Special Dynamic

by Special Dynamic (retail) (epub)

  Movement two hundred metres along the trail…

  It was a downhill section, down to the lake, and the man was stemming, skis wide, thrusting outward in a pumping action and with his head up to watch the trail as far ahead as he could see it. He was in and out of sight as trees and undergrowth intervened, appearing and vanishing like intermittent frames in an old black-and-white movie or those little books you flicked through for the effect of movement. The other one might be off to the side, moving parallel to the line of the path. He might be following behind the one who was in sight — it would be nice if he was just following — but they might be playing it more craftily. It was an important thing to know. One might assume that Spetsnazi would possess all the skills, but they might also be careless if they hadn’t guessed they were hunting a quarry who was at least as skilful as themselves. They might be under the impression that they were running down some tourist or anthropologist. OK, he’d demonstrated an ability to shoot straight, but that wouldn’t necessarily have told them much… Watching through the frieze of litter and pine foliage — brown, not green, dried-out and frosted although it still smelt strongly of resin when you had your nose in it — watching the skier as he came on with his legs pumping as a brake — hundred and fifty metres now, near enough — one was hoping he’d provide some clue as to his colleague’s whereabouts.

  Selector to semi-automatic…

  The other one might have picked up Sophie’s tracks and followed her. Then it would be a while before he got to the highway and realised she‘d got away. He’d return this way, presumably. Not necessarily, but—

  He’d glanced back, raising one hand with the pole swinging from it.

  Thanks. You can go on by.

  Keeping very open order, as this pair were doing and as he and Sophie had done yesterday, did complicate matters for an ambusher. Since there were only two of them and he’d picked an ideal location he could handle it — he hoped — but it was less straightforward than it would have been if they’d been in close company. He wasn’t sure yet which of them he’d hit first; he’d decide when the moment came, when he saw it — the principle being to hit and stop (maybe kill but anyway stop) the more distant target with a single, aimed shot, then rapidly shift target and blast the nearer one in automatic. Because obviously you could only hit one at a time, and the farthest away had the best chance of escape if you either missed or allowed him some warning. Then he’d be on the loose, and you’d have problems.

  Face—down in snow and pine rubbish, listening to the first one passing, the scrape of skis in crusted snow and the bounce of trailing poles. Now head up slowly, by centimetres rather than by inches, to see the next one coming into sight on what was now a broad, smoothed-out path. The gun’s sights were set on two hundred metres. Extended butt-stock snuggled into his shoulder. This character was stemming too, maintaining his distance astern of number one. You’d get in this single shot — catching him in one of his appearances between trees — and the other would then be — well, much closer anyway, having only just gone by. So the problem had resolved itself, and the time for action was—

  Trees in the way. Next appearance. Holding a breath…

  Now.

  He saw the man hit, crumpling as he veered sharply off the track. Ollie span round with the crack of the shot loud in his right ear: but the front-runner was hidden, a clump of firs in the line of sight. A second and a half later he was back in view — falling, stopping himself by falling down, about the smartest way he could have reacted. Ollie gave him the rest of the magazine’s contents with the gun’s snout depressed to aim at ground level which was where the target was by that time, but the Russian got off a burst of his own as he fell — hitting — impact like whiplash and a knock effect, muscular reaction left side and in that arm: he was changing the magazine as he ran, knowing he’d been hit by one or more rounds, sprinting to the track and diving into it with a clear view along it and the gun jabbering in his hands. The Russian had been crouching: now he swayed over, falling sideways and dropping his gun. He had one ski on, one off. With his free hand he’d been working frantically to unclip the bindings, but the odds had been against him although he’d started well with that fast reaction and the accurate snap-shot at a target which he could only have seen in about the same instant he’d opened fire. Once he’d rid himself of the skis he’d have been fighting on equal terms — or better, having already scored — but Ollie had grasped this as well as he had himself, killed him while he was still anchored to one of them.

