EndWar: The Missing

by Tom Clancy

  “Maybe we can turn them into Marines, too, huh?” asked Slava.

  The largest wolf began moving in slow, calculated steps, its head lowered, eyes wide, shoulder blades visible. Its ears stood straight up. The others fell in behind it.

  Slava came up beside Lex, who put out his arm to block the man. “Can’t take the risk.”

  “We can’t let ’em get closer.”

  “Our suppressors are too loud. The snipers down there will hear the clicks.”

  “Eaten alive by wolves,” Vlad said, shaking his head beside Lex. “I didn’t see this coming.”

  Slava drew his oversized Ka-Bar from its sheath, its surface coated black to avoid reflections. “Let’s draw them in, then finish them.”

  “Oh, you think you can kill them quietly?” asked Vlad. “Dude, I’ve seen you in a fight. You are loud.”

  Lex sighed deeply in thought. “Enough.” With a hand signal, he ordered the team forward.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Borya.

  “Just watch them. And keep moving.”

  * * *

  They shoved the Snow Maiden into the padded cell. She lay in utter darkness for a long moment . . .

  Then she sat up and glanced around, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  Her breath vanished.

  They finally had her. After all these years . . .

  Before she could contemplate that further, the door whipped open and in came Gorelov, his ear bandaged, his fist raised high above his head.

  She didn’t flinch. “You taste good.”

  His swearing sounded more like a growl from a diseased animal as he dropped to his knees and was about to deliver a roundhouse.

  What was he thinking? Had he lost too much blood? Had he suffered an acute and sudden case of amnesia? He’d forgotten who she was?

  Time for his wake-up call.

  She still had control of her knees, and before he could touch her, she slid around, tucked those knees into her chest, then booted him away with such force that he went staggering back, across the cell, toward the open door, where a silhouette appeared—

  She didn’t hear the Taser above all the screaming, but she writhed hard against the pain now coursing through her body, a knifing pain that struck sharply at first like a pair of daggers, then felt strangely numb around the edges, her muscles vibrating involuntarily, her teeth clenched. Even her hair seemed to hurt.

  Her blood sugar was now being converted to lactic acid because her muscles were doing so much work. The charge was also disrupting the impulses that controlled her muscle movement, causing her to lose control of her body. She knew the science behind these Less Than Lethal (LTL) weapons quite well and had both employed them and been a victim of them before.

  Experience didn’t change that fact that it hurt like a bitch . . .

  With her vision going blurry, she caught sight of another Spetsnaz officer in uniform, a lieutenant colonel with a white crew cut and eyebrows so fair and narrow that he resembled an albino. Behind him appeared two security men who dragged Gorelov out of the cell.

  The lieutenant colonel got down on his haunches and stared at her for a moment. What might have been a smile seemed to rise from the deep plains of his face. “Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov.”

  He’d pronounced her name so slowly, so deliberately that it sounded as though he’d been rehearsing the moment all morning.

  She grinned and demolished his expectations of her. “Who the fuck are you?”

  A hand went to his mouth. “Please . . . let’s be civil here. We’re so thrilled to have you as our guest. Seriously.”

  “And I’m so happy to be here.” Her eyes grew to the diameter of a madwoman’s as she fought off the muscle spasms and lingering pain of the Taser.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Osin.”

  “Excellent. I outrank you. I now order you to become my bitch.”

  He ignored her and forged on: “I’ve just been put in charge of your well-being until the president gets here. Are you well?”

  “I feel spectacular.”

  “Good—”

  “But a word to the wise: You’d best not break your new toy until Daddy comes home.”

  He grinned. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  “Well, now I’d like to meat you, too. But I spell that with an A. Go ahead, you think about it for a while.”

  “This must be disastrous for your ego.”

  “As was your last sexual experience.”

  He laughed under his breath. “You haven’t lost your wit, but really, what happened to the great Snegurochka? Before you apparently died, they were still talking about some of your early missions . . .”

  “So much for operational security.”

  “The Americans call you the world’s most wanted woman.”

  “Did I misread that? I thought it was most desirable.”

  “Please, my dear, you’re nothing to look at now. Ragged. Blood on your chin. Boots and bravado are all you have left.”

  “They’re all I need.”

  He got to his feet. “Well then, Snow Maiden, you sit here and relish in past glories. You think about what’s to come. I’m sure that will keep you entertained.”

  “I need a bathroom.”

  He considered that, then crossed to the exit. “I don’t care.” He slammed shut the door.

  She screamed after him, then sat up, damning the jingling sound made by the chains—a sound that was driving her mad.

  A shiver took hold. She hadn’t been lying and really did need to relieve herself. She forced her legs together and clenched against the urge.

  After about five minutes, a moment of weakness seized her, as it had during the jet ride, and she began to weep.

  But then she stopped, listening intently to the faintest hum coming from the ceiling. She struggled to her feet, crossed to the cell’s corner, and squinted up into the gloom, where the tiny camera swiveled down to face her.

