The Sniper and the Wolf

by Scott McEwen

  “Shit, that’s a sniper in a shielded ghillie suit.”

  “What’s that?” the president asked.

  “A camouflaged cloak made of heat-absorbent material,” Couture replied. “Whoever we just saw, Mr. President, he knew someone might be watching from above, and he’s taken steps against being picked up on infrared.”

  Brooks snapped the pencil he’d been twiddling in his fingers. “Five’ll get you ten it’s Kovalenko. This op was compromised before they ever left Moscow.”

  The president’s eyes were fixed to the screen. “Can someone please tighten the shot? I’d like to see what our men are doing behind those rocks.”

  “Whatever they’re doing,” Couture said, “they’d better do it fast because here come those mean little bastards from the ambush.”

  The president glanced at the other screen, where more than twenty human heat signatures were sweeping quickly westward toward Gil’s position. “I’m not going to lie,” he muttered, overawed by what he was seeing. “I’d be terrified. Hell, I’m terrified just watching it.” He met Couture’s sympathetic gaze. “Any chance they’ll surrender, General?”

  Couture shook his head. “Men like Gil Shannon and Ivan Dragunov don’t even know the meaning of the word, Mr. President.”

  The president turned to Brooks. “Get Bob Pope on the phone. We need to find out if Moscow’s watching this and whether or not they intend to provide any support.”

  55

  THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS

  Dokka Umarov’s nephew Lom had been in command of the ambush, and Lom was furious with his men for having allowed the Russian and the American to escape. He drove them hard through the rugged forest, giving orders on the move for them to keep an even dispersal and not to let the enemy slip through their line. Their Spetsnaz ally Kovalenko was supposed to be out there somewhere blocking the avenue of retreat, but Lom took little comfort in this. The ambush had been deployed perfectly, yet it had failed, and the responsibility for that failure lay on his head. He’d sent a runner to Umarov’s camp for more men, but his uncle would not arrive in time. The only way for Lom to reclaim some modicum of his honor would be to catch and kill his prey before they either blundered into Kovalenko’s path or escaped altogether.

  Lom and his force had so far covered almost three hundred meters, and there was still no sign of their quarry. They were not likely to have fled north because the forest ended where the high country began, and there would be little or no cover above the tree line, where the going would be far more treacherous. Retreat to the south was even less likely because of the way the terrain dropped off into a steep canyon from which there would be almost no escape.

  “Keep your eyes open!” he hissed. “They cannot be far now.”

  A grenade exploded forty meters to the north, and there was a wicked exchange of rifle fire.

  “Move!” Lom shouted. “They’re trying to break through our line!” The last thing he needed was for the enemy to break into his rear and wind up making contact with his uncle’s force. That would be too shameful to endure.

  His men up the line were shouting back and forth, confused over the enemy’s location, unable to see much by the faint light of the moon.

  Another grenade exploded as Lom arrived on the scene, and this time body parts flew through the air. There was a second savage exchange of machine-gun fire, and an errant round snapped through Lom’s upper arm, grazing the bone. He gnashed his teeth against the pain, vaulting a fallen tree and screaming for his men to fill the gap where the grenade had blown a hole in their line.

  A dark figure slammed into him from his blindside, moving fast, and sent him sprawling face-first into a boulder, mashing his nose and breaking his front teeth off at the gum line. He was lifting himself up when a second figure stomped on his head and leapt over the boulder, leaving him too dazed to rise again.

  He was unsure of how much time had passed when one of his men sat him up against the rock and poured water onto his face.

  “What! Where are they?” he said with a lisp.

  “They got through,” the man said. “I’ve sent another runner to link up with Dokka. Our man knows the forest, and he should get there ahead of them.”

  A hooded figure in a ghillie suit appeared like an apparition, throwing back the hood to reveal his face in the moonlight. “Who’s responsible for this unholy mess?”

  Lom instantly recognized him as Sasha Kovalenko. “I am,” he croaked.

