by Flynn Vince
Rapp turned his attention to the barn when three terrified children around Anna’s age emerged. They were being forced to drag a heavy wooden crate by two equally menacing soldiers. One grabbed a crowbar and pried the top off, dumping the medical supplies, ammunition, and food Rapp was there to collect.
Caches like these were distributed throughout the country and the small team he and Coleman were tagging along with had been assigned this one. Their orders were to set up a base of operations in the forest east of there and coordinate with similar teams hidden throughout the region.
Unfortunately, Russians had beat them to it. If they hadn’t been delayed by a bridge blown up ahead of schedule, they’d have collected the supplies and been gone hours ago. The soldiers would have found nothing but livestock and farming equipment.
Coleman’s voice became audible over his earpiece, but it was hard to make out his words. The radio was intentionally feeble, producing a signal too weak to bring Russians choppers down on them.
“Say again.”
“I’ve made it into the north field. No contacts.”
He and Jarus’s men had surrounded the house to the degree they could, with Coleman managing to cross some dangerously open ground behind the barn. His report suggested that the Russians had no backup. So an officer, two soldiers, and however many others might be inside the structures. It was that last unknown that caused Rapp to hesitate.
“Stay put, Scott. They might let this go.”
The farmer was dead and his family consisted of women and children. This wasn’t ISIS. It was a professional army. Most likely they’d kick up a little more dust and move on.
The man in command grabbed the woman by the hair and dragged her to the truck his team had arrived in. He threw back the canopy, revealing the body of a Russian soldier with half his head missing—a victim of one of the many snipers the Latvians had posted along the country’s roads. His shouts rose to the level of screams as he threw her to the ground and pulled his sidearm. The kids near the barn started wailing but were held back by the men guarding them.
Rapp swore under his breath. It was just this kind of unprofessional bullshit he figured he wouldn’t have to deal with when fighting the Russians. Apparently, he’d given them too much credit.
“This isn’t going to go easy,” he said into his throat mike.
“Roger that,” came Coleman’s response
Rapp fired a single round from his silenced Glock and the Russian officer crumpled. The two men standing over the kids looked on, frozen by a moment of confusion.
It should have provided enough time for Rapp to quietly put a round between each of their eyes, but the officer’s pistol went off when he hit the ground. The sound broke them from their trance and they began spraying the trees with their assault rifles.
Jarus covered his head with his hands, but Rapp just stayed on target. Dirt, leaves, and bark rained down, but the chances of hitting someone while sweeping with a machine gun was pretty low. Stan Hurley had actually put a number to it and Rapp found himself hoping the old bastard hadn’t just made it up.
He squeezed the trigger and the soldier running to the right went down. The other was smarter. He’d grabbed one of the kids and was using her as a shield while he backed toward the barn. Rapp dropped one of his hands to the dirt and used the ground to steady his aim. Another careful squeeze of the trigger shattered the man’s right eye socket, leaving the girl standing in the yard, panicked and shrieking uncontrollably.
“Move in on the barn, Scott. We’re taking the house.”
“On it,” came the reply as he grabbed Jarus and sprinted toward the front porch.
He took the stairs in one leap and kicked open the front door, knowing that speed would have to take priority over precision. It wasn’t going to be long before the Russians noticed the shooting and sent an airship in support.
He entered with his pistol held out in front of him, finding a single open room with an arched entrance to a kitchen at the back. He pointed Jarus toward it and let his momentum carry him toward a set of steps to the left. They were dangerously tight and straight, but there was no other option for clearing the top floor.
