Backlash

by Brad Thor

  * * *

  In the SEAL teams, Harvath had had a good buddy from Texas. On a long deployment, when they were mind-numbingly bored, he had made the mistake of asking him what he thought the greatest state in the union was. He should have known what the man’s answer would be.

  The SEAL held forth for well over an hour about how Texas, hands down, was the greatest state in the Union.

  Texans were a special breed. In fact, they were some of the toughest warriors Harvath had ever encountered. As a glutton for punishment, Harvath had followed up by asking his friend what he thought the second-greatest state in the union was. The answer had surprised him.

  “Tennessee,” the SEAL said.

  “Why?” Harvath had asked.

  “Because if it wasn’t for Tennessee there’d be no Davy Crockett and if it wasn’t for Davy Crockett, there’d be no Texas.”

  Crockett, of course, had been part of the Texas Revolution and had been killed by Mexican troops at the Battle of the Alamo.

  A student of military history, Harvath had always wondered what it must have been like to have been at the Alamo, to have been completely surrounded, and to have fought against such overwhelming odds.

  He assumed it must have been akin to the three hundred Spartans who had held back the Persian army at the Gates of Thermopylae, or even the Allied forces that had landed on the beaches of Normandy and had pushed the Nazis all the way back to their downfall in Berlin.

  The point was that some of the most important battles in history had been won not by those with the greatest number of troops, but rather those with the largest commitment to winning the fight.

  And now, low on ammunition and sitting in what was shaping up to be his own Alamo, Harvath was determined to show the same commitment.

  The overhang above them made it impossible to see who or what was coming downhill. Only when they pressed themselves against the rocks to either side could they even grab a partial glimpse of what was happening. And, if anyone ran up toward them from below, they were completely exposed and vulnerable.

  Having warned Christina that the mercenaries were incoming, he picked up his rifle and made ready.

  As he had done earlier, he once again did the math. Four dead Wagner operatives at the sleds meant there could be ten left—eight if they had maintained their two snipers aboard the helicopter.

  Either way, those were bad odds and Harvath knew it. It was also the kind of battle a true warrior wished for. Only against an overwhelming force could you ever really prove that you had what it took.

  The one thing about Harvath, though, was that no matter how many times he had proved it, he always felt as if he had to prove it again.

  Maybe it was a hangover from his SEAL father, who never seemed happy with anything he had done. Maybe it was something else.

  Maybe, like his father, Harvath was always trying to push himself just a bit further than anyone else was willing or able to go.

  Whatever the answer, it didn’t seem to matter much as he saw the first mercenary approach and he readied his rifle. Then, when the shot presented itself, he took it. And the moment he did, everything around them exploded.

  The Wagner mercenaries had done an excellent job figuring out exactly where he and Christina were taking cover. As their rounds slammed into the overhang and the large rocks that acted as its wings, sharp chips went flying in all directions, hitting both Harvath and Christina in the face. It was like standing behind a revved-up jet as someone dumped a box of razorblades into one of the turbines.

  Sticking the barrel of his weapon through a space between the rocks, he pressed his trigger and sprayed his assailants with a ton of lead.

  It forced the mercenaries back, but only for a moment. Before he knew it, the barrage was back on and he and Christina were dodging bullets and more flying pieces of stone.

  He was beginning to grow concerned about their ability to battle their way out of this. He could fight, but he could only kill what he could see. Their position provided only a few vantage points. And Christina, as tough and as willing as she was, didn’t have the training to go up against ex-Spetsnaz soldiers. At best, she might be able to hold them off by firing in their direction, but only until her ammo ran out.

  The mercenaries were incredibly adept at using the trees for cover. Harvath had yet to put one down. Every time he actually caught sight of one and took a shot, his target disappeared—and not the way he liked, as in a spray of blood. Nevertheless he kept shooting.

  With Christina keeping an eye on their flank, he worried about being overrun from above. He couldn’t pop his head out to look uphill without possibly getting it blown off.

  At the same time, he knew what he had heard. The Wagner helicopter had hovered up the slope and it hadn’t done so to admire the view. Any second, men were going to pour over the overhang—or worse, they were first going to send a grenade.

  Seeing movement again in the trees to his right, he fired and blew through the last two rounds in his magazine.

  Letting the spent magazine drop to the ground, he inserted a fresh one and called Christina over to him.

  “I need to poke my head out and look uphill,” he said. “When I do, I want you to spray all of the trees over there. Just swing your barrel back and forth and keep shooting. Can you do that?”

  Christina nodded and when Harvath gave the signal, she stuck her rifle out and began firing.

  As she did, Harvath peered over the overhang and risked a look up the ridge. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare—multiple Wagner mercenaries were quickly closing in on them.

  Without proper cover or concealment, there was no way Harvath would be able to repel their attack.

  They couldn’t stay here. As dangerous as it was to move off into the trees, it was more dangerous to stay put and wait for their position to be overrun.

  Helping Christina swap out magazines, he explained to her what they needed to do and prepared her for how to make it happen.

  He would give her the biggest head start possible and hold them off as long as he could.

