Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  “Please go!” she said again, louder this time. She tried to add more force but the words just came out wobbly and without commitment. Adrenaline threatened to buckle her knees and she struggled to gain control. “Please . . .”

  The mother bear padded across the snow toward the yearling. Her thick fur had to be three inches long, and blonder than her baby’s, with chocolate legs and a dark, sincere face. Layers of fat, laid on for winter, rolled on her shoulders and buttocks as she waddled up and sat beside her cub. She turned her head from side to side, sniffing the wind and staring at the ATV with tiny pig-like eyes.

  “Get out of here!” Kaija said again, almost screaming now. The snow had stopped but the change in the weather brought a breeze that chilled her down to her bones. “Please, we mean you no harm.”

  The mother bear gave a single woof and rose onto her hind legs, forelimbs up and paws exhibiting long, scimitarlike claws.

  Kaija jumped at the sound of her father’s voice behind her. “Leave us alone!” he barked.

  She took her eyes off the grizzly long enough to glance over her shoulder and see that he’d retrieved the rifle from the scabbard on the overturned ATV. Her hands flew to her ears as a deafening boom shook the air beside her head.

  The mother bear remained on her hind legs and turned her head from side to side at the sound of the shot. The bullet had come nowhere near her. If it frightened her, she certainly didn’t act like it. Dropping to all fours, the grizzly gave another woof and nipped at her cub to get it moving north at an easy, ambling gait.

  Fuming, Kaija clenched her jaw and wheeled to face her father. The old fool was actually smiling. He held the rifle in front of him like some Hero of the Soviet Union.

  “I have saved us, kroshka,” he said.

  “You idiot,” she spat, waving him forward. “Put that gun away and help me get this machine back on four tires.”

  Volodin slumped. “But Kaija, my dear . . .” He looked as though he would break into tears at the slightest nudge.

  “You have killed us, my dear Papa.” She gave a derisive laugh. Her mother had been right about this man. He was at once the most brilliant and densest man she had ever seen. “How can you not be embarrassed? We were fortunate that the snow hid our tracks and now your shooting has told the world exactly where to find us.”

  Chapter 52

  Quinn was off the Arctic Cat as soon as he heard the shot. He yanked the cord that held the Lapua in place and held it in one hand and the pack in the other, sprinting forward to put some distance between himself and the ATV.

  “Wanna tell me where we’re goin’?” Beaudine said, hustling after him with her pack and the AR-10.

  “The four-wheeler isn’t camouflaged against the snow,” Quinn said. He tugged at the fabric of his over whites. “We are.” He dropped the pack in front of him and knelt down beside it, feeling himself begin to sink into the cold wet mush of the tundra as soon as his knee hit the ground. Ignoring the chill, he put the rifle to his shoulder and began to scan through the scope in the direction he thought the shot had come from.

  It was difficult to get a bearing from a single shot, especially on the open tundra where sound spread like a flooding tide across the vast openness. He went on instinct, and the direction he’d first turned his head when he’d heard the distant report. Quinn guessed it to be a medium power deer rifle, maybe a .30.30. It was absent the massive concussive boom that would have come with a round as big as the CheyTac Davydov said Zolner used. He’d heard no crack-thump, so the shots didn’t appear to be coming in his direction.

  “I’ve got him,” Beaudine said from where she knelt on the tundra next to Quinn. Her voice was muffled against her gloves as she held the binoculars.

  “You mean them,” Quinn said, glancing over so he could see which way to swing his scope. “Volodin and his daughter?”

  “No,” Beaudine said, “I haven’t found Volodin yet. I mean Zolner—or at least some guy setting up to shoot with a big-ass rifle.”

  Quinn backed off the magnification on his scope to get a wider field of view and then scanned back and forth until he found what Beaudine was looking at—a man kneeling to deploy the bipod on the fore-end of a very large rifle.

  Grabbing his pack, Quinn took out a small notebook and the stub of a yellow pencil. He left the bipod on the Lapua folded flush with the barrel, opting to rest the fore-end on the pack in front of him instead. Once it was situated like he wanted it, he settled down behind the scope, belly and legs pressed against the wet snow, pencil in his teeth.

