by Scott McEwen
Sasha Kovalenko then threw back the hood on the ghillie suit and rose up, studying the grisly scene of battle with prurient interest. Whoever had killed the four men at his feet had done so at point-blank range, and with such speed that not one of them had gotten off a single shot. Looking up into the tree, he saw the camouflaged canopy hanging torn from a broken limb.
Sixty feet away, he found the patrol leader’s body and knelt beside it, taking note of the grisly manner in which he’d been slain—stabbed through the side of neck, instantly severing the larynx for a guaranteed silent kill. Instinct told Kovalenko this was the work of the American. He must have taken the leader from behind before engaging the rest of the patrol where they had found Dragunov hanging from the tree. Had Dragunov been unconscious? Was he injured? And how had the American gotten so bloody close to them without drawing fire? It was all open to surmise, but one thing was certain: the prey had taken the bait, and this time Kovalenko held every advantage.
Within three minutes, he picked up their trail and moved out at a comfortable pace. There was no need to hurry. His job wasn’t so much to kill them as to prevent their escape.
52
HAVANA,
Cuba
It was growing dark when Daniel Crosswhite landed at José Martí International Airport in Cuba.
The customs officer held the rubber stamp poised over his passport. “Quieres el sello, señor?” He was asking if Crosswhite wanted his passport stamped. Cuban customs officers were aware that Americans could get into trouble with the US government for traveling to Cuba—more specifically, for spending American money in Cuba—and they rarely stamped American passports because of it.
Crosswhite shook his head and smiled. “No, gracias.”
The official returned his smile and gave him the passport, welcoming him to Cuba. “Bienvenido, señor.”
“Gracias.”
Crosswhite bought a cheap cellular phone from a kiosk and then caught a cab in front of the airport. “Mercure Sevilla Hotel, por favor.”
Built in 1908, the Mercure Sevilla Hotel was famous for its Moorish architecture and ornate rooms, but Crosswhite barely paid the decor any attention, dumping his bag in the closet and heading back downstairs to the lobby. He found the doorman outside and slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. Most tourists used US currency in Cuba, though the euro was widely accepted as well. “Dónde puedo encontrar una muchacha, amigo—una muchacha buena?” Where can I find a woman—a fine woman?
The doorman was dark complexioned, in his early thirties. He smiled, answering in good English, “You can’t bring a girl here to the hotel, señor.”
A shadow fell over Crosswhite’s face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The doorman took him aside out of earshot. “This is the tourist section,” he explained. “Local woman aren’t permitted inside the hotels, so they take you to their homes.”
Crosswhite’s eyebrows soared. “You’re shitting me.” He began to dig around in his pocket. “What’s your name, amigo?”
“Ernesto, señor.”
“Ernie, I’m Dan.” They shook hands. “I’m gonna be here a few days on business. You gonna be around if I need you?”
Ernesto smiled. “Estoy a sus órdenes, señor.” I am at your orders, sir.
“Excellent,” Crosswhite said, slipping him another fifty. “Now, listen. I need to know if any other Yankees show up here at the hotel—military-lookin’ assholes like me. Comprendes?”
Ernesto continued to smile, enjoying the sudden intrigue. “I’ll keep my eyes open, señor. Rely on me.”
“I will,” Crosswhite said, giving him a slip of paper with the number to the cellular he’d purchased at the airport. “If you see anything unusual around here—any fucking thing at all—you call me. Comprendes?”
“I understand exactly what you need, señor. Do not worry.”
“One other thing: the last digit isn’t really a four—it’s a five. Can you remember that?”
“Sí, señor.”
“Bueno,” Crosswhite said. “Now, about the girl? I want her thin . . . early twenties . . . long, dark hair. You got one in mind?”
Ernesto grinned. “Paolina will be perfect for you, señor.”
“Paolina!” Crosswhite reached into his jacket for his smokes. “You and me are gonna get along, I think.” He shook loose a pair of cigarettes and gave one to his new friend.
“Paolina is a good girl,” Ernesto said, lighting the cigarette as Crosswhite held the lighter. “You have to be a gentleman. Her parents are very proper.”
Crosswhite’s mouth fell open. “Her fucking parents? Dude, what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
Ernesto laughed. “This is your first time in Havana?”
Crosswhite took a drag. “I’m guessing you can tell.”
“I will take care of everything, señor. She will arrive here by taxi in twenty minutes. Then you can ride with her to her home. Her mother will cook you a nice meal.”
“Ernie, I don’t wanna meet her goddamn parents.”
“Relax,” Ernesto said. “You hired me, no? Allow me to do my job.”
Crosswhite pointed at him, a half grin on his face. “If this gets fucked up, Ernie, I’ll jerk a knot in your dick. I mean it.”
Ernesto smiled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “You are going to love her. I swear it. You won’t want to ever leave Cuba after tonight.”
Paolina’s cab pulled up in front of the hotel a half hour later, and Ernesto opened the door for Crosswhite to get in with her.
