by Tom Clancy
“You listen to me. All of you,” Lex began. “We’re going to Fort Levski, we’re gonna get Ragland, and we’re gonna get the hell out. That’ll go down by the numbers. Then when we get back, we’ll start tracking and taking out these Forgotten Army Ganjin bastards all over the world.”
“Hoo-ah!” they boomed.
“Now sit tight, gentlemen. We’ll be in range soon . . .”
Lex smiled behind his mask, and then, taking Borya’s cue, he brought up the headquarters blueprints on his computer.
They had three different plans for penetrating the facility.
All of them required balls of steel.
EIGHTEEN
Forgotten Army Weapons Depot
Caucasus Mountains
Near North Ossetia, Russia
Halverson walked with Aslan down an aisle of crates stacked neatly on their wooden pallets and piled over three meters high. The place was a Walmart of weapons, with labels in multiple languages. The ones in English sent pangs of anger into her gut. How had these bastards gained access? Was someone on the inside shipping them weapons? And why hadn’t she heard about this? Was the JSF covering it all up?
With those questions still burning, she followed the American-educated Chechen toward a pair of tunnels that appeared freshly cut in the rock. He still wouldn’t elaborate on what he’d told her—about her helping him to escape—but he’d instructed her to remain quiet as they took the smaller of the tunnels and reached a steel gate bolted directly to the cave walls like the first one. Two men in their twenties dressed similarly to Aslan and armed with AK-47s stood there, and Aslan offered them a curt nod and said, “I’m taking her to Brandenburg.”
Without a word, one man turned back to the gate, secured with a chain and key lock. He wrestled with both, then allowed them through. Halverson spied the thick cables running along the floor to her left as they shifted into another cave about the size of her apartment back in Palmdale, although the ceiling was barely two meters high.
Positioned along three walls were portable tables and chairs, behind which sat bearded men whose faces were cast in the dim light of flat screens. Satellite maps of the region, along with e-mail lists, and various other documents, the text of which Halverson could not quite see, scrolled and panned into view. She counted eight men in all, with three wearing headsets and muttering softly into their microphones. Another bank of screens to the left displayed security camera images of both the warehouse and several exterior entrances revealed through thermal images and night-vision lenses. More heavy cables snaked behind the men, running up through a hole drilled in the ceiling that she assumed reached the surface, where they no doubt had set up a system of camouflaged communications dishes.
One of the chairs swiveled toward her to reveal a gaunt-faced blond woman with brilliant blue eyes. She came out of the chair, rising to a full six feet or better. Her lean frame barely held up her heavy woolen coat. She coughed loudly, then smiled and said, “You’re a very lucky woman.”
That accent . . . Australian? British?
“And you’re wondering where I’m from. Don’t worry about it. My name is Joanna Brandenburg, and this is my little mom-and-pop weapons supply house. You’ll have to forgive my appearance. I’ve been under the weather these past two weeks. Some kind of stomach virus, it’s terrible.”
Halverson kept her hand on her pistol.
Brandenburg noticed that and said, “If I were you, I’d want to shoot me, too.”
Halverson opened her mouth, then thought better of it.
“Come on, you wanted to say something?” She paused, waiting for an answer, and when she didn’t get one, she continued in a kind of singsong that seemed to amuse her: “You think we’re terrorists. You think we’re horrible people. You think we stole all those weapons to kill innocent people, but you have no idea the kinds of horrors your government has brought on us. Americans, Russians, Europeans—all conspiring to destroy the world.”
“Are you joking? They want oil, money, and power. That’s all they want.”
As Halverson took a step back, two guards were on her, one removing her pistol, the other zipper-cuffing her hands behind her back. They continued searching her, removing everything she had: remote to the drone, satellite phone, conventional beacon, everything—her lifelines to the JSF gone.
She glared at Aslan, who said, “As I told you, we have a common enemy. But we know you won’t trust us, so this is a necessary evil.”
“At this point I’m unsure who’s worse,” she spat. “The Spetsnaz don’t play games. They don’t pretend to be your friend.”
“It’s okay, my dear,” said Brandenburg, clutching Halverson’s chin a moment before she jerked her head away. “We’re going to take very good care of you. No interrogation. No torture. Hell, I’ve even got a bottle of Château Puisserguier Saint-Chinian Blanc I’ll share with you.”
Halverson stared, dumbfounded. “You have no questions?”
“We already know enough.”
“Really.”
“Your name is Major Stephanie Halverson. You’re an American pilot with the Joint Strike Force. You’ve been flying a new hypersonic jet called the X-2A Wraith, and you came here to North Ossetia to test a new radar system for the plane. You were shot down because the system malfunctioned.”
Halverson’s blood iced up, her chest tightened, and she could barely breathe. “That information is classified, compartmentalized.”
“Oh, I just Googled it,” Brandenburg said, turning back to her men, who broke out in raucous laughter.
“Who are you people?”
“Like I said, don’t worry about anything. Aslan? Please take her to her quarters and be sure she has everything she needs.”
Aslan nodded and led Halverson back out of the cave.