  He zoomed in the magnification on the scope to get a better look now that he had a target. There was always a chance that this guy could be some Inupiaq hunter out for caribou—but Quinn doubted it.

  “Follow his line of sight,” Quinn said as he put the crosshairs in his reticle and counted the number of hash marks that bracketed the man’s torso. The snow had slowed, but errant flakes still made it difficult to see across the wide-open space. “See if you can locate who or what he’s setting up on.”

  “Already on it,” Beaudine said, putting the binoculars to work.

  “Let me know when you find them,” Quinn said, running through the litany of formulas he’d learned a decade before when practicing extreme long-range shooting. The DOPE—or Data On Previous Engagements—that the Lapua’s previous owner had written in the small notebook went out to 2000 meters—well within the capabilities of the rifle, but far beyond anything in Quinn’s confidence level, especially now, beaten down, half frozen—and severely out of practice. For a blustering killer, Igoshin appeared to be a meticulous record keeper when it came to his shooting data. Quinn could understand the numbers but he didn’t read Cyrillic so he double-checked everything with Beaudine and made pencil notes in English in the book. The DOPE was measured in meters, which was crucial to know, since that dictated the formula he would use to figure the range using the milliradian divisions on the crosshairs of his scope.

  “Anything?” he said to Beaudine, in an effort to keep her relaxed and communications open while he alternately scribbled notes and peered through the scope. Zolner appeared to be going through the same process of calculating a firing solution on Volodin’s position, wherever that was.

  “Hold your horses . . .” Beaudine’s voice trailed off as she scanned. “Got ’em. Looks like they wrecked their four-wheeler . . . ran it into a ditch or something. Too bad for us they’re up and moving around though. Hard to say for sure, but it’s gotta be them—older guy and a female. They’re having some difficulty getting the machine pushed back onto four wheels.”

  “I need to borrow a sock,” he said, holding out his hand but keeping an eye on his target through the scope.

  “A what?”

  “A sock,” Quinn said again. “It’s okay if it’s wet. Just hand me one from your pack. Quickly.”

  “Okay, okay,” Beaudine said, tugging her pack closer so she could search through it. She passed him a damp wool sock and gave a slow shake of her head. “To each his own. Weird to find out you got this particular fetish now.”

  Quinn chuckled. “You sound so much like Jacques.” He handed back the sock as soon as she gave it to him. “Do me a favor and fill that up with dirt and sand . . . anything you can scrape up and put in it. Gravel will be better, but not snow if you can help it.”

  Still kneeling, she snatched back the sock while Quinn watched the man at the other end of his scope hunker down beside his rifle, clearing a level spot for the bipod. The .375 CheyTac was a large gun, capable of shooting flatter and much farther than even the .338 Lapua. On open ground with nothing to use as cover except the ATV, Quinn’s only chance against an experienced shooter behind such a rifle was to take the first shot and make it count.

  “I think I put some caribou shit in there,” Beaudine said, handing back the sock. “You can keep it after this.”

  Working quickly, but surely, Quinn removed enough of the slurry of dirt and rock that he could tie an overhand kn
ot in the top of the sock. He shoved this grapefruit-size beanbag under the butt of the Lapua. With his right hand on the pistol grip and ready to work the trigger, he folded his left across his chest, gripping the sock of gravel and pulling the stock into the pocket of his shoulder. Alternately squeezing or releasing pressure on the sock, he was able to adjust his point of aim by lowering or raising the angle of the rifle.

  Davydov had said his boss was a big man, describing him as two meters tall. That put him over six and a half feet. Quinn estimated someone of that height would be roughly 48 inches kneeling. Squeezing the sock, he moved the Lapua’s point of aim so the crosshairs of his reticle were centered at the base of Zolner’s knees, estimating the Russian’s kneeling body filled nine tenths of the gap between the crosshairs and the first mil-dot.

  “Now it’s time for that weaponized math,” he said.

  “This is just great,” Beaudine grunted. “And I told my teacher, Mrs. Umholtz, I would never have to use math.”