  She glared back.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Outskirts of Vladikavkaz

  Capital City

  Republic of North Ossetia–Alania

  Russia

  Thomas Voeckler jerked the wheel and turned left, heading south, away from the city, past an extensive stretch of farmland and toward the mountains breaking through the morning fog.

  There were only two men pursuing him now: the driver and one other thug who repeatedly hung out the passenger-side window and took potshots at him with an AK, aiming for his rear tires.

  When the first tire blew out, Voeckler accelerated and saw what he had to do, steering wildly for a dirt path that vanished into the foothills.

  The Mercedes limped its way across the gravel, then dug in deep, fishtailing across a looser section of rock, and then Voeckler came over a hump and the path leveled off. The car began to slide again, the flat tire flapping loudly. This joyride would end soon.

  He squinted ahead, the path vanishing back down into a valley of pine and oak trees too narrow to permit a car. Well, there it was.

  Voeckler didn’t think about it. He immediately bailed out, hitting the ground and rolling as the Mercedes coasted down toward the trees.

  He came up, darted across the path to be on the passenger side of the pursuing car, then hunkered down beside a tree, his hand itching for a pistol that was sitting back at the second dead drop in Vladikavkaz, the one he’d been forced to abandon because of the Bear and his cronies.

  So here he was, Mr. Thomas Voeckler, a man who’d gone from scrub jobs to Splinter Cell operative, a man entrusted with hunting down America’s enemies, a man who now had nothing but his bare hands to take on these men. He could grab a branch, a rock, perhaps even beat one of them to death with his shoe.

  Then again, he could run, hide. But he had a mission, a pilot who needed him t
he way he’d needed her. That was priority. He couldn’t keep looking over his shoulder. Not now.

  The two Chechen idiots came rumbling up the path, and as they neared Voeckler’s position—

  He sprang at them, reaching into the open window and yanking the thug’s AK-47 right out of his hands.

  The driver floored it, racing down the mountain and realizing too late that he was rumbling straight for the rear of Voeckler’s Mercedes, the car now wedged between two trees.

  Voeckler sprinted after them, reaching the top of the rise and looking down as they made impact, the driver leaping out a few seconds before to stumble back and fire a few poorly aimed shots with a pistol, the rounds thumping off the trees to Voeckler’s left.

  The passenger forced open his door and turned back, lifting a pistol in Voeckler’s direction.

  Voeckler jammed down the AK’s trigger, firing off a six-round burst that hammered the thug back into his door and down to the bed of pine needles.

  Before he could swing his rifle toward the second thug, a much louder roar than either of their cars resounded from behind him, and he instinctively dove back into the trees, belly flopping onto the dirt.

  With his knees and elbows sore from the impact, he came around a tree to spy one of the old APCs from the checkpoint.

  Wait, no, it wasn’t one of those but an Army 6×6 with an open flatbed carrying six troops that suddenly dismounted as the truck ground to a squealing halt.

  That the remaining thug took on seven Russian troops was a testament to his supreme stupidity.

  His pistol sounded like a barking poodle against the roar of the troops’ AN-94s, those weapons shredding him and the car before he had time to scream or curse at them.

  In the next breath, Voeckler warmed with relief.

  In the following breath he panicked.

  All he’d done was trade one set of bad guys for another, only their numbers had now tripled.

  An officer shouted to the men to fan out and search the area.

  The squad hustled off, leaving a kid of no more than eighteen behind the wheel to watch the truck. Voeckler waited until the troops had disappeared into the forest, until the shouts of orders had grown faint and the chirping of birds resumed. He braced himself, then left the tree, shifting around the truck, avoiding the side mirrors whose reflections would betray him. He’d slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and removed his belt.

  He needed the truck. The driver stood in the way. Time to remove the obstacle. That was all he should have considered.

  But this kid didn’t deserve to die. He’d probably had a shitty life as it was, growing up in a war-torn nation, no video games or hooking up with hot girls or Burger King or 3-D movie players. He was driving a truck in the Army. Wasn’t his fault he had terrible timing. Or maybe it was just his fate. Voeckler tightened the belt between his hands and drew closer.

  He froze. Shit, he just couldn’t do it. Sure, he needed a vehicle, but maybe one a little less conspicuous.

  Did that really matter now?

  For a second, he envisioned himself strangling the kid, listening to him gasp before he went limp in the seat. Voeckler trembled with indecision. Where was the ice-cold killer who had put a bullet in the Bear’s head? Where was he now?

  The door opened suddenly, and Voeckler dropped to the deck and shoved himself beneath the truck.

  Breathing loudly, the kid marched over to the nearest tree, unzipped, and began to pee, groaning as the steam rose.

  When he turned around, the expression on his face switched from utter contentment to wide-eyed shock.

  Voeckler let go of the belt, reached back for the rifle, and waited—

  As another troop marched up to the driver and began shouting at him for not manning the truck, for pissing like a dog on the tree, and for his general insubordination that had now earned him extreme punishment. Hazing or dedovshchina was still a huge problem in all branches of the Russian Federation military. Voeckler had recruited a young man as field agent who, after the mission, was conscripted in the Army and then had committed suicide because he couldn’t bear the torture.

