by Scott McEwen
A wild melee ensued.
Dragunov was struck in the head with the barrel of an AK-47, and his face was torn open along the cheekbone. He reeled backward against the boulder, and the Chechen’s rifle went off in his face. Had his eyes not been closed, the muzzle blast would have blinded him. As it was, the bullet creased the side of his head and took off part of his ear.
Gil managed to shoot the Chechen off of him before he was struck on the breastplate by a five-round burst that knocked him off his feet. He landed on his back, and the Chechen stood over him, banging the heel of his hand against the receiver of his jammed AK-47. Gil squeezed the trigger on his AN-94 and emptied the magazine, killing his attacker and one other man. He scrambled back to his feet and was immediately tackled by a man who was either too panicked or too inexperienced to unsling his rifle.
Dragunov grabbed the barrel of the Chechen’s AK-47, managing to deflect it and avoid taking a burst of fire to the belly. The Chechen twisted the rifle free of his grasp, and Dragunov delivered him a vicious uppercut that chopped off part of his tongue. The two men fell over in the rocks, slugging away at each other.
Gil was down on his right knee, with his left shoulder braced against a tree, barely maintaining his center of gravity as he tried to get loose from the Chechen, who had him around the waist from behind. The man was bigger and stronger than Gil, but he didn’t seem to know what to do beyond wrestling his opponent to the ground. Gil knew if he ended up on the bottom he was finished, but his right arm was caught inside the Chechen’s bear hug, so all he could do for the moment was keep his opponent in an awkward headlock with his left arm and hope the guy made a mistake.
Dragunov was shoved over onto his back and took a knee to the groin. Seeing stars, he clamped his teeth down on his attacker’s thumb and tried to bite it off. The Chechen flailed around in a desperate bid to keep his thumb, and this allowed Dragunov to use a hip-escape maneuver to slip out from beneath him and finally draw his knife. The Chechen caught Dragunov’s knife arm with his free hand and deflected the thrust away from his belly.
Meanwhile, Gil shoved upward with his right leg, using every ounce of strength he had, nearly blowing out his anterior cruciate ligament in the process of forcing himself to his feet. This must have surprised the Chechen, because he seemed to lose focus for a moment. Gil broke free of his grip, twisting into him and jamming both thumbs deep into his eye sockets. The Chechen screamed and grabbed for Gil’s arms, but Gil locked his legs around his waist and delivered a nasty head butt. The Chechen’s legs gave out, and Gil rode him to the ground, clawing out both of his eyes and then jumping to his feet.
“Now, fuck you!” he snarled at his howling opponent, grabbing the AN-94 and jumping to where Dragunov still fought for his life. He stuck the muzzle into the Chechen’s side and squeezed the trigger without result. The magazine was empty.
Swearing, Gil drew the knife and rammed it into the side of the Chechen’s neck. The Chechen went limp, and Gil stabbed him again for good measure.
Dragunov rolled clear of the body, spitting out the Chechen’s thumb and struggling to his feet. Both men were too exhausted to speak, so they bumped each other on the shoulder and took off toward the east. Day was beginning to break. They knew that every Chechen in the world would soon be hot on their heels—and that Kovalenko would be with them.
58
THE PENTAGON
The president of the United States glanced away from the screen to see General Couture lighting up a Pall Mall cigarette with a First Air Cavalry Zippo lighter. They had all seen the melee, and no one in the room could believe that Gil and Dragunov were still alive.
“Is smoking allowed in here, General?”
Couture shook his head. “But you’re the only man in the room who outranks me, sir. Would you like me to put it out? It’s Shannon’s fault. He does this to me every time.”
The president had recently given up smoking a pipe at his wife’s insistence. “May I have one?”
“Certainly.” Couture reached into the arm pocket of his starched, digitally camouflaged ACUs and gave him the red pack of cigarettes.
The president took one and tossed the pack onto the table. “Help yourselves, gentlemen.”
Brooks was the first to reach for the pack, and the president smiled as Couture leaned forward to light his cigarette for him. “I’ll make sure to buy you another pack, General.”
Couture shook his head. “Won’t be necessary, sir.”
The room filled slowly with a smoky gray haze as they sat watching Gil and Dragunov make their way through the forest. On the other screen, a force of more than fifty men were chasing after them from the west, easily moving twice as fast.
An aide-de-camp stepped into the room and whispered into Couture’s ear.
“Mr. President, Bob Pope on line four, sir.”
The president picked up the phone and pressed the button. “This is the president . . . Yes, I saw it. We all did . . . You’re kidding me! You mean they have to fight their way back to Moscow on their own? Hold on a second, Robert.” The president turned to Couture. “The Russians have fallen out of contact with our men on the ground. Apparently there’s no help coming.”
Couture snapped his fingers at the air force liaison. “Find our nearest Predator and get it flying in that direction!”
“We can’t do that,” the president said. “They’re in Russia.”
“Barely, Mr. President.”
“Russia is Russia, General.”
“Can Pope get us permission?”
