The Hunted

by Tom Clancy

  Strangely enough, the BTRs had anti-aircraft guns, but not one of them was shooting at the European choppers, and that fact gave Brent pause.

  Why would the Russians not target the Euros ... unless they were now working together? And if they were, who had arranged that temporary alliance—even after Haussler had taken out those Badgers?

  The Russians did have the European economy under their thumb, so perhaps this was blackmail or coercion of sorts. Whatever the case, the fact remained that Brent had to get past both of those forces to reach his target.

  He, Lakota, and Juma crossed the bridge over the canal, but as they turned onto one of the side roads to reach the main highway, incoming fire ripped up the road in front of them. Ah, the BTRs weren’t targeting the choppers; no, they were targeting them.

  Juma’s driver floored it as the Javelin missile guy considered firing his rocket while still hanging out the back of the SUV. Lakota hollered at the maniac: The back blast would kill them all—but he kept trying to swing out and shift the weapon so the blast would be directed outside.

  “Hold fire for now, you fool!” shouted Brent.

  He wasn’t sure the man understood English, but Brent’s tone and expression were hopefully enough.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Schleck,” called the sniper.

  Brent immediately saw Schleck’s point of view; it appeared he was pinned down, stealing glimpses around a corner. Ahead lay a long, dark tunnel. As Schleck leaned forward, gunfire sparked along the wall, driving him back.

  “I see it, Schleck. Start gassing them out, but you move in slow. Buy us some time. They’re sealing off the main tower entrances.”

  “Get around them and go in through the Silver Tower,” said Schleck. “We’ll flush them toward that exit. Grid test shows they’ve restored power to the vault security system down here.”

  “Okay, that’s the plan, buddy. Flush them toward the Silver Tower. You hang in there. We’re on our way.”

  “Brent, it’s me,” said Voeckler, his camera image appearing now in Brent’s HUD. He was behind Riggs. Gunfire boomed in the background. “I’m jamming these local cameras, but I just busted through the encryption being used by the Euros outside. They want to engage the Russian troops, but they’ve just been ordered to hold fire.”

  “Surprise, surprise. Keep listening. You hear anything I need to know about, you call me a-sap. And while you’re at it, see if you can break through and get a message back home. Try every satellite you can find.”

  “Roger that, sir. I already have been trying. And sir, those Russians coming in here ... they wouldn’t be the same guys that killed my brother, would they?”

  Brent took a deep breath and lied.

  The Snow Maiden finished donning her helmet, then made sure Hussein’s fit properly. They’d known they’d face resistance and assumed chemical weapons would be used against them, tear gas and other less-than-lethal agents at the very least. Their suits were expertly fashioned copies of the Joint Strike Force advanced MOPP gear prototype number six and not unlike the ones being used by the Americans trying to stop them.

  “Where’s Chopra’s suit?” asked the boy, his voice coming through the helmet’s speaker via the open team channel.

  “Forget it,” she answered, grabbing the kid by the arm as the forklifts rolled into the vault behind her.

  Light shone across long metal tables piled high with gold bricks that had been carefully stacked on reinforced wooden pallets. She felt as though she’d entered an ancient Egyptian tomb sans the art and statues, replaced by hedgerows of gold within which you could get lost. The brilliance of all those bricks collected in one place and stretching out for dozens of meters was quite breathtaking, even for someone as stoic as the Snow Maiden.

  Chen’s men couldn’t help themselves either, taking just a moment to marvel over the bricks and shout a few words of excitement to each other before sliding their forklifts into position to lift and haul away the pallets. Once loaded, the two lifts began whirring out of the vault.

  Meanwhile, she and the boy walked thirty meters to the back, where several computers had been positioned in a corner desk area whose walls were covered by old-fashioned paper maps, mostly terrain maps of various parts of the Middle East. She called in two of Chen’s men with batteries and a power converter to jump-start one of the computers. They finished their job within a minute, and the computer began to boot up.

  She shoved the boy forward, then yanked a data key from her pocket. “Show me what I want and copy it here.”

  The boy took a seat, pillowed his hands across the back of his helmeted head, then kicked his feet up onto the desk. “All right, bitch, it’s time you listen to me ...”

  Before she could react, a voice crackled over the team radio. “Hello, Viktoria, are you there? I know you’re busy making a little withdrawal, but I think you and I need to talk.”

  The Snow Maiden closed her eyes and willed herself to burst into flames. Nothing happened. She looked up.

  The kid raised his brows.

  Haussler called again: “Viktoria, I’ve just killed two of your Chinese friends. Don’t make me kill any more. I’ve got this building sealed off. You can’t get out.”

  “Watch me,” she growled.

  He laughed under his breath. “I know why you’re here and what you’re doing. Do you think Izotov can pay me more than what’s in that vault?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  “You’re lying. You’ll turn me back over to them.”

  “Come on, Viktoria. You know me. We’re both opportunists. Let’s you and I seize the day. I’m the only one who can get you out of here. Not this pathetic team they gave you. I have the firepower. And afterward, we can sip champagne—just like the old days.”

  “We never did that.”

  “We should have.”

