Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  “But there are no hunting camps up there. Maybe you are lost? Easy to do here and more so in this Wetter.”

  “Maybe,” said Scharkov. He looked to the soldier behind the man and nodded.

  It was quick. The soldier grabbed the man’s face from behind and slid his Voron-3 across the neck. The blade required minimal force as it moved across the throat, cutting deep through the skin, trachea, and muscle down to the vertebrae. Blood flowed immediately from the long gash and the soldier released the man, letting him fall to the ground. The man made an effort to cover the wound with his hands, but it was pointless. Blood slipped through his fingers and drooled out of his mouth. He coughed and gurgled for a few seconds and then his body lost tension and the only movement was a few twitches of his legs. A moment later even these had ceased.

  The dog barked, growled, and bared his teeth, a mixture of fury, confusion, defense, loyalty, and sorrow.

  “Shoot the dog,” said Scharkov.

  The soldier pulled out his H&K, screwed on a suppressor, and aimed the gun at the dog’s head. The dog looked at him defiantly. He cocked his head but otherwise made no attempt to move. It seemed to Shuvalov as though the dog was communicating to the soldier a defiant fuck you.

  The soldier squeezed the trigger.

  C

  HAPTER EIGHT

  RHYS FLEW IN the hotel room, his hair wildly messed from his helmet.

  Manny met him at the door, almost blocking his way in the cramped room. He was now flooded with information and eager to run through a full report. He was agitated, amped up.

  “Calm down,” said Rhys. “This is a job. Don’t let your emotions take over. Just tell me what we know.” Rhys had called from the airfield and now he wanted Manny to contribute from his end. “We’ll plan carefully and then move swiftly. Better to think this through than to be rash and make dumb mistakes that limit our options.”

  “Langley sent the file on RG 405. They’re loaded for bear and willing to make a mess. If they get to the hut, it’s over.”

  Rhys calmly nodded.

  “Sophia Venegas called again from Berlin,” Manny continued. “The SEAL team at Ramstein shipped out yesterday. They’re not an option. The teams in the Middle East are on standby, can’t be redirected. The closest available is in Florida. Venegas put in the request to DoD and they’re moving, waiting for our decision. If we want it, they can be wheels up in an hour, but it’ll be another seven hours until they land, probably at Aviano, and, realistically, it’ll take another hour to chopper them here.”

  “Give ‘em the green light. Things often transpire more slowly than we anticipate and we don’t want to kick ourselves for telling them to stand down. Let’s not make this another Benghazi.”

  “They’re going to get hit before the SEALS arrive,” said Manny. He was almost desperate. He understood, as did Rhys, that the closest meaningful help was at least eight hours away.

  “You got that topographical map we picked up at the front desk?” Rhys said. “Let me see the thing.”

  Manny rifled through the crap that had accumulated on the desk and fished out the map, all folded nice and neat. Rhys whipped it open and studied it hard.

  “You know, goddamn, I ain’t so bad at map reading, and it looks like those Spetsnaz boys have some difficult terrain ahead of ‘em. It’s a long-ass hike at any rate, all uphill.”

  Manny squinted, working his eyes along the route the Russians would have to take.

  “Now look here,” said Rhys. “We’re farther away from the hut than where those Russian boys started from, but I got a motorcycle and a road a good part of the way. I’m figuring I might just be able to get ahead of them.”

  Manny continued to study the map.

  “You got your field box?”

  “In the car.”

  “Got your M40 in it?”

  “Christ,” said Manny.

  “I’m not talking about trying to wipe out a Spetsnaz reconnaissance group, but maybe I could slow ‘em enough that the SEALS could come in for a heroic rescue.”

  Manny looked at Rhys and saw a smirk on his face. A shiver ran down his spine.

  “I’ll hunker down in the wet with your M40, wait for them to approach, and fire off some shots, make ‘em go to ground and look for an alternative route, one that takes a bit longer. Maybe I’ll get lucky a time or two. Whatever, it’ll force ‘em off their plan and it’ll take time for them to come up with another. You stay here by the radio and guide the SEALS in.”

