by Brad Thor
“You won’t know until you get there.”
Eyeballing the search area again, the mercenary replied, “If that’s your haystack, I’m going to need a lot more men.”
“Our biggest problem has been the weather. All aircraft have been grounded, but now the storm is beginning to pass. We expect the search to start within the next couple of hours. Once the plane has been located, you and your men will be sent in.
“Your job is to ascertain the situation on the ground, report everything back to me, and then await further instructions.”
Teplov nodded as he skimmed through Harvath’s file. “Out of curiosity, who was accompanying the prisoner?”
“A four-man GRU Spetsnaz team.”
“Led by whom?”
“Kozak.”
The mercenary looked up from the file. “Josef Kozak?”
Minayev nodded. He knew that the two had not only served together but were also good friends. In fact, it was a rather poorly kept secret that when Teplov had started Wagner, he had done all he could to woo Josef away from the GRU to come work for him. “I’m sorry,” the General offered.
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “Josef Kozak is one of the toughest, meanest bastards I have ever known. You don’t write off a man like that without a corpse. Trust me.”
Minayev agreed. Josef was one of his best operatives. The chances, though, of surviving a crash, much less the brutal conditions in the Oblast, weren’t very high. “I have two helicopters standing by—Arctic Mi-8s. One will be for cargo, the other for personnel. As soon as we get word, I want you and your team in the air. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no matter what you encounter on scene, there is only one objective: Harvath. Everything and everyone else is secondary. If he’s alive, bring him back alive. If he’s dead, I want the body. Is that clear?”
“Completely.”
Minayev paused to make sure he had the mercenary’s undivided attention. He even addressed him by his call sign. “Understand me, Wagner. There is absolutely no room for error. When you reach for a tool, it had better be a scalpel and not a fucking hammer. This isn’t Syria, Ukraine, or Venezuela, where you’re being sent in to spill blood and break things. This is Russia, and this assignment is a national security imperative. Work quickly, work quietly, and above all else, do not fail. Because if you do, I personally guarantee that it’s the last thing you will ever do.”
CHAPTER 25
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MURMANSK OBLAST
First light found Harvath fed, dressed, and caffeinated. After his breakfast of potatoes, he had indulged himself in a cup of coffee before putting on all of the dead trapper’s outerwear. The clothing was snug, but warm.
Outside, it was still windy and snowing, but less so than before. Visibility was improving.
Harvath had walked only a few feet from the cabin when he began to make out the contours of another structure set farther back. From it, he could hear a faint rattling that resembled wind chimes.
He was careful to maintain his bearings. If the weather took a turn, he didn’t want to lose his way back. His survival training had been replete with tales of people who had gotten lost in the snow, only to freeze to death feet away from their shelters.
The drifts were deep and difficult to trek through. It was hard to know how much had fallen since he had arrived, but it had to have been several feet.
As he neared the structure, he could finally take it all in. It was more a shed than anything else. Long, narrow, and leaning to one side, it was constructed of the same wooden planks as the cabin.
Hung from the roofline at the front were strings of bleached-white bones and broken antlers. The wind banged them into each other, like some sort of haunted xylophone.
The rough-hewn double doors were unlocked. Pushing one open, he ducked beneath the low frame and stepped inside. Just as he had suspected, it was the trapper’s workshop.
It was cluttered with junk, the floor stained with blood. Even in the deep cold, the space smelled earthy and stale.
In addition to a small cast-iron stove, there were two workbenches, one under each of the shed’s dirty windows. Upon them were all manner of tools, traps, and skinning accessories. Underneath were crates and boxes. A pile of animal pelts sat stacked in the corner.
Harvath took out the old flashlight he’d found in the cabin and began searching the place in earnest.
Halfway through, hanging on a peg, he made an incredible discovery—snowmobile keys. He didn’t waste any more time in the shed. If there was a snowmobile somewhere outside, he didn’t want to wait to find it.
Tucking the keys into his pocket, he put the fur mittens back on and stepped back outside.
Next to the shed was a lean-to. It was nothing more than an additional piece of roofing supported by poles. It was open to the elements and a large drift had piled up beneath it. Harvath began scooping away the snow, most of which was powder.
A couple of moments later, he hit a blue plastic tarp. Working the edges, he kept digging until he had removed enough of the snow to peel it back. Underneath was the trapper’s sled—a Finnish brand of utility snowmobile known as a Lynx Yeti.
After fully removing the tarp, he straddled the machine and unscrewed its gas cap. He rocked the sled from side to side and listened to the fuel sloshing around inside. It sounded like about half a tank, maybe less. Replacing the cap, he made sure the kill switch was engaged, inserted the key, and attempted to turn it over.
Snowmobile technology had come a long way. The Yeti had a four-stroke engine with grip-warmers, a two-speed gearbox—which included reverse—a twelve-volt power outlet, and an electric starter. Unlike sleds of old, there was no pull cord.
Under optimal circumstances, push-button starters were a breeze. When circumstances were less than optimal, though, you started having problems.
No matter what Harvath did, he couldn’t get the machine to start. In fact, he couldn’t get any signs of life out of it whatsoever.
