by Tom Clancy
The Americans wanted her because she was a former member of the Glavnoje Razvedyvatel’noje Upravlenije (GRU) and could open up the Russian Federation’s entire intelligence community like a can of tuna.
The Euros wanted her for the same reason, and the Russians wanted her dead for screwing them over when they had tried to invade Canada to seize the oil sands. Plus, they didn’t want her puking up all their secrets to their enemies.
She smiled bitterly. It was, after all, nice to be popular. Where the hell was he? She dared not peek around the corner. He was waiting. So would she.
The Snow Maiden had come to France, risky though it was, to wish her cousin Andrei Eskov good luck with his final stage of the Tour de France. Andrei was riding for Katusha, the Russian Federation cycling team, and he was currently wearing the yellow jersey after twenty days of brutal racing, but his lead was only forty-three seconds, so there was a chance he would win the entire tour… or lose it. She had always had a fond place in her heart for Andrei, who as far back as she could remember loved to ride his bike up the hillside roads overlooking Vladivostok. Twice he had taken her on spectacular rides, experiences she would never forget.
After a brief and somewhat tearful dinner together at the team’s hotel restaurant, she had slipped off and returned to her own hotel. At about midnight, she hailed a cab for the airport. Before she could get out of town, another car had followed, she’d been attacked, her driver killed, and now she was on the run.
Her pursuer couldn’t wait anymore and finally rounded the corner, his footfalls light, his breath audible.
She could even smell him — a faint mixture of cigarette smoke and leather.
In one fluid stroke, she buried the blade in his abdomen while simultaneously relieving him of his pistol with attached suppressor. He gasped and fell back against the wall, his breath reeking even more now. She tore off his woolen balaclava to reveal a blond-haired man, perhaps only eighteen or twenty.
“Who sent you?” she asked him in French. “You’ll die anyway. Just tell me.”
He cursed at her in Russian.
She grabbed the hilt of the knife still jutting from his abdomen, gritted her teeth, and drove it deeper into him. He gasped and clutched her hand.
She put the gun to his head. “Did Izotov send you? Are you working with Haussler?”
Before he could answer, a shot tore into the brick wall just over his shoulder.
With a start, she spun — just as another round sent a piece of the wall tumbling onto her back. She flinched, squinted against the shower of debris, and tried to steal a look at her attacker.
He was across the alley, but she only caught a glimpse before he ducked back behind the wall. He had cover. She was in the open.
Time to run. She yanked free her blade, used the guy’s shoulder to close it, then raced away.
The cobblestones beneath her boots threatened to send her tumbling if she wasn’t careful. Her ankle twisted slightly as she reached the end of the alley and turned right, heading down a broader street lined by dark storefronts. She kept low and repeatedly glanced over her shoulder.
Napoleon had fought one of his epic battles in Montereau-Fault-Yonne, and so it seemed she, too, might engage in a battle to the death. She had never imagined herself dying on the streets of a small French town. She’d always assumed the Russian government would catch up to her, throw her in a Siberian prison, torture her for months, and then, one night, her cell would fill with light, and there would be Nikolai, standing there, welcoming her to heaven. They would be together, finally… and forever.
Before their marriage he’d been assigned to treat the workers cleaning up the 70-MWe and 90-MWe pressurized-water training reactors in Paldiski, Estonia. He had been fresh out of medical school and had attended to her own brother Dimitri, who had suffered radiation poisoning while constructing the two-story concrete sarcophagus that now encased the two reactors. Officials and administrators had been grossly negligent, and the Snow Maiden had lost her brother first… her husband two years later, a delayed victim of the contamination.
At the moment Nikolai died, the true Snow Maiden had been born.
While standing at Nikolai’s funeral, she had vowed revenge. She’d kept her husband’s name to honor his work in the service of others and had set her sights on the GRU, the organization with the most power and freedom to move throughout the country and exact her revenge where and when she could. But first she would work her icy tendrils throughout the entire organization so that she could eventually choke them once and for all.
