Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  In fact, he had not received anything at all from those two men. The commander had an aide call the guard shack, and there was no answer. After a low, private curse, the officer remembered that message had been very clear about the threat from Poland, and had not mentioned Lithuania at all. While he had been throwing everything to the south, were the snipers escaping to the east? He summoned the BTR-80 to get down to the guard post for a look. As insurance, he also instructed one of the 120mm mortar crews to turn and start laying rounds along the track from the shack all the way to the beach.

  * * *

  “BOUNTY HUNTER TO VAMPIRE,” Kyle called as he jogged along with Anneli right behind. “Bounty Hunter to Vampire.”

  “Vampire to Bounty Hunter. Send your traffic.” The voice of the stealth Black Hawk pilot sounded as cool as an airline captain flying over Montana. But in the distance, he could see the bright flashes of deadly fireworks coloring the sky.

  “Vampire, we are about ten minutes from the LZ. So far, it not hot.” The action was still happening far behind the fleeing team.

  “Our ETA is about the same. I can see detonations from up here.”

  “Nothing coming at us so far. That may change.”

  “See you in ten. Vampire out.” The aircraft commander checked his dials and tried to squeeze a little more thrust out of his big engines. He did not want any dials in the red, because if this bird went down, there was none other around to take up the mission. Usually, there was a spare in the neighborhood, for helicopters could fall out of the sky for a myriad of reasons. That hard lesson had been learned on other raids over the years, from the ill-fated Iranian hostage rescue mission through the assault on Osama bin Laden’s house in Pakistan. This mission had been thrown together so fast to keep security tight that it had become an all-or-nothing play, which suited the cocky attitude of a Nightstalker crew just fine.

  Swanson called out the good news to his jogging friends. Ten more minutes and they would be gone. The snipers kept their personal weapons at the ready and their minds alert. During combat, ten minutes could pass in the blink of an eye, or last a century. The fact that they had not yet been detected had been a pleasant surprise, one of which they intended to take full advantage, because it would not last forever.

  Anneli Kallasti loped along better without being burdened by the comm pack. Her eyes were on the dark shape of Kyle right in front of her, with the moving shadow of Stan Baldwin beyond him. Gray Perry was behind somewhere. She had never felt more excited, and believed that she had done well on this dangerous job. She would now really have something to tell her grandchildren.

  WHAM! The unexpected explosion behind them jarred the air with a passing sweep of wind and made her look back. Corporal Perry pushed to keep her going and explained in a calm, unhurried voice, “That was somebody or something tripping our Claymores. It’s a mine packed with about seven hundred little ball bearings and an explosive package big enough to choke a cow. I guarantee it just ruined their entire day. Move along, girl.”

  * * *

  THE DRIVER OF THE BTR-80 was using night-vision sights, which were not good for seeing details like the steel wire stretched a few inches above the familiar pathway to the beach. He was also being guided by the vehicle’s commander riding up top beside the large machine gun and calling down directions. The explosion wrapped the vehicle in a momentary balloon of fire and steel balls that flew from the Claymore. The commander was killed instantly and six of the eight tires were punctured, making the machine slow to a halt. The driver had been rocked by the jolt, he was temporarily deaf, the night-vision device was damaged and unusable, and the headless corpse of his commander slouched down the hatch directly behind him. He didn’t know the fate of the rest of the crew.

  The base commander also heard the detonation. The soldiers at the guard shack still had not reported in and now the BTR was incommunicado and probably had struck a mine down there. The silence of the troops and the savage booby-trap helped him decide that the attackers were using the beach path for their egress. He snatched his radio operator by a shoulder strap and yelled, “Tell that BTR to keep moving! Have the northeast mortar turn and saturate the area near the lake. That’s where they are!”