  He told her to run, and not to stop running until she couldn’t hear the gunfire anymore.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  She knew that wasn’t true. He was going to stay and fight in order to buy her time to get away. She was afraid he wouldn’t make it. She didn’t want to let him do that.

  “We can both run,” she said.

  “No,” Harvath replied. “There isn’t time. You need to go. Now.”

  Another volley of gunfire tore up the rocks around them. Harvath spun and fired back.

  When he turned back around, he said, “We’ll do it like before. When I count to three, I want you to run.”

  He was just about to start counting, when a pair of mercenaries appeared atop the overhang behind him.

  “Look out!” Christina screamed.

  CHAPTER 70

  * * *

  * * *

  One moment the mercenaries appeared on the overhang and the next moment they fell down dead at Harvath’s feet. Neither he nor Christina, though, had killed them. Somebody else in the forest had fired the shots.

  What’s more, they had come from suppressed weapons—something Harvath was intimately familiar with.

  Tier One operators used them not only to dampen noise and help reduce muzzle flash, but also to know which gunshots were being fired by their teammates.

  The sound was unmistakable and hearing it now could only mean one thing. There were friendlies close by.

  Scrapping his plan to abandon their position, he warned Christina not to shoot anyone, unless she was absolutely certain she was targeting Wagner mercenaries.

  She asked how she would know the difference, when all of a sudden there was a flash of white behind one of the trees below them. It was followed by another and another.

  A small force, carrying suppressed rifles, was quickly working its way up tow
ard them.

  Their winter whites were more sophisticated and less splotchy than Wagner’s.

  Harvath was just pointing out the difference to Christina when several of them raised their weapons, pointed them in their direction, and began firing.

  Instinctively, Harvath and Christina dropped to the ground. As they did, two more dead Wagner mercenaries dropped over the edge of the overhang.

  The force then split into three teams, two of which branched off to the sides, forming a perimeter as they continued to engage the enemy, while the third headed right for them.

  When the leader turned his head and revealed the muted American flag on his helmet, Harvath felt flooded with a sense of both relief and overwhelming pride. He wanted to wrap the man in the biggest bear hug he had ever given. Even before the operative had pulled down his facemask, he knew exactly who it was.

  “Friendlies!” Haney called out.

  Harvath helped cover them as they hurried up to the outcrop.

  “Somebody here order a pizza?” Staelin asked, pressing himself against the rocks next to Christina.

  “Hours ago,” quipped Harvath, who was so glad to see them. “What took you so long?”

  “Traffic was terrible.”

  Harvath couldn’t wait to hear all about it. Patting Staelin on the helmet, he ran his gloved hand over its American flag patch.

  “We’ve got a plane waiting,” Haney stated, as he kept his weapon up and continued to scan for threats. “It’s a couple of klicks away. Are you both capable of walking?”

  “Affirmative,” answered Harvath.

  Haney was attempting to call in a SITREP to JSOC when all around them a tidal wave of bullets crashed down and showered them with more sharp pieces of chipped rock.

  “What the fuck?” Haney angrily demanded. “How many more of those assholes are out there?”

  “Can’t tell,” Staelin responded, as he looked for targets to fire on. “Harvath picked the one spot in the entire Oblast with zero lines of sight.”

  “I was in a hurry,” Harvath said in his defense, subtly giving his colleague the finger. “But I counted four on our flank.”

  “Plus the four above you,” Haney stated, unshouldering his backpack. “Whom we neutralized.”

  “What’s the plan, boss?” Staelin asked.

  Unzipping the pack, Haney withdrew a two-foot-long, olive-drab-colored tube and said, “I’m going to need some cover fire in a moment.”

  “Roger that. Just say when.”

  Harvath pulled Christina closer to him. The back blast from the M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon, or LAW, could be pretty intense. You didn’t want to be anywhere within its path.

  The LAW was a one-time-use, shoulder-fired, 66 millimeter, antiarmor rocket launcher that weighed five and a half pounds. It was, essentially, a mini bazooka.

  Pulling the retaining pin from the back, Haney removed the rear cap and then the one up front. Extending the collapsed tube to its full, locked length—causing the front and rear sights to automatically pop up—he slid the safety forward. The weapon was now armed and ready to fire.

  “Going hot,” said Haney, as he checked to make sure no one was behind him in the exhaust area. Placing the weapon on his shoulder, he called out, “Back blast area clear?”

  “Clear,” Harvath and Staelin responded.

  “Cover fire in three. Two. One.”

  Harvath and Staelin trained their rifles on the trees from where the Wagner mercenaries had been firing and unleashed a storm of lead of their own. As they did, Haney leaned out from behind the rocks, sighted in where he believed the Russians to be, and fired the LAW.

  The projectile erupted from the rocket launcher and went screaming through the trees.

  When it connected with its target, it exploded, sending snow, bark, and body parts in all directions.

  Haney looked at his buddies and said, “First rule of a gunfight? Bring a Marine with an antitank weapon.”

  “Oorah,” Staelin replied, grunting the USMC battle cry.

  “If we’re done fucking around,” asked Harvath, “can we go now? I’d kind of like to get the hell out of here.”

