EndWar

by Tom Clancy

  “New orders? I don’t think so. They’ll be here.”

  “And if they don’t come, the Russians will roll in and pounce on us.”

  “I like your positive attitude.”

  “I’m a realist. There’s no way we can hold this town. No way.”

  Vatz closed his eyes a moment. The guy was right. They could delay the battalion, but hold them off entirely?

  “Hey, Sergeant?” called Beethoven. “Wait a minute. Think I got something.”

  Vatz snapped open his eyes, squinted through his binoculars.

  President David Becerra wasn’t sure how to feel about the request for a conference call with President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin and General Sergei Izotov.

  The Russians had thus far been ignoring all such requests from the JSF and Euros, and now they wanted to talk? Would it be a final threat? Would they demand surrender and want to talk terms? Would they suggest something even more ridiculous?

  Becerra’s impulse had been to ignore them. Let them stew a while. But within an hour after the Russians’ request, he had asked Mark Hellenberg to get General Kennedy on the line and contact Moscow.

  Three windows opened on Becerra’s screen. Kapalkin wore an odd expression. Izotov appeared so disgusted that he could barely look up. General Kennedy was, of course, her impeccably groomed self and the consummate professional, ready for battle.

  “Mr. President, General,” Becerra began, acknowledging each man with a curt nod. “I’ll first say that I’m shocked by your request to talk.”

  “We are shocked, too,” said Izotov. It was obvious he’d been forced into the call.

  “Mr. President, we have a matter to discuss that is of grave importance,” said Kapalkin.

  “Yes, we do. Get your forces out of Canada. Otherwise, I promise, you won’t recover from this one. Not this one.”

  Izotov began to smile.

  “You find this amusing, General?” Becerra widened his eyes, about to raise his voice.

  “Mr. President, we will do as you ask,” said Kapalkin.

  “Excuse me?” Becerra nearly fell out of his chair. He glanced across the cabin at Chief of Staff Hellenberg, who shrugged in confusion.

  Kapalkin went on: “I said, we will comply. However, we must first work together to address another problem.”

  “Work together?” Now it was Becerra’s turn to smile. “If you’d like to do that, then first you’ll cease all military operations around the globe. Your desire to expand the Russian Federation ends today.”

  “Shut up, Becerra!” cried Izotov. “You have no idea what is at stake here!”

  Kapalkin fired off a sharp retort in Russian, silencing Izotov. He took a moment to catch his breath, to compose himself. Then he said, “Mr. President, we’ve learned that the Green Brigade Transnational has planted two nuclear weapons in Canada, one in Edmonton, the other in Calgary. The exact locations are unknown. These are suitcase bombs, ten kiloton. We are certain they are there. The terrorists are trying to blackmail the Russian Federation and, of course, destroy the reserves.”

  Becerra folded his arms over his chest. “Prove it.”

  Kapalkin raised an index finger like a weapon. “You can do one of two things. You can doubt us, ignore us, and in less than two days you will have your proof because the Brigades will detonate the weapons. Or you can trust me and send in two of your NEST teams, one to each city, to find and deactivate the bombs. Your teams can get there before ours can.”

  The Nuclear Emergency Support Teams that Kapalkin had mentioned were nuclear physicists and scientists working in the nation’s weapons labs. They were heavily equipped and highly trained at sniffing out bombs.

  “Why hasn’t the Brigade contacted us directly?” asked Becerra.

  “As I said, they’re trying to blackmail the Russian Federation and blame us for the destruction. They believe we are the instigators of this war. They will detonate the nukes in less than two days. They’re waiting for more civilians to be evacuated and more military forces to move into the cities. If we attempt to pull out our forces, we assume they will detonate the nukes. Mr. President, the loss of those reserves would be catastrophic to your economy and to the world’s. So this time, we must work together to stop them.”

  Becerra’s thoughts were flooded with what-ifs. “Mr. President, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word in private with General Kennedy.”

