Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  Spellman whispered to Jack, “Georgian Military Road.”

  “I’ve had thirty dead and two helicopters shot down in the last month,” said Zumadze. “I am spread thin and I fear military vehicles will only attract the OFB’s attention. It is risky, but I think your best chance for getting through is to do so incognito. Once you reach the Yuzhno border checkpoint, you will be safe.”

  Jack said from his place against the wall, “Omalo to the border is how far, sixteen kilometers?”

  Zumadze suddenly seemed to notice he and Medzhid weren’t alone. He narrowed his eyes at Jack and said, “You are American. Who are you?”

  “Just a guy asking a question. How far is the border?”

  “Nineteen kilometers. But the terrain is mountainous.”

  Zumadze’s answer told Jack something. The Georgian military had completely lost control of a twelve-mile stretch of a major transportation artery, one of its only into Dagestan. Worse still, Zumadze’s refusal to provide escort was likely born of survival instinct: If Dagestan’s Minister of the Interior were to die while under his protection, he’d likely lose his job. It appeared Medzhid’s partnership with Georgia wasn’t as solid as Seth had suggested.

  “It is a very hard area to patrol,” Zumadze said.

  “Sounds like it,” Jack replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. General, can you give us weapons?”

  Zumadze slapped his hand on the desk, then jabbed a stubby finger at Jack. “Who are you to demand—”

  “Forget him, my friend,” Medzhid said, flicking his fingers in Jack’s direction. “Can you provide us with weapons?”

  Zumadze tore his gaze from Jack, then nodded. “Guns I can give you.”

  • • •

  TWO HOURS LATER they were on their way, moving in convoy formation with one of the pickup trucks on point, another taking the rear, and Jack’s group inside a canvas-covered GAZ 4x4 truck. Medzhid’s two bodyguards, Anton and Vasim, sat at the tailgate, occasionally peeking through the canvas flaps.

  With each passing mile the air grew colder. Jack could feel his ears popping as they moved higher into the Pirikiti Mountains. The GAZ’s diesel engine groaned with the strain.

  For the tenth time in half as many minutes the truck’s tires plunged into a pothole and bounced them off the wooden bench seats. Jack put most of his weight on his good butt cheek, but it didn’t help much.

  “I’m going to have bruises,” Ysabel whispered to Jack. “They’ll need seeing to later.”

  “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

  From the opposite bench Medzhid called over the engine noise, “I am sorry about that, Jack. Zumadze is not fond of the West, especially America.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Having it appear you are under my thumb makes everything easier.”

  “Mr. Minister—”

  “Rebaz, please.”

  “Rebaz. How well do you know General Zumadze?”

  “Very well. He and I have worked together closely on a number of antiterrorism operations—along with our counterpart in Grozny.”

  “Does Zumadze know about the coup?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you asking, Jack?” said Spellman.

  “Back in Tbilisi, Rebaz told him he’s being blocked from entering his own country and he didn’t bat an eye.”

  “Baksheesh,” Seth replied. “Institutional extortion. Zumadze has to deal with it himself, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed,” replied Medzhid. “It is a different world here, Jack.”

  No shit, he thought.

  • • •

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON they pulled into Omalo. The GAZ’s engine shut down. General Zumadze swung back the canvas flaps. “You will stay here tonight. It is too dangerous to drive at night.”

  Jack and the others jumped out and began stretching their legs. Bundled in a Georgian Army parka two sizes too big for her, Ysabel wrapped her arms around her torso. “It’s beautiful here,” she said through a shiver. “Nice place to visit.”

  “But not live.”

  The village, which sat in a shallow valley surrounded by rolling foothills, was little more than a scattering of ramshackle saltbox-style homes with tin roofs. Across the dirt road was a fenced pasture full of horses grazing at the spring grass. To the west stood a line of snowcapped peaks behind which the sun was dropping. Jack saw long shadows creeping down the hills toward Omalo. During the winter Omalo probably had little or no contact with the outside world.

