The pine needles were drooping, heavy with snow and a soft orange tinge heralded the surrender of a bitterly cold night to another winter dawn. The ISIS sentry was hugging himself beside a pine tree, his breath condensing in tortured white clouds. Estrada kept the tree between him and his quarry and he crept along the outer wall of the ancient fortress. His knife of choice was the Ka-Bar Becker BK7 and no one was better at using it than him.
Suddenly, the ISIS terrorist began to pace to and fro in a futile attempt to combat the cold, and Estrada froze in the shadow of the moss-covered stone wall, aware that the slightest movement would give him away. The sentry stomped his feet on the icy ground and reached into his great coat pocket for another cigarette. Estrada edged forward, Ka-Bar at the ready. He was within three metres, but not still not close enough.
‘Shit!’ Estrada swore softly under his breath. The sound was faint, but he and the rest of SEAL Team Six would know it anywhere. Just as the veterans of the Vietnam War could instantly identify an approaching Iroquois, the Russian Hind attack helicopters, flown by over 50 countries with deployments to a dozen conflicts like those in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria, had their own unique sound. Estrada moved forward again, but at the last moment the sentry turned. Estrada didn’t hesitate. He threw the knife hard and straight.
‘Aaghh!’ The sentry buckled in pain but then raised his AK-47. Estrada pivoted on the ball of his left foot, kicked the weapon out of the sentry’s hands and slammed the palm of his hand in a powerful upward movement, breaking the terrorist’s nose. In an instant, Estrada whipped him around and crunched his right arm around the terrorist’s neck. The sentry kicked desperately, but Estrada increased the chokehold, Estrada’s right hand locked on his left shoulder with his left hand pressuring his right bicep. It was a chokehold that all special forces practised and the sentry’s struggles weakened as his carotid arteries and windpipe were disrupted. Estrada waited until his quarry went limp, dragged him under the nearest large spruce tree, withdrew the Ka-Bar from where it had lodged and slit his quarry’s throat.
‘One less asshole to blow up a bus or a concert,’ he remarked quietly, wiping his knife clean as O’Connor joined him.
‘Good work, but we’ve got company,’ said O’Connor, his voice grim.
General Waheeb and Caliph al-Rahman were standing near the castle courtyard, deep in conversation.
‘The goal is within reach, Mahmoud!’ the Caliph enthused, look-ing toward the two bright yellow nuclear warheads that had been unloaded and were standing just inside the castle’s arched entrance.
Waheeb nodded. Each small warhead weighed just 70 kilograms, but both were immensely powerful. ‘We can destroy any of the Infidel’s largest cities, Khalilfatul Mu’mineen . . . Successor of the Believers,’ said Waheeb, ‘and that includes New York, London, Paris or Sydney, but perhaps it will be enough for the Infidel to know we have the warheads.’
‘Perhaps, Mahmoud, but I doubt it,’ Caliph al-Rahman replied. ‘After our losses in Iraq and Syria, the Infidel has been boasting that we are a spent force and our recruiting needs a big boost. It will take more than threats to bring him to his knees, but these warheads will do it, Insha’Allah!’ The Caliph’s dark eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Rabinovich braced herself against the cockpit stanchion as Senior Lieutenant Abramovich banked hard and lined up the castle courtyard, the target glowing green in his night-vision sights. The red flashes from the ISIS weapons could be seen clearly but most of the firing was well wide of the mark. Abramovich’s gunner adjusted his sights and moments later the aircraft shuddered. Eightymillimetre rockets left the stub wings in a blaze of fire and smoke and the castle’s stone balustrades disintegrated under the weight of the 23-millimetre cannon firing at over 3000 rounds a minute.
On the ground, despite fragments of stone and red-hot shrapnel exploding from the pillar he’d taken cover behind, General Waheeb was issuing rapid orders to his ISIS commanders.
‘Ibrahim! Take three men and see the Caliph safely to his quarters! Al-Nasar, take another three men and guard the Russian General and the scientist! Yusaf! You and the rest of the men return fire!’
For Waheeb’s men, the general’s last order was almost impossible to execute. One after another they were taken out by the high explosive fragmentation rockets, cannon rounds and shrapnel.