“Robert, can you get us permission for a Predator strike?” The president looked at Couture and then shook his head. “He says he already tried that, and they won’t even consider it. Moscow says this is a Russian operation and that Shannon volunteered to operate under Russian command.”
Couture sucked from the cigarette in frustration. “How about asking them to send in one of those flying washing machines of theirs?”
The president conferred with Pope. “He says not before first light, and even then he’s not sure. The Russians say Umarov has acquired MANPADS. I assume you know what those are. I don’t.”
“It’s a shoulder-fired antiaircraft missile, sir. Does Pope have anything in mind at all?”
“He says not at this time.”
“Where the hell is the Russian air force?” asked the air force chief of staff.
“Pope says that’s a very good question, General.”
“Unbelievable,” the air force general muttered. “The mission’s a failure, so they’re just going to let them die?”
“Pope says it’s beginning to look that way,” the president said. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Robert?” The president listened and then replied, “Call me the second you learn anything new.” He hung up the phone and looked at the men sitting around the table. “Unless one of you has a suggestion that doesn’t involve starting World War III, I think President Putin is about to have his revenge for Operation Bunny Ranch.”
None of the generals had any ideas, but the president spotted a young air force lieutenant sitting back in the corner in front of a computer with his hand partially raised.
“What is it, son?”
“Well, sir,” the lieutenant said. “What about calling Tbilisi for help? The Georgian army has helos on the ground right across the border. If they fly low between the mountains, Russian radar will never even pick them up. And they might not mind invading Russian airspace for twenty minutes or so, given that Russia still occupies Georgian territory in South Ossetia.”
The president looked at Couture. “What do you think?”
Couture shrugged. “It can’t hurt to ask, sir.”
The president grabbed the phone and pressed zero. “This is the president. Get Secretary of State Sapp on the phone immediately. And call the Georgian Embassy. We’re going to ne
ed to speak with the Georgian ambassador.”
59
HAVANA,
Cuba
It was well after midnight, and Paolina was curled up in the crook of Crosswhite’s arm, running her fingers through the dark hair on his chest by the light of a candle. He was thinking impossible things about an impossible future in Havana when she raised up onto her elbow and looked into his eyes.
“Me ves como una puta?” she asked. Do you see me as a whore?
He combed his fingers through her hair and smiled. “I see you as the most beautiful girl in the world.”
She smiled back and kissed him. “How long will you be in Havana?”
He shrugged, the smile plastered to his face. “How long would you like me to be here?”
She curled back up in the crook of his arm. “How long, Daniel?”
“A few days,” he said. “Maybe a little longer.”
“Will I see you again before you leave?”
“Every night that you’re available.”
She raised back up, cracking a grin. “Then I’ll be available every night.”
“Good,” he said, pulling her down and kissing her. “You don’t have any regular clients that are going to be mad?”
She shook her head, looking sad for the first time. “While you’re here, can we pretend there are no other clients . . . that I’m someone else?”
He sat up against the wall and took her into his arms. “I don’t want to pretend you’re someone else. I want to know you . . . everything about you.”
“Will you stay the night?”
“Your father won’t be upset if I’m still here in the morning?”
She shook her head. “Not about you. He’s never drunk with anyone else who’s come here—never made friends.”
“This is hard for me. I’ve never . . .” He shook his head. “It’s very different for me.”
“I understand. But I have to survive, to help take care of my family.”
“It’s nothing about you,” he said. “It’s that I’m embarrassed in front of your parents.”
“Okay. But it’s not necessary.”
They were in the midst of making love a second time when his cellular buzzed on the table beside the bed.
“Shit,” he said in English. “Ernesto’s the only one with this number.” He picked up the phone and said, “Bueno?”
“Señor? This is Ernesto.”
“Yeah, Ernie. What is it?”
“I told Fernando to keep his eyes open while I was on break. He says two men came to the hotel asking about you. He said they described you and wanted to know if you had checked into the hotel. He said they looked Cuban but spoke with a Miami accent.”
“Okay, Ernie. Where are they now?”
“I think maybe they’re going to Paolina’s house.”
Crosswhite got out of bed fast. “Why do you think that?”
“Because they asked where you had gone, and Fernando was afraid to lie to them, so he told them you left in a taxi—but nothing more. Then they asked him where to find the cabstand. I’m sure they are going to question the driver.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About ten minutes.”
“If you had to guess, Ernie, how much longer before they show up here?”
“At Paolina’s? Maybe twenty minutes. Is there anything I can do?”
“Keep your eyes open, buddy, and call me if you hear anything else.”
Crosswhite put down the phone and reached for his pants. “You’d better wake your father, sweetheart.”
Paolina sat up in the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Wake your father,” he said gently. “You all need to go to a neighbor’s house for the night. There’s very little time.”
Paolina left, and Duardo came into the room a minute later looking concerned. “What is going on?”
“I work for the CIA,” Crosswhite said. “Two men are coming here to kill me—Americans. They have no interest in your family, but if I’m not here, they’ll hurt Paolina to find out where I’ve gone. You need to take your family to a neighbor’s house and let me deal with them when they arrive.”