  Kovalenko glanced around, hearing the moans of the casualties all around them. “Two wounded men just went through your line like shit through a goose! You’ll be lucky if your uncle doesn’t string you up by the balls.” He jerked the rifle from Lom’s hands and gave it back to the other man, saying to him, “Round up the men who are still whole and form on me. We’re moving out in two minutes.”

  The man left to do as he’d been told, and Kovalenko turned back to Lom, asking disgustedly, “Can you still fight, little girl, or do you plan on spending the rest of your miserable life sucking cock with that pretty new mouth of yours?”

  Lom was so ashamed and infuriated that his eyes filled with tears. “I can fight.” he said, lisping grotesquely.

  “We’ll see.” Kovalenko shoved him aside. “Find a rifle and try to keep up.”

  Two hundred yards east, Gil and Dragunov stopped to lick their wounds beneath an overhang.

  “It won’t take them long to regroup,” Dragunov said, sweat streaming down his head from the pain in his testicles. He held a penlight as Gil unbuttoned his trousers to get a look at his groin wound.

  “We hit ’em pretty fuckin’ hard,” Gil said, using his knife to cut away Dragunov’s blood-soaked underwear. “It looks like you’re in luck here, partner. The scrotum’s torn open but your balls are still in there. These thigh wounds are superficial.”

  Gil wiped his bloody hands on Dragunov’s pants and sat back to begin shrugging out of his harness and body armor. “I don’t know if I got that lucky.”

  Dragunov buttoned his trousers and helped Gil shed his gear. The American had a number of small holes in his abdomen where Kovalenko’s 5.45 mm rounds had defeated his armor, but the rounds had fragmented, and it looked like the fragments had embedded themselves in Gil’s abdominal muscles—painful but not life threatening.

  “That was Kovalenko who hit us back there,” he said. “It was a setup from the beginning.”

  “Aye,” Dragunov said. “And he’ll be coming. We’re not dead because he didn’t expect us to come running at him like that, but we have to be very careful now. There is a reason he’s called the Wolf.”

  “Maybe we should stay put, lay for him here.”

  Dragunov shook his head. “If it was only him, I’d agree, but this is Umarov’s territory. More men will be coming soon. Our only chance is to keep moving east.”

  “Deeper into Umarov’s territory?”

  “Kovalenko and the others are blocking the west. The north and south are impassable. That leaves the east.”

  “Shitty and shittier,” Gil muttered. “Look, we should hold here. Let Kovalenko and the others pass us by, then get back on a westerly heading.”

  “The others may pass us by—but he won’t!”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Dragunov picked up Gil’s helmet and gave it to him. “We’re not in Sicily now. This forest is his home. He grew up in these mountains, and he’ll know what we’re up to. I’ve fought on his side too many times not to know his instincts, but listen: it will be daylight soon, and three thousand meters east of here is a valley where we can draw him into the open—catch him in a cross fire. If we’re both manning a rifle, one of us should live long enough to get off a shot.”

  Gil looked at him while putting on his helmet. “And you don’t think he’ll figure out what we’re up to?”

  Dragunov chuckled. “
Of course he’ll figure it out, but a fox driven before the hounds has only so many options—and running toward the hounds is never one of them.”

  Gil felt a spasm in his gut, wincing as he lowered the NVGs over his eyes. “I can’t argue with good Russian logic.”

  56

  BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL,

  Bethesda, Maryland

  “I understand that,” Pope said patiently, speaking with his opposite number in the Moscow bureau of the GRU, Bureau Chief Galkin. “But we’re watching them on satellite in real time, and they’re in serious trouble. You’re telling me your people don’t have a visual on them?”

  “I am not authorized to answer that question one way or another,” Galkin said. “What I can say is that we have received no request for assistance.”

  Pope had one eye on his laptop and saw Gil and Dragunov slowly emerging from their hide. He had already known that Russian spy satellites for that part of the world were tasked over Ukraine, where the fighting had intensified over recent months.

