Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  The ground was yellowish, the sky above pewter-gray and taking on the quality of night. He still had a long way to go, along the open roll of the mountain. The trail ahead was more of a hiking path than a road, but it was more or less straight and it was navigable, leading toward the safe house kilometers ahead. The worst was behind him. He might just make it.

  And then he heard a crack as a bullet broke the sound barrier.

  C

  HAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ALL THAT REMAINED before Ukraine was secure in the Russian orbit was this last job. Svitlana Tereshchenko, the only person who could unite Ukraine and orient the country on a western course would be eliminated and Russia would take a significant step toward regaining her empire.

  That was what was said in Moscow anyway. Scharkov knew little about politics and could not assess the threat that Tereshchenko posed. He did know Ukraine, however. He knew in his heart that its people had a natural affinity to Russia, despite the resistance of agitators and firebrands in Kiev.

  And Tereshchenko was holed up in an American CIA safe house up a steep slope at the end of the valley through which RG 405 was now advancing. It was a matter of two hours, if that. When it was over, Ukraine would be safe and Scharkov would have provided what was probably his final service to the motherland.

  He pushed the men, fully his men now that Shuvalov was dead, but not beyond what was expected of them. They were tough, blooded, and in impeccable physical conditioning. They had battle experience in Chechnya, Ukraine, and Syria. To a man they had experienced the death of a comrade. The experiences hardened them.

  Scharkov had settled his mind and regained authority over his men since the battle losses further down the mountain. It had not been easy. Merely understanding the scope of the setback took time. As he had expected, the point team had been wiped out. When they reached the spot of the ambush, the three lifeless bodies lay near the path, one all but decapitated. His remaining men had seen death before. That was not new. What was new was the complete mystery of their antagonists. Scharkov knew nothing about them and thus counteracting the threat was difficult to plan.

  Scharkov insisted that they saw the bodies. It brought home the evil cowardice of the enemy; it ensured his men would be motivated and would not take the mission lightly.

  Then, after he had sent the three-man cover team to the west of the clearing, he heard the additional gunshots and explosions. The team did not return. That was three more. Plus two of the three he had originally sent to the hut. Eight members of RG 405 in a single day. The horror. Shuvalov on top of that, though his death was no loss. If anything, the absence of Shuvalov’s second guessing made Scharkov’s task easier.

  The casualties revealed little of the enemy’s nature. He now suspected it was not a force, as he had initially expected, but a small team, maybe three or four men. They had been lucky. Yet they had also made mistakes, such as allowing RG 405 to slip through the gap where the original shots came from—right up the middle, where they falsely assumed RG 405 would not dare to go.

  Still, he had to admit that whoever was out there had a crack shot among them. Spreading out did not make them less vulnerable. So Scharkov changed tactics. RG 405 now moved atypically in column formation for that was the formation that best provided speed, a tactic that had all been abandoned in the modern age when casualties, any casualties, were unacceptable. Practitioners of the quickness doctrine had mixed success: Napoleon and Hitler had attempted it, though neither understood the strength and unpliability of the Russian people. They also moved so quickly that they outran their supply lines. Julius Caesar, on the other hand, had the right balance. He moved whole legions back and forth across Gaul, but when speed counted most, he broke off small units and had them hustle to their objective.

  Scharkov considered himself Caesar’s heir.

  The vulnerability that column formation produced didn’t matter, however. Scharkov knew they hadn’t been followed. There had only been one pass and his men breezed through it. And now they were so far removed from the world they might as well have been marching on the face of the moon. They were making excellent time. The men were dedicated and disciplined, marching in ideal conditions, cool and under the cover of clouds. The rain had not bothered them beyond weighing down their clothes.