  “By all means.”

  Becerra switched to a private channel. “General, I’m at a loss here. Are they playing us?”

  The general’s gaze went distant. “Hard to say. Our NEST teams could verify the presence of nukes, that’s for sure. We can’t trust the Russians, but it wouldn’t hurt to send in those teams.”

  “If they’re lying to us, then what would they gain by all this? Do they need our teams for some other purpose?”

  “I don’t know. But if they’re being honest, and the nukes go off—”

  “That’s what bothers me,” Becerra interrupted. “The nukes go off and the reserves are lost. What happens? The price of Russian oil and gas skyrockets.”

  “Exactly. So it’s odd they come to us with this story. You’d think they’d let the reserves be destroyed.”

  “But that’s short-term. Long-term, they’d have much more to gain if they controlled them.”

  “Definitely.”

  Becerra thought a moment. “I’m just shooting from the hip here, but here’s what I think. The Russians are still in bed with the Brigade. They used them to plant the nukes and intended to bluff us. They figure if their ground war fails, they can threaten nuclear destruction.”

  “But their deal with the terrorists went south.”

  “And that’s the real shock to them. They must have had some people on the inside working with the Brigade, GRU officers they fully trusted, maybe this agent with the codename ‘Snow Maiden.’ ”

  “Now they need us to bail them out,” Kennedy concluded. “And if the nukes were to go off, then you’re right, the price of Russian oil and gas would skyrocket—but the Russians are also trying to court the North Koreans and the Japanese, who’ve been buying more and more oil from the Canadians.”

  “So in the long term, if the nukes go off and the world believes the Russian Federation is at fault, then this becomes a major economic blow to their government.”

  “Exactly. Alienating future allies and taking the blame for nuclear destruction could finish them. We could turn those neutral nations, and they know that—which is why they’ve come to us.”

  “My God, General, I hope we’re right.” Becerra switched back to conference channel. “Gentlemen, it seems you have everything to lose, and we risk only a couple of search teams. Those teams will be marked with locator beacons, and you’ll need to communicate with your forces so that our teams are not engaged.”

  “We will do that,” said Kapalkin.

  “But it will be difficult,” added Izotov. “Both of our forces are using electronic countermeasures and jamming. We will try, but we can make no promises.”

  “Well, General, I hope for your sake your people don’t kill them. Now, it’s my understanding that we’ll need to continue ground operations so the terrorists don’t prematurely detonate the nukes. But you will not send in any more forces. The planes you have in the air? Turn them around. Do I make myself clear?”

  “We will agree to that,” said Kapalkin.

  “Finally, if by some small miracle we’re able to pull this off, I would expect that you would withdraw all troops from Canada. Completely. And then, once the Canadians have assessed their damages, we will discuss reparations.”

  “Becerra, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Kapalkin.

  “Oh, we won’t. We’ll also discuss reparations for every nation involved in the construction and operation of the International Space Station.”

  “Perhaps we should have kept to ourselves,” said Izotov. “You Americans are all the same—always with your hand
out. The world does not owe you anything.”

  “In this particular case, General, you owe us something: the truth. And if you’re lying now, then the hand coming at you will not be empty—if you understand my meaning.”

  Izotov snickered. “I understand.”

  “President Becerra, protecting those Canadian reserves is in the best interests of both of our governments,” said Kapalkin. “Let us focus on that and not use this situation as a bargaining tool to address other conflicts or desires.”

  “We’re going to put everything on the table here. But you’re right. We can’t do anything until we’re sure those nukes have been deactivated. General Kennedy? I’d like you to coordinate with General Izotov.”

  Kennedy nodded, though the awkwardness in her expression was clear.

  “Gentlemen, we will be in touch with further details.” Becerra broke the link with them and returned to the private channel with General Kennedy. “Let’s get those NEST teams called up and in the air.”

