by Brad Thor
The Wagner thugs were mercenaries, not detectives. They’d be anxious to pick up Harvath’s trail. Retracing their colleagues’ footsteps back to Friddja, hoping to find a witness to interrogate, was too much work.
Harvath quickly studied the map and asked, “Where’s the rendezvous?”
She placed her finger on a spot, up a river, two kilometers inland. “It’s a small hunting camp, part of a chain, shared by the Sámi. Jompá and Olá will meet us there.”
Memorizing the map, Harvath fired up the snowmobile. He needed to let Nicholas know where they were headed, but more important, he needed to get the hell out of there before the Wagner assholes arrived. The call would have to wait.
As soon as he felt Christina wrap her arms around his waist, he hit the gas and took off.
Driving a car under night vision, even down a gravel road, was tough enough. Navigating a snowmobile, at high speed, through a forest, though, was like playing Russian roulette.
Harvath clipped so many trees along the way that he was positive that the Audubon Society was going to put him on a hit list.
The sled’s fiberglass body got beat to shit. The rest of it, thanks be to the “escape gods,” remained in working order. Nothing critical was damaged.
Just as he had done when he had fled the trapper’s cabin, whenever he hit an open piece of ground, he pinned the throttle.
The sled screamed beneath them and raced forward. As its skis jerked and bumped over the frozen terrain, the frigid air smelled to him like freedom. Suddenly, all he could think about was home.
Every atom in his body ached to be free, to be back in America, and to be back among the people he loved.
Making himself more aerodynamic, he dropped his shoulders, put his head down, and leaned over the handlebars, urging the snowmobile on. They couldn’t get to their destination fast enough.
Soon, the ground began to slope downward, and through the trees up ahead, he could see it. Through his night vision goggles, it looked like an oblong, asphalt parking lot.
As he sped out of the forest, he made sure to leave plenty of visible tracks along the shore before speeding out onto the ice. There, he flipped the goggles up so he could see the surface unaided. It looked like a piece of polished black marble.
Flipping the goggles back down, he cruised to the other side of the small lake, being careful to avoid the thinner ice, and found the perfect spot to unload Christina and their gear.
Here, the woods came right down to the shore. As soon as they set foot in the snow, they’d be in the forest and their path would be difficult if not impossible to detect.
After unloading everything and making sure Christina was safe, he got back on the snowmobile.
“Be careful,” she warned him.
“I’ve already been swimming once on this trip,” he replied. “I don’t plan on doing it again.”
Hitting the gas, he spun on the ice, got control of the sled, and then steered toward what looked like the most logical spot.
Several streams, two of which were quite wide, fed the little lake. They came together and pushed fresh, warmer water underneath the ice. That was where he intended to carry out his diversion.
Bringing the snowmobile to a halt, he pulled out his satellite phone, extended its antenna again, and powered it up. He had no idea if the Russians were tracking its calls or not.
Speaking quickly, he delivered another coded message to Nicholas, which relayed his location as well as how he and Christina planned to make their escape.
Then, after turning off the phone and putting it back in his coat pocket, he pulled out the two incendiary grenades.
He had gone over the plan several times in his head. The most important part was the placement of the devices. At four thousand degrees each, he needed to be extremely careful how he used them.
Snapping a chem light, he tied its lanyard to the back of the sled, activated the snowmobile’s headlight, and then, with the incendiary grenades right where he wanted them, he pulled the pin of the one in front and then the one in back, before moving backward on the unstable ice so as not to be sucked in.
He knew better than to look at the bright light from the burning phosphorus, which could damage his retinas. Turning his head away, he shot an indirect glance to the side as the white-hot thermite rapidly melted the ice around the snowmobile.
There were loud cracks, like windows being broken, as the ice beneath the snowmobile began to melt rapidly.
In less than a minute, the sled had fallen through, swallowed up by the cold, black water.
Harvath had never used an incendiary grenade to melt ice before and was impressed by how fast it worked.
Retreating to the shore, he stood with Christina for a moment, watching the eerie glow of the snowmobile’s headlight beneath the surface.
“How long do you think that will last?”
“In these temperatures?” he replied. “Not very long. That’s why I tied the chem light to the back. That won’t be much better, but it was worth a try. Ready to go?”
When she nodded, they shouldered their equipment and headed upstream toward the camp.
It was a rough push. The snow was deep, it was bitterly cold, and they were both tired and in pain. But they kept going.
She was in excellent shape and Harvath admired her. Anyone else would have slowed him down. Not once, though, did he have to encourage her to hurry up.
Every several minutes, they paused and listened. But all they heard were the sounds of the forest. Water rolled beneath the iced-over stream. Wind blew through the trees, shaking their boughs.
It was getting stronger, and he suspected another storm might be coming. Foul weather could work to their advantage, providing cover, but if bad enough, it could also hamper their progress.
Approaching the camp from the south, Harvath dropped everything but his rifle and had Christina hang back in the trees. He wanted her to wait there until he had made sure it was safe to come out.