  At a gesture from Zumadze, two of the Special Forces soldiers jumped down from the nearest truck and trotted toward the house adjacent to the pasture. They banged on the door; when it swung open, they disappeared inside.

  Jack led Ysabel out of earshot from the group. “When we get across the border we’re parting company with Seth and the others.”

  “Why?”

  “The woman who was holding Aminat—”

  “Helen.”

  “She gave me the name of her broker, a guy called Dobromir. He took the contract for Aminat’s kidnapping. Pechkin set it up. Dobromir lives in Khasavyurt.”

  “What makes you think he’ll cooperate with us?”

  “Before she died, Helen made him a video, sort of a last will and testament. If he has anything on Pechkin, he’ll give it to us.”

  “Jack, why am I just hearing about this?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “You were going to leave me behind, weren’t you?”

  “I changed my mind. You don’t break up the team in mid-game.”

  “Very wise of you.”

  Zumadze called, “May I have everyone’s attention!”

  Jack and Ysabel returned to where the rest of the group was standing. “A few hours ago the OFB attacked an outpost—in Shenako, two miles to the east.”

  “How many dead?” asked Medzhid.

  “None, thankfully. Two wounded. They will be evacuated in the morning. I must return to the capital tonight, but I will leave Major Asatiani with you. In the morning, he’ll see you on your way.”

  “What about our weapons?” Jack asked.

  Zumadze offered him a mocking smile. “Are you frightened? Do not worry yourself. You will be fine.”

  “Not with that truck. It’s got target written all over it.”

  “That’s being taken care of.”

  From the ranch house, one of Zumadze’s soldiers called to him. A man, a woman, and two children slipped past the soldier and headed down the road toward the village center.

  Ysabel asked, “Where are they going? We can’t put them out of their own home.”

  “It is just for the night,” Zumadze replied. “Follow me. We will get you settled in.”

  • • •

  SHORTLY AFTER NIGHTFALL, Zumadze left in one of the pickup trucks.

  Major Asatiani spent a few minutes patrolling the area surrounding the house, then assigned two men to the front door and two to inside the horse barn, leaving himself and one more, a private no older than twenty, inside the home with Jack and the others.

  As the private started cooking the evening meal, Asatiani sat down at a small table beside the door and began stripping and cleaning his sidearm.

  Medzhid turned in early, leaving his bodyguards playing cards outside his door. Jack and the others gathered around the trestle-style dining table on the far side of the room.

  “Friendly guy, the major,” Ysabel said.

  “Most of his kind are,” replied Spellman. “Good in a fight, though.”

  Jack said, “Seth, yesterday you talked about Volodin rolling tanks up to Dagestan’s border and sitting there waiting for the coup to start. What if he does just that?”

  “He won’t. But to answer your question, if he comes it won’t be through Chechnya unless he w
ants to get bogged down, which leaves him Stavropol to the west and Kalmykia to the north. Between them there are only two major highways into Dagestan—the P215 and the P285.” Seth grinned. “They’re both two-lane, and they both go over several river crossings.”

  Seth and Spellman had a plan in place to sabotage the crossings, Jack realized. This coup wouldn’t be driven solely by an Arab Spring–like popular groundswell, but also by on-the-ground insurgency warfare. The problem was, if Volodin committed himself to invasion, such tactics would only delay the inevitable.

  If Makhachkala didn’t go as planned, a whole lot of innocent civilians were going to die.

  Georgian Military Road East

  AFTER RECEIVING their weapons, AK-47s with three spare magazines each, from Major Asatiani, they set out in the predawn darkness with the GAZ, now emblazoned with the red-on-white flag of the Red Crescent Society, the Islamo-centric cousin of the Red Cross. Whether this garnishment would mean a damn to the OFB was anyone’s guess.

  With Jack at the wheel, Ysabel beside him, and Spellman in the passenger seat, they made decent progress for the first hour and then the winding mountain road narrowed, its surface rutted with ice and half-buried boulders. Jack eased up on the gas pedal but still had to fight the steering wheel to keep the truck from sliding onto the shoulder.

