by Scott McEwen
The wounded man jumped up and ran away downhill.
Gil let him go, knowing his bloody retreat would have a detrimental effect on the morale of the men farther downslope.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Two more rounds before I take this show back on the road.”
A bullet passed through a two-inch gap in the rocks to Gil’s right, tearing a chunk from the tree just beyond his nose. It was a round that could have come only from Kovalenko. “Fuck me!” he said, pulling back. “Time to go!”
67
THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS
Scanning the tree line to the west in search of Kovalenko, Dragunov spotted Dokka Umarov instead, more than four hundred meters away. The Chechen rebel leader was watching the hunt for the American through a pair of binoculars, with only three men for security. Dragunov knew him from the long beard, and he couldn’t believe his luck at suddenly having Russia’s most hated enemy in his crosshairs.
Eye to the scope, he placed the crossbar of the T slightly above Umarov’s head to allow for the drop of the bullet, expecting a solid torso shot. He was about to squeeze off the round when a .338 Lapua Magnum slammed into his right side, penetrating the side panel of his armor and tumbling as it tore through his abdominal muscles. Dragunov recoiled from the impact, throwing himself downhill to avoid being hit again, rolling into a cleft between the rocks, and gripping his abdomen.
In agony, he dug a fentanyl “lollipop” from his aid kit and stuck it into his mouth for the pain. The fentanyl, seventy-five times more potent than morphine, would take effect within five minutes. Until then he would be a sitting duck for anyone who came to finish him off, so he drew his pistol and waited.
KOVALENKO KNEW THAT Dragunov was severely wounded this time and would die soon. He picked up the ORSIS rifle and pulled back into the forest, where he could maneuver freely without having to worry about the American. He hadn’t been able to get a clear sight picture on Gil, so he had fired through a tiny gap in the rocks at five hundred meters, knowing that he would hit close enough to scare the American into displacing. Then he had taken out Dragunov by easily hitting a six-inch gap in the trees from two hundred meters.
Now, with only one sniper to worry about, Kovalenko was free to maneuver south and wait for Gil to expose himself. Since he had forced the American out of his sniper’s nest, the Chechen infantry had gained the high ground to Gil’s rear. Soon it would be in the trees, where he would no longer enjoy the advantage of firing over hundreds of meters of open killing ground. All Kovalenko had to do was get into position by the time Gil was forced from the trees on the south end of the woods. He picked up the pace until he came to Umarov’s position and took cover behind a large pine.
“You shouldn’t stand out there exposed like that, Dokka.”
“I’ve told him,” said Basayev. “It doesn’t do any good.”
Umarov took his eyes away from the binoculars and glanced over his shoulder at Kovalenko. “Where have you been?”
“Killing Dragunov.”
“Good. Now get ready to kill the American. The wolves are in the trees with him now, and he’ll soon be flushed out the other end.”
The firing on the far side of the valley picked up, and they could hear the chatter of Gil’s AN-94 answering that of numerous AK-47s and RPKs.
“He’s falling back fast now,” Basayev said. “Running out of cover.”
Kovalenko emerged from the trees, shrugging out of the hot ghillie suit down to the waist. He took up a firing position on his belly beside a fallen tree and popped the lens caps on the scope. He was able to catch glimpses of Gil falling back through the trees, but it was obvious that even now Gil was conscious of being under a sniper’s watchful eye. He never stopped on the downhill side of a tree or a rock to leave himself exposed but was always careful to keep something between him and the west side of the valley.
“Do you have a shot?” Umarov asked.
“No,” Kovalenko said. “He’s very good . . . but another sixty seconds, and that won’t matter.”
“Do you hear that?” Basayev said suddenly, looking up into the sky.