  She stood there, wanting to call Patti. The Green Brigade was supposed to take care of Haussler. They’d obviously failed, and now she was forced to deal with him. He’d killed two of her men and gained access to their communications, which put them at another disadvantage. She had a decision to make.

  The boy looked at her. “Are you going to talk to him or me?”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, you shut up! You’re going to deal with me. I want a suit for Chopra! If you don’t get me a suit right now, I’ll smash these computers!”

  She removed her pistol and shot him in the leg—

  Before he even had time to take another breath and utter another word.

  Bang. A bullet had struck the armor plating in his suit and ricocheted off, but the impact would give him a terrible bruise.

  He wailed and nearly fell out of the chair.

  She turned her scorching gaze on him. “Get on that computer and get me what I want! I will kill you!”

  He scrambled forward and began typing on the wireless key panel. He slid off a glove for fingerprint authentication, received it, issued a voice command, was identified, then, finally, gained access.

  “Oh, no,” Riggs was saying as she whirled to find six fully suited Spetsnaz troops standing behind her. She faced forward, where two Chinese troops were doing likewise.

  Schleck was screaming, as was Voeckler.

  And Brent watched it all happen in his HUD as Juma’s driver raced toward the Silver Tower.

  The woman Brent remembered as looking so ravishing the night they had gone to the Tour de France party did the only thing she could do.

  She opened fire on the Chinese guys, then spun back and fired on the Russians.

  She didn’t last long. Of the dozens of rounds fired at her, only a few needed to find the seams in her armor. She shouted, “I’m sorry, Ghost Lead. I tried my best.”

  And then her avatar flashed red and the camera image from her helmet showed the wall. She lay there, unmoving.

  The voices came: We’ve lost Riggs! We’ve lost Riggs! The reports swirled in Brent’s head and never
took hold, all of them unreal for just a moment and then finally, inevitably, they registered as a cold shock to the system.

  Suddenly, Riggs’s helmet camera swiveled to an image of another man, now wearing a helmet of his own; it was Haussler. He was staying a while after all. He muttered something in Russian to a man behind him, then dropped Riggs’s head with a thump. The camera shook.

  With a finger gesture, Brent closed the window, took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself, his gloved hands balling repeatedly into fists.

  That opportunity lasted all of two seconds before the whomping of a Cheetah sounded from behind them, and before Brent could scream his warning, a rocket detonated not three meters behind the SUV, causing the driver to lose control, smash into the retaining wall, rebound, then hit the opposite wall, even as cannon fire stitched a line through the top of the SUV.

  A round struck the driver and blood splattered over Brent’s visor as he hollered for everyone to bail out.

  The SUV had slowed to about twenty miles per hour when he hit the concrete, dropped, rolled, and came up with his rifle.

  Lakota was beside him, as was Juma, who took a hard fall but assured them he was okay. The militiaman with the Javelin launcher jogged off, found a position to his liking, then lifted his weapon to the sky. He shouted something drowned out by the din of motors, and then the entire highway turned pure white as the missile streaked away.

  Brent craned his head to follow the Javelin’s trajectory. The bird homed in on the chopper, but this time the Cheetah’s pilot launched electronic countermeasures—white-hot chaff that bloomed like a cloud of metallic confetti. The missile punched into the chaff and streaked on by, losing its lock on the chopper and then flying skyward for a second or two more before heaving into a thundering explosion.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Brent cried, waving them down the road as the chopper banked at a steep angle, then turned its guns northward and opened fire a few blocks down from the tower.

  More flashes came from behind the skyscrapers, and the thought of Juma’s men being mowed down by the Euros made Brent’s skin crawl.

  He and the others were only a quarter kilometer from the ample cover of the high-rises, and they ran hard and fast but dropped Juma quickly. The fat man could not keep up, and Lakota went back to urge him on while Brent and the Javelin guy hit the wall of the nearest skyscraper, the Goldcrest Executive Tower, which stood just beside the Almas.

  Shifting furtively and almost not wanting to do so, Brent reached the corner of the building and stole a glance.

  The BTR was sitting there like a pit bull on all fours, big guns lowered and pointed directly at him. Two dismounts hunkered down on either side of the vehicle, while the driver sat forward, his hatch open.

  Yes, the long way around was through the Silver Tower tunnel, but at least they wouldn’t have to face Haussler’s buddies.

  Brent checked the WAN uplink and dreamed of having Colonel Grey call in an air strike, something, anything, to ward off these wolves.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Remus,” called Voeckler. “Euros just got orders to provide air cover and escort to any vehicles leaving the tower area, including the Russian BTRs. You believe that?”

  “She’s got the Euros and Russians working for her. And no, I don’t believe it,” Brent answered.

  Voeckler’s camera switched on, and Brent saw that the man had taken up a position behind some kind of maintenance section with large machinery.

  “Where are you?” Brent asked.

  “I’m moving closer to the vault. We’re thinking if I can cut the main power, we can lock her inside.”

  “Providing they’re already in.”

  “It’s worth a shot, sir.”

  “Do it.”

