Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  “Okay, I’m on it. I see a house directly ahead of me.”

  “Koikov’s cabin is just west of it, maybe a quarter-mile. You should be coming up on another road, a small one, barely on the map.”

  “I see it.”

  Jack slowed, doused the Opel’s headlights, then made the turn. To his left across the pasture he saw yellow lights filtering through a thicket of scrub trees.

  Another hundred yards brought him to a T intersection. He turned left toward Koikov’s cabin and slowly the trees thinned out until he could see a U-shaped clearing ahead. He let up on the accelerator and slowed the Opel to a walking pace. He rolled down the passenger window and listened. Save the buzzing of insects, all was quiet.

  “Jack, you there?” asked Spellman.

  “Call one of Medzhid’s men.”

  Jack braked to a stop and shut off the engine.

  Moments later he heard the ringing of a cell phone. After five rings, it went silent. Jack said, “Matt, hang on.” He dialed Dom, looped him into the call, and then made quick introductions. “I need backup,” he told Dom. “Matt’s got my location.”

  • • •

  EYES FIXED on the lighted windows of the cabin, he crept down the road until the fence to his right formed a corner, which he followed, using the thicket to screen his approach to the cabin, now to his left front. He stopped, listened, then kept going until he was within ten paces of the front door, where he crouched. To his left in the driveway was a dark-colored SUV, thankfully not a Suburban, he saw. He had enough complications to deal with.

  He heard a muffled male voice say something in Russian from inside the cabin, followed by a response. The tone sounded casual, but the exchange was too clipped, Jack thought, to be a friendly one. A silhouette moved past the curtained window, then out of view. The door opened and a man emerged. He walked a few steps to his right, then lit a cigarette.

  Jack drew the Ruger from its holster and affixed the noise suppressor.

  Jack’s phone vibrated. He cupped his hand around the screen and read the text from Dom. TEN MINUTES OUT.

  A voice in the darkness called out in Russian. Jack caught on two words: “car” and “there.” They’d spotted his car.

  The man who’d spoken walked up and joined his smoking partner, and they started talking quietly.

  Suddenly from inside the cabin came a bang, then a shout and the slap of flesh against flesh. A shadowed figure crashed into the curtains, then was jerked away.

  The smoking man said something and his partner laughed.

  Gotta do something, Jack. Can’t just sit here.

  He rose from his crouch and started forward, placing each foot flat on the ground and getting it settled before taking the next step. The men to his right kept chatting. After ten paces and two minutes Jack drew even with the cabin’s front door. He slipped left through the thicket, then followed the side wall around to the back, then down the opposite side until he reached the cabin’s front corner. He poked his head out.

  The two men were six feet away.

  With the Ruger raised before him, he stepped out.

  “Ruki vverh,” he whispered.

  Neither did as ordered. The smoking man spun left, his hand already reaching inside his coat, while his partner sprinted for the cabin door. Jack shot the first man twice in the chest, then shifted the Ruger and fired at the fleeing man. He missed. Before he could get off another shot the man was through the cabin door, shouting as he went.

  Jack retreated to the corner, then adjusted aim and put a round into each of the SUV’s passenger-side tires. There was no pop, no explosive rush of air. Self-sealing tires. That said something.

  The barrel of an assault rifle poked through the cabin door and swung toward Jack. He pulled back. The rifle began chattering, bullets tearing chunks from the wood and punching through the wall. He backpedaled, trying to get ahead of the piercing rounds as they kept pace with him. He turned left, shoved himself through some waist-high scrub, and then kept going, trying to put some distance between himself and the cabin.

  After twenty feet he reached a woodpile. He ducked around it, peeked over the top. The SUV’s front and rear doors were swinging shut.

  The engine roared to life and the SUV accelerated out of the driveway and sped down the road.

  Jack got out his phone and called Dom. “Where are you?”

  “Passing mile marker twelve.”

  “Stop there and find a place to hide. In about sixty seconds a black SUV’s going to be rounding the corner. Follow it.”

