by Flynn Vince
Rapp snatched up the radio and exhausted a good portion of his Russian vocabulary by saying the word “copy” into it.
“Time to get out of Dodge before his buddies figure out what happened,” Coleman whispered.
Rapp glanced behind him at the black expanse of the Baltic Sea. Whitecaps glowed in the moonlight, breaking lazily against the beach. None looked much higher than a couple of feet—easy to swim out past but not offering much visual cover.
Worse was the beach itself. There were a good fifty yards of flat sand between them and the water. And even if they made it that far, there would likely be another ten of running through increasingly deep water before they could completely submerge. Unfortunately, better options weren’t on offer.
Rapp started to follow Coleman, who was running toward the beach, but then his mind registered something he’d glimpsed a few moments before. He dove forward, grabbing one of Coleman’s ankles and taking the man down before he broke out of the trees.
The SEAL reacted just as he’d been trained, rolling to cover and sighting over his rifle at the beach. “What?”
Rapp pulled him back to the machine gun placement and pointed to a saucer-shaped device partially obscured by leaves.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Coleman groaned as Rapp pushed the lids off one crate after another, finding all of them empty. “We’re already ten minutes behind schedule and now we’ve got a mined beach?”
When a Russian voice erupted from the walkie-talkie again, Coleman crouched and thumbed back at the body behind him. “Oh, yeah. And that guy’s buddies are about to come down on us like the wrath of God. I vote that we get the fuck out of here and live to fight another day.”
It was the smart move, but not among their choices. Maxim Krupin needed to be dealt with before this thing escalated out of control and Kennedy had lost confidence in Azarov.
“There’s an American sub out there waiting for us and we’re going to be on it.”
“Bullshit, Mitch. Sometimes you’re just beat and this is one of those times. Whatever Irene’s got going on in Russia, someone else is going to have to handle it.”
The voice on the walkie-talkie came on again, and the tone of it was easily deciphered. People were on their way. Rapp looked around him at the empty crates, the dead man’s sleeping bag, and finally at the machine gun. Time to get creative.
He walked up to the weapon and grabbed the hearing protection hanging next to the stock. The last thing he heard before everything went silent was Coleman’s quiet voice.
“Please don’t do that, Mitch.”
The gun bucked in his hand, spewing a line of tracers out onto the beach. He directed fire at the sand in front of him, churning up a section about two feet wide as he walked his aim toward the water. The barrel of the gun was already beginning to glow red when a mine finally exploded about ten yards away. He closed his eyes as the sand blasted his face, but kept his finger on the trigger.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw sand erupting about fifteen yards to the right of where his rounds were hitting. Another Russian machine gun placement had opened fire. Not certain what the target was, they were taking their cues from him.
When his ammo belt ran out, he ripped off his hearing protection and ran for the sand he’d churned up. The Russians were still firing, but their rounds were impacting well to his right, kicking up a cloud of dust that helped obscure him. There was no guarantee that he’d managed to clear all the mines and the tension of knowing he could step on one at any moment was tempting him to push too hard on the unpredictable surface.
When he was about ten yards from shore, the sound of the Russian gun changed subtly but there was no way he could look back to find out why. He hit the water at full speed, lifting his feet high to try to maintain speed. When it got knee deep, he dove into the frigid sea, scraping across the bottom on his way to deeper water.
No rounds were penetrating around him, so he surfaced, letting his head penetrate the surface just enough to see. The Russian gunner had spotted Coleman when he was in the middle of the beach and the former SEAL had been forced to turn back.
Rapp tensed as he watched his friend going for cover in the trees with the Russians doing everything they could to stop him. It turned out that when being chased by a few hundred rounds per minute, Coleman could still haul ass. He disappeared into the darkness and Rapp dove again, staying beneath the surface as he put distance between him and the shore.
Coleman would be fine. While it was true that he still wasn’t a hundred percent, it wouldn’t matter. Even at three quarters speed, he’d cut a path through the Russians that they wouldn’t soon forget.
CHAPTER 43
THE KREMLIN
RUSSIA
ANDREI Sokolov, noting that he was running almost a minute ahead of schedule, slowed his pace. The normally empty corridor was bustling with young officers, all of whom squeezed to its edges as he passed.
He was barely aware of their presence as his mind continued to focus on the ongoing situation with Maxim Krupin. Dr. Fedkin had offered no resistance at all, immediately agreeing to try to convince the Russian president to undergo a dangerous surgery that had little chance of improving his prognosis. It was something that initially had pleased Sokolov, but that now worried him. Fedkin was focused entirely on his own survival and had come to believe that Krupin was irrelevant to it. While he remained outwardly positive and proactive, it was clear that he no longer believed his patient would survive.
Two guards opened a set of double doors and Sokolov passed through, entering the cavernous hall that had been repurposed to coordinate the war. Massive screens had replaced the paper maps once used to track troop movements. Computer terminals had sprouted in place of typewriters and calculating machines, and encrypted satellite communications had taken the place of telephones and couriers. None of that mattered, though. The men, the vague scent of sweat, and unparalleled focus had been unchanged for thousands of years.
