Backlash: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  If this operation went south, the closest Minayev would come to becoming a timber baron was being beaten to death with an axe handle and buried in a shallow forest grave. In that regard, the Russian President had also been very clear. He was not a man you disappointed—ever.

  “We also don’t have a satellite with infrared capabilities on station,” his deputy explained. “I checked.”

  The General could feel his blood pressure rising.

  “Retasking one,” the deputy continued, “would raise a lot of questions, and not only in Russia. With the Chinese, the Europeans, and especially the Americans all monitoring the positions of our satellites, altering an orbit would draw unwanted attention.

  “What’s more, we’d be pulling in an additional agency from which there’d be pushback. They’d want to know what was so important about a transport plane that it required such valuable and immediate attention.”

  His deputy was right. They couldn’t risk it. “How long until the storm is forecast to pass?” he asked.

  “A day. Possibly two.”

  “What are the chances of anyone surviving in that weather, provided they even survived the crash?”

  It was another rhetorical question, but the deputy answered anyway. “Not very good.”

  Minayev agreed. But if anyone could survive something like that, it was Josef.

  He was a man of extraordinary focus. He would kill and eat his own men if that’s what it took to complete the mission.

  “How many search teams are standing by?” the General asked.

  “Four. As soon as they can get airborne, they will. Each one will take a section of the search area. Once the aircraft is located, a rescue team will be sent in to—”

  “No rescue team,” Minayev interrupted. “We will send our own people in.”

  “Understood. Whom did you have in mind?”

  “Wagner.”

  The deputy blanched. Wagner was the call sign of a former Spetsnaz commander, Kazimir Teplov.

  A twisted devotee of the Third Reich, Teplov was alleged to have selected the call sign himself—an homage to one of Hitler’s favorite composers.

  The private mercenary company Teplov created bore the same name and was shot through with Nazi symbolism and ideology. Many of its members subscribed to Rodnovery, a brutish, cultlike religion that paid homage to Nazi paganism in general and the Nazi Schutzstaffel, also known as the SS, in particular. It had sprung up during the collapse of the Soviet Union and its logo was reminiscent of a highly stylized swastika.

  As private military corporations were technically illegal in Russia, they were referred to as “ghost soldiers.” The deputy preferred the term “shock troops,” since there was no barbarity they weren’t willing to carry out. And as such, they were useful, especially when it came to off-the-books operations where plausible deniability was paramount.

  They were the Kremlin’s “little green men,” multitudes of highly paid former special forces officers sent abroad to places like Syria, Ukraine, and Crimea to carry out Moscow’s bidding without leaving any direct fingerprints.

  In fact, when Minayev had first discussed his plan with the Kremlin, the President had suggested he use Wagner for the operation, but the General had politely demurred.

  Having been repeatedly pitted against less capable adversaries, Wagner’s people had begun to believe in their own invincibility. That kind of arrogance bred carelessness.

  Minayev wanted men he knew and whose training he had personally overseen. He wanted men he trusted and who were loyal to him. His future was riding on this operation.

  He also hadn’t wanted to give up the prized intelligence asset he was coordinating with in the United States—not to a cowboy like Wagner.

  Minayev had been correct to keep the entire operation within his own control. It had been perfectly executed. Harvath had been grabbed, exfiltrated, and brought to Russia.

  But despite all of his careful planning, the operation had now fallen short. Never in a million years would he have foreseen the flight from Murmansk to the GRU interrogation facility as being the weak link that would unravel it all.

  If there were survivors, though, the operation might still be salvaged. The key was getting to them as quickly and as quietly as possible. Like it or not, Wagner was his best option.

  “Should we update the Kremlin?” the deputy asked.

  “Are you out of your mind?” the General replied. “Absolutely not. Until we have more information, we tell them nothing. Do you understand?”

  The deputy nodded.

  “Good,” said Minayev. “Now go track down Teplov. I don’t care where he is or what he is doing. I want him on a secure line within the next twenty minutes.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  * * *

  MURMANSK OBLAST

  Harvath awoke with a start. There had been a crash—like the sound of a heavy piece of debris falling over. Was it one of the pieces he had rigged with a trip wire? Had someone crept into the tail section? Was it Josef?

  Throwing off the blanket, he leaped to his feet and stood near the opening of the container, listening. It was dark and the storm was still howling.

  He had blown well past the “couple of hours” he had allotted himself to sleep. Instead, he had been out for most of the night. His body was repairing itself, but he had lost precious time.

  Like the wreckage outside, his fire had burned down. It was nearly pitch black.

  Suddenly, he regretted not having dragged a little more of the mining equipment out of the container—just enough to create a space where he could have taken cover in case he had to fight from inside.

  His ears strained to pick up any sound that might explain what he had heard.

  Had it just been the wind? It seemed stronger than when he had gone to sleep. Maybe a gust had knocked something over.

  That was the most logical assumption. But he had been trained never to assume anything.

