Backlash: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast went a popular SEAL mantra, which he now heard echoing in his brain.

  Taking off his gloves, he felt along the edge of the packaging, looking for a notch or someplace to tear back the cover. There wasn’t one.

  Removing a folding knife he had taken off the dead Spetsnaz operative next to the cargo container, he carefully made an incision in the packaging, closed the knife, and returned it to his pocket. He then peeled back the plastic.

  It was sharp in spots, and he took care not to cut himself. He remembered a buddy of his growing up in California who had sliced his hand opening a tin of coffee. It resulted in an infection that was so serious, doctors had wanted to amputate the hand to stop the infection from spreading to his heart.

  Luckily, he had been at one of the best hospitals in the world, and they had ultimately discovered the right combination of antibiotics.

  That kind of luck, though, wouldn’t be in the cards for him. Not as a fugitive on the run inside Russia. If he got sick, he couldn’t just walk into some hospital, much less one on a par with anything to be found in the United States. No, it was critical that he stay healthy. His health and his training were his two greatest assets.

  Sitting cross-legged, he removed the food items and laid the amazing array of provisions on the ground in front of him.

  There were six sleeves of crackers or some kind of shortbread-style cookies, with about ten in each. There were also five bars of dark chocolate, a small tin of processed cheese, a pudding-sized cup filled with a chocolate-hazelnut spread, two bags of hard candies that appeared to be caramel, a cherry-flavored drink mix, one multivitamin, two servings of instant coffee, a tea bag, two pouches of dried muesli with dehydrated milk, a nut-and-fruit bar, and a packet of applesauce.

  In addition, there were three Army-green plastic spoons, six antiseptic wet naps—half were formulated for cleaning utensils and the other half for cleansing human skin—three paper napkins, paper sleeves of pepper and salt, and six rather large packets of sugar with twenty grams in each.

  An ingenious piece of lightweight machined metal, no bigger and not much thicker than a playing card, was included and could be bent into a tiny camp stove that stood on three legs. Along with it came three hexamine fire tablets, five stormproof matches, and a striker.

  Assembling the stove and placing a hexamine tab in the center, Harvath ignored the stormproof matches and used a lighter he’d taken off one of the dead soldiers to ignite it. He used his glove to draw his canteen cup back from next to the fire and placed it atop the camp stove in hopes of bringing the water to a quicker boil.

  Turning his attention to the tin filled with processed cheese, he grabbed the tab and carefully pulled back the lid. He then raised it to his nose and inhaled. It smelled delicious. Picking up a spoon, he dug in. It was one of the best things he had ever tasted.

  Licking the spoon clean, he opened a sleeve of crackers and tackled the chocolate-hazelnut spread next. He was ravenous. Everything tasted so good.

  Though he assumed the water from the coffee station was potable, he didn’t want to take any chances. He let the water in his cup come to a good, rolling boil for several minutes before removing it from the flame, adding the tea bag, and setting it aside to cool.

  There were six purification tablets, each individually wrapped in foil, and each good for purifying a liter apiece. Popping one out, he untied the larger of his two water-filled condoms and dropped it in. He didn’t expect to tap that water source until he left the plane. By then, any potential contaminants would be neutralized.

  Two thermostabilized entrees, one pork and one beef, as well as flameless ration heaters, were also included. The heaters were something the U.S. military used too, but they had come a long way from the water-activated systems Harvath used to know. Because they gave off highly flammable hydrogen gas, the old versions had been forbidden on planes and in submarines.

  Like their predecessors, the new, air-activated flameless ration heaters allowed precooked food to be warmed up, in its pouch, via heat from a chemical reaction—the idea being that if a campfire wasn’t advisable or available, soldiers could still enjoy a hot meal. There was, though, something else the heaters could be used for.

  Their chemical reaction was identical to that of disposable hand and foot warmers. That was because they all used the same main ingredient—iron powder.

  When exposed to air, and assisted by sodium chloride, activated charcoal, and vermiculite, iron powder produces iron oxide—rust—and, most important, heat. How much heat depended upon how much iron powder was used. Hand and foot warmers used less and could reach 163 degrees. MRE heaters used more and could reach 200 degrees.

  The point here was that Harvath had stumbled onto two, albeit temporary, portable forms of instant heat. There were likely two more in the other IRP. In the end, even one of them might end up being the difference between life and death once he struck off from the wreckage. They weighed next to nothing, and he knew he would never regret having them along.

  In addition to the entrees, there were two pâté appetizers, both pork, apparently. One appeared to have been made with pig brains, the other with pig’s liver. Harvath opted for the liver. Pulling open the pouch, he went after the salty protein with his spoon.

  He had to force himself to go slowly. His stomach would have shrunk over the past three days, and eating too much too quickly could make him throw up.

  By the time he was done with the pâté, his tea had cooled enough to drink. He took that slowly as well. As soon as he began drinking, his mind began flashing back to what had happened on the private jet.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  * * *

  Whatever drug his Russian abductors had been using to knock him out, they had an equally powerful antidote to return him to consciousness.