  “Fuck that! I’m a better shot than you and the two of us can cause a lot more trouble than you alone.”

  “You also got a new Olga or Dagmar or Genevieve or whatever her name is and you’re from the southwest. The mountains are my home.” New Hampshire’s White Mountains were hardly the Alps, but Rhys hoped Manny wouldn’t notice.

  “Rhys, I—”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll ride back down or extract with the SEALS. You’re needed here. Stirewalt might call again, the SEALS will need communications. We have more versatility with you here.”

  “I can bring the goddamn radio with me! I need to go up there with you.”

  Rhys’ eyes narrowed. Manny was, in fact, the best shot he’d ever seen. He was a graduate of the USMC Scout Sniper Basic Course and he had saved Rhys’ own bacon in Berlin with some shots that made Rhys’ head spin. He’d be a fool not have Manny up there.

  But Rhys knew this was going to be dangerous, much more than he let on. You don’t take on a Spetsnaz RG without getting a few scrapes. Manny was a good kid. Not a kid, of course, but he was just starting out and he’d do some good at the Agency. And Rhys liked the idea of Manny having a new girlfriend. He’d had that once himself.

  “This ain’t going to be no picnic,” Rhys said, letting it hang there.

  “I need to go.”

  “Marine, you are stubborn. Don’t ever say I never brought you along for some fun. Now let’s gear up. I’ll read the maps and you gather your shit. When we’re done with all this, I’ll take you to a beer hall in Munich and drink you so far under the table Spetsnaz will seem mild in comparison.”

  Manny packed the SINCGARS in its backpack and collected the gear he had brought into the room. The rest of it was in the safe in the trunk of the car. He thought of his girl. Sorry about this, Babe. But you of all people know why I have to do this.

  “Time to go, Marine,” said Rhys.

  C

  HAPTER NINE

  NO, PAVLO, YOU are wrong.” Maksym was nothing if not pedantic. “We are not on an alp, but rather in an alp. The term alp—or alm, albe, or alpe, depending on dialect—refers to the high mountain pastures where cows graze during the summer months. The alps, or alms as they say here in Austria, are meadows. Calling the mountains or peaks ‘the Alps’ would be a misnomer. In German, a peak in the Alps is a Horn, Kogel, Kopf, Gipfel, Spitze, or a Berg.”

  Maksym had the uncanny ability to detach himself from the danger in which they found themselves. He was relaxed, probably due to his academic obliviousness to reality. Stirewalt couldn’t imagine what Svitlana saw in him, but there was no denying they had remained close after twenty-odd years of marriage. He made her laugh and she ensured he left the house with matching socks. He was the yin to her yang.

  The CIA safe house had been an Almhütte, a summer residence for a family of dairy farmers. It was situated toward the back of the sloping pasture, with a long, open meadow before it. Immediately behind it, a high wall of rock rose up. It was less a cliff than a murderously steep pile of rocks. A fall from the top would result not in a fall through empty space ending in certain death at the bottom, but rather in a far more painful uncontrolled bouncing down the rocks at breakneck speed, breaking bones and tearing skin with each bounce before ending in certain death with a final crack on the head.

  Stirewalt, though a city girl, understood why the hut was positioned there hundreds of years ago. The mountain continued up above the escarpment behind the hut and a natural rise
in the center of the cliff above directed any avalanche of snow to either side of the hut. She didn’t know if the arrangement helped or hindered their current predicament. She knew that in time one of the assailants would climb up there for no other reason than that the vantage point would prevent any attempt to leave the hut.

  They were trapped.

