Dawson’s eyebrows shot up.
“What do you mean?”
“You stole the list, with locations, in 1982.”
“Explain.”
“One of your spies stole the list and we were never able to recover it. Your own intelligence apparatus has all the answers you need, and has had it for over thirty years.”
Levkin began to chuckle as Dawson was unable to keep the surprise from appearing on his face, even if only for a split second. The chuckle became a roaring laugh and Dawson was about to kick the man in the bleeding thigh to shut him up when Niner interrupted from the prow of their smaller boat.
“BD, something’s up!”
He pointed to the north and Dawson peered into the distance, his hand shading his eyes, but could see nothing.
“What is it?”
“Looks like two helicopters coming our way.”
“Type?”
“Looks like two Mi-24 Hinds.”
The laughter stopped and Dawson looked down at their prisoner.
“And now you pay for what you have done,” smiled Levkin.
“Did you check him for a tracking device?” asked Dawson as he flipped over the railing and back onto their boat, Niner untying them.
“Of course,” replied Chernov, stripping out of his clothes and donning scuba gear along with his partner. “It must have been a delayed activation beacon.”
“Activated when he or one of his men didn’t check in after a certain interval,” said Dawson, nodding in agreement. He pointed at Levkin as Niner started the engine. “He’s all yours, we got what we needed. Thanks again, Colonel.” He gave the Russian a casual salute as Niner pushed the engine to full power, banking away from the larger boat and heading back toward Turkish soil to the south.
Dawson looked back to see Chernov kick Levkin overboard, then the two Russian Spetsnaz members rolling over the side and into the water, disappearing seconds later, Levkin struggling against his bonds as he began to sink. Dawson could see the two Russian Hind helicopters clearly now, both racing toward the beacon that had obviously been activated.
“Give it everything this old tub’s got!” he yelled at Niner, knowing it was already being done, his words more directed at the old tub herself. He was quite certain these helicopters racing toward them were not under Russian military control, most likely mercenary or corrupt military.
Which meant they wouldn’t hesitate to fire upon a vessel in Turkish waters.
The gunships’ noses pulled up as their pilots killed their speed, two men dropping from each gunship’s cabin into the cold water below in search of their drowning leader. The lead gunship’s weapons pods, bristling with ordnance, flashed momentarily in the sun, and Dawson had memories of seeing them for the first time while watching Rambo 2.
They were much more terrifying in person.
The bullets in their Glocks would simply bounce off the armor, and unlike Sly, neither of them had arrows with explosive heads.
If they were engaged, they were dead.
The helicopters circled the boat, waiting, then suddenly the surface of the water was broken, the rescue team, their charge in the grip of one of the men, bursting from the water. They swam to Chernov’s abandoned boat, and as soon as Levkin was on board, Dawson saw the two gunships slowly turn toward them. Dawson quickly entered a message into his secure phone and hit Send as the helicopters banked, their noses dipping as they picked up speed, heading directly toward them.
“Here they come!” he yelled over the roar of the engine and the crashing of the waves against the prow as the boat skipped along, entirely too slowly. He joined Niner at the helm then spotted several flares strapped to the side. Grabbing the flare gun, he loaded a cartridge.
“The mujahedeen wouldn’t have needed Stingers if flares worked, BD,” said Niner as he glanced at the flare gun.
“Any better ideas?”
“Go back in time and remind our Russian friend that he should scan for radio signals at regular intervals?”
“Fire up the flux capacitor.”
“There’s no way this thing is getting to eighty-eight miles per hour,” yelled Niner as one of the helicopters roared overhead, banking so that it ended up facing them, blocking their path. “Okay, now what?”
Dawson glanced at the second helicopter, it keeping pace on their starboard side, none of its weapons trained on them except what was probably a fifty caliber manned by someone dressed head to toe in black, the side door open. The gun was pointed at the water rather than at them, which to Dawson meant the lead gunship, blocking their path, was the one who was going to engage them.
“Secure the wheel,” ordered Dawson.
Niner grabbed two ropes on either side of the wheel and hooked them over two of the spokes then joined Dawson near the rear of the boat. Dawson looked ahead. The Hind gunship hovered in front of them, the distance rapidly closing.
“If they open fire, or we hit, jump,” he said to Niner, counting down the seconds in his head before impact. A missile dropped off the right weapons pod. “Jump!” he yelled and Niner bailed over the side as Dawson spun, firing the flare gun at the gunship to his right. The flare launched, racing toward the open side of the gunship as Dawson dove over the side, their boat erupting into a ball of flame as his body pierced the water.
The action above turned into a dull roar as he swam away from their craft, a glance over his shoulder showing it now a smoldering mess, flames licking the surface of the water directly overhead, debris beginning to rain down on him as he continued to try and put some distance between him and the boat.
As he swam his lungs burned in protest and he began to kick toward the surface. His face broke the water and with a gasp he pushed out the stale air from his lungs and sucked in a fresh breath. To his left the boat was no more, what remained slowly sinking as the gunship that had fired advanced toward its victim, but to his right he heard the whining of an engine and his head spun as he heard a splash. He caught a glimpse of someone dropping into the water about a hundred feet away, the helicopter banking hard to the right, smoke billowing from the open door, a red glow emanating from within as his aim had obviously been true.