In the air, General Rabinovich and her men were readying themselves for the final assault. Any ground fire was at best spasmodic now and the Hind gunner fired six more 80-millimetre rockets and held a sustained burst of cannon fire on the courtyard as Senior Lieutenant Abramovich skilfully cleared the balustrade and brought the Hind in hard. Rabinovich was first out, followed in swift succession by her Spetsnaz team, firing their AK-74s and carbines from the hip. Rabinovich launched herself behind the nearest pillar as a burst of fire came from across the courtyard near the main arch of the castle. She waited, watching for any signs of movement. Suddenly, her assailant broke cover and raced toward the archway. Rabinovich fired instinctively, her years of practice on firing ranges producing a deadly accuracy. General Waheeb clutched at his chest and fell onto the courtyard, blood pooling beneath his body.
Rabinovich, who had already spotted the warheads in the shadow of the archway, summoned her team leader, Warrant Officer Bogrov.
‘We split up into two teams and clear the castle,’ she ordered, her voice crisp but calm. ‘The president wants both Dragunov and Bartók alive. Load the warheads and tell the pilots to get back into the air and be ready to provide support. Once you’ve done that, take half the team and clear the upper floors. I’ll take the other half and go for the dungeons.’
From the base of the castle, a short distance from the secret entrance, O’Connor observed the Hind assault through his night-vision goggles. Spetsnaz, he thought grimly. As the firefight raged in the courtyard above on the other side of the sheer stone walls, O’Connor signalled for the rest of his patrol to join him and Estrada. This is getting messy, he thought, and he reached for his encrypted satellite phone. The Black Hawks, he knew, would be inbound flying nap-of-the-earth, but they would not have factored a direct confrontation with the Russians. McNamara would have to give the okay.
‘Lafayette, this is Hopi One Four, over.’ Lafayette was McNamara’s code name and an apt one at that. The eighteenth-century spy had come to prominence during the American Revolution as the first African-American double agent, who spied against the American general Benedict Arnold when the latter had traitorously defected to the British.
‘Lafayette, this is Hopi One Four, do you read me, over.’
‘Hopi One Four, this is Lafayette, five by five, over.’ McNamara was always within reach of encrypted communications when O’Connor was in the field, and particularly on an operation as sensitive as this. He listened intently as O’Connor brought him up to speed. The implications were very clear and McNamara thought quickly and clearly. To involve the unpredictable and irascible President Travers and a White House in chaos was out of the question. The Russian–American relationship was low enough as it was without adding any more fuel, but the thumb drive, which contained the only copy of Bartók’s research data, was critical.
‘This is Lafayette. I’ll get a message to the Black Hawk pilots authorising them to engage,’ McNamara said finally. ‘But if it fucks up . . .’
O’Connor smiled wanly. ‘This is Hopi One Four. Roger. You will have never heard of me. Out.’ O’Connor turned to Chief Kennedy and the rest of SEAL Team Six.
‘While ISIS and the Russkies are concentrating on each other, now’s as good a time as any to break in,’ he ordered. ‘That Hind had Russian special forces on board, and it carries eight. My guess is they’re after the same thing we’re after. ISIS will have their hands full but keep your eyes peeled for any movement. We shoot first and ask questions later. Follow me.’ O’Connor doubled over to the now unguarded entrance and disappeared inside. The passage had been hewn out of solid rock and 50 metres in, O’Connor
could make out stone stairs leading up to the castle itself. He mounted the steps, keeping to the rock face. O’Connor reached the top, crept forward and took up a position behind a stone pillar. Below him was the open courtyard. Above him, at 2000 feet, the attack helicopter was standing off, ready to make another run on the castle. O’Connor summoned Chief Kennedy.
‘I’m betting that Dragunov and Bartók are being held in the dungeons.’ Kennedy nodded in agreement. ‘But we might not have a lot of time. Unless I’m mistaken, there’s another Hind inbound.’ In addition to the rotors of Rabinovich’s circling Mi-35, O’Connor had picked up the faint additional sound of the Russian backup helicopter. ‘Let’s move it. You take half the team and clear the upper levels, and I’ll take Estrada, Lopez and the rest for the dungeons.’