  “Do you have any assets available to provide them support?” he asked.

  “There is a helicopter available for emergency evacuation,” the Russian answered. “But so far we have received no such request.”

  Pope was also aware that much of Russia’s military assets, too, had been sent to Ukraine, and that it had recently lost a pair of Hind helicopters during a mission to kill Dokka Umarov. He was beginning to doubt their willingness to risk another helo pulling Gil and Dragunov out of the fire.

  “Have you attempted to contact them?”

  Galkin hesitated. Then he said, “Not recently.”

  “I see,” Pope said, putting it together. “You’re no longer in contact with them, are you? You’ve lost contact with them altogether.”

  Galkin let out a sigh. “If they’re as heavily engaged as you say, Mr. Pope, it’s no surprise we haven’t heard from them.”

  Pope felt his pulse quicken, piqued by the inanity of the remark. “I would say the exact opposite was true, Mr. Galkin. I don’t know Ivan Dragunov, but I know Gil Shannon, and I’ve been watching this battle very closely. Believe me, if our man could request support, he would do exactly that. It’s obvious from the way they’re moving that both men are wounded.”

  “I understand your distress,” Galkin said, “but how can we possibly organize an evacuation if we are unable to communicate with them?”

  “You could insert another team.”

  “Out of the question,” Galkin said. “We just lost one of our best Spetsnaz teams in that region two days ago, and judging from what you’ve apparently seen tonight, this mission is completely compromised. To send another team in there now would be suicide.”

  After another couple minutes of chasing Galkin around the bush, Pope ended the call knowing little more than he had before picking up the phone.

  He looked at the computer, watching Gil and Dragunov stalking through the Caucasus, and then turned to agent Mariana Mederos, who had just arrived from Mexico. “You look tired.”

  “It’s late,” she replied irritably, secretly intrigued by what was taking place on the computer screen. “Why wasn’t I told that Crosswhite was in Mexico to do your wet work?”

  Pope couldn’t help chuckling at her choice of words. “What did you think he was there for?”

  “My security.”

  “He was there for both,” Pope said. “Crosswhite is what we call a pipe hitter.”

  “I know what a pipe hitter is,” she said pugnaciously. “What I don’t know is why I was there. Crosswhite could have conducted the interview just as easily as me—even easier. You didn’t have to make me a party to murder.”

  Pope gazed at her. Mederos was pretty, and her anger only increased the severity of her beauty. “You were there because I needed Castañeda’s full cooperation—and he has a thing for you.”

  She didn’t immediately respond to that, wondering how Pope had known.

  “I’m an asset manager, Mariana. That’s all the director of the CIA is, an asset manager. You’re an asset, Crosswhite’s an asset . . . and Castañeda’s an asset. It’s my job to utilize the agency’s assets however I can.”

  “What if there’s an inquiry?” she snapped. “What if I’m called to testify?”

  “There won’t be any of that.”

  “What if there is? What if I’m offered some kind of immunity?”

  Pope shrugged. “Then I suppose you’ll have to follow your conscience.”

  She stared at him, disliking him for putting her in a compromising position. “I want you to know that I don’t trust you anymore. I did before, but now I don’t.”

  He smiled at her. “Good for you,” Pope said gently. “You’ve clung to that innocence long enough. Now I need you to go to Havana. Crosswhite is already there.”

  Her eyes widened. “I was just in Mexico City. Why couldn’t you send me direct?”

  “Because you needed to get that business about Hagen off your chest,” Pope said. “And I need you to have a clear head when you get to Havana. The CIA has assets in Cuba, but every one of them has been compromised, and Crosswhite is entirely on his own there.”

  “He’s there for more wet work, I assume?”

  Pope grinned. “He’s not down there collecting for the Red Cross.”

  She frowned. “How many targets?”

  “Peterson and Walton.” Pope handed her a yellow envelope. “For your travel expenses.”

  She tucked the envelope under her arm, her anger beginning to abate. “I thought Walton ran off to the Arab Emirates.”

