“CIA?” Düster asked.
“Y-yes.”
Düster kept a cool voice. “Why did the CIA want Blade?”
“I don’t know. They know about the bombing at Georgetown University. They want to know all the members of Ringvereine. And about some guy with a scar on his face—he shot people in America—in a city called Alabama. I-I only gave them Blade’s name.”
“Alabama is a state, not a city,” Düster said. “Who did you talk to?”
“His name was Hank. Hank Smith.”
“Who was Hank more interested in—the members of Ringvereine or the Alabama shooter?” Düster asked.
“He kept asking about the shooter in Alabama, and he acted all anxious about it.”
Düster thought for a moment. “If the Alabama shooter is who Hank wants, the Alabama shooter is who he’ll get.”
Junior’s voice came on the phone. “You’re not thinking of giving them Dad?”
“He’s the Alabama shooter,” Düster said. “He’s who Hank wants.”
“Mom says that Dad isn’t worth our trouble.”
“She also says that she wishes him dead. We’ll let Hank take care of Dad, and our men will take care of Hank—two birds with one stone, you see.”
“This Hank Smith is likely to show up with more people,” Junior said.
“Then we’ll kill more than two birds.”
24
Max sat with Tom in their hotel room in the German Alps listening to their father desperately try to wrangle some assistance. Hank paced the floor and spoke heatedly on his phone: “Willy, it’s been two days since my boys did their first recce of Vlad’s estate. Langley hasn’t delivered the men we requested or intel on Vlad’s communications. And to make things worse, they took our terp—Sophia. How could you do this to us? And don’t give me that less-is-more bullshit. We’re undermanned for this next target, and you know it.”
There was a pause. Then Hank raised his voice. “You’re talking about ignoring the lessons we learned in blood, for politics. Your best isn’t good enough! You’re only offering us one guy, and he hasn’t shown yet.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Hank walked over to it and peered through the peephole. “Unbelievable.” He ended the call and put his phone in his pocket. “I feel like I’m in the twilight zone.”
A knock sounded at the door, louder and longer this time.
Reluctantly, Hank opened it.
A short, bald man with a bit of a gut and wearing a business suit sauntered into the middle of the room like he owned it.
The guy looked like Elmer Fudd, and Max said, “Shh, be vewy quiet, I’m hunting wabbits.”
Tom punched him in the shoulder.
“I’m Sonny Cohen,” the man introduced himself in a Queens, New York, accent. He put his hands on his hips and spoke with a take-charge attitude: “I heard you’ve got an op, and I understand you’re puttin’ together a special team, and you need a commando. A Delta Force American Jew. And I heard rumors that you want to drop down on Vladimir Lipshit’s mountain and kill or capture him. And now that I’m in Germany, I’m gonna be doing one thing, and one thing only—killing Nazis. Now I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell didn’t leave Fort Bragg, North Carolina, cross thousands of miles of water, and then jump out of a friggin’ airplane to teach Nazis lessons in humanity. They’re Jew-hating mass murderers, and they need killing. That’s why any sonofabitch I find wearin’ a Nazi uniform, they’re gonna die. Sound good?”
Hank and Tom stared at Sonny slack-jawed.
Max chuckled. “Yeah.”
Sonny smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Tom tightened the slack out of his jaw enough to say, “Vlad is Russian.”
“Don’t confuse me with the facts,” Sonny said.
Hank held out his hand. “I’m Hank.”
Sonny shook it.
Hank pointed to his sons, “These are Max and Tom.”
Max shook his hand firmly. “Nice Inglourious Basterds impression.”
“I don’t do impressions,” Sonny said.
Max’s phone rang. It was Young calling. Max answered. “What’s up?”
“Vladimir Ledouskikh is there on his estate,” Young said.
“You sure?” Max asked.
“Several sources have confirmed it.”
“Can you let us know if he leaves?”
“I’ll try,” Young said. “Better bag and drag him before he does.”
“Any idea how long he’ll stay there?” Max asked.
“All we know is that he’s there at the present. And I’m sending an encrypted floor plan of his estate.”
