Red War

by Flynn Vince

  She nodded, though a bit reluctantly. “I got to thinking about your last operation in Russia—the one where you went in with a nature outfitter. It worked once, so we thought it might work again. Maybe a hunting guide, which would give you an excuse to be armed.”

  “Your tone suggests you weren’t able to find one,” Azarov said.

  “I’m afraid not. No one’s operating any kind of tour in that area right now. That’s the bad news. The good news is that we did find an inhabited camp.” She tapped another circle on the map. “Here.”

  “That doesn’t look very close to our target,” Rapp said.

  “About seventy miles as the crow flies.”

  “Of some of the most rugged terrain on the planet,” Azarov commented.

  “Virtually impassable,” she agreed.

  The submarine dove suddenly enough that Rapp had to reach out and steady her. She fell silent for a few seconds but when no torpedoes or depth charges exploded, she ran a finger along a thin blue line on the map. “You can cover most of it using the Olenyok River. The rest, you’d have to do on foot.”

  “You say ‘inhabited camp,’ ” Azarov said. “What kind of camp?”

  “Scientists. Mostly botany and wildlife. And this is where we got lucky. There are two American academics on their way there now.”

  “You want to make a switch?” Rapp said. “Substitute us for them?”

  Another uncertain nod.

  “What do they study?” Azarov asked.

  “Wolves.”

  “I don’t know anything about wolves. And I suspect that Mitch doesn’t, either.”

  She held up two thumb drives. “Everything you ever wanted to know about Canis lupus as well as your cover stories.”

  “You don’t seem convinced,” Rapp said.

  “I don’t think you should do it.”

  “It’s your plan.”

  “So you should listen to me when I tell you how horrible it is. Irene ordered me and her team to come up with the best strategy we could and this is it. It’s unworkable, Mitch. Your cover story is incredibly weak. You’re not a scientist and you have almost no time to prepare. The terrain is—”

  “You said we could use the river.”

  “That makes moving easier but leaves you exposed to possible overhead surveillance. If you’re caught, there are going to be questions, and you don’t even speak the language.”

  Rapp nodded and scanned the map for a few seconds. “No one in that camp’s going to quiz us on basic wolf biology. As long as we know what we’re there to do and limit our contact, we should be okay. Can we travel on the river at night, then sleep in the woods during the day?”

  She shook her head. “Too far north. The sun doesn’t set this time of year.”

  “It just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s what I keep telling you.”

  “How much traffic is there on that part of the Olenyok?”

  “Virtually none,” Claudia admitted. “But that’s no guarantee.”

  “Wrong business for guarantees. Let’s assume we can sell ourselves as scientists, and that we reach our objective without drowning, getting shot, or being eaten by a bear. What are we going to find?”

  “Basically an ammunition and equipment dump with eight warehouse-type buildings,” Claudia said. “The number of guards is a question mark. If there are any outside, they’re doing a good job of staying out of sight. How many are inside would just be speculation. Pick a number between zero and a hundred.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” Rapp said. “Let’s be optimistic and say we get in there. What then?”

  “We kill him,” Azarov responded in a tone that suggested he wasn’t entertaining other options.

  Claudia nodded. “The president and Irene are fine with that, but they’d prefer something . . . Subtle.”

  Rapp actually laughed. “So we make it through seventy miles of no man’s land, get through whatever guards there are outside, gain access, get through the guards inside, and then make it look like natural causes?”

  “That’s my point,” Claudia said. “This isn’t a plan, it’s desperation. In all likelihood, you’ll get killed or captured. And after that it won’t take them long to identify you. That would make a disastrous situation even worse.”

  Rapp took a chair and gulped down some of his coffee, feeling it burn down his chest. “Can I count on you to back me up, Grisha?”

  The Russian’s gaze lowered to the tabletop. “If I’m honest? I don’t know.”

  “Explain.”