The moment their eyes met, his heart melted, and he almost got back out of the cab. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, and she was the very picture of innocence, with soft, dark eyes, brown skin and long, kinky black hair.
“Soy Paolina,” she said in a soft voice. “Mucho gusto.” It’s nice to meet you.
“Soy Dan. Mucho gusto.”
They arrived at her house in a poor neighborhood about fifteen minutes later. Paolina led him inside by the hand and introduced him to her parents—Duardo and Olivia Garcia—who stood waiting for them in the kitchen beside a table set for four. A television played cartoons in another room where a pair of small children could be heard romping around.
Crosswhite had never been more uncomfortable in his entire life, and he regretted having come, but he smiled at her father, who looked the same age as him, and offered his hand. “Mucho gusto, señor.”
Duardo’s grip was firm, and his gaze was steady. “Mucho gusto. Bienvenido.” He motioned Crosswhite into a chair and sat down across from him with a friendly smile as Paolina set about helping her mother to serve the meal. When the table was ready, she took the chair beside him.
No one in the family spoke English, so dinner conversation was entirely in Spanish. Early in the meal, Paolina’s mother excused herself from the table and went into the other room to settle a dispute between the children. Crosswhite had assumed the children to be Paolina’s siblings, but when one of them used the word abuela, meaning “grandmother,” he realized that at least one of them was probably Paolina’s. He had already made up his mind there was no way he was going to bed her with her parents right in the other room, so he didn’t see any reason not to ask a few personal questions.
Paolina admitted one of the girls was her three-year-old daughter and that the other was her four-year-old sister. Paolina’s father chuckled proudly, boasting that both little girls were beautiful and hot tempered like their mothers.
Crosswhite glanced at Paolina, trying to imagine such a meek girl being hot tempered. He smiled at Duardo, liking him, and asked what he did for a living.
Duardo said he worked as a gardener in a gated neighborhood, and the second he learned that Crosswhite had been a soldier in Afghanistan, the conversation turned to guns. It wasn’t long afterward that Duardo asked his wife to get ou
t a bottle of seven-year-old Havana Club rum. The bottle had never been opened, and Crosswhite began to protest, but Duardo insisted, and soon both men were laughing like old friends. It grew late, and Paolina’s mother excused herself once again, saying that she needed to put the children to bed. As she left the kitchen, it was obvious she would not return, and Duardo got to his feet. He offered Crosswhite his hand and told him that he had enjoyed meeting him and followed after his wife, bidding Crosswhite good night.
Crosswhite stared after him for a moment and then turned to Paolina, saying that he should probably be getting back to the hotel. The atmosphere became immediately awkward, and he came clean with her, explaining that he had never been to Cuba before and that he had not expected to be received so kindly by her family or to end up making friends with her father.
She stared at him, and for a second he thought she was going to cry.
“No, don’t cry,” he said in Spanish. “I’m still going to pay you for your time and everything.”
Tears spilled from her eyes, and he realized he’d given offense where he hadn’t meant to.
“I’ll call the cab,” she said, getting up from the table. “I don’t want you to pay me. There’s no reason.”
He caught her gently by the hand, and she sat back down.
“Look, I’m not accustomed to girls like you,” he said softly. “You’re too . . . you’re too precious and sweet. I’m accustomed to women who are wild and reckless. Do you understand?”
She touched his face. “Tal vez es por eso que estás tan solo en el mundo.” Perhaps that’s why you’re so alone in the world.
53
THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS
Gil was still on point, moving cautiously along a rough mountain trail through the forest when Dragunov’s iron grip clamped onto his left shoulder. He froze in place, and the Russian moved up against his back, sliding his arm forward over Gil’s shoulder with his index finger pointing straight ahead. At first Gil couldn’t figure out what the hell he was pointing at. All he saw in the gray-black field of the night vision goggles were more trees and the trail leading up the grade, bearing gradually off to the left.
Dragunov wagged his finger up and down, and that’s when Gil saw it: the faint glint of moonlight reflecting off of a monofilament line at the very tip of Dragunov’s finger.
Gil began to back away, but Dragunov stood firm as an oak, trailing the tip of his finger a few inches up and to the left. Gil searched beyond the finger, studying the terrain itself, and his bladder filled with ice water. There were at least ten men stretched across their approach at fifty feet, all of them expertly ensconced among the rocks and deadfalls, absolutely motionless and appearing very much a part of the forest. Dragunov twisted at the waist to turn Gil to his right, pointing off the trail where at least ten more men were equally well disguised as natural features of the landscape.
They had walked into a textbook L-shaped ambush.
Gil knew that most, if not all, of the enemy had to be aware of their presence, the sliver of moon providing enough light for experienced warriors to easily detect movement at fifty feet. The only reason they had not yet opened fire was that they’d been ordered to wait for the trip flares that were almost undoubtedly spread across the line of advance. Tripping one monofilament line would likely send up an entire series of star clusters that would bathe the entire scene in virtual daylight, leaving Gil and Dragunov to die in a murderous cross fire.
Gil nodded and shrugged his shoulders, unsure of how else to ask Dragunov what they should do. They sure as hell couldn’t discuss it verbally, with the enemy close enough to piss on them.
