Asset Seven

by James E Mack

  ‘Enough. They are dead. They cannot get any more dead. But each second we waste mourning their passing gives the traitor who killed them a better chance of escape. Let their deaths not be in vain. Let’s catch the man who did this and see him hanged in Sabalan Square, pissing his pants and kicking his legs like a frog.’ He paused as he surveyed the men’s reactions. One or two of them gave sidewards glances at their peers, looking for reassurance but Zana was heartened to see the majority of the men nodding in agreement. He’d hoped to retain their loyalty. They were, after all, Quds Force and Palang trainees at that. He pointed the pistol in the direction that Ardavan had disappeared into. ‘We have to go, and we have to go now before the traitor gets away.’ He frowned in annoyance as the signaler stepped out of line.

  ‘General, Sir…’

  Zana growled. ‘Whatever it is, it can wait. We need to move.’

  ‘But General, it’s…’

  Zana closed the gap in two strides and thrust his face into that of the younger soldier.

  ‘Are you deaf? Did the explosions affect your hearing or your brain? I said move, so let’s move.’ He spun on his heel but was halted by the soldier’s persistence.

  ‘General Sir. I am sorry but this is very important.’

  Zana turned back to face the signaler and cocked the hammer back on the pistol as he tilted his head to one side. ‘Very well. Tell me what is so important that you are determined to see the traitor escape from us.’

  There was a brief silence as the signaler looked over at the Major before he answered in a trembling voice.

  ‘It’s the mice General. The sensors. We’ve got activity from one of them.’

  Zana beckoned. ‘Show me.’

  The radio operator held up the small device so that the General could see the screen clearly.

  ‘Here Sir, two minutes ago, multiple individuals passed this sensor.’

  Zana nodded. ‘How many?’

  ‘At least ten, possibly twelve.’

  Zana studied the screen and pointed to the picture of the map that was displayed. ‘How far?’

  The signaler studied the screen for a moment. ‘Approximately three kilometers.’

  Zana cursed and turned away as his mind assimilated the information. He would guess that the traitor Ardavan had probably made a good kilometer in distance since they’d walked into his trap. That meant he was closing in with his American masters much quicker than Zana and his Quds operatives could hope to. He thought about calling Tehran, getting the air support that would bring the matter to a swift end. Unless he requested immediate support, the traitor would escape.

  He had failed. Zana could feel the eyes of the men upon him as he pulled his Sat-phone out and powered up the device. He was just about to access the contacts list when a thought came to him. As he let it run its course, he could feel his excitement building. Maybe he didn’t have to involve Tehran after all. Maybe, just maybe, he could still bring the traitor in himself. Or at least with a little help. He walked out of earshot from his men and dialed a number from memory. It was answered within three rings and he smiled at the rough, deep voice on the other end of the line. In his best Russian, Zana replied to the voice.

  ‘Sergeii, it is Zana. How would you like to kill some Americans?’

  20

  SIRWAN, EASTERN IRAQ

  Sergeii Antonovich terminated the call and looked down at his notes in the light of the small table lamp. His breath fogged in the frigid air of the unheated tent, but the cold did not bother him. Russia was far colder than Iraq. He ran his hand over the cropped bristles that grew in sparse clumps on his balding head as he came to terms with the Iranian’s information. If Zana was correct, there was a CIA team currently operating illegally in Iran, trying to collect an Asset on his way out. And that team was a short helicopter ride from Sergeii’s current location. A very short helicopter ride. The Russian rested his chin on his hands as he considered his options. He knew he was going, that much was clear, but how? And who should he take? He couldn’t talk to Moscow about this; would never get the approval but as head of Wagner Group Security operations in the region, Sergeii had a lot of autonomy over the actions of his men. And vulnerable Americans? Too good an opportunity to pass up. He fingered the scar above his eyebrow as his mind drifted back to the Conoco massacre he’d barely survived.

