Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  Ahead, Harvath could make out the wet-work team’s car as well as the camper van in front of it. “Where the hell are they going?”

  “We’re not sure. That’s why we woke you.”

  Harvath raised Nicholas and asked if he had any idea.

  “None,” the little man responded. “You just passed the underwater tunnel to Vardø. There’s no other way across.”

  “There’s got to be something else out this way.”

  “Whatever it is, I hope they serve lunch,” Haney commented. “I’m getting hungry.”

  Harvath ignored him and kept his eyes peeled. They were passing through windswept terrain devoid of trees, with rocks that jutted up like broken teeth, punctuated by scrubby vegetation and huddles of ocean grasses.

  What structures there were, were either long one-story dwellings with peaked roofs and a chimney pipe at one end or rusting metal storage buildings. It reminded him of towns he’d seen in Alaska.

  To their right was a largely empty port surrounded by a long break-water. But it was what Harvath saw beyond it that captured his attention—the island of Vardøya and the unmistakable white radome of the GLOBUS 3 radar station.

  Before he could warn Haney that the location might be significant, Haney said, “Looks like something’s happening. They’re slowing down.”

  The team’s other two vehicles were far enough behind that it wouldn’t be noticed if they pulled over, so Harvath told them to do so.

  “And us?” Haney asked.

  “We don’t have a choice. Keep going. We’ll circle back.”

  “Roger that.”

  As the camper van, along with the wet-work team, pulled off the road toward the far end of the breakwater, Harvath, Haney, and Staelin kept driving, not even risking a glance in their direction.

  Two miles later, near an old snowmobile that had been abandoned by the side of the road, Harvath felt it was safe enough to turn around and double back.

  The question now was where they could get the best vantage point to observe what was going on. If they drove down the road to the breakwater, they’d be spotted immediately. They would have the same problem if they tried to come up along the flat, sandy beach on the harbor’s interior.

  The only possibility Harvath could see were the grassy berms that had been created by blowing sand on the ocean side of the breakwater.

  Fifty yards off the coastal road, there was an old barn, its wooden planks bleached silvery-gray by the elements. If they could get to it on foot without being seen, they might be able to make it the rest of the way to the berms. It was a big if. It was also their only option.

  With a metal storage building fast approaching, Harvath instructed Haney to pull over and park their SUV behind it. He thought about having Sloane and Chase as well as Johnson and Preisler come join them, but they were better off where they were. The more people they put on the ground, the greater their chance of being spotted. Better to keep them in reserve.

  It was much colder here than in Kirkenes. The wind was raw and raked their exposed skin.

  “How do you want to kit up?” Staelin asked as he quickly walked around to the back of the vehicle, opened the hatch, and began popping the lids of the hard-sided cases.

  The first thing he would have liked to have had were ghillie suits, but they hadn’t brought any. The next thing was seriously robust listening equipment, but they hadn’t brought that, either—at least, not anything that could compete with the wind and pounding of the ocean. This phase of their operation would be strictly visual. That meant binoculars and a camera with a powerful lens. And guns. Lots of guns.

  These guys were about to do something—and Harvath doubted it was going to be good. Even if they pulled a Stinger missile out of the back of that camper van, he wanted to be ready to take them all out.

  To that end, he wouldn’t have minded having some close air support, but in this line of work it was very seldom an option. They were expected to go in with the weapons and equipment they carried with them.

  He had thought about pulling out their small, portable drone—to at least give them an eye in the sky—but as soon as the idea had entered into his head, he had let it go. The wind speeds were too high. Not only would the drone need to draw more power to hover, but its engine would also make a lot more noise. It was a nonstarter.

  As he slung his HK416 carbine, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Mercer’s East Berlin story that morning over breakfast. He hoped that they’d be as successful as the Huracan team had been. He only wished that he had more information about what they were headed into.

  Staelin also carried an HK416, while Haney, the best long-distance shooter of the three, opted for the U.S. Navy’s new MRGG-S sniper rifle chambered in 6.5 Creedmoor. Built by LaRue Tactical and running LaRue’s TranQuilo suppressor, it came outfitted with a state-of-the-art Nightforce ATACR sniper scope and was one of the finest weapons on the planet.

  They had decided that if they could make it to the barn, Haney would remain there and set up an overwatch position as Harvath and Staelin worked their way farther down toward the berms. Whether from any wolves that might be about or the wet-work team, Haney would make sure they were well protected.

  Once they were all geared up, Harvath peered around the corner of the building, made sure no cars were coming, and then gave the order to move out.

  They crossed the coastal road and headed for the barn, moving as quickly as they could.

  From this angle, they couldn’t see the wet-work team’s vehicle or the camper van. It was a double-edged sword. They had no idea what the men were up to, but hopefully it meant that no one could see their approach.

  They reached the weather-beaten barn without incident. Taking up positions, Harvath and Staelin covered Haney while he repositioned some old wooden pallets to create a hide.

  It wasn’t perfect concealment—if someone was looking directly at him, they might spot him—but it was good enough. He had a field of fire that stretched from the parked vehicles all the way across the berms.