  Alexei Scharkov, colonel, was fifty-three years old. He joined the Soviet Army just as it was embroiled in Afghanistan. It was a painful time because the vaunted Red Army was exposed as a paper tiger by shoeless mujahedin, albeit a ragtime force that was well-supplied by the CIA. Scharkov had despised the Americans ever since, especially the CIA, who sneakily thwarted Soviet efforts throughout the Cold War. And then the American arrogance after the Soviet Union collapsed. Did they have to gloat? Did they have to insult the proud traditions of the Soviet Armed Forces, which was, in fact, the equal in every way to the United States Armed Forces? Both had Achilles Heels, the Americans had Vietnam, the Soviets had Afghanistan.

  Scharkov committed to the military during those dark days and transferred to Spetsnaz. He fought in the First Chechen War, in Kosovo, in the Second Chechen War, and, where he finally made his mark, in Ukraine. Scharkov had been the mastermind behind placing Russian Spetsnaz troops in Crimea and eastern Ukraine without insignia, without, apparently, an ability to utter a word to reporters, all to give plausible deniability to the notion of Russian presence outside Russia’s borders.

  Sometimes examples had to be made to prevent further bloodshed. The massacre at Petrivka was such a statement. An ugly affair, but a necessary one. RG 405 had performed admirably, fulfilling its duties professionally and obediently. They proved their commitment.

  And now there was this one final action to advance Russia’s return as a superpower. Russia would do as she wanted in Ukraine, and no one could stop her, not the Americans, even with their revered CIA. He would wipe out the safe house. He would make a statement.

  MANNY KNEW THIS shot would be different than the one in the meadow, which was basically a pop and run. Here they’d react faster, they’d come after him. He got into his zone, tapped into his discipline, focused his concentration.

  He was scared.

  He didn’t want to do this.

  But he was capable and he didn’t see anyone else around to squeeze the trigger. He had no idea where Rhys was. He hoped Rhys was closing in on the hut. He wouldn’t be there yet, but if the Russians were slowed, Rhys would get there in time.

  He was a long way from the barrios of Albuquerque. There it had been a matter of evasion, keeping from the gangs and drugs. The Corps brought him out of his shell and helped him develop concepts of duty, honor, and even patriotism. He was second-generation American, the son of immigrants who crossed the border from Mexico in the 1980s and worked liked dogs, sacrificing their own dreams in order to ensure the dreams of their kids. Not an uncommon story, but one that always pulled heartstrings when it was understood that real people were involved. His upbringing and training prepared him for this moment. He had been shot at before, both by teenagers with guns trying to impress other teenagers with guns, and in the Marine Corps, where it was about something far more meaningful than street cred. His wits saved him in those situations. They’d save him now.

  Or maybe they wouldn’t.

  Manny was no fool. If your time’s up, it’s up. The men marching up the valley were among the best-trained soldiers in the world. And there were a lot of them. What am I doing? he asked himself.

  Accepting fear was the best way to control it. Recognize it, feel the lump in your throat, the hole in your stomach, tension between your eyes. Let the shiver run through you and cause your hands and fingers to shake.

  Then get to work. Let your training guide you, focus on the task at hand. Do your job.

  He’d picked a good position. The crest on which he lay slowly continued up to a rounded summit, though invariably there was a higher one behind it. He had nestled into a little furrow on the edge, which helped his body blend into the rid
geline. They’d have difficulty spotting him, even with the powerful magnification of binoculars. He had an escape further along the ridge, and a bend in the mountain would hide him before pursuers could climb up to him.

  Just as important, the valley narrowed below, almost to a choke point. The Russians would walk through it and throw themselves to the ground after the first shot. But there’d be little cover for most.

  He put his M40A5 into position, clicking into place the rifle’s bipod legs. He squirmed into the soft, wet ditch, ensuring no rocks jabbed distractingly into his body. He checked the accessibility of his ammo and gear and then finally settled into his shooting position. He confirmed the lines of sight. He felt naked without camouflage or a ghillie suit, but his clothes were drab, a fair number of large rocks dappled the ridge, and he was a long way off through a thin layer of fog. It was as good as it was going to get.