  “My fitness is worse than it’s been since I was a child, and I’m having a hard time focusing. Two issues I’ve never had to deal with during an operation.”

  “My understanding is that Cara’s doing fine.”

  “Yes. But did Dr. Kennedy tell you why?”

  “The liver? Yeah. You managed to surprise her. That’s not easy.”

  “She seems to think I’ve become mentally unbalanced. That I’m emotionally incapable of handling my new life. She’s a wise woman and I’m concerned that she’s right. While I very much want to be the man who kills Maxim Krupin, I have to consider the possibility that my involvement could cause the mission to fail. Maybe you’d be better off relying on the team you normally work with.”

  Rapp leaned back in his chair, examining the man. He was probably right, but Coleman was stuck and his men were all engaged in other operations. Not to mention the fact that none of them spoke Russian. “Give me specifics. Could you still run a marathon?”

  “Of course.”

  “How fast?”

  Azarov’s eyes narrowed as he calculated the number based on extensive training history. “Two hours fifty-five on a flat asphalt.”

  “Good enough to float down a river and do a little bushwhacking.”

  “But there’s still the mental side. I—”

  “What the fuck are we talking about?” Rapp said, finally losing patience. “The liver? Cara needed one and you found a donor. But that’s not going to mean shit if Krupin survives. He can’t leave you breathing and she’s going to end up getting dragged in again. The only way you and Cara have a future is if Maxim Krupin doesn’t.”

  Azarov turned to Claudia, apparently not convinced that Rapp was a reliable arbiter of sanity. “And you? What do you think about what I did?”

  Her eyes actually misted up. “I think it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  CHAPTER 45

  CENTRAL RUSSIA

  RAPP leaned forward to examine the landscape below the chopper. A whole lot of nothing. Marshy plains, tree-covered mountains, and a distant river that he assumed was the one Claudia had told him about. Irene Kennedy was trying to get a raft and other gear onto its banks, but when they’d boarded the helicopter in Zhigansk, it still hadn’t been done.

  The sub had gotten them to Sweden, only to find the airspace so full of warplanes and the occasional missile that the CIA’s G550 had been turned back. They’d been forced to divert to Denmark, putting them well behind schedule. The original plan had been to meet with the scientists they were replacing. Instead, the two men had been stopped by MI6 in London and then transported to a forgotten corner of Africa where they’d stay until this thing was over.

  Rapp and Azarov had taken their seats on the last plane going to Moscow before travel between Europe and Russia was shut down. The pilot arced south of the chaos in the Baltic, but fighter formations and smoke rising from burning ships had been visible against the clear sky. The passengers had spent much of the six hours searching their windows for military activity, speaking in agitated whispers, and consuming the galley’s entire supply of vodka.

  When the helicopter finally touched down, the Spetsnaz team Rapp half expected didn’t materialize. Instead, a man with dreadlocks and cargo pants ran toward them in a practiced crouch. He removed some of their gear and jogged away with what he could carry as the
chopper took to the air again. When the noise faded, he introduced himself.

  “Chase Mason. Glad you guys could still make it with all the shit that’s going down.”

  “We are, too,” Rapp said, shaking his hand. “I’m Mitch. This is Greg.”

  “Nice to meet you both. Let me show you to your tent. I’m afraid you’re going to have to share, but it’s pretty spacious. We don’t have all the creature comforts, but on a sunny day like today, it’s not so bad. At least the bugs are down. Be thankful you weren’t here last month.”

  Rapp worked up a friendly grin, only half listening as he studied the camp. Not much more than an outdoor cooking area, two latrines, and six yurts skinned with dirty white canvas. The largest of them was flanked by a freestanding satellite dish and its stovepipe was the only one producing smoke. It looked newer than the others, with a beat-up lawn chair out front and a generator humming just out of sight.

  Their quarters were more basic, but still better than what Rapp was used to in the field. A single circular space with a rusty woodstove for heat and a battery powered lightbulb for after sunset. A wood slat floor kept them off the soggy ground, and two cots were piled with enough blankets to hold back the cold nights.