  After he’d recovered from his surgeries in Moscow, Sergeii had sworn that he would find a way to hurt the Americans, any Americans, for the death of so many of his men. As soon as he left hospital, Sergeii had contacted his connection at the FSB and asked what the hell had gone wrong at the Conoco plant. His contact told him that Moscow had made it clear to Washington that the approaching troops were Russian and not ISIS, but the Americans had chosen to engage anyway. His anger had risen as the memory of the massacre returned and the dozens of men Sergeii had lost that day. There had been a few moments during the battle when he was sure they were going to win, but the American air support had ended that with a lethal finality. He’d been struck by shrapnel in his head and chest and knocked unconscious, waking hours later in a field hospital before his repatriation to Russia. A small mercy some might say but for Sergeii, the horrors and humiliation of that day remained ingrained in his mind, a mental movie that ran and ran, unprompted, every day since. With no wife or family to keep him in Russia, he had volunteered to return to Iraq with Wagner and was promoted for his loyalty.

  Sergeii had been a decorated soldier with the 45th Spetsnaz Airborne Brigade when he’d been approached by a Colonel from the FSB and asked if he would volunteer to deploy on a sensitive mission abroad. Of course, in Russia the term volunteer isn’t quite the same as in western countries, no real notion of choice being factored into the word. So Sergeii had joined several hundred other soldiers who, on paper at least, left the military to work for a private security company; Wagner Group. In truth, the company was a mere flag of convenience that enabled Moscow to deploy military forces under the guise of stabilization security personnel. And it was working. Even the salaries were good. But the fighting could be tough, ISIS surprising many hardened Spetsnaz soldiers with their fanatical zeal and willingness to die. But Sergeii loved it. Loved being part of his motherland’s expansion across the globe, clawing back the influence that the mighty Russia once had before the puppet Gorbachev destroyed it. But the Conoco massacre had left Sergeii with a thirst for vengeance that he had yet to sate. Revenge for lost friends and colleagues slaughtered by bloodthirsty Americans. He looked down at his notebook and formed a plan in his mind.

  As he walked over to the main operations tent, Sergeii knew who he would be taking with him. Good, trusted men who felt the same way he did about the murders of their colleagues. The pilots too, could be trusted on such a sensitive mission having proved their discretion many times before. But there was no time to waste; he had no doubts that the CIA team would stay in Iran any longer than was absolutely necessary, so he knew he was on a clock. As he ducked under the flap of the tent, he saw Gregor and Pasha and nodded to both men.

  ‘Pasha, go grab Viktor and Arkady and the pilots. We need to be airborne in ten for a quick mission into the mountains.’

  Sergeii did not wait for a response but opened a laptop up and accessed a mapping screen, keying in coordinates until he found what he was looking for. He looked up as several men entered and he turned the computer screen so that they could see it.

  ‘This is where we are going. Yes, it is Iran. Yes, it is the mountains. And yes, there will be an engagement. But gentlemen, it is an American team we are hunting. Twelve of them. An American CIA team trying to get an Asset across the border. We won’t get another chance like this.’

  There was a moment’s silence until one of the pilots spoke.

  ‘What about air defenses Sergeii? Won’t the Iranians send aircraft to intercept us?’

  Sergeii shook his head. ‘No. I am in communication with the Iranian General on the ground who has asked me for our help.’


  He could see the mood among the team lighten instantly. The prospect of hunting Americans with the blessing of the Iranians now one to look forward to. Sergeii pointed at the digital mapping and continued.

  ‘But we have very little time. The General gave me the last known location of the Americans which was here, but that was ten minutes ago. However, we know they are heading east and on foot which means if we insert here, we have a good chance of ambushing them.’

  He looked up at the men and was pleased to see the nods of acceptance of the plan. Looking down at his watch he continued with his brief.