  “No matter what I do for you,” said Haney, rolling the spent launcher tube in the snow to cool it off, before putting it back in his pack and zipping it up, “I never get a thank-you.”

  “You’ll get my thank-you when we’re on the plane.”

  As Chase, Sloane, and Barton hung back to cover their six o’clock, Morrison and Gage led the march downhill, while Haney and Staelin stayed in tight with Harvath and Christina.

  Not a single gunshot was heard. The LAW had done its job. If any of the Wagner mercenaries had survived, they hadn’t been in any shape to give chase or to fight back.

  At the bottom of the hill, where the trees started thinning out, and just within sight of the dog sleds and the dead Sámis, Haney was finally able to get a satellite signal.

  As he relayed a quick SITREP back to JSOC, he watched as Christina said something to Harvath. Nodding in agreement, the pair walked cautiously into the open. It took him a moment to realize what was going on, and then he saw it. The dogs were still harnessed to the sleds.

  One by one, Harvath and Christina unfastened them. But instead of running off, back to the village, they lay down next to Jompá and Olá and refused to move.

  “What are we doing, Harvath?” Haney asked, as he walked up behind them, his report to JSOC complete.

  “The dogs don’t want to leave.”

  “Guess what?” the Marine replied. “I do. In fact, I never even wanted to come to this godforsaken place. But I did it, for you. So, you’ll forgive me for not caring about a bunch of fucking dogs. When they get hungry enough, they’ll go home. As for us, we need to get moving.”

  The Marine wasn’t wrong. The dogs could make up their own minds. Harvath had made up his.

  “Let’s go.”

  As the team clicked into their skis, Sloane and Chase each unstrapped a pair of snowshoes from their packs and handed them to Scot and Christina.

  “Snowshoes,” Harvath groaned. “Love these.”

  Sloane, who loved to bust Harvath’s balls, was about to tease him, until they all froze.

  Coming in fast over the trees was a Wagner helicopter.

  CHAPTER 71

  * * *

  * * *

  Reinforcements!” Garin yelled into his headset to Minayev back at Alakurtti Air Base. “He’s escaping! Send everyone.”

  As the helicopter made a pass over the scene below, the Wagner commander was stunned to see at least nine individuals, all of them armed. Somehow, a rescue team had made it to Harvath. He was furious.

  Turning to his snipers, he ordered, “Stop them. And if you can’t stop them, kill them. All of them.”

  The snipers nodded and as the helicopter came around again, they fired repeatedly, chewing up the snow near Harvath and his rescuers, who dove for cover.

  As the helo banked above the trees to swing out and prep for another pass, they saw one of the figures—a man dressed in Wagner winter white whom Garin assumed to be Harvath—get back to his feet and raise a defiant middle finger as they flew out of view.

  • • •

  “How many more LAWs do you have in your backpack?” Harvath demanded, as he lowered his finger.

  “One,” said Haney, as he got back onto his skis.

  “I want it.”

  “For the helo?”

  “You’re damn right for the helo,” Harvath replied.

  The Marine was reluctant. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “How many fingers am I holding up,” replied Harvath, raising his middle finger again and directing it at Haney.

  “I guess you’ve earned it,” said the Marine as he handed him his backpack. “But what if this doesn’t work?”

  “Then you’d better have a hell of a Plan B in place. For right now, let’s get everybody out of sight.”

  The team did as he asked, moving de
eper into the trees. Harvath remained up front, concealing himself as best he could.

  When the Wagner helicopter returned, it came in low and fast with its snipers hanging out the windows, itching to unloose their weapons on anyone they saw.

  The problem, though, was that there was no one to see. Everyone had vanished, likely into the woods.

  The helicopter was just about past when a lone individual suddenly materialized. Garin spotted him, his defiant middle finger raised high once more.

  “It’s him!” he shouted. “Right there! That’s him!”

  Pulling back on the speed, the pilot aggressively banked the helicopter in an attempt to line the snipers up for a shot.

  It was exactly what Harvath needed.

  Sighting in the cabin area behind the cockpit, he gave it just enough lead, depressed the Fire button, and sent the projectile skyward. It couldn’t have been a more prefect shot.

  Upon piercing the Mi-8, the warhead detonated and the helicopter exploded in a roiling fireball.

  As it came crashing to the ground, the team cheered.

  Harvath, though, knew they weren’t safe yet. They still had to make it back to the plane—and even then, he wouldn’t feel completely relieved until they were out of Russia.

  Rapidly organizing the team, Haney had Sloane return to the point position and lead them toward the lake.

  With just his first steps in the snowshoes, Harvath was reminded of how much agony his body was in.

  He could have asked Staelin, who functioned as the team’s medic, for a painkiller, but he didn’t want to slow them down. It could wait until they got to the plane. Or at least, that’s what he had thought.

  Out of nowhere, they heard the sound of an engine coming to life, powering up, and then speeding away.

  Harvath didn’t need to ask what they were hearing. The look on Haney’s face said it all.

  “Is that our ride leaving?” Harvath asked.

  “That motherfucker,” the Marine cursed. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him.”

  “Who’s him?”