  Juma and Lakota came up behind them. Juma paused a moment to take both a radio call and a cell phone call from his men. When he was finished he looked up gravely. “I’ve already lost nearly half my army. I’m sorry, Brent. But I must call for a retreat—unless you can get us some help.”

  Brent took a long breath and closed his eyes.

  And there, of course, was Villanueva, with his Corvette burning behind them.

  The punk shook his head. “You know, you didn’t have to do any of this. No one cares. You didn’t make anything right by joining the Army. You thought you could get rid of me. But I keep coming back. You wanna race?”

  “NO!”

  “Now you feel bad that you got Juma into a fight you can’t win.”

  “I did.”

  “What do you want, Brent?”

  “I want her.”

  “No, I mean what do you want in your life?”

  “To get rid of you . . .”

  Villanueva smirked. “Joining the Army didn’t fix that. And you think getting her will solve all your problems?”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, but you’ve been thinking it. Deep down. You’ve been telling yourself that if you get her, then maybe you’re done. You’ll just retire. Maybe teach. But you’ve done enough. Paid your bill. And I’ll go away.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what if that doesn’t happen? Then what?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Chopra lifted his head enough to see the computer screens in front of Hussein. The maps were complex, commissioned and produced by geologists working for the family, while others showed the locations of the hidden oil reserves. Two were aboveground, while a third was submerged within the Strait itself and carefully disguised.

  The boy was giving her everything. Had Chopra placed too much faith in the goodness of the world? Probably. But did he have any other choice? Some would argue that he did. Admittedly, he’d listened to his heart. He knew no other way.

  “Hussein,” he gasped. “What’s that smell?”

  “Shut up, old man!” cried the Snow Maiden, standing over the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll go to sleep soon.”

  “Upload’s complete,” Hussein said, handing something to the Snow Maiden.

  “Let’s go,” she snapped. “We wait up top until they finish loading.”

  “No, I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’m staying with him.”

  The Snow Maiden drew back her shoulders, and for a moment, Chopra thought she would shoot the poor boy.

  “I told you to come with me.”

  “No!”

  She raised her pistol, thought it over, muttered something under her breath, then took off, running.

  “Hussein, come here,” said Chopra.

  The boy limped over and took Chopra’s hand. “I’m sorry for what I did.” His voice was muffled by his helmet, so Chopra had to prick up his ears.

  “You’re hurt?”

  “Only a bruise. She shot my armor.”

  “Listen to me. I want to tell you about the dreams your father had for this country, for our country. We don’t have much time, and I want to share them with you.”

  Hussein began to weep. “I should have listened to you.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  “She has all the gold. The oil.”

  “But she hasn’t escaped yet. I know they’re coming for her. So it’s not too late.”

  “Okay.”

  Chopra took a deep breath that hurt. “Your father drove me out to the desert one afternoon. We walked one hour away from the car, and then he lifted his hands to the sky and said, ‘Manoj, when I close my eyes I don’t see the sand anymore. I see an empire.’”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Almas Tower

  Business District, Dubai

  “Ghost Lead, this is Daugherty. I’ve taken my squad along the south side of the tower, moving toward the Silver one, but take a look at this ...”

  The image appeared in Brent’s HUD, and Daugherty zoomed in. Through the somewhat grainy green of night vision came a flash that lit up a group of combatants hunkered down near a small bridge facing one of the Almas Tower’s garages. The combatants, about ten or twelve, were dressed all i
n dark colors and wearing balaclavas. Daugherty panned to show that they were trading fire with one of the Russian BTR crews and two Spetsnaz troopers.

  “Can’t ID them yet,” Daugherty continued, “but they’re laying down some nice fire on the Russians.”

  “Haussler’s got somebody on his tail. His enemies are our friends,” said Brent.

  “And that’s not all of them, sir. Two other squads just showed up. Got about thirty or forty of them now.”

  “Do what you can to make contact. Let’s see who they are. Offer to hire them. You know the drill.”

  “Roger that. Money talks, sir. Just be careful when you come around.”

  “Brent, did you call for help?” asked Juma.

  “No,” said Brent. “But they came anyway, come on.”

  Lakota took point this time, leading them around the other side of the building. When they reached the corner, she checked the area, then gave the signal. They darted across the street, reached the next building, and traversed the shadows beside it, and then Brent leapfrogged past her to the next corner. From there he spied the Silver Tower.

  “Ghost Lead, are you there, over?”

  “Wait,” Brent called as a window opened in his HUD. “I’m here, buddy, what do you got?”

  Schleck had tucked himself into a narrow maintenance hallway running adjacent to one of the vault tunnels.

  “I’m hidden here,” he whispered into his microphone—even though they probably couldn’t hear him. “Voeckler’s right behind me.”

  Forklifts weighed down heavily with gold bricks hummed on by, one after another. Brent counted four in all, and he couldn’t believe how many bricks they were hauling out of there. Just seeing gold piled up that way was surreal; the pallets might as well be props from a movie set.

  “This is the third trip already,” said Schleck. “If you guys don’t get down here soon, they’ll get away with all of it. They’re making very good progress, up and down the elevator and back again.”

  “I hear you, Schleck. Just sit tight, man. You’re doing a great job.”