  “Give me a SITREP,” said Harvath. “What do you see?”

  “Not much,” Haney replied, flipping the bipod down and settling in behind his rifle. “They’re all still in their cars. Nobody’s moving. It’s like they’re just sitting there, staring at the ocean.”

  “They didn’t drive all this way just to sit and watch the waves. Keep an eye on them. Let us know when you’re ready for us to move.”

  “Roger that,” Haney answered as he adjusted his scope for windage and elevation. “Stand by.”

  Harvath looked at Staelin and asked, “Good to go?”

  Staelin flashed him back a thumbs-up.

  He then heard Nicholas over his earpiece. “Heads up,” the little man said. “We’ve got movement from the Northern Fleet. GLOBUS is tracking four Russian submarines that have left their pens. Two from the 11th Squadron at Zaozyorsk and two more from the 7th Division Vidyayevo.”

  “Good copy,” Harvath acknowledged. Then, addressing his team, he said, “Everybody, stay frosty. If it’s going happen, it’s going to happen soon.”

  CHAPTER 37

  When Haney gave the all clear, Harvath and Staelin kept low and made a beeline for the berms.

  They had ID’d one in particular that would provide good cover and still allow them to observe what was happening in and around the vehicles. When they reached it and dropped down behind it, Staelin radioed that they were in place while Harvath pulled out the camera. Powering it up, he began taking pictures.

  The wet-work team had cracked their windows and two of them sat puffing on cigarettes. Harvath would have hated to be one of the nonsmokers in that car. It reminded him of the “glamour” days of air travel when there used to be smoking and nonsmoking sections. If he had a dollar for every time he had been seated in the first nonsmoking row—right behind the last row of passengers who smoked—he could have purchased his own airline.

  He didn’t begrudge people their right
to smoke. He believed in letting folks make their own decisions. It was when their choices started to impact him that he had a problem with it. Thankfully, smoke being blown in his direction was a problem he was running into less and less, even in Europe. His new pet peeve was people who used their phones’ speakerphones in public. Nothing would draw Harvath’s “death stare” faster than that.

  The first time Sølvi had caught him doing it, it had cracked her up. She had seen him as Mr. Southern California—laid-back and unflappable. The fact that someone being impolite could rankle him like that was endearing. He was a good man, she had said. Things mattered to him—especially when it came to the rules necessary for society to function and for human beings to interact.

  “Do we have any clue what we’re looking for?” Staelin asked, his weapon at the ready.

  “Pornography,” Harvath quipped.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Something that’s hard to define, but you absolutely know it when you see it.”

  “Well, based on what I can see right now,” replied Staelin, “unless that camper van is filled with gorgeous flight attendants, I am definitely not interested.”

  Harvath smiled and kept his camera trained on the vehicles. “Look sharp,” he said. “Someone just got a phone call. It looks like they’re preparing to get out.”

  Staelin shouldered his weapon and made ready. Harvath relayed what he was seeing to the rest of the team.

  As he did, the sliding door of the camper van slid back and out stepped Han, along with Sarov.

  “This is it,” said Harvath over the radio. “Whatever’s happening, it’s going down now. Get ready.”

  Han slung his backpack over his shoulder as he and the Russian Consul General stepped away from the breakwater and headed down toward the beach.

  “Damn it,” Harvath cursed. “Another fifty feet and we’re going to lose sight of them.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We’re going to need to find another spot closer to the water.”

  “Be advised that if you move any further in that direction, you’ll be out of my sight,” cautioned Haney.

  Harvath didn’t like losing their overwatch, but they didn’t have a choice. It was imperative that they keep eyes on Han.

  “We’re changing location,” he said.

  “Do you want us to come in and back you up?” Sloane asked over the radio.

  “Negative. Maintain your position.”

  “Roger that,” she replied.

  Harvath pointed to where he wanted to go. They were going to have to do a little zigzagging to get there, but it was doable. Staelin nodded and they moved out.

  Just as important as not being seen was not being heard. Moving through sand, the sound of footfalls was eliminated, but even against the backdrop of wind and waves there was always the threat of pieces of gear banging against each other and giving their presence away.

  Every precaution, including wrapping certain items with tape, had been taken to avoid making noise, but the devil was usually in the details. Sometimes, no matter what you did, things happened, which meant that the closer they got to Han, Sarov, and the wet-work team, the slower and more deliberate their movements had to become.

  This wasn’t anything new for Harvath or Staelin. They were both former Tier One operators who had been on countless covert assignments. Stealth had been woven into their DNA.

  They also knew that Murphy’s Law always applied: If something can go wrong, it will. Harvath just asked that it not happen now. Not until they got to the bottom of what the hell was going on.

  They arrived at the berm he had selected and pressed themselves up against it. It was lower and narrower than it had appeared. Remaining concealed was going to take some doing, especially while trying to photograph what was happening on the beach.

  “This is cozy,” said Staelin, shoulder to shoulder with Harvath as he set up his camera.

  “If you’re good,” he replied, “when this is all over, I’ll let you go in for a swim.”