  “They probably told you,” Mason continued, “but we’ve got signal on a couple of collared wolves. You’ll be happy to hear that they’re only a few miles east of here and there’s a pretty good game trail that’ll take you most of the way.”

  “Sounds great,” Azarov said, in an impressively neutral American accent.

  “Go ahead and get settled in for a few minutes,” Mason said. “But don’t take too long. Sergei wants to talk to you.”

  “Sergei?” Rapp said. Claudia had given him a dossier on everyone at the camp and there was no mention of a Sergei.

  “Yeah. He showed up a month or so ago. Some kind of government representative. Harmless, but a pain in the ass. He’s basically a red tape machine who wants to hear about everything that’s going on but doesn’t really understand any of it.” Mason lowered his voice. “We figure he’s some politician’s dumber brother and he needed a job.”

  Rapp tested his easy grin again but this time it was even more strained. The good news was that the sudden appearance of a political officer in the middle of nowhere suggested they were on the right track. The bad news was that Russian bureaucrats despised unexpected changes. Whoever this Sergei was, he’d be suspicious about the last-minute substitution of Rapp and Azarov for the team he expected.

  “Yeah, no problem,” Rapp said. “Where is he?”

  “Big tent with the dish. You can’t miss it.”

  • • •

  Rapp banged on the plank door and was immediately rewarded with an answer from within.

  “Come in!”

  He did, rounding his shoulders and regretting tossing Claudia’s peace sign ponytail holder. Fooling a bunch of young researchers whom he could largely avoid had never worried him much. A Russian intelligence officer was a different story.

  “Welcome,” Sergei said, examining him and Azarov from behind an oddly ornate desk. The floors were covered with thick rugs and there was a well-stocked liquor cabinet behind him.

  “Thanks. We’re happy to be here. It was touch and go there for a while.”

  The Russian clearly wasn’t worried about reinforcing stereotypes in his tracksuit, garish rings, and comb-over. An ample belly strained at the scarlet polyester and deep-set eyes tracked with more intelligence than Chase Mason had given him credit for.

  “I’m sorry the others couldn’t make it,” he said in solid English. “How fortunate that you were both available at the last moment.”

  Rapp just nodded while Azarov followed his lead and remained silent. The less said the better.

  “I understand that they were called away on an emergency in . . .” Sergei glanced down at a piece of paper on his desk. “Senegal. I have to say that I wasn’t aware that there was such a thing as a wolf research emergency. Or wolves in Africa, frankly.”

  This time an answer was clearly required. “Canis anthus,” Rapp said. “They may be infected with a strain of rabies that no one’s ever seen before. Probably not, but the WHO guys were worried enough to want to bring in a couple experts.”

  “Your paperwork only got to me a few hours ago,” the Russian complained.

  Rapp gave the expected disinterested shrug.

  “You look a little old to be a PhD candidate.”

  This wasn’t going to go as easily as he’d hoped. Fortunately, Claudia and the Agency had seeded their legends all over the Internet—Facebook, university sites, expedition blogs. All complete with doctored pictures of them tagging animals, working in labs, and teaching classes.

  “I was working for an outdoor equipment retailer in the States but this had always been my dream. I guess I got a late start.”

  “I enjoyed your blog about the trip you did to Europe to try to find a sheep.”

  “It was an ibex, actually. They—”

  The man held up a hand and turned his attention to Azarov. “Have you two known each other for long?”

  “We met on a project in China years ago and stayed in touch.” His American accent was holding. Bland Middle America with a few West Coast overtones. Calculated to be something no one would remember or be able to place within a thousand miles.

  “Why?”

  “No reason, really. We hit it off and both of us specialize in wolves. I’m not a full-time academic, though. I work for Wyoming Game and Fish. Mitch called me when this opportunity came up and I jumped. Beautiful country you have here. It kind of reminds me of home.”

