Backlash

by Brad Thor

  “Pavel,” Haney replied. “A local alcoholic and chickenshit bush pilot who’s an asset of the Finns.”

  “You left a foreign asset sitting there with a fully functioning aircraft? You didn’t even pull the master fuse?”

  “I had no idea how quickly we’d need to take off. I didn’t want to screw around with his plane.”

  “So what are we going to do now?” asked Harvath.

  Without missing a beat, the Marine stated, “We’re walking out. It’s just a little over fifty kilometers.”

  “I knew this was going to happen,” said Staelin.

  “That’s enough,” replied Haney as he looked over at Sloane and said, “Pick the nearest spot the Finns told us we’d be safe to cross the border and plot us a course.”

  “Roger that,” she replied, punching her ski poles into the snow and turning her attention to her wrist-top GPS device.

  In the meantime, Haney transmitted a new SITREP to JSOC and told them to stand by for the updated route information, which was slow in coming.

  “Sloane,” he said. “What’s taking so long?”

  “All of a sudden, my GPS is all wonky,” she responded.

  “What do you mean wonky?”

  “Wonky meaning it’s not working.”

  “Is it the weather?” the Marine asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Harvath, though, did know. “It’s not the weather. The signal is being jammed. And if the signal is being jammed, that means Russian military is inbound.”

  “Wait,” said Haney. “How do you know?”

  “The Russians have been perfecting their GPS jamming. During the last set of NATO training exercises in Norway, they turned everything upside down.”

  “If that’s what’s going on here, how do you know they’re inbound?”

  “Because the system has a particular radius. The jammer is usually mounted on a ship or a vehicle of some sort. As we’re not close enough to the water and there are no passable roads anywhere near us, I’m guessing it’s on a plane or a helicopter.”

  “We’re not far from Alakurtti Air Base,” said Haney. “They’re known for their helicopter regiment that specializes in electronic jamming.”

  “There you go,” replied Harvath. “So what’s Plan B?”

  As team leader, the Marine rapidly weighed their options.

  But when he didn’t answer right away, Harvath began to feel uncomfortable. “There is a Plan B, right?”

  “There’s one hell of a Plan B. But the President needs to sign off on it.”

  Pretending his hand was a telephone, Harvath lifted it to his ear and said, “Then you’d better get hold of him fast because the Russians aren’t going to stop at killing our GPS. They’re going to flood this area with troops and either capture or kill all of us.”

  CHAPTER 72

  * * *

  * * *

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  When JSOC relayed Haney’s request to the President, Porter immediately turned to Nicholas and SPEHA Rogers. “Are we officially out of options? Because as we discussed, this has the ultimate downside risk.”

  Rogers looked at Nicholas and then back to the President. “The team on the ground has maps. They know where they are and can attempt to land nav to the border, but . . .” he said, as his voice trailed off.

  Porter raised an eyebrow. “But what?”

  “But there’s a reason the Russians are jamming their GPS,” stated Nicholas. “They want to slow them down, so they can capture them. Not only will they have Harvath, but seven more Americans who will be accused of espionage and God knows what else. At this point, we’re out of options. We need to pull the trigger on Plan B.”

  “Do you agree?” the President asked Rogers.

  “Yes, sir,” the SPEHA replied. “I do.”

  With his mind on everything that had gone wrong in the failed Iranian hostage rescue of the 1980s, Porter looked to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Can we successfully execute in this kind of weather?”

  “We won’t be able to have the Zero-three-hundred team parachute in. It’s too dangerous. Everything else, though, we can do,” the Chairman replied.

  “Show of hands,” the President then called out, addressing the rest of the national security personnel seated around the long mahogany table.

  Every single hand went up.

  Turning his attention back to the monitor with the live feed from JSOC, the President transmitted his order. “Launch Operation Gray Garden.”

  After confirmation from JSOC, it was time to start the next phase of their plan.

