over.”
His comm squelched. “One-One, the only beaver tails you’re getting here are the real thing. Next time I’m in Bragg, I’ll bring you some. Out.”
Niner frowned. “I think he’s lying about the BeaverTails. I think they have them here.”
Jimmy sat beside him, cross-legged. “I think you have to let it go.”
Niner looked up at his friend. “Never surrender! Never say die!”
70
Pico Island, Azores
&
nbsp; Thatcher continued his descent, the GPS on his suit indicating he was almost at the device. It had been a heart-wrenching decision to leave Giselle, to choose what he was about to do over a possible lifetime with her.
But choosing her would be selfish—he was put on this earth for a greater cause.
He had to save it from itself.
The action he was about to take would be even more effective than if the original plan had been executed as intended, if they hadn’t been betrayed by that bastard Kozhin. This one act of defiance against the social media machine would send shockwaves around the world as people realized he had done it for them, and if even just one person put down their phone, and talked to the person beside them on the bus, or in the line to get their coffee, talked to them about what he had done for them, he would have succeeded in some small way to change their lives.
If just two people rediscovered the joy of having a face-to-face conversation, of reading genuine facial cues rather than emoticons, of luxuriating in the rhythm and pattern of speech, the inflections and tics, the extraneous words and sounds inserted to fill gaps while they searched for the next word.
The beautiful experience of conversation.
For millennia, man had struggled to find methods to communicate more effectively with each other, and just when they had finally perfected it through vocalized speech, they were destroying it with technology that eliminated all the humanity.
He spotted the cable ahead of him and his chest ached with the knowledge of what was about to happen, and the finality of his actions.
Suddenly a brilliant light shone at him from behind. He pushed with his arm and spun around, gasping at the sight of a submersible rushing toward him. Had the authorities found them? It was possible, and if they had, then he had failed even in this.
No!
He turned, kicking hard toward the cable and the explosive charge they had placed on it, when a voice came through his headgear. “Thatch, it’s me, Giselle. What are you doing?”
Atlantis Lost Page 18