To his dismay however the helicopter didn’t plunge into the sea, the pilot not panicking like in the movies, instead regaining control and hovering in position until the flare burned itself out. The roar of the lead gunship’s main guns caused him to spin toward the wreckage. Little spurts of water shot up from the surface as the shells pierced the choppy sea and Dawson’s thoughts immediately turned to Niner. He scanned the area but couldn’t see him. He looked farther back, the boat having travelled some distance after Niner had bailed, and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his friend about two hundred feet back. It was just for a moment as he took a breath then dropped below the surface again.
Which is a damned good idea.
Dawson filled his lungs then dropped below the waves, slowly swimming forward, toward Turkey, the coast now only a couple of miles distant. The swim without the gunships would be fairly easy, but with them circling overhead, it would be almost impossible. Their only hope was for the gunships to be engaged by Turkish forces.
He popped up and sucked in another breath just as the lead gunship banked directly toward him.
Shit!
He bent forward and began kicking hard, trying to gain as much depth as possible, when the first rounds sliced through the water ahead of him. The streaks of vacuum caused by the red hot shells as they instantly boiled the water in their paths tore apart the water ahead of him, their speed trimmed dramatically by the water but not enough to prevent them from tearing him apart.
Suddenly the shots stopped and he began to push for the surface, his lungs screaming in protest, desperate for air. He breached the water with a gasp in time to see the lead chopper pushing forward as it tried to gain speed, the other gunship, smoke still coming from inside, banking for home to his right.
He looked back to see Niner treading wa
ter behind him, pointing to his right. Dawson looked over his other shoulder and saw a Turkish frigate slicing through the water, almost on top of their position as it opened fire, two missiles leaving their pods and streaking across the sea, barely above the surface, then slamming into their targets, both fleeing gunships erupting into massive explosions, the shockwave roaring across the water as their weapons and fuels tore at everything around them, moments later plunging into the cold waters, nothing but smoldering wrecks remaining on the surface along with quickly dissipating clouds of black and grey smoke where they had flown only moments before.
Dawson waved at the ship as it slowed near their positions, two rescue craft launching within minutes. As he was pulled aboard the dinghy by several Turkish sailors, he breathed a sigh of relief, searching the horizon for the boat Colonel Chernov had brought, and Major General Levkin’s rescuers had taken him to, but found nothing but a mix of dots on the horizon, the General obviously now in the safety of Russian waters.
A seasoned naval lieutenant commander pulled Dawson upright from the bottom of the boat.
“Are you Mr. White?”
Dawson nodded.
“I am Lieutenant Commander Balik and I have a message from Mr. Grey.”
Grey was Colonel Clancy’s code name for situations like this.
“What’s that?” asked Dawson as he wiped the water from his face.
“You have some explaining to do.”
Litschental Road, Black Forest, Germany
Present Day
Dylan Kane’s neck, back and ass were killing him. Not necessarily in that order. After a ridiculous number of hours waiting in various airports he had finally arrived in Frankfurt. Eventually clearing customs, he had picked up a car prearranged by Langley with a care package locked in the trunk that Kane had waited until outside of Frankfurt to open.
Glock 22, suppressor, a few mags and new comm gear, his old stuff destroyed intentionally before landing in Georgia—he couldn’t risk being caught with it.
The GPS in the dash was indicating he was almost at his destination, if the destination even existed. They were still assuming the numbers were coordinates, yet had no evidence anything was actually at the presumed location.
One thing that had Kane partially convinced he was at least in the right country was the fact he had picked up a tail at the airport. Somebody knew he was in Germany, and they had followed him almost all the way to Munich before he lost them, switching rentals in case the original was bugged. He then crossed southern Germany toward the Black Forest, or Schwartzwald as the German’s called it, tail free.
It had doubled the length of his trip, but at least he knew he was alone.
As he drove along the quiet, winding road, the trees thick on either side, an area opened to his right revealing a gasthaus. His stomach rumbled as he resisted the urge to pull in, his foot now off the accelerator, slowing the car, nearing the entrance to the parking lot with a smattering of vehicles.
One caught his eye, it matching the make, model, year and color of his tail he had lost in Munich. It sat parked, facing the road, a grey haired man sitting behind the wheel, staring straight at him.
The man waved.
What the hell is going on?
Kane lifted a few fingers off the steering wheel in acknowledgement, gently pressing on the accelerator, his appetite gone, both sides now knowing each had been made.
But who the hell is the other side? Grey hair? Grey Network?
Kane felt slightly uneasy. It was clear these people were well connected and very good at their jobs, it obvious they weren’t concerned about being spotted by him. But who the hell were they? And why were they following him without any concern about being seen? It ran contrary to pretty much every op he had been on. You almost never wanted to be seen.
Unless you’re trying to herd someone somewhere.
