Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  In his estimation, the concrete boat launch hadn’t been used in decades, and their car would probably remain hidden for weeks, depending on the level of the reservoir. Of course, he was probably wrong on that account. Nearly everything in this part of Russia either appeared to be in a state of decades-long disrepair or had been hastily cobbled back together without the benefit of an architect or skilled labor, including the community of lake homes they had passed in Leninskoye on their way to this isolated stretch of lakefront—thirty miraculously uneventful kilometers from Vektor.

  So uneventful that Farrington could scarcely believe their good fortune after the disaster outside of Koltsovo. The Vympel team clearly hadn’t expected to find them so close to Vektor, instead stumbling upon them out of sheer random coincidence while travelling south. No detailed calls had been made to law enforcement units in the Sovetskiy City District, as evidenced by the complete lack of even the most rudimentary police presence. The streets had been deserted, as expected on a Sunday night in a university town, but to completely avoid running into one patrol car had been nothing short of a miracle, especially driving around in their shot-up sedan.

  One close look at their car would have been enough to raise the suspicions of even the most apathetic police officer. One of the side mirrors had been sheared clean by a bullet. The windshield had been peppered by at least four hits. The side windows along the right side of the car were down in forty-degree weather, mainly because the multiple bullet strikes to that side of the car had shattered the windows inside the doors. They had tried to roll one of the windows up, but it had jammed after a few inches, yielding nothing but broken safety glass. Finally, their left front headlight had been destroyed, making them an easy target for a police officer looking to make a few dollars with a warning ticket. Then again, he mused, their car didn’t look half bad for the streets of Novosibirsk. Maybe two officers sitting in a well-hidden patrol car had watched them pass, each shrugging at the sight of another beat-up car on the road.

  Farrington ran with Misha along an overgrown dirt path to a flat stretch of sandy beach fifty meters down the shoreline. Their mafiya contacts had picked this spot for its isolation along the northern shore, and its correspondingly rare shallow-entry sandy beach. Hard-to-find spots like this along the lake were usually accessed by boat, which gave them some hope that the car wouldn’t be found by someone trying to back their boat trailer into the water tomorrow morning. Early June was still a little cold for recreational boaters, but in Siberia, a fifty-degree day in June was treated with more enthusiasm than a seventy-degree day in July. Either way, they should be on a helicopter headed to Kyrgyzstan by the time anyone decided to take their boat out for the day.

  Emerging from the tall grass at the edge of the beach, Farrington was greeted by the business end of Gosha’s OTs-3 SVU sniper rifle, extended over the bow of their boat. The 23-foot whaler sat slightly canted on the sand with its engines idling. Gosha stood up and took station behind the whaler’s center console, while Farrington and Misha waded up to their knees in the frigid water and lifted themselves over the side of the boat. Before he had a chance to think about taking a seat, the engine roared, pulling them off the sand and into the deeper water of the reservoir. Gosha lowered his night vision goggles and pointed them in the direction of the southwestern end of the reservoir. Moments later, their boat accelerated to thirty knots, or roughly thirty-five miles per hour, skimming the surface of the lake.

  The boat travelled significantly slower than a car and would eat into the precious block of time left to reach the border, but it afforded them a few advantages they could not ignore. The reservoir and the wide river beyond it could not be easily blocked like a road. Russian authorities wouldn’t expect them to travel by fast boat, and by the time they started to consider the possibility, Farrington’s team would be back on dry land. While not the fastest way to reach the border, travelling southwest across the entire length of the reservoir was the most direct route to their next checkpoint.

  One hundred kilometers from their starting point on this beach, the reservoir turned south, emptying into a wide river delta, before narrowing again and becoming the Ob River. They would swap the boat for two SUVS hidden on the delta’s western shore. From there, they faced a 160 kilometer journey across dirt roads and rolling hills to the border, passing north of Lake Kulunda, a massive salt lake surrounded by industrial facilities.

