Peter Savage Novels Boxed Set

by Dave Edlund

  “How in the world did you know to do that?” asked Jim incredulously.

  “You could say I’ve watched a lot of Schwarzenegger movies,” replied Peter. In good time he could explain it all to Jim, but now he just wanted to get safe and then sleep. His body was physically and emotionally drained beyond measure.

  “Well, you certainly made our job easier by taking out three of them.”

  Bull had been busy on the porch removing the field radio from one of the rucksacks. Too large to be hand-held, the radio had a long antenna fixed to its back. In no time Bull had it operational and was talking into the telephone-like handset, allowing the speaker to have a private conversation. “Sir, I have Colonel Pierson on the line.”

  Jim took the handset and spoke in short, almost abbreviated sentences. To Peter it sounded like a lot of jargon mixed with a small amount of English. The call lasted not more than two minutes. Jim terminated the call and gave the handset back to Bull.

  “The Colonel wants to interrogate Ramirez personally. He thinks we may get some decent intel from him, depending on how high in the organizational structure he stands. Personally, I’m doubtful. Every terrorist group I’ve fought has compartmentalized information so that you never can get much out of any one cell.”

  “What now?” asked Davis.

  “My orders are to take all of you back for debriefing. We’ll deliver Ramirez to the MPs at Elmendorf, and they’ll place him under custody until he can be questioned. Often it goes better if you just let ’em sit for a few days and worry about what’s going to happen. I don’t know—maybe they figure we’re going to treat them as brutally as they do their prisoners?”

  “So where are we going?” asked Peter.

  “To The Office… McClellan Business Park. You know, your old stomping grounds.” Peter hadn’t been back to Sacramento since college, and truthfully, he had no interest in going back.

  Professor Savage said, “I am forever in your debt, Jim. Whatever I can do to help, I will. That I promise.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Professor; no need for thanks.”

  “I will let the students know we will be leaving soon,” said Sato-san. “We will gather our clothing and personal items.”

  “Bull. Call in the chopper. Tell them to be ready for extraction in two hours.”

  Bull was back on the radio. After another very short conversation he said, “They’re on their way. Extraction in two hours, sir.”

  Professor Savage informed Peter and Troy Davis that he would gather up their gear along with his. “What should we do about Jack Murphy?”

  “I have a sanitation team arriving this evening,” answered Jim. “They will take care of everything. Murphy’s body will be treated with respect and dignity. His next of kin will be notified that he died in the line of duty, but they cannot be told any details. This is classified. None of you can reveal the details of what happened today to anyone. It is very important that you all understand this.

  “The bodies of the terrorists will be removed, probably to Elmendorf. After that, I’m not sure where they will go. But they will be thoroughly processed. My boss and his boss… all the way up the chain to the President himself… will demand to know who these guys were and who hired them.”

  “I understand,” said Professor Savage. “Professor Sato and I will talk to the students. After what they’ve been through, I’m confident they’ll respect your orders.” And he turned and went in to pack up.

  Jim looked at Peter and Davis. “Well, let’s go see what Ramirez has to say for himself, shall we?”

  Chapter 14

  September 26

  Chernabura Island, West Side

  Peter and Troy Davis followed Jim off the porch and approached Ramirez. He was still standing with his hands clasped behind his head. Ghost and Magnum had their weapons and eyes fixed on him. Ramirez had no doubt that either man would have gladly shot off both knee caps if given even the slightest provocation.

  Jim stopped about six feet in front of Ramirez. He was not about to get so close that Ramirez could use him as a shield. Peter and Davis both stopped about a step behind Jim.

  “So what’s your story, Ramirez?” asked Jim.

  No response.

  “We know your mission here is part of a larger effort to murder leading researchers in the field of abiogenic oil production. Why? Who do you work for?”

  Ramirez still didn’t reply.

  “Do you know what we do to prisoners like yourself?” Jim asked rhetorically, not waiting for an answer. “Have you heard what happens to prisoners at Gitmo?”

  Ramirez had, indeed. He had been instructed that political prisoners at the American Navy base at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba were routinely and repeatedly tortured.

  “What do you think will happen to you, General?”

  Ramirez was beginning to perspire even though the ambient temperature was rather cool.

  “Do you think that you will be treated kindly? Do you think your guards will show you compassion? You murdered a good man here today!” Jim’s voice was rising. Either he was genuinely angry, or he was a good actor.

  “Were you involved in that job in Caracas? That was mass murder. How do you think you will be treated when word gets out that you helped plan that one?”

  Finally Jim hit a vulnerable spot and got a response. “I am a soldier, like you. I am fighting a global war against the aggressive actions of the West to oppress my countrymen and millions of other peasants around the world.”

  “So, you were involved in the Caracas bombing.” Jim was processing it all. Not just the words but, more importantly, the reactions—facial expressions, body language.

  Jim was about to press further when a red blot about the size of a plum suddenly blossomed in the center of Ramirez’s chest. In an instant his knees buckled and his head tipped forward, arms falling freely to his side. Like a limp rag doll, he slumped and fell to the ground, his face slamming into the soil.