Gil had run out of room to retreat. He took to one knee, his back to the open spaces, and fired the last of his 40 mm grenades. The grenade exploded and took out three men as they maneuvered beneath a jutting rock formation. He assumed that Dragunov must be dead—otherwise the men now chasing him through the trees would never have gained the high ground so quickly—and he assumed equally that Kovalenko would be waiting on the far side of the valley to shoot him the second he broke from the trees. A look over his shoulder told him the closest possible cover was a blunt outcropping of rock more than fifty yards away. The outcrop would barely conceal him from Kovalenko, much less from the Chechens now pursuing him at such close range.
“End of the fuckin’ line,” he muttered, smacking a magazine into the AN-94 and flipping the weapon over in his hands. He plucked his only smoke grenade from his harness and pulled the pin, tossing it out in front of him. A thick cloud of green smoke formed quickly and concealed his position from the enemy.
Believing that Gil was using the smoke to cover his retreat over open country, the Chechens charged after him pell-mell and were met by withering fire from Gil’s AN-94. He lobbed his last hand grenade into their midst and blew them off their feet. Those who survived fell back through the smoke and continued to fire blindly in his direction.
Gil slapped in his last magazine and readied himself for the smoke to clear, deciding that no way in hell was he going to allow Kovalenko the privilege of delivering the coup de grâce. He would die with the infantry.
THE SKY OVERHEAD was suddenly filled with the whine of a T63-A turboshaft engine. A fast moving black OH-6 Cayuse attack helicopter—the vaunted Killer Egg—swooped in over his position and fired a spread of 70 mm Hydra rockets, decimating the advancing Chechens.
Ex–New Zealand Special Air Service pilot Kip Walker then yanked the stick left, rolling out west over the valley. “That should buy ’im a minute while we ’andle this bloody sniper,” he grunted. “I don’t want the bloke shooting us in the bloody ass.”
“He’s up and moving!” said the copilot, watching Kovalenko on the infrared monitor.
The FLIR scope mounted beneath the front of the Killer Egg had picked up the prone sniper as they swept in over the ridge, and Walker had poured on the speed to avoid being hit as they flew across Kovalenko’s field of vision. Now they were flying directly at him.
Walker lined up the helo and fired the twin GAU-19 Gatling guns hanging off either side of the aircraft.
Anzor Basayev’s body exploded from the hydrostatic shock of the .50 caliber rounds, splattering Umarov with gore as he scrambled into the trees hot on the heels of the fleeing Kovalenko. Another burst from the Gatling guns, and both of Umarov’s security men exploded on either side of him. He fell forward onto his face as the Killer Egg swept overhead and banked hard to the south.
Kovalenko stopped short and ran back to help Umarov to his feet. “They have infrared. We have to keep running!”
Walker banked the helo over the valley, checking the infrared to make sure that Gil was still alive and in the same position before firing another spread of rockets into the trees in order to flush dozens of Chechens out into the open. He pulled the stick back and to the left, working the foot pedals to slew the helo around and bring his guns immediately to bear on the enemy below. The adrenaline rush of operating over Russian territory was greater than any he’d ever experienced.
He put the helo down on the deck and squeezed the triggers as he swooped in on the scattered enemy, cutting them apart like a buzz saw.
“Get on the talker to Mason!” he shouted into the headset. “Get the Pum’er in ’ere! We don’t wanna be around if the damn Russians show up.”
The copilot got on the radio and called in the Puma transport helicopter th
at was holding station on the far side of the ridge.
Walker dropped the helo back to the deck for a final attack run.
Gil watched the helo mow down the rest of the enemy. Then he ran to grab an AK-47. A lone Chechen stood up from behind a rock, firing an RPK at almost point-blank range. Gil jumped inside the horizontal arch of fire and grabbed the long barrel of the machine gun under his arm, slugging the Chechen in the face and jerking the weapon from his hands.
The Chechen fell back a step and pulled a knife. Gil charged and smashed him over the head with the barrel of the RPK, splitting his skull as another Chechen stepped from behind a tree and shot him in the back. Gil fell forward, catching himself with his hands and grabbed the dead Chechen’s knife. He spun around and hurled it. The gunner ducked and fired again, missing as Gil sprang to his feet and rushed him, pulling his own knife.