Paolina’s father nodded his head solemnly. “I knew you were CIA when I first saw you, but I allowed you to stay. Will they have guns, these men?”
Crosswhite let out a sigh. “I can almost guarantee it.”
“I’ll send the women to my sister-in-law’s house, but I’m staying.”
“No, you can’t risk your life like that. You don’t even know me.”
“This is my house,” Duardo said, “and you are my guest. I’m staying.” He went into the other room, telling his wife to take the children and leave right away.
Paolina came back in two minutes later and put her arms around Crosswhite. “I’m scared for you.”
“I’m scared too, but not for myself. You have to go right now.” He kissed her hair and held her at arm’s length. “I’ll be fine. Go now.”
She disappeared out the door with her mother and the girls.
Crosswhite stepped into the kitchen, and Duardo appeared from the back of the house holding a fourteen-inch WWII-era M1 rifle bayonet made by Union Fork and Hoe.
“This belonged to my father. He fought in Castro’s revolution. The government took away his rifle years ago. If we can kill these two pendejos, I have friends who can dispose of the bodies. Calling the police would be very bad for all of us.”
“Hopefully, you won’t need to get involved.” Crosswhite put out his hand. “I probably have a better idea how to use that thing than you do.”
“Do you like my daughter?” Duardo asked.
“Yes, I do. It’s too bad that—”
“She would make you a good wife; give you beautiful children.”
Crosswhite shook his head. “I’m no good for any woman. Can I have the bayonet?”
Duardo took an old M1917 .45 caliber Colt army revolver from beneath his guayabera shirt. “This was my father’s too. We’re not allowed guns in Cuba, so I’ve kept it hidden.” He handed the revolver to Crosswhite.
Crosswhite opened the gate and saw that it held only five cartridges. “I don’t suppose you have the sixth bullet?”
Duardo shook his head. “Those five are all I have—and they’re very old.”
Crosswhite closed the gate and stuck the revolver down the front of his pants. “If they’ve been kept dry, they’ll be fine.”
“So what now?” Duardo asked.
“Have a seat at the table to wait,” Crosswhite said. “I’ll be in Paolina’s room. When they arrive, they’ll knock at the door and ask to see her. They’ll be polite but firm. All you have to do is let them in and tell them you’re going to wake her up. Then go into the back of the house, and I’ll handle it from there.”
60
HAVANA,
Cuba
Ken Peterson sat talking with a local police captain named Ruiz in his modest house on the outskirts of Havana. They were discussing Peterson’s future in Cuba while they awaited confirmation that Crosswhite had been eliminated.
“So I’m going to need police protection,” Peterson was saying. “At least for a time.”
Ruiz took a drink from his bottle of beer. He had been on the CIA payroll for a number of years, and Peterson had always been his handler. “That is going to be difficult,” he said, putting down the bottle. “Police protection has never been part of our deal.”
“I understand that,” Peterson said. “The CIA wasn’t supposed to know that I’m here, but the circumstances have changed.”
“Yes, they have,” Ruiz said. “For one thing, you no longer have access to that big Yankee expense account.”
Peterson frowned. “I have money of my own. I can pay for any services that I need.”
&nb
sp; Ruiz smiled. “I just want to be clear.”
“I’m sure you do,” Peterson replied dryly. He was more than a little rattled by Crosswhite’s unexpected arrival in Havana. He had planned for it to take Pope at least six months to figure out that he was in Cuba, still another month or two to pinpoint his location, and still another month to get the assets in place for a hit. However, he had woefully underestimated Pope’s drive for vengeance. In fact, had it not been for one of Peterson’s few remaining allies in Mexico, he would have had no idea that Crosswhite was even coming after him.
Fortunately, there were a number of Miami-born operatives living in and around Havana who didn’t know that Peterson had been exiled, so he still had assets of his own to call upon, freelancers that Langley knew nothing about. He had recruited the men himself, and he was their sole contact. The only problem was money. The cost of living in Cuba was cheap, but if Pope was determined to kill him, the cost of simply staying alive might easily get out of control.
His best chance was to have Crosswhite taken out fast, thus sending the message to Pope that Cuba was beyond his jurisdiction. There would be no guarantees, of course, but Pope was more than twenty years his senior, and he was confident that he could outlive the old bastard if he was smart about it. After all, the CIA had tried to kill Fidel Castro a number of times—once even succeeding in getting a female assassin into bed with him—but Castro had lived to the ripe old age of eighty-seven. The simple truth was that the CIA just didn’t have a very good track record in Cuba, and this was the reason Peterson had chosen to retire there.
“Will your associate Señor Walton still be joining you?” Ruiz asked.
Ben Walton was another checkmark in the plus column. He was an old CIA hand, and he would have some additional ideas for keeping Pope at bay. He also had money, so if he and Peterson could agree on a way to pool their resources, they would double their chances for the long term.
“Yes,” Peterson said. “He arrives in the morning from Spain. He’ll be staying with me at least until we can get things arranged between us.”