  The BTR driver heard the instructions, ignored the dead commander in the hull, and put the big armored troop carrier back into motion, rocking it to and fro to escape the tangle of vines and trees into which he had run. Some other crew member tossed out the body and took his place, but buttoned the hatch tightly. Some of the tires might be shredded, but the BTR could still ride on the rims, and he had fresh orders to keep going. The damaged machine would be slower and more awkward, but it was still able to move. It jerked free of the brambles and roots with screeches of protesting metal, only to run over a second Claymore after struggling only fifty feet. This time the explosive charge penetrated the gas tank, and the entire BTR brewed up in a ball of flame.

  * * *

  THE ACTION WAS SPEAKING to Kyle Swanson. In his mind’s eye, he had been able to picture the response back at the camp by the sounds and direction of the gunfire. That was all a puddle of harmless noise, and he had filtered each sound as they moved ever closer to the lake. Not a single shot had come near them. The BTR’s loud engine had been distinctive enough for him to picture it grinding up the path on which they were running, then the familiar explosions of Claymores—sharp and jolting—meant that the armored vehicle had taken two in its guts, for he no longer heard the engine. The most immediate threat was off the board.

  “Spread out!” he called. “Anneli, stay behind me.”

  Baldwin went off the path for about ten yards to the right and Perry angled out to the left, while Kyle hugged the path with Anneli. The snipers knew that mortar fire would be incoming, and by fanning out, no one round could take down all of them. A few more minutes were all they needed. They could actually smell the fresh water of Lake Vištytis.

  They did not stop when the first 120mm round nosed over at the top of its trajectory and fell to earth with a shrill whisper. It was far behind and to the right, just ranging fire with no true aim. The problem for such indirect fire was that it required a spotter to give the gunners accurate coordinates. This mortar crew had to be working from a grid map showing preregistered points. Swanson heard a second distant cough and, within seconds, picked up the sound as the rocket round tipped over and started down. It came in off to the right and still behind them, tearing into the forest with a ferocious roar.

  “They are going to give us a rolling barrage up the path!” yelled Gray Perry. “Going to get closer.”

  “I got water straight ahead!” called out Baldwin.

  The downward whine of another mortar shell signaled for all of them to hit the ground, and Kyle pulled Anneli down hard. The blast was still in the woods, on the left, and while the trees ate the metal shrapnel, they also loosed a storm of wooden splinters. As soon as the explosion was over, the four were on their feet again and running as hard as they could.

  “I see the helo coming,” said Stan Baldwin. He broke open a green glowstick and waved it toward the big shadow approaching low on the water.

  Another ominous whistle in the sky gave warning of more incoming, and everyone hit the dirt again. “Hang on, Anneli. We’re almost home.” She cuddled close to his back, almost spooning with her arms around him. For her, safety meant being as close to Kyle as she could get.

  The incoming mortar round struck the tops of the trees just above them and detonated with a lethal airburst that forced the cone of destruction straight down on the path and a mini-hurricane of metal shards and jagged wood swept the area as entire branches cracked off.

  “They’re hit, Stan! Kyle and Anneli are down!” Gray Perry sprinted from his position and started pulling debris from atop his mates. Baldwin dropped his guiding luminescent wand as the helo settled into a hover just inches above the sandy beach, and ran back up the path to rescue his friends. They heard Kyle groaning.

  A crew
member of the Nightstalker team hustled up to help, and they flung away the junk until they reached the two people trapped beneath. There was a lot of blood, and Anneli lay still. “I got her! You guys bring Kyle,” Perry shouted and lifted the girl as easily as picking up a pillow. “I got you, Anneli. Don’t you worry, girl. Old Grayson has you.”

  Another mortar blast whizzed in to punish the forest again, off to the right, and the concussion shook the Black Hawk chopper that fought to maintain its midair balance. Gray Perry laid Anneli flat on the deck, and a medic moved in to examine her. She made not a sound.

  Swanson was regaining his senses by the time he reached the helicopter and was helped aboard, then the other two men jumped on, the crew chief told the pilot that all were accounted for, and the stealth bird immediately put on power and eased up and turned north, clawing for altitude and invisibility. Swanson, from a height of a hundred feet, saw two more mortar rounds explode simultaneously and harmlessly along the beach. He turned to Anneli, but when he reached for her, Baldwin stopped him hard.