As fast as Rapp was, he wasn’t quite fast enough. The barrel of an assault rifle appeared at the top of the stairs and the deafening roar of blind automatic fire followed. He threw himself against the railing, discovering that it wasn’t as solid as it looked when it gave way. The uncontrolled drop back to the ground floor seemed unavoidable for a moment, but then he remembered the ancient beams above. The old wood was rough enough for him to get a good grip with only one hand and he arced out over the room below. After hitting the apex of his swing, he started inevitably back toward the stream of bullets pummeling the steps. Rapp emptied half his Glock’s magazine in the direction of the shooter, but didn’t really have much hope of hitting anything. He was about to drop to the floor when the shooting stopped and was replaced by unsteady footsteps on the floorboards above.
Rapp landed back on the stairs and started up them again, this time at a more cautious pace. He reached the landing and swiveled smoothly onto the second floor, leading with his weapon. It consisted of a single open space with steeply angled walls that tracked the roofline. The soldier was kneeling next to a twin bed, begging in Russian and bleeding badly from a wound in his stomach.
Rapp fired a single round into his forehead. The man’s comrades had made it clear that no quarter would be given in this fight. Not to civilians. Not to women. And not to children. Rules of engagement that Rapp was extremely familiar with.
• • •
“You all right?” he said as he came back down the stairs.
Jarus was on the floor, trying to get a connection on a telephone that looked like it had been around since the 1950s. “Yes. There was no one down here.”
Rapp activated his throat mike. “Scott. You copy? Give me a sitrep.”
“There was one tango in the barn. He’s down and we’re loading supplies on the horses. I can feel those Russian choppers bearing down on us, though.”
“Me too. If I’m not out there when you’re loaded, take off. We’ll catch up.”
“Roger that.”
Jarus’s expression suddenly transformed from one of concentration to one of genuine surprise. “I’m through! I have a connection!”
Rapp leaned in, listening to a woman who sounded even older than the phone speak Latvian.
“Do you have the number you wanted to call, Mitch? I don’t know how long this is going to last.”
Jarus relayed Irene Kennedy’s private number to the woman and then started pulling the bottom off the phone while Rapp waited to be connected. There was a USB port hidden in the simple electronics and the young Latvian connected his cell to it as the line started ringing.
“Hello?”
“Irene! Can you hear me?”
“Barely. Where are you?”
“Still Latvia. Roughly in the middle,” he said, not wanting to give his exact location over the line. “What’s going on out there?”
“The good news is that our plan partially worked. The Russians aren’t moving against Estonia and Lithuania.”
“Let me guess the bad news. They’re reassigning all those troops here.”
“I’m afraid so. And I need you out of there. Now.”
Rapp glanced at Jarus. The Russians were about to swarm his country like some kind of biblical plague, and unless he missed his guess, NATO wasn’t going to be able to do much about it. Abandoning him and his team felt wrong.
“I think I’m in this for the long haul, Irene.”
“We have a high-priority target for you in a different country,” she said, obviously also concerned about the line. The implication was clear, though. She’d located Krupin.
“By the time I get to a border, it’s going to be locked down. Let my Russian friend handle it.”
There was a pause over the line that was long enough to make him wonder if he’d lost
the connection.
“I don’t think we can trust him to do it alone.”
“Why the hell not? I guarantee you that you’re not going to find anyone more motivated.”
“That’s true. But I recently received a package from him.” Another pause. “I think he may have lost his mind.”
• • •
Rapp yanked the horse’s reins and skirted a log that had become lost in shadow. They’d been working only with a map and compass, necessary because of the Russians’ ability to zero in on electronic signals. It was a strange sensation to be on the other side of the technological equation—to be forced to use all the low-tech tricks that al Qaeda and the Taliban had used against him.
“How much farther?” Janus asked, pulling alongside him when the trees thinned out enough to allow it. Rapp saw movement ahead and motioned with his head. “We’re here.”
A man holding a Heckler & Koch G36 appeared from the foliage, but immediately lowered it when he recognized Rapp’s companion. He led them on a circuitous route north, undoubtedly to avoid the mines and trip wires set up on the perimeter.