  • • •

  “SORRY, GUYS, I LOST ’EM.” Dom sat down on his motel room’s bed and tossed the keys onto the nightstand. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “Shit.”

  “We’ll find them,” said Spellman.

  Jack made the introductions. They shook hands.

  “Oh, yeah, the guy on the phone,” Dom said. “You’re CIA?”

  “For however long that’ll last,” Spellman said, smiling. “By the time this is over I’ll probably be working the tool counter at Home Depot. Did you get a license plate number?”

  “There were none.”

  Ysabel went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, then came back and handed it to Dom, who downed it. “Thanks.”

  “So,” Jack said. “Tell us.”

  “I followed them for almost two hours, north up the coast, then lost them in this little village . . . Bakh-something?”

  “Bakhtemir?” said Spellman.

  “That’s it. Just a speck of a place, but the streets were a mess and they seemed to know where they were going. Anyway, I backtracked south and sat on the road for a bit. They didn’t come back my way.”

  “They didn’t see you?” asked Spellman.

  “No chance.”

  “Matt, what’s up that way?” asked Jack.

  “A whole lot of nothing. Mostly lowlands and a lot of open space. It’s been drought conditions up there for a couple years, so it’s probably desertlike by now. Bakhtemir’s probably the largest settlement up there and it’s only got a few hundred people in it.”

  “Why take Koikov up there?” asked Ysabel. “If they wanted to kill him, why not in his cabin? And they can’t keep him hidden forever. He’s going to have to appear before the panel.”

  “They had to have a reason,” said Spellman. “If this is Wellesley—”

  “It is,” Jack replied.

  “Then he’s got a plan. He doesn’t do anything spur-of-the-moment.”

  No one spoke for a while. Jack murmured, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Spellman.

  “We need to talk to Medzhid.”

  • • •

  WHEN THEY GOT to the Tortoreto apartment, Spellman woke up Seth, who in turn woke up Medzhid, who walked into the dimly lit conference area a few minutes later. His eyes were red-rimmed. “What’s this about? You’ve found Sergeant Koikov?”

  “No,” Jack replied. He recounted the shoot-out at the cabin.

  “Puncture-proof tires,” Medzhid repeated. “That has to be some kind of official government vehicle. I’ll look into it.”

  “I think I have a hunch about what they have planned for Koikov.”

  “Does it even matter?” Seth said. “I mean, I feel for the guy, but he’s lying about Almak and if he comes before the panel it’ll come out. And if he doesn’t show up, that’s also proof he’s lying. Win-win.”

  “Unless they kill him,” said Ysabel. “That’s a lose-lose for him.”

  “They won’t.”

  “I think that’s exactly what they’re going to do,” Jack replied. “Think about it: You’ve boxed yourself into a corner just like Wellesley did to himself. If they don’t produce Koikov they lose, and if they do produce him they lose. The
same applies to you: Medzhid’s demanded proof that Koikov is safe and isn’t being coerced, and you’ve got the media and the public screaming the same thing. If you suddenly let that go, everyone’s going to wonder why. What have you got to hide?”

  “Nothing,” said Medzhid.

  “The question will still be asked. Wellesley needs a way to keep Koikov away from the panel and make it look like you’re guilty of Almak.”

  “How?”

  “Wellesley takes him to a remote place, somewhere connected to you, puts a bullet in his skull, then Nabiyev swoops in with Army troops. After a firefight Koikov is found dead, silenced by some of your loyal politsiya officers, who are themselves killed by Nabiyev’s men.” Jack paused. “Rebaz, in the space of an hour you’ll be branded a murderer, not only of civilians in Almak, but of your own sergeant.”

  “Damn,” Seth murmured. “He’s right. Hell, they’ll probably find Koikov in a shallow grave. Wellesley doesn’t do anything half-assed.”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Medzhid said. He rapped his fist on the table. “I would eventually be vindicated.”

  “Maybe, but you sure as hell won’t be keeping your job.”

  “And the coup is over before it starts,” Spellman finished.