Opening the front housing, he made sure nothing was missing and that everything was connected. It all looked good. The only thing he could think of was that the battery was either too cold or was completely out of juice. As with the body of the dead trapper, there was no telling how long the snowmobile had been sitting here.
Removing the battery, he took it back to the cabin to warm up, and then returned to the workshop to continue his search.
The effort turned out to be more fruitful than he had hoped. Hidden in all the junk were some real finds. In addition to spools of wire for snare traps, there was a container of smoked bear meat, a pair of old wooden snowshoes, and a small, plastic bin containing electronics.
Popping the lid, he removed a small Russian GPS device, a portable battery booster, a flexible, portable solar panel, and several different cords.
He tried to power on the GPS, but it was dead. The battery booster was dead, too. Taking a look out the window, he tried to ascertain how much power he’d be able to pull with the panel. Probably not much, but it was worth a try.
Before leaving the shed, he used what wood was available to start a small fire in the cast-iron stove. He needed it good and warm inside for his plan to work.
Returning to the cabin, he set up the solar panel outside, facing south. Then, running its cable back through the window, he attached it to the portable battery booster. Whether it would work or not, only time would tell.
He put another log on the fire and then went back to the shed. Under the lean-to, behind the snowmobile, was a woodpile. He made three trips.
Once he had a good stack next to the stove, he used the trapper’s axe to split the logs into small enough pieces that they would fit inside.
That was the easy part. Now he turned himself to the hard part, dragging the snowmobile into the shed.
If the trapper owned a shovel, Harvath couldn’t find it. He looked everywhere, but there
was no sign of one.
Alternating between a decrepit Russian broom and a splintered piece of plank, he cut a path through the deep snow. It was a colossal pain in the ass.
His body was already aching from everything he had been through. More exertion only made it worse.
Dragging the sled was something straight out of the Labors of Hercules. The fucking thing just didn’t want to move.
He talked nicely to it. He talked dirty to it. He threatened it, cajoled it, and made it wild promises. He picked it up in back and dropped it. He picked it up in front and dropped it. Hitting it in the middle, he rocked it from side to side.
Then, all of a sudden, it slowly started to move.
The burn of snowshoeing had nothing on dragging the Yeti. Whereas that burn had been largely confined to his legs and hips, now everything was on fire, including his arms and especially his back. It was like doing all of his least favorite gym exercises—squats, rows, deadlifts—all at the same time.
With each pull on the snowmobile, he let out a loud grunt, then paused, sucked in another breath of freezing-cold air, and repeated the process all over again.
His progress was painfully slow, but inch by muscle-searing inch he got the sled to where he wanted it to be.
At the entrance to the shed, he allowed himself a moment to sit and rest. As soon as the voice in his head suggested he close his eyes for a few seconds, he got back to his feet. Throwing open both doors, he dragged the snowmobile the rest of the way into the shed.
He pulled it as close as he could to the stove and then gave up. “That’s as far as I’m willing to go on the first date,” he said, closing the doors and walking back to stoke the fire.
Having been exposed to a possibly long bout of extreme cold, the Yeti could have other problems beyond a dead battery. But getting the sled warmed up would make it that much easier to start.
As he loaded more wood into the stove, he wondered how visible the smoke was from its stack. With the weather starting to lift, the Russians would be itching to get search planes into the air. He was still way too close to the wreckage for comfort.
The one thing he had going for him, though, was that the storm had erased his tracks. There was no way they’d be able to track him. They’d have to send men in every single direction.
It seemed highly unlikely, but until a few days ago, so did the idea of the Russians kidnapping him on U.S. soil.
Closing the stove door, he remembered the blue tarp outside. Perhaps wood smoke wouldn’t be noticeable, but a bright blue sheet of plastic had a good chance of catching a pilot’s attention.
Exiting the shed, he walked around to the side and gathered up the tarp. It was there that he noticed something sticking out of the snow right next to the woodpile, something he hadn’t seen earlier because he was so focused on the sled. The trapper did have a stash of vodka after all.
He bent down and pulled one of the bottles from the drift. It was a cheap Siberian vodka from Surgut, but it was still vodka.
First a snowmobile, now booze. If the GPS was operable, he had hit the better-to-be-lucky-than-good Triple Crown. But if his years in the field had taught him anything, it was that things usually got worse, often much worse, before they ever got better.
CHAPTER 26
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Bouncing back and forth between the shed and the cabin wasn’t very efficient, but both fires needed to be tended. Unfortunately, even with the cast-iron stove going full blast, the poorly insulated workshop remained drafty and quite cold. So cold, in fact, that Harvath was concerned about whether he could sufficiently warm the snowmobile. Without taking it apart, there was no way of knowing what if any damage had been caused by the extreme arctic air.
The battery, though, seemed to be doing better. Resting near but not too near the fireplace, its temperature had greatly improved.
Outside, the sun had grown more visible as the storm died and the clouds began breaking up. That meant good news for the solar panel. Though all it needed was daylight, direct sunlight packed the biggest punch.
