Under Fire

by Tom Clancy

  “Right.”

  “The sites on the ridge,” Spellman said. “From up there they’d have a clear line of sight. They could cover the city from one end to the other.”

  “Yes and no,” Clark said. “You guys have twenty-six hubs. From what we know about Borisoglebsk units, they’re good at destroying but not so good at hunting. They’re usually paired with tracking platforms.”

  “What size are we talking about?” asked Jack.

  “For the hunter units, big. Our best guess is they’ll use what’s called a Krasukha. They’re about the size of an articulated semi-truck: squat, boxy, powerful-looking, with a foldable parabolic dish on the back.”

  “They sound about the same size as the clearings,” said Spellman. “Jack, you said the sites are spaced at, what, mile intervals?”

  “About that.”

  Gavin said, “Well, Makhachkala’s about a hundred-eighty square miles, so that’d be about right.”

  “Great,” said Seth. “Let’s find the fuckers and kill ’em. Tell us how to do it.”

  “It’s not so tough to disable them,” Clark said. “The trick is to first find them, then get to them. You gotta understand: These things are eight-million-dollar vehicles stuffed to the gills with Russia’s latest and greatest shit. They don’t go anywhere without a built-in security team.”

  “How big?”

  “Figure a light platoon per vehicle—a dozen guys with heavy weapons. Fifty men in total.”

  “We haven’t got the firepower to handle that,” said Spellman.

  Gerry asked, “Jack, when was the last time you were up to the ridge?”

  “Yesterday. There’s no way Wellesley would risk sending the Krasukhas through the city, not with the streets as crowded as they are, and not with so many cameras rolling. If they’re not already on the ridge, they’ll be coming from somewhere else.”

  “Wellesley wouldn’t wait until the last minute to bring them in country,” said Spellman. “But maybe they’d stash them within quick driving distance. Either way, we need to get to them before they have a chance to dig in.”

  “Isn’t that putting all our eggs in one basket?” asked Ysabel. “John, you said these Krasukhas use separate tracking platforms. What would one of those look like?”

  “Smaller, more mobile—and they’d only need one of them.”

  “Take a guess,” said Jack.

  “Probably a Kvant SPN9. It’s a converted radar jammer built on a BTR armored personnel carrier chassis. You could hide one in a standard-sized garage.”

  Gavin added, “Keep in mind, though, it’d need to be stationed away from the Krasukhas. The better the triangulation data they get, the tighter and more powerful the directed energy. With twenty-six hubs to kill they’ll want to avoid hunting-and-pecking.”

  Dom murmured, “Byma One.”

  “Come again?” said Gerry.

  “That’s one of the UTM prefix codes we got from Wellesley’s computer,” said Jack. “Dom’s checked it twice. The spot’s located in the harbor. John, could they stick a Kvant on a ship?”

  “Easy. It wouldn’t even need to be visible.”

  • • •

  AS NIGHT FELL, they split up again, Jack and Ysabel heading back to the ridge, Spellman and Dom to the harbor. Seth, Medzhid, and the remaining staff at the apartment piled into one of the Suburbans for the short drive to the Ministry of the Interior building.

  So crowded were the streets that it took Jack and Ysabel twice as long as it had on previous trips to reach the city limits and start up the switchback road to the ridge. At the top, Jack turned onto the maintenance road and doused his headlights, leaving on the yellow fog lights to guide them down the gravel track.

  They stopped at the first clearing, then got out and started panning their flashlights over the ground.

  “I’ve got tire tracks,” Jack said.

  “Footprints over here.”

  He joined her and together they followed the tracks to the edge of the clearing. The footprints stopped at a tree; there were fresh gouges in the bark.

  “Climbing spurs,” Jack said.

  They shined their beams up the trunk until they saw a chunk of metal jutting from the tree.

  “What is that?” Ysabel murmured.

  “A hook. Let’s spread out and look for others.”

  Once done they met back in the center of the clearing.

  “Eight,” Ysabel said.