  “We have a total of three calls to make,” said Porter. “Who goes first?”

  “I do,” replied Nicholas. “Once Matterhorn has the information, he will transmit it directly to Moscow.”

  “Then,” said Rogers, “I will reach out to the Russian Ambassador and communicate our offer, which he will also transmit directly to Moscow.”

  “After which, I will call President Peshkov and ask him for his answer,” stated Porter.

  “Yes, sir,” responded the SPEHA. “At that point, the ball will be completely in his court. It’s his call.”

  “And if he says no?”

  “If he says no,” Nicholas answered, “Then we buckle up, because things are going to get very bumpy.”

  CHAPTER 73

  * * *

  * * *

  MURMANSK OBLAST

  If the Russians were coming, Haney had decided it was better to dig in and make a stand than to try to outrun them.

  Retracing their path to the lake, they chose the spot they had originally marked out for Harvath. Unlike the outcropping where they had found him, this location provided excellent fields of fire and could be much better defended.

  With Harvath and Christina running on fumes, it took twice as long to get there as Haney had expected. Once there, he told Harvath to stand down. The man had been through enough. He didn’t need to now man a post.

  Staelin saw to both of them—Christina first, because Harvath insisted. When it came to his needs, he refused to take anything stronger than Ibuprofen and Tylenol. Until they were safely out, he didn’t want anything fogging up his head.

  And as for laying his rifle down and not manning a post, there was no way that was happening either. This was his fight and he was going to see it through until the very end.

  When Haney had explained “Plan B” to him, he admired not just its audacity, but also its cleverness. If it ended up working, he owed Nicholas and whoever SPEHA Rogers was the best steak dinner in D.C.

  As the wind and the snow continued getting worse, his concern began to grow. It was bad enough that he was surrounded by seven teammates who had all risked their lives to save him, but to add to their ranks? He didn’t like all of this being done on his behalf. Upping the risk and enlisting more lives to save his felt wrong.

  He was the one who was supposed to risk everything to go in and get people out. Not vice versa.

  With all of his experience and all of his training, he should have been able to handle this. It was who he was. He should have been able to get himself and Christina across the border without risking anyone else’s life—just as he should have been able to save Lara, Lydia, and the Old Man.

  Now, Jompá and Olá, the men who had pulled him from the frigid snow, were dead. Theirs were just another two entries on a long list of people who had died because of him. Why, he wondered, was he still alive? What possible purpose could his life even serve?

  He was slipping down a razorblade-threaded rabbit hole of survivor’s guilt when Chase Palmer signaled for everyone to be silent. He had heard something.

  Harvath listened but didn’t hear anything. His ears had been around a little longer than Chase’s and had been subjected to a lot more explosions and gunfights.

  In a couple of moments, though, he began to hear it as well. Helicopters—plural.

  “Everybody grab s
ome ground,” Haney ordered.

  The team was huddled together where part of the forest had eroded, behind several fallen trees.

  As they all lay down, Haney added, “Everybody stay frosty.”

  “Seriously?” Staelin remarked, as he blew a cloud of warm breath into the air.

  “One more peep out of you,” whispered the Marine, “and you’ll be walking all the way home. Are we clear?”

  “Good copy,” the Delta Force operative acknowledged, shooting him a smile and a thumbs-up.

  No one moved a muscle as the sound of the helicopters grew louder.

  Gage, the Green Beret, had the best view of what was headed their way. “Fuck me,” he said. “I’m looking at two Mi-8s, plus a pair of Mi-24 helicopter gunships.”

  “Fuck us,” Sloane responded.

  “There’ll be no fucking,” Haney sternly responded, “unless it’s us fucking them. Is that understood?”

  “Oorah!” Staelin grunted while everyone else joined in a chorus of “Roger that.”

  “Got any more tricks up your sleeve?” Harvath asked.

  “Nope. I’m all out,” said Haney.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “The plan,” the Marine explained, “is that we hold our position and wait for extraction.”