  Pain burnt in his forearm and side. Extending the arm to the position it had been in when he’d been hit he guessed at one bullet having creased its way up the inside of the forearm and then sliced into or through his side at waist level. He could feel the sticky warmth of blood, and reckoned he’d been lucky; but also that he’d muffed it, should have timed his first shot so that when he shifted target the other would have been in sight. But then, if he’d hung on for a better chance he might have made even more of a mess of it… Anyway — priorities now had to be (1) check these two, that they were dead, (2) check for any others in the vicinity, (3) inspect the damage to oneself and apply field dressings, (4) get skis on and the hell out.

  And be joyful, meanwhile, for Sophie having got clear away. That was what really mattered.

  So — on foot, first, back through the trees, parallel to the track but clear of it, stopping in the edge of the forest to look for signs of enemies. The moon was on its way down, he guessed there‘d be a few hours of darkness before dawn. Then maybe a real dawn for a change, a visible sunrise into a clear sky. Meanwhile the moonlight was hazy, casting long shadows, contrasts of black and white, depressions in the snow like bruises, ski-tracks shaded in grey pencil. They were where he’d have expected them, converging with his own near the point of entry to the wood, and the three sets were all he could see. There might have been others, a third man could have been left out there while two of them drew the covert, but on as much evidence as was visible he thought it was safe to assume the whole team had been accounted for.

  He was aware that he was taking a lot for granted. Such as the fact that his own ski-tracks would emerge in due course from this wood, and the two Russians’ tracks would not. And that there was a third lying dead out in the open, and a fourth — who’d died from a slashed throat — on a Finnish mountainside. He’d been lucky: but there was no surprise in it and certainly no self-congratulation, only recognition of the fact that not for the first time he’d had the luck on his side.

  But everyone had some luck: not everyone made use of it. Training came into it — and field experience, and fast reaction. For instance, the second Russian had had his own stroke of luck when he’d scored a hit with that snapped-off burst while still in mid-air: but if one had been in that position oneself one wouldn’t have thrown it away by allowing oneself to be caught in the open five seconds later. One would have been in cover and ready to shoot again, skis or no skis.

  On present showing, in fact, the opposition hadn’t done very well. Although you’d have expected them to be the best the Soviets had. He’d have to take care, he told himself, not to be lulled into expecting second-rate performances: others might well be more professional, or less over-confident.

  Heading back through the trees, winding up this post-mortem on recent action, he recognised that in getting Sophie away he’d been very lucky. Unquestionable, genuine luck — to have been allowed that small space of time while the man had had his head down for some reason — signalling to his buddy, or filling a magazine, whatever. More than just luck, it had been a gift, and more crucial than anything that had happened in the wood. OK, you could argue that she’d have been in the clear now anyway because he’d wiped them out, he’d have been escorting her to the highway to thumb a lift; but this was only on the assumption that if she’d been with him it would have turned out the same. You couldn’t assume it; as he’d explained to her, there were big advantages in operating solo.


  Now the bodies. Whether to pull them off the trail, hide them…

  The only point in doing so would be to deceive the enemy, if there were more in the area, let them know as little as possible about what had happened here. The less they knew, the less efficiently they could handle themselves. In particular they shouldn’t be allowed to know their quarry had got away, leaving tracks they could follow.

  Their weapons were Israeli Galil 5.56—mm SARs — short assault rifles — with folding stocks and 35-round magazines. No point in switching; he was used to the MKS now. But the shells were the right calibre, and lengthwise they fitted the Swedish magazines, so he filled a pocket with loose rounds. He also took a frozen half-apple from an outer pocket — of the second man — whose white-fleshed face with embryo red beard was reminiscent of a Van Gogh self-portrait. A scent of apple hung around him; he must have only recently been eating the other half. Ollie muttered, ‘Thanks, Tovarisch…’ He had no way of knowing that he was addressing the mortal remains of Sergeant Aleksandr Borisovich Gerasimov of HQ Company, 23rd Spetsnaz Regiment.

