Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “Please tell me you didn’t put one of our drones over Russia.”

  “You know I have a bad track record with drones,” he said, hoping she might find the humor in his comment.

  “I don’t find that amusing, Karl. Not in the least. Your track record involves losing drones. We can’t lose one of those on Russian soil, for many reasons,” Audra said.

  “I’m not going to lose this one.”

  She glanced around and moved her seat closer. “It’s already lost,” she said, looking at him for agreement.

  She tilted her head and managed to look even more incredulous, which Berg didn’t think was possible at this point.

  “You sent a Reaper?” she demanded.

  “The Predators don’t have the range to make the round trip,” Berg said.

  “That didn’t stop you last time.”

  “See? I’m becoming more responsible.”

  “What was all the head nodding with Ms. Halverson about?” she said, gesturing toward the watch floor supervisor.

  “I’m cutting the satellite feed to the Situation Room for a minute or two,” he said.

  She shook her head and leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know what to say, Karl. You’ve gone too far on this one. I think this might have to be our last operation together,” Audra said.

  “You mean you’re not going to fire me?” Berg said.

  “How could I fire you? I can’t sit here and pretend that this isn’t partially my fault. I’ve encouraged you for far too long. I’ve swept enough of your operations under the rug for one career. I need a break from that kind of stress. Our friendship needs a break from it,” she said.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you in the dark on this, but I wanted to give you and Manning some plausible deniability here. I need him to look the president and the director in the eye at the White House and convincingly tell them that he has no idea what just happened. I need to keep them all confused long enough to get Farrington to the border.”

  “You better pray that Black Rain doesn’t get shot down over Russia,” she said.

  He was moments from making an ill-timed joke about purposely crashing the drone, but Audra beat him to it.

  “And I don’t care how bad it gets out there, you will not turn one of our Reapers into a kamikaze like you did before. Are we crystal clear on that?”

  “I’ve already built that restriction into the parameters. Sanderson can only pick and prioritize targets. Once the eight Hellfires are expended, the drone is back under our control,” he said, wondering if he needed to further clarify this with Weatherman.

  Chapter 63

  5:17 PM

  White House Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  Thomas Manning stood along the back wall of the small conference room and watched the satellite feed with curious interest. Reports from Karl Berg over the communications feed evaporated when Sanderson’s team sped past the first possible detour point, six kilometers from the city. He’d spent the next few minutes urgently trying to reach Berg, as the Tiger continued to barrel down the road, skipping several more opportunities to deviate from a suicidal engagement with Russian armored vehicles, and sending the president and his staff into a general uproar.

  When Berg didn’t answer his repeated requests, dozens of scenarios swirled through his head, none of which held promise. Did they lose communications with Farrington’s team? Did someone sabotage the CIA operations center? Was Farrington ignoring orders, thinking he could take on armored vehicles?

  The Tiger continued to close on the city, bringing everyone to the edge of their seats. Farrington’s vehicle suddenly stopped three and a half kilometers from the Russian BTR ambush site, eliciting a collective sigh of relief from the room. When the Tiger once again accelerated at reckless speed toward the city, the president stood up from his seat and turned to CIA Director Copley.

  “They’re never going to make it through! What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President. I can’t get through to my operations center,” Manning interrupted.

  “The BTRs are on the move, heading east to intercept on the road. They’ll be within gun range in less than thirty seconds,” Lieutenant General Gordon said.

  Manning confirmed the armored vehicles’ movement on the screen. All four BTRs had moved in a column onto the east-west road running from Znamenka to Slavgorod. In a few seconds, the vehicles would spread out into a “line abreast” formation, exposing Farrington’s Tiger to four 14.5mm guns. If the Tiger didn’t alter course within the next few seconds, they would all bear witness to a massacre. He wondered if this was Farrington’s plan, if Sanderson and Berg had uncovered information over the past few silent minutes that had sealed the team’s fate, and Farrington intended to go down fighting.

  “Isn’t there any way to communicate with the team? I thought we were talking to them just a few minutes ago?” the president said.

  “I’ve lost communications with the group controlling Blackjack,” Manning said.

  “Well, somebody better warn them that they’re about to be taken out! I think we should send the helicopters back to Manas immediately. Something isn’t right here,” the president said.

  “Mr. President, the helicopters haven’t been detected. There’s no reason to send them back prematurely,” General Gordon said.

  “It’s not a premature decision, General,” the president said. “Those men are as good as dead.”

  “We can send them back in a few minutes, Mr. President. What’s the range of those guns again? 3000 meters?” Jacob Remy asked.

  Remy’s cold statement wasn’t lost on Manning, or anybody in the room. Lieutenant General Gordon penetrated him with a look of disgust and hatred that might have caused Remy to lose voluntary control of his bladder…if the president’s chief of staff had bothered to take his eyes off the wall monitor. Instead, his gaze remained glued to the massive screen, eagerly waiting to watch the thermal image of Farrington’s Tiger blossom into a bright white circle. Before anyone could answer Remy’s question, the two screens displaying the operation’s satellite feeds went blank, catapulting the room into chaos.