Dragunov pushed down on Gil’s shoulder. The two of them lowered themselves into crouched positions and began backing away slowly. After they’d withdrawn perhaps ten feet, the forest exploded around them. They threw themselves against the ground as rifle fire and tracers from PKM machine guns streaked over their heads—close enough that Gil could feel their heat raising the hairs on the back of his neck. They shoved themselves along backward on their bellies, bullets grazing their helmets, nicking their body armor, and shattering the radio units attached to the backs of their harnesses.
Dragunov rolled from the trail into a shallow defilade and pulled Gil in after him, giving them a moment of respite.
“They were here waiting for us!” Gil shouted over the din.
“I know—we’re betrayed!”
The flares went up, and it was suddenly as bright as Wrigley Field on game night.
Gil rose up just long enough to fire a 40 mm grenade into a PKM machine-gun nest. The grenade detonated on impact, and men screamed.
Dragunov fired a grenade across the trail where the enemy was displacing to outflank them, killing three.
An RPG streaked out of nowhere, detonating against a nearby tree. Dragunov sprang up, using the pall of smoke for cover as he grabbed Gil’s harness. “We’re leaving!”
They pulled back under the cover of the smoke and hightailed it into the darkness. The firing kept up for another twenty seconds, but it was clear the enemy had lost sight of them. They kept up a good pace.
“Fucking comms are dead!” Gil hissed, tearing off the headset.
“Mine too. We’re on our own now.”
“Not that we could have trusted the extraction zone anyhow. How far up the chain do you think we’re compromised?”
Dragunov paused atop a small boulder, checking their six. “Impossible to know. It only takes one rat to spoil the pantry. Strange . . . they’re not following.”
“Probably looking for our bodies. Don’t worry, they’ll be hot on our asses soon enough.”
“I’m not so sure,” Dragunov muttered. “Let’s keep moving. We’ve got a long way to go before we get to friendly ground.”
They didn’t cover more than a few hundred meters before both men were cut down by a burst from a suppressed AK-105.
54
THE PENTAGON
The president of the United States, along with General William Couture, Chief of Staff Glen Brooks, the secretary of defense, and assorted members of the Joint Chiefs, sat before a pair of giant high-definition television screens in Satellite Command Center 4, watching on helplessly as Gil and Dragunov walked unwittingly into the L-shaped ambush. The white heat signatures of thirty-five Chechen bushwhackers were visible to all.
“My God,” the president muttered, his palms sweating. “Can’t they see them?”
“Apparently not,” Couture said, clenching and unclenching his teeth. “If they’re not using thermal night vision, they may not see them until they’re right on top of them. It depends on how well hidden the enemy is, sir.”
One of the two figures reached out and touched the other on the shoulder, halting their advance.
“There! They see them!” Brooks piped up.
“For all the good it’s going to do them,” muttered one of the Joint Chiefs.
They watched as Dragunov pointed out the enemy positions over Gil’s shoulder, with everyone in the room guessing that it was Gil doing the pointing. The figures then lowered themselves to the ground and were in the process of backing away when all hell broke loose on the screen.
The president watched the hot tracer rounds zip across the screen, the flares going off, followed by the explosions of 40 mm grenades and men thrown dead against the ground.
“Holy Jesus,” he said, getting to his feet and making it so Couture had to push back from the table to see. “We’re going to lose him this time.”
Couture nodded, silently agreeing with the commander in chief that no one was likely to survive such a hailstorm of lead.
Brooks, who had never experienced more during his time in the Teams than a limited exchange of fire over a couple hundred meters, was filled with a mixture of dread and awe. He was sure he was witnessing the final moments of a fello
w SEAL.
The RPG detonated against the tree in a white flash, temporarily obscuring their view of the battle, and everyone held his breath. A few seconds later, they saw that Gil and Dragunov had successfully broken off contact with the enemy, and they released a collective sigh.
“How the hell did they manage that?” the president wondered.
Couture frowned as he watched Gil and Dragunov run for their lives. “Shithouse luck, sir.”
The president wiped the sweat from his brow. “My God. Look at them go.” He watched them run for almost three hundred meters over rugged forest terrain. Then both men suddenly went down.
“They’re hit!” Couture exclaimed, looking across the room at the air force liaison officer. “Tighten that frame, Major!” He pointed to the other screen. “And pull that one back. Try and find who shot them.”
One camera zoomed in; the other pulled back.
“They’re moving,” someone said. “They’re still alive!”
“But who the hell shot them?” Couture asked in frustration. He was on his feet and stepping closer to the wide-angle television screen. “There aren’t any heat signatures for more than three hundred yards.”
“Maybe it was a booby trap,” Brooks ventured.
Couture shook his head. “We’d have seen an explosion.”
“There!” someone said, pointing at a brief, partial heat signature of a human form fifty or sixty yards west of where Gil and Dragunov were now dragging themselves to cover behind some rocks. The partial signature disappeared again almost as suddenly as it had appeared.