Thus, she clambered her way up the intelligence ladder with a vengeance, becoming one of the most effective and lethal officers the GRU had ever fielded. Her martial arts skills and marksmanship were awe-inspiring, as evidenced by the looks on her colleagues’ faces when she competed against them. Her reputation grew, and she was eventually recruited by General Sergei Izotov himself to work missions on behalf of the director and the president.
She’d been asked to work alongside another man, Colonel Pavel Doletskaya, and together they had coordinated several attacks on selected European Federation targets, mostly information gathering and a few assassinations.
On the day she’d been promoted to colonel, she’d been called into Director Izotov’s office, where he’d told her she was one of the most brilliant and trusted GRU officers in the history of the organization.
That remark was met by her shrug. “Is there something you need, sir?”
He’d gone on to say that a security leak involving Doletskaya had been exposed and that the Euros had alerted the Americans. Izotov needed her to go underground by staging her own death with the GRU’s help. She would need to erase herself from the organization — all in the name of restoring the motherland to greatness.
Would she take the mission? Of course. By going underground she could more efficiently destroy the entire Russian Federation. They’d helped her set the fire in her apartment, plant the body, and even Doletskaya, with whom she’d been having an affair, was not privy to the plan. Izotov became her mentor from that point on, a father figure… and even a lover for a short time, though none of these men could ever replace Nikolai.
As part of her new mission, she’d forged a relationship with the Green Brigade Transnational because the Russians liked to use them as fall guys for certain operations against Europe and the United States. It was painfully simple to set up these fools, and they enjoyed claiming responsibility for acts that were, in truth, perpetrated by Russian or Russian-backed forces.
She had even made Izotov believe to the bitter end that she was with them, until she was able to blackmail him and the rest of the federation with some nukes in Canada. But then her other brother, Mikhail, had gone down with his submarine, Romanov, before he was able to help. That her plan had fallen apart didn’t matter. She was still free and still working for her new employers, whose goals were similar to her own. There was, however, no rest for the weary, no walking without checking your back.
The Snow Maiden learned that Izotov had hired Heinrich Haussler, agent of the Bundesnachrichtendienst (the German Federal Intelligence Service), to capture her, since most of their own best spies had failed (and been killed by her). Haussler was a double agent, and the Snow Maiden knew him well. If anyone could capture her, it was probably him. He was a crafty bastard who made few mistakes, so she was beginning to believe that these fools after her now were not working for him. The attack was too sloppy.
She dropped into the next alcove, finding herself huddled against the closed door of a bakery, and removed the small infrared camera from her coat pocket. She carried the credit-card-sized device wherever she went. Point and click and you had a picture of your environment with the heat sources illuminated. Forward-looking infrared radar in your pocket.
The second man was coming straight down the road, toward her, and she had to gamble that he hadn’t seen her duck out of sight.
She pocketed the camera, waited, heard his f
ootfalls grow louder, then braced herself.
Just as he passed, she balanced herself on one hand, slid out her right leg, swung it around, and made contact with his ankles, her leg like a blade cutting him down.
As he dropped, she reached up and put a round in his gluteus maximus. He screamed, landed on his gut, and was about to roll over and fire when she dropped the gun, and, with both hands pushed up, she leapt on him, knocking him onto his back and latching both hands onto his wrist to release his weapon. She dug her nails into his skin and quickly pried free his gun, which clattered to the sidewalk. She shoved him back, grabbed the second gun, and trained it on him.
In Russian, she asked, “How is Vox these days? Or should I ask, who is Vox these days?”
The guy was panting through his balaclava. She tore it off and sighed.
She knew this guy. He wasn’t working for Haussler. His name was Thor, and he was a member of the Green Brigade Transnational.
The attack might have been sloppy, but they’d come dangerously close and were getting better. She’d no idea they were on her back, and perhaps she was the one getting sloppy. How the hell had they found her? Haussler had contacts, resources… what did they have—
Unless Izotov had also employed them to catch her and they had access to the GRU’s databases? This development wasn’t good. Not good at all.