  ‘Okay. Five minutes to prepare then be at the helicopter. I would of course, love to take more men but the soldiers and pilots in this room at the moment are the only ones that I trust with such a sensitive mission. I’ll brief full details on the pad, so move your arses and see you at the helicopters.’

  The men scrambled from their chairs and exited the tent, jogging back to their own accommodations. Sergeii knew they would all be ready in time. Like him, they were all former Spetsnaz and their weapons and equipment would already be packed for a rapid move. He made his way back to his own tent and donned his winter jacket and tactical vest before shrugging on his pack. There was little to no weight in the pack, only the means to survive for a short period should something go very wrong. But he didn’t anticipate anything going wrong. Hunting Americans who were conducting an illegal operation in a nation that was giving Sergeii their permission to do so was nothing short of a gift. While Sergeii was well aware that his small team was outnumbered, they were one of the most experienced special forces teams on the planet in his opinion. Each man had seen action in the Caucasus, Chechnya, Ukraine, Syria and Iraq as well as countless clandestine operations abroad on behalf of the FSB. Hardened combatants but also intelligent men capable of independent thought and action. And they would have the element of surprise on their side. The CIA team would, like all Americans, place a heavy emphasis on technology whereas his men preferred old-fashioned soldiering skills to close with the enemy. And with Pasha on the sniper rifle, the Americans would not know what was happening until it was too late. With a last check of his equipment, Sergeii strode out of his tent and jogged towards the helicopter pad where he could hear the whine of the Krokodil, the Mi-24 gunship, the reptilian nickname a reference to the camouflage scheme of the aircraft. A sturdy and reliable beast, Sergeii had used this model for most of his military career and the pilots he had chosen were second to none, experienced, confident and extremely capable.

  As he arrived at the pad, the rest of his team jogged over to join him. He nodded at Pasha as the sniper patted his Chukavin rifle with its fitted suppressor. Sergeii knew that the rifle had been modified to fire the high-powered Laupa rounds and was sure they would be grateful for this in the hours to come. One of the pilots walked over and discussed the landing site options with Sergeii, eventually reaching an accord that would place them in the Americans’ path but out of sight and, hopefully, earshot. They discussed the exfil options and settled on a different site several kilometers east of their insertion point. The pilot returned to the helicopter and climbed aboard as Sergeii briefed the team on the insertion plan then carried out a radio check with each of them. With nothing more to say, Sergeii led the group to the open door of the helicopter and waited until they had all boarded before getting in himself. The co-pilot closed the door and Sergeii pulled on the headphones, listening to the pilots talking to one another. The co-pilot informed Sergeii that their intelligence officer had confirmed that there were no other aircraft expected in their airspace for the duration of their operation, from the Iraqi side at least. As the helicopter lifted into the air, Sergeii closed his eyes and went through his usual routine of running through the entire operation in his head, imagining every possible scenario and what he would do to achieve it. He considered some of the problems they might encounter but again, there was nothing unique to this situation that he and his men had not experienced at some point before. The last thought relaxed him, and he leaned back against the seat and stretched his neck, feeling the helicopter gain speed as it accelerated away from the camp.

  He had almost drifted to sleep when the co-pilot gave the one-minute warning. Sergeii looked at the rest of the team and saw them pull off their own headphones and replace them on the backs of their seats. Each man patted their equipment making sure nothing was loose, unfastened or had fallen open during the flight. Sergeii did the same and had just finished when the co-pilot strode past him and opened the door, a freezing wind attacking the passengers almost instantly. Sergeii activated his Night Vision Goggles and adjusted the relief until his sight picture was clear. The co-pilot leaned out of the door and gave an elevation countdown to the pilot pulling his head back in just before they hit the ground with a soft landing. Sergeii was first out of the door and sprinted towards the cover of a cluster of rocks where he knelt with his carbine aimed in front of him. Several seconds later he heard the increase in noise from the helicopter and he was buffeted from behind, almost falling forward from the gust as the machine became airborne once again. In the silence that followed, each of his team scrutinized the area around them for any sign that their approach had been compromised. After a few minutes had passed, Sergeii spoke into his mic.

