First Team Read online

  “Good thinking, Dad.”

  “Guns hasn’t checked in, has he?” asked Conners.

  “Would’ve been with you. We weren’t in line of sight coming down the hill. He’d only use the sat phone if there were a problem.”

  “Unless he couldn’t.”

  “You worry too much, Dad.” Ferguson laid out the terrain for the others, showing how the escape route was lined up. The crevice that opened below the mouth of the cave made an offset Z as it descended toward the woods where the bikes had been hidden; Conners guessed that there would be booby traps or mines to further narrow the route. Ferg doubted that—the route had to be secret and usable in haste, and mines would pose a danger to the escapees as well as be potentially detectable.

  They moved back behind the rocks near where the bikes had been hidden and waited.

  “You sure the Russians are going to come?” asked Rankin.

  “If I blew up your car, wouldn’t you want to punch me out?” said Ferg.

  “I want to punch you out anyway.”

  Between his roundabout route and bum leg, it took four hours for Guns to make it to the ambush. By then the cold had seeped beneath Rankin’s skin, turning his bones into rods of ice. He worked back and forth in his spot near the mouth of the cave, the motion more to keep him awake than warm.

  “Anybody else, I’d think you were doing some Buddhist meditation,” Ferguson said to him.

  “Maybe I am,” said Rankin.

  They showed Guns the layout and told him the plan. Once Kiro was out of the cave, they’d close off pursuit by dumping grenades in and detonating the charges Conners had set along the ravine. The explosives hadn’t been placed close enough to seal the mouth of the cave—that would have risked tipping off any guard inside—but Rankin pointed to a spot about fifty feet above the cave entrance and slightly to the left.

  “After you put the grenades in and set off the charges, put another grenade on those rocks. That oughta start an avalanche.”

  “And run like hell,” Ferguson added, eying the hill.

  “All right,” said Guns, though he didn’t feel much like running. His ribs were pounding, and his ears were swollen; he thought he looked like Mickey Mouse. “You sure you can tell who Kiro is?” he asked Ferg.

  Corrigan had given them a series of FBI sketches and one blurry photograph, along with some physical descriptions from Russian FSB files. Kiro had a scar on his cheek and stood only five-four, but it was a fair question.

  “Shit yeah,” said Ferguson.

  Rankin sniggered. “We oughta just kill’em all and be done with it.”

  “We may,” said Ferguson.

  Rankin moved back near the hide, taking Conners’s position. He had the grenade launcher, which was armed with a ponderously long charge that protruded from the mouth of the weapon like a rectangular lollipop. The tube contained a large Teflon net and a stun charge. The net would cover a twenty-foot-round area when it exploded; though the netting was strong, its effect was probably more disorienting than anything else. The charge that fired it was roughly the equivalent of a flash-bang grenade, generally not harmful unless it happened to land exactly in your face.

  Which of course would be where he’d aim it.

  Ferguson walked back and forth between the positions, his body racing with adrenaline. He had reloaded the shotgun with nonlethal shot and slung it over his shoulder with the submachine gun, both weapons ready. Conners took the safety position, deep in the backfield. He had a Minimi M249 machine gun with a two-hundred round belt—anyone who made it past the others wasn’t staying alive very long. While small for a machine gun, the weapon weighed fifteen pounds empty and without its scope, and having lugged it this far, Conners would just as soon use it.

  The men used various ploys to stay awake, biting lips, rocking, thinking about how cold they were. Ferguson was mostly worried about Guns and kept checking on him, but the Marine had endured worse in boot camp, or at least was thoroughly convinced that he had. The memory of getting through that—along with the fear that he might let his friends down or, even worse, disgrace the Corps—was more than enough to keep him alert.

  A little past five, they heard a helicopter in the distance. Each man stretched his arms and legs, then fell into position—Guns propping himself against a tree, Conners and Rankin on one knee, Ferg standing and watching. The sound grew, but then faded.

  The hills remained silent for another half hour. This time the low drone came from trucks and tanks, a column moving along a road.

