by Alex Carlson
But the pair had been there a long time and the lack of activity in a safe space led to a breakdown of discipline. They moved around more than they should have and once or twice a minute Tyler caught a glimpse of one of them. And their movements were becoming more frequent and more daring. Their confidence in their protection was high.
Tyler needed a longer period of exposure, more than a glimpse of a target. Two full seconds was all he needed. He’d only have one shot. He hoped it would come soon. The air was clean, the magnified image in the scope sharp. Wind was negligible.
He had a green light and Colin and Lucinda knew to expect a shot without warning. He’d shoot when conditions permitted. He wouldn’t rush. If he hit, it made their situation a tad better; if he missed, no real harm done. Still, he wanted to hit one of these fuckers.
The range was a little over three hundred yards. At that distance the drop couldn’t be more than a few inches. He’d just aim at the head and let gravity do its job for a center chest shot. He again considered the breeze, measured by the slight movement of branches of nearby trees. It remained minimal. Tyler was thankful for that. He wasn’t great at dealing with wind.
He waited. His neck ached and the eye behind the scope became fatigued. Increasingly, he needed to blink to keep his focus. His breathing was calm, steady, even if his heart rate wasn’t. Should he have shot before, when one of the men had showed his head for what seemed like an eternity but had ended abruptly when the guy ducked back down? Tyler had started on the trigger but paused. He had wanted to be certain. Then the target was gone.
I should have taken—
The head reappeared. The face had a toothy grin on it and Tyler was tempted to pull the trigger just to knock the smile off of it. Tyler blinked, then retrieved the focus that had been momentarily lost. The target grew as the man edged back from the boulder. He had the same beefy build as the man that had fallen dead into the hut. He was visible from the waist up, moved about with the confidence—false confidence—that he was invulnerable. He wore a black wool cap and was joshing it up with his pal. The world was his oyster.
Tyler caressed the trigger, then took an ounce or two of pressure out of it.
He inhaled slow and deep and then exhaled half a lungful. He held the rest.
Incredibly, the Russian just stood there, as if waiting for it.
The rifle fired.
The muzzle blast was deafening. Before the rifle bucked and cycled the next round into position, Tyler swore he saw a spray of red mist through the scope. By the time the scope settled back into position, the target was gone. He scanned the area but saw nothing.
“Hit,” said Colin forcefully from the next room. “One down.”
“One to go,” breathed Tyler, breaking away from the scope.
C
HAPTER FOURTEEN
AFTER A TIME, Manny was able to disassociate his mind from his body. It was one of his skills, an old marathon-running technique. During long training runs the pain got worse and worse until he flicked a switch, which somehow drove a wedge between the stimuli in his legs and the receptors in his brain. Stay mental; ignore the physical. When it worked—and it didn’t always—he could focus on the goal without considering the cement in his legs.
Here it was similar. He and Rhys had been running along the side of the mountain for what seemed like forever, staying on a path that maintained a more or less constant elevation. They ran around folds in the mountain, sometimes along a ridge, sometimes up or down moderate slopes. The air was thin and their breathing hard. Manny didn’t know who had it worse, Rhys with his weighed down jacket or he with the M40 in his hand and the Rucksack with the SINCGARS on his back.
After a turn around a bend in the mountainside, an expansive view rewarded them. The clouds were lifting and they could see pastures and trees and, further along, distant folds in the mountain and peaks beyond those. Not much of a reward: it seemed they still had forever to go.
“I gotta take a break,” said Rhys. He was breathing hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his face. “Couple of minutes. No more.”
Manny put down the gun and Rucksack. He wished he had some water.
“Marine,” Rhys said after collapsing on the ground, “were your ears open when we went across that pasture about a click back?”
“The only things I’ve heard are my breathing, our boots on the ground, and a clap of thunder.”
“That thunder’s what I mean. Been lots of rain today, but no thunder. This ain’t no thunderstorm were running through. Just hanging clouds. They’re dropping lots of rain but there’s no energy in ’em.”
Rhys was like a meteorologist who could decipher the clouds, probably a product of having spent a lot of time outdoors in the mountains.
“Sounded almost like an M14 to me,” Rhys said. “But you’d know better than me, especially since I probably heard an echo bouncing off those mountains across the valley.”
Manny hadn’t given it any thought and couldn’t say one way or another. Dammit, he scolded himself, start paying attention!
“They might be in a fight up there is all I’m saying.”
“We better get up there then.”
“We’re too far away to do them any good for a while yet. They can hold on for now. But if any more bad guys get up there, they’ll be overwhelmed. We stick to the plan. Slow ’em down and hope the SEALS get here.”
Manny was itching to head straight up to the hut, but he knew Rhys was right.
“The way I figure it,” Rhys said, “they’re walking along those mountains over there.” He pointed across the valley. “They gotta cross the valley down there somewhere, then head up this side. I don’t think the binoculars are strong enough, but just for the heck of it, let’s see if we can’t see anything.”
Rhys fumbled for the zipper of his jacket’s rear pocket, but couldn’t reach it. Manny helped him and pulled out the binoculars. He offered them to Rhys.