Kennedy and three SEALs disappeared along a stone passage, weapons at the ready, and they worked their way methodically through the ruins. Suddenly a firefight broke out in the adjoining passage. Ricocheting bullets, accompanied by screams, echoed off the stone walls, only to be replaced by an eerie silence. When Kennedy reached the end of his passage and a right-angled turn, he held up his hand. The voice in the adjoining passage was clear and the Arabic was delivered with a thick Russian accent. The response was also in Arabic, but with a decided Iraqi accent.
‘You are making a very grave mistake!’ Caliph al-Rahman protested. ‘It is the will of Allah that my Caliphate will succeed! I am the successor to Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him!’
‘Zatknis’! Shut up!’ Kennedy’s Spetsnaz counterparts were clearly having none of it as they manhandled the protesting self-styled Caliph toward the SEALs’ position.
Rabinovich led the way along yet another stone passageway toward a set of steps that curved past a small alcove down to the bowels of the ancient fortress, but as she and her team descended, two ISIS fighters rounded the corner. Rabinovich fired two single shots with unerring accuracy and the ISIS fighters tumbled down to the bottom of the steps. A third fighter appeared and Rabinovich opened fire again with a similar result. She signalled the others to cover her, and 100 metres later, with the passage glowing green in her night-vision goggles, Rabinovich reached the ancient cells.
‘Jackpot,’ she muttered as she spotted Dragunov and Bartók lying on two rough-hewn wooden-slatted bunks. Rabinovich pulled a small hacksaw from her pack and minutes later she was through the rusted iron and into the cell.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ said the unkempt, unshaven Dragunov, getting to his feet.
Rabinovich nodded and turned to an ashen-faced Bartók. ‘The thumb drive!’
‘I don’t know . . .’
Rabinovich grabbed Bartók by the neck and applied a vicious upward pressure. ‘The thumb drive!’
Bartók nodded, his eyes bulging. Rabinovich released him and Bartók, still in pain, slowly took off his right shoe and retrieved the priceless thumb drive. Rabinovich pocketed it and handed Dragunov a pistol. ‘Keep him covered. Let’s go!’
‘I am the successor to Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him!’ The Caliph continued to loudly protest his treatment at the hands of Rabinovich’s Spetsnaz, but to no avail.
‘Zatknis’! Shut the fuck up!’ growled the Russian propelling the Caliph toward Kennedy’s passage. Chief Kennedy’s options were limited, and he took the one he knew best. For a SEAL, attack was always the best form of defense. He sprang from his position, firing a full 30-round magazine from his Heckler and Koch M416 carbine and just as quickly leapt back into his own passage.
‘Three of them and the Chief Towelhead!’ he yelled, ducking as a burst of fire from at least one of the Spetsnaz team took chunks of rock from the passage walls.
Kennedy’s number two calmly removed the pin from a fragmentation grenade and rolled it into the passageway. The blast was deafening, and Chief Kennedy immediately leapt into the corridor and followed up with another burst from his carbine.
‘Four very dead,’ he confirmed. ‘Let’s get back to the courtyard.’
Rabinovich led her team back the way they had come, Dragunov following with a pistol to Bartók’s head. ‘One false move, Bartók, and you’re dead,’ he hissed, loudly enough for Rabinovich to hear. Rabinovich climbed the stone steps past the alcove that led to yet another passageway, but as she stepped into the passage above, she was confronted by O’Connor and his men coming toward them. She recognised him instantly, as he did her and she ducked back as O’Connor let fly with a full burst from his Heckler and Koch.
‘The alcove. Quickly!’ Rabinovich scrambled back down the steps, shoved Dragunov and Bartók through the opening and then led the way down a narrow, twisting passage that provided access to the other side of the castle.
O’Connor approached the steps warily, Heckler and Koch at the ready. He too noticed the tiny alcove but elected to continue down toward the dungeons. Precious minutes later, he and his team reached the cells, only to find them recently occupied but empty.
‘Fuck! She’s good, that Russian,’ O’Connor exclaimed ruefully. ‘Back to the courtyard!’