  The former Delta Force operative tilted his head up to look at the frigid water and then tilted it right back down. “No, thanks.”

  Harvath smiled. “That’s the difference between SEALs and Delta. You guys got your diver training in the bathwater of Key West. We get ours in the ice bucket off Coronado.”

  “Which just goes to show you how dumb SEALs are.”

  Never dropping his smile, Harvath flipped him the middle finger.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of everyone else,” said Staelin, “but I need to ask you something. Are you coming back? To the team?”

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “For starters, you’ve been whipsawed worse than anyone else I’ve ever seen. You lost your wife. You lost the Old Man. You then got a bag over your head and almost didn’t make it out of Russia alive—”

  “Which,” Harvath interrupted, “never would have happened if you hadn’t put your .45 against that bush pilot’s head and persuaded him to land.”

  “As Al Capone used to say: You can get much further with a kind word and a gun than just a kind word alone.”

  “True.”

  “My point,” said Staelin, “is that after everything that happened, you ended up in a dark, dark place. We were more than worried about you. But then you met Sølvi and you bounced. Why the hell come back to the job?”

  It was a fair question and one, frankly, he should have expected from his teammates. Yet, while it was a fair question, it didn’t come with an easy answer. It required him to open up—something he wasn’t fully comfortable doing with other people. A deep dive into his reasoning, whether emotionally or psychologically, wasn’t among the cards he was willing to show.

  Instead, he responded in terms he felt Staelin would understand. “That’s like asking Tom Brady halfway through his career why he doesn’t just hang it up and go out on top.”

  Staelin laughed quietly and shook his head. “One, you’re no Tom Brady. Two, you think you’re only halfway through your career? Puh-leeze. Three, the big difference between deciding when to get out of the NFL and when to get out of our business is that in the NFL people aren’t shooting at you.”

  “Fine,” said Harvath. “Let’s not call it halfway through. Let’s say four-sevenths.”

  “You’re nuts. But just to be fair, you and Brady do have one thing in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An uncanny ability to attract a very good-looking younger woman. You definitely outkicked your coverage with Sølvi.”

  Harvath thought about adding that, like Brady’s wife, Sølvi had also been a model, but, peering through the camera, he could see that something was about to take place down on the beach.

  Nudging his colleague with his boot, he said, “Game on,” as he began recording.

  CHAPTER 38

  The wet-work team had taken up positions to protect Han and what was about to happen. Sarov, a satellite phone pressed to his ear, stood nearby, watching. Harvath continued to video all of it.

  He watched as Han removed a tripod from his backpack, extended the legs, and then mounted what looked like a massive spotting scope on top of it.

  Han then pulled out a range finder of some sort and aimed it at the GLOBUS system over in Vardø. Whatever information it gave back, he appeared to use it to make adjustments to the scope.

  Once those tasks were accomplished, he withdrew a large-body camera of some sort, mounted it to a secondary head on the tripod, and connected it to the spotting scope with a cable.

  Harvath was baffled as to what this guy was doing. Nevertheless, he made sure to relay everything back to Nicholas so that the players in D.C. knew what was happening.

  With all of his equipment set up, Han removed a final item. It was too small for Harvath to recognize, but when he saw the Chinese operative typing on it, he realized that it had to be a communications device of some sort.

  Han hit Send on his
message, and when a response came back, he turned to Sarov and said something. Sarov then spoke into his satellite phone. After a moment, he held up his index finger as if telling Han to wait. Then he swept his hand down as if to say “Now.”

  The Chinese operative sent one more message via his device, depressed two buttons on the camera, one on the spotting scope, and then took a step back—as if the entire setup might be dangerous.

  Harvath kept the play-by-play going to Nicholas in Kirkenes. And though the little man asked, Harvath had no idea with whom Han and Sarov were communicating. His guess was as good as Nicholas’s and they were both probably thinking the same thing—Beijing and Moscow.

  While Han and Sarov glanced back and forth from the equipment stacked on the tripod over across the water to the GLOBUS system, the wet-work team continued to scan up and down the beach.

  Harvath couldn’t see what they were carrying under their jackets, but he had no doubt that they had come ready to get nasty.

  He watched as Han ventured forward and checked his gear. What he was ascertaining, though, was anyone’s guess. At least it was until Nicholas hailed him again.

  “GLOBUS is down,” the little man said.

  “Say again?” Harvath requested.

  “The system has gone completely black.”

  “As in a power failure?”

  “Negative,” Nicholas replied. “They still have power. It’s the radar that has failed. They’re blind. They’ve lost all ability to track the Russian subs. I’m being told their screens are totally blank.”

  “What does Washington want us to do?”

  “Stand by.”

  Harvath didn’t like standing by. Whatever was happening with GLOBUS was directly tied to what Han and Sarov were doing down on the beach. There was no telling how many additional subs could be headed out to sea now. Was this simply an exercise, or was it a precursor to something much more serious? Were the Russians getting their submarines into position for war with the United States? This was a full-blown national security issue. Harvath and his team needed to intervene. Now.