Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  It took some time before all the groups had arrived, but in time all nineteen men sat about and ate or drank or stretched their legs. Shuvalov, the SVR outsider, sat by himself, leaning against the pillar of the open side of the barn.

  “Okay, men, listen up,” said Scharkov, standing in front of the lounging group. “We are on schedule. We have ascended approximately one thousand meters and will stay at the this level more or less for the next six or seven kilometers as we travel parallel to the valley that leads toward our objective.”

  He then described the rest of the course. They had to go up or around three parallel chains of mountains, crossing a valley between the western and middle chains, and moving along another valley that ran between the middle and the eastern chains. Crossing the first valley posed the most risk. There were clusters of houses in it and Scharkov had no way of knowing from the map whether or not they were inhabited. Crossing the valley would depend on timing and location, both of which they’d determine once they got there.

  “Reveal nothing if you come into contact with anyone. Feign ignorance and say little. That will frustrate them, but that is not a problem. We will move on and complete our mission before anyone investigates our presence.”

  It was similar to Crimea, where the silence of Spetsnaz soldiers frustrated the media, although everyone knew the soldiers without insignia were Russian.

  Once across the valley, they would ascend the middle mountain chain, head through a pass and down the other side until they reached the second valley, which they would walk up until they made their final ascent up the end of the eastern chain.

  “We will not reach the safe house before nightfall. If we do, we will go to ground and wait for dark. The good news is that extraction will come on the other side. We don’t need to trek back to the airfield.”

  That actually was welcome news and Scharkov perceived the relief of several of his men. They were professional and would have made the long trudge back if necessary, but no one wanted to do that. They didn’t complain about the distance ahead of them, nor did they interrupt or challenge. They listened. They accepted. Truth be told, today’s was among the easier missions of their storied history.

  “Once at our objective,” Scharkov concluded, “we’ll simply overwhelm them. There will be no need to hide what we have done.”

  Everyone knew what that meant. It would be messy.

  C

  HAPTER TWELVE

  A BMW F800GSA is a powerful bike with a large 21” front wheel that devours mountain roads. The ascent started just meters from the hotel and never let up. The first stretch had a long straightaway and Rhys managed to get the transmission up to fourth gear before braking hard for the first turn. He had to drop all the way down to first and then punch the throttle to get it flying again.

  Ascending switchbacks required a rhythm. You accelerate to the turn, let off the gas and downshift, and then release the clutch as you come out of the turn in the right gear. If you’re lucky, you could work through third and flirt with fourth before you needed to start the process all over again.

  It didn’t always work out so well. Turning into an unfamiliar curve made it difficult to assess whether you needed to drop into first or you could get away with accelerating out of the curve in second. Pick the wrong gear and the RPMs would either be screaming for relief or beg for more clutch. And stalling out the engine meant flatfooting on both sides and clamping the brake, hoping the bike wouldn’t roll back or fall over.

  But Rhys generally felt the rhythm and he rode aggressively. He wasn’t reckless. The rain had washed mud and rocks onto the road, which was still paved at this elevation, but he worked the slippage into his riding. His back wheel would kick out and he’d correct it. It would’ve been fun if the stakes weren’t so damn high. He ignored the rain that pelted his visor and took it for granted that no cars would be coming in the opposite direction. He leaned hard in the curves, trusting his tires, and flew up the mountain. He just rode, back and forth and forever up.

  During the first kilometer or so he was able to look down over the side of the road and see Manny trying to keep up in his VW Touran. Manny didn’t have a chance and eventually Rhys lost track of him. Rhys figured he’d get up as far as he could before he’d have to stop and think at a fork in the road or some obstacle would get in his way. Manny would catch up.

  MANNY DIDN’T EVEN try to keep up. A minivan had no business racing a motorcycle up a mountain. He too worked the gears and drove hard, but the VW didn’t like accelerating out of the curves and by the time he finally got up to speed, the next curve was upon him. Speed up, slow down, speed up, slow down.