  “Yes, sir. But, sir, have we just climbed into bed with the Russians?”

  “They say to keep your enemies close. Can’t say I like sleeping with them, though. Let’s get to work.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sergeant Raymond McAllen and his Marines, along with Khaki, the Russian helicopter pilot Pravota, and their rescued pilot Major Stephanie Halverson, had been hiking away from the chopper for about four hours, following the woods south, taking short breaks roughly every forty-five minutes.

  The snow was knee-deep in a few spots, and it was slow going to be sure. Halverson had warmed up and refused to be pulled in the litter, though McAllen could tell she wouldn’t last much longer. The Russian wasn’t faring much better.

  McAllen called the next halt, and they gathered below a stand of white spruce, hidden by the dense evergreen branches, while Gutierrez and Palladino took off ahead to reconnoiter the path and report back. Szymanski was keeping an eye to the rear, which thus far had been clear of pursuing ground forces.

  Halverson’s survival kit had been left behind, but the Russians began dogging them from the air, with the occasional Ka-29 passing over the forest, driving all of them into the snow for cover. McAllen had been forced to break radio silence to get an update on their pickup, and they learned they had at least two more hours to wait until their bird arrived. They could shave off some of that time by continuing to head south.

  McAllen was qualified to guide in the chopper, but so was Khaki, so when their taxi arrived, the Canadian had volunteered for those honors.

  As they sat there, huffing beneath the trees, McAllen offered up the last few pieces of his chocolate-coated energy bar to anyone willing.

  Halverson took a piece and said, “You look like you’re freezing. You want the suit?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been accused of being cold-blooded, so it all works out.”

  “I will take your suit,” said Pravota, wincing over his zipper cuffs.

  “She’s not offering,” snapped McAllen.

  “That’s right,” Halverson growled.

  McAllen turned back to her. “So, is this rescue everything you dreamed it would be?”

  She glanced away. “They killed everyone at my base. Killed my wingman. Killed this poor family who was trying to help me. Damn, Sergeant. If you didn’t pick me up, I would be dead by now. Don’t sell yourself too short.”

  “Thanks. I just, uh, I’m not thrilled by the prospect of two more hours of hiking.”

  “Me neither. And can I ask? Why are we dragging along this guy?” She flicked a dark glance in Pravota’s direction. “Why didn’t we leave him back at the chopper? Or just shoot him and be done with it.”

  “A POW’s a bonus in my book. And he’s an officer. Not sure my boys will ever get a crack at capturing an officer again.”

  She grinned crookedly. “I’m sorry I interfered in your little professional development project.”

  Her sarcasm stung. “Hey, relax. We’ll get you out of here.” McAllen leaned forward to brush snow from his boot.

  A shot rang out, punched into the tree trunk at his shoulder.

  He threw himself forward and cried, “Get down!”

  They were finally rolling into downtown Calgary, Ninth Avenue Southwest, and Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken signaled his rifle squad seated inside the Stryker to make their final gear checks.

  Navy SEALs already in the city had asked that at least one Stryker platoon enter Calgary Tower, a tall column of concrete supporting a huge, conical-shaped observation deck. The tower was the city’s most identifiable landmark, and it had been seized by several squads of Spetsnaz troops who were using it as an observation post.

  After all, the tower was famous for offering the best views of Calgary, and those Russians knew it’d only be a matter of time before someone entered to flush them out.

  And with no way to escape, they also knew they would be fighting to the death.

  As Rakken sat there, waiting for the platoon to pull up outside the tower, he nervously flexed his gloved fingers. It had been an exhaustingly long ride. With some shuffling after the bombs had gone off during their trip up 95, his platoon was now spread among three Strykers, down a squad, and certainly a little demoralized.

  Still, no more bombs had gone off after the initial ones, and their road march had proceeded without incident. Thorough searches of every vehicle had turned up nothing. Most of the officers were convinced that the bombs in question had been cleverly disguised as Stryker parts.