  Then the report of the rifle sounded and Jim knew his prisoner had been shot by a sniper from a long distance, about 800 to 1,000 yards, judging by the time it took to hear the gun shot.

  Jim flung himself to the ground as he yelled “Down! Everyone!” Ghost and Magnum hit the ground at the same instant as Jim, and Peter and Davis hit the dirt a fraction of a second later.

  Jim spoke into his throat mic. “Homer. We have hostiles. Stay on the perimeter. If you encounter a hostile, terminate the bastard.” Jim then turned to Ghost and Magnum. “Find that sniper. Kill ’em if you have to—my team isn’t taking any casualties. Is that clear?”

  Both men affirmed the order as they rolled off for the cover of the trees so they could get to their feet and start their search.

  “Bull!” yelled Jim. Bull appeared out of nowhere, crawling on the ground. He quickly checked for a pulse on Ramirez, fingers pressed against the carotid artery on the side of his neck. Bull shook his head, no pulse. “He’s dead, sir.”

  Jim was a proven combat leader, and his team was very loyal to him. He followed the rules of engagement right up to the point where the lives of his team were seriously in jeopardy. At that point, Commander Nicolaou issued his own playbook, and invariably rule number one was to shoot first and sort it out later. This method had kept his team alive on many missions that would never be publicly acknowledged.

  Ghost and Magnum kept to the cover of the tree line as they double-timed in the direction the bullet had come from. The line-of-sight suggested the sniper was positioned on the far side of the valley, probably on the slope of the peak to the northeast.

  “What happened?” asked Peter, still lying prone in the dirt.

  “It seems that someone doesn’t want us to question Ramirez. Maybe he was further up the chain than I had thought.”

  Jim squatted on the ground next to the general’s body. No more shots. The shooters have probably broken off—mission complete.

  He systematically opened the shirt pockets, looking for anything. Then h
e moved on to the cargo pockets of the fatigue pants. Still nothing. He rolled the body over and checked the hip pockets. Nothing. The guy was a professional. No documents or scraps of paper to betray his history.

  Jim touched the ear bud in his left ear and concentrated. Then he stood. “Magnum says they found a single brass cartridge case—7.62-by-54. It’s a standard Russian military round. Says they have a trail to the northeast. Probably a two-man team.”

  Davis and Peter looked up at Jim, their faces expressing concern. Was this nightmare about to start all over again?

  Jim read their expressions, understanding their trepidation. “Don’t worry. Ghost and Magnum are the best. They’ll follow the tracks. If they catch up to the sniper team, they’ll take ’em out. But I don’t think they will. I think the shooters are long gone—their mission ended when they took out the general.

  “Bull, get back on the radio and notify the chopper that we will have a short delay and that snipers are in the area.”

  s

  On a ridge running down from the mountain peak to the north of the cabin, the two-man sniper team had set up shop. With camouflage fatigues decorated with an assortment of local vegetation—mostly small fir branches to break up the outline of their shape—and with a tight cluster of young evergreens surrounding them, they settled in, ever patient. The spotter was observing the events unfold at the cabin.

  They had been there all day. The shooter was watching through the high-power scope on his Dragunov sniper rifle.

  They could have engaged Peter and Davis at any moment… but that was not their orders. They continued to watch.

  Then, the American Special Forces team arrived, and it started to get interesting. They watched as the general was captured and the questioning started.

  The distance was great for most marksmen—over 900 yards. But the effective range of the Dragunov rifle was more than 1,000 yards, and the shooter was very skilled. He had been teamed with his spotter for five years. They were a good team with much experience.

  “Range 857 meters. Wind from the south at five,” said the spotter, never removing his eye from the scope. The shooter adjusted the elevation and windage knobs on the scope, then re-acquired his target. He had been trained to shoot for center of mass—a head shot was simply too risky at such a distance. His rifle rested firmly on a bipod, and he was solidly placed in the prone position, legs spread in a wide vee. Slowly he applied pressure to the trigger and synchronized his breathing with his heartbeat… hold… hold… BOOM!

  “Hit. Center of chest. Target down,” reported the spotter. He continued to survey the scene through the spotting scope while the shooter did the same through the rifle’s scope.

  Seeing that the target did not move and there was no effort to revive him, the sniper team concluded the target was dead, or soon would be.

  The shooter continued to observe through the rifle scope while his partner removed a satellite phone from his pack and spoke clearly. “Dark Angel… entire team eliminated. I repeat… Dark Angel… entire team eliminated.” The communication required less than seven seconds to complete.

  Now, to escape—they could not be caught. It would be very difficult to explain the presence of crack Russian commandos on American soil with weapons. Despite the fact that they had just killed a terrorist, there would be far too many embarrassing questions.

  They grabbed their gear and took off jogging north. They reached the beach and stuffed the rifle, spotting scope, and other gear in a streamlined, waterproof gear bag. Then they pulled on dry suits and scuba gear. A two-man diver tow vehicle, or DTV, was hidden on the shore, covered by some freshly cut pine and fir branches.