  Viktor’s Solntsevskaya scouts had mapped the entire route with GPS, claiming that it could be done in less than two hours. Farrington had his doubts about their estimate, given that they had conducted the dry runs during full daylight, when the SUVS could be pushed to 50 miles per hour on dirt roads. His team would make the same trip employing night vision, more than likely restricted to 35 miles per hour. It could take them nearly three hours to arrive within striking distance of the Russian/Kazakhstan border. At their current speed, they would arrive at the next checkpoint at 1:35 AM, giving them little leeway for the three-hour land portion of the exfiltration plan.

  Sunrise was at 5:25 AM, but he had to subtract thirty minutes from that time, since the helicopter pilots had been ordered to turn back at civil twilight. D.C. wanted their precious birds clear of any inhabited areas by sunrise, which left him with a drop-dead arrival time of 4:55 AM. Three hours and twenty minutes to travel 160 kilometers, leaving him less than twenty minutes to deal with the unexpected.

  He took the seat next to Gosha, which provided him some shelter from the thirty-knot artificial wind and gave their situation some thought. They’d have to make up some time on the open water. He glanced back at Sasha, who lay across the back of the passenger compartment on the deck, supported and surrounded by cushions taken from the seats and various life jackets found stowed throughout the boat. Seva sat behind him on the rear cockpit bench along the stern of the boat. Seva had regained consciousness after they crossed the Ob River dam, complaining of blurred vision and a throbbing headache. Since a strong possibility existed that he had suffered a concussion, he would rest and tend to Sasha’s comfort during the crossing. Only three out of six operatives remained fully combat-ready with nearly five hours left to go. The odds were not stacked in their favor.

  He leaned over and yelled into Gosha’s right ear. “Open this thing up to just under full throttle. We need to make up some time.”

  Gosha nodded and pushed the dual throttle forward as far as it would go, notching it back just slightly to avoid a full redline situation. Viktor’s men had assured him that the boat was in top condition, but running an engine at its full RPMs for an extended period of time was tempting fate, and he couldn’t imagine any of them had much karma left to spare at this point. The boat accelerated across the water, reaching 43 knots. He examined the dimmed chart plotter on the navigation screen and noted their new estimated time of arrival at checkpoint three. 1:10 AM. Twenty additional minutes to deal with the unexpected. Staring out into the impenetrable darkness, he couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that they would need more time.

  Chapter 55

  1:50 PM

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  The president paced in front of his desk in his study, considering what Jacob Remy had just suggested: sending the helicopters back to Kyrgyzstan and letting Sanderson’s team fend for themselves inside of Kazakhstan. Remy’s logic was cold, but had been built on the realities of the situation. He needed to war-game this more, to make sure Remy wasn’t exerting undue influence. Remy had made it clear from the very beginning that he didn’t want to use U.S. military assets for any phase of the operation, but Sanderson wouldn’t budge without the guarantee of a military-supported extraction. Since everybody wanted to see the Russian bioweapons program destroyed, the limited use of military assets was approved. Now they were all having second thoughts.

  “What are we looking at if we send the birds back to Kyrgyzstan?” he said.

  “We avoid a potential disaster. This whole helicopter thing
was just appeasement from the beginning. We can’t allow the birds to cross the border to pick up the team, so Sanderson’s people were always working under the assumption that the team would have to figure out a way to get into Kazakhstan. Shit. If they can get into Kazakhstan, we can send some fucking cars to pick them up at the nearest gas station. Anything but risking one of those helicopters.”

  “Mr. President, Mr. Remy,” Lieutenant General Gordon said. “Two things to consider here. First, we gave Sanderson our word that his team would be picked up at the border and flown to safe—”

  “Not if half of the Russian Army is on their heels,” Remy cut in.

  “I don’t remember any conditions to their extraction, other than it taking place on Kazakhstan soil,” Gordon countered.