  Harvath looked at Christina and saw that the fear from earlier had returned. Reaching over, he put his gloved hand reassuringly on her arm. “Everything is going to be okay,” he said.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t even try to force a smile. She gave him one quick nod and that was it.

  He let his hand linger for a moment longer and then turned his attention to his rifle. Drawing back the charging handle, he made sure a round was chambered and that the weapon’s safety was off.

  Around him, the other operators quietly conducted similar drills.

  “Hey. About that no fucking rule?” Gage asked, breaking the silence.

  “What about it?” Haney replied.

  “Things are starting to get romantic.”

  Crawling over to see what he was talking about, the Marine peered through a space between the downed tree trunks and watched as the Mi-8s touched down.

  “Jesus,” he muttered as the helicopters disgorged their occupants.

  “What’s going on?” Harvath asked.

  Haney waved him over to see for himself.

  As Harvath stared at the troops massing in the snow, Haney turned and addressed the team.

  “Okay, listen up,” he said. “In addition to the two heavily armed Mi-24s, the Mi-8s just vomited up an entire platoon of soldiers. By my count, there are at least thirty of them. And if they’re dropping here, that probably means they suspect we’re nearby. So stay alert and stay ready.”

  “Only thirty?” Morrison mused, as he made sure the rounds were seated in all of his magazines. “That’d be a pretty short gunfight.”

  Though Harvath appreciated his sense of humor, the thirty Russian Army soldiers from Alakurtti Air Base had them outgunned by more than three to one. They also had four helicopters, two of which could blast the piles of logs they were hiding behind into matchsticks in the blink of an eye. It would be a short fight all right. In fact, it’d be a slaughter.

  “What are the rules here?” Barton asked, his extra mags unpacked and stacked neatly in front of him.

  “We’re still weapons free,” Haney confirmed, as he went to call in an update to JSOC. “But let’s not start anything we can’t finish.”

  They all made sure to remain on the ground. If they popped any part of their bodies above the logs, their heat signature could be detected by one of the helos, or by one of the soldiers on the ground if they were carrying handheld units.

  “Shit,” said Haney. “I’m having trouble getting a satellite signal again.”

  “Is it the Russians?” Harvath asked. “Do you think they’re affecting our comms as well?”

  “Our system is antijam. I think it’s the weather—too much cloud cover. We’ll have to go old school and hope our ride’s in range,” he said. Pointing at Chase, he began relaying instructions. “Power up the Falcon and see if you can reach Hurricane Two-Two on any of the designated frequencies. Let them know we need assistance ASAP.”

  “Roger that,” Chase replied, as he reached for his backpack and removed the Multiband Multi Mission Radio he was lugging as a backup. Hurricane Two-Two was the call sign for their ticket out.

  As Chase set up the radio, Haney kept trying to get a satellite signal on his device. And while they worked on comms, Harvath and Gage attempted to keep an eye on the Russian soldiers. But with the weather, it was becoming increasingly difficult to see what they were up to.

  All of the soldiers were on skis, were wearing whites, and were carrying an array of weaponry. They divided into eight four-man fire teams and then began skiing off in different directions. One was headed right for them.

  “Hurricane Two-Two, this is Nemesis Zero-One,” Chase said into the handset. “Do you copy? Over.”

  He waited for a reply and then tried again.

  “Hurricane Two-Two, this is Nemesis Zero-One. We need immediate extraction. Do you copy? Over.”

  When, through the static, a faint voice finally replied, it sounded weak and far away—as if it was coming from the bottom of a well.

  “Nemesis Zero-One, this is Hurricane Two-Two. We read you. What is your status? Over.”

  After letting Haney know that he had established contact, Chase had a back-and-forth with Hurricane Two-Two, answering some questions and giving a quick SITREP.

  “Acknowledged,” said Hurricane Two-Two when Chase had finished. “Nemesis Zero-One, stand by. Over.”