  “You stay still, Kyle. The others are tending to our girl. You’ve been hit, too.” The SAS sergeant began cutting away the sniper’s trouser legs, which were soaked in blood.

  25

  IT TOOK STAN BALDWIN a while to determine that Swanson was fine, other than being knocked silly by the blast. A cut on the left thigh would need a few stitches and the Brit slapped a sterile bandage around the leg. There was a neat puncture wound in the right forearm from a sharp splinter. Baldwin pulled the wood free and patched the hole with gauze pad and tape. Most of the blood that drenched the American was not his. Anneli had absorbed the full force of the blast while clinging to Kyle’s back when they dove for cover. She, plus the extra protection of the backpack and his ruck, had shielded him.

  When Baldwin finally sat back on his heels and turned Kyle loose, Swanson scrambled over to Anneli. She lay on her stomach and her lacerated back was fully exposed, as was a massive head wound. Perry and the medic were already pulling a green plastic sheet over her body. The Estonian girl had died at the moment of impact; aboard the helicopter, the medic had found no signs of life. Kyle had one last look at the pretty face, which was turned sideways, with black hair still trailing over her forehead to the sightless eyes, then Perry finished covering her with the sheet.

  The medic packed up his gear, and the three snipers sat stunned on the vibrating deck of the helicopter, all watching the sheet as if willing it to move aside so that Anneli could spring up and bathe them with a smile. The death of a comrade always hits close to home, but this was especially tough. She had been their friend, their ward, almost a pet in many ways because she was so different from them. She was just a kid, a fascinating and brave kid, small in stature but strong in everything important. Her political activism in her hometown of Narva had helped start what was fast becoming a global showdown between great powers.

  “Don’t mean nothin’” was a normal refrain among troops when a soldier was killed, for soldiers often died. It was part of the job description, part of the warrior creed. If you did not know the name of the unlucky guy, then it was easier to accept. “Don’t mean nothin’ at all.” Such bravado help shut out the nightmares that were sure to come, and for special operators like themselves, it was a peculiar armor that protected their souls against the monsters. Everyone had to die sometime. “Don’t mean a thing.” Such mutterings did not apply in this case, not where Anneli Kallasti was concerned. The snipers knew they would be seeing her face in dreams forever. Her death really did mean something. They took it personally.

  Kyle Swanson tore his eyes away from the grim scene only by turning his entire body around until he faced out into the infinite darkness and the harsh, hammering wind chilled him. It was my goddam fault. Why did I bring her along? We didn’t really need her, but her incredible translation pinpointed the target and kept them informed in real time on what was happening in the camp. Like when the officer was bullshitting the men about making things perfect, and the men were criticizing the officer behind his back, and the advance knowledge of the exact time that the general would arrive, and that they had swiveled the mortars to point south. Everything she had done had added value to the overall mission. But she was my responsibility and I might as well have murdered her back on the boat or at the Narva castle. Stupid decision. Stupid. What a dumb fuck I am.

  The helicopter whirred on low, fast and unseen by radar, and landed once again at the secret air strip in Lithuania, where it rolled to the hangar shared by NATO special operations. The CIA Gulfstream was waiting inside, engines shut down. On the return trip, time was not the important factor it had been when it had delivered the sniper team en route from Latvia.

  Swanson, Baldwin and Perry climbed out, weary to the bone and mentally exhausted as well. They were at a loss for what to do. Leaving the body of Anneli behind was unthinkable. Swanson leaned against the side of the helo, with the Englishmen facing him, as the Nightstalker crew unbuckled and exited the aircraft. The pilot, Major Rick Allen, took off his helmet and left it on the seat, then joined them. The pilot of the waiting CIA jet walked over and was shocked at the condition of the men, who seemed drained of energy and on the point of utter collapse. Allen headed him off before he could speak, took him back to the Gulfstream and explained things. One of the team members, the woman, had been killed and her body was still on board.