The thought had his heart racing a bit. This was the only road into the area where the GPS coordinates were located, so the man had taken a chance he’d be coming from the north-east. And that assumed there wasn’t someone else sitting at the other end of the road watching for him.
No matter what, they had him where they wanted him, and they knew he knew.
But why?
This entire mission had bothered him since the beginning. Coordinates handed over by a stranger to his friend, with inside knowledge on what was now the largest counter-intelligence operation since after 9/11.
The only difference this time was they knew something was up, and had a chance to prevent it.
And prevent it they must, the repercussions potentially devastating.
A thought popped into his mind, suggesting a possible alternative to why this Grey Network might be following him.
Protection.
His eyebrows shot up at that idea as he drove deeper into the forest. If that were the case, he appreciated it, but would rather a Delta Team than some septuagenarians.
His rearview mirror showed clear, there obviously no need to follow him now. Various lanes were cut into the forest leading to houses, cottages and campgrounds, and according to his GPS he was only a few hundred meters away from the coordinates, which meant a turn was due. The map showed the coordinates to his right and a small dirt road, overgrown with brush on either side, made for an uninviting turn.
He cranked the wheel and turned into the lane, the leaves and branches of the brush scraping at the paint job on either side. He bumped along for about fifty feet, the tree roots crisscrossing the lane giving the suspension a workout. The brush thinned, the lane widening slightly, then a cleared area opened in front of him, sunlight pouring in, revealing a small half-timber home, the dark wood beams and white stucco clashing beautifully, large flower boxes spilling over the windowsills and railings of the inviting porch.
As he continued the final few feet, he parked under a large fir tree, once again cast into shadows from the branches overhead. Which was when he noticed the small house was built in the center of half a dozen large Norway Spruces, their lower branches trimmed, the upper branches blocking any overhead view of the house, the cleared area where the sun was shining showing no signs of human life.
If Kane had to guess, life did exist there except during satellite flybys, the schedule of which he was certain the tenant knew.
An array of satellite dishes suggested modern communications and electricity, so if the tenant was off the grid, he wasn’t completely off.
A Volvo, late model, was parked inside a nearby shed, it too under the shadow cast by the treed canopy overhead, suggesting its owner was at home. Kane walked across the bed of needles, a mix of deep orange and brown, thick from many seasons of shedding. He didn’t bother putting his hand on his weapon let alone drawing it. There was no way his arrival was missed, and if he were indeed in danger, he would have been taken out by now.
He knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
English.
Definitely expected.
Kane opened the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. To his right was a cramped living area, several chairs facing a wall with an impressive plasma display, every other wall filled with bookshelves lined with an array of tomes or knickknacks, some of which he immediately recognized from the Cold War era. Hats, badges, guns, cameras, microfilm readers. A veritable treasure chest of history most spy museums would kill for.
It was clear to Kane that once inside this home, guests were meant to know this man’s craft, which meant uninvited guests either never made it in, or never made it out.
To the left was a kitchen where sounds of someone busying themselves could be heard, and ahead of him appeared to be the door to a bedroom, another to a bathroom.
It was small by North American standards, but in Europe, more than acceptable for a single male.
“Take a seat, I’ll be there in a minute,” said the voice from the kitchen.
Kane entered the living area and selected a chair with a good
view of the front door, window and kitchen. To his left was a small table with a lamp, turned off, what looked like a first edition copy of David Copperfield, and a pewter frame with a picture of a very attractive woman in perhaps her forties. There was no evidence of a woman’s touch anywhere, no pictures of family, but this was obviously his host’s usual chair, and she therefore of some importance to him.
Moments later a man, easily in his seventies, exited the kitchen carrying a tea service, the tray and its contents shaking unapologetically as the obviously spry man strode with confidence and strength toward the center of the room where he placed the tray on a table, then wiped his hands on an apron he wore.
He extended his hand.
“Dylan Kane I presume?”
Kane nodded, rising and shaking the man’s hand.
“Please, sit,” said the man, waving off Kane’s politeness. “How do you like your tea?”
Kane was tempted to inform the man of his hatred for all hot beverages, but decided to bite his tongue and play along.
“Two milks, two sugars.”
The man smiled, preparing the tea, then handing a cup and saucer over. As he prepared his own, Kane noticed that the service was for three.
He kept silent.
The old man sat down and sipped.
“Ahh, that’s better. I’m so happy you arrived when you did, otherwise I would have had to delay tea.”
The man’s accent was clearly American, the tea shtick seeming a little out of place.
Kane still didn’t say anything.
The man looked at him, resting his tea on his lap.
“You have questions.”
Kane nodded.
“Many.”
“Where would you like to start?”
“How about your name?”
The man smiled, his head bouncing slightly.
“Alex West. Pleased to meet you.”
Safe House ‘R’, Moscow, USSR
February 7, 1982
West closed the garage door behind the departing van then hid the microfilm canister atop a rafter joint, jumping back down as he heard someone try the door. With the microfilm hidden, and unlikely to be found without an exhaustive search, he was clean for the moment, however how he would be able to explain away his presence here was another thing entirely.
Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3) Page 11