  “Seriously,” he said. “I need your help checking my work. What’s forty-eight times twenty-five point four?”

  Beaudine took her cell out of her jacket pocket and punched in the numbers. “Twelve hundred nineteen point two,” she said. “You’re figuring how far away he is using the scope?”

  “Right,” Quinn said. “Now divide that number by point nine and that gives me approximate range in meters.”

  “Thirteen hundred fifty-four point six,” Beaudine said. Groaning, she stretched out on the soggy ground next to Quinn. Both elbows on the ground in front of her, she raised the binoculars back up to her eyes.

  Quinn took a deep breath. “Nearly a mile.”

  “Okay, I’ve got Zolner,” she said. “So now you just dial in that distance on the scope and shoot him?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Quinn said, as much to himself as Beaudine. “At this distance I have to account for a lot of variables . . . My brain is too fuzzy, so I’m gonna need you to use your calculator.”

  “Damn you, Mrs. Umholtz,“ Beaudine said. “Looks like math can be a life or death . . .” Her voice trailed off as she studied something through the binoculars. “Hang on, Zolner’s up to something.”

  Quinn watched through the reticle as the Russian shifted his position so his rifle was pointed toward them.

  “What the hell?” Beaudine said. “How could he have seen us?”

  Quinn kept his eye on Zolner, who seemed to be scanning with the CheyTac’s scope. “Check on Volodin and see what he’s up to,” he said. “But move slowly and don’t stand up. There’s a chance Zolner is just looking for us. The Arctic Cat will stand out, but our overwhites will make us hard to differentiate from the snow at this range.”

  Beaudine inched around, her belly making slurping sounds against the wet tundra as she stayed pressed flat to the snow. “Okay,” she said at length. “The girl is looking in our direction through a set of binoculars. She must have been checking for anyone tailing her and saw the four-wheeler.”

  “And Zolner followed her line of sight,” Quinn said. “Listen. Forget about her and scoot back around here to help me. Be careful you don’t bump my arm. This cold is making me shaky enough as it is.”

  “Got it,” she said, giving him a thumbs up.

  “And if you don’t like math you’re gonna have to suck it up, because I guarantee you he’s doing some pretty heavy calculating right now.”

  Beaudine lowered the binoculars long enough to rub her eyes before raising them again. She gasped at what she saw. “I think he’s got us!”

  Quinn took a deep breath, settling deeper into the freezing muck and willing his body not to shiver.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here we go. It’s simple addition and subtraction for a firing solution from this point—and the last one to get the right answer wins a bullet.”

  Quinn consulted the recorded figures in the notebook, adding and subtracting clicks in elevation and windage on the numbered turrets of the scope as he worked through the variables of bullet drop, ambient temperature, air pressure, wind, bullet spin, and even the rotation of the earth. It took time, but at eight tenths of a mile, small mistakes meant big misses. Outgunned and in the open, Quinn knew he would have one chance to get things right.

  “Not tryin’ to make you nervous,” Beaudine said. “But you better hurry up. This guy is up to somethin’.”

  A distinct crack slapped the ATV thirty meters to the left of where they lay in the snow—followed two seconds later by a hollow boom.

  “Quinn!” Beaudine’s voice rose in pitch and timbre. “He just shot our ride.”

  “He’s going to be on us fast.” Quinn took a quick glance through the scope, and then scrambled to finish the last of his calculations. “When I say move, don’t ask why, just follow my lead. Fast.”

  Chapter 53

  Zolner fired once at the ATV knowing his shot was on target as soon as he pulled the trigger. The vehicle’s motor was still warm, and the stark white heat signature was easy to locate through the FLIR thermal imager. Rolling slightly away from the gun, he pressed the rubberized binocular skirt of the device to his eyes and began to scan again. Snow showed up like a negative image in the viewfinder, with things that were cold displayed as dark gray or black.

  “Nice try,” he muttered to himself in English when he found the shining white blobs of two human heads and shoulders. They thought to conceal themselves with camouflage. Zolner’s heart-rate quickened when he saw they had a rifle and it was pointed directly at him. This was interesting indeed.

