Endwar: The Hunted

by David Michaels

  This was not the profile of one of America’s most cunning and lethal covert operatives.

  Meanwhile, his brother moved up quickly through the ranks and had made a name for himself in the Marines and in Force Recon. George was a textbook operator, exactly the kind of man you’d expect to find in Third Echelon.

  When Thomas had been recruited by Grimsdóttir, he’d initially declined, admitting he was not cut out for this kind of work. She’d offered him a six-figure salary to entice him, and though Thomas finally agreed, he’d flunked out of the training program three times before receiving a provisional pass. He was no man of action, as evidenced by several broken bones and other assorted injuries during past operations.

  But he was, as Grimsdóttir had carefully noted in his record, meant to serve as his brother’s primary alibi and not necessarily his field partner. Third Echelon had been experimenting for years with team operations: large groups, small groups, and pairs, but the implication in Thomas’s dossier was that he should be a human mannequin, meant to stand around and look pretty but do nothing. George was to keep him on a tight leash.

  Unfortunately, that was now Brent’s job.

  “Thomas, it’s time to go,” Brent told him for the nth time, checking his HUD for maps of the area. “Take Copperfield Avenue northeast toward the woods. Shooting you the grid points now. Go around past the academy, and just keep moving through. We’ll link up with you there.”

  “I’m taking George with me.”

  “We’ll come back for him. I promise. You cannot afford to be captured.”

  “I’m not leaving my brother!”

  Brent wanted to scream, but didn’t. “You need to go.”

  Thomas hesitated.

  “Voeckler, I’m warning you ...”

  “I know! I know!”

  Brent hardened his voice. “Then ... get out of there. Run! Right ... now ...”

  “We can’t run. We need to make them pay.”

  “We will. Later.”

  “I need your word!”

  “Jesus, dude, you got it. Just go!”

  “All right. You watch this ...”

  Thomas’s tone was beginning to harden, too, and that was a relief. Brent needed him angry enough to stay alive so he could exact revenge. There would come a time.

  After a deep breath audible through his microphone, the Splinter Cell took off in an impressive sprint, but not before shouting erupted behind him, along with gunfire.

  “They’ve tagged you!” cried Brent.

  Thomas cursed and bolted even faster down the street, suddenly ducking behind a row of parked cars. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Three Spetsnaz troops charged after him.

  Manoj Chopra pulled into the petrol filling station. There were no other cars.

  The Snow Maiden instructed Chopra to shut off the engine and hand her the keys. She took them and said, “Everybody out.”

  “Please, no violence,” Chopra said.

  She didn’t answer.

  They went into the small convenience store, where two old men stood behind the counter.

  Without a word, the Snow Maiden raised her pistol, even as Chopra gasped.

  The men barely had time to widen their eyes before they were tumbling to the floor.

  It all happened too quickly for Chopra to fully comprehend. That someone could kill in such a cool and casual manner woke a hard shudder across his shoulders.

  Hussein seemed less surprised this time, glancing up at her and asking in an eerily calm voice, “Can I get a drink before we leave?”

  “Get me one, too,” she said. “Some juice.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are we this cavalier about murder?” shouted Chopra.

  The Snow Maiden rolled her eyes, crossed around the counter, and began working one of the touch-screen computers to activate the filling pump.

  “If you’re hungry or thirsty, better shop now,” she told him.

  Chopra eyed the men lying behind the counter. He had no thirst, no appetite. Blood pooled around their bodies.

  “I thought you promised not to kill,” he said.

  “I did not,” she spat back. “I said I make no promises. Let’s go.”

  Chopra just stared at her. “You’re a monster. And if I didn’t have something you wanted, you would’ve killed me already.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that balance will return, once you are gone from this world. Balance will return.”

  She shrugged. “Get yourself some cookies, and get back in the car. Hussein? Have you ever pumped gasoline?”

  “You must be joking,” said the young sheikh, handing her a bottle of juice.

  She popped the cap. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Brent wasn’t sure how many now, four or five maybe, but they were on Thomas’s tail, gaining on him as he reached the heavily wooded perimeter of the Royal Military Academy. Because the Russians had full control of the target area, this was at best a rescue operation of his remaining operator. They could engage in a stand-up fight against the Russians, but for what? He no longer believed they’d gain much from searching the house, and the Russians might have already secured evidence that indicated the Snow Maiden had been there.

  Brent repressed a chill. Was his career already over? The Snow Maiden was gone.

  Only for now, he convinced himself. Dennison was working in coordination with a dozen other agencies, and Brent had just learned that the Russian jamming had stopped, so eyes in the sky were busy probing every inch of the U.K. for their target.

  Time wasn’t just of the essence; it was everything now. If she got out of the U.K., he feared she could more easily drop off the grid. She no doubt had many contacts in Europe she’d made over the years, friends who owed her favors. She’d left herself much more vulnerable to link up with Chopra and Hussein. If she had both of them now, she need only disappear.

  “Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. Anything, over?”

  “Still searching, Ghost Lead ...”

  “Roger, still waiting.” He winced over his sarcastic tone. There it was—the stress beginning to unravel him.