“Your eyes are better than mine, sniper.”
“Sniper” might be a step up from “Marine.” Manny wasn’t sure.
Manny scanned the mountain across the valley. It was a long way away and anyone over there would look like dots. Maybe if they were marching in a column, but there was fat chance of that.
He scanned lower, along the valley floor, which in front of them was a lush green field of some indeterminate crop that had been planted in neat rows.
The valley was also a long way off, a couple of clicks away and probably seven, maybe eight hundred yards lower in altitude. Little came into focus at the distance and he wondered if the binoculars were focused. He shifted them to something closer, a grassy bluff on their side of the mountain, to refine the view. He found a rock and used it as a landmark and adjusted the dial between the two lenses.
The new world came into focus and he could see boulders, trees, a path—
There was movement on the path.
“Three figures, walking single file along the path.” He handed the glasses to Rhys and pointed in the general area.
Rhys looked through the specs as Manny grabbed his rifle and brought it up to his eye as though he were going to shoot. The Schmidt & Bender scope magnified the figures much greater than the binoculars did.
“Yep, that’s them.”
“Shit,” said Rhys. “They’re closer than I thought. We gotta find a place to set up.”
C
HAPTER FIFTEEN
RHYS AND MANNY raced forward along the path. They weren’t moving uphill, so talking was bearable. “Okay, tell me about a Spetsnaz recon group,” said Rhys.
“Imagine SEAL Team 6 speaking Russian.”
“Great.”
“An RG group is 18-20 personnel, led by a commanding officer, usually a lieutenant or a colonel. The group is usually broken down into units of three or four. It varies, but there’ll be explosives experts, a diversion team, commo people. Of course, they’re all cross-trained, so they can all do everything. And they’ll al
l be shooters, including a sniper or two.”
“So this is where bravery gets us, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Equipment?”
“I think they use AK-9s, which fire a subsonic 9x39mm round. Accurate and relatively quiet, not that that will matter much if this turns into a fight. They’ll have grenades, handguns, mean-looking knives. The demolition unit will have explosives, including, probably, the Russian equivalent of a Claymore, a directional mine. But that’s when they’re being ferried in somewhere. If they’re hoofing it into the hills, they might pair down their kit.”
Rhys didn’t respond. He looked pissed off.
“But it’s not what they carry,” added Manny. “It’s more their mentality. The file Langley sent was horrific. RG 405 wiped out a whole Ukrainian village, threw the bodies into a river to float down to the next village. They’re killers and they send messages through their killing.”
“We’re outmatched, no doubt about that,” said Rhys. “But we have a couple of things on our side.”
“Namely?”
“The element of surprise. They have no idea we’re here.”
“That’ll help in the beginning, but they’ll adapt quickly. Their numbers will overcome that.”
“Yup, but our second advantage is modest goals. We don’t have to kill ’em all, just slow them down. We have enough room between here and the hut to pop a few, retreat, and set up again. We’ll get as many as we can.”
Manny looked skeptical.
“We also have a third advantage.”
“What’s that?”
“You.” Rhys looked Manny straight in the eyes “You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen. You got plenty of ammo and a wide-open field of fire. Just pick ’em off, one at a time. In the meantime I can cause them problems of my own. ”
“That’s our strategy?”
“Pretty much. Just be sure to hit the snipers first. I hate snipers.”
MANNY SET UP just inside the trees at the top edge of a gently sloping pasture. A few yards to his left, a rotted wooden hunters’ stand was built into a trio of trees where the forest met the open space. It was a perfect location for hunters to spot deer—or men—venturing out of the edge of the woods into the pasture.
The pasture before him was in no way idyllic, arcadian, or bucolic. It was beaten to hell. Cattle hooves left scars, cow pies, both fresh and old, littered the area, and rocks as big as boulders were strewn about randomly. The space couldn’t have been cleared more than a decade or so ago, so the ground had pits and craters wherever a tree’s roots had been ripped out. The larger tree stumps were left to rot away over the years. The space might look Sound-of-Music-beautiful when viewed from across the valley, but up close it looked four years of trench warfare.
Manny looked through the scope of his rifle and saw Rhys crouched behind a boulder a hundred yards into the pasture. He was careful to keep his finger away from the trigger.
He thought of his Olga. Even he had accepted the ridiculous name. What would she think if she could see him now? She’d understand, he reasoned. She loved him for who he was and had probably recognized his potential even before he did. This one’s for you.
He switched from the scope to the binoculars, which were less powerful but offered a much wider field of view. He scanned the uneven pasture. A slight rise in the middle divided the clearing, creating two tiers. The one, where Adler was positioned, was higher and nearer; the other, beyond the rise, was farther and had a slightly lower elevation. He and Rhys had studied the map and determined that the Russians would have to move along the path through the pasture, coming directly toward Manny at the far end. They wouldn’t try to sneak their way up to the hut. That would take too long. They’d walk openly, maybe spread out, knowing that a large group would attract too much scrutiny. They’d pretend to be hunters if they were asked. It’s what Manny would do.