The camp consisted mostly of military tents beneath structures built of tree limbs and leaves, making everything invisible from above. The majority of people hiding out there were young men, but Rapp spotted one of the kids from the farm being comforted by a woman in civilian clothes.
A blond head appeared from a cave to his left and a moment later Coleman was jogging up to him. “Did you stop for lunch?”
“Phone call.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I’ve got to go. Irene’s going to try to get me onto a submarine from a beach near Lilaste.”
“The Russian navy’s got to be all over those waters.”
“We’ll see.”
“All right. Let me grab a horse and some supplies.”
Rapp shook his head. “I’ll make my own way. You can stay.”
“Not a chance,” he replied, grinning broadly. “With your map reading skills, you’ll end up looking for that sub in a swimming pool outside of Barcelona.”
CHAPTER 40
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
MAXIM Krupin stood motionless, staring through the glass at the test subjects on the other side. As his treatment dragged on, he found himself in that sterile hallway more and more.
All were strapped to beds and, increasingly, all seemed to represent a part of what he’d become. Some stared back with defiance and rage. Others fear or pain. A few had minds damaged by experimental drugs or untested procedures. At the back was a woman with unblinking eyes fixed on the ceiling. He couldn’t remember what protocol she’d been subjected to, only that it had failed. Like the others, her body would be returned to her family with the story that her illness had been too advanced to reverse.
He finally found the strength to focus on his own reflection—the wheeled IV stand in his hand, the tracksuit that hung loose on once powerful shoulders. The bandage covering a burn on the back of his neck that his body could no longer heal. And, finally, the hollowed out eyes that stared back at him.
He heard a shout at the other end of the hallway and he turned, squinting into the semidarkness. This sector of the facility was off-limits to everyone but medical personnel and a few trusted guards.
Three men emerged from the gloom, one wearing handcuffs and chains on his ankles. He was flanked by the commander of Krupin’s security detail on one side and, on the other, Nikita Pushkin.
Krupin examined the prisoner, mesmerized by the strength with which he fought against his bonds and the two men holding him. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with the same bearlike build that Krupin himself had enjoyed before his illness. Yuri Lebedev, he remembered. A retired soldier from Salekhard.
The man stopped struggling when he saw Krupin, locking eyes with his president as he stumbled forward. When he saw the room behind the glass, though, he dropped to the floor, thrashing wildly as he was dragged inside.
Krupin watched as they strapped him to a bed. His screamed obscenities echoed through the hall for a moment, finally going silent when the soundproof door swung closed. Pushkin started back toward the hall, leaving the security chief to secure Lebedev’s remaining free leg.
“Sir,” Pushkin said, saluting crisply, but failing miserably to keep the surprise and concern from playing across his face. There had been no reason to tell him anything about this and he still wouldn’t know if Krupin had remained hidden in his living quarters. It mattered little, though. He wouldn’t be leaving.
“I need you here now, Nikita. I need to be surrounded by people I can trust.”
“Of course, sir.”
The thought of having Pushkin close provided a certain amount of reassurance. Outside of the prison Krupin had confined himself to, his enemies were multiplying and becoming stronger. Even Sokolov’s eyes were beginning to become glassy with visions of glorious battles and subjugated enemies. His strength and brilliance were beyond question, but his loyalties were complex. The general romanticized Russia like a Soviet schoolboy. He would give his life and anyone else’s to see it rise again.
Pushkin lacked such grandiose aspirations—or any aspirations at all, really. That, as much as his physical prowess, had been critical in qualifying him to replace Grisha Azarov. While not as smart or mentally tough as his predecessor, his simple nature and tendency toward hero worship were benefits that outweighed any drawbacks.
“You’ve become very much a son to me, Nikita. I’m pleased to have you at my side during these times.”
As always, Pushkin stood a little straighter at the affection denied to him by his own father. There was no question that, unlike Azarov, this boy would carry out his duty until he drew his last breath.
“I’ve arranged quarters for you. You’re dismissed.”
