She was ready now. Her only real concern was for Bender.
* * *
The unwinding altimeter on Vetrov’s wrist showed they were coming up on the three-thousand-meter mark, at which point, it was time to discard their oxygen masks. So far, his face had been covered by the mask, a Kevlar helmet on his head, so he had no real sensation of falling through the air. It was more like floating.
“Stage one,” he said into his lapel mic, which was the signal to discard the German-made masks. He took his off and let it fall free to his right; it tumbled end over end away from him. The nearly two-hundred-kilometer-per-hour hurricane directly on his face was strong enough to curl his lips back and send ripples across his cheeks.
He looked again at his altimeter as he passed the two-thousand-meter mark, and he began to smell things. The salt air, perhaps, a hint of wood smoke or perhaps charcoal, maybe a baker using a wood-fired oven, baking bread for his morning customers who would be up and about in a few hours.
All of it was almost unreal, but he’d done these sorts of night jumps so often this one seemed almost routine, except that in a few more minutes, he and his people would be going into battle. And he found that he was looking forward to it, because afterward, he would be able to send for his wife, and they could settle down somewhere with more money than they ever dreamed was possible.
* * *
On the ground, McGarvey checked his watch. Pete was about twenty feet to his right, still curled up in a ball, facing him, her eyes bright even in the darkness. “You okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Just peachy. How about you?”
“They should be opening their chutes in under a minute. Safety off.”
“Are we going to shoot before they land?”
“No. They’ll be pistols ready as soon as they release their equipment bags, and they’ll have the high ground. But once they touch down, they’ll be busy for the first sixty seconds or so getting free of their chutes and gearing up. We shoot then.”
“In the back?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a tough world,” Pete said.
“We didn’t make it so,” McGarvey said. “And if I’d had my way from the beginning, I would never have drawn my gun except on a firing range.”
* * *
“Stage two,” Vetrov said into his mic as his altimeter wound down past one thousand meters. He pulled his rip cord, the hang gliding chute deployed with a nearly noiseless burp, and his speed almost instantly dropped to less than thirty-five kilometers per hour.
He put on his night vision optics. Their objective showed up about two klicks almost due south. It showed no lights. McGarvey and his wife were sound asleep in their bed. And by the time they realized that they had come under attack, it would be far too late.
Using the parachute’s toggles left and right, he adjusted his glide path to set down about fifty meters from the lighthouse.
When he was sure his angle was correct, he scoped the ground from directly below him and slowly on a broad path all the way to the top of the hill. But there was nothing to be seen except scrub brush.
At forty meters, he radioed, “Stage three,” released his equipment bag, and took his pistol from its holster strapped to his chest.
* * *
“There,” McGarvey said, and he counted six equipment bags dropping from the operators.
“I see them,” Pete said.
“Wait until I open fire.”
“Will do.”
* * *
At the lighthouse, Alicia spotted the parachutes, and she grabbed the binoculars and watched as the equipment bags dropped.
“I count six,” she said.
“Jesus,” Bender said. “Let’s just get this shit over with and go home.”
“Amen,” Alicia said.
SEVENTY-ONE
Vetrov hit hard, his left foot twisting on a rock, a sharp pain stabbing his ankle, but he went with the momentum, rolling to the right, his pistol out and ready to fire.
He was up in an instant, and keeping low, he brought his parachute in hand over hand while scanning for any opposition and looking to his troopers. There were only three of them about ten meters back—Silin, Orlov, and Petrin, also busy with their chutes.
“Vasili, Eduard, copy?” Vetrov radioed.
“We hit a gust and landed short,” Vasili Anosov came back.
“What about Eduard?”
“Here,” Nikolayev came back. “I’m about twenty meters behind Vasili.”
“Get squared away and get your asses up here on the double. We’re going in,” Vetrov radioed. Spreads like this drop weren’t uncommon, but just now, it was more bothersome to him for some reason.
Nikolayev had the big plastic bag, so Vetrov and the other three merely bundled their chutes, gathered the shrouds, and tied them around the nylon so the fabric wouldn’t be blown around on the light wind. Anything that large moving around down here would be a dead giveaway of their positions.
By the numbers as if in a carefully choreographed dance, they opened their equipment bags, extracted the MP7s, pocketed five of the six magazines they’d brought, and loaded the sixth into the weapons, jacking a round into the firing chamber.
They wore their civilian clothes beneath their black ODUs, their fake passports and other creds, plus a few thousand euros, in flat packs strapped to their chests.
The pain from Vetrov’s foot radiated all the way up to his hip now, and each step he took was agony. But he was still mobile, which meant nothing important was broken.
* * *
Alicia was looking through the binoculars. “I count four of them,” she said. The laser range finder showed them fifty-one meters downslope. They’d bundled their parachutes and had taken things out of their drop bags that she couldn’t quite recognize, but she was almost certain they were weapons, until one of them turned in profile and she made out the same room broom that was lying close at hand on the low table beside the window.