The guy raised his hands. “Nice girl,” he purred in Russian.
She put a bullet between his eyes. His head bounced off the pavement. She stood, stole a look around the street, then hustled off toward the taxi.
Within two minutes she reached the still-idling vehicle, tore the dead driver out of his seat, hopped in, and was about to throw the car in gear when her phone rang. She checked the screen: It was Patti. She had to take it. They spoke in English.
“Can I call you back?” she asked.
“You have two minutes.”
“I’ve got a little problem right now.”
“So do we. Two minutes.”
She hung up and drove off, eventually heading north up Quai des Bordes along the river. She would continue northwest toward the airport.
Dr. Merpati “Patti” Sukarnoputri was an Indonesian physician and deputy director-general of the World Health Organization, United Nations, Geneva.
Patti was also a member of the Ganjin (pronounced gahn-jeen), the group that now employed the Snow Maiden.
Much of the Snow Maiden’s knowledge of the Ganjin was sketchy, and her efforts to learn more about the group drew serious threats. She had concluded, though, that they were composed of a handful of academics and business professionals whose primary goal was to manipulate the superior powers during this time of war in an effort to benefit the People’s Republic of China. Whether the Chinese government was aware of or endorsed their efforts remained to be seen, but the Ganjin paid the Snow Maiden quite handsomely so that by the time she was forty she would never have to work again. She would get out of the espionage business. She would continue donating money to cancer research and work with children afflicted with the disease. But she would not do this until she saw the federation — and all of its evil — seize up like an old man in cardiac arrest and then… flatline.
Once she was on the highway, she returned Patti’s call. Security protocols were in place, and consequently, Patti was the only member of the Ganjin that the Snow Maiden had ever met. Patti was in her fifties and a cunning career woman who never appreciated the Snow Maiden’s sarcasm.
“That was a minute and forty-seven seconds,” the Snow Maiden said after Patti answered her phone. “Fast enough? Or am I fired?”
“Shut up and listen to me. I’ll be at the airport waiting for you. I’ll tell you where when you arrive.”
* * *
They met at a Starbucks inside the main terminal. The Snow Maiden ordered a pumpkin spice frappuccino and told the cashier that Patti would pay for it.
The Snow Maiden always received her mission orders in person, and that was fine by her. Electronic listening and tracking devices had become so complicated that she never knew who was watching or listening. Nanobot technology had developed rapidly in the past decade, and it only took a light dusting for an enemy to be able to track her wherever she went. Countermeasures were necessary, and so they’d both gone into the ladies’ room and “dusted off” before speaking.
“It’s all on here,” Patti said, handing the Snow Maiden a smartphone whose screen displayed a picture of an Indian man who resembled a professor or business professional.
“Who’s this guy?”
“Manoj Chopra. He’s a banker, a finance manager, a genius with investments. He was working for the royal family of Dubai before the war began. One of our people in Italy was tipped off to a transaction involving one of Dubai’s sovereign wealth funds. We’d thought no one had access to them. The funds had been lying dormant since the bombs, but this recent activity has sparked interest.”
“You want me to kill him?”
“Of course not. He’ll get us into Dubai’s vaults. Intel we were gathering before the war indicated Dubai was beginning to stockpile oil reserves. The locations of those secret reserves, along with the country’s gold — and the gold of several other nations from the region — will be in one of those subterranean vaults, and Chopra is our key.”
“You’re positive he can get you in there?”
“He was one of the most trusted confidants of the royal family. He can get us in.”
“All right, then. It’s a simple kidnapping. Don’t you have anything more interesting?”
“That’s rather amusing coming from someone who almost lost her life because of carelessness.”
The Snow Maiden smirked. “If you guys were watching me, why didn’t you help?”
