Backlash

by Brad Thor

The presence of the helicopter was a game changer. It also provided a potential opportunity.

  Harvath had less than a minute, thirty seconds at best. The moment the mercenaries triggered his IED, all bets were off.

  Moving as fast as he could, he popped out of the crawl space, flipped up the night vision goggles on his helmet, and leaped to his feet. It was critical that he time his next move precisely.

  Based on the searchlight, he knew exactly where the helicopter was. He made sure to keep the corner of the cabin between him and the snipers. They couldn’t shoot what they didn’t even know was there.

  Already, the fire selector on the battle rifle he had taken from one of the dead Wagner snowmobilers was set to semiauto. Wrapping the sling around his arm for stability, he didn’t need to double-check that the weapons were hot. He had already chambered rounds in all of them.

  The enormous helicopter continued to blast the village with whirling sheets of ice and snow, as its searchlight illuminated Jompá’s cabin with its white-hot beam.

  Harvath had done countless entries over his career. Though he was tempted to stick his head out and see what was going on, he stayed right where he was.

  There was only the front entrance, nothing in back. They would have seen that as they had flown over and before they had rappelled down.

  Right now they’d be lining up in a stack, ready to kick in the door. After which they would charge in, searching the room for threats, their weapons sweeping left and right when . . .

  BOOM.

  The explosion wasn’t the loudest Harvath had ever heard. But it was significant.

  While all attention in the helicopter was on the IED that had just gone off inside Jompá’s house Harvath swung out from behind the corner of the dilapidated cabin facing it and began firing.

  He focused on the helicopter’s searchlight, and it took him a total of four shots to knock it out.

  The instant the light went dark, he swung his barrel and dumped four more of the 7.62x39 rounds into the door area, where there was indeed a sniper.

  After killing the sniper, he shifted to the pilot’s window, fired four additional rounds, and then targeted the bird’s engine with the rest of the ammunition in his mag.

  If Christina was onboard, he prayed that she was strapped in. Having run the weapon dry, he ejected the empty magazine, and pulling a fresh one from his chest rig, rammed it home and cycled the bolt.

  But before he could reengage, the helicopter banked hard away from him. Smoke was billowing from its exhaust and it was losing altitude. Harvath didn’t need to see any more to know the big Mi-8 was going down.

  Snapping his eyes to Jompá’s house, he saw two Wagner mercenaries, each dragging an injured comrade out of the burning cabin.

  He didn’t give his next move a second thought. Taking aim, he pressed his trigger and lit all four of them up.

  Changing magazines, he heard a clap of thunder as the helicopter snapped through the trees of the forest beyond the village and slammed into the ground.

  It was a bad crash, but based on how low the helo had been, he knew it was survivable.

  Disguised in Wagner winter whites and carrying a Wagner-issued weapon, he flipped down the night vision goggles on his helmet and went to finish what they had started. His first stop—Jompá’s.

  As the villagers slowly popped their heads out to see what had happened, Harvath waved them back inside. He didn’t need them making this any more dangerous than it already was.

  Out of the corner of his eye, standing outside one of the cabins, he saw Sini. And she saw him.

  Harvath didn’t need to ask for her help. She understood what was happening. Immediately, she began shouting in Sámi and gesturing for people to get back inside their homes.

  The killing had only just begun.

  CHAPTER 53

  * * *

  * * *

  Slinging his rifle, Harvath pulled the pistol he had taken off the dead snowmobiler and quickly approached Jompá’s cabin.

  The minute he was in range, he head-shot every Wagner mercenary he saw—just to be sure. He wanted to be absolutely certain that they were dead.

  After he drilled the four at the door, he took a quick peek inside. Blood and pieces of flesh from the other two operatives were splattered everywhere. The IED had done its job. Nevertheless, each of the bodies inside received a head-shot as well. Now, he needed to get to the helicopter.