  Consequently, this moment was entirely unsurprising to Voeckler. The other troop grabbed the driver by the neck and shoved him back against a tree, fishing into the kid’s pockets with his other hand to produce a pack of smokes. He released the driver, and they both paused to each have a cigarette, suddenly best friends again, the entire assault staged by the troop who’d just wanted a smoke.

  They stood, muttering to each other, laughing over something Voeckler couldn’t quite hear.

  A fairly loud humming erupted from Voeckler’s chest.

  Oh, no. His smartphone was tucked tightly into his coat’s inner breast pocket. He’d forgotten to turn off the vibration.

  “Did you hear that?” asked the driver.

  “No,” said the other troop.

  “Was that your phone?”

  Another vibration. Voeckler reached into his pocket and switched off the device. Too late.

  They started toward the truck.

  Voeckler adjusted his grip on the AK. He held his breath. Waited. Their boots were right there, less than a meter away.

  Neither man moved.

  If they were speaking, they were mouthing their words so as not to alert Voeckler.

  The banging in Voeckler’s ears grew louder, his heart running wild, out of control.

  He brought his teeth together . . .

  And then . . . a face. The kid’s. “He’s here!”

  Wincing, Voeckler shot him in the head, then kept on firing, hitting the other soldier in the legs until he could drag himself far enough out of the truck to finish the job, firing three more shots into the troop’s chest before he could draw his sidearm.

  Knowing he had the better part of fifteen seconds to get the hell out of there, Voeckler bounded for the cab, hopped in, and threw the truck into reverse, wheeling around in the clearing to maneuver the beast back onto the path.

  Not a second after he straightened out the wheel, automatic weapons fire ripped across the 6×6’s tailgate.

  He checked the rearview mirror: The gunfire had come from the troop he’d just shot, the guy still alive and clutching his pistol with both hands. Voeckler cursed over his error: He should have collected their weapons before leaping into the truck.

  Nothing he could do about that now, so he floored it and reached the road before any of the other troops could get a bead on him. He continued to head south, digging into his pocket for the smartphone and checking his messages. No update yet on the pilot. He was to proceed toward her last known coordinates, hoping to intercept her as she headed north toward the city. He needed to ditch the truck ASAP, but the farther south he headed, the more rural the landscape became, power lines vanishing, just a two-lane highway wandering deeper into the wilderness.

  He checked his current GPS coordinates against Halverson’s, saw he was about five kilometers northeast, and then searched ahead for a place to abandon the truck. Within a kilometer he saw an embankment to the right, pulled off, and realized he could send the truck down the hill, where it wouldn’t be spotted from the road. After searching the cab for anything useful and grabbing a flashlight, along with an old Makarov and several extra magazines, he sent the old 6×6 on a bouncing roller-coaster ride into the dirt.

  Satisfied, he took off jogging for the tree line. Once in he was tucked tightly into the undergrowth, he contacted Third Echelon and updated his status, requesting that the dead drop gear be airlifted to him in the mountains. They’d use a private chopper, and he’d home in on the gear bag’s beacon. The request would be granted.

  But no, he didn’t want back up yet.

  Yes, he would find her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Forgotten Army Weapons Depot

  Caucasus Mountains

 
Near North Ossetia, Russia

  There were no childhood traumas or father issues that haunted the dreams of Major Stephanie Halverson. No deep-rooted psychological neuroses that still required decades of therapy to resolve.

  Instead, her nightmares were filled with visions of those she’d lost or had watched die, most of them from the Canadian invasion—Jake, the wingman she’d almost fallen in love with, lying there on the ice, she shoving a pistol into his hand, he assuring her he’d be all right. But then the nightmare would twist into the unreal, and he’d be screaming at her, accusing her of abandoning him.

  Next to him stood a boy named Joey whose farmhouse Halverson had reached after ejecting. She’d sought help from the family, who in turn were killed by the Russians, as was the boy—even after she’d tried to save him.

  The dreams would come, yes, but she would force them away, remind herself that Jake died while keeping a promise to his country. That boy was victim of an invasion; she was not responsible for his death. These images were manifestations of her guilt, of the pain she felt over their loss, but she needed to move on with her life.

  The nightmares always ended the same:

  She would stand on that frozen lake where she’d been rescued, arms folded over her chest, looking at the decisions of her past—

  Until the ice broke, and she plunged into the near-freezing water, struggling for breath . . .

  Then closing her eyes and dying before she bolted awake.

  She did it again. Cursed. Looked around. What the hell?

  Was she awake yet? Or was she dreaming about having a nightmare?

  No, this was real. The here and now. Her back hurt and her neck felt as though it’d been clamped in a vise. Her vision seemed to melt into something gray and blue, finally materializing into a chain-link fence, the cave, the cot, the ammunition on those metal shelves.

  She remembered screaming for Brandenburg, balling her hands into fists and demanding to know exactly what they planned to do with her. Would they ransom her as she suspected?

  She’d shouted for a few minutes, but Brandenburg had ignored her. Then hours had passed. Aslan had not returned, and so Halverson had fallen back onto the cot, lying uncomfortably on her side, and had drifted off into that deeply troubled sleep.