  The windshield was all fogged up and the wipers raced to keep up with the splattering rain. He couldn’t see shit. It occurred to him that he’d have no way of knowing if Rhys flew off the road and down the steep slope into a gulch. The way Rhys sped up the first few curves made Manny think that it was likely.

  Lucinda had told him to learn from Rhys. “He’s the best,” she had said. “Look past the sneer and try not to get tangled up by his grammar. Pay attention to his problem-solving skills. Watch his decisions and his reactions.”

  Rhys might have been some kind of hick, but not the slow and stupid kind. He was squirrelly. He didn’t like to move too much, but when he did he was fast and committed. His decision to race up the mountain hadn’t been rash. It was deliberate and considered. But now he hammered it. Manny figured he was probably already on top of the mountain, waiting impatiently for him to catch up.

  Except he wasn’t. Manny turned through a hundred-and-forty degree turn to the right and was able to see a stretch of road that extended a hundred yards ahead. He saw the single taillight of a motorcycle.

  Manny shifted into second and accelerated to him, only slowing once he saw why Rhys had stopped.

  Rhys stood there, next to the BMW, the rain pelting down on and around him. He still wore his helmet as he faced away from Manny. The bike’s headlight shined on a mudslide that had covered the road to the point that it wasn’t clear whether the road had been washed out or buried.

  Rhys turned and approached the passenger’s side of the Volkswagen. He took off his helmet and got in, closing the door behind him. The rain was loud on the roof.

  “Ain’t no way this car is getting through that. The bike might, might not. I won’t know until I try, but I gotta try. There’s no way we can hoof it from here and get ahead of the Russians.”

  “And what about me?”

  “Let’s get this bike over first and then see what’s what.”

  The road, about eight feet wide, was completely covered with mud, rocks, and tree roots. The slide had uprooted a tree that lay in the mud at an angle. They walked into the mud, slipping and sliding with every step, and tried to move it. The mud was wet and deep and it gripped the tree like a vice. The thing wouldn’t budge.

  “I got this,” said Manny. He ran back to the car, opened the hatch in back and fumbled around inside for a bit. He came back with ring of some sort. Rhys saw him working it and realized it was a paracord bracelet, strong enough to hold about five hundred pounds. He got the end free and let it unwind. In the end, the bracelet transformed into twenty feet of thin cord with surprising strength. Rhys tied an end around the tree trunk and Manny tied the other around a bolt behind the car’s grill before hopping behind the wheel and putting the transmission in reverse. The cord groaned as Manny slowly applied the gas, but the mud finally freed the tree and the car pulled it back, as Rhys steered the tree’s remaining branches around his bike.

  Manny got out and again joined Rhys next to the bike. He was already soaked and didn’t bother to wipe the water from his face. He just spat the water out of his mouth when it slid between his lips.

  “You got a plan?”

  Rhys looked at him. “Best I can come up with is grip it and rip it.” A smirk formed on his face. “The tires’ treads are gonna fill with mud on the first rotation in the mud. They’ll be useless
after that. I figure the distance across is about twenty yards or so.”

  “That’s a long way to slip and slide.”

  “Then I better build up some speed. Hopefully, I can get into third before I hit the mud. I’ll let the momentum carry me through.” Manny saw that Rhys was almost smiling, like he would enjoy the ride.

  Rhys put his helmet back on, got on his bike, and hit the ignition. He eased the bike through a reverse three-point turn and rode back as far as the last curve. He turned and stopped. He put his right foot down and revved the throttle a few times. Manny figured the noise from the exhaust gave him confidence.

  Rhys dropped it into first with his left foot, hit the gas, and threw open the clutch, kicking it lightening fast into second gear, then third, and, standing on the pegs as he flew by the VW and reached the mud, he shifted his body back in order to get as much weight as possible on the rear wheel.

  He hit the mud and the rear wheel immediately slid out to the right, toward the edge that drifted down into the trees below. His correction was, of course, an overcorrection, and the rear slid to the left. He turned the handlebars into the slide and tried to correct again but he was now just going along for the ride. The bike was about to go completely around and Rhys figured the best option was to just lay it down.