  Taking a quick peek outside to make sure no one was lying in wait, he stepped through the doorway, helped himself to fresh magazines and extra frag grenades from the dead men.

  One of the mercenaries had been carrying two incendiary grenades and Harvath grabbed those as well. They were used for destroying equipment and could burn at four thousand degrees for forty seconds.

  As he had with the snowmobilers back on the trail, he decided against booby-trapping the bodies.

  Shoving everything into his pockets, he left the bodies alone and ran for the snowmobile. Along the way, he picked up his other guns and ammunition. There was no telling what he was going to encounter at the downed chopper.

  After tossing away the branches, he secured his rucksack and equipment, fired up the snowmobile, and took off.

  He had a general idea of where the crash had happened, but didn’t know what the terrain was like or how close he was going to be able to get to it.

  Using his night vision goggles to see by, he kept the headlight turned off. It was bad enough that the loud whine of the engine would give away his approach—he didn’t intend to add a visual beacon on top of it.

  About half a klick into the forest, he began to see light in the distance. It had to be coming from the downed helicopter. He kept going, getting as close as he felt comfortable, then killed the engine and went in the rest of the way on foot.

  The snow, as it was everywhere else in this godforsaken country, was deep and he struggled to push through it. If he never saw a single flake of it again, it would be too soon.

  As he moved, he made sure to take advantage of the natural camouflage of the trees. There was no telling who had survived the crash. Any number of them could be headed his way, or worse, preparing an ambush.

  Every few yards, he stopped and listened. But even as he closed in on the chopper, he didn’t hear anything. It was still—deathly still.

  Cresting a small rise, he saw the helicopter beneath him. It was down in a gulley, lying on its side. All around, the tall pine trees had been snapped like toothpicks. The helo’s rotors had been shorn off and there were pieces of wreckage strewn everywhere. Using a tree for cover, he crouched down. For several moments, he watched and waited.

  No one moved. No one made a sound. He had a bad feeling that Christina might be dead. He wouldn’t know, though, until he got down there.

  Picking the route that provided the most protection, he slowly descended into the gulley.

  It reminded him of an operation he had conducted in Norway, on similar terrain and in similar conditions. There had been an ambush and it had turned into a bloodbath. Gripping his rifle, he kept his eyes open, stopping every few feet to listen.

  The only sounds he heard were the last gasps of the helicopter’s mechanical and electrical systems, punctuated every so often by the hiss of hydraulic fluid as it spat from a severed hose somewhere.

  Once in the gulley, he carefully approached the helo from its nose. Peering through the shattered cockpit windscreen, his AK-15 up and at the ready, he could see the pilot and copilot. They were both dead.

  It was hard to see any deeper inside—some piece of cargo was obstructing the view. He kept moving.

  With the bird lying on its side, the helicopter’s porthole-style windows were pointing either up toward the sky or down toward the ground. He’d have to climb on top of the helo if he wanted to look through the windows. He decided to make a complete loop of the aircraft and quietly slid around to the back.

  The tail had been sheared off coming through the trees an
d tossed somewhere in the woods. From where he stood, he couldn’t see any sign of it, nor its rotor.

  The rear cargo doors, mounted at the back of the fuselage and underneath where the tail had been, were still intact, but badly damaged and partially ajar.

  Harvath didn’t like it. Even though they looked as if they had been forced open because of the crash, he proceeded with caution.

  Sneaking a glance under one of the hinges and not seeing anything, he risked a look around the door itself. There was no one inside—at least not anyone alive.

  Cargo lay scattered everywhere and there was a strong smell of spilled gasoline. Unlike jet fuel, which needed to be aerosolized first, gasoline was highly flammable. The presence of frayed electrical wires, some of which were actively sparking, was bad news.

  Off to the side, he saw multiple jerry cans—likely for the snowmobiles—that had ruptured. What he didn’t see was any sign of Christina. Climbing over and around all the debris, he moved toward the cockpit.

