by Tom Clancy
The Russians — in their attempt to capture her — had inadvertently helped her escape. It seemed they might come in handy now, and she thought about manipulating them to her benefit in the near future.
For just the briefest of moments, though, she took herself back to the tiny town of Banff, just off the Trans-Canada Highway, seventy-eight miles west of Calgary. She was with Green Vox, that terrorist leader whose identity was kept a secret so that he could “live forever” through any number of followers assuming his role. Together, they had chosen Banff so they would be upwind from the nuclear fallout, once she had detonated the nukes. But the entire operation had been foiled by the Americans. No matter. She’d had other plans.
“I am Snegurochka. What did you expect?” she’d asked the terrorist.
“Viktoria, what are you doing?”
“Did you really think I was working with you?”
His mouth had fallen open. “You can’t be serious.”
She’d grinned and aimed the gun at him.
Vox’s eyes had widened. “Go ahead, kill me. Green Vox will return. He always does.”
She shot him between those eyes.
“Yes,” she said, staring down at his body. “You always come back — and always as a man. What a pity.”
Now as she sat in the car, she realized that an aching fear had brought on the memory. She was worried about whether the Green Brigade Transnational had given up on their quest for revenge. Perhaps her work in France had reminded them of the futility of getting too close to her.
The Americans and the Russians were so predictable, but these bastards… they were the wild cards and could appear at any time. And as she’d speculated, they could be getting leads from Izotov, who’d perhaps hired them as mercenaries in addition to his “official” efforts involving Haussler and the Spetsnaz troops. Izotov was a clever one who could be feeding information to the terrorists that he wasn’t sharing with Haussler. He might even be playing them against each other and would reward only the victors. She knew him all too well, knew that all he cared about were end results and that people were disposable, people like her husband and brothers.
In the Snow Maiden’s Russia, loyalty was a spring flower that wilted far too quickly without water.
“We’re almost out of gas,” Chopra said, wrenching her from her thoughts.
“Then you’ll stop at the next petrol station.”
“I don’t have cash, and if we use cards they will find us.”
“Exactly.”
“Please don’t kill anyone else.”
She took a deep breath. “If they cooperate, I won’t. But I make no promises.”
“How did you get to be so deplorable?”
She attempted to speak softly and not through her teeth. “I used to think they made me who I am. But I’ve always had a choice. So I choose to be this way.”
“Why?”
She let the question hang for a moment, then said, “Because I will never become their victim.”
“How would you become their victim? And who are they?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What happened to you? I’m sure you were a little girl once. A sweet child.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes. Once…”
* * *
Brent wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t help himself. He was as much horrified and fascinated by George Voeckler’s insanity… or bravery — the line between them was often indistinct.
The Russian pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit of that enemy chopper and could effortlessly lift their 12.7-millimeter four-barrel machine gun, bringing it to bear. But George Voeckler knew that as well, which was why he jogged along the front of the apartments, keeping low and breaking cover only at the last second to run at the chopper, rear back, and hurl his grenade, one of six “Ghost Recon specials” given to him by Brent.
Just as the pilot swung his gun around, the fins and engine on George’s L12-7 activated, and the tiny missile streaked into the open bay door.
The whish was followed immediately by a muffled explosion that echoed strangely louder from inside the chopper.
The explosion was clearly not enough to destroy the bird, but the pilot and co-pilot had to be seriously injured, Brent thought. Thick smoke poured from the open bay door, yet the rotors kept on spinning.
A moment later, one man jumped out, staggered onto the ground, and fell. The other pilot never appeared.
As expected, the explosion drew the attention of the rest of the Russian troops, and even as George began hightailing it back out of there, the camera images making Brent dizzy, the window showing his input went blank for a second.
Gunfire boomed.
And then that “blank screen” turned out to be the pavement as the camera was raised, and it appeared someone was holding George’s trident goggles.
Haussler’s smug face panned into view. “Hello, hello, Americans! I see you, too, have come hunting. Until we meet again.” Haussler dropped the goggles, and he might’ve stomped on them because the signal cut off.
Thomas screamed into his microphone, and Brent got on his channel. “Don’t you move. You stay there. I’ve lost one man, and I won’t lose another, do you hear me, Thomas?”
“No way. I’m going!”
“If you go, you die, and you die like a fool. That’s not what your brother wants. Do what he said. Stay there! We’re coming for you!”
Brent regarded the driver. “You need to get us there, now!”
The driver gritted his teeth and accelerated even more, as Thomas once more announced that he was going after his brother.
Brent wondered what he would do were he in that shed and his own brother had just been killed. Hiding there would feel like an act of cowardice. He should face his brother’s killers. So he understood, in part, how Thomas felt, but remaining wasn’t being a coward; it was being smart, and Brent so much as told the man that. “Just stay there, buddy. Stay there.”
“I’m not leaving him there.” Thomas lapsed into a string of curses.