  He hit hard, but the weight of the bike was kept off him by the thick aluminum pannier attached to the side of the bike. The knee protector built into his pants did its job and Rhys just skidded through the mud until he and the bike came to a stop just where the mud ended on the far side of the slide.

  “Damn, I thought you were going over the edge,” said Manny as he raced through the mud to help Rhys stand up the bike.

  “Guess I got a little lucky there. Just tried to enjoy the ride.”

  They finally got the bike upright, which wasn’t easy as their feet found no grip in the slick mud, and then pushed it up the road until Rhys lowered the sidestand and leaned the bike to the side.

  “Alright, let’s get your kit,” said Rhys. “You’re coming with me.

  The CIA field box was stowed under the floor of the VW, where the third-row seats normally tucked away to provide a family enough storage space to go on vacation. The Agency had removed the seats altogether and fitted an aluminum case with a high security lock. It was illegal as hell, but cars in Europe were so rarely pulled over it was well worth the risk.

  The vehicle’s back hatch cantilevered above them but did little to protect them from the rain, which fell sideways as much as down. They looked in the padded case and decided what they might need. CIA field boxes varied and operatives decided themselves what they kept in it. For Manny Hernandez, there were just a few necessary items: a M40A5 sniper rifle, a SureFire muzzle brake, a suppressor, and lots of 7.62mm cartridges.

  But there were plenty of other goodies and it took a moment to decide what to bring. Better too much than too little.

  Binoculars? Definitely.

  Flashlight? Yeah, it might get dark before all this was over.

  Glock 17? Another definite along with its attachable white tactical light and visible laser sight. Manny grabbed the two extra clips of ammo, bringing the total up to fifty-one rounds.

  Flare gun? Rhys couldn’t imagine why they’d need to light up the sky, but he grabbed it anyway. Maybe it would assist a helicopter locate them once the cavalry arrived.

  And then there was QuikClot. Rhys didn’t want to think about the potential need to stop bleeding fast, for it drove home the gravity of what they were doing. So he didn’t think about it. He just shoved a couple packs of the stuff into Manny’s hands along with a random collection of bandages.

  One advantage of the textile motorcycle jacket Rhys wore was the absurd number of waterproof pockets. His jacket had six external pockets—two chest, two waist, one on the sleeve, and a large storage pouch in the back—and four internal pockets, including a hidden interior passport pocket.

  Manny loaded him up, sticking the binoculars and flare gun in the back pocket, the Glock and some gauze on one side pocket, the QuikClot and flashlight in the other. He stuffed the 7.62 cartridges wherever they fit.

  The jacket was heavy to begin with and now he was ridiculously weighed down. Manny had his own weight to carry: neither the sniper rifle nor the SINCGARS radio was particularly light. It was more or less an equal division of labor.

  “Come on, Marine. Let’s get on the bike.”

  THEY MADE GOOD time. They rode along the middle of three chains of mountains that clumsily merged with the other two to become the base of the Grossglockner. The Spetsnaz unit was somewhere in the mountains to their left on the other side of the valley. They would have to descend, cross the valley, and ascend on the right—and get through Rhys and Manny in order to get to the safe house.

  For Manny, it was a miserable ride. They were now at an altitude of about one thousand meters on a road that had more or less straightened out but had turned from asphalt to dirt—mud, actually—and the back end of the bike got loose every now and then, a terrifying experience for the rider in back. They rode through a cloud, which meant they weren’t riding through the pouring rain as much as though they were riding through a pool. Manny had no helmet, and thus no visor, and the water stung his face. All he could do was close his eyes and go along for the ride, a surreal experience. Riding a motorcycle along a winding road with eyes closed meant he couldn’t anticipate the curves or the bumps. He just went with the flow, allowing his body to lean with the bike and bounce on the springs.