  “Six. It’s just a hunch, but I’d say they’re rigging for camouflage nets.”

  They checked the remaining three sites and found the same setup—recent tire tracks, footprints, and hooks affixed to the perimeter trees.

  Jack made a K-turn in the last clearing and started back the way they’d come.

  “Stop,” Ysabel said. “I see something.”

  Jack did so and they both climbed out.

  He followed her into the underbrush to a tree trunk. Standing beside it was a steel post set into a concrete ring three feet in diameter. Sitting on the ground was a pile of chain; the links were the size of Jack’s fist.

  “This wasn’t here before,” Ysabel said.

  Jack walked across the road and found a second post. Someone was building a barrier.

  “So we take the chain with us.”

  “It’s five hundred pounds at least, Ysabel. Let’s get out of here.”

  Halfway down the hill, Ysabel pointed through the windshield. “Did you see that?”

  Jack pulled over.

  Below them the lights of Makhachkala were blinking out in checkerboard sections from south to north.

  Jack’s phone rang. “Jack, where are you?” asked Spellman.

  “On the ridge road. We see it. The whole city’s dark.”

  “At the docks, too. Try to make your way—”

  The lights began coming back on, marching across the city until everything was back to normal.

  “Meet us at the docks, we may have something.”

  “On our way.”

  Jack disconnected. Ysabel asked, “What just happened?”

  “A shot across our bow,” he replied.

  • • •

  THEY PULLED into the harbor parking lot an hour later. Spellman waved to them from the sidewalk leading to the docks. They walked over.

  “Well, now we know Nabiyev knows where the off switch is,” Spellman said. “If he thinks it’ll do him any good he’s got a surprise coming. Did you listen to the interview, the farmers from Sulak?”

  “No,” said Ysabel.

  “They were perfect. You could almost see Nabiyev’s people shoving them out their own door with nothing but the clothes on their backs. I’m sure it didn’t happen exactly like that, but the imagery will resonate. A lot of people here live in the same home for generations. The thought of getting pushed out of the place where your great-great-great-grandparents lived and raised children is serious business to these people. Nabiyev’s forgotten that.”

  “Then it seems he’s due for a reminder,” Ysabel replied.

  “Well said. Come on, Dom’s waiting.”

  Spellman led them down the winding walkway to the docks, then up another set of stairs to the harbormaster’s office. It was closed for the night and lit only by a sconce fixed above a plexiglass-covered pegboard. Dom was leaning against the wall.

  “You saw the un-light show?” he asked.

  Ysabel nodded. “Are we sure it wasn’t a hiccup in the grid?”

  “No, it was deliberate,” said Spellman. “We expected this. Sometime tomorrow he’ll shut the grid down again—this time for the duration—then he’ll order the city’s ISPs offline. We’ll let him savor the victory for a couple hours, then bring our hubs online.”

  “What’ve you got, Dom?” asked Jack.

  His friend was wea
ring a smug smile.

  Dom tapped the plexiglass. “The Igarka. She’s a seventy-foot front-ramp hauler out of Astrakhan. She’s due to put in tomorrow morning at pier four, mooring twelve. I’ll give you one guess where that is.”

  Ysabel answered. “On top of Byma One.”

  “You got it. In fact, the Igarka’s already here—at anchor.” He pointed out into the harbor. Jack could see the ship’s masthead light winking in the darkness.

  • • •

  THEY DROVE BACK DOWNTOWN. The city’s streets were quieter, but only slightly less crowded as the hardier protesters settled in for the night in tents and folding chairs. Here and there Jack could see the glow of charcoal grills and LED lanterns.

  Right now this was an adventure for them, he thought. Had Medzhid told them the truth during his speech the night before—that some of them may die along the way—would they be as enthusiastic about all this? Ideals like freedom and self-determination were powerful and worthy goals but right now these things existed only in the minds of the Dagestani people. Aside from having to stand in the rain they’d yet to feel the kind of suffering that usually goes hand-in-hand with gaining one’s independence. Even if this coup was bloodless and Medzhid proved to be the leader they hoped for, breaking away from the Russian Federation would mean years of hardship and uncertainty and an economy that was as fragile as a sheet of rice paper.