“Just listen to me, bro. You got a whole squad of troops out there. And just you. I need you alive. You hear what I am saying? I need you to stay there. That’s all you have to do. Just sit tight. We’ll get George. He’s not going to lie there for long. Just believe me, all right?”
Thomas kept swearing. “This is not the way it was supposed to happen. I’m the one who should’ve died! I’m the loser, not him! I’m the loser.”
“Just calm down. We’re on our way.”
TWELVE
Ghost Recon Team
En Route to Sandhurst
Brent had assumed that Haussler and his Spetsnaz team would call for immediate evac. Their chopper had been damaged, the pilots injured or killed.
But the Russians weren’t going anywhere.
As a matter of fact, they were digging in around the target house, setting up defensive positions, and pretty much taking their time. A team inside was tearing the place to shreds in search of the Snow Maiden or any evidence that would lead to her location.
Much to Brent’s chagrin, Thomas did leave the shed, but only after the troops turned more attention back on the house. He’d made a successful break.
Now he was at his brother’s side. The Russians had stripped George of all of his gear but had left the body there. They couldn’t operate George’s Cross-Com or OPSAT or any of his other communications devices, but the Russians loved to reverse-engineer anything they could get their hands on.
As Thomas held his brother in his arms, Brent urged the man to take cover, reminding him that the Ghosts would be there in less than ten minutes.
“I don’t care,” said Thomas. “I don’t care anymore.”
Brent was at a loss. You could train operators time and again on how to deal with death and that you could never, ever afford a breakdown in the field. You owed it to yourself, your people, and your country to remain strong — and alive — because there would be
plenty of time, far too much time, to grieve later. Everyone knew that. Everyone believed in it. But you never knew how you’d react if death was staring you in the face and it was your turn to feel the cold chill close, so very, very close…
Nevertheless, this Thomas Voeckler guy had been an enigma from the beginning, and his dossier raised many unanswered questions, which in turn had raised Brent’s brows:
Thomas had attended Florida State University and had majored in psychology. At that time he’d had no desire to rise above slackerdom, let alone join the military like his brother had. He’d changed majors three times and had finally wound up with an English degree, which he did nothing with for ten years. When he wasn’t taking, dropping, or flunking out of graduate courses, he’d been, in no particular order, a pizza delivery guy, an apartment building maintenance man, a clerk at a local video store, and an attendant at a state park where he rented canoes. He’d volunteered at a local library and at the local animal shelter on Captiva Island, Florida. He built houses for Habitat for Humanity. He fed homeless people during the holidays, even when he was only a pay-check or two away from being homeless himself.
This was not the profile of one of America’s most cunning and lethal covert operatives.
Meanwhile, his brother moved up quickly through the ranks and had made a name for himself in the Marines and in Force Recon. George was a textbook operator, exactly the kind of man you’d expect to find in Third Echelon.
When Thomas had been recruited by Grimsdóttir, he’d initially declined, admitting he was not cut out for this kind of work. She’d offered him a six-figure salary to entice him, and though Thomas finally agreed, he’d flunked out of the training program three times before receiving a provisional pass. He was no man of action, as evidenced by several broken bones and other assorted injuries during past operations.
But he was, as Grimsdóttir had carefully noted in his record, meant to serve as his brother’s primary alibi and not necessarily his field partner. Third Echelon had been experimenting for years with team operations: large groups, small groups, and pairs, but the implication in Thomas’s dossier was that he should be a human mannequin, meant to stand around and look pretty but do nothing. George was to keep him on a tight leash.
Unfortunately, that was now Brent’s job.
“Thomas, it’s time to go,” Brent told him for the nth time, checking his HUD for maps of the area. “Take Copperfield Avenue northeast toward the woods. Shooting you the grid points now. Go around past the academy, and just keep moving through. We’ll link up with you there.”
“I’m taking George with me.”
“We’ll come back for him. I promise. You cannot afford to be captured.”
“I’m not leaving my brother!”
Brent wanted to scream, but didn’t. “You need to go.”
Thomas hesitated.
“Voeckler, I’m warning you…”
“I know! I know!”
Brent hardened his voice. “Then… get out of there. Run! Right… now…”
“We can’t run. We need to make them pay.”
“We will. Later.”
“I need your word!”
“Jesus, dude, you got it. Just go!”
“All right. You watch this…”
Thomas’s tone was beginning to harden, too, and that was a relief. Brent needed him angry enough to stay alive so he could exact revenge. There would come a time.
After a deep breath audible through his microphone, the Splinter Cell took off in an impressive sprint, but not before shouting erupted behind him, along with gunfire.
“They’ve tagged you!” cried Brent.
Thomas cursed and bolted even faster down the street, suddenly ducking behind a row of parked cars. He glanced over his shoulder.
Three Spetsnaz troops charged after him.
* * *
Manoj Chopra pulled into the petrol filling station. There were no other cars.
The Snow Maiden instructed Chopra to shut off the engine and hand her the keys. She took them and said, “Everybody out.”
“Please, no violence,” Chopra said.
She didn’t answer.
They went into the small convenience store, where two old men stood behind the counter.