  He took a deep breath and glanced over at the driver, who returned the gaze. “What, Yank? Not fast enough for you?”

  “You’re good. It’s nothing.”

  Brent and his team were but five minutes from reaching the northeast perimeter of the forest when Dennison called.

  He’d thought he was being glib about following the trail of bodies to locate the Snow Maiden, but Dennison and her allies had been doing just that:

  Flexford. Roadblock. Two dead cops.

  The Snow Maiden had gone south, then had turned east and was now, perhaps, en route toward the coast to cross the English Channel and head into Europe. At least that was Dennison’s theory. The town of Dover was a major ferry port and about ninety kilometers away.

  “There will be at least two or three obvious escape points,” Brent told Dennison. “And she’ll have decoys, just like the Seychelles.”

  “We can’t expect anything less.”

  “Right, so we need to track every vehicle between here and the coast,” he said, his voice growing more emphatic.

  “Brent, that’s a huge search and a massive amount of data. The government’s declared martial law, but there’s a mad dash to the coast now, with thousands of cars on the road, and you know she could’ve changed vehicles.”

  “But maybe she didn’t.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Hammer out.”

  Brent blinked hard and studied the terrain map and live satellite overlay in his HUD. Six Spetsnaz troops, identified as red blips, were closing in on the green blip, Thomas, who was still beating a serpentine path through the forest. The images streaming in from his goggles were blurry, jittery, but clearly noted his effort.

  “Lakota, keep Thomas updated, over?”

  “Roger, I’m on it,” she said, then immediately began speaking to the Splint
er Cell, feeding him data on the Russians behind him so that he could concentrate on moving and communicating without splitting his attention between the course ahead and his own HUD. She would guide him directly toward their location.

  The team came to a fork in the road, with the forest dead ahead, and Brent instructed both drivers to pull over and wait for them.

  In silence the Ghosts dismounted from both trucks and expertly fanned out in a split-team formation, Lakota leading one group, he taking the other.

  “Schleck, when we draw in, I need a sentinel, over.”

  “Just say the word,” came the sniper’s immediate reply.

  “Riggs, you, too,” Brent added.

  “Hope I don’t break a nail,” she said with a snort.

  “All right, Ghosts, listen up. We’ll flank, cross, and top down, with the package running a TD right up the middle.”

  “You read my mind,” said Lakota.

  Brent jogged with the fear and enthusiasm of a first-year cadet at West Point, threading through stands of large oaks and booting his way across a carpet of dirt and leaves. The air was much cooler and slightly damper.

  Heston, Park, and Noboru fanned out to the left, while Lakota, Daugherty, and Copeland shifted right. The plan was simple: Guide Thomas through the center of their flanking positions, toward the trucks. Once he passed, they would squeeze the belt on the approaching Spetsnaz and catch them in a crossfire—which was, in fact, a diversion that would allow Riggs and Schleck—the sentinels positioned in the trees—to shoot them from their overhead snipers’ perches.

  How much of that plan survived the first enemy contact was a question they had no time to pose—

  Because in less than two minutes they’d have their answer.

  Lakota cursed.

  “What?” Brent asked.

  “Check southern perimeter. Got some armed officers from Sandhurst moving into the woods. They must’ve spotted the Russians.”

  Brent saw them, too. “Aw, man ...”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Cross-Com, this is Ghost Lead,” Brent called into his mike, activating the Cross-Com’s new artificial-intelligence feedback control.

  “Go ahead, Ghost Lead,” came the automated voice of a tactical computer aboard a satellite hurtling some 220,000 miles over Brent’s head.

  “Lock on to foes. All others in the area are IDed as friendlies, over.”

  “Roger. Foes locked. Friendlies identified. Four additional combatants moving into operational zone. Are these the contacts you wish IDed as friendlies, over?”

  “Roger!”

  “Designating.”

  At least Brent’s people wouldn’t misidentify those officers from the academy; they would appear as green blips in the team’s HUDs. However, those academy personnel could easily mistake a Ghost Recon troop for a Russian—after all, both groups wore nondescript black, with only the design of their helmets being different, along with their communications devices. The Russians had a headset resembling a pair of sunglasses, whereas the Cross-Com was monocle-based.

  Of course, you had to think like a young military man whose country was being invaded: Any guy with a gun who didn’t look like British military was an enemy. Shoot first. Apologize later.

  Brent notified the rest of the team about the academy officers as he and the other group advanced toward their flanking zones. Their jobs were threefold now: rescue Thomas, ensure that the Brits did not interfere, and try to shield those officers from the Russians. If they had to neutralize one of the Brits, they would do so with less-than-lethal fire, and his team members carried an assortment of such weapons.

  Amazingly, the initial plan was still in place despite one unforeseen complication.

  He grinned darkly to himself and jogged on behind Heston, Park, and Noboru. They reached their positions, and he sent his three men ahead while he dropped behind a pair of trees and listened as Lakota instructed Thomas to begin turning northwest along a line that would take him directly between them.

  “Riggs, Schleck, you up there?”