  THEY HAD only one advantage, Jack knew, and it was Wellesley’s own meticulous nature.

  While the SIS man would want Koikov’s place of execution to be traceable to Medzhid, if pressed for time or alerted they were onto him, Wellesley might bypass this element and simply kill Koikov and let the presence of dead pro-Medzhid officers serve as proof enough.

  The surreality of the situation suddenly hit Jack: The possible success or failure of Dagestan’s attempt to break free of Valeri Volodin and the Russian Federation now rested on the fate of a sickly, retired politsiya sergeant who was until a few days ago thought to be dead. Koikov probably had no idea that he’d become the most important man in the whole country.

  • • •

  ASSUMING KOIKOV’S KIDNAPPERS had continued north after Dom had lost them in Bakhtemir, Seth and Spellman began hunting for a location in Dagestan’s northern lowlands that could be connected directly to Medzhid or at least to the MOI.

  There were four possibilities, Spellman told Jack a few hours later: a currently unmanned training base for politsiya armored vehicle units outside Bakhtemir; the decommissioned Rybozavad Naval Base for Caspian flotilla patrol boats now under the guardianship of the Ministry; a two-hundred-acre stretch of tidal marshes outside Suyutkino that Medzhid’s predecessor had appropriated as a private duck-hunting preserve; and an abandoned prison called Bamlag West, nicknamed after an infamous Siberian gulag. This, too, Medzhid said, was a throwback to Dagestan’s Soviet era, when hundreds of enemies of the state had either served for decades or died from forced labor.

  • • •

  AT FIRST LIGHT Medzhid had a spotter plane in the air and headed north from Makhachkala.

  Jack and the others sat down at the conference table and waited.

  “Jack, how long do you think Koikov’s got?” Ysabel whispered.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Unless I’m missing something, Wellesley’s got no reason to wait. It might already be done.”

  • • •

  ONE OF MEDZHID’S assistants appeared. She leaned down and whispered in Seth’s ear. He picked up the remote control on the table and aimed it at the bank of televisions.

  Medzhid, standing on the front steps of the Parliament Building, was speaking. “. . . It has come to my attention that another member of my team that was present at the Battle of Almak is still living. Upon hearing that Sergeant Koikov’s demise had been misreported, I ordered my staff to begin scouring Ministry of the Interior personnel records, both electronic and hard copy, for similar errors.

  “We did indeed find the name of another brave officer, a private named Shimko, who has been living in the town of Kula for the past ten years. Right now, this man is being escorted here and is prepared to give sworn testimony regarding the 1999 events in Almak.”

  Seth muted the television. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Did you know about this, Seth?” asked Spellman. “Is it true?”

  “No and no. Medzhid did have his people review the records, but Koikov is the only surviving member from Almak.”

  Clever, Jack thought. With another possible witness coming forward at Medzhid’s behest, having Pavel Koikov turn up dead would do Wellesley and Pechkin no good.

  Medzhid had just bought them some time.

  “But what happens when this Private Shimko doesn’t show up or someone finds proof Medzhid is lying about him?” asked Ysabel.

  “Then Koikov’s dead,” Spellman replied.

  • • •

  AT ONE-FIFTEEN came the first report from Medzhid’s spotter plane: No activity at the Bakhtemir training base.

  The next report came two hours later.

  “Nothing at the hunting preserve,” Seth said. “Two more to go: Rybozavad Naval Base and Bamlag West.”

  “How far away?” asked Jack.

  “Rybozavad, a hundred kilometers or so from the plane’s current position. It should be overhead within the hour. Bamlag’s inland from there.”

  The hour came and went with no report.

  Medzhid returned. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the couch, then loosened his tie and strode to the conference area.

  “That was brilliant, Rebaz,” Spellman said.

  “No, I am a fool. I shouldn’t have used Shimko’s name. One of my assistants got a call from the editor at Pravda asking for details—Shimko’s dates of service, commendations, location and names of family members . . . By morning, all of Makhachkala will know I was lying about Shimko.”