  Spellman sat with the barrel of his AK resting on the dashboard, his eyes scanning the road ahead. Jack’s and Ysabel’s rifles were propped between her knees, muzzles down.

  “Jack, what was that business about how well Medzhid knows General Zumadze?” asked Spellman.

  “Probably nothing. But if I had a friend like Zumadze, I’d be rethinking the relationship.”

  “What, you thinking he’s feeding us to the OFB?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Then spit it out.”

  “Your plan is partially counting on Georgia backing the coup, and Zumadze won’t even give Medzhid safe passage out of his own country.”

  “Yeah, I see your point. But Zumadze’s as savvy as Medzhid; if the coup goes our way, Tbilisi will want to back the winner.”

  • • •

  BY NOON, having covered half the distance to the border, they reached Chero, a village perched on a slope overlooking a river gorge. Jack steered the GAZ through the village, then down a switchback road to the bottom of the gorge, where the road leveled and began following the course of the river. Through Spellman’s half-open window Jack could hear the rush of water spilling over boulders. Though directly overhead, the sun’s rays didn’t fully penetrate the gorge, leaving the road in partial twilight.

  The Velcro flap behind the seat tore open and Seth’s head appeared in the square opening. “We better pick up the pace or we won’t make Yuzhno by nightfall.”

  “Any faster and we’ll go into the river,” Spellman answered. “Jack’s doing fine.”

  “We won’t be if we get stuck out here. Pick up the pace, Jack.”

  Seth disappeared and the flap closed.

  • • •

  “WHOA,” Spellman called, as Jack rounded a corner. “Slow it down, Jack.”

  “I see it.”

  Jack slowed to a stop, the truck’s brakes echoing off the gorge’s walls.

  Ahead a pair of UAZ jeeps covered in what looked like improvised spray-paint camouflage sat astride the road. They were staggered, one ahead of the other, to lessen the chance of a vehicle’s ramming its way through the roadblock. Jack counted six men, all bearded, four standing before the vehicles and one behind each one’s wheel. They were all armed with AKs.

  “The OFB?” Ysabel muttered.

  “He’d better assume so,” Jack replied.

  He glanced in his side mirror, studying the road behind them. Though they’d passed no turnoffs since entering the gorge, a bracket ambush was the smart move. The road was empty. How fast he could drive the GAZ in reverse while being pursued he didn’t know.

  Seth’s head poked through the canvas opening. “Why are we stopping— Ah, shit.”

  “Sit tight and keep quiet,” Jack told him.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Spellman said, and reached for the door handle.

  “Bad idea, Matt.”

  “Better to start out friendly.”

  Ysabel asked, “Do you speak—”

  “Ossete? No, but I’ve got Farsi, and they’re close. And I look the part.”

  “Barely,” Ysabel remarked.

  “Can you two cover me?”

  “Stay within sprinting distance,” said Jack.

  Leaving his AK on the truck’s floorboard, Spellman climbed out. Jack did the same, but propped his weapon muzzle-first on the running board.

  “Show them your hands. And don’t smile.”

  Jack raised his hands and took a step away from the door.

  In Farsi, Spellman called to the group and then strode forward a few paces and into Jack’s sight line.

  That’s far enough, Matt.

  The men didn’t respond. Spellman called out again.

  The man standing at the front of the group answered, his tone aggressive.

  “He says the road is closed. I told him we’re Red Crescent. He doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Tell him we’re carrying medicine for the kids in Ibtsokhi.”

  Spellman did so, but got the same biting reply.

  “He doesn’t give a shit about that, either.”

  Suddenly the man pointed his AK skyward and let off a short burst. He shouted at Spellman, gesturing wildly.

  Spellman began backing toward the truck. Jack waited until he was in the passenger seat, then climbed in. Through the windshield he could see the OFB leader glaring at them.