“I thought you counted six parachutes,” Bender said.
“I did.”
“Where the hell are the other two?”
Alicia panned downslope until she picked out the fifth man bent over what was probably his drop bag on the ground, but not the sixth.
* * *
McGarvey motioned for Pete to keep quiet and stay down. He was too far away and it was too dark for him to know the exact number of jumpers who had landed upslope from their positions, but he could clearly see one man clad in black less than ten feet away downslope.
He and Pete had been bracketed, which could mean that they had been spotted from the air. But by the way the lone operator had gathered his parachute, McGarvey didn’t think that was the case.
McGarvey laid his room broom on the ground and took out his SOG SEAL Ka-Bar strapped on his chest outside his shirt.
Pete was watching him wide-eyed, and he motioned again for her to stay down and make no noise.
The operator was just loading his MP7 and jacking a round into the firing chamber when McGarvey got up. Keeping low, he raced down to him, making as little noise as possible.
At the last instant, the Russian, sensing something, turned around, bringing his weapon to bear, but McGarvey batted it aside with his left hand as he closed in.
Anosov fired a short burst into the air, and at the same moment, McGarvey thrust the knife into the man’s left side beneath his ribs, cutting the man’s heart nearly in two. The Russian opened his mouth, trying to say something, but then fired off another burst from the silenced weapon as his legs gave way and he started to collapse.
“Incoming!” Pete cried urgently from behind him.
McGarvey grabbed the Russian’s body, the knife still in his chest, and held it up as a shield as the second Russian approached in a dead run while firing his MP7, the rounds slamming into his fellow operator’s back.
Stepping to one side, Mac shoved the body forward, then ducked low as Nikolayev continued driving forwa
rd, his momentum making it impossible to pull up short.
“Sukin syn!”—Son of a bitch!—the Russian grunted, trying to bring his weapon around as he crashed into Anosov’s body.
McGarvey grabbed the submachine gun out of the man’s hands, stepped back, and jammed the muzzle of the silencer into the back of the Russian’s head.
“Ostanovites’, i vy budete zhit’,” McGarvey said. Stop and you’ll live.
Nikolayev’s eyes widened as he moved his head to the left, pulled a pistol with a large silencer on the end of the barrel from his holster, and fired. At the same instant, McGarvey pulled off a short burst, taking almost the entire side of the man’s head, two rounds spiraling out the back of his skull.
“You’re hit,” Pete said at McGarvey’s side.
McGarvey hadn’t felt a thing. He looked down and felt at the ragged hole in the left leg of his jeans several inches below his knee. The round had hit his prosthetic leg but had done no real damage.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Pete said.
“Get down now,” McGarvey told her, and he dropped to the ground, pulling her with him.
“What the hell?”
“These two were mis-drops; there’re more up toward the lighthouse,” McGarvey said. “And right about now, their mission CO is wondering what the hell happened to his people unless one of these guys told him.” He showed Pete the lapel mic on the Russian’s night camos. “I want him to keep wondering how many of us there are. Hopefully, he’ll do something stupid and come down here to find out what happened.”
“Doesn’t sound so stupid to me,” Pete said.
* * *
Alicia had watched everything through the binoculars, and when McGarvey and Pete dropped to the ground, she switched to the four operators farther up the hill. They had dropped into defensive positions, their attention downslope.
“Mac took down both operators who’d dropped behind him and Pete,” she said. “The other four have taken an interest.”
“What are they doing?” Bender asked.
“I think they’re trying to decide exactly what they should do.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have to know or at least suspect that two of their people are down, and they might be thinking about taking care of the threat below them before coming up here. But I’ll bet that they’re surprised in a nasty way.”
“Let me see,” Bender said. He pushed her aside, took the binoculars, and stepped to the open window.
“I’d watch what you’re doing; you’re in plain sight,” Alicia warned.
* * *
“Vasili, report,” Vetrov radioed. There was no answer. “Eduard, report.” Again, his earbud remained silent.
“Someone is in the top-floor window of the lighthouse,” Silin said.
“Do you have a clear shot?” Vetrov asked without turning.
“Da.”
“Take them down.”
Silin fired two long bursts, bracketing the open window, and the figure disappeared. “Done,” he said. His weapon was dry, and he switched mags. “What next?”
“Down the hill to deal with whoever took Vasili and Eduard out,” Vetrov said.
“McGarvey?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then who was in the window?”
“We’ll find out later. For now, we’re splitting—two left, two right,” Vetrov said. “Move.”
SEVENTY-TWO
McGarvey was hunched over the Russian with the knife in his chest, taking the room broom and four spare mags from the body. “They know someone is down here, and they’re going to try to flank us,” McGarvey said.
Pete hunched low and, moving fast, came over to him. “What’s our play?”
He gave her the submachine gun and mags. “We’re going up the middle, and when we get in range, we’re going to make a lot of noise, so get rid of the suppressor and make ready to fire at anything that moves.”