  Sergei nodded, but continued to contemplate them. “I’d love to hear more, but I have other matters to attend to. Perhaps I’ll go out with you tomorrow. The weather service is calling for another cloudless day.”

  It was clear from his physique, pale complexion, and comfortable surroundings that going out with them was the last thing he wanted to do. Krupin’s people had undoubtedly sent him there with orders to look for anything suspicious. Now he’d found it and he was going to make sure nothing got by him that could bring down his president’s wrath.

  “That’d be great,” Rapp said, knowing he had no other option. “It’ll be nice to have someone familiar with the terrain.”

  • • •

  True to Sergei’s promise, a high-pressure system had settled in over the region, bringing with it clear skies and unusually cool temperatures. It was supposed to last for another five days, which would be more than Rapp could afford to take. The way the war was heating up, Western Europe could be an uninhabitable wasteland by the middle of next week.

  “We’ve got oatmeal or granola with soy milk,” a young woman said, stirring a large pot hung over a fire. The sun still hadn’t broken over distant peaks, and so far she and Rapp were the only two people who had ventured outdoors.

  “Oatmeal.”

  The woman—Ingrid from the University of Oslo based on a brief introduction at dinner the night before—filled the two bowls on Rapp’s tray and then poured in a little milk.

  “Have you seen the news yet this morning?”

  “Nope,” Rapp responded, trying to avoid unnecessary conversation without seeming overly unfriendly. While he’d become reasonably knowledgeable about wolf biology, his newfound expertise wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of the real scientists in the camp. Fortunately, all anyone wanted to talk about was the war.

  “NATO says it has control of the Baltic Sea. That every Russian ship has been destroyed but that there may be a few hidden submarines. They say that at least a thousand sailors have died. Do you think that’s possible? So many people?”

  “I dunno.”

  In truth, the estimate was likely low. NATO was wreaking havoc on Krupin’s navy while trying not to cross the line into anything that could be construed as an attack on the homeland. But where was that line exactly? With Krupin’s brain rotting away and Sokolov controlling the war
effort, the situation got blurrier every day.

  “Men are crazy,” she concluded.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Are you going out this morning?”

  “Yeah. We’re meeting Sergei in twenty minutes.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s going with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Plan for a long day. His cigarette breaks alone will take over an hour.”

  “We’re going to be crossing some pretty rugged terrain. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  Her blond ponytail flopped across her back as she shook her head. “He’s suspicious of everyone. I think he believes we’re all a bunch of CIA assassins.”

  Rapp smiled and grabbed a few rolls left over from the previous night. “Thanks for the oatmeal.”

  • • •

  “How are we looking?” Rapp asked, entering the yurt and kicking the door shut behind him. Azarov was hunched over a laptop, tracking the movement of the collared wolves they were ostensibly there to study.

  “They’ve moved toward the river,” he said accepting a bowl of oatmeal. “That puts a mountain between us and them.”

  Rapp examined the satellite image on screen. The fact that the pack appeared to be on its way to the river that was their objective was good news. And the mountain wouldn’t play well with Sergei. It looked steep as hell and then they’d have to cover a good half a mile of craggy ridgeline before coming to a viable descent.

  “Long, hard day,” Rapp said, assuming that there were listening devices hidden in the yurt. “Probably twenty hours with a lot of elevation gain. We should take headlamps for the way back.”

  Hopefully, that would be enough to discourage Sergei from coming. They hadn’t known the man was going to be in camp and still didn’t know what they were going to do with him if he still insisted on tagging along. The fact that Krupin had chosen him for this detail suggested that he was smarter and more determined than he looked. Best to bring along a shovel just in case.

  • • •

  “How many wolves were transported here from the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone?”

  The terrain had turned uphill, but the dense trees made it impossible to pick up the pace enough to discourage Sergei’s thinly veiled interrogation.