  “What now?” asked Ysabel.

  “We find another way.”

  Through the canvas divider Medzhid said, “Out of the question. The only other route will cost us a full day. If I’m not back in Makhachkala by morning, the Almak story will be out of my control. Look, there are only six of them and seven of us.”

  Jack turned to him. “And we’re on their home turf, stuck on a narrow road with nowhere to go.”

  “Ram them.”

  “We’d never make it—”

  Spellman shouted, “They’re moving!”

  Jack turned back around and saw the OFB men piling into the jeeps. The lead one started speeding toward them, the other one close behind.

  Jack jammed the shifter into reverse and hit the gas pedal. The GAZ lurched, then began backing down the road. In the dust kicked up by the rear tires he could see little more than the rock wall flashing by on his left.

  “You’re on the shoulder,” Spellman shouted.

  He turned the wheel right. The truck swerved toward the rocks and he adjusted again.

  “They’re catching up,” Ysabel called.

  “Matt, when we get around the next corner, you and I are getting out. Ysabel, you’re driving. Just keep backing it up and keep your head down.”

  When the GAZ swung around the bend, Jack slammed on the brakes, shifted it into park. He and Spellman jumped out with their AKs. Jack’s bad leg buckled slightly and he stumbled, then regained his balance.

  “Go, Ysabel!” he shouted.

  The gears crunched and then the GAZ started reversing.

  The lead jeep came around the curve. Jack and Spellman opened up, stitching the vehicle across the hood and windshield. The jeep fishtailed sideways, overcorrected, then vaulted over the shoulder berm and slammed into a boulder jutting from the river. The windshield shattered outward and a pair of men slid down the hood and into the water. The man in the backseat wasn’t moving.

  Jack, who had been tracking the jeep with his muzzle and pouring fire into the door, stopped and turned back. The second jeep skidded around the corner. It sped up, bearing down on Spellm
an, who stood in the middle of the road, firing. Jack raised his AK, ready to fire, but the jeep veered left, putting itself between him and Spellman. The side mirror caught Spellman in the side and he stumbled back, bounced off the gorge wall, then slid to the ground.

  The jeep turned the next corner and disappeared.

  “Spellman?” Jack called.

  “I’m good. Go!”

  Jack started running as fast as his bad leg would allow. As he approached the bend he heard the chatter of AK fire, then the wrenching of steel on steel. He rounded the corner. Fifty feet away the jeep and GAZ were almost bumper to bumper, the truck still backing up. Its windshield was pocked with bullet strikes, so Jack couldn’t see Ysabel. One of the OFB fighters leaned out the jeep’s side window and started firing into the truck’s grille. Steam billowed from the hood.

  Jack dropped to one knee, switched the AK to semi-auto, then took aim on the leaning man and fired twice. The man went limp and folded sideways at the waist, his head bumping over the ground. Jack adjusted aim and put three rounds into the jeep’s rear window. Chunks of the glass disintegrated. A rifle barrel poked through one of the gaps. Jack saw a silhouetted head. He fired twice and the head disappeared in a haze of blood spray.

  The GAZ slewed sideways. Its back end vaulted over the shoulder. The rear tire plunged into the river and started spinning, sending up a plume of water.

  Jack stood, started running again, the AK tucked into his shoulder, firing as he closed the gap. The driver’s door swung open and a man climbed out, struggling to clear the muzzle and bring it to bear on Jack. Jack stopped, shot him in the chest, then a second time as he went down.

  The GAZ’s engine sputtered to a stop, leaving only the high-pitched hum of the jeep’s motor.

  Behind him, he heard Spellman jog up.

  “Let’s clear it,” Jack said.

  They stalked forward, AKs raised. When they were ten feet from the jeep’s rear bumper Seth walked down the side of the GAZ. He strode up to the jeep, stuck the barrel of his AK through the window, and fired a short burst, followed by two more. He ejected the magazine, slammed another into the receiver, then leaned down and peered inside.