• • •
Andrei Sokolov slowed and finally came to a stop in the dim overhead light. Twenty meters ahead, Krupin was once again standing with one hand around a wheeled IV pole and the other pressed against the glass looking in on the test subjects.
It was disorienting to see a force of nature like Maxim Krupin stand so still. To watch him waste his hours obsessing over people who were of no importance.
Sokolov started forward again unnoticed. Without Fedkin’s stimulant cocktail, the president had lost his awareness of what was happening around him, falling further and further into himself. Now that it loomed so near, he shared the same pointless fear of death that lesser men did.
It was something that had always baffled Sokolov. Even the longest-lived creatures existed for only a blink of an eye. What mattered was building something that was greater. Bending that uncaring universe to your will and finding immortality through those efforts. Caesar died in his fifties, but what he built—his reshaping of civilization—would live on until the last human turned to dust.
“I don’t understand your fascination with these lab rats, Maxim.”
Krupin was slow to respond. “What are you going to do to him? To Lebedev?”
Sokolov followed the president’s gaze to a man fighting futilely to free himself from the straps securing him. “We’re exploring the possibility of using the Zika virus to attack cancer cells without damaging the healthy brain tissue around them. Promising, but experimental. More important, how is the burn on your neck? Please let me apologize again for that. The force of the explosion was controllable, but the heat from it less so. The threat to you had to look . . .” He paused for a moment. “Dramatic.”
“And?”
It was concerning that Krupin spent his time here instead of monitoring the media—something he’d done to great effect before his illness.
“You appeared quite heroic and powerful. The state-run news programs are blaming Latvian terrorists and suggesting that they had American support. Perhaps even more important, a number of your most strident detractors in the Federal Assembly were badly injured.”
“But not P
rime Minister Utkin.”
“He’s of no importance. Sending him around the world exchanging gifts with leaders no one has ever heard of has made him look weak. Now, after the invasion, he’s being assaulted daily with questions he can’t answer. He doesn’t just look weak, he looks like a fool.”
“You underestimate him, Andrei. He has supporters in Russia. Not just in the population, but in the military and the government. If my position weakens, it’s he who most benefits.”
“Your position hasn’t weakened, my friend. Latvia is fully under our control in less than half the time we anticipated and with far fewer casualties.”
“Not a victory,” Krupin said. “There’s little support to be gained from our tanks rolling into empty cities and our men being massacred at the Riga airport.”
“It’s simply a matter of spin,” Sokolov countered. “Instead of hard-won, courageous victories, we’ve pivoted to saying that the lack of resistance was proof that Latvia wanted to return to the Russian fold. That they’ve come to understand that NATO is a useless ally.”
“That lack of resistance won’t last, Andrei. NATO has declared Article V and the Latvians have laid the groundwork for an effective insurgency. Arrange a call with the other generals. I want an update on our situation.”
“I’d strongly recommend against that,” Sokolov said, searching for a reason to explain his objection. “A video call would be expected and that’s impossible in your present condition. I’m concerned that even your voice could invite questions. You don’t sound like yourself.”
When Krupin glanced in his direction, there was a hint of something in his eyes that couldn’t be easily identified. Suspicion?
“So all my information is to come from you then, eh, Andrei?”
“For a short time, Mr. President. Until the effects of your therapy have diminished enough for you to use Dr. Fedkin’s stimulants again.”
“Then let’s hear it. Where do we stand?”
“In very good position,” Sokolov exaggerated. “The troops you ordered in from Lithuania and Estonia are already crossing the border and we’ll soon have an overwhelming force in place. The damage to Latvia’s infrastructure from sabotage was more extensive than we anticipated, but we have enough engineers and men in place to repair it. NATO troops are moving into Lithuania and Estonia as we anticipated, but they’re still in disarray from the dismantling of their exercises. To date, they’ve made no particularly aggressive gestures. It appears that your conversation with the American president was productive.”