  “Operations, this is Thomas Manning. We just lost our satellite feed in the Situation Room. What’s going on over there?” he demanded.

  “We’re not sure. Some kind of technical difficulties with the satellite link. Should be back up in a minute or two. Everything is under control,” a familiar voice replied.

  He almost screamed into the headset that nothing appeared under control, but something gave him pause. The voice belonged to Karl Berg, and he’d answered immediately. Manning thought about the events leading up to this moment and the incredible risk they had all undertaken to coordinate the team’s extraction. The possibility of encountering light armored vehicles in their path hadn’t been a surprise. In fact, Pentagon and CIA analysts had accurately predicted the response and deployment of the Russian assets on nearly every level. The strong likelihood of a sizable roadblock north of Slavgorod had been part of the early briefings. Now it made sense to him. He stopped with that thought and whispered into the headset.

  “Berg, you devious son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Did you get through to your operations center?” the president demanded.

  “I did, Mr. President. They experienced a problem with the satellite link. Should be back on-line in a minute. They don’t know what happened.”

  Without hesitating, the National Security Advisor suggested the possibility that the Russians had disabled U.S. satellites with a directed EMP blast. His declaration plunged the already agitated room into further chaos and temporarily yanked him out of the spotlight. Manning looked up at the director, struggling not to grin. The director wore an emotionless face, but he could see it in the director’s eyes. Like Manning, the director was engaged in an all-out battle to internalize his suspicions that the timing of the satellite link failure was far from random.

  Chapter 64

 
; 4:18 AM

  3 Kilometers outside of Slavgorod

  Russian Federation

  The wind punched through the missing windshield, mercilessly ripping through the Tiger’s cabin as Misha increased their speed to eighty-five miles per hour. The frost-heave-damaged asphalt road connecting Znamenka to Slavgorod had left his spine rattled and his stomach in knots. Despite the shattering discomfort, successfully navigating the entire road at highway speed had far exceeded his expectations for the Russian equivalent to backwater USA. Based on what he had witnessed during their trek westward to the border, backwater was a generous description of the isolated network of villages and trails defining their southwestern Siberian experience. He couldn’t imagine a commerce-related reason for the government to pave the road between these two towns, but was grateful that some nameless Communist Party bureaucrat had at one time persisted in his or her pursuit of the precious bitumen surface his vehicle travelled.

  He stared at the monochromatic green image of two Tiger vehicles less than a kilometer ahead, partially obscured by a thin stand of tall trees extending north. The line of trees, planted long ago by Slavgorod city planners to cut the frozen winds sweeping across the Siberian steppes, rapidly grew in his viewfinder. At this speed, it took less than thirty seconds to travel a kilometer. Sanderson was cutting it a little close.

  “Stand by to engage targets!” Farrington said.

  “We can’t keep slugging it out like this,” Gosha replied.

  “Have some faith, boys,” Sanderson said over the communications net.

  For the final phase of their exfiltration, Farrington had patched the satellite phone directly into his comms rig, adding Sanderson to the intrasquad feed. With elements of the 21st Motor Rifle Division pouring into the city from the south, the ride through Slavgorod would require quick communications and multi-sensory input from all members of his team.

  Of course, if Black Rain didn’t immediately produce some bad weather for the approaching Tigers, they might not reach Slavgorod. He scanned the northwest horizon, looking for any sign that they would not have to engage in another close-range gun battle. He couldn’t imagine the Russian gunners making the same mistake twice. A single flash erupted on the horizon, followed by multiple flashes.

  “Missiles away,” Sanderson said over the net.

  “Gosha, distance to targets?” Farrington said.

  “Less than five hundred meters!”

  He did a quick mental calculation involving estimated missile time of flight and flipped up his night vision goggles.

  “Get inside the Tiger!” he said.

  Less than a second after he heard Gosha drop into the cabin, a brilliant flash illuminated the landscape ahead of them, immediately followed by a shockwave that rattled their 12,000 pound armored vehicle like a toy. Misha kept the Tiger steady on the road as they sped toward the inferno.

  A few seconds later, the heat radiated by the burning wreckage on the side of the road became too intense, forcing him to shield his face with his hands. Through his fingers, he caught a brief, ninety mile per hour glimpse of the carnage wreaked by the Hellfire’s 100-pound high-explosive warhead.

  One of the vehicles lay upside down but mostly intact against the burning trees, smoke and flame pouring from its windows. The other Tiger hadn’t moved from its original position, but there was little left to indicate what it had been before the Hellfire missile had plunged through the thin armor. Through the flames dancing in the grass, all he could discern was a twisted, smoking chassis. The drone operator had assigned one missile to the pair of Tigers, correctly assuming that the force of the warhead would effectively destroy both of the tightly parked vehicles.

  Two fireballs ascended skyward on the horizon, in the vicinity of Slavgorod’s city limits, drawing his attention away from the grisly destruction. Additional flashes closely followed, momentarily exposing several small buildings previously shrouded in darkness.

  “Black Rain reports good hits on all targets. Four BTRs and two Tigers destroyed on the road. Three Hellfire missiles remaining. Black Rain will remain on station until all ordnance expended,” Sanderson said.