  For a moment, he wondered if maybe his mind had played a trick on him. Maybe he hadn’t heard anything at all. Then there was another sound.

  This time it was unmistakable. It was a thud and sounded as if something had struck the exterior of the fuselage.

  But how could something be both inside and outside his section of the plane? In a fraction of a second, he had his answer.

  Instantly, the hair stood up on the back of his neck, and his grip tightened around his pistol.

  They had probably been out there for hours, circling the wreckage, studying it, as they waited for the fires to die. Now, there was nothing holding them back.

  Leaning out of the container, into the darkness of the tail section, Harvath activated his flashlight.

  Eight pairs of yellow eyes stared back at him. They had come to feed on the dead.

  The dead, though, were frozen solid by now. Not much of a meal. Harvath, on the other hand, was warm. Nice and warm.

  Russian wolves were fearless predators and had no qualms about taking down humans. While they preferred women and children, they would take a man if hungry enough.

  The fact that Harvath’s presence, much less the bright beam from his flashlight, hadn’t frightened them off told him that they were hungry enough. They were only feet away and, in unison, began to growl.

  Their lips were pulled back, revealing long, sharp teeth. Saliva dripped from their mouths.

  None of them moved. They all stood together, staring at him; staring into the beam of his flashlight. He was no stranger to wolves and knew what they were planning.

  Their job was to keep him occupied, distracted, so that the alpha could flank him and take him down. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Raising his pistol, he began to fire. The wolves attempted to scatter, but there was no place for them to go except back the way they had come in.

  The only other breach in the fuselage was to his left, where he had seen the Spetsnaz soldier earlier and shot him.

  He expected the alp
ha to charge at him from there, but the attack never came. Possibly, the gunfire had scared him off.

  Stepping out from the container, he moved forward to where he had lit up eight sets of eyes.

  Two wolves lay dead, another lay dying, and at least three trails of blood led out of the wreckage and into the snow.

  It wasn’t exactly shooting fish in a barrel, but having them bunched up inside the fuselage had given him an advantage. In an open space, if they had set upon him all at once, he wouldn’t have been so lucky.

  The question that remained was how many of them were still out there.

  Harvath hoped not to find out. As long as they left him alone, he’d return the favor. Right now, he needed to make up for lost time.

  His plan had been to leave at first light, storm or no storm. There was still much to do.

  After restarting his fire, he went down his list. First was to fashion a pair of snowshoes, which he did over the next hour via metal tubing, cargo netting, wire, and duct tape.

  They weren’t pretty, but they didn’t have to be. All they had to do was distribute his weight evenly so he could stay on top of the snow rather than sinking down into it.

  Once the snowshoes were complete, he packed up the ditch kit with all the supplies he had gathered.

  Under his parka, he wore a chest rig with extra magazines for the rifle. He tucked one of the pistols into the outer pocket of his parka and slid the other into the holster on his thigh.

  In his other pockets he carried the folding knife, batteries, an extra flashlight, and as much additional ammo as he could find. No matter what might get thrown at him, he didn’t intend to go down without a fight. A big one.

  With everything set, he drained the last of the water from the coffee station into his depleted condom, added a purification tablet just to be safe, and then cooked himself a hot breakfast.

  He pulled the blanket tightly around him as he alternated between spoonfuls of warm muesli and sips of hot coffee from an additional cup he had found. He knew all too well that the rest of the day was going to suck. Right now, at this moment, was the warmest he was going to be. He took breakfast slowly, savoring every bite and sip.

  Getting to safety was going to be a massive undertaking. It would be like trying to solve a blackboard-sized equation, where three quarters of it had been erased. The key was in starting with what parts you knew to be true.

  Though he wasn’t certain exactly where he was, he knew that they had taken off from Murmansk. He also knew the geography of Russia well enough to know that the nearest friendly country was Finland.

  It was all he had to go on, so he had decided to head in that direction—due west. He would course correct as circumstances dictated. In a survival situation, it was important to have a goal.

  Staying put in hopes of a rescue by American forces was out of the question. They likely didn’t even know he had been kidnapped, much less that he had crash-landed in Russia. The only person who could save him was him.

  So, once his breakfast was finished, he packed up his gear and made ready to leave, but not without taking care of one last thing.

  Starting with the Spetsnaz operative behind the cargo container, he took out his fixed-blade knife and set about collecting the rest of his scalps.

  The body of the dead soldier outside, as well as the man with the broken neck in the center section of the fuselage, had been torn apart by the wolves, but there was still enough left for Harvath to get what he needed.

  He hung all four scalps on a piece of wire in the tail section.

  Then, just as first light was breaking, he strapped on his snowshoes, picked up his pack and rifle, and headed out into the storm.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  * * *

  The arrival of daylight did little to improve the weather. It was still freezing. But if there was one thing SEALs were taught to withstand, it was the cold.