Not wanting to drain a moment of energy from the booster pack, he resisted the urge to turn it on and check its meter. He figured, at best, he was going to get one shot with it. The challenge was to pick his moment. If he tried too soon, he could blow all his gains. But if he waited too long, he was going to lose precious time.
Once search aircraft were airborne, their number-one goal would be to find the crash site. As soon as the site was located, a rescue team would be launched. But until the Russians had done a thorough search of the wreckage and the surrounding area, no one would be looking for him. That meant he had time; the only question was how much.
The other person they’d be looking for was Josef. For all he knew, the man was lying dead only a few hundred yards from the plane. Not that it mattered. One man or two, the search was going to be intense. Of that, he was positive.
On his first trip back to the cabin, he had downed several cups of melted water from the pail. Shoveling snow and dragging a snowmobile, he had worked up a powerful thirst. He had also worked up a powerful appetite.
Slicing up some of the bear meat, he placed it in the saucepan with a can of carrots and some more water. It wouldn’t be the best meal he had ever eaten, but he had eaten worse—much worse.
Placing the saucepan near the fire to heat, he got to work loading up the gear he’d be taking with him. It didn’t take long, as there wasn’t much to pack. Everything went into a sturdy canvas rucksack he had discovered in the workshop.
After zipping over to the shed to check on the fire there, he returned to the cabin, tested his “stew,” and decided to pour himself a drink.
Among the kitchen items he had found was a small etched glass. No doubt the trapper had used it for the same purpose Harvath was now. Unscrewing the cap, he filled it with ice-cold vodka.
The spirit burned going down, but it was followed by a numbing warmth that quickly spread to the rest of his body. The vodka was the closest thing he’d had to a painkiller since popping the two Russian aspirins back at the wreckage.
He was covered in bruises and lacerations from the beatings he had taken. For the most part, he had been able to ignore the pain. It was when he sat down to rest that it was inescapable. The vodka, though, helped, and he poured himself another glass.
Two would have to be the limit. He was still in extreme danger. Deadening his senses any further would have been a big mistake.
Alcohol was also a depressant, and the only thing that came racing back into his moments of rest more acutely than his physical pain was his anguish.
One drink was bad enough. Two, though, and his walls would start to lower. Abetted by any more vodka, he knew it was a steep, slippery slope into a dark, emotional pit. The luxury of guilt and self-loathing was a gift he’d give himself once he made it out of Russia—and only after he gave Lara, Lydia, and the Old Man the gift of revenge.
Sipping on the second vodka, his listened to the logs crackle in the fireplace. It was a sound that often put him at ease, something he associated with home. But not here. Every snap, every hiss and pop of the wood was amplified, a reminder that sand was slipping through the hourglass.
For someone experienced in making life-or-death decisions in the heat of battle, the indecision about when to attempt his escape was an almost unbearable weight. The snowmobile, the solar charger, and the GPS unit had been strokes of unbelievably good fortune, but only if he used them successfully. If he fucked this up, he deserved whatever happened next.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it out. That kind of thinking, fueled by his pain and exhaustion, would get him killed. He needed to stay focused. Small achievements. Small victories.
Crossing to the fireplace, he stirred the contents of the saucepan and reminded himself of every positive thing that had happened. Even after he lost everything in the river, there had been more waiting for him on the other side.
The trapper and his cabin had offered up a shotgun, dry clothes, food, and a snowmobile with the potential to get him to the Finnish border. Though it presented its own set of challenges, his situation was unquestionably better now than it had been when he had first set off from the wreckage. He was going to make it, but only if he kept his head straight. The only easy day was yesterday, he reminded himself.
Removing his bear meat stew from the fire, he set it aside to cool and checked the temperature of the battery. Not that it would have made any difference, but it would have been nice to know how long it had been since its last charge. When your mind was fighting to remain positive, chalking up items in the good news column was like piling up gold in a vault.
As he prepared to eat, he drained the vodka from his glass and set the bottle outside the door in the snow. Even though he had an almost iron will, he didn’t want the temptation. Out of sight, out of mind—at least for now.
The older the bear, the gamier the meat. With his first bite, he could tell he was in old-age territory. There were a lot of ingredients that might have improved the taste—Worcestershire sauce, balsamic vinegar, even orange juice—none of which he had. But instead of focusing on the terrible taste, he tried to remain grateful for the nourishment and focus on what his next steps were going to be.
The snowmobile didn’t have a full tank of gas, but he had found one jerry can of reserve. Unless there were others he had missed, it had to be enough fuel to get the trapper to civilization. If he could get the sled started, and with it the GPS, he hoped to definitively answer the question.
But civilization didn’t mean redemption. Civilization represented opportunity. Depending on how far it was to Finland, he could either revert to his original idea of stealing a car, or, if he could handle the prolonged cold, steal enough gas to get him to the border. Either way, fuel was going to be an issue.
Driving up to a gas station was out of the question. It didn’t matter that one of the things not lost in the river was the currency he had taken off the dead Spetsnaz operatives. He had to avoid all interactions. It took only one grocery store clerk, one hotel manager, or one gas station attendant to blow the whistle on him. His SERE trainers had been adamant: Only mix with locals as an absolute last resort. And when you do, don’t mix, but rather disappear among them.