When his presence was noted, his military commanders gathered around the table centered in the room. Their faces were uniformly drawn, with eyes reddened from lack of sleep and stubbled chins. Their acknowledgment of his approach was muted, no more than brief nods and murmured greetings.
“Report,” he said to the commander of Russia’s ground troops.
“Reinforcements continue to arrive from Lithuania and Estonia, but having had no plan for their integration, we’re still struggling to make effective use of them. Cities, military bases, and strategic crossroads have been secured but aren’t proving as useful as we’d hoped. Electricity and water to them has been selectively cut off in ways that will be hard to repair, and that’s interrupting supply lines that are already overwhelmed by the increased troop numbers. Critical roads, bridges, and runways have been destroyed, slowing our men’s movements and making them easy targets for the insurgency. Also, the entire country has been booby-trapped. Everything from sophisticated laser triggered mines to simple sawed-through floorboards.”
“How long until you’ve dealt with all those traps?”
“Years,” the man admitted. “We don’t have enough men with that kind of training, and even if we did, it’s incredibly time consuming work. Probably half the population has fled their homes and many have left traps behind. Add to that the fact that it’s impossible to differentiate civilians from soldiers an—”
“I didn’t come here to listen to excuses!” Sokolov shouted. “If there’s a question as to whether someone is a noncombatant or a member of the insurgency, you will treat them as the latter. If the Latvians are booby-trapping their homes, then we’ll burn them to the ground. Am I clear?”
His generals all looked at one another before his new air force commander dared to speak. “I know you’ve been traveling, sir, so can I assume you haven’t seen the international news in the last hour?”
Sokolov shook his head and the man tapped a few commands on a keyboard. The computerized map that made up the tabletop morphed into
a video that looked like it had been taken with a mobile phone. It depicted a woman sobbing over the body of her husband as her children were forced to carry a crate from their barn. A Russian officer suddenly grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to a transport truck. He pointed to a dead soldier in the back and then threw her to the ground, drawing his sidearm as the video faded to black.
“Will President Krupin be joining us?” the director of Russia’s intelligence operations said. “Perhaps by phone?”
“He had other matters to attend to.”
“Other matters . . .” The man’s voice faded for a moment, but then came back stronger. “This video is only the first of many, General. Virtually the entire world opposes our invasion. That opposition will only grow in intensity.”
“This is war. Expecting the approval of our enemies seems a bit naïve for a man in your position.
He bristled at the insult. “It’s not just our enemies, General. It’s our allies. This video is circulating through the Latvian population, turning the ethnic Russian population against us. And while we can keep it off the state controlled media, we can’t keep it off social media. Our population—and our troops—are already uncertain why we’re in Latvia and they fear the West’s retaliation.”
Sokolov felt his jaw tighten at the entirely accurate assessment of Russia’s troops. He hated the weakness of the new generation of soldiers. During World War II, Germany taught the world what could be accomplished with unwavering focus, efficiency, and ruthlessness. It was unimaginable what he could accomplish with the troops and leadership Hitler had enjoyed.
There was a sudden commotion in the far end of the room, and a navy captain ran toward them, pulling his commander aside and whispering urgently into his ear. Admiral Zhabin nodded calmly, finally giving a brief response that sent the man running back to his station.
“What is it?” Sokolov said.
It took a few seconds for him to find his voice. “NATO vessels have carried out a number of attacks on our navy. We’ve lost contact with three of our submarines and the Kuznetsov, our only aircraft carrier, is on its way to the bottom of the sea. Our destroyer the Ushakov—”
“The Kuznetsov?” Sokolov interrupted. “What are you talking about? It’s nowhere near the Baltic.”
“I didn’t say that our vessels in the Baltic were under attack,” the man countered. “I said our navy was under attack. We’re also seeing movements of American vessels toward our shores. I can only assume to cut off our retreat to Russian ports.”
Sokolov was momentarily stunned by the news. Why would the American president risk so much for a country that his constituency cared nothing about?
“You sound as though you’ve surrendered, Adm—”
“I have surrendered nothing!” the man shouted back. “My sailors have sunk at least one U.S. submarine and the HMS Diamond is burning. The battle continues and we’ll inflict heavy damage on the West, but we’re fighting a simultaneous war against four of the world’s most powerful navies. I can turn the Baltic into a graveyard but, by tomorrow, NATO will control it. As for the rest of our ships throughout the—”
“Do we have coastal batteries in place to support the navy?” Sokolov asked the commander of his ground forces.
“No. We’ve prioritized setting up defenses against NATO landing small teams and supplies. The—”
“What about Russian-based weapons?”
The man paused before answering. “We have significant capability, obviously. But we would have to carefully consider the rules of engagement when NATO inevitably retaliates against Russian soil.”
“The Europeans have heavy population concentrations within easy reach of our tactical nuclear weapons,” Sokolov said. “They won’t violate the sanctity of our border.”