  “Roger that,” said Chase. “Nemesis Zero-One, standing by. Over.”

  Peering through his rangefinder at the approaching Russian soldiers, Gage provided an update. “Two hundred meters and closing.”

  “Good copy,” said Haney, acknowledging the information. “Two hundred meters.”

  Gage was an exceptional distance shooter and carried an H&K 417 rifle with a twenty-inch barrel. Its effective range was eight hundred meters—more than four times the distance of the approaching threat.

  “Are we going to let the air out of these guys?” he asked.

  “Negative,” Haney replied. “Hold.”

  “Roger that. Holding.”

  “What’s the status of Hurricane Two-Two?” Haney then asked.

  Chase held up the handset. “I’m still standing by.”

  Harvath didn’t like how long this was taking.

  “One hundred seventy-five meters,” Gage reported.

  “Copy that,” replied the Marine. “One hundred seventy-five meters.”

  “Still nothing,” Chase stated.

  Harvath needed to remember that this wasn’t his team right now. It was Haney’s. And as such, Haney was in charge. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but wonder if they should have tried to make it out on foot.

  “One hundred fifty meters,” announced Gage.

  “Roger that,” Haney replied. “One hundred fifty meters.”

  “Heads up,” said Sloane. “We’ve got activity just south of us. One of the other fire teams has changed direction and is now coming up this way.”

  “Range?”

  “Approximately one hundred meters.”

  “I’ve got clean shots here,” Gage stated.

  “Me too,” replied Sloane.

  “Negative,” Haney ordered. “We hold.”

  Harvath looked at him, but the Marine had already shifted his focus to Chase. “Tell Hurricane Two-Two right now that—”

  But the young operator held his hand up and cut him off as he listened intently to the voice on his handset.

  A fraction of a second later, he said, “Roger that, Hurricane Two-Two. Good copy. Nemesis Zero-One out.”

  Then, turning to his teammates, he declared, “Angels inbound. Thirty seconds.”

  No one spoke. No one moved. Lying on the frig
id ground, they watched the approaching Russian soldiers and strained their ears for the telltale sound of their rescue.

  Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. At exactly thirty seconds, a pair of F-22 Raptors flew in incredibly low and blisteringly fast. Hitting supersonic, they broke the sound barrier.

  The boom was so powerful, the earth trembled and snow was knocked off trees for as far as the eye could see. It sounded as if a rip was being torn through the fabric of the sky. All of the Russians dove for cover.

  If the intent had been to scare the hell out of them, it had worked. Even with the reduced visibility, Gage and Sloane could tell the nearest fire teams were calling their superiors, asking what had happened and awaiting instructions as to what to do next.

  Collectively, Harvath and the rest of the team held their breath. This was the moment of truth.

  President Porter had proven he was willing to violate Russian airspace. President Peshkov now had to decide whether he was willing to let it stand.

  In the last five minutes, Peshkov would have received intelligence through Artur Kopec’s handler that the Americans had a team on the ground and had recovered Harvath. Egor Sazanov, his Ambassador to the United States, would have phoned the Foreign Minister and shared the good news that the entirety of Peshkov’s frozen assets was poised to be thawed.

  Then, just before the American jets had crossed into Russia, the U.S. President himself would have called. He would have explained what he wanted and, more important, what he was willing to do to get it. The choice after that was up to Peshkov.

  And it became apparent, very quickly, that he had made it.

  CHAPTER 74

  * * *

  * * *

  Harvath and the team watched as, one by one, the Russian troops turned around and returned to the ice.

  There, covered by the Mi-24 gunships, they climbed back aboard their Mi-8 helicopters and took off.

  All the while, the F-22 Raptors stayed on station, circling overhead, ready for anything they might be called on to do. Never once did a single Russian intercept aircraft appear to address the incursion. Whatever word had come down from on high, Peshkov had made it clear that no action was to be taken.