  It produced an instant migraine and was like having red-hot coat hangers rip your brain out through your eyes. There was no pain he had ever experienced anywhere near it. That was only the warm-up, though.

  His interrogator was a Russian in his late fifties who had introduced himself simply as Josef. Tall and fit, Josef had gray hair that was cut in a trendy, long-on-top, skin-tight-fade-on-the-sides style that was more appropriate for a man in his twenties. He looked like a douchebag, and Harvath had told him so.

  What made the insult even funnier was that despite his impressive command of English, Josef was unfamiliar with the term. Harvath had to explain it to him, and did so in such a way that the Spetsnaz operatives understood it as well.

  When Josef finally clicked on the equivalent word in Russian and mumbled it aloud, his men chuckled. So did Harvath. It was, without a doubt, a terrible haircut.

  For a moment, Josef appeared to have a sense of humor and laughed right along with everyone else. Nothing about his demeanor suggested what was about to happen next.

  In a flash, the Russian pulled out an electrical cord and started beating Harvath with it. The blows fell again and again, lashing his chest and shoulders, stomach and thighs. Secured to a chair, he had no way to fend off the painful attack.

  It was meant to show dominance and sow fear. Josef was making it perfectly clear who was in charge and who wasn’t. He intended to break his captive, by any means necessary.

  For his part, Harvath had already made up his mind back in New Hampshire that he was going to kill Josef. The only question was how badly he would make him suffer first. The beating with the cord only strengthened his resolve and lengthened the pain he would make the Russian endure.

  And that went double for whoever, higher up the chain, had tasked Josef. Harvath didn’t care if the trail led right to the President of Russia himself. Anyone and everyone involved would pay, dearly.

  Over the last three days, Harvath hadn’t had much time to piece things together. Most of the time, he had been drugged. When he wasn’t drugged, he was being beaten and interrogated. They had even waterboarded him.

&nb
sp; It was a tactic he had used on prisoners himself. He knew how effective it was. Even though he had undergone it in training, it was still a horrible procedure to be on the receiving end of.

  Upon being placed inside the private jet, he had hoped that part of the nightmare was over. But when he saw the four-liter water jugs stacked in the galley, he knew that it had only just begun.

  The flight to what he now knew had been Murmansk was brutal. He had blacked out several times. And, on at least one occasion, he had lost more than just consciousness. Judging by the pads stuck to his chest, the automated external defibrillator, and the vial of epinephrine nearby, he had flatlined.

  His memories were fuzzy. What he remembered best was how it had all started.

  Josef and his men had shown up at the cottage in New Hampshire out of the blue. Harvath had gone there with Lara to visit Reed Carlton, whom he affectionately referred to as the “Old Man.”

  He was also there to wrap up some loose business ends with Lydia, one of which involved a meeting with a diplomat from the Polish embassy in D.C.

  Artur Kopec was a double agent, working for his own country’s foreign intelligence service as well as the Russians. He was a drunk, nearing the end of his career, who had lied, cheated, manipulated, and schemed to get one final, plum posting.

  Early on, he had actually been a capable intelligence officer. But as his star had risen, so, too, had his opportunities for corruption. Unfortunately for him, and for Poland, he had chosen self-enrichment over patriotism.

  He and Reed Carlton went way back—back to the days of the Cold War. They had undertaken great risks together, bled together, and buried friends together, all in the name of defeating Communism and advancing the cause of freedom.

  But once Carlton learned that his old ally had been co-opted, he was left with only three choices: kill him, report him, or use him. He opted for door number three.

  Kopec was so sure of himself and so confident in his tradecraft that he believed no one would ever find out he was working for the Russians on the side. He might have been able to fool everybody else, but he hadn’t been able to fool Carlton.

  Instead, the American spymaster had decided to use the cocksure Pole to America’s benefit. Over the years, Carlton fed him a steady diet of quality intelligence—“one old friend to another.”

  It was stuff that, if the Russians didn’t already know it, they would eventually.

  The quality of it, plus his access to such a renowned, well-connected CIA officer, made Kopec a star back in Moscow. That had all been part of Carlton’s plan as well. The more they believed the veracity and reliability of Kopec’s reporting, the easier they were to manipulate. That was how Carlton had used him.

  In addition to feeding him a diet of grade-A intel, when it suited the United States, he’d mix in some things that were absolutely false, things he knew the Russians would believe to be true.

  The reasons were myriad. Sometimes, the CIA just needed the Russians to be confused. Sometimes, they needed them to act. Sometimes, Carlton just wanted to fuck with them.

  When his health began to fail, the Old Man handed the reins over to Harvath. He explained what a valuable asset Kopec had been but allowed Harvath to make up his own mind about what to do with him. Harvath chose door number three as well—using the unwitting Polish intelligence officer in ways even Carlton hadn’t considered. All of that, though, was over now. It had ended with the assault on the cottage on Governors Island.

  When it came to intelligence gathering, the Russians ran a brutish operation that somehow succeeded despite itself. They were not thoughtful, meticulous savants. They were rats with terrible eyesight and even worse noses. Luck and bravado, more often than talent or hard work, usually carried the day.

  Despite their failings, they had eventually caught wind that Reed Carlton was ill. They wanted Kopec to confirm it for them. So did Harvath.