  “He did, and he sold them a rather comprehensive dossier on our operations in Eastern Europe. Lives will be lost because of what he’s done. Now he’s en route to Havana, where Peterson and the rest of their rogue faction think they’re beyond my reach.”

  “This is beginning to sound personal to me.”

  Pope glanced around his hospital room. “I didn’t put myself in here.”

  “So Crosswhite’s carrying out your personal vendetta . . . and you’re using me to help him do it.”

  “Crosswhite is hunting a pair of traitors who have gotten innocent people killed, and who will continue to get innocent people killed until they’re stopped. The fact that I’ll take personal satisfaction in their misfortune is a bonus. You’re going to Havana only as backup. Unless something goes wrong, there won’t be reason for you to even leave your hotel, so sit by the pool and enjoy yourself. Get a massage. There’s a lot of money in that envelope, and I’m not asking for any receipts.”

  “Feels a lot like a bribe.”

  Pope suddenly became very serious. “You’ll think bribe, Mariana, if something goes wrong and Crosswhite needs you to get directly involved. Now, stop your pouting. You’re a valuable operative, and it’s time to act like one. The world gets more dangerous every day, and a strong stomach is required.”

  57

  THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS

  Dragunov was on point, keeping close to the northern tree line as they moved eastward. He suspected that more Chechens were on the way, and that he and Gil would be intercepted before they made it to open country. But by sticking to the edge of the forest, he hoped to avoid being caught up in another tiger sweep.

  He had torn a strip from his shemagh and used it to tie his injured testicles against his leg, but they had worked loose and were once again rubbing painfully back and forth. At least he could no longer feel wet blood running down his legs. This told him the bleeding had stopped, and he was grateful for that.

  A stick snapped at their two o’clock, fifty yards out, and both men froze. The first signs of daybreak were beginning to show in the sky, and they were still a full click from the valley, where they hoped to draw Kovalenko into the open.

  They took cover and scanned the forest through their NVGs, watching a
long skirmish line of men materialize gradually out of its black depths. Two Chechens came directly toward them at the extreme right flank of the tiger sweep, lagging slightly behind the rest due to the extra-rocky terrain inside the tree line, where small avalanches of football- and basketball-sized rocks has been accumulating for centuries.

  Gil drew his knife, and Dragunov followed suit. If either Chechen made a sound, the two compatriots would quickly find themselves cornered with nowhere to run but over the open rocks at the base of the mountain. There they would be picked off at the enemy’s leisure.

  Dragunov moved forward to take cover behind a thick tree. The pair of Chechens were not walking directly abreast but were moving almost single file, with fifteen feet between them, and Dragunov knew he would have to take the one in back before Gil could take out the man in front.

  He kept low as the first of the Chechens brushed past the tree with his AK-47 slung lazily over his shoulder. Then he stood and readied himself for the second one to pass.

  Gil crouched in the rocks, watching the first Chechen coming directly at him. If Dragunov couldn’t take his man first, they were in big trouble because Gil wouldn’t be able to afford the luxury of waiting; he would have to act the second the Chechen drew within striking distance. His Chechen came on steadily, but Dragunov’s man stopped to take a leak on the tree. Gil braced himself, waiting until the last possible instant before coming off the ground like a striking anaconda, ramming the knife up through the bottom of the Chechen’s jaw to sever the brain stem. He stood with the Chechen twitching in his arms, while Dragunov’s man finished taking a pee.

  Dragunov held his breath until the man walked past, buttoning his fly. Then he stepped out and grabbed him from behind, cupping his hand over the Chechen’s mouth and stabbing the blade into the base of his skull.

  Both men lowered their kills to the ground and moved out, cutting deeper into the forest away from the rocks, where the going would be faster. They covered a little over a hundred yards before sweeping around a formation of boulders and running smack into five Chechens left behind on the chance that Gil and Dragunov managed to slip through the skirmish line undetected.