  It was an exercise of trust. He felt safe with Rhys at the controls and a top case behind him to prevent him from toppling backward. The side panniers also gave him comfort and even made the ordeal easier. He rested the seventeen-pound M40A5 on one, holding it tight, and the SINCGARS was stuffed in the other.

  At times the road was little more than a track, used by farmers to tend cows that wandered freely through the pastures. Every once in a while they had to stop to open a gate used to keep the animals in or out of a particular pasture. They’d stop, Manny would bounce off the bike, open the gate, and remount on the other side before Rhys sped off again.

  Rhys raised his visor as they bounced along the trail. “You got the maps committed to memory?”

  “Yeah,” said Manny. “I’d guess another five kilometers or so, then we’ll be where we want to be.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  But within a minute, that optimism was shattered. Rhys rode around a corner and skidded to a stop. The road had disappeared. It was simply gone, washed away, a cavernous gap had opened up.

  It took but a moment for them to realize that there was no way the bike was going to get to the other side.

  “We’re on foot from here, Marine.”

  C

  HAPTER THIRTEEN

  TYLER AND COLIN rotated the heavy dining table so that its full length extended out from the window. It still wasn’t long enough. Tyler carried a desk from the bedroom and extended the combined surfaces’ length so he could comfortably lie in a secure shooter’s prone with his feet, resting on the desktop, providing balance and stability.

  The window posed another problem. It swung in, in the European fashion, rather than moved up and down. Opening it to get a clean shot required opening it completely. That would tip off the Russians, who would know what an open window portended. Instead, Tyler stuck a wad of crumpled duct tape to a lower pane of glass and scratched around it with the dead Russian’s Voron-3 blade. It quickly dug a groove and Tyler worked the groove, weakening the glass so that eventually, when all sides were sufficiently compromised, he could pull on the wadded tape and quietly remove a three-inch-by-three-inch square from the bottom of the window.

  The M39 Enhanced Marksman Rifle was set up on its Harris S-L bipod, the nozzle two inches inside the hole in the glass. The M39 was a scary looking gun to the unfamiliar, but a friend to those who knew what it could do. It could fire 60 rounds per minute, but it was beloved for its accuracy, with
an effective range of 780 meters. Tyler was looking at a shot that wasn’t more than 300. With a muzzle velocity of 2,800 feet per second, the rifle would deliver a punch that would knock the target on his ass, even if the bullet just nicked him. If he was lucky, he’d knock a target back and his partner would come to his aid. The M39 would never be a sniper’s first choice, but it was more than enough for Tyler, who had qualified at the lower grade of Marksman. If he missed, it would be his fault, not the gun’s.

  Tyler climbed up on the table and settled into position behind the gun. Well, I didn’t expect this, he thought. When his unit had been assigned embassy security in Berlin, he had anticipated deathly dull duty, albeit in one of the cooler cities in the world. His kinetic days were behind him, he thought, as Berlin was to be his last post before leaving the Corps. Then Stirewalt had urgently requested security for some temporary assignment and his commanding officer volunteered Tyler and Tom. Both did as they were ordered and packed enough clothes (all civilian) for a week. They didn’t know they were headed to the Alps until they got there.

  And now this. Tom was dead, lying in the wet. Tyler would actually be shooting over Tom’s body to hit his target. Maybe there was some satisfaction in that and Tom would have appreciated it. This one’s for you, buddy. Semper fi.

  The Tereshchenkos had again descended to the safe room, though they were calm and did so without protest. They were told to expect a shot. Lucinda stood at a bedroom window facing east, but even she knew she had been assigned there to keep her out of the way. Colin was also in another room, but at a window that, like Tyler’s, faced south. He had his binoculars trained on a boulder behind which the two Russians huddled.

  Tyler looked through the M8541 day scope and steadied the reticle in the magnified circle. The fog had blown away and the image in the scope was sharp. The boulder sat on a slight rise just before the first trees of the forest. He knew the two Russians were behind it. The boulder provided them cover, and would do so even if they needed to retreat back into the trees.