  Harvath had spent more time in the frigid water of San Diego Bay than he cared to remember. After that, he had gone to the U.S. Navy’s facility in Alaska, where he endured extensive training in winter warfare and cold-weather survival.

  It was no wonder to him that so many Navy SEALs moved to warm climates once they left the service. By then, they had seen more cold than most people do in a lifetime.

  Sometimes, he wondered where he’d be if he hadn’t chosen a career that kept him glued to D.C. He was a big fan of the Florida Keys and the Greek islands. He also loved Park City, Utah, and the Swiss Alps. He didn’t have a “special” place he saw himself in. He had even moved to Boston for a time simply to be closer to Lara and her little boy, Marco.

  Just the thought of her sent a wave of remorse through his body. He couldn’t believe she was gone. And not only was she gone, she was gone because of him. Once again, someone he loved had been marked for death, and it had been his fault. He vowed never to let that happen again.

  Struggling through the snow, the visibility next to nothing, he made it into the trees at the edge of the clearing. Pushing Lara from his mind, he concentrated on his most important priority—putting as much distance between himself and the crash site as possible.

  When a rescue team finally did show up, and when they realized the plane was carrying a prisoner who had disappeared, someone was going to start doing some math. Average speed per hour of a healthy adult male in snow would be multiplied by the estimated hours that had elapsed since the crash. A circle would be drawn on a map, and the hunt would be on.

  Scenes of a Russian Tommy Lee Jones from The Fugitive telling his men to conduct a hard-target search of every “gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse, and doghouse” within that radius played across his mind.

  He figured that at best, in the current conditions, he was making three miles an hour on his improvised snowshoes. How long he could keep it up was the question. At some point, he was going to have to stop to rest.

  Then there was the issue of where he’d spend the night. He needed not only someplace where he could keep warm but also someplace from which he could defend himself. The image of the pack of hungry wolves wasn’t far from his mind. He had imagined something on his six o’clock ever since leaving the crash site. Even in this storm, he was keeping his eyes and ears open. The idea that they could be only feet behind him, ready to pounce, wasn’t very comforting.

  The upside to the weather, though, was that wind and blowing snow would help to cover his tracks. Without a visible trail, any manhunt would be forced to spread its resources in all directions, leaving more gaps for him to slip through. But Harvath hoped to be long gone before any search even started.

  To do that, first he needed to find a road. Then he needed to find a vehicle. From there, everything else would work itself out. All he had to do was get to the border. Goals, he reminded himself. Stay alive. Stay ahead of the Russians. Don’t freeze. Make it to Finland.

  Being careful not to drop it in the snow, he checked his heading on the survival compass and pressed on.

  Snowshoeing had one big plus and one big minus. The minus was that it burned a lot of calories. The plus was that burning that many calories was like carrying an onboard furnace. In fact, he had to unzip his parka to vent some of the heat.

  The Russian gear he had on wasn’t nearly as high-tech as American cold-weather clothing. If he got soaked from too much sweat, he might not be able to get dry. Even being slightly damp would accelerate heat loss if he was forced to remain outside without a shelter.

  Harvath checked his watch. Moving through the forest, he tried to keep his pace consistent. After two hours, be began encountering hills, some much steeper than others. Though his hips and legs were aching, he pushed on. An hour after that, it was all he could do to keep going. He was forced to take a break.

  Pausing under a large pine, he propped his rifle against his pack, took off the snowshoes, and gave them a quick inspection.

  They had held up remarkably well and needed only
a few minor adjustments, which he made before attending to anything else. That was something else he had learned in the SEALs. The instructors had been fanatical about it. Even when returning from a grueling mission when all you wanted was a hot meal and an even hotter shower, you always took care of your gear first. It was a lesson that had become a part of him.

  With the snowshoes taken care of, he gave his weapons a quick once-over and wiped down the rifle. Only then, with all of that complete, could he see to everything else.

  Under the pine, he was able to get out of the weather, which was a welcome relief. Walking for hours with icy crystals being blown into your eyes was a special kind of torture.

  From where he sat, he could see that the intensity of the storm had begun to lessen. Visibility was starting to improve. He knew better than to tempt the fates by celebrating, but inside he allowed himself a quick thought that maybe things were breaking in his direction.

  Removing his tiny, foldable camping stove, he ignited a hextab and scooped up some snow in his canteen cup. He needed to rehydrate, as well as to replenish the water in the condoms. In addition to burning a lot of calories, snowshoeing also depleted a lot of fluids.

  As the first batch of snow began to melt, he added some of the cherry drink mix from the IRP, along with some of the electrolyte powder from the med pouch, to form his own version of survival Gatorade.

  Making sure the liquid wasn’t too hot, he stirred it with a spoon and then raised the metal cup to his lips.

  It tasted better than he had expected, and he quickly drank it down.

  He was convinced that the reason sports drinks were referred to as “thirst quenchers” was that the moment their salts and sugars hit your taste buds, your body knew the relief it had been begging for was on its way. That’s what this felt like to Harvath.