  Lucinda had taken control and delegated responsibilities. Tyler and Colin kept watch. In addition, Tyler considered their weapon cache while Colin considered contingency plans in the event they had to evacuate. Svitlana took inventory—not just of medical supplies, but anything in the house that might prove useful, whether tools, blankets, food, or firewood. She ensured there was always boiling water ready for whatever good that would do. Maksym and Pavlo took apart the radio in the hope of getting it working again. While Maksym was pretty useless, as all academics are in practical matters, Pavlo had a surprising understanding of electronics and he diagnosed the problem even if he couldn’t get it working again. Stirewalt didn’t expect a miracle with the radio and none of the Tereshchenkos’ jobs were crucial, but the tasks kept them occupied, which was calming in itself.

  If there was any good news, it was the weather. The wind had cleared away the fog and they could now see the expansive pasture around them. The rain clouds had sunk below the hut’s altitude of 1,800 meters. Although they undoubtedly continued to wreak havoc on those below, the visibility around the Almhütte was improving. Tyler continuously moved from one window to the next, ensuring no one approached the hut. His biggest challenge was the escarpment behind the house. He feared an experienced man could rappel down it faster then they’d be able to react.

  After delegating responsibilities, Lucinda didn’t have much to do. She paced the space, following the lines that Tyler had designated as safe. She didn’t show it, but rage boiled in her core.

  How did they know where Tereshchenko was? What mistake did I make?

  The cost had already been too high, evidenced by the dead marine lying in the soaked grass thirty yards in front of the hut. She had made a mistake and he had paid the price. But what was the mistake?

  Lucinda Stirewalt wasn’t used to making mistakes. She had risen through the CIA’s ranks at lightening speed, serving as an analyst, a case officer, and an assistant desk chief before she was thirty-five years old. Soon after she had become Berlin’s station chief, she had been the brains behind an operation of such magnitude that few at Langley even knew about it. It had been her good judgment to pull Rhys Adler into the operation, even though he had left the Agency.

  How would Rhys react to her call? She feared the worst, that he’d race up the mountain without anything to lose, not knowing that there were as many as two dozen Russian Special Forces out there. He wouldn’t stand a chance. And worse, Manny would go with him. She knew he would. He had been pulled into that same Berlin operation and she had been so impressed that she recruited him from the Corps to the Agency. He had promise in so many ways.

  The job was meant to be a junket for the two of them, a reward for their service. They’d put up with a week of boring security bullshit, Rhys would train Manny, and then he’d ride his beloved motorcycle through the Alps and Manny could take a few days off. Instead, she probably had scared them half to death without giving them any way to be helpful.

  “Movement to the South!” shouted Tyler Glynn. He put the binoculars to his eyes and studied the far edge of the pasture, where the forest started and continued down over a rise that dropped to lower elevations. They’d seen movement once before, on the West side, also a pair of men. Tyler determined it was the same two and figured that the pair of Russians were getting their bearings.

  “Colin, take the specs,” said Tyler, handing Colin the binoculars. The others got into their prearranged positions. Each had a window to look out of, the idea being to detect any other activity that would suggest additional men out there. Until now they had assumed the pair was alone, waiting for reinforcements.

  They watched for ten minutes. Nothing. That gave them a small amount of comfort, but only a reprieve before the inevitable, like a calm coast before a tsunami.

  “Ever been in a situation like this?” Tyler asked the question quietly so that no one but Lucinda could hear it.

  “I don’t know if there’s ever been a situation like this. Only in the movies.” She continued to look out her assigned window. She didn’t want to face him. “I just don’t know how we were compromised.”

  “A piece of advice?”

  “Please.”

  “Worry about that later. One thing at a time. It’s not my place to tell you what to think, but I can see it’s eating at you. We don’t need that. We need you here and now.”

  “Acknowledged, soldier.”

  “I’m a marine, ma’am.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

  “I won’t hold it against you. You’re doing fine.” The hierarchy had broken down and each accepted the other’s area of expertise. “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me take a shot at them. The M39 has a day scope. It’ll work fine now and in lower light, but it’ll become useless once it gets dark. Even if I miss, it will keep them from approaching. And maybe I’ll get lucky, hit one of the fuckers. Pardon the expression ma’am.”