  Hassa and Appleman were on the intercom, discussing two civilian choppers that for some reason had been allowed to circle overhead, when Appleman suddenly broke off and said, “All right, Sergeant. We’re here. Get ready!”

  The Stryker rumbled to a halt, the ramp lowered, and Rakken and his men charged outside, onto the street, then up and onto the sidewalk—

  Where they were suddenly accosted by their company commander, Captain Chuck Welch, who was joined by a group of five civilians, two women, three men, all middle-aged and being fitted into body armor by two vehicle gunners from the master sergeant’s platoon. They each carried a heavy backpack.

  “Sergeant Rakken, these folks have just put down and it’s your job to get them up and into that tower.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rakken’s confused expression was hard to conceal. “But sir, they know we’re coming. Power’s been cut. No elevators. Got like eight hundred stairs to climb. They’ll probably gas us, drop grenades, and—”

  “You need to get them up top. Period. Do you read me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re putting snipers in the building next door, see if we can take some of them out from there, lob some flash bangs and gas inside the deck. We’re going for a surgical removal here with minimal damage to the tower itself. Let me repeat: minimal damage. They’ve made that clear.”

  Rakken pursed his lips, gestured the captain away from the civilians. “Sir, what’s going on?”

  The captain sighed. “I got orders to get these folks up top and not destroy this beautiful landmark. I don’t know any more than you right now. Off the record? Take a look at these people. Geeks with backpacks, heading up into a tower heavily defended by Russians. Think they might be looking for something?”

  Rakken was no rocket scientist, but it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to blurt out the word: “Nukes?”

  Captain Welch gave him an ominous look. “They were circling overhead for thirty minutes before they put down. And they got carte blanche wherever they go. I asked for ID. They said they don’t have to show us anything. There was a JSF XO here to vouch for them.”

  “Damn.”

  “Good news is I’m issuing all of you MOPP 4 suits and Cross Coms, with access to a pair of small recon drones we’ll fly up each stairwell. They’ll walk point as you go up.”

  “Nice.”

  “Get your men over there, get on those masks and protective suits, and finish gearing up.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Welch thrust out his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

  Rakken shook hands, then his gaze swept up the tower, toward the top, reaching the impossibly high observation deck. He stood there a few seconds more, forgetting to breathe.

  Everything about this said: get those people up there, but you are expendable.

  Rakken had never felt more uncertain about an operation. But he couldn’t show that. “All right, Spartan team! Here’s what’s happening . . .”

  “Stay behind me!” shouted McAllen.

  “No, I see one right there,” cried Halverson. She knew that the next time that Spetsnaz troop behind the tree rolled out, she’d have him.

  And she wasn’t going to let Mr. Macho Marine rob her of a little payback.

  “Major, get your butt back here! We didn’t come this far to lose you now!”

  The Russian appeared, raised his rifle, and Halverson, who was armed with McAllen’s pistol, fired two shots, striking the Russian in the left cheek. He slumped. She ran—

  Right back behind McAllen’s position.

  “Jesus, lady!” he cried.

  “I ain’t no lady,” she shouted back. “Not today!” She dropped down at his side and said, “Two squads. I saw a few of them shifting to our flank.”

  “I know,” the sergeant said. Next to McAllen sat Pravota, who’d been gagged since he’d been screaming to the Russians after they’d fired their first shot.

  The rest of the Marines were out there, somewhere behind them, engaging more of the Russians. They must have been spotted by one of the chopper crews, who’d set down and dropped off their troopers.

  “Any chance of our ride coming a little early?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, right. Hold on.” He got on his radio, began talking to the others. Outlaw this guy, outlaw that guy. All Halverson wanted was to bail. Now. She’d drawn her blood, was ready to go home now.

  If it wasn’t too late.

  When he finished on the radio, he glanced sidelong at her and said, “We need to make a break for it. Ready?”