They’d be along soon, a quarter of an hour at most. If they continued their advance as they had when he and Rhys had spotted them earlier, they’d be in small groups of three or four. Please, God, let it be three. The plan relied on it being a group of three with a significant gap between it and the next group. If it—
There they were. Yes, there were three of them. Damn they’re moving fast, Manny thought. In a few minutes they’d close the distance to Rhys and then the world would change. There was no detailed plan for what happened after the initial engagement, because both knew that all plans went to shit after contact with the enemy. He and Rhys had their assignments, then they’d regroup, see where they stood and where they’d need to be. They had learned the terrain and they could anticipate how it would influence the Russians’ subsequent decisions.
RG 405’s point team advanced steadily, single file on the narrow path, through the lower tier of the pasture. The man in front was observant, his eyes forward as he scanned the space ahead. The two in back looked down at the dirt path more than at their surroundings.
The plan relied on trust. Manny trusted that Rhys would be prepared for Manny’s shot and would react immediately; Rhys trusted that Manny would know when to shoot—and that he’d make the shot. Rhys would be fucked if Manny missed the shot.
Fortunately, it was an easy one hundred-yard shot, and his rifle was zeroed at one hundred yards. No significant wind. Just aim center chest, which was as big as a barn door through the Schmidt & Bender scope, and squeeze the trigger. He lay on the ground just inside the trees behind a fallen fir. He was all but invisible. His position was solid, his rifle stable.
He calmly stole a final look of the wider area through the binoculars. A second group of three Russians had just emerged from the trees and began to make their steady advance through the open space.
He estimated that they were about half a click behind the point group. Let that be enough.
He returned to the scope and prepared to shoot. He tagged the crosshairs of the reticle to the center chest of the third man in the single file line. As Manny followed the man’s steady gait, the two in front bobbed in front of him from time to time, but Manny didn’t let that distract him. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference if they happened to stop a bullet for their pal. Aiming for number three just made Rhys’ job a little easier. But, hell, thought Manny, the Russians were close enough together that the 7.62 mm round might just go through two of them.
It was time. Hunting season had begun.
He inhaled slowly, started to let it out, and held the rest in the bottom of his lungs.
The rifle fired.
C
HAPTER SIXTEEN
YOU’RE PUSHING THEM too hard,” said Shuvalov. “At this rate we will arrive before dark and will have to wait. That will deaden their preparedness. Besides, you are tiring them out unnecessarily.”
“Nonsense,” said Scharkov. “I could push them twice as hard and they would accept it. If we arrive before dark, then we wait. They won’t be the worse for it. Maybe it is you who is being pushed too hard.”
Secretly, Scharkov was disappointed Shuvalov hadn’t displayed more strain from the hike. The SVR man, in fact, showed considerable endurance and, most annoyingly, he even managed to keep his hair neat.
Am I pushing them too fast?
He thinks I am impetuous, thought Scharkov, and that impetuousness is my weakness. Shuvalov would have wasted hours planning, he would approach safely—and slowly—only after stealth and deniability were assured. That was the SVR way. Perhaps I am eager, thought Scharkov, but eagerness is filled with energy, and energy overwhelms any target.
Scharkov, Shuvalov, and their radioman were now the second group, a half-kilometer behind the point, a well-trained recon team. They had just emerged from the woods and had been walking across an area that had been cleared a decade ago. Undoubtedly, forestry harvesters felled, delimbed, and bucked the trees before cables skidded them down the mountain along a precut path. There was an endless supply of mature trees in the Alps and the Austrians were making a fortune off of them
. The clearing they were now in had undoubtedly been worth a million euros in lumber. It extended to a rise and then continued further up to a second tier of open space before it met more forest.
“I merely say that the men will be better positioned to take the house if they are have not been pushed to the point of exhaustion. It is a lesson I offer you, Colonel.”
“That is of no concern. We will rest before the final assault. When we make the final push—”
They both heard it.
“What was that?”
The echo of a solitary rifle shot echoed back and forth across the valley. The shot was heavy. It sounded like a .308.
“A Remington 700,” said Scharkov. “A hunter getting an early start.”
“You weren’t listening,” said Shuvalov. “Between the echoes there were additional shots. It sounded like a pair of double taps from a smaller-caliber weapon. A handgun. We are under attack! Had you not—”
Rather than finishing the sentence, Shuvalov whirled around, as though startled by something behind him. He made a few drunken steps, his body moved loosely, like a sailor battling a rolling deck. His arms flailed and his head lolled until it dragged his body to the ground, where it came to a still after rolling onto its back. Only then did Scharkov notice the echo of a second supersonic rifle shot.
The radioman hit the ground and scurried into the crater of a large tree that had been yanked from the ground years ago. Scharkov dove into the same hole and landed in a marshy pool, scraping his arm on a jagged stone. He rolled to his back and immediately issued orders.
“Call Team 2 leader. Tell him to work the maps and determine where the shots are coming from. And get the snipers in position to take out whoever is shooting!”