by Alex Carlson
It wasn’t a big deal. The fall didn’t hurt and the bike suffered no damage besides a busted mirror. It was bound to happen, Rhys knew, and he was actually surprised it hadn’t happened yet.
The BMW, weighing somewhere north of five hundred pounds, was hard to pick up in the best of circumstances. But here the bike lay on slick grass and the wrong way around—the wheels were higher up than the saddle or handle bars.
Christ, thought Rhys. I do not need this.
The only solution was to drag the bike around, get the wheels downhill, and lift it using your thigh muscles rather than your back.
Before he did so, he scanned the area. The slope wasn’t steep where the bike lay, but it became considerably steeper within a few yards. And a few yards after that, it steepened madly until it became a sheer drop. He walked toward the drop and whistled. He had been riding along an escarpment without even noticing. He looked down and saw the tops of fir trees a hundred yards below.
He returned to his bike, grabbed the handlebars, and manhandled the front end around in a circle. The movement dragged the bike down a bit so that it lay on the steeper grade. He turned his back to his bike, grabbed the handlebars with one hand and the handle between saddle and pannier with the other, and heaved it upright with a grunt. It came up easily enough and he turned and simultaneously squeezed the front brake and then stepped it into first gear. He didn’t want to watch it roll backwards over the precipice. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.
He threw his leg over the seat and hit the ignition. The grade felt steeper sitting on the bike but it wasn’t something he hadn’t handled before. He released the clutch.
The rear wheel spun, spitting out any dirt and rocks that might have given the tire some traction. He rocked the bike a bit, almost like getting a car out of the snow in New Hampshire, but that only made his predicament worse. He let up the gas and squeezed the brake.
He looked behind and saw he was now dangerously close to the edge. His only option was to try again, put more gas into it. He let it rip.
It was probably the worst thing he could have done. The tires lost all traction. He applied both brakes hard, but the weight of the bike continued to pull it backwards until its speed was no longer controllable. He threw the bike to the ground in the hope of arresting the slide, but it wasn’t enough. The bike slid down and Rhys watched in horror as it disappeared silently over the brim. He rushed to the edge in time to see his beloved gather speed and start to tumble, hitting rocks and cartwheeling down the mountainside in the semi-darkness. It finally came to a rest a hundred or so meters down the slope after being arrested by a pair of firs.
It was a total loss.
Game over.
In the distance he heard the staccato fire of AK-9s.
The game wasn’t over.
C
HAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MANNY DUCKED BACK from the ridge as soon as he saw the smoke. He had to give them credit. Smart move. He wasn’t going to get any more shots from the position, so he high-tailed it out of there. He wasn’t about to sit and wait for the Russians to arrive. They’d come, sure enough, but by then he’d be long gone, further along the mountainside, where he’d set up again and try to get a few more shots off.
There was no path and the going was tough. Overgrown grass hid divots and uneven dirt. It was now darker and he had to concentrate on the ground directly in front of him lest he twist an ankle. That would be all he needed.
He ran hard for a good couple of minutes, never losing sight of the ridge on his left. He now hoped 405 would continue up the valley after they collected themselves and he’d be able to get a few more targets. Still, the steeper mountainside to his right attracted his attention. The mountain folded in on itself and offered plenty of good places to hide.
Offense or defense? Set up to shoot or disappear in the mountain?
He’d never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t stay on the offensive, so he’d return to the ridge. But he knew it would take a while before any Russians made it up to his elevation. He had time to check out the mountain’s folds, knowing that he might need a place to go to ground. He ran to his right, away from the ridge.
The base of the steep incline was rocky, full of crevices, and even a couple of caves. He spent a few minutes checking the hides. The mouth of one of the caves offered a good shooting position and another offered even more possibilities.
Okay, he thought, satisfied that he’d scoped out the area. Time to return to the ridge. He had to coax himself into running. His legs, full of lactic acid, ached, his energy was waning, and he noticed for the first time that he was famished. A meal and a soft, warm bed. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently it was. He trotted toward the ridge.
He found a good spot and cleared it of rocks, arranging the larger ones to offer a small amount of cover. The darkness would help. He lay down and went to his scope.
AFTER THE FOG had benevolently rolled into the valley, Stepan and Grigory crossed to the edge of the valley and scurried to the ravine. It wasn’t easy going. The rocks were slick, the mud slippery. Attempts to hurry didn’t pan out as each repeatedly fell and scraped their hands and knees on jagged rocks. They accepted the pain and kept climbing. After a time, they made it to the ravine’s opening above. Anger and a natural desire for revenge drove them forward and a couple of amphetamines gave them a final blast, enabling them to overcome the exhaustion from the day’s hike. They’d find the shooter and they’d kill him.
It took a good half hour to reach the shooting site. They knew that the shooter would be long gone by the time they got there, but finding the location gave them a starting point from which to track him. They found more than enough evidence that a sniper had been at work. It was a well-chosen spot. The ground had been worked, rocks removed to allow for a comfortable prone shooting position. A few meters away, an ejected shell casing lay in the grass. At the very edge of the ridge they saw two marks in the mud, suggesting the rifle had been propped up by a bipod. The marks had smudged the dirt, showing where the shooter had pivoted the weapon to find new targets. Very professional. But they already knew he was professional. RG 405 had learned that the hard way.