“Enough of this,” Admiral Zhabin said, insinuating himself back into the conversation. “You say that President Krupin has other things to attend to. What? Hunting? Sunning himself by some mountain lake while you talk about starting a nuclear war with Europe? You don’t have the authority. Get Krupin on the phone. Now.”
The other generals did nothing to defend the chain of command, instead attempting to stare him down. Had this been planned? A mutiny? Unlikely, but his situation was still dire. Without Krupin’s direct involvement, this military campaign was in jeopardy. With it, though, the situation might be even worse. The president’s resolve was waning with his strength.
Sokolov motioned to three military policemen he’d brought in for just such an eventuality. One of them grabbed the admiral’s arm, but the old sailor shoved him back and marched straight-backed toward the door. Rebuked, the MPs followed meekly behind.
CHAPTER 44
BALTIC SEA
“THIS thing just went pear-shaped,” the British submarine captain said, putting a hand on Rapp’s dripping back and guiding him down a narrow corridor. “We’re now engaged in a full-scale naval war.”
“Come again?” Rapp responded through chattering teeth. He’d won a number of triathlons in water around that temperature, but the fact that his wetsuit was hanging on a peg in his garage wasn’t ideal.
“NATO’s commander just ordered an attack on every targetable Russian navy vessel worldwide. The good news is that we caught them flatfooted and did some damage. The bad news is that they’re coming back at us hard.”
“Are you going to be able to get me where I’m going?”
“I’ve been ordered to do that or go to the bottom trying,” he said, stopping and slapping a door to his left. “Shower. Your gear’s inside.”
They shook hands and the captain started back along the corridor, calling over his shoulder as he went. “If you Agency boys have a plan to get us out of this, sooner would be better than later.”
Rapp entered the cramped shower room and pulled off his wet clothes. The salt was rinsed off in a few seconds, but he stayed beneath the hot stream of water until he stopped shaking.
Reluctantly, he finally stepped out and toweled off, wondering if at that moment they were being targeted by the Russians. No point in dwelling on things beyond his control, he reminded himself as he unzipped the duffel that had been left for him. Sea battles were the navy’s problem.
The bag was meticulously packed with a pair of clippers and a razor on top. There was a sticky note with the word beard inside a circle with a line through it. Claudia’s handwriting.
He left his facial hair on the floor and sink, then went back to the duffel. The next layer contained black jeans, a cotton shirt, and a pair of light hiking boots—all from his closet. The banged-up eyeglasses with clear lenses, though, were new to him. As was the brushed nickel ponytail holder in the shape of a peace sign.
Under other circumstances, he’d have actually gotten a laugh out of that.
Rapp put the glasses on and then went to toss the ponytail holder in the garbage. When he did, he saw that Claudia had scrawled something on the back.
Don’t throw this away.
Ignoring the advice, he returned to the duffel but didn’t find the weapon he was looking for. An unusual lack of thoroughness on her part. The Glock he’d brought with him to Latvia was now residing on the sea floor.
Rapp left the clothes from his swim on the floor and opened the door to the shower room. Two men passed and pressed their backs against the bulkhead in order to get around a woman wearing the uniform of a French naval officer. They struggled not to stare at her but Rapp didn’t bother to make the effort.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said in French.
“My job,” Claudia responded. “What did you do with Scott? Is he—”
“Safer than us. Your job is logistics. Not operations.”
“I’m here to brief you,” she said, starting down the corridor. “That falls under logistics.”
“In the middle of the largest fucking naval engagement since World War II?”
“It’s not something I wanted someone else to do,” she said. “And, besides. The
re was no way to anticipate this.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but then just gave up. Winning arguments with her was virtually impossible, and in this case she was right. The fact that the president had approved this kind of an escalation came as a surprise even to him. He—and the Russians—had expected the Baltic to be a chess match with both sides primarily concerned with not allowing the situation to spiral out of control.
“Is Grisha here?”
“Yes.”
“And where’s his head at?”
“I haven’t spent enough time with him to give you a useful assessment. But Cara’s surgery went well.”
“What about my gun?”
“You’ll find one waiting for you on a bank of the Olenyok River. Or at least that’s what I’m told. Irene’s office is handling that end of the operation.”
She led him into a cramped conference room where Azarov was waiting.
“How was your swim, Mitch?”
“Cold.”
Rapp made himself a cup of coffee while Claudia started her briefing.
“The man Grisha was watching was picked up by Nikita Pushkin. We were able to track him to Zhigansk, a small town in rural Russia and then to a decommissioned military installation to the northwest. We’ve analyzed the satellite images from the last few months and there’s been a significant uptick in activity. We suspect that Krupin’s getting his treatments there.”
She spread a map out on the table and tapped a red circle on it.
“Remote,” Rapp commented.
“If it isn’t the middle of nowhere, it’s only a few kilometers away.”
“Do you think he’s there now?”
“We’re giving it a seventy-five percent chance.”
“Can you get us there?”
“It isn’t going to be easy. Not only is it remote, there’s only one road going in and out. There’s no reason for anyone to be up there, and that road’s going to be under heavy surveillance.”
“Can I assume that you’ve worked something out?” Rapp asked.