The Chechen swung his AK like a ball bat and struck Gil a glancing blow across the top of the helmet. Gil slammed into him and drove the knife deep into the guy’s side. The Chechen screamed in Gil’s face, trying to wrestle free of his grasp. The two fell over as one and rolled downhill, slugging away at each other. They came to a stop against a tree. The Chechen clawed for Gil’s eyes, and Gil caught a finger in his teeth and bit down, pulling the knife free and stabbing the man over and over again until he quit moving.
Smelling that the Chechen had soiled himself in death, Gil rolled off and drew his pistol, waiting to see if there were any more holdouts. When he felt confident there were none, he staggered out into the sun to see an all-black twin-engine Puma helicopter setting down on a level patch of ground halfway between him and where he had left Dragunov. Six heavily armed men jumped out of the helo and formed a defensive perimeter, two of them armed with sniper rifles.
The Killer Egg remained on station five hundred feet above, its infrared-detecting eyeball keeping a careful watch on the surrounding terrain.
Gil was trotting toward the Puma when he saw a green cloud of smoke forming in the trees at the north end of the valley.
One of the snipers ran out to meet him. “Chief Shannon? I’m Doug Mason. I was with SEAL Team I from 2010 to 2013.”
Gil saw the helo had no markings of any kind, not even a tail number. “Who the hell are you guys?”
“Obsidian Optio. Better load up, Chief. We don’t have permission to be here.”
Gil pointed north. “That green smoke yonder is my man. He’s wounded.”
Mason glanced over at the smoke two hundred yards off. “Okay, Chief. We’ll get him.”
They loaded up, and the Puma flew along the ground, getting as close at it could to Dragunov’s position before setting down again. Gil and three other men dismounted and climbed up through the rocks to where Dragunov lay in the sun, soaked in his own blood. He had managed to crawl from the cleft in the rocks, but he hadn’t made it very far.
The Russian managed a weak smile. “You’re alive.”
“So are you.” Gil checked his wound and saw that his abdomen was torn open from left to right. “We gotta get you outta here, Ivan.”
The four of them lifted him up and carried him down to the helo.
“What about Kovalenko?” Dragunov asked as they hurried along.
“He got away,” Gil said. “Unless the helo got him.”
They set Dragunov down on the deck of the Puma and climbed in after him. Dragunov grabbed Gil’s arm. “Kovalenko wouldn’t be killed by a helicopter.”
“I know it.” Gil saw a pack on the bench seat with a SEAL Team trident sewn to the side of it. “This your kit?” he asked Mason.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Gimme your rifle,” he said, grabbing up the pack. “I have a mission to complete.”
“What are you talking about? They sent us in to pull you guys outta the fire.”
“Well, the fire’s out now,” Gil said. “And the last thing that fucker will expect is me coming after him.”
“What fucker? Chief, you’re bleeding!”
“Call Pope and tell him to have me picked up at the bridge crossing into Georgia as originally planned.”
Mason was confounded. “What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell is Pope?”
“Your superiors will know.” Gil took the McMillan TAC-338 sniper rifle from Mason’s hands.
“That’s my personal weapon.”
“Good. It should already be sighted in, then. If I get whacked, tell Pope I said to buy you a new one.”
“What the fuck?”
“Let’s go!” shouted the helo pilot. “We’re here too long! We gotta go!”
Gil jumped out, shouldering the pack. “How much food I got in this thing?”
“Three days’ rations,” Mason said. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“We gotta go!” the pilot shouted again, terrified of being caught on the ground by a Russian Hind.
Gil placed a bloody hand on Dragunov’s forehead. “I think Putin wants Kovalenko to get away. How about you?”
Dragunov smiled. “Watch yourself. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a leshy suit.” A leshy was a mythical Russian beast capable of changing its shape to blend in with the forest.