  ‘Let us kill some Americans.’

  21

  ZAGROS MOUNTAINS, IRAN

  Karim could feel the sweat running down his back as he hauled his body up and over the boulder pile that blocked their way. At the top he paused, sure that he had heard something over the blustering wind, before turning and lowering his hand to the boy. Affan grabbed it and Karim pulled him up, turning back to the route ahead the instant the boy was steady on his feet. He was breathing heavily, struggling to suck in enough air to replenish his fatigued muscles. Karim had no idea of how much time he’d bought them with his last trap but whatever time they had, he needed to ensure they made the most of it. They ran where they could, jogged where able, and stumbled and staggered between rock formations and boulder clusters as he set a relentless pace. The snow was falling heavier now, and Karim knew there was a balance to be had between progress and recklessness. With such poor visibility, if either of them broke an ankle or leg, they were as good as dead. Risking a quick glance back at the boy, he was once again impressed by the orphan’s tenacity. Karim could see that the boy was utterly exhausted, but he was keeping up, his small limbs buckling under the strain and effort, chest heaving with exertion. For a brief moment, Karim forgot about their plight and was overcome with a wave of affection for Affan, so keen to escape the hell he’d left behind that he would practically run himself into the ground. Incredible. He turned back and scanned the route ahead with his NVGs, picking a path between the rocks, keen to keep moving.

  From memory, he knew that the map showed a small plateau ahead of them before rising again into a series of small slopes. When he reached it, he increased his pace to take advantage of the rare piece of level ground. As he jogged along what he assumed was the herders’ path, he noted with dismay that the track was all but invisible due to the accumulation of snow. Without the track to guide him, he would have to pick the path of least resistance and hope that it was the same route the track followed. He gave regular glances behind him to confirm the boy was keeping up and was gratified to see the waif pushing through the pain and exhaustion he was undoubtedly experiencing. Looking back to the route ahead, Karim saw that they had crossed the small plateau and were once again among slopes and inclines. He slowed the pace and leaned into the first climb, feeling the burn in his thighs as he attacked the slope. Karim wasn’t sure how long they could maintain the punishing pace but knew that it was their only chance.

  After they’d ascended a third rise, Karim turned to the boy and waited for him to catch up. He pressed on Affan’s shoulder and sat down among the rocks. Pulling out his water bottle, he took several deep swallows then passed it to the boy. He used the opportunity to study the orphan and w
atched as Affan tried to calm his breathing to allow him to drink. Even beneath the bulky jacket Karim had given him, he could see clearly the rapid rise and fall of Affan’s chest. But they had made good progress. Yes, the pace had been punishing but they could expect to come across Vic and the Americans at any moment. The thought that his ordeal was almost over gave Karim real hope. The disappointment of General Shir-Del and the shame he would experience would be too much for the General’s professional pride, if he lived long enough to feel it. Karim had no doubt that once he succeeded in escaping with the Americans, the General would have to fight very hard to avoid the hangman’s noose. Karim waited until he saw that the boy’s breathing had recovered before he stood and extended his hand, pulling the youngster to his feet. He lifted his NVGs and leaned in close.

  ‘Affan, you have the strength of a leopard and the heart to match. We are almost there. At any time from this point onwards, we will meet some men. These are my friends and they have come to help us. Do not be afraid. They are here to get us out of this country, something we both want very much, yes?’ He smiled at the surprise in the boy’s eyes before clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good. Let us begin the final part of our journey my little leopard.’ Karim turned and strode out once again, his step lighter as he anticipated his reunion with Vic. He patted the pocket of his jacket to check that his torch with the red filter was still there. It was important; the arranged signals between him and Vic were a series of flashes from their filtered torches and neither would commit to the pick-up if the signals were wrong or not given.