“You’re one in a million.”
“I know.”
Max put his phone away and shared the news with the others. “Let’s finalize a plan of attack,” he said.
25
After screwing the pooch on the op to take Blade alive, Max was determined to succeed in bagging and dragging Vlad from his mountaintop estate. Max owed it to his father and brother. He owed it to Maman and Charlotte. And himself. The only thing worse than failure is failing without giving it everything I have.
Under the cover of darkness, Hank drove Max, Tom, and Sonny two and a half hours northeast to Munich International Airport, where they boarded Willy’s plane. They briefly examined their bags before taking their seats. The plane taxied down the runway.
Because this was their first time working with Sonny, it was important that he knew where each of the Waynes kept their first aid pouches, called blowout kits; likewise, they needed to know where he kept his. The blowout kits were minimal, mainly used to stop massive bleeding. For this mission, Max, Tom, and Hank would carry a Special Operations Forces Tactical Tourniquet-Wide (SOFTT-W), Z-folded QuikClot combat gauze, and an Olaes bandage vacuum-wrapped in plastic to conserve space and protect it from water. The blowout kits were made by the Agency to look like Chinese knockoffs, so if one were discovered later, it wouldn’t be connected to US involvement. It was standard operating procedure to use the wounded person’s blowout kit rather than the caregiver’s because at some point the caregiver might need his own to use on himself. Best to share this information now, rather than later having to search around for one in the heat of the moment.
“Tom, Hank, and I carry our blowout kits in our right thigh pockets,” Max said.
Tom and Hank nodded in agreement. Although they often carried different weapons and equipment, the location of their blowout kits was the same to facilitate easy access during life-threatening situations.
“I keep mine on my armor vest, in the negative space behind my front ballistic plates,” Sonny said.
“Cool,” Max said.
Sonny broke out a packet of Red Man chewing tobacco. He put a pinch between his cheek and gums and chewed. Max didn’t chew regularly, but he missed the esprit de corps of an occasional chew with a teammate. Sonny seemed to read Max’s mind and offered him some. Max promptly took a pinch. Then Sonny extended the packet to Tom.
“No, thanks,” Tom said politely.
Sonny pocketed his Red Man. “Wuss.”
Tom shot Sonny the stink eye, but Sonny was too busy enjoying his tobacco to notice. Then Tom looked to Max as if seeking backup.
“Well, you do listen to Coldplay and all,” Max said.
Tom stared at Max as if in disbelief.
Max raised his hands. What?
Sonny leaned over as if he might spit his tobacco juice on the deck, but Willy made eye contact and warned him, “Don’t even think about it. Use a container or swallow it.” Willy disappeared into the cockpit.
Hank left and returned with paper cups. He handed them to Max and Sonny, and they spit in them. Then Hank returned to his seat across from Tom and looked at him as if he was about to say something.
Max pretended not to pay attention, but he listened intently.
Hank’s tone was a no-bullshitter. “Tommy, I know—I know we haven’t always seen eye to
eye on things. And I’ve made some mistakes. But I did the best I could.” He cleared his throat. “And I want you to know how proud you make me.”
Tom appeared worried. “Dad, are you okay?”
“I’m good. You remind me so much of your mother—in a good way. She and I disagreed beaucoup, too, but she made me a better person, and I loved her more than life. After she died, I thought I couldn’t go on, but you and your brother make life worth living.”
“You got cancer or something?” Sonny asked.
Hank shook his head. “No.”
“Oh, sounded like you’re dying or something,” Sonny said.
Max became angry at where Sonny was steering the conversation and spit in his cup. “Ain’t nobody dyin’.”
The plane reached a cruising altitude of 25,000 feet, travelling at 425 knots, taking a standard flight path to Zurich. But the four of them wouldn’t be getting off in Zurich. Max rose from his seat, followed by Tom and Sonny. Hank used both hands on his armrests to push himself out of his chair, and he looked a little older.