  Hated and feared as Stalin was, for decades after his death there were tens of thousands of Russians who wanted him back because he made the trains run on time. How many Dagestanis might feel the same way about Valeri Volodin in a few years’ time?

  • • •

  AS SETH HAD INSTRUCTED, Jack pulled up to the wrought-iron gate at the back of the Ministry of the Interior building and gave the guard their names. Jack pulled the Suburban through, followed by Spellman and Dom. They found a pair of parking spaces beside the rear entrance, where Seth was waiting.

  “Any luck?”

  “Some,” said Jack.

  Seth led them down a tiled corridor to an elevator, which took them to the building’s top floor. When the doors opened, Jack heard the sounds of overlapping voices and telephones ringing. They followed Seth toward a pair of tall oak doors emblazoned with the MOI’s yellow eagle emblem. An oil portrait of Medzhid looked down at them from the wall above.

  Through the doors was an open office space with burgundy carpet and dark paneling covered in oil paintings of what Jack assumed were moments from Russian and Dagestani history, most of them depicting either battles or the founding of settlements.

  Sconces spaced at intervals along the walls cast the room in a soft glow. Four seating areas with couches, club chairs, and coffee tables occupied the center of the space. It felt to Jack like a hotel lobby.

  Medzhid emerged from one of the side offices, walking fast and studying a file, with Yana and Vasim in tow. As Medzhid strode past them he glanced up and said, “Everyone is well? Good. Make yourselves at home. Seth will show you around,” then disappeared into another office and closed the door behind him.

  “Yana, get the ERF watch officer on the phone!”

  Ysabel whispered to Jack, “Serious game face.”

  “It’s almost game time.”

  Seth gave them a stationary tour, pointing at the various doors while describing their function: communications, bedrooms, kitchen, conference rooms one and two.

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you in conference room two. The phones are secure in here, so go ahead and use them.”

  Seth went back through the main doors. Jack heard the clicking of his shoes fade down the hallway.

  “Looks a bit like a bunker,” Dom said. “Matt, do you guys know something we don’t know?”

  Spellman shook his head. “Just a precaution in case we’ve misread Volodin.”

  “If we’ve misread Volodin, an iron gate and some oak doors won’t do us a damned bit of good.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  Jack said, “I need to call home.”

  They walked down the hallway and found the conference room. Jack dialed The Campus. As they always seemed to be when he called lately, Gerry, John, and Gavin were there. Jack gave them the latest.

  “The Igarka out of Astrakhan,” Gavin repeated. “Got it. Should be easy to check her registry.”

  “Unless it’s a micro-micro-Kamsarmax,” Clark said, “any cargo carrier would have no trouble accommodating a Kvant. The fact that this one’s a ramp loader should tell us something. It’s kinda dicey to swing a fifteen-ton APC aboard with a crane. One more thing you should keep in mind: Just because the Igarka’s slated for a pier doesn’t mean she’s going to put in.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Dom.

  “In most ports you need to have paid for a mooring to get an anchorage. Some vessels use one, some both. It depends on the reason for the visit. How far out into the harbor was she?”

  “A quarter-mile, maybe less,” said Jack.

  “That’s plenty close. If there’s a Kvant aboard, it can do its tracking from the anchorage. Hell, if I was there and about twenty years younger I’d take a swim and see what’s what. As it stands, you might have to do it yourselves.”

  Gerry asked, “Jack, did you ask Seth about the outlying garrisons?”

  “I did. He doesn’t have anything in place. He’s working on something, but his assets are spread thin. Medzhid, too.”

  Spellman said, “It’s a calculated risk we had to take, Gerry.”