They knew he’d head north, along the ridge, trying to stay between the RG and the safe house. He’d undoubtedly set up again and take additional pops at them. It didn’t take long to find the imprint of boots, which confirmed the shooter was running north. By the length of the gait, the guy was indeed running.
Stepan radioed Scharkov and told him their intention to follow the tracks and set up counter-sniper activities. Scharkov immediately signed off, unnecessarily emphasizing the need to kill him. Scharkov reminded Stepan that he was the best tracker in the RG and issued his ominous expectation that he and Grigory would succeed.
Following a sniper was a tricky business. It was dark and any good sniper would have night vision equipment. At any moment, he could turn, take aim, and fire off a shot or two. With this guy, he’d probably only need two. There wasn’t much they could do about it besides anticipating where he was going to be and somehow staying out of his scope. Basically, they needed to locate his hide. Stepan was sniper-grade and knew where he would go if he were the shooter. His training informed him what to look for. In between sprints forward, he’d stop, put binoculars to eyes, and scan the ridgeline ahead.
It took some time, but Stepan eventually detected a straight line sticking out of the ground where no straight line belonged. There weren’t many straight lines in the mountains. Was it a rifle barrel? They couldn’t imagine what else it could be. Fortunately, it wasn’t pointing anywhere near them. They took cover and patiently watched the line. If it was a rifle, it would move as the sniper scanned the valley below through the scope.
It took over a minute, but the movement came, just a little twitch before going still again. It was enough.
They called it in and provided both the coordinates and the landmarks. Scharkov trusted the pair men and gave them free reign—as l
ong as they finished it.
Neither Grigory nor Stepan thought getting any closer was a good idea. Despite Stepan’s shooting skills, he didn’t have a Dragonov, so he knew the best option was to take advantage of the AK’s fire rate: they’d fire for effect and overwhelm the area with firepower. At 200 meters, they had as good a chance as not of hitting if they could get enough shots off. If not, at least they’d pry the bastard from his hide and get him running. He had to be more exhausted than they were and they doubted he had uppers. They’d chase him down.
They took a moment to settle down and prepare their weapons. Then they communicated that they were in synch, calmly counted to three before emerging around the rock behind which they had sought cover, and unloaded their clips.
THE EARTH EXPLODED around him as a spray of dirt washed upon his face. Instinctively, Manny dropped the rifle and covered his head. Where had that come from? He’d been looking in the other—wrong—direction when the bullets struck, lots of them, the first ones hitting a ways away, the last of the string landing close. Could he rotate and fire? He doubted it, so he did the next best thing. He grabbed his rifle and ran.
He hustled along the backside of the mountain, away from the valley he had been scanning. The ground was uneven and full of surprises, so he switched on his flashlight to prevent from tripping on a rock or in a hole. He knew exactly where he was going: the folds and caves where the mountain rose dramatically. That promising cave he discovered earlier seemed his best option.
A cave isn’t the best place to go when you’re being chased by men with AKs, but some caves are better than others. This one was cut into a ridge that rose sharply above it. He figured if he could get to it, his pursuers wouldn’t be able to see well enough through the dark to know if he went in it or around the fold of the mountain.
More shots came, tracers this time, their lines so bright they lit up the area around him. He knew the tracers helped the shooters track their shots in order to bring them on target. The dirt at his feet kicked up, tiny explosions that again sprayed his face. He dodged this way and that, and only ran straight again when the Russians had burned through their second clips.
The cave’s mouth was almost as tall as he was and he had to twist and bend to get through the jagged opening. The rifle was a bigger problem. The four feet of straight line took a mathematician’s sense of geometry to maneuver it through the crooked opening. He twisted it and angled it and at last made it through the cave’s mouth, disappearing into the cave’s darkness.
WHEN RHYS HEARD the latest shots, he froze and tried to gauge from where they were coming. They were close. He had known that his and Manny’s paths, wildly different though they were, would approach each other, but he hadn’t expected to be so close to Manny now. And it sounded like their paths had crossed at just the right moment. He might just be able to give him a hand. But then he realized that he hadn’t heard Manny’s rifle. Come on, Manny, Rhys said to himself, let me hear your big gun. A large bore shot never came.
He sprinted in the direction of the gunfire.
There was more automatic fire accompanied by a lighting of the sky coming from the other side of the mountain’s hump. He raced toward it over rough ground until he finally crested the hill.
Below, a wide-open space made him feel like a spectator at a sporting event. Tracers shot through the thinning fog at a target some 300 yards away. The running target had to be Manny, who for some stupid reason had a flashlight in his hand. Rhys pulled out the binoculars that had been weighing down his jacket and put them to his eyes. He saw Manny, arms flailing, in his magnified circle of vision. Even in the near darkness he could see Manny was trying to escape. Within seconds, Manny had reached a rocky incline and then, just like that, Manny contorted his body and disappeared in a circle of darkness. Manny had gone in a cave. No, Manny, not a cave! A cave was a dead end. A cave was death.
