Savage Son

by Jack Carr

  “Edo’s doing great, buddy. I think he knows something’s up and it’s time to come out of retirement.”

  “Can I pet him? Does he remember me?”

  “Go ahead. He won’t kill you unless I tell him to,” the dog-man said only half in jest.

  Reece knelt and ran his hands down the back of Edo’s head, remembering just how many dogs had saved his life over the years. Without multipurpose canines and dog handlers like Devan, more than a few operators would never have made it home.

  Standing, Reece turned to the last man in line. Barefoot, he wore dirty jeans and a gray T-shirt depicting half the face of a Sioux warrior, eagle feathers dangling from his braids. Reece knew the meaning of the feathers, as did the man who wore the shirt. Lawrence Chiaverini was one of Reece’s favorite people. No one called him Lawrence, or even Larry. Even fewer knew he was actually Italian, most guessing by the dark hair that fell to his waist and the name of his custom knife company that he was Native American. Despite the fact that he had no Native American ancestry, he’d been called Chavez y Chavez after the Young Guns character since first crossing the quarterdeck at Team Five ten years before.

  He had grown up in the Black Hills of South Dakota, where his father had the interesting distinction of being the go-to attorney for the bars lining Main Street and the pop-up clubs that appeared out of necessity to handle the overflow drinking traffic just outside of town. He had the respect of the community because he wasn’t just some white-collar lawyer there to make a buck; he also ran a motorcycle restoration and mechanic shop specializing in bikes from the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s. The law firm paid the bills, but his heart was in the bikes. Young Chavez learned engines and the art of motorcycle restoration and maintenance at the hands of a true master.

  His dad never talked about the war, but every year when thousands of leather-bound bikers descended on the small town in August, a group of aging special forces veterans would make a pilgrimage to the shop. Chavez recognized the SF crest with its motto De Oppresso Liber, free the oppressed, on many of the men who passed by to share a drink with his dad. He heard “Project Delta” mentioned more than once but the war was something not discussed in the Chiaverini house, perched on the hill overlooking the Black Hills National Cemetery.

  The machines in his father’s shop led to an early interest in knife making. Working on bikes provided young Chavez enough money to slowly acquire the equipment that would one day define him as one of the country’s most sought-after knife makers: grinder, files, drill press, sander, forge, and anvil. Though he worked long hours on bikes, and pursued his passion for the traditional skills still being kept alive through a select few Native Americans in the Badlands, his mother still managed to ensure that he would be able to survive in polite society. She taught him to cook, about the subtleties of fine wine, and instilled in him a knowledge and love of Renaissance and Baroque art, all skills and areas of knowledge that would cause more than a few to scratch their heads in wonder.

  On his fifth deployment in as many years, he was shot multiple times during a room entry that turned out to be an ambush. Before being airlifted to Balad and on to Landstuhl, Chavez escaped from the FOB medical facility and was found naked, knife in hand, on his way to the Iraqi side of the base, threatening to scalp the Iraqi commander he suspected had set them up. The culture of senior-level leaders in the SEAL Teams was shifting. What was acceptable, and even normal, at one time was now grounds for “medical retirement.”

  After the medical board cut short his time in uniform, Chavez returned to the Black Hills, adrift. By this time the reality show frenzy had long since hit but cameras still followed more than a few “stars” into the adventure that was the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. A producer who knew his father asked the recently unemployed Chavez if he’d ever done any stunt work in Hollywood. He was about to produce a movie on Benghazi and needed someone who knew special operations to take a few falls.

  Now, between movies as a fall guy in LA and creating custom Half Face Blades in his shop in Kalispell, many for Raife’s clients, Chavez had found a semblance of peace, though he still wanted to scalp that Iraqi commander.

  “Been too long, Reece,” Chavez said.

  “That it has.”

  The two comrades-in-arms shared a hug. Then Chavez reached into his back pocket and pulled out a blade in a leather sheath. “It’s a Hunter-Skinner. I made it when I heard you were headed back here.”

  The passing of a blade between warriors who have spilt blood together carried a unique significance.

  “Thank you, brother.”

  “Okay, now that you lovebirds have become reacquainted, what’s the plan?” Jonathan said, looking down from the steps.

  Glancing at the road behind him, Reece turned back to the Hastings family patriarch.

  “While we are waiting on the pilots, we have some weapons to sight in.”

  CHAPTER 65

  Medny Island, Russia

  ALEKSANDR ZHARKOV SAT IN a high-backed leather chair, his feet resting on an ottoman in front of the fire. The outside of the bunkerlike building disguised its luxurious interior, which had the look and feel of a cozy wilderness hunting lodge. Despite the Victorian-era feel of the room, the bunker was equipped with state-of-the-art satellite communications gear, which was appropriate given its joint ownership by the military and Russia’s primary foreign intelligence agency. He scanned the sender and subject lines of his email inbox on the laptop computer balanced on his thigh, a steaming cup of tea cooling on the side table.