“What the hell?” she stage-whispered.
“Shhh, not now,” he warned. “Go along.”
They passed through the connecting tunnel, then walked back across the warehouse and into yet another passageway that likewise broadened into a loading station, with ten or more gas-powered forklifts lined up and the black void of another exit on the far end. To her right sat an area cordoned off by a chain-link fence, where hundreds of boxes of ammunition buckled the thin metal shelves aligning the walls. Aslan guided her to this area, opened the gate with a key, then led her to a single cot set up alongside a stack of empty wooden crates that someone had converted into a makeshift desk with several pens, notebooks, and flashlights scattered across it.
“What the hell’s going on here?” asked Halverson.
Aslan glanced up at the camera on the ceiling, swiveling to face them. He turned his back to the camera, winked, and said, “You’ll be safe. That’s all I can tell you.” Then he mouthed the words I’ll come back for you later.
She watched him go, then lowered herself painfully to the cot, her wrists already sore, the cave’s humidity beginning to seep into her bones.
Shit, they didn’t have a course for this in SERE school, did they? Here’s what to do if while escaping from the enemy you get saved by terrorists who may or may not be your friends and who somehow inexplicably know all about you and your mission, security clearances notwithstanding.
Brandenburg was clearly not a Chechen, maybe an Australian or South African directing these Chechens with unprecedented access to the JSF’s operations.
Conclusion? There was a huge breach in security. Absolutely gaping. A mole inside the JSF, to be sure. If they knew all about her mission, then maybe they were responsible for the malfunction? Had spies inside Skunk Works sabotaged the radar system? Maybe they’d taken it out from the ground with a directed-energy weapon? Their comm equipment appeared sophisticated, and they certainly had access to ordnance from around the globe.
* * *
Less than five minutes later Aslan returned with a sandwich and an apple. �
�It’s just plain peanut butter—but it’s a luxury for us.” He removed her zipper cuffs, and she rubbed her wrists and glanced up to find him holding her at gunpoint. “Just eat, okay?”
She dove into the sandwich and between bites said, “I assume they’ll ransom me. They’ll tell the JSF that they’ll kill me if their colleagues aren’t released from some CIA black site, right?”
He made a face, wriggled his brows, flicked his glance up to the camera. “I know you’ll be safe with us.”
She nodded, threw down the sandwich, and in the next breath was on him, knocking him onto his back, one hand seizing his wrist, trying to keep the pistol away, the other latching around his throat. “I need my satellite phone,” she whispered in his ear.
He groaned and whispered, “I know. Don’t worry.”
Suddenly, she no longer believed him—and she realized she had a chance right here, right now, to make her break . . .
She dug nails into his neck, and he gagged, fought harder, and she was about to choke him to death and seize his weapon when the gate slammed open behind her, and two men seized her arms and ripped her away.
She would have killed him. There was no trust, no matter what he said now. If he needed her so much, then he’d better prove it.
The guards shouted at Aslan for his incompetence, and they zipper-cuffed Halverson and shoved her back onto the cot.
Rubbing his neck, Aslan fell in behind them, leering at her before he left.
Either he’d come through, or maybe she’d get another chance to kill him.
She grimaced at the sandwich lying on the cave floor, then shut her eyes and shuddered through her next breath. A few seconds later, a bolt of anger sent her to her feet and she screamed, “Brandenburg! I want to talk to you!”
NINETEEN
Spetsnaz Headquarters
Fort Levski
Bulgaria
Unlike the town of Levski, located in central northern Bulgaria, Fort Levski had been constructed farther south in a valley surrounded by the Balkan Mountains. As the Dassault Falcon 7X made its final approach toward the army base’s runway, the asphalt flickering in the predawn light, the Snow Maiden glanced through a window and stiffened as she realized they hadn’t taken her to Moscow, no, but to a remote headquarters where she’d never be heard from again.
The infamous stories of interrogations that took place at the fort were a powerful emetic, the stuff of nightmares, the barbarism knowing no bounds. Some of the interrogators had taken their cues from history instead of technology, drawing upon the medieval instead of the medical, employing torture devices like heretic’s forks jammed into prisoners’ necks and racks to pull them apart. Acid, hot oil, and other chemicals were applied or imbibed, while teeth and fingernails littered the floors. The interrogators studied techniques used by the drug gangs, such as crucifixions and the use of oil drums to cook prisoners alive. A few of those sadistic bastards knew exactly where to place cuts along the body to prolong the bleeding process. Branding and waterboarding were sometimes considered too civilized, and electrocution was dismissed by a few as too mundane.
These stories were not the products of imaginative NCOs assigned as prison guards. As a GRU operative charged with questioning captives, the Snow Maiden had been there, seen the carnage for herself, and Kapalkin knew of her experiences. He’d sent her to Fort Levski and the Spetsnaz headquarters to frighten her before he proceeded to slowly, systematically, break her down. The psychological torture would run concurrently with the physical and draw upon all aspects of her life—her childhood, brothers, husband, everything . . .