Rhys put the binocs down and grabbed his Glock. What good would that do? Not a damn thing at this distance. A distraction? Stupid idea. First they’d kill Manny and then they’d kill him.
Rhys swore. He was helpless.
He grabbed the binoculars again and found the Russians just as they reached the cave. Through the magnification he saw them communicate to each other. Then they fired.
The dry tapping sound of automatic gunfire echoed off the mountain. It was long, sustained. Tracers again, fired directly into the cave, their light magnified as the pair pumped more bullets inside and the tracers bounced around the inside walls. The two men emptied their clips.
Rhys’ posture collapsed and he sank to his knees. There wasn’t much chance of surviving that.
Get away, Rhys told himself. Make them pay. But instead he got up and looked once again through the glasses at the location of Manny’s demise. One of the Russians removed a grenade from his vest, the same nasty kind Rhys had recovered from the dead Russian in the meadow below. The thing had scared him then. It now made him sick.
Rhys put the glasses down and turned away. He couldn’t watch. He clenched his eyes tight as he walked back down over the hump, away from the spectacle.
A few seconds later he heard the grenade explode.
C
HAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
STIREWALT TRIED TO quell the growing sense of anxiety in the hut. Her own stress manifested in physical pain behind her eyes, tightness in her neck, and tension throughout her upper body. Tap her on the shoulder and she’d snap like a bow. She did small, unnecessary tasks and checked frequently on the others. Colin remained cool, but Colin was by nature unflappable. Tyler continued to monitor the scene outside, but Lucinda noticed his steps fell heavier and he was becoming increasingly reticent. Svitlana Tereshchenko did her best to distract Pavlo, but it was a losing battle. The kid was scared. And Maksym just annoyed everybody.
The darkness only heightened the tension. A slow-burning fire glowed in the stove and a single candle, placed low on a chair in the corner to limit the amount of light it cast, provided all the light they allowed themselves. When needed, they snapped on a flashlight, cupping the end so that it wouldn’t communicate anything to the outside. It had grown eerily quiet in the hut, the silence broken only by the cracking of the fire and Tyler’s heavy steps.
Colin pulled Lucinda to the corner of the main room and spoke to her quietly, barely above a whisper. “The shots are getting closer,” he said. “No idea what’s going on out there, but the fight is almost here.”
After the initial firefight, which sounded miles away in some indeterminate direction, there had been a long period of relative calm. Then three distinct rifle shots boomed through the air, followed shortly by a fusillade of automatic weapons fire. Then most recently, just the assault rifles, without a large bore rifle. Then there had been a detonation of some kind.
Colin didn’t communicate what the most recent volley probably meant, but even Lucinda had been hoping for the boom of a sniper rifle. She and Colin were now convinced that Rhys had understood enough of her initial call to figure the rest of it out. He located the Russians, set out after them, probably in a desperate attempt to slow them down, and of course brought Manny with him. She respected Rhys’ fearlessness, but in this case it would just get them both killed, if it hadn’t already.
“Lucinda, we have to prepare to leave. At some point the odds will be better if we run than if we stay. We’ll take our chances out there. Tyler can cover us.”
“We stay as long as possible. If Rhys figured out what’s going on, he’ll have called in support, probably an evacuation. They can’t evacuate us if they can’t find us.”
“Time is running out.”
Lucinda didn’t respond. She walked away from him and over to the far side of the room. On a wooden shelf sat a dilapidated wicker basket full of brochures of regional attractions and simple hiking maps. She couldn’t imagine who had put them there. She grabbed a handful of them and moved to Maksym.
“Maksym,” she said, getting the professor’s attention, �
��I need your help.” She laid the maps and brochures in front of him, brought the candle onto the table, and unfolded one of the maps. “My assumption is that the men who arrived this morning started here, at this airfield, sometime in the night. Your job is to figure out how long it took them to get here. That will tell us how long it will take the rest of the team to get here.”
Maksym looked at the map. “Impossible,” he said. “These lack the necessary precision. I could give you a number, but it would be worthless. There are too many variables”
“Do your best, professor.”
Stirewalt then went to Pavlo. “You play video games, I assume,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Shooting games?”
“Yeah, but they’re nothing like this.”
“Doesn’t matter. Your father is calculating how long it took those guys to get here. He’ll need to figure out the route. Help him with that and try to determine where the shots we’ve heard came from. The first ones we heard, hours ago, and now these most recent ones. Ask Tyler what factors are involved.”
Pavlo looked at the maps. He seemed glad to be done trying to get that damn radio working again.
“And Maksym, this is no time for precision or perfection. Just give me your best guess.”
She turned to Colin. “Give me an hour. If we haven’t got a plan figured out, we’ll go. Plan the evacuation with Tyler.
Colin nodded, a slight smile on his face communicating that he was impressed with her ability to keep it together. It probably didn’t surprise him that she was the boss.