Gil winked and stepped back from the helo with a wave to Mason, and the Puma lifted into the air. Within sixty seconds, he was all alone in the valley and running up through the rocks to retrieve Dragunov’s AN-94, along with his ammo and grenades.
68
THE PENTAGON
“What the—!” Couture bit off the rest of what he was going to say, watching Gil climb up through the rocks toward Dragunov’s gear.
The president put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s completing the mission, Bill. I warned you he’d find a way to break it off in Putin before this was over.”
Couture was almost shaking with frustration. He’d thought the worst was behind them when the Killer Egg swept into the valley, but then everyone had shouted in panic when Gil was jumped in the trees. Then when the Puma finally set down, and infrared confirmed there were no more Chechens within two clicks, he had finally dared to believe it was over.
Now Gil was off and running again, with no definite mission profile, no timetable, and no planned extraction.
“What the hell do we tell the Russians?” Couture said, turning around.
“We tell them nothing more than is necessary,” the president said. “We’ll brief them on the status of Major Dragunov, but nothing more. Not a word about how he got out of Russia until I’ve had time to confer with Secretary Sapp.”
Then the president turned to Brooks and smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, Glen.”
Brooks sat back with a glass of water in his hand. “A minute ago, I thought we were clear.” He took a drink and set down the glass with a sigh. “Now I don’t know what to think.”
“At least the helos got in and out of Russian airspace undetected,” offered the air force chief of staff.
“The thinnest of silver linings,” muttered Couture, staring at the table. Then he laughed sardonically. “I don’t know why I’m so stressed. Shannon can’t hurt anyone but himself this time.”
“You’re stressed,” the president said, “because you like him. It’s impossible not to by this point. He’s the kid in class who gets away with anything, and we love him for it.” He stood up from the table. “I have to go. Glen and I have business at the White House. I’ll be drinking much earlier than usual today if you’ll care to join me, General.”
An aide de camp came into the room. “I have a private message for you, Mr. President.”
“Whisper it in my ear, son.”
The aide came forward and spoke softly into the president’s ear.
The president looked at him, eyes wide. “That’s confirmed?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president turned to the Joint Chiefs. �
�Senator Steve Grieves’s limo exploded near the Capitol Building half an hour ago. He’s dead—along with his secretary and driver.”
Couture looked at the aide. “Car bomb or something else?”
“That hasn’t been confirmed, sir, but it looks like a car bomb.”
“That’s a domestic hit!” blurted the Marine Corps chief of staff. “One of Pope’s people over at CIA must have done it.” It was no secret that he was not a fan of Pope or the CIA.
“I’d better not hear that remark made in public!” the president snapped. “Is that understood, General?”
The general shrank slightly under the president’s ire, aware that he’d spoken out of turn. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“We’ve got enough goddamn trouble,” the president went on, “without wild accusations being thrown around.”
Couture glared at the marine general. “We’ll handle things here, Mr. President. Call me if you need anything.”
The president shook his hand. “Keep me posted, General.”
The second the president and Brooks were out of the room, Couture turned on the Marine Corps chief of staff. “What the hell were you thinking, Fred?”
The big bald marine tugged on his jacket. “I’m sorry, Bill. I know everyone around here seems to think Bob Pope is the best thing since shaved pussy these days, but I don’t trust the son of a bitch. I never have, and I never will. If you want my resignation, all you need to do is ask.”
Couture stared at him. “Your resignation isn’t mine to ask for, but you’re ordered to watch what you say about the CIA from now on. Understood?”
“Aye, General. It’s understood.”
69
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL,
Bethesda, Maryland
Bob Pope had fallen asleep shortly after the helicopter flew off and left Gil behind. He opened his eyes a half hour later to see a barrel-chested doctor with close-cut gray hair standing at the foot of his bed, reading his chart. He glanced over and saw that the door to the room was closed. Then he studied the ID tag hooked to the doctor’s pocket. The name didn’t match the face on the tag. “Ben Walton, I presume?”