  One name caught his attention and he double-clicked to open it, waiting impatiently as the message was decrypted by the software. It was from his station chief in Washington, who was running an illegal named Grant Larue. It was marked “Urgent.” He read it carefully and a smile came to his lips. His intended target had taken the bait and intelligence from Larue confirmed that there would be no official rescue. That meant a small force of private citizens were likely on their way without a quick reaction force to back them up. His men would tear them apart and if any survived, he would hunt what was left, the prey of a lifetime. His last chase had left him unsatisfied after his quarry had chosen to take her own life rather than die at his hand. Like a lover who pulled away at the very moment before climax, her act had planted a hunger inside him, one he needed to satiate.

  He called to Karyavin Vasilievich, the top Wagner contractor tasked with protecting the island. Wagner was a private military contracting firm with close ties to Russia’s intelligence agencies and was used as a surrogate army in both Ukraine and Syria. Many of the men were veterans of the 2nd Spetsnaz Brigade of the GRU and all had combat experience. Vasilievich, who had worn the rank of captain while in the spetsnaz, appeared in his winter combat uniform with a handgun in a drop leg holster on his right thigh. He stood rigidly, not quite at attention, maintaining the bearing of his military days.

  “Captain Vasilievich, we can expect the Americans any day now.”

  “I will increase patrols immediately. Do we know their method of insertion?”

  “I suspect that they will come from the sea but there’s no way of knowing. We must be ready for anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep all of your equipment shielded inside the bunkers unless directed otherwise. That is all.”

  Aleksandr swore he’d heard the man’s heels click before he departed, despite the rubber soles of his winter boots.

  CHAPTER 66

  Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana

  AFTER CONFIRMING DOPE ON the rifles 1149’d from the Army, Jonathan led the men into his gun vault.

  The former Selous Scout was a serious collector of firearms and his gun room was a sight to behold. The one-thousand-square foot rectangular room was constructed of thick concrete, reinforced within by a web of steel rebar. A vault door sealed the room off from the rest of the house, protecting the valuable collection from fire and theft. The interior was finished with rich walnut paneling, giving th
e room the warmth and glow of a London club. Rack after rack of rifles, shotguns, and handguns lined the walls, ranging in vintage from centuries-old flintlocks to sporting rifles used in the safari heyday of Jonathan’s beloved Africa. Alongside them was a selection of modern assault rifles that would rival anything at Fort Bragg [Redacted]. The guns were arranged from left to right in chronological order, with everything from highly engraved Purdey percussion-era fowling pieces to the coveted Heckler & Koch 416D. As the holder of a Type 7 FFL as well as a Special Occupational Tax from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, Hastings was able to buy dealer samples of the latest military-grade firearms, including machine guns and suppressors.

  The team wasn’t in the room to admire the collection. They were there because it was the closest thing to a secure conference room. It was highly unlikely that anyone was attempting to listen in on their planning session, but in this business, it was best not to take chances. A large LCD screen had been positioned on a table at the front of the room and folding chairs were arranged facing it. Caroline had prepared a feast at the rear of the room and a silver urn of coffee would provide everyone with a steady stream of caffeine as they completed the mission planning process.

  Thorn had scarcely left Jonathan’s side since this ordeal had begun and he soon joined the growing group of participants. He introduced himself and his two pilots, Liz Riley and Navy veteran Chip King, before Reece took over.

  “I want to start by thanking all of you for being here. You didn’t have to be. The government has decided to opt for a diplomatic solution to bringing Raife and Hanna home. From what I’ve learned about our enemy in the past few days, my assessment is that we are working with days, not weeks, to resolve this. My estimate is that as soon as the politicians start talking about this, Raife and Hanna will be killed and dumped in the sea. I want everyone to consider what’s at stake. This is an invasion of a sovereign foreign country. All of us could be executed or rot in a Russian or U.S. jail for this.”

  “You have to survive the jump first, Reece,” Farkus interjected.

  “Good point,” Reece conceded.

  “And that’s if you can get out the door before we’re shot down by a Russian MiG,” Chavez reminded everyone.

  “There is that.” Reece smiled, knowing the dark humor was part of the deal. “If you have any doubt, now is the time to say something. Trust me when I tell you that all of us will understand.”

  Reece paused and looked each individual in the eye for signs of hesitation. As expected, they were all in.

  “All right then.”

  Reece clicked a remote and began the intelligence briefing he’d borrowed from Andy Danreb at the CIA.

  “The Agency was kind enough to put this target package together for us,” Reece continued, working through the same briefing he’d received at [Redacted] before moving into the tactical portion of the plan.

  “The initial idea was to stage out of the Aleutians and HAHO in from low-signature aircraft onto the remote side of the island. The rescue force would have then patrolled to the objective, located Hanna and Raife, then exfiled via the special helicopters the government insists don’t exist. The rotary-wing assets would stage off an amphibious ship in international waters. Since we don’t have those resources, the plan is to use Thorn’s G550 to perform a HAHO jump from international airspace, using the winds to get us into Russian territory and onto Medny Island. From there we will patrol to the target, though with far fewer ground assets.”

  “Without the stealth helos, how do we get the package home?” Farkus asked.

  “Good question. Thorn will land his Albatross on the east side of the island, here,” Reece said, pointing to a cove on the map. “We make our way to him and skim the wave tops until we are back in international airspace. Then it’s on to Alaska.”