If the interrogators were really good at it, and if it pleased the president, they would keep her alive for months, years even, until her voice and mind condensed into the head of a pin and finally . . . vanished.
Those few who knew what went on at the fort had code named the place , or the “Black Mountain.”
She would not leave this place alive.
Her eyes closed involuntarily, and she hung her head and fought off the shivers.
In just a few minutes they were on the ground and taxiing along the runway. A voice rose from the front of the cabin:
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” said Gorelov, the officer she’d helped to vet a lifetime ago. “It’s too bad your story is bullshit. The government had nothing to do with my wife’s death—but it seems the government will have everything to do with yours.”
She was going numb already, his words echoing away before they ever seemed discernible.
With her breath shortening, he dragged her out of the chair and shoved her forward, the chains clanging, her feet dragging, what little fight she had left remaining on the seat.
What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she surrendering so easily? They had her body, but they did not have her mind. Her spirit was still her own.
But this was the Black Mountain. You did not return from here. No one ever did . . .
* * *
In the mountains overlooking the runway, unseen by anyone near or within the base, were four sets of eyes . . .
Lex lowered his binoculars, his breath hanging in the air. He turned to Slava. “It’s a prisoner transfer, but this can’t be Ragland, can it?”
The man shook his head. “She wouldn’t be arriving. Intel indicated she’s already here.”
“Agreed.”
“Then who’s this?” asked Vlad.
Lex lifted his binoculars once more. “I don’t know. Can’t zoom in close enough to get a steady image.”
“You want to put up the drone?” asked Vlad.
“Negative. Prisoner will be long gone before the drone gets within range.”
Borya cleared his throat. “Nothing on the network, boss. Federation comm traffic is absolutely silent about this.”
“That’s interesting,” Lex said. “Must be a real high-value target down there.”
* * *
How do you want to die? the Snow Maiden asked herself as she climbed down the stairs and placed boots onto the tarmac. Wallowing or fighting?
Billowing waves of heat from the jet’s engines washed over her between bursts of the frigid morning air. Despite the harsh smell of jet fuel, she could already detect the forest, the hint of pine in the air, an odor that reminded her of the island, of her race through that forest.
They’d brought two squads of men to accompany her back up the mountain, and she paused a moment to let her gaze play over the base from her all-too-brief vantage point.
All right. Information is power. Think. Think. She knew the order of battle for Fort Levski by heart:
The seven-hundred-acre fort was home to three thousand Russian soldiers and a contingent of airmen from the 102nd Military Base located in Gyumri. Battle-readiness assessment was something she’d provided to her superiors countless times as a GRU officer.
Now, applying her own experience and understanding of the Russian soldier mentality, she ticked off her mental checklist.
At any given time, eighty percent of the base’s seventy-four tanks would be operational, as well as twelve of the seventeen infantry fighting vehicles and ninety-two percent of the 148 armored personnel carriers.
Seventy-nine of the eighty-four artillery pieces could be brought to bear.
Fifteen of the eighteen MiG-29 fighters and all three batteries of the S-300 anti-aircraft missiles would also be good to go.
Preventive maintenance and parts procurement were not high priorities in the Russian army; however, what remained and qualified as battle-ready represented a formidable if not aging force to any foe.
The base’s architects had chosen to cluster administrative offices and personnel housing together, farthest from the runways, at the opposite side of the base, and while this was understandable, it weakened base security. The Americans had learned that lesson the hard way in Pearl Harbor.
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To the west rose enormous concrete pylons that each supported pairs of satellite dishes drawing shadows that eclipsed the paved service roads and the conical fuel drums behind them.
Another hundred meters back lay the electrified perimeter fence crowned with coils of barbed wire, motion detectors, and cameras, and connecting a string of guard towers manned by at least four personnel, two of which were snipers.
She counted ten towers. And those tiny pinpricks hovering between them were not birds; they were micro unmanned aerial vehicles providing secondary sets of eyes and ears to base security officers in the event the towers, main gate checkpoint, and secondary gate checkpoints were taken out. That the entire area could be observed from any number of the federation’s spy satellites once they came into range was another fact she couldn’t ignore. And while she couldn’t see them, she knew there were more snipers’ nests hidden in the mountains surrounding the base.
The Spetsnaz Guard Brigades underground headquarters complex was built into the cliffs in the southeast corner. A lone dirt road wove a tortuous path up the heavily forested mountain, ran for several kilometers along a treacherous cliff without guard rails, and terminated several hundred meters above the valley, where a pair of heavily reinforced blast doors on tracks had been constructed on the outside of the main cave entrance. A checkpoint manned by ten or more troops was situated just outside the doors and a smaller secondary entrance for pedestrians on the right side.
The HQ’s security and relationship to the army base was a wild card and difficult to assess at this point. Were the Russian regulars and the Spetsnaz working together? Operations within and conducted by special forces were not shared with senior commanders on the base. She wondered if a single-prisoner escape would wind up on the network with those in the valley. Such an escape would be a huge embarrassment to the Spetsnaz. Perhaps their egos and commitment to compartmentalization would render them vulnerable.