“We don’t like to interfere. You know that. You’re merely a subcontractor, but we’ve put a lot of faith in you, and your work thus far has been exemplary. I hope you’re not too preoccupied.”
She tensed. “Chopra’s location is in here?” she asked, lifting the smartphone.
Patti nodded.
The Snow Maiden rose. “Then thanks for the drink. I’ll call you when I have him.”
THREE
The Liberator Sports Bar and Grill
Near Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Brent sat alone in a corner booth, sipping his draft beer and absently eyeing the flat screens suspended from the ceiling. Several football games, a car race, and a European soccer game barely earned his interest. The Liberator was a requisite hangout for Special Forces guys and those considered a step up from them — the men and women of Ghost Recon, an elite and highly classified group of warriors handpicked from the Special Forces ranks. Ghost Recon soldiers were issued the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art technology, and it was a great honor to be selected for such an organization — even though you couldn’t tell anyone about it, because the Ghosts didn’t exist.
From 2016 on the day the nukes dropped to mid-2020, Brent had fought with various Special Forces teams, even traveling up to Canada to fight against invading Russian forces. His work there had gained him the attention of Ghost Recon’s leadership, and, after dragging himself through an intense qualifications process and course, he’d been selected to train and lead a new Ghost Recon team.
But that glory was short-lived.
He and his new group had run a couple of small missions in Pakistan that had gone south because Brent was too used to fighting by the seat of his pants instead of sticking rigidly to a plan. He’d had that freedom in the regular Special Forces, and he wasn’t always compelled to keep everyone in the communications loop, but the Ghosts were much more hardcore about their operations, not blindly following orders but executing them with surgical precision and with full disclosure and accountability on the battlefield. His newbie team had run a simple intelligence-gathering operation in the country of Georgia, and that, too, had wound up in the toilet because Brent had second-guessed the plan and had jumped the gun on the op
eration. He’d also failed to properly communicate with his superiors. Some things were better left in the field, and sometimes his superiors didn’t need to see the uglier side of an operation. Unfortunately, the Ghosts’ equipment had higher-ups breathing down Brent’s neck 24/7, which really unnerved him, and he sometimes took out his frustration on his people.
As a consequence, Brent went through team members the way he went through beer, some requesting transfers, others simply getting dropped by him. Recent rumors had it that guys who couldn’t hack it on other Ghost teams were being busted down and collected into a group of misfits to be led by Brent. They would get all the crap jobs like guarding oil tankers, or they’d get some of the most dangerous but least important jobs — since they were the most expendable group in the unit. They would act as “bait” while the other teams swept in and stole the glory. Ironically, even the military’s most elite still had its bottom of the barrel, and though the Ghosts’ least capable operators were arguably ten times more lethal than the average Joe, Brent’s colleagues would never let him live down his mistakes and weaknesses.
And speaking of one such devil, “Schoolie,” a master sergeant with no neck and a complexion as scarred as a crushed beer can, ambled over to Brent’s table. They called him “Schoolie” because he dreamed of becoming a professor at the U.S. Army War College. Trouble was, he was too inept to ever get his degrees. He was an excellent warrior but more of a kinesthetic guy who did much better with physical tasks than mental ones.
The drunken oaf shook his head at Brent. “I know why you’re sitting alone.”
Brent just looked at him.
“They hate you,” Schoolie went on. “You’ve put ’em back through Robin Sage like they were noobs. You’re talking trash to them. So they hate you.”
Brent took a long pull on his beer and thought about that. He had forced his entire team to go back through the Army’s hellish and grueling Robin Sage training exercise, normally reserved for Special Forces candidates, not seasoned Ghost Recon warriors. Being forced to go back through the training was humiliating enough, but Brent had deemed it important and necessary because his current group was suffering from a severe lack of morale. He’d hoped that returning to the course might rekindle some of their “beginner spirit” in regard to combat operations. He’d been mistaken. His team had resented the training, though they were respectful enough to keep those feelings to themselves; however, their expressions said it all.