  “Why not use the Grumman for the insertion? A lot less risk than a jump,” Devan asked, thinking of jumping Edo in arctic conditions.

  “It’s likely the island’s radar would pick us up coming in. With the reduced signature of coming in via HAHO, we can hit the ground and maintain the element of surprise. For extract we don’t have much choice. If the Albatross pings on their radar, we will be turning it around and getting back into international airspace before the Russians can positively ID us. If we inserted on it, we’d be sitting ducks.”

  “Check.”

  “What about coming in by boat?” Eli asked, wanting to cover all the options.

  “Finding a boat of sufficient capability and moving it into position could take days; we just don’t have that kind of time.”

  “Roger that. I sure miss being able to drop high-speed boats out of a C-17 on a few hours’ notice.”

  “There is something else,” Reece said. “Three of us are going to jump Russian-sourced AKMs. With such a small force we are going to need every technical and tactical advantage we can get so our primary weapons are the 416s on loan from [XXX]. If the only brass left on sight is Black Hills 77 grain made in the U.S.A. we could raise U.S.-Russian tensions to a level not seen since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Wherever we put bodies in the dirt we are going to have to fill them with 7.62x39 and leave Russian brass all over the scene. It won’t hold up to scrutiny by the SVR, but it will be enough to give the U.S. plausible deniability and avert a war. The Agency was planning to bombard their systems with enough disinformation to sow the seeds of mistrust amongst the rival gangs. The official stance will be that this looks to be an organized crime hit on the son of bratva leadership.”

  “What could go wrong?” Chavez asked. “That was rhetorical in case anyone was wondering.”

  “Chip, Liz,” Reece said, nodding to the pilots.

  “Hey, guys, I’m Captain Chip King. You can just call me Chip. By the looks of it I think I’ve been doing this since before most of you were born and I’ve been working for Senator Thornton since he left Congress. I’m going to put you where you need to be so don’t worry about that. I’m afraid I have the easy part.”

  Chip outlined the G550’s flight plan, which would move the team from Kalispell to the west coast of Washington and then skirt British Columbia on its way to Anchorage. They would land in Anchorage, refuel, and check the weather. The projected winds between the Aleutians and the Russian Commander Islands would determine their exact path toward the target.

  “Liz will cover the drop,” Chip said, deferring to the former Army aviator, who was much more in tune with the language of special operations. Dressed in the Alexo Athletica workout gear and University of Alabama ball cap she wore whenever she wasn’t in her pilot’s uniform, Liz wasn’t a known quantity to anyone in the room other than Reece, Chip, and Thorn, but it quickly became clear that this was not her first mission brief as she projected a schematic of the G550 and explained exactly how the plane would be configured for the jump. Reece noticed that her trademark south Alabama accent abated slightly as she began her portion of the briefing. She could crank it up at will when she needed to lay on the charm and virtually turn it off when she thought it weakened her position. She wasn’t in charm mode today.

  Farkus followed Liz with a briefing on the pre-jump and exit procedures, sounding like he did it every day, which for many years he had.

  “What’s the medevac plan?” Eli asked.

  “After the drop, we divert to Adak, refuel, and wait for the call,” Liz piped in. “There’s an old Air Force field with a ten-thousand-foot runway at Eareckson Air Station on Shemya in the Aleutian chain. It’s used as a civilian diversion field now so we can land there if necessary. If Hanna, or anyone else, needs immediate medical attention, we can land at Shemya and transfer the patient from the Grumman onto the jet. We can have them on the ground in Anchorage within two hours, far faster than the Grumman. If there are no casualties, we will fly back to Anchorage and rendezvous there for the trip home.”

  “What happens if there’s a mechanical failure and the Grumman doesn’t make it in?”

  “T
hen y’all better be good swimmers or we’ll have to land the senator’s expensive jet in Russia.” Her comment, in her thickest southern drawl, lightened the mood and evoked a few laughs. Thorn grimaced.

  “When do we launch?” Devan asked.

  “Tomorrow morning, 0600,” Reece said. “That gives everyone time to prep gear and Thorn and Jonathan can get a head start in the Grumman. They are leaving as soon as this briefing is over. They have a long, noisy trip ahead of them. Anything else?” Reece asked, scanning the room.

  “Yes,” Tim Thornton spoke up. “A lot of you know John Barklow down at Sitka.”

  Heads nodded around the room at the mention of a man who had put most of them through their cold weather warfare survival training on Kodiak Island in the SEAL Teams. He now used that expertise as the big-game manager for Sitka Gear in Bozeman.

  “I called down and had him send up survival kits for each of you. I know you’ve gotten used to having an AC-130 overhead and QRF just minutes away. This is not Iraq or Afghanistan. This is Russia. I also have a flare gun up there for each of you. If we can’t establish comms and you get to the coast but can’t locate me, put up a flare and I’ll come to you. Jonathan will be with me and we will be looking. By that time, there shouldn’t be anyone left alive on the island to see it.”

  Heads nodded again as the gravity of what they were about to undertake sank in.