Pete stuffed the Glock in the waistband of her jeans and unscrewed the suppressor as Mac took the radio unit from the body, placed the earbud in his right ear, clipped the mic to the lapel of his black polo shirt, and pocketed the cell phone–size unit.
He took the night vision goggles from the body and handed them to Pete, then moved to the other Russian, took the night vision goggles and put them on his head, and lowered the eyepiece. Instantly, the night lit up green.
“Incoming, maybe fifty or sixty yards off to the left,” Pete said softly.
McGarvey turned in that direction, and after a moment’s search, he picked out two figures about fifty yards out hunched over but coming fast. It took him only a second or two to see another pair off to the right, maybe five or ten yards farther up the hill, but keeping low and moving fast like the pair to the left.
“If we can see them, they can see us,” McGarvey said. “So stay flat, and let them come to us.”
“They’ll flank us just like they want to.”
“That’s right, and they’re going to learn a lesson in just a few minutes: Be careful what you wish for—it just might bite you in the ass.”
“Jesus,” Pete said softly, scrunching down on her stomach as low as she could get.
“Lay out your spare magazines where you can easily reach them,” McGarvey said. “Take the nearest pair on the left, and no matter what happens, just keep shooting. I’ll take right.”
McGarvey laid out two of his spare mags, with two more in his waistband.
“When you change out mags, give the new one a sharp rap on the side of the handle before you reload in case it picked up some dirt,” McGarvey told her. His only worry now was for Pete.
“I’ve been through the Farm three times, and I know how to shoot, you chauvinist pig.”
McGarvey couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, dear,” he said.
* * *
Bender had taken three hits to the chest. Alicia had raced to the bathroom for a towel to try to stanch the bleeding although she’d known it would be futile, but she had to try. He was a pompous ass, but a good man who believed in the Bureau’s mission.
He’d died while she was holding the towel, and she sat back. “Shit,” she said softly.
She wiped the blood from her hands, got the binoculars from where he’d dropped them, and eased back to the open window for a quick look, presenting little or nothing of herself to shoot at.
At first, she couldn’t find the four black-clad operators where she’d last seen them. She panned slowly up the hill, but finding nothing, panned back down the hill.
They were about thirty or forty yards down from their landing spot and moving fast. But they’d split up into two pairs, one left and the other right. They were trying to flank McGarvey and his wife.
She looked back at Bender’s body. There was nothing she could do here now.
Tossing the binoculars on the bed, she took up the room broom, stuffed a couple of spare mags in the waistband of her slacks, and headed downstairs in a dead run.
She’d counted four operators who’d landed just minutes ago, and she had scoped the same four running down the hill. No one was left between them and the lighthouse. If she was fast enough before they took the McGarveys out, she might be able to help.
Downstairs, she burst out the door, took the broad steps to the driveway, and then started down the hill, her feet barely touching the ground.
* * *
Both pairs of oncoming Russians opened fire at the same time, about twenty yards out, kicking up dirt and rocks left and right, closing on Pete’s position but farther away from where Mac was lying.
He brought his room broom around to the pair on the left, and firing measured bursts took one of them down. Before he could switch aim, he was bracketed by incoming rounds, and he had to keep his head down.
The firing stopped.
“Pete, are you okay?” Mac said.
“I’m hit.”
“How bad?”
“In the shoulder, and it hurts like hell, but I�
�ll live.”
“Stand by,” McGarvey said. He keyed the lapel mic. “Unit leader, do you copy?”
No one answered.
“Two of your people are dead. We have their weapons, and I’m speaking on one of your coms sets. In addition, we have backup at the lighthouse covering your six.”
Still there was no answer.
McGarvey raised his head a couple of inches just high enough so that he could see up the hill. The operators had hit the ground and were no longer in sight. For a second, he thought they might be withdrawing, but then he saw a figure racing down the hill from the lighthouse and closing in on the Spetsnaz position.
Even at the distance, he knew that it was Alicia Sherman, and she was carrying a room broom at the ready.
“Retreat! Retreat!” he shouted.
* * *
The black-clad operators down the hill had disappeared, and Alicia was certain that it was McGarvey who’d shouted, “Retreat!” She pulled up short and started to hunch down when a figure rose up just a couple of feet to the left.
She started to bring the submachine gun to bear on him when he was on her, batting the muzzle of her weapon to the side while jamming the muzzle of his room broom against the side of her head with his other hand so hard it drew blood.
She let the gun fall from her hand and collapsed on the rocky ground on her right side as if she had been knocked out. Her right hand, beneath her, was on the handle of the pistol in her waistband.
* * *
McGarvey had watched it all. He raised his room broom up just high enough so that the operator who’d taken Alicia down was in his sights.
“Ilich!” a man to Mac’s right shouted.
McGarvey fired a short burst, catching Ilich in the side, and the man went down hard.
Gambit Page 30