  At the forward doors, wearing harnesses, he found the two Wagner snipers on either side of the chopper. One of them was the one he had been shooting at. Judging by the man’s wounds, he had hit him at least three times. The other looked as if he had died on impact.

  It appeared that Christina hadn’t been brought along after all. That could only mean that they were holding her back in Nivsky. Damn it.

  Shoving the large container aside that had earlier blocked his view, he quickly went through the cabinets near the cockpit. He didn’t want to leave anything behind that could be of value.

  Gathering what few things he had found, he walked them to the rear, tossed them out the cargo doors, and then examined the jerry cans. Most of them were in bad shape.

  Only two of them were salvageable, so, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he picked them up and carried them outside.

  When he did, he saw Christina standing there waiting for him. Next to her was a Sámi man, his face badly beaten. And behind both of them, holding a gun, was a very large Wagner mercenary. Based on the description Christina had given of him earlier, this had to be the one from the bar—the one who was in charge.

  “Hands up,” Teplov said, pointing his gun right at him.

  This time, Harvath didn’t have a pistol hidden under a blanket he could use. There was no choice for him but to comply. Setting the cans down, he did as the man instructed.

  CHAPTER 54

  * * *

  * * *

  SODANKYLÄ, FINLAND

  Tero Hulkkonen, from the Ministry of Defense, had met The Carlton Group jet on the tarmac at Lapland Air Command in Rovaniemi. He had an NH90 tactical transport helicopter, its rotors hot, standing by. As soon as the team had transferred their equipment, they lifted off and headed for the Jaeger Garrison 125 kilometers north-northeast in Sodankylä.

  The helo landed in a heavily fenced area on the far side of the base. It reminded Chase, Sloane, and Staelin of the Delta Force compound at Fort Bragg. In fact, it was the first thing they mentioned when they hopped off the bird and began unloading their gear. Alternatively, the first thing Haney, Morrison, and Barton remarked on was how “fucking cold” it was.

  The base commander, Colonel Jani Laakso, had set them up in a private barracks contiguous to their ops center. Once the team had stowed their gear, they met up with the Colonel and their MoD liaison in one of the op center’s secure conference rooms.

  A few trays of hot food had been brought over from the mess hall. There was coffee and bottled water. None of The Carlton Group members bitched about dietary restrictions. They were professionals and had been trained to show respect to their hosts, especially when forging a relationship. What’s more, they had all been subjected to significantly worse cuisine. Finnish food was absolutely gourmet compared to meals they’d had in places like Somalia, Pakistan, Mozambique, and Yemen.

  Everyone loaded up a plate, grabbed a coffee or water, and sat down at the long wooden table. After their flight, they were wiped out, and not in the mood to do much talking. The team was relieved when a reconnaissance specialist was shown in, the lights were dimmed, and a briefing began on a flatscreen at the front of the room.

  The specialist brought them up to speed on everything the Finns knew about the terrain, Russian capabilities, and continuing efforts to pinpoint Harvath. It was nothing they didn’t already know from their own experience, as well as the work they had done on the plane.

  When the presentation was complete, Colonel Laakso thanked the specialist and then asked if anyone had any questions. There were none.

  The Colonel promised that if there were any developments, someone would come get the team leader, whom the team members had all agreed on the plane would be Haney.

  They thanked the Colonel for his hospitality and, as he and the specialist left the room, Hulkkonen from the Ministry of Defense took over.

  He had just finished reading a message on his phone, and now tucked the device into his pocket. “So, the position of the Finnish government, and thereby the Finnish Defense Forces, remains that we can help you up to the border, but we cannot violate sovereign Russian territory.”

  “We wish your position was different,” Haney replied, “but we understand and we appreciate any and all assistance you can give us. Obviously, our one and only goal is to get our teammate safely home.”

  “Have you had any updates?” Hulkkonen asked. “Any more specific idea as to what route he is traveling, other than west from Nivsky?”