Max went aft, where he changed from his business suit into a Russian Magellan special ops combat uniform that was a camouflage of olive green, beige, tan, and black on a light gray. If his dead body were found later, he couldn’t be identified as American. The Agency had prepared his kit, and he checked his pockets to make sure they had his Swiss Army knife, extra batteries, energy gels, blowout kit, and extra cash to hire a ride out of bogeyman land if needed. Tom liked to carry a knife as a weapon, but Max’s only blade was the Swiss Army knife for use as a multi-tool. In winter weather, energy bars became hard as bricks, so he preferred the gel. The contents of his pockets was all there and in order. He slipped German tactical boots on his feet.
He examined his armor vest to make sure the ceramic plates were inserted properly in the front and back. His radio was mounted to the front of the vest with four magazines, each carrying thirty rounds of ammo. Also on the front were a fragmentation grenade and a smoke grenade. On the back was a water bladder, which he filled with water. Then he put on the vest.
He flicked his helmet light on then off—it worked. He put on his helmet and made sure his night vision goggles, NVGs, operated properly, too.
From a long black case, Max pulled out a sound-suppressed Russian ADS amphibious assault rifle. With its match-grade barrel and other customizations, it was more accurate than the original, but it was still sterile; nothing on it that would leave clues of American involvement. He double-checked that it was locked and loaded.
Willy pulled Max aside and whispered, “You’re daddy wants to talk to you. Up near the cockpit.” His manner of speaking was hardly weightless.
“What is it?” Max asked.
“I don’t know.”
Now Max was concerned. He walked briskly to the cockpit, where Hank was, but he seemed hesitant to speak. Max’s concern deepened: “What’s going on?”
Hank spoke quietly: “You remember when you were little, and—and I returned from an op? I lost some buddies, and I was wiped out. You came to me and put your arm around my neck. And you gave a squeeze and told me …” Hank’s voiced cracked and there were tears in his eyes. “You said, ‘Dad it’s okay.’ I’m sorry, Max.”
“For what?”
“It shouldn’t have been you saying that to me; it should’ve been me saying that to you. I put too … too much on you. Made you grow … grow up too quick. You took care of your brother and me. And you never complained. Not once. You made me proud. You’ve always made me proud, son.”
Things were getting too heavy, and Max attempted to lighten it up a bit. “You’re not drunk, are you?”
Hank smiled and wiped the corner of his eye. “No, I’m sober.”
Then Max became serious. “Why you tellin’ me this?”
“You take care of Tommy, okay?”
“Always. You know that. You’re making me afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, son. Don’t be afraid.” Another tear rolled down Hank’s cheek. “This isn’t the best time to have told you all this, but I keep procrastinating, and I can never seem to find the right time.”
“It’s okay.” It dawned on Max that this could be their last mission together. And he was afraid.
Hank wiped his tear away and said, “It’s showtime.”
Max attached his throat mic and dropped receiver buds in his ear canals. Then he put on his parachute.
Soon Willy signaled and shouted, “Thirty minutes!” Everyone returned to their seats, pulled down masks from the overhead, and began breathing pure oxygen to purge nitrogen out of their systems to avoid getting the bends.
Max pushed his dad’s conversation out of his head so it wouldn’t interfere with his thinking—he needed to keep a laser focus on the mission to bag and drag Vlad.
“Ten minutes!”
Willy stopped breathing from the overhead and went aft to make final preparations. He opened the cargo hatch, and the freezing air brought in the screams of the Gulfstream engines.
Next, Willy gave them the two-minute jump signal, and Hank and the others passed the signal to each other. This was the busiest time of the jump—they switched from overhead oxygen to their individual oxygen bottles, checked each other’s connections, made sure they had adequate oxygen pressure, and watched themselves and each other for signs of hypoxia—dizziness, tingling, euphoria, blurry vision, slow movements, and so on. The frigid air caused Max to shiver. He wanted to wear over-gloves, but he needed full use of his fingers for adjusting his kit, exiting the aircraft, and pulling his rip cord.
Max kept close to the bulkhead so he wouldn’t get sucked out of the plane too early as he shuffled toward Willy. Max stood on the metal stairs and held onto a rail.