  Better leave them in the open, he decided, and leave all the tracks to tell their story. After Sophie had made her report in Kautokeino, Norwegian police or army would surely come down here to see what had been going on, and they might as well find evidence to support her story. There was no reason to believe other Soviets were around. These three had been arriving from the south: only just arriving, and not quite in time to put a stopper on the highway route. Some luck in that timing, too — if his guess was right.

  His own wounds now. He stripped down to his thermal undervest to get at them, under layers of other bullet-torn, bloodstained clothing. There was a long groove up the left forearm, and a shorter, deeper gash in his left side where the bullet had torn through flesh and muscle under the lowest rib. More luck — that it hadn’t been aimed as much as one inch either side, smashing the arm or doing real damage. Also that the cheese-faced marksman had been using the Galil and 5.56-mm shells and not the dumdum-effect 5.45-mm ammo they fired from their AKS-74s. He washed the wounds in antiseptic, taped impregnated dressings over them and put his clothes back on again. Holes and rips, undesirable from the point of view of insulation, could be mended later with the repair kit he’d left with other gear in the snow-hole.

  Which was now his destination.

  *

  The door of the truck stood open, the heavily—built man in the road keeping a hand on it while he stared up, studying her intently.

  The Finnish driver would still have stopped for him, she thought, even if she had screamed at him to keep going. He was that kind of person — a Suomi Samaritan… She heard him stammer an answer to the question which had been aimed, she realised, at establishing her identity… ‘No. Well — yes, ski-trekking. Wanted a ift to the Lensmanskontor in Kautokeino… Why, what—’

  He’d told the stranger exactly what he’d wanted to know, of course. A humourless smile opened a crack among the black stubble. Breath plumed like smoke in the iced air as he growled, ‘Tell you what. You’re going to turn this thing round. Up the road, place called Oksal, there’s room to turn. Then you’ll take us all south, OK?’

  ‘South to where?’

  ‘What’s it called. Ai’jav’ri, something like. Then you can go where the fuck you like. Deal? Or do I pull you out and do it myself?’

  The driver’s expression was turning mulish. He glanced at Sophie, then at the open door, which the big man wasn’t actually holding now. He muttered out of the side of his mouth to her, ‘Shut it…’ He couldn’t have understood what he was up against, to have thought he had any chance of getting away with it. The man saw his hand moving towards the gears, and he brought his gun up. It was close in front of Sophie’s face and she had no doubt he was about to shoot the driver in the head. Throwing herself against his arm — the Russian was half up into the cab — she was deafened by the shot close to her ear, then in agony as his other hand clamped viciously on the back of her neck and dragged her out. Painful impacts here and there: the worst of them was a near-paralysing blow on the hip as his knee helped her on the way. She hit the road semi-stunned and with a photographic impression of the driver slumped forward, left hand clasping his right shoulder. A second or two ago, she realised, she must have seen that. Her ski-poles were still in the cab, she was dazed and ready to vomit but getting up, launching herself back at the open door with the intention of snatching one of the poles for a weapon. She wasn’t thinking, at this stage, wasn’t working things out, she was simply reacting, fighting for her life and for the driver’s. The Russian saw her coming, hardly bothered to turn — just enough to aim a kick at her, savagely and contemptuously, putting her out of his way for a moment, swinging back for a second shot at the Finn. After which he’d kill her. Attending to the Finn first in case he got the truck moving. She’d been knocked down again by that kick, felt pain like fire in her hip and elsewhere, and that thought — that he’d surely kill her now — just as the pistol fired, point-blank at the driver’s head — woke her to some degree of rational thinking, to Ollie’s vital thing is one of us gets there… She scrambled half up, running — over the snow-covered verge, to get to the trees beyond the reindeer fence. As she got to the fence she remembered — she had a gun in an inside pocket, the automatic Ollie had taken from the man he’d killed with a knife. She was fumbling for it as she stooped to duck under the wire and the Russian fired at her. She saw the flash out of the side of her eye, heard the explosion and fell sprawling, under the wire — guessing he’d only missed with that shot because she’d happened to duck just at that same moment, guessing also that trying to get away now — to get up and run — would be suicidal. Lying in the snow, groping inside her smock, getting fingers to the zip of her anorak and wrenching it down; remembering how Ollie had killed that man, the one who’d shot Isak. The difference was that it was herself this killer was coming to finish off, not some third party. The third party would be already dead, in the truck’s cab. Her hand closed on the gun’s butt, and she was remembering something else from Ollie, what he’d taught her about it. It was Swiss, a SIG or some such name, and it had no external safety-catch but an internal automatic one which meant that the pistol was safe all the time, you could drop it and it wouldn’t go off, but you had no catch to bother with and you didn’t even have to cock it, you could simply pull it out and fire it. She’d got it out, had it in her gloved hand, was forcing it through the snow under her breasts from right to left, the right side of her face numb in the snow and eyes three-quarters closed, trying to look dead while she watched him coming over with his own pistol ready in his hand — coming to see whether he’d killed her or if she needed another bullet. Like that other one put into Isak. He was on the verge now, ankle—deep in the crust and about three metres away from her, looming huge against the red glow of the truck’s tail lights. She was scared of shooting too soon and missing but even more of waiting one second too long and letting him do his shooting first. Forcing herself to keep her eyes slightly open as she squeezed the trigger — very light double-action trigger mechanism, Ollie ad told her — her head jarred from the crash – and again as he staggered, his gun coming up, at her… She’d rolled sideways, fired twice more, aiming these shots properly with the gun in her right hand, right hand supported in the left, the way she’d been taught although she’d told them it was pointless, she’d never use a gun, never intended carrying one. The Russian lurched forward, down on his knees as she fired a fourth bullet into him: she held the gun on him, ready to shoot again, watching as he collapsed forward on to his face.