  He’d ranged Volodin and the girl at 1810 meters, but whoever was following them looked to be considerably closer. Exchanging the FLIR for a laser, he ranged the other shooter at 1326 meters. He set the rangefinder on his pack and rolled in behind the CheyTac again. With careful deliberation, he began to make the minor adjustments from his shot at the ATV. At this distance the solid copper projectile would drop over 1200 centimeters and take almost two full seconds before impact. It was not a particularly difficult shot, but a great deal could happen in two seconds.

  Chapter 54

  Providenya

  Colonel Rostov sat on the edge of the tarmac in the backseat of Lodygin’s boxy black ZiL 41047. He’d been so concerned about putting the gas mask on when he arrived he hadn’t taken the time to notice the car for what it was. A staff limousine before the captain had commandeered it from the back of a lonely fleet-storage lot outside Moscow, the teak trim had long since faded. Dark stains stood out against the tired beige leather. The scuffs of three decades of use by Soviet generals—and judging from the footprints on the ceiling, at least one general’s acrobatic mistress—scarred the inside of the creaky sedan. Rostov toyed with a mark in the carpeting with the toe of his shoe and discovered it looked very much like a bullet hole. Exhausted, he fell back in his seat and closed his eyes, resting his hands on his belly. If scabby carpet and sagging leather could talk, there would certainly be some stories in this car.

  Outside the ZiL, a cold gray wind blew in from the sea, buffeting the sedan. Bits of trash and gravel skittered across the broken pavement of the dilapidated airport. Rostov listened to the moaning wind and pulled his wool coat up around his ears. He leaned forward, telling the driver to turn up the heat. The slender conscript glanced in the rearview mirror and nodded, never quite making eye contact. A little conversation would have warmed the car, but officers did not speak with conscripts.

  Bundled in his greatcoat, Rostov turned to stare past his reflection in the window at the lights of the approaching Cessna business jet used by General Zhestakova. His knee began to bounce spontaneously as the plane touched down. The driver, noticing the movement, glanced in the rearview mirror again, and then looked quickly away.

  Rostov was not by nature a nervous man, but emissaries from the director of GRU did not come to lounge around the samovar and chat of world affairs over a tea and jam. When General Zhestakova sent an envoy, any message was most often given in what the Ame
ricans called “Blunt Force Trauma.” Rostov knew this all too well. He had delivered many such messages as a young operative of GRU.

  Rostov waited for the Cessna to roll to a stop and the turbofans to go quiet before stepping out of the ZiL. He stood in the wind with his hands folded in front of him, Astrakhan wool hat pulled down low over his ears. He did not have long to wait for the aircraft door to open.

  Rostov’s heart calmed when he saw the emissary was a woman. A redhead, which could certainly pose a problem, but still a woman—so all was not completely lost. At least Zhestakova had not sent someone to break his legs or throw him out a window.

  “FSB,“ the young woman said when she reached the sedan. “Aleksandra Kanatova.”

  So that was the game, Rostov thought. The general had sent someone from his brother-in-law’s side of the house to test the waters before doing anything rash. This one was small, shorter even than his teenaged daughter and fully a foot shorter than him. Rich mahogany red hair hung in shoulder length curls from beneath her blue fox ushanka, in stark contrast to the crisp white of her down ski jacket. An alluring crop of freckles splashed across a button nose. Golden green eyes gleamed with an intensity that surprised even Rostov, who was surprised by little, least of all women. He wondered if they might not even enjoy their time together in Providenya.

  “I am told there is a girl with information about the Black Hundreds,” Kanatova said, getting straight to the heart of her visit.

  Rostov nodded toward the Cessna. “You have no luggage?”

  “This only,” Kanatova said, holding up a brown cardboard file folder.

  Rostov held open the door to the backseat of the ZiL. “We must get you out of the wind, my dear,” he said.

  Kanatova smiled as if grateful for the chivalry. “What you must do, Colonel, is take me to this young woman. I wish to question her at once.”