  He put his right hand along the grip, keeping his finger off the trigger. He tucked in his left arm, providing support between his body and the earth. Finally, he looked through the scope at the spot where the path first became visible.

  Come along, guys. Come along.

  After a time, he saw a head bounce into his scope. Then another behind it and another. His heart skipped a beat as he understood his good fortune. They walked closer together than he had expected, almost in a line. They had a hardened look to them, brimming with confidence and swagger. They were geared for war, their AKs openly slung over their shoulders, knives stashed on their belts, grenades ready for action, black boots laced up tight. Manny saw no insignia, which wasn’t a surprise. He guessed they carried nothing that could identify them.

  Manny considered how unusual this was. Russian Special Forces, like their American counterparts, were usually choppered in close, where they’d jump out, engage, and immediately evacuate. Total time on the ground was often measured in minutes if not seconds. This here was absurd. They lumbered along in comparison, even though the CO was obviously pushing them hard.

  He flicked off the safety, feathered the trigger with his finger.

  The only way through this next part was to be professional. It was a job. He didn’t consider that he was about to kill or even that he had the power to decide who among them he would kill, that some were young, undoubtedly with young children at home, that others were older, perhaps also with kids, albeit older, maybe already able to support themselves. No, they were targets. That’s all. He wasn’t killing; he was shooting. And he shot well.

  He scanned the group and knew which one he should choose: the older man with the stubble of gray hair. Commanding officer, no doubt. Cut off the head and disorient the entire unit. But there was another that appealed to him. He walked ahead of the CO, his long rifle hanging upside down on his back. Sniper. “Get the sniper,” Rhys had said. There was some wisdom in that. The sniper represented the most significant threat. The CO would be the first secondary target.

  The reticle of the Schmidt & Bender scope followed his target as the man bounced along the path, the head in the center of the crosshairs. The bullet’s drop would place the shot where Manny wanted it. Manny inhaled deeply through his nose, his shooting breath, then he let half of the air out.

  His finger squeezed the trigger.

  C

  HAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WHEN THE BULLET struck, it destroyed the structural integrity of the skeletal system. It tore through the hip’s ischiofemoral ligament and sundered the femoral ball from the acetabulum just below the pelvic bone. The man didn’t quite so much collapse as cartwheel to the ground, landing face down two yards from the muddy path. More fatally, the bullet shredded the femoral artery. Blood gushed out of the wound and puddled beneath him.

  Manny threw the bolt and searched for the stubbly CO. Where was he? The other men in scope’s circle looked about in utter confusion, just as Manny had hoped. Unable to find the CO, he zeroed another man who had thrown himself to the ground. He squeezed the trigger. A fraction of a second later, the bullet hit the man’s side, just below the ribs. The prone body absorbed the bullet, belying the fatal damage the projectile unleashed.

  The targets moved faster now as men scurried, searching for cover. The second hit revealed the direction from which the shots were coming and they sought refuge where they could. One found a natural depression in the ground, another ducked behind a rock, and a third dove into the icy stream. Manny marveled at their resourcefulness. One sprinted hellbent back along the path. Manny tracked him and brought him down. That’s three.

  He pivoted the gun back to the location of the first two hits and found no new targets.

  Okay, he thought, time to anticipate their counterattack.

  SCHARKOV UNDERSTOOD HE had made a tactical mistake. How could he think otherwise? There was quite possibly an added layer of security, one he had not anticipated. He knew how it could have happened. The shooter below radioed ahead and new shooters, presumably already on the mountain, positioned themselves. But how many shooters could they have in these mountains?

  But wait, there were similarities between the initial incident and this one. In both cases, there has been a single shooter.

  Could it possibly be just one man with a rifle? Could he have made the first shots and then disappear through the pass ahead of 405? Ironically, the notion gave Scharkov hope. If it is just one man, he cannot stop us.

  The objective, of course, remained the same, but the sniper would have to be eliminated first.

  “Casualties?” he barked.

  “Mikhail’s dead. So is Detlev,” his adjutant answered. “And I think Viktor also.”