  *

  Knowing where the herds were now, he made all possible use of their trampled grazing grounds. On some stretches, especially up to and near the vinterveg, there were snowscooter and ski tracks as well. The moon set at about eight, and in the two hours between then and sunrise he travelled by compass, checking progress by the rivers he crossed and other remembered topographical features. He was ski
ing straight into the rising sun when the loom of it began to show above the fjells; and then in daylight he took pains to be either on ground cut up by the deer, or on Sami herdsmen’s tracks, or — when possible — in woodland.

  Sunrise was brilliant, in shades of rose that flushed the snowscape pink as well. He’d have liked to have had Sophie here to enjoy it with him, Sophie with her love of these barren, wide-open spaces. But cloud gathered during the forenoon and long before dusk the overhang of cloud was total.

  He passed wide of the mountain hut where they’d sheltered. Others might well find the fjellstue attractive. He’d been foolhardy, he thought now, to have used it, put her to such risk. Crazy — to have taken her to the one focal point for trekkers that existed in that enormous area of fjell and forest.

  The apple had to de-freeze slowly in his mouth before he could force his teeth into it. He ate biscuits and chocolate frequently, and drank tea. Thinking about Sophie, and imagining her in Kautokeino. Or elsewhere: they’d send a helicopter to pick her up from the Kautokeino airstrip, he guessed. But he could hear her on the telephone to Grayling, after she’d reported first to her own bosses: and Grayling baffled, not knowing whether or not to accept this strange female’s story. In any case it would take time, before you could hope to see action on the ground, and meanwhile Sutherland and Stenberg were on their own and extremely vulnerable: even if the Spetsnazi were second-rate, by British special-force standards.

  The westward transit had taken him and Sophie about twenty-four hours, including five in the fjellstue. Considering the journey had involved as much uphill work as level trekking, and precious little downhill running, that had been very good going. But now with only himself to look after, and cutting out any night stop, he was hoping to do it in about eighteen hours or less. Eating and drinking on the move, stopping only for reconnaissance purposes when there was a good perspective from high ground. It was more probable, he thought, that Spetsnazi might be waiting ahead than that they’d be trailing him, on this trip.