  He wanted them to believe that Carlton was so far gone that he was of no value and no threat to them whatsoever. His hope was that if Kopec reported back to Moscow that Carlton didn’t have much time left, and had lost his mental faculties, they would write him off. The last thing Harvath wanted was for the Russians to uncover his whereabouts and attempt to snatch him. But little did he know that Carlton wasn’t the only person the Russians were interested in.

  Playing the distraught former comrade-in-arms, the flabby, white-haired Kopec had kept asking to see his old friend. Once Harvath had felt the time was right, Lydia Ryan had set it up. Never in a million years would he have believed the Russians could set up a snatch operation that quickly. But that was what had happened, and Harvath should have been ready for it.

  Kopec had flown up from D.C. on a commercial flight into Portland International Jetport in Maine. A private car service was waiting for him at the airport and had driven him the rest of the way to the island. The car waited for him in the driveway.

  When his visit with Carlton was over, he and Harvath chatted, and then Kopec got into the car and drove away, presumably back to the airport.

  Harvath had watched him drive off and then returned inside to chat with Lydia. They discussed a couple of items before Harvath saw Lara through the window outside. She had been on a hike and had just gotten back.

  Pausing his conversation with Lydia, he had stepped outside to join Lara, and that was when all hell had broken loose.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  * * *

  Having seen the Russians before he did, Lara had yelled for him to “Run!” but by then it was too late. They quickly surrounded her, and Josef put a gun to her head.

  In retrospect, maybe Harvath should have gone for his weapon. Maybe he should have tried to shoot his way out. If they had taken him down, perhaps he could have taken a couple of them with him.

  Maybe Lydia and the Corpsman would have joined in. Maybe neighbors would have heard the shots and called the police. Maybe his taking a risk would have saved the others. They were questions that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  The one question he didn’t need answered was why he had acted as he did—why hadn’t he pulled his weapon and risked everything?

  Years before he had met Lara, there had been someone else, someone as near to perfect as he had ever known. But because of him, she had taken a bullet to the head.

  An assassin, looking to settle a terrible score, had targeted her out of revenge. Miraculously, she had survived, but in almost constant, unimaginable pain. Her one last act of love for Harvath was to leave him, so he could start over again with someone who could give him what she knew she never could—a family.

  He had been racked with guilt and heartbroken on top of it. He would have done anything to ease her suffering. He would have taken it all upon himself if he could have, but that just wasn’t possible.

  Instead, all Harvath could do was relive over and over again what had happened to her, finding new ways each time to blame himself. It was a terrible form of self-torture.

  Slowly, though, his pain at losing her began to dissipate, though the guilt for what he had caused would never fully go away.

  As a kind of perverse therapy, he threw himself into his work. He became more brutal with those who had committed evil, blurring the line between him and them. It wasn’t healthy. And although he told himself he could compartmentalize anything, this thing he couldn’t.

  To compensate, he had done what everyone else he’d ever known in his line of work did—he had retreated further into himself, shrinking his circle of friends, drinking more, and playing it all off with a graveyard humor common in men who stared death in the face and kicked it in the balls for a living.

  “Better to be lucky than good,” he would crack, echoing a flippant saying in the Special Operations community.

  All the while, though, he knew that he was taking greater risks and that at some point it was going to catch up with him.

  But Lara had changed that. His relationship with her had calmed
his recklessness. She had given him something worth living for.

  Now, though, his guilt was back. The more he thought about what had happened in New Hampshire, the deeper he spiraled.

  Whether outside the house or in, Josef was always planning to kill Lara and everyone else. Harvath knew that. There was nothing he could have done to change it. But even so, he blamed himself.

  He blamed himself for being the beacon that had drawn Josef there. He blamed himself for bringing Lara along. And most of all, he blamed himself for not thinking more quickly, for not finding some way to protect her.

  The stew of rage and recrimination was eating away at him, now opening the door wider to his vengefulness and darkening his heart.

  The more he fanned the flames of hate, the greater the threat to his humanity grew. If he allowed that part of himself to be extinguished, there was no coming back. He would become the abyss he was staring into.

  He needed to snap out of it and turn his mind to something else—most important, getting the hell out of Russia alive.

  Setting down the tea, he reviewed the remaining items in the ditch kit. Picking up the bag marked with a first aid cross, he sliced it open and dumped out the contents.

  It contained a suture kit, more water purification tablets, Russian aspirin, blood-clotting gauze, an Israeli-style wrap bandage, tweezers, six Russian-style Band-Aids of varying sizes, two antibacterial wipes, a small tube of antiseptic ointment, and an electrolyte drink mix.

  The fourth and final pouch in the ditch kit was emblazoned with words Harvath didn’t know. Opening it up, he looked inside.

  As soon as he saw the signal mirror, he knew exactly what this bag was—a SERE kit.

  In addition to the mirror, there was a compass, a whistle, more stormproof matches, more water purification tablets, a small notebook and pen, a silk scarf printed with panels containing survival instructions, more hextabs, a flint and striker, a packet of sunscreen, and some mosquito wipes.