  Three shots, three kills. That is some shooting. Scharkov considered the psychological affect a sniper would have on his men. He knew it well, but normally he was the one to use that to his advantage. The men would hesitate, each would think that he is individually targeted.

  He spoke loudly, addressing the scattered men. “It is just one man with a rifle. We will respond deliberately. We will get our feet back on the ground and then turn the tables. We will eliminate him. And then we will continue the mission. It is just one man!”

  He let his message sink in and then provided concrete orders.

  “Markus, was that you who jumped into the water?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have your glasses on the ridge to our right?”

  “Scanning it now, sir.”

  “He’s there, undoubtedly still slightly in front of us. He won’t want us ahead of him.”

  Markus, squatting in the water, had his binoculars to his eyes. He faced the east, looking through the tufts of tall grass along the bank of the stream.

  “I got him. His muzzle, anyway. He is five meters to the left of two large rocks. He’s aimed our way, but he’s searching for a target.”

  “Okay. On my command, I want smoke. Lots of smoke. Then I want unit two shooting three-round bursts to the left of the rocks. Stick ’em close. Stepan and Grigory, on the fire I want you to sprint south. You’ll be covered by the smoke while you’re close and then you’ll be out of his scope. Head to the side and you’ll see a ravine we passed a while back. Go up it. And take this fucker out!”

  The men did as they were told and orchestrated the moves perfectly. The grenades spat dense white smoke, which billowed and curled upon itself as it expanded in a low-hanging cloud between themselves and the shooter. Unit two fired up to the ridgeline. Stepan and Grigory rose and hustled back, far enough that they could find solid cover behind a knoll. They had to have been frustratingly invisible to the shooter. They’d wait, but not for too long. The shooter would have to know that they were coming after him and he wouldn’t stay put forever.

  As it turned out, they didn’t have to wait long. As if Scharkov had connections with Mother Nature, fog began to trickle in, then roll in off the south side of the mountains at the northern end of the valley. It filled the valley. The shooter would have no more shots. Within seconds, Stepan and Grigory were on the move
again.

  RHYS HEARD THE rifle shot and whipped off his helmet in time to hear a second shot. The sound echoed off the mountains, but he thought he recognized the signature of Manny’s M40. Then he heard a third shot.

  Yup. Manny’s engaged the enemy. And by the sound of it, he couldn’t be too far off.

  He waited for a moment, expecting to hear return fire. Sure enough, a fusillade of crisper high-pitched shots rang out. He knew them to be AKs and the pattern of the shots suggested them to be barely aimed suppressive fire. Manny wouldn’t have fired unless he had been well hidden, so the Russians were covering their asses. Still, it meant they had developed a plan and were executing it.

  He put his helmet on and goosed the throttle until the rear wheel gained traction and then he let it rip. The bike lurched ahead.

  The road—more of a path, really—had dried from slippery to slick, enough of a difference to allow Rhys to ride along at racing speed. Though relatively straight, there were still slight curves and each one caused his back wheel to fishtail until he got it again under control. Darkness continued to settle in and his headlights shined brightly on the ground ahead as he bounced along the track.

  It didn’t help that Rhys barely knew where he was. He had an image of the map he had studied, but the details were all mixed together and the growing darkness hid landmarks he would otherwise use as orientation. He knew he and Manny were on the same amorphous mountain, though Manny was further west and at a lower elevation, probably somewhere on a ridge where he’d get a good angle down into the valley. Rhys was higher up, technically on the other side of the mountain’s hump. He still had a way to go, but if he had read the maps correctly, the going would never again be as difficult as that damn logging trail had been.

  Sometimes bad luck happens in slow motion, a series of unfortunate circumstances in which decisions are limited and the least bad options are just barely good enough to avoid disaster. So it was when Rhys’ wheels hit a slick patch and were suddenly no longer under the bike. He went down, fast, without ever being sure what had happened. He was thrown from the bike as it skidded off the trail and slid off to the side.