It only took him a few minutes to clear the camp and determine that there were no threats.
Rejoining her, he helped pick up their gear and then pointed out where he wanted them to go.
There wasn’t a lot of shelter to choose from, but right off the bat he crossed the traditional tents off the list.
Made of reindeer skins, they were probably decent for keeping warm, if you lit a fire inside. They, though, weren’t going to be lighting any fires.
Instead, Harvath steered them toward a small shed with a metal roof. Known as a banya, the freestanding sauna was the perfect place to hide, especially if what you were hiding from was thermal imagining.
Once the two of them had piled in with all their gear, he closed the door, and they tried to get warm.
Pulling out the heavy blankets Jompá had given them, he wrapped one around Christina and one around himself.
He looked longingly at the sauna’s rocks, which sat atop a rudimentary stove. There was nothing he would have loved more than to have loaded it with wood and dropped in a match. The little structure would have heated up in seconds. So, too, though, would the stovepipe.
Out in the middle of nowhere, its heat signature would have been the equivalent of slicing through the night sky with a Hollywood movie premiere searchlight. Until Jompá and Olá had arrived, he wasn’t going to take any risks.
They were both shivering. Christina opened her blanket, pulled him close, and pressed her body against his in an attempt to conserve warmth.
Her touch sent a jolt of electricity through him, but right behind it came a crashing wave of guilt.
Christina was an extremely attractive woman. She was also lonely, and in part vulnerable—like him. No doubt, if they had both agreed, they could have had each other right there. But that wasn’t what Harvath wanted. He wanted Lara and she was gone.
He stood with Christina for several more minutes until they both started to warm up. Then, he gently stepped away. Things were complicated enough without
adding to the confusion.
The only thing he wanted to be thinking about was getting them both out of Russia alive.
CHAPTER 61
* * *
* * *
Not in the dark,” Aleksi translated. “Not on a lake he has never landed on before. We have to wait until morning. In the daylight, he can conduct a flyover and inspect the area to make sure there are no obstructions.”
Haney had worked with plenty of bush pilots. He knew the drill. That didn’t mean he liked it.
Harvath was so close. They could be on top of him in less than half an hour of flight time. The old Pilatus airplane the Russian pilot kept in the hangar outside was capable of carrying their entire team. It was outfitted with skis so that it could land on ice or snow, exactly like the Skibird the United States had repositioned from Greenland. The Pilatus, though, was much smaller and classified as a STOL—Short Takeoff and Landing—aircraft, which meant it needed even less runway.
Even so, based on the new coordinates Nicholas had provided, the lake Harvath was at now was too small. There was another, longer lake a few miles away that would work perfectly. Harvath, though, would have to get there. That’s what Haney and the rest of the team were worried about.
“So what are we going to do?” Staelin asked, as he and Haney stepped to the other side of the room to talk.
“We wait.”
“Wait? That’s bullshit. We need to get moving. Now.”
Haney looked at him. “You’re the guy who was bitching about skiing all the way to Nivsky.”
“But we’re not going to Nivsky,” he said, pointing at the map. “We’re linking up with Harvath here. If we leave now, we can be there in two hours. Two and a half tops.”
“If you were skiing hard, over flat terrain and minimal snowpack—none of which you would be. Then there’s Wagner and their Mi-8. The minute you get picked up on any sort of imaging system, it’s game over.”
“They’ll be too busy looking for Harvath. They won’t expect us to come in from the west.”
Haney shook his head. “Wouldn’t you be expecting us? Don’t underestimate these guys. They’re good. The only reason Harvath is still alive is that he’s better.
“Then there’s the problem of the Alakurtti Air Base. We could almost hit it with a nine iron from here. Wagner wouldn’t need to waste any manpower. Their pilot could simply call it in—a column of heavily armed skiers, moving through the nearby forest, under cover of darkness. I’m guessing they’d send someone to check that out. What do you think?”
“I think it would probably get a pretty substantial response,” replied Staelin.
“Which is why we’re not doing it.”
“I understand, but we can’t just sit here.”
Haney appreciated his doggedness. They all felt the same way about Harvath, and part of what made them all so good at their jobs was never taking “no” for an answer. They were always pushing back, always looking for different and better ways to achieve their missions. Never had it been more important for any of them than right now. But Haney’s job was to examine their list of options and select the best one.
“Waiting sucks,” Haney agreed. “I get it. It’s even worse knowing that Harvath is so close. For the moment, though, he’s okay.”
“For the moment,” the former Delta Force operator stated.
“Listen, the best thing we can do for him is to get some rest and be ready for wheels up before first light.”
Staelin wasn’t done yet. “What about the Zero-Three-Hundred team?”
Haney consulted the most recent message he had received. “Finland has agreed to open their airspace. The Zero-Three-Hundred team, along with U.S. aircraft, is being spun up in Sweden right now. But in all likelihood, we’re going to get to Harvath first. If we do, then we pick him up, we get him out, and no one’s the wiser.”