Both O’Connor and Kennedy reached the main entrance almost simultaneously, but they and the rest of SEAL Team Six immediately hit the stone floor. The backup Hind had taken up station above the castle and was delivering a withering burst of 23-millimetre cannon fire. The pilots of Rabinovich’s Hind applied full power and began to lift from the courtyard. Ignoring the shells bursting around him, O’Connor emptied a full magazine toward Rabinovich’s aircraft.
‘Go for the engines and the tail rotor!’ he ordered, but Kennedy and the rest of the team were already firing.
Rabinovich’s attack helicopter cleared the outer balustrade, but the pilots were clearly struggling to control their aircraft. A plume of black smoke was pouring from the starboard engine and, unseen from the ground, one of the major hydraulic lines that fed the main rotors had been cut. As the hydraulic pressure fell, Senior Lieutenant Abramovich was desperately trying to manoeuvre with a cyclic and collective, the effectiveness of which was rapidly deteriorating.
O’Connor hugged the ground as the backup helicopter fired another salvo of 80-millimetre rockets and 23-millimetre cannon into the castle. Suddenly, his radio came to life.
‘Hopi One Four, this is Alley Cat Four. We’re inbound, one minute. Lafayette has confirmed a clear and present danger. Be aware that we have two . . . I say again, two targets, both Hinds, but one is already hit, over.’
‘Alley Cat Four, roger but do not, I say again, do not destroy the Hind that has been hit. Once you’ve knocked out the other one that is causing us more than a little grief, we need to force the second one down and we need to retrieve some cargo, over.’
‘Alley Cat Four, roger.’
‘Gangster One, copied.’ Once again, O’Connor smiled to himself. Gangster One was being flown by the very same Chief Warrant Officer Naomi Lieberman who had shown such courage supporting them against the Taliban in the Hindu Kush.
Lieberman rolled into a dive from above the unsuspecting backup Hind and her gunner acquired the target. Specially equipped for this mission with air-to-air Stingers, the Apache shuddered as Lieberman’s gunner fired two missiles. The missile infrared systems locked on and seconds later, the Russian Mi-35M attack helicopter exploded in a ball of fire, debris falling toward the snow-covered ground below.
‘Gangster One – that’s a kill. Second target is to the north but it’s flying erratically, over.’
‘Alley Cat Four, roger, out to you. Hopi One Four, inbound, over.’
‘Hopi One Four.’
O’Connor and his men waited until the Black Hawk flared over the parapet and they doubled forward. O’Connor hooked into the internal communications as the Black Hawk pilots pulled maximum power and flew low and hard, chasing Rabinovich’s aircraft. The skilled Russian pilot, hampered by a lack of hydraulics and with smoke pouring from both engines now, still managed to fly close to the sheer, spruce-covered Caucasus mountain ravines with the Black Hawks and Apache in hot p
ursuit.
‘This is Gangster One. I have him in my sights, over.’
‘Hopi One Four, negative,’ broke in O’Connor. ‘They’ve got some highly sensitive cargo. We’ll put in a ground assault once they land and we may need you then.’
A hundred metres in front, the stricken Russian helicopter brushed the trees on top of the next crest and Abramovich brought the aircraft down hard in the snow in a precipitous clearing halfway down the other side of the ridge.
O’Connor adjusted his binoculars and watched as the two pilots, Rabinovich and her depleted Spetsnaz team, along with Dragunov covering Bartók with his pistol, made for the forest on the western side of the clearing.
Rabinovich calmly collected her thoughts. All was not yet lost, she reasoned. O’Connor would undoubtedly have followed their move into the forest. He would likely put in a final assault, and with an Apache attack helicopter and four of her team dead including Warrant Officer Bogrov, O’Connor held most of the cards, unless . . . She summoned another of her team who had been with her in St Petersburg, Senior Sergeant Ruslan Annikov.
‘Annikov. We leave one of your men to guard Bartók at the base of that craggy outcrop,’ she ordered, pointing to a protrusion of granite boulders a hundred metres up the hill. ‘When O’Connor and his men reach them, they are to surrender, but O’Connor is not stupid, and he won’t fall for a bait that easily. Instead, he’ll sweep the area before he moves in, but if you look to the right, there’s a rocky spine leading up to the west – if we stick to that we can cover our tracks and take up a position from where we can launch a counterattack.’
The Russian Affair Page 36