  The phone rang again. Seth said, “Negative on Rybozavad Naval Base.”

  Have I got this wrong? Jack wondered. Had Wellesley simply killed Koikov and dumped him in a ditch somewhere?

  • • •

  AT SIX-TWENTY the conference table phone rang again. Medzhid grabbed the receiver, listened for a few moments, then said, “No. No pictures. Tell them to get out of there and return to base.” Medzhid hung up and said, “They spotted lights in one of the buildings at Bamlag. There should be no one there.”

  “That has to be it,” Jack replied.

  Wellesley’s choice of location was both intentional and symbolic: the lone witness who could bring down Medzhid executed and buried in what Nabiyev would dub an “MOI Gulag.”

  Seth said, “Rebaz, how soon can your ERF people get up there?”

  “What are you talking about? I can’t send them.”

  “Why?”

  Jack answered. “Having the ERF descend on Bamlag could produce the result Nabiyev wants: Sergeant Koikov dead and Medzhid’s people on the scene.”

  “We have to do it,” Spellman said.

  • • •

  WITH SETH at the wheel of the Suburban, Jack, Spellman, and Ysabel headed up the coast road, then turned onto a gravel track leading to a wharf. Ahead was a wheeled fence gate emblazoned KEEP OUT in Cyrillic.

  “We’ve picked up a tail,” Seth announced.

  “Describe it,” Jack said from the backseat.

  “Compact four-door, white.”

  “He’s with me. Have the guard wave him through.”

  “Whatever you say,” Seth muttered. “You and your damned secrets, Jack . . .”

  Seth gave the guard his name and the gate rolled open. They pulled through and followed the curving road to a paved area between two warehouses lit by a caged bulb affixed to each of their walls.

  As they climbed out, Dom walked up carrying his black duffel.

  Jack said, “Seth, this is Dom; Dom, Seth.”

  “Another arbitrage buddy?”

  “Something like that,” said Dom.

&nbs
p; Spellman asked Dom, “That your gear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve got a spare rucksack. Come on, I’ll help you sort it out.”

  Together they sorted and divided their loadout—three ARX assault rifles and Ruger pistols, comms headsets and portable radios, and binoculars.

  “God bless,” Dom said. “Somebody’s modified these ARXs. Single shot, three-round burst, and full auto.”

  “You’re welcome,” Spellman said. “Ready?”

  “Yep.”

  They secured the rucks and followed Seth toward the wharf.

  “Let me guess,” Ysabel said. “You want me to stay behind.”

  “Yes, but not why you think. I need you to—”

  “Keep an eye on things at the Tortoreto. I’m fine with it. The truth is, this stuff isn’t exactly my specialty. I’m betting that whoever’s holding Koikov is above my skill set.”

  “You’ve done okay, Ysabel. Hell, you saved me at least once.”

  “At least twice.”

  “When’s your birthday?” asked Jack.

  “What? Um . . . June twenty-first.”

  “I’ll buy you an assault rifle.”

  “That’s so sweet, Jack. You know just what a girl wants.”

  She hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Come back safe.”

  • • •

  AS THE TERRAIN around Bamlag was either too swampy or too rugged for a fixed-wing plane to land, and he couldn’t spare what few helicopters he had, Medzhid had arranged for their transport an Aviatik-Alliance seaplane, which would land near Bamlag on an unnamed lake.

  The dual-engine parasol-winged craft was painted a mottled gray and brown; its tail and fuselage bore the Ministry’s eagle emblem in matte black paint.

  Jack climbed down the ladder and waited his turn to pile into the Aviatik’s belly. Once they were seated, Seth leaned in the door and said, “Good hunting. Bring Koikov home and we’ll stuff him down Nabiyev’s throat.”

  He slammed the door shut.

  The pilot climbed into the cockpit and began going through his preflight checklist. Out the windows the water of the harbor was flat and black; beyond the seawall, Jack could see the pulsing beacons of offshore oil platforms.