  “Copy. Just make sure Black Rain keeps us positively identified throughout the city. We’re driving a Tiger and I just saw what a Hellfire missile can do to a Tiger,” Farrington said.

  “Roger. Recommend that you activate your IR strobe once inside the city. That’ll keep Black Rain off your ass. Use the lowest intensity setting. Remember, the Russians can see that strobe with their night vision. Black Rain is repositioning to cover you from the top down.”

  “We’re less than a minute from entering the town. Any chance of a straight shot across?”

  “Not likely. I’m looking at eight Tigers and five BTRs less than two kilometers from the northern access road. Even if you did slip by, they’d be all over your ass on the way to the border. You could have avoided all of this drama by staying on the trails,” Sanderson said.

  “And we’d be forty kilometers from the border instead of fifteen, with little chance of reaching our pickup. We weren’t making enough progress,” Farrington said.

  A few seconds of icy silence hung over the net before Sanderson spoke.

  “Let’s get you through the city undetected. You’ll have to slow down as soon as you reach the first houses on the left. You’ll need to take a left on a dirt road just past the seventh house. This road will curve to the right and put you at a dirt intersection with homes on all four sides. Take another left at the intersection. We’ll assess enemy vehicle movement from there,” Sanderson said.

  “Solid copy. We’re passing the destroyed BTRs right now,” Farrington said, tracking the wrecked convoy through his windows.

  The first armored vehicle remained upright on eight surprisingly intact wheels, burning brightly through the blown side and top hatches. A massive hole above the troop compartment poured thick smoke and sparks into the darkened sky. The second and third BTR on the road had fared no better, belching flame through every opening into the Siberian air, evidence of torn metal and burning material scattered on the road between them. The last BTR had been knocked onto its side by the force of the explosion that inflicted a three-foot wide hole in its left side and blew the turret at least fifty into the field. Misha swerved to avoid the smoking chunk of metal as they passed down the left side of the road, giving Farrington a view of the twisted gun barrel sticking up from the grass. Looking back as the Tiger rejoined the road, he could see an area the size of two football fields softly illuminated by dozens of small fires and burning fragments thrown from the obliterated vehicles. The glow receded as their Tiger reached the first house and Misha started counting the houses out loud. Misha found the dirt road and slowed to make the turn.

  “Gosha, activate the strobe,” Farrington said.

  “Strobe activated,” Gosha replied.

  A few seconds later, Sanderson’s voice echoed through his headset.

  “Russian vehicles are starting to deploy east through the town in response to the explosions. If they keep going east, you’ll run into them trying to break through to the west. We’re going to hit the first one to reach the northern road with a Hellfire and try to draw them away. I’ve just been told that Black Rain has identified your strobe and marked your vehicle as friendly. You’re looking good. Keep heading south on that road.”

  It now seemed that the only people who didn’t know where the vehicle was headed, were the people actually in the vehicle. Farrington stared at the green image ahead, trying to make sense of the dirt road that barely stood out from the rest of the landscape. Several scattered houses forming the rough outline of a road guided them, but for all he could tell, they could have been driving through a row of backyards.

  “Coming up on a right curve. Make sure you take a left at the first intersection after the curve. Once you take that left, keep going and don’t turn west until I tell you to. You’ll be off-road at that point, but there’s a massive windbreak on the e
astern edge of town that will keep you hidden. Keep pushing south,” Sanderson said.

  “Got it. Misha, can you see a curve?” Farrington said.

  “I can’t see shit.”

  “Coming up in thirty meters. On my laser. You might want to slow down,” Gosha said.

  Both of them saw a bright green line mark the start of the curve, which gave them a better frame of reference, but did little to help either of them identify the turn. Misha slowed at the point and started to gently turn.

  “Sharper turn! You’re gonna roll us into that ditch,” Gosha said.

  Farrington felt the vehicle lurch to the right, as Misha turned the wheel suddenly.

  “Nobody said a fucking thing about a ditch!” Misha replied.

  “This looks good,” Farrington said, pretty sure they were straightened out on the road.

  A few seconds later, they reached the intersection and turned left, continuing south into the fields behind a large barn and several unlit homes. He saw the thick row of trees Sanderson had mentioned past the houses, and directed Misha to work his way along the field until they found an opening in the tightly sown windbreak.

  “Missile away,” Sanderson said.

  Farrington leaned forward and craned his neck to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the inbound Hellfire. A bright flash reflected off the treetops and the top of the barn, blinding his night vision goggles, followed by a massive crunching sound.

  “Scratch one BTR. Find a path through the trees and stand by to make a high-speed run due west,” Sanderson said.

  “Follow my mark, Misha,” Gosha said.

  Misha accelerated toward the tree line, chasing Gosha’s laser. He stopped the Tiger less than twenty meters from the opening.

  “Russian units are speeding to the site of the destroyed BTR. We’re going to fire one more at a building north of the city. As soon as you hear the explosion, take off looking for an east-west road. All of them cut directly across the town. Deactivate your strobe,” Sanderson said.