  Then the army flier went back to the group of operators. He had been through this before on other special missions. Their sense of loss had set in during the ride and the battered operators felt they could only communicate to those who had endured exactly the same experience. “Hey, guys. I’m sorry about your friend. Rough one.”

  Perry lifted his gaze. “Yeah. Well, thanks for coming to get us.” Swanson and Baldwin also muttered appreciation.

  Allen took over. “Look. I know this is a dirty thing to do, but you three men have to get on that airplane over there and get the hell out of here.”

  Swanson’s eyes glittered like green crystal in the harsh fluorescent lights of the big building. “Not leaving her behind.”

  “Yes, you are going to do exactly that, sir. She was not left on the battlefield, so the conditions are different. Give her to us now, and we will take her back to our own base, our own people. We will render every possible consideration, as if she was a Nightstalker herself. My entire crew and I personally promise that.”

  Sergeant Baldwin and Corporal Perry watched their leader. Swanson was still swathed in dark, dried blood and shaky on his feet. “The major is right, Kyle,” Gray Perry said. “To keep this story secret, we have to get back to the Vagabond.”

  “So it will be like we had never been anywhere else at all,” Baldwin agreed. “That’s important.”

  The pilot added, “Honest to God, Mister Swanson. It will be an honor for our team to take care of this operator. You’ve got to go.”

  Kyle knew they were right. The end of the mission was as important as the start. He had planned it to the minute, and it was best to stick to the schedule. Had it been from anyone else, he probably would have refused. Major Allen was one of them, and had flown unflinchingly into a mortar barrage to bring them out. He deserved to be heard. Swanson inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. Get back on the horse. Deal with the shakes later.

  He reached back into the helo and wrapped his hand around one of Anneli’s small boots and squeezed. He didn’t have the proper good-bye words, and this wasn’t the time. “It’s better to die young and have truly lived, than to grow old merely to exist,” he said, louder than intended.

  “What’s that, Kyle?” asked Perry.

  “Something she told me the first day we met, when I asked if she understood the risks she was taking by being such a rebel.” Then he picked up his weapons and his pack and walked away, followed by the two British shooters.

  KOEKELBERG, BELGIUM

  Ivan Strakov ripped open a pink packet of artificial sugar and dumped it into his morning
coffee, and then used his fingernails to open three small plastic tubs of creamer. It was 0900 on Saturday morning, April 16. The election in Narva was tomorrow.

  “You seem to be feeling better this morning,” said Colonel Tom Markey, sipping his own coffee.

  “It was just a nasty bug of some sort. I thought I would shit myself to death.” Strakov gulped the hot brew. “This nectar of the gods will finish the cure. I saw on the morning TV news that Russia and Lithuania are trading accusations about provocation. Some general got shot? What’s that all about?”

  “Not my monkeys; not my circus,” Markey said. “I’m just a NATO nerd, so let’s talk about why we are here.”

  Strakov wandered over to a window, cup in hand, its heat warm to his palm. The morning was bright and the outside temperature was warming. All was well in the world. “Blaise Pascal started it all, don’t you think? The Frenchman who built the first mechanical calculator to help out his tax-collector father?”

  Markey played along. “Pascal gets the credit, but Gottfried Leibnez in Germany and Charles Babbage in England were just as important. The history of computers is hazy, going back to Arab and Chinese merchants using beads on a string or an abacus to count. Don’t fuck around with history, Ivan. You are just wasting time again.”

  The Russian came back to the table and fingered a triangle of toast, then bit off a corner. “Let me continue in this vein, Tom. You’ll see my point in a minute. Anyway, after the manual age, like the beads on the string, the mechanical devices moved in, with inventors such as Pascal, Babbage and Leibnez. Handcrafted metal and wood counting machines could do basic computations.”