  “This just got far more complicated than just a simple handshake,” said James Quinn, the National Security Advisor. “Light elements of the 21st Guards Motor Rifle Division in Altay have been activated, along with the 122nd Reconnaissance Battalion in Novosibirsk. We’re talking a lot of Russian soldiers combing the area with crappy command and control. If Sanderson’s team gets caught up in a fight, the Russians might not stop at the border. We can’t put those helicopters in that kind of a situation.”

  “I understand the complexity of these missions better than anyone in this room,” Gordon said. “Trust me, I’m not blind to the possible consequences here.”

  “Then you can see why we can’t afford to lose one of those helos. Especially to the Russians,” Remy said.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have insisted that we use them, if you weren’t prepared to lose them,” Gordon said, directing his comment at the National Security Advisor.

  “The task force has to fly within detection range of Semipalatinsk Airport to reach any of the possible extraction points. We can’t do that with conventional helicopters. You said it yourself,” Quinn reminded him.

  “Well, we can’t undo this now without betraying the men and women who stuck their asses out to do us a favor,” Gordon said.

  “These aren’t U.S. troops,” Remy said. “We’re talking mercenaries at best.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Jacob,” the president interjected. He was painfully aware of the delicate line they all walked trying to classify Sanderson’s people, and he didn’t want to have this discussion with General Gordon.

  “It doesn’t matter who they are. What we need to decide is whether we’re going to leave them hanging out to dry or use these helicopters for their intended purpose. We have to test them at some point. This is as good an opportunity as any,” Gordon said.

  “We stick to the plan for now, but if this gets any hotter than it already is, I’ll strongly consider sending them back,” the president said.

  He could tell that Jacob Remy wanted to continue the debate, but had decided to shelve it for now. When everyone had left the study, Remy closed the door and stared at him with the same look he’d given him for nearly ten years throughout his meteoric rise to the presidency.

  “It’ll get hotter, and you know it. There’s no way they can avoid these units long enough to slip over the border. This is going to end badly for everyone,” Remy said.

  “So we send the birds back and it only ends badly for Sanderson’s people?”

  Remy shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to utter the words. The president hated this about his chief of staff. He’d put the knife in your hand and walk you right up to his intended victim, shrugging his shoulders with that “you know what to do” look plastered on his face, but he’d never be the one to do the stabbing.

  “We’ll see this through to the end. If they have the entire Russian army at their heels, I’ll get our helicopters out of there,” the president said.

  “I hope that won’t be too late,” Remy remarked dryly.

  Chapter 56

  1:08 AM

  Ob River Delta

  Altai Krai, Russian Federation

  The sleek white boat slowed to a crawl along the tree-covered shoreline to give Farrington the best chance of spotting their checkpoint without making another pass. The two SUVs had been hidden near the checkpoint early this morning by Viktor’s crew. In addition to providing Farrington with a GPS waypoint marking the location along the riverbank, the bratva soldiers had hung several infrared chemlights from the trees at the proposed landing site. The chemlights would fade significantly, but should provide more than enough illumination through night vision to enable a quick discovery.

  “Got it. Come right slowly,” he said, feeling the boat sway. “Dead ahead,” he added, when the dangling green lights seen through his goggles reached the bow.

  “I see them,” Gosha confirmed, steadying the boat on course.

  Farrington made his way forward to join Misha on the bow to guard the approach. They scanned the dense, murky vegetation for signs of an ambush, sweeping their assault rifles in long arcs as the boat approached a worn path through the foliage. When he felt the hull scrape along the rocky bottom, he slung his rifle over his back and climbed over the side, landing on spongy ground less than a foot from the water. Misha passed him the bowline, which he hastily tied to a thick tree trunk planted several feet into the brush.

  “I’m going to scout ahead and locate the vehicles. I want everything and everyone offloaded in two minutes,” he said, hearing the team’s immediate acknowledgements over his earpiece.