  Haney shook his head. “Not yet. We’re hopeful, though, that we’ll have something soon.”

  “Us, too. In the meantime, here’s the plan. You try to get some rest. At 0600, we’ll serve breakfast in this room while we conduct another briefing. Then, we’ll go over potential mission parameters and get you outfitted with cold weather gear, skis, and whatever else you may need.”

  “And after that?”

  “We plan to move you up to one of our border outposts. There’s a ‘hole’ of sorts that the Russians are unaware of. It will allow you to get across the border without raising any alarm.”

  “The plan is for us to ski eighty klicks into Russia?” Staelin asked, a bit taken aback.

  “No, not the full eighty. I’m working out the details now. I’ll have more for you by tomorrow.”

  “What about access to Finnish airspace? If we want to HALO a team in?” Haney asked, referring to a High Altitude Low Opening parachute jump and thinking about the Zero-Three-Hundred team on deck at the Luleå Air Base in northern Sweden.

  “That request is looking better. I haven’t heard of any final approval yet, but from what I understand, as long as your aircraft remains within our airspace, we do not have a problem with that. This is a ‘downed pilot’ exercise, so it would be natural to rehearse airborne reconnaissance.

  “If, during this rehearsal, a door opened and ‘items’ were separated from the aircraft, we’d prefer not to know about it. Does that sound fair to you?”

  “Very,” Haney replied.

  “Okay, then. I will be staying here on base as well and will see you all at 0600. If you need anything in the meantime, you have my cell phone number.”

  They said good night to Hulkkonen and, after finishing their food, shuffled back to the barracks.

  The building was divided into a series of rooms with private bathrooms. As the lone female on the team, Sloane got her own. The rest had to double up. Not a single person bitched. Not only was there central heating and indoor plumbing, they all knew that Harvath was having a much rougher night.

  Haney encouraged everyone to grab a shower and get to bed. While he waited his turn, he typed out a quick SITREP and sent it to Nicholas back in the United States. There wasn’t much to report, but it was a policy the Old Man had set himself. Even if there was no news, he still wanted to regularly hear from his people in the field. And if you failed to report in, there had better be a damn good reason for it, or there was going to be hell to pay. As a result, the
y all had become compulsive report writers.

  The word “compulsive” was exactly what sprang to Haney’s mind as Barton exited the bathroom in a towel and a pair of flip-flops.

  “You remembered to bring shower shoes?” he asked.

  “You didn’t?” replied the former SEAL, shaking his head.

  Haney had pounded so much ground as a Marine that his feet resembled a Hobbit’s. He wasn’t concerned.

  Powering down his laptop, he grabbed his dopp kit and headed for the shower.

  Once in the bathroom, he closed the door and got undressed. Pulling back the curtain, he saw the shower was not only spotless, but had a head that could be adjusted to pulse and give you a massage.

  Haney turned on the hot water full blast, but then changed his mind. Out of a sense of solidarity with Harvath, he flipped the temperature selector to cold.

  It was good not to get too comfortable in the field. That’s when complacency set in.

  Freezing his ass off, Haney took one of the shortest showers of his life. It reminded him of how bitterly cold it was outside and what Harvath was going through right at this very moment.

  When he hit his bunk, he was thankful for the blanket, which he pulled up tight under his chin.

  Before he drifted off to sleep, he said a prayer for Harvath. He vowed that if God would keep him alive, he and the rest of the team would do everything it took to get him out.

  It wasn’t the first time Haney had made a deal with God. Often, in his life, there was blood, bullets, or both, but God had never let him down. And he didn’t believe that God would this time either. The only thing he needed was a sign.

  CHAPTER 55

  * * *

  * * *

  The “sign” came a few hours later when Haney’s encrypted cell phone awoke him. He knew who it was just by the ring. They all had ringtones for each other. Partly as a joke, but partly because he respected him as one “bad motherfucker,” his ringtone for Nicholas was the theme song from Shaft.