Willy signaled with his fingers and shouted “Thirty seconds,” but the engines and wind were so loud that Max couldn’t hear his voice. Max was used to the routine, but he still felt a twinge of anxiousness.
Max passed the signal behind and shouted, “Thirty seconds!” He leaned out for a peek, and the wind sucked harder. He spotted the lights of Oberstdorf below and the unlit expanse of mountains. Their plane was on course.
Willy slapped Max on the leg. “Go, go, go!”
Max let go of the rail and barely took a step before he was sucked out. The slipstream gave him a monstrous slap, but he arched his back, so he wouldn’t tumble out of control. He free-fell through the black abyss, faster and faster until he reached terminal velocity. Max checked his glowing altimeter as he descended. The lower he dropped, the lower his body temperature dropped, and the winter weather over the Alps made his temperature drop even lower. At 3,500 feet, his body shivered to protest becoming a block of ice. His hands shook, and with numb fingers he located his rip cord, gripped it, and pulled. He made sure his body was arched, and his parachute jerked him. It felt like his chute had opened, but Germany spun below him like a slow carousel. Something was wrong.
He looked up. His canopy had a wardrobe malfunction—it was in the shape of a brontosaurian bra. The chute had deployed out of sync and a line crossed near the middle. If he didn’t fix it quickly, he could veer off course and blow the mission, or worse, splatter into the side of a mountain. He grasped his toggles, released them, and pulled down twice, flaring his parachute. The crossed line uncrossed and cleared the canopy, and his chute became rectangular again.
He flipped down his night vision goggles—four tubes that gave him 120-degree vision, rather than the standard two tubes that only gave 40 degrees. The white and yellow village lights of Oberstdorf turned green. Nebelhorn Mountain became an olivine giant. Similar to the line Max had drawn on a satellite map earlier, he drew a mental line from the center of Oberstdorf through the Nebelhorn and beyond. To the right of his extended mental line, in real life, he spotted his target, the only estate on a mountaintop. Bingo.
He looked up in the sky at his team. They were flying close, their parachutes staggered upward above him like emerald stairs. He returned his
gaze below and zeroed in on the landing zone. The estate came up at him and seemed to pick up speed. Max flared his chute, putting on the brakes, and he landed like a cat on its feet. A gust of freezing mountain wind blew at his chute and threatened to toss him over the 7,000-foot cliff.
Max clawed his release toggle loose from its Velcro strap and yanked. His parachute flew off the cliff without him. It would land somewhere in no-man’s-land, and the snow would cover it until spring. He was relieved to be rid of it.
Even though he was wearing thin gloves, his fingers were like ice cubes. He stretched his trigger finger—it was lethargic, and he hoped it unthawed quickly. He readied his rifle to shoot anyone who might exit the estate and threaten his team. The others landed safely and released their parachutes into no-man’s-land, too.
Max led the others past the outdoor tables on the observation deck to the door. He took up position beside the wall near the door hinge. Tom and Hank lined up behind him. Sonny posted at the breacher position near the door handle. In spite of intimately knowing the floor plan below them, Max’s heart raced at not knowing exactly where Vlad’s guards were inside, or if they were already pointing their muzzles in Max’s direction, waiting for his face to appear. Sonny turned the handle, but the door didn’t open, so he proceeded to pick it. Either Sonny was uncommonly skilled, the lock was weak, or both, because it opened in an instant, and Max had no time to calm his racing heart. He rushed through the open door and to the left.
In front of him were two men. One came at him with a firearm, and the other was farther away, facing the other direction. The man facing Max was the immediate concern. Everything happened so fast that he couldn’t process whether the man held a weapon as small as a pistol or as large as an assault rifle, but Max thought he saw the latter. The enemy carried his firearm in a low ready position as if he was investigating a disturbance but hadn’t identified a threat. In contrast, Max came ready for battle and already had his infrared laser on the man’s chest. He popped off two suppressed rounds before shifting his laser to the man’s face. Max fired once more. The man slumped to the deck. Max shuffled deeper into the foyer so he wouldn’t block the doorway and prevent his teammates from entering quickly.
Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 15