  He shouldered his rifle and peered over the holographic sights. The path leading away from the riverbank was dim, even with the help of night vision goggles. He’d walk several meters and stop, listening for anything that didn’t belong along an isolated stretch of the Ob River at one in the morning on a Sunday, besides his own team. After repeating this process three more times, he arrived at the edge of a small clearing in the trees and searched for more faded IR chemlights. Swiftly locating the dying green lights, Farrington moved toward them, keeping his weapon trained toward the jeep trail that emptied into the clearing from the west.

  He reached the SUVs, which had been hidden from view by several thick, richly foliated tree branches, and conducted a quick visual inspection of the tires. He opened the driver’s seat door of the nearest vehicle and found the keys under the driver’s seat. Everything appeared as advertised.

  “Team. I found the vehicles, and I’m heading back in your direction. I want to be on the road in less than five minutes. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  “Roger. We’re already moving up the path,” Misha said.

  “How much gear is left at the boat?”

  “Your pack and the spare with extra ammunition and explosives.”

  “Got it. I’ll call this in and get a SITREP from base,” Farrington said and took off for the path.

  He removed the satellite phone from one of his tactical vest pouches and called base to get an updated report regarding enemy movements in his immediate area and along his exfiltration route. He temporarily switched off his intrasquad radio so his conversation wouldn’t block his own team’s communications. Sanderson answered immediately.

  “This is base.”

  “Base this is Blackjack. We’ve reached checkpoint three. The vehicles are here as advertised. We’re a few minutes from stepping off. Any change to the disposition of hostile forces?”

  “Unfortunately, the situation has worsened. Elements of the 122nd Reconnaissance Battalion have arrived along highway 380 from Novosibirsk, on your side of the river. They’re spreading out along the road, leaving vehicle checkpoints all the way down to Barnual. The 21st Guards Motor Rifle Division hasn’t fielded any units, but we’ve seen indications that they’ll put light armored vehicle platoons at border checkpoints. With access to the main roads, they’ll have these in position within an hour or two.”

  “I’m more concerned with the reconnaissance units. Is this armored reconnaissance?” Farrington said, moving out of the way for his team to pass along the path.

  “Negative. No signs of BTRs or anything like that. Mostly Tig
ers or lighter,” Sanderson said.

  “The Tigers might as well be armor given what we’re carrying for weapons. We’ll have to avoid them just the same. Any good news?”

  “No helicopter activity so far,” Sanderson said.

  “That’s really good news.”

  “So far. Intelligence analysts are pretty sure that most helicopter assets have been shifted west and north in response to Monchegorsk. With things simmered down up there, they’ve conceded that it might be possible for some of these units to have returned. Novosibirsk airport was home to a squadron of Mi-8 Hips, so you might have to contend with airlifted troops near the border,” Sanderson said.

  “Wonderful. I don’t suppose anyone at the Pentagon knows where the Mi-28 Havocs are based? I seem to remember one of those in this neck of the woods a few months ago.”

  “I can’t get a straight answer about that. I don’t think they have any idea where it came from,” Sanderson said.

  “There’s nothing we could do about it anyway, so there’s no point in worrying about it.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to send you all known positions of hostile units, based on communications and satellite imagery. The CIA is analyzing the areas relevant to your projected path. Make sure to keep your RPDA (Ruggedized Personal Data Assistant) handy. We’ll continuously update this information on the RPDA’s digital map. From what I can tell right now, you’re going to have a problem about two kilometers down Highway 380. Two Tigers are sitting next to the road you plan to take west. I’d avoid that route,” Sanderson said.

  Farrington thought about the location of the Tigers with respect to their exfiltration plan. The improvised dirt road represented one of the few westerly passages they could use to travel over thirty miles per hour until they reached some of the small townships halfway to the border. Their other options lay south of the Tiger checkpoint or several kilometers to the north. Driving north would add too much time overall, forcing them to work their way west along less desirable roads. They could always head straight across Highway 380 from their current position and try to find a jeep trail that connected with the original road, but satellite imagery had steered them away from this option early in the planning process, and he’d be hard-pressed to force it on himself now. There was always another option.