Without a word, the Snow Maiden raised her pistol, even as Chopra gasped.
The men barely had time to widen their eyes before they were tumbling to the floor.
It all happened too quickly for Chopra to fully comprehend. That someone could kill in such a cool and casual manner woke a hard shudder across his shoulders.
Hussein seemed less surprised this time, glancing up at her and asking in an eerily calm voice, “Can I get a drink before we leave?”
“Get me one, too,” she said. “Some juice.”
“Okay.”
“Are we this cavalier about murder?” shouted Chopra.
The Snow Maiden rolled her eyes, crossed around the counter, and began working one of the touch-screen computers to activate the filling pump.
“If you’re hungry or thirsty, better shop now,” she told him.
Chopra eyed the men lying behind the counter. He had no thirst, no appetite. Blood pooled around their bodies.
“I thought you promised not to kill,” he said.
“I did not,” she spat back. “I said I make no promises. Let’s go.”
Chopra just stared at her. “You’re a monster. And if I didn’t have something you wanted, you would’ve killed me already.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that balance will return, once you are gone from this world. Balance will return.”
She shrugged. “Get yourself some cookies, and get back in the car. Hussein? Have you ever pumped gasoline?”
“You must be joking,” said the young sheikh, handing her a bottle of juice.
She popped the cap. “There’s a first time for everything.”
* * *
Brent wasn’t sure how many now, four or five maybe, but they were on Thomas’s tail, gaining on him as he reached the heavily wooded perimeter of the Royal Military Academy. Because the Russians had full control of the target area, this was at best a rescue operation of his remaining operator. They could engage in a stand-up fight against the Russians, but for what? He no longer believed they’d gain much from searching the house, and the Russians might have already secured evidence that indicated the Snow Maiden had been there.
Brent repressed a chill. Was his career already over? The Snow Maiden was gone.
Only for now, he convinced himself. Dennison was working in coordination with a dozen other agencies, and Brent had just learned that the Russian jamming had stopped, so eyes in the sky were busy probing every inch of the U.K. for their target.
Time wasn’t just of the essence; it was everything now. If she got out of the U.K., he feared she could more easily drop off the grid. She no doubt had many contacts in Europe she’d made over the years, friends who owed her favors. She’d left herself much more vulnerable to link up with Chopra and Hussein. If she had both of them now, she need only disappear.
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. Anything, over?”
“Still searching, Ghost Lead…”
“Roger, still waiting.” He winced over his sarcastic tone. There it was — the stress beginning to unravel him.
He took a deep breath and glanced over at the driver, who returned the gaze. “What, Yank? Not fast enough for you?”
“You’re good. It’s nothing.”
* * *
Brent and his team were but five minutes from reaching the northeast perimeter of the forest when Dennison called.
He’d thought he was being glib about following the trail of bodies to locate the Snow Maiden, but Dennison and her allies had been doing just that:
Flexford. Roadblock. Two dead cops.
The Snow Maiden had gone south, then had turned east and was now, perhaps, en route toward the coast to cross the English Channel and hea
d into Europe. At least that was Dennison’s theory. The town of Dover was a major ferry port and about ninety kilometers away.
“There will be at least two or three obvious escape points,” Brent told Dennison. “And she’ll have decoys, just like the Seychelles.”
“We can’t expect anything less.”
“Right, so we need to track every vehicle between here and the coast,” he said, his voice growing more emphatic.
“Brent, that’s a huge search and a massive amount of data. The government’s declared martial law, but there’s a mad dash to the coast now, with thousands of cars on the road, and you know she could’ve changed vehicles.”
“But maybe she didn’t.”
“I’ll do what I can. Hammer out.”
Brent blinked hard and studied the terrain map and live satellite overlay in his HUD. Six Spetsnaz troops, identified as red blips, were closing in on the green blip, Thomas, who was still beating a serpentine path through the forest. The images streaming in from his goggles were blurry, jittery, but clearly noted his effort.
“Lakota, keep Thomas updated, over?”
“Roger, I’m on it,” she said, then immediately began speaking to the Splinter Cell, feeding him data on the Russians behind him so that he could concentrate on moving and communicating without splitting his attention between the course ahead and his own HUD. She would guide him directly toward their location.
The team came to a fork in the road, with the forest dead ahead, and Brent instructed both drivers to pull over and wait for them.
In silence the Ghosts dismounted from both trucks and expertly fanned out in a split-team formation, Lakota leading one group, he taking the other.
“Schleck, when we draw in, I need a sentinel, over.”
“Just say the word,” came the sniper’s immediate reply.
“Riggs, you, too,” Brent added.
“Hope I don’t break a nail,” she said with a snort.
“All right, Ghosts, listen up. We’ll flank, cross, and top down, with the package running a TD right up the middle.”
“You read my mind,” said Lakota.
Brent jogged with the fear and enthusiasm of a first-year cadet at West Point, threading through stands of large oaks and booting his way across a carpet of dirt and leaves. The air was much cooler and slightly damper.