It was a solid plan, but even the most solid of plans could go sideways. “What’s our contingency?”
“I’m working on it,” said Haney. “We should have another satellite on station shortly. Once we get a look at the latest imagery, we’ll be able to make some more decisions. In the meantime, why don’t you grab a piece of floor with everyone else and try to get some shut-eye.”
Staelin knew he’d be no good to Harvath, or anyone else on the team, if he wasn’t at his best, and so he gave in.
But it was more than just being at his best for the team. He didn’t know why, but he had felt apprehensive ever since they entered Russia.
Something told him that he was going to need everything he had to get through this assignment.
CHAPTER 62
* * *
* * *
WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Nicholas and SPEHA Rogers had made the short drive from the Fusion Cell at FBI Headquarters to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue together. This was the first time the little man had been on the White House grounds, much less inside one of its buildings. It was difficult for him not to feel a sense of awe.
President Paul Porter met them in the dining room, just beyond the Oval Office and his personal study, as he was wrapping up his dinner. “Can I get either of you anything?” he asked, knowing how hard they had been working.
“No, thank you,” the pair replied.
“How about some coffee?” he then asked. Before the men had answered, he rang for the steward and placed the request.
They made small talk until the steward arrived. Once he had cleared the President’s dinner dishes and had left the room, they got down to business.
“So how soon until we pick him up?” Porter asked.
“If all goes well,” Nicholas replied, “a few hours. But that’s only half the battle. Then, the team will need to get him back over the border and into Finland.”
“Do we have a plan for that?”
“Yes, sir. Several actually. Per our agreement, the ultimate call will be made in conjunction with the team leader on the ground.”
“Understood. What’s the weather looking like?”
“Not good,” said Nicholas. “It’s going to get rough again. The question is whether we can beat it.”
“When will you know?”
“Unfortunately, not until we’re right up against it. A few minutes on either side might end up making all the difference. We’re going to need to move fast.”
“And you want to run the operation out of the Situation Room downstairs, correct?” asked Porter.
“Yes, sir. As I said, this is going to come down to fast decision-making with only minutes or seconds to spare. We believe it’s critical that it be done here and that you be in attendance.”
“Without question. We’ll set it up.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The President then turned to Rogers. “Now, tell me about this grand fallback plan in case everything goes wrong.”
Rogers cleared his throat and spent the next five minutes laying out his proposal. Porter listened intently, interrupting only a handful of times when he thought his SPEHA was being too vague, or too optimistic. Each time he did, though, he was impressed by the thoroughness of the man’s reply.
When Rogers had finished laying everything out, the President picked up his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair. It was a lot to ponder—especially as it was packed end-to-end with risks, not the least of which was an all-out war between the United States and Russia.
It was also an offer the Russian President might not be able to refuse. When they had gone after Harvath, they realized how valuable he was. What they hadn’t realized was what it would ultimately cost.
Could they crack the diplomatic door enough for the Russian President to save face? If tossed a quiet lifeline, would he take it?
There was no telling. Time and time again, Peshkov took stances and pursued courses that, by all accounts, were completely against Russia’s, as well as his own, self-interest.
And time and again the United States had struck back in
response to his aggression. Yet, in one form or another, the aggression had continued. It was as if the Russian President had a screw loose. But even that was too simple a metaphor.
For years, the brightest minds in U.S. intelligence had been trying to figure him out, and for years they had been continually frustrated. The man simply defied any profile they came up with. He was the enigma of all enigmas.
This time, though, they were trying something different. It was simple, and perhaps, that’s what had been missing in all of their past engagements.
Porter hoped that his visitors were correct, that their plan was as well thought through and airtight as it appeared, because the alternative was almost unthinkable.
“All right,” he said, leaning forward and setting his cup down in its saucer. “We’re going to move forward with this plan. I want to be perfectly clear, though. We all need to be prepared for what happens if it doesn’t work. So, if you’re not fully confident—if there’s some other idea you’ve been holding in reserve—now’s the time to get it on the table. Once we pull the trigger, there’s no putting this bullet back in the gun.”
He paused to let his words sink in. Slowly, he looked at Rogers and then Nicholas. Neither of the men seemed eager to offer any alternative.
“That’s it then,” the President decreed. “Let’s start calling everybody in. In the meantime, I’ll make sure they get you everything you need.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Rogers said as he stood and shook Porter’s hand.
Nicholas followed suit.
As he watched the men leave the room, the President was gripped by a singular thought. What they were about to launch would go down as one of the most courageous rescues in history, or it would be viewed as one of America’s greatest mistakes.
Either way it would be pinned to him and to his legacy. He wouldn’t lose sleep over that, though. That wasn’t why he had accepted this job. He had accepted it because someone needed to be willing to stand up and do the right thing for the nation, no matter what the personal cost. All he cared about was getting Harvath home.