  “We get that, but if Volodin’s going to actively oppose this thing, those garrisons will be the first ones to move. You’ll only get about ten hours’ notice before you’ve got twelve thousand troops on your doorstep.”

  “Troops that’ve been fighting Chechen and Georgian terrorists for the past two years,” John Clark added.

  “We know the numbers and we know the risks. If push comes to shove, Medzhid will back down before there’s any bloodshed.”

  “His call,” Gerry said. “Just be damned sure you guys have an exit plan in place. Four Americans and one Iranian in Medzhid’s inner circle . . . Volodin would probably reopen Bamlag West specially for you, then drop you in a hole.”

  • • •

  JACK AWOKE to a buzzing sensation against his cheek. He forced open his eyes and fumbled around until his hand touched his vibrating phone. He read the screen: Ysabel. He looked to her side of the bed. It was empty.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “In conference room two. Wake up the others and come in here.”

  Jack, Seth, Dom, and Spellman shuffled in a few minutes later. Ysabel gestured to a carafe on the table and said, “Fresh coffee.”

  “Are we going to be awake long enough to need coffee?” asked Jack. The clock on the wall read 11:20.

  “That depends on whether you want to find Wellesley’s Krasukhas.”

  This got everyone’s attention. They sat down and Spellman poured the coffee.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Ysabel said, “so I thought I’d do a little snooping in Pechkin’s phone. He was pretty good at keeping his call history cleared, but he forgot one. About an hour before he got to Khasavyurt the other day, he called a local Makhachkala number. I just called it. I got an answering machine.”

  Ysabel stopped and smiled as though savoring the moment.

  “Oh, come on,” Dom said. “Put us out of our misery.”

  “The number belongs to a branch of Hamrah Engineering.”

  Seth sat forward. “Where?”

  “Agachaul.”

  “Where the hell is that?” asked Dom.

  Spellman answered: “It’s about three miles from here on the other side of the Tarki-Taus.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Ysabel shook her head. “According to Hamrah’s main website, it’s called the Aga
chaul Logistics Center, whatever that is.”

  “It’s a fancy name for storage warehouses,” Seth replied.

  Jack asked, “You didn’t know about this place?”

  “No. I was too busy playing surveyor on the railway’s main lines.”

  “Well, clearly Pechkin knew about the place,” said Spellman. “Ysabel, what about the route between Agachaul and here? Is there a road that—”

  “Leads up to the ridge? Yes. Right up the northern slope, onto the maintenance road, then past the clearings.”

  Jack smiled. “Ysabel, I could kiss—”

  “You bet you will. Later. What are we going to do with this?”

  Seth said, “Well, provided I haven’t been fired from my old job, I can probably get us in there.”

  Agachaul

  AT DUSK, dark swollen clouds had begun to roll over the city, and now, as Jack and the others pulled out of the Interior Ministry parking lot, the rain was starting to fall.

  Following Ysabel’s directions Jack took the coast road south, then followed the Yargog-M29 highway as it looped out of the city and into a narrow valley tucked against the reverse slope of the Tarki-Tau hills. After two river crossings they pulled into Agachaul. Save a few lighted windows off the main road, the village was dark.

  “Seems like an unlikely place for a logistics center,” Ysabel said.

  “According to Seth, the Parsabad–Artezian project ran on a shoestring budget for a while. I’m sure land was cheaper outside Makhachkala.”

  Behind them, the headlights of Seth’s Suburban blinked. Jack pulled onto the shoulder, then rolled down his window as Seth pulled alongside.

  “I’ll take us in from here,” Seth called through his window. “The warehouse is on the northern edge of the town on the left side. Let’s switch to headsets.”

  Seth pulled away and Jack fell in behind him.

  A few minutes later they passed the warehouse. There was no mistaking it, two aircraft hangar–sized structures fronted by rolling garage doors and separated by a smaller, tin-roofed breezeway. Like Agachaul itself, the complex was dark.

  “Is this place still in use?” Jack asked Ysabel. “I don’t see any vehicles in the parking lot.”