  “Almost,” said Schleck, his voice tense.

  “What’s the delay?”

  “Sorry, Ghost Lead,” said Riggs. “My fault. I needed his help. I’m up now.”

  “And so am I,” Schleck reported.

  “Stand by ...”

  Brent lost his breath as he eyed the HUD and saw the Russians closing in on Thomas, coming within thirty meters. Automatic weapons fire broke the still, damp quiet.

  That fire had come from the Russians, and through Thomas’s goggles Brent noted the trees splintering on Thomas’s right side.

  At nearly the same time, more gunfire echoed from the south—this from the academy officers who were closing in behind the Russians.

  Not good. One of their stray rounds could catch Thomas.

  Brent watched now as two Russians broke off from the chase to circle back on the Brits.

  He broke from his cover and ran parallel behind Heston, Noboru, and Park. “Ghost Team, I’m heading south after those two break-off guys. Once Thomas is through the gap, Lakota, you put the snipers to work, over?”

  “Roger that,” she replied.

  “Keep running, Thomas, you’re almost there,” Brent cried.

  Only the Splinter Cell’s panting came through the mike. He was at his top pace now, his heart rate in the red zone, and he was probably scared as hell as another salvo of gunfire boomed.

  Brent ducked and cut through another twenty meters of forest when, off to his right, about fifty meters away, he spotted Thomas dashing forward. Then he saw the Russians. He was tempted to draw fire away, but he knew his people were in place. He kept on toward the two troops that had doubled back.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hammer,” called Dennison. “I think we’ve got her!”

  The Snow Maiden was gritting her teeth as they reached a wall of traffic on the outskirts of Ashford. They were only about thirty or so kilometers away from Dover and she had kept them on the smaller country roads, but now there was a mass exodus toward the coast and Europe. Chopra turned on the radio, and a newscaster reported chaos at the coast. The citizenry feared that Russia was launching a massive ground invasion of the country.

  Chopra slumped toward the steering wheel. “There’s nothing else we can do but sit here. The traffic must be backed up all the way to the coast.”

  “This is a brilliant escape plan you have,” said Hussein. “I guess you hadn’t thought of this.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” she snapped. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and cleared her head.

  Then she got on her smartphone and searched for the business she had in mind. “Get out of the car,” she cried.

  “Right here?” asked Chopra. “We’re just leaving it right here?”

  “Get out!”

  They complied, and she hid her gun beneath her jacket as others began to follow suit, stepping out from their cars to stretch and have a look down the narrow road.

  She ordered them forward toward the next corner, then made them begin to jog. The old man protested. She barked back. He ran for a block until he was winded.

  Within fifteen more minutes they reached the shop. “Oh, you can’t be serious,” Chopra said, his mouth opening in awe.

  “You’re damned right I am.”

  “I don’t want to watch,” he said.

  “That’s all right, you can close your eyes,” she said.

  They stepped into the bicycle shop, and she took care of the owner and his two technicians. They picked out hybrid bicycles with straight handlebars and rode out the back door. They took the alley up to the main road and began moving parallel with the long line of gridlocked cars. Riding the bike got her choked up. Andrei had won the Tour de France, only to be executed because of her. Perhaps his ghost had whispered the idea in her ear: “You’re not far from the coast, just a few hours by bike ...”

  For some reason, the hair stood on the back of her neck and she felt comp
elled to glance skyward.

  THIRTEEN

  Forest near Royal Military Academy

  Sandhurst

  Brent’s HUD was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  No, it better resembled the lights of Times Square, New York, with enough color and flash to make him blink hard and imagine an elaborate advertisement—WWIII sponsored by your favorite cola or sports shoe.

  He looked again and realized he didn’t fully comprehend what the computer was showing him. A data bar below indicated the obvious:

  Target acquired.

  Guidance system nominal.

  “Do you wish to neutralize the target?”

  Okay, he got it now. His race to this part of the forest had stolen his breath and blurred his vision. Data overload wasn’t uncommon.

  As he gained back control of his breathing, the computer’s voice purred in his ear, repeating the question, and with a sudden rush and shiver his senses connected with his brain and he saw it all:

  The trees ahead—

  The pair of Russians beginning to fire on the four officers from Sandhurst who’d spread out along a slight depression—

  And the wire frame targeting vector superimposed over it all that fed him the round’s projected trajectory, replete with scrolling numbers that marked precise angles and distances.

  Old-schoolers argued that this was more information than Brent ever needed, but it was impressive nonetheless. The real and virtual worlds had blended into a battlefield of mathematical relationships and ever-fluctuating calculations based on thousands of variables.

  He took the shot.

  The round that exploded from his rifle’s XL7 underslung grenade launcher was an advanced prototype of a Less Than Lethal (LTL) weapon developed by the NSA and engineers at Third Echelon. Based upon the old “sticky shocker” that rendered targets unconscious via an electrical impulse, the new LTL Track-Shock was a homing dart that used heat, infrared, and acoustical means to locate the target’s heart and deliver the shock with surgical precision, increasing or decreasing current as required to render the target unconscious without killing him.