  “What are the downsides?”

  “Well, for one, it’ll unsettle the family here. If we do it, I’d recommend sending them to the safe room. Also, even if I hit one, the other will go to ground and we’ll never see him again. Maybe that’s not so bad. It’ll be a stalemate, though only until reinforcements come. Also, it’ll piss ‘em off.”

  Lucinda considered. More Russians were coming. Both she and Tyler accepted that. Colin, too. It wasn’t discussed with the Tereshchenkos, but Svitlana knew it. So what would be the point? They were going to die anyway. Did it matter if they took one of them out?

  Yeah, it did.

  “Set up the shot,” she said.

  C

  HAPTER TEN

  AMBASSADOR TERRY MCCLELLUM was not pleased to have been summoned to Sophia Venegas’ office. The real-estate-mogul-turned-diplomat rebuked her as soon as he closed the door behind him. It was time to put her in her place.

  “Sophia, need I remind you which one of us is the chief of mission and which one the deputy chief of mission? If you would like to speak to me, check my calendar and make an appointment.”

  “Need I remind you that I have pictures of a prostitute’s panties around your neck?”

  McClellum hated Sophia Venegas. She generally kept his previous indiscretion to herself, but every once in a while, she’d pull a stunt like this to force him to do something he otherwise wouldn’t. What is it now, he wondered.

  “I need you to set up a face-to-face with Ambassador Petrov. Immediately, though it can’t look urgent. Something casual, a social visit, but I need him here now.”

  She picked up the receiver of her phone and extended it toward him.

  Did she have to look so expectant? It was that look of certainty combined with impenetrable seriousness. She was both an irresistible force and an unmovable object. But it was her beauty that made him melt. Yes, he’d give in. He had no choice, really. But not before he saved face. He couldn’t let her emasculate him. He’d pull her into some playful banter and, in the long run, recast the power imbalance. She just needed to accept a little flirtation. His charm and his own good looks, that’s where his power was. Women inevitably bent and finally broke.

  He looked at her with a smile he knew was effective and slightly lowered his eyebrows. He had practiced the look in the mirror and knew its efficacy. “Sophia, ...”

  “Terry, there are multiple lines on this phone. One goes to the Russian embassy, another to the State Department. It’s you choice.”

  The bitch didn’t give an inch.

  “Fine. Give me the phone.”

  C

  HAPTER ELEVEN

  RG 405 CONTINUED up t
he mountain, in groups. They maintained radio contact. A member of the first group would call in a landmark and the others would confirm it when they passed by. That way they knew the distance between the groups—and ensured that no unit wandered off into the fog. None had and RG 405 was complete.

  According the altimeter on Scharkov’s watch, they had reached an altitude of 1,483 meters, having started at 493 meters in the valley below. The CIA safe house was at 1,803 meters, but before they reached it, they would need to descend the other side of the mountain they were on, ascend a second, and then descend the other side of that one before making their third and final ascent up to their target. It would be a long day by any measure.

  They had encountered no one since the old man and the Vizsla. At this altitude and in this weather, it was unlikely that they’d run into anyone else, at least before their first descent. They were utterly alone as they marched along a path that meandered through forests and clearings. Scharkov spied an abandoned hay barn in a pasture just off of the path and thought it a good spot to call a break. He’d allow the unit to regroup and use the opportunity to detail the course of their advance. They had been hiking for two hours and even Russian Special Forces benefitted from periodic rests. There was no evidence of cows—bells clanging in the distance, manure strewn across the path—so there was little chance of running into a farmer checking after his herd. They could sit, hydrate, eat, and steal a few moments out of the rain.

  The hay barn was more or less a roof supported by heavy, thick wooden columns. A corner of the roof had collapsed years before and three walls were made up of stacked heavy beams that were not intended to be airtight. The fourth side of the building was open, which had once allowed tractors to pull in and deposit fodder for the cows. The structure smelled of wet hay.