  They entered the water with the tow vehicle and left the island behind, confident that they had removed all traces of their presence. But in their desire to evacuate the site, neither man had remembered to pick up the spent rifle cartridge. The tow vehicle pulled them swiftly through the water to the pickup location. Guided by GPS, and below the water surface, the submarine would extract them shortly. A warm shower and cold vodka awaited the men.

  Chapter 15

  September 26

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Grigory was working late—later than usual. He glanced at the clock on the wall—almost midnight. He resumed pacing, anxious to receive the mission report that was due any moment from Pablo Ramirez. The oriental carpet on the floor of his office showed a worn path, back and forth in front of the wet bar.

  He felt the buzzing vibration of his cell phone just before the familiar chime, signaling that a text message had just been received. Reaching into the breast pocket of his dark grey Maurice Sedwell suit coat, he eagerly retrieved the phone and read the brief message:

  Dark Angel. Entire team eliminated.

  Grigory stared at the message, reading it again. How could this be? He didn’t understand how the team could have failed. They had superior numbers and weapons, the element of surprise. It didn’t make sense.

  But the message was unambiguous. “Dark Angel” was the code that meant the assault on the academic team had failed; the targets had not been killed. And the phrase “entire team eliminated” indicated that the assault team led by Ramirez was lost, no survivors. The message did not communicate how this had happened; that was never the intention.

  After reading the message one last time, hoping he had somehow misread it, Grigory deleted the text message from his phone. At midnight the message would also be deleted from his company’s server during the twice-daily backup. He swallowed the remaining iced vodka in the tumbler he was holding, then poured another. There was really only one thing to do now.

  Still holding the phone, he pressed the numeral seven. Ten seconds later the call went through; no greetings were shared.

  “You have word from my brother?” asked the voice.

  “It is not good news,” said Grigory. “The mission was a failure; the targets survive.”

  “That is most unusual; my brother is very thorough. What does he say?”

  “The entire team was eliminated, including your brother.”

  The man to whom Grigory was speaking was silent as he absorbed this news. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and hinted at a barely controlled temper.

  “You will tell me who is responsible for Ricky’s death.”

  “Do not use names! You know the protocol,” replied Grigory. This was business, and he didn’t have patience for petty emotions.

  “You listen to me, Grigory. I serve you at my pleasure, and at the moment my pleasure is to finish the business that my brother started… and to avenge his death.”

  This response came as no surprise to Grigory. He knew the Ramirez brother’s for what they were—remorseless killing machines. And he would use this man’s lust for revenge to further his objectives.

  “Very well. I will make the usual inquiries. My sources at the DIA should be able to send the preliminary intelligence reports within eight hours.” Grigory Rostov didn’t want to reveal to Vasquez Ramirez that a Russian sniper team had been dispatched to eliminate loose threads, including Pablo Ramirez.

  “And once I receive your information, what are your orders?”

  “As you said, finish the business. I presume that will also mean to avenge your brother’s death. Does that suit your wishes?”

  “That will do,” answered the man.

  Chapter 16

  September 26

  Pacific Ocean, East of Chernabura Island

  The Russian sniper team was cruising in their DTV—affectionately called a sled—about 25 feet below the water’s surface. At this depth, there was some light, but not much. On the off chance that an airplane was flying low overhead, it would be very difficult to see the two divers wrapped in black.

  The water was a frigid 40 degrees. Without their dry suits, the men would have succumbed to hypothermia within five minutes. Death would follow in another five minutes. In their dry suits they felt cool but not cold. The insulating power
of the suits would keep them warm for at least two hours, maybe longer if they were swimming rather than being towed. At least they didn’t have to contend with sea ice—that would come later in the year.

  The DTV, powered by a bank of lithium-ion batteries, was cylindrical and about the same diameter as a torpedo. The divers held on to handle bars in an open compartment and stretched out, one on the left and one on the right. The DTV’s nose served as a gear locker.

  Right now, the team was slicing through the water at the normal cruising speed. They needed to conserve their battery power, having expended considerable electric energy getting to the island. They didn’t want to run out of juice prior to their scheduled rendezvous with the sub.

  After hastily departing from the northern tip of Chernabura Island, they steered a course southeast at 155 degrees. Using the GPS to mark their progress, the sniper team stayed on this bearing for approximately 6,400 meters. This was where they expected to find the waiting submarine that would take them out of American waters, their mission completed.

  s

  Onboard the New Mexico, sonar reported a new contact to the north of their current position. They had picked it up when it was still very close to the island in shallow water. The XO, Tom Meier, concluded that it was the same small, submerged target they had tracked earlier in the day as it traveled from the Saint Petersburg to Chernabura Island.

  Captain Berry was trying to make sense of the unfolding events. In his mind he recalled his orders—U.S. Special Forces in the area. Be ready to lend assistance.

  What team, and where? At the moment, he had far more questions than answers.

  “Sonar, continue to track the target.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Tom, paint me a picture.” This was Barry’s way of asking his XO to offer his interpretation of the current events. These conversations were intentionally informal—a brainstorming exercise, where the XO and other senior officers could freely speculate and suggest a range of plausible motives. In the end, it helped the captain clarify his ideas, and it gave his officers an opportunity to learn from each other.