  “Five of’em,” said Conners over the com set. “Two tanks at least. Trucks, personnel carriers.”

  “What’d they have for breakfast?” asked Ferg.

  Conners was still trying to think of a smart-alecky comeback when the heavy whomp of helicopter gunships began shaking the ground. They were flying in from the northwest, crossing from the team’s left, almost over their shoulders.

  It was still dark, but with his night goggles Ferg watched the six smudges in double echelon roar toward the fortress. They were Ka-50s, single-seat attack birds powered by a pair of counterrotating rotors and armed with rockets and a monster cannon. They swung into an attack on the other side of the hill, launching rockets at the east and west sides of the encampment. One of the first rounds caught something flammable, and a series of secondary explosions began shaking the ground.

  “Be ready,” said Ferg.

  The onslaught moved to the front door of the fortress, rockets and cannons blasting the rocks and caves that looked down in the direction of the town. As one of the helicopters started away, a shrill zip sounded from the other side of the hill; a shoulder-launched missile veered upward and caught it on the side. Its fellows moved in for revenge, and at roughly the same time the tanks began to pound the caves, firing point-blank into the mountain.

  “Be ready,” said Ferg again.

  But nothing happened on their side of the fort. An hour after the attack had begun, the gunfire began to ease off. It was impossible to know what was going on from where they were, but it seemed unlikely that the Russians had made much of a dent in the rocks. A half hour later, two jets appeared ; one of their bombs struck near the top of the hill over the cave, sending dirt far enough to dust Guns’s face.

  “Fucking bastards. We’re going to have to go in there and get him ourselves,” said Rankin.

  Ferguson’s real fear was that the Russians would try flanking the cave network and stumble across the Americans. Van Buren had raised the possibility earlier, pointing out that he didn’t have a large enough force to protect the flanks, but had reluctantly agreed when Ferg said bringing more men in—and waiting the day or two it would take to do so—presented other problems. It had been Ferguson’s call in the end, and he’d opted for surprise and quickness.

  “Movement,” said Guns.

  Everybody pushed forward a half step, weapons ready.

  “Two, three men. First has a gun, the third,” said Guns.

  “Guy in the middle,” said Rankin, who could see them from about twenty yards. “He’s short.”

  “No, they’re all scouts,” said Ferg. “Hold on.”

  “Going for the hide,” said Rankin.

  “Hang tight.”

  “Something else,” said Guns. “More people in the cave.”

  “I got these three guys covered,” said Rankin.

  Two more men came from the entrance to the cave. One was very much shorter than the other, stooped a little.

  “The midget in the second group,” said Ferg. “Rankin?”

  “Yup.” He shifted to his left—he didn’t have a shot on the target group, and the first trio was almost at the hide.

  “Guns, get the grenade ready,” said Ferguson, seeing the two men now below them.

  One of the trio that had come out first started shouting. A moment later someone in the cave began firing an automatic rifle toward Rankin. Guns fired the grenade into the cave, then tripped the charges. As the hillside shook, h
e put a grenade into the pile of rocks Rankin had pointed out. Dust and dirt flew everywhere. He launched another, then lost his balance as the rocks clattered down the hill in a roar.

  Rankin still couldn’t see the target pair. He dashed down the hill toward the crevice, trying to get close enough to fire the net grenade. Bullets ricocheted all around him, the air humming with automatic weapons fire. Losing his balance, he slid down, falling on a direct line to the mouth of the cave, which was obscured behind a cloud of dust and rocks. He steadied the launcher but couldn’t find a target.

  Ferguson pushed his submachine gun up and emptied the clip into the three figures who had come out first. By the time the last of the three men fell to the ground, rocks were sliding down the hillside.

  Rankin cursed into the com set—he couldn’t find Kiro.

  Ferguson pulled up the Remington, realizing that the terrorist had somehow managed to get beyond Rankin, possibly by climbing up the embankment. As he started to move toward the shallow ravine, he lost his footing. The slide saved him—one of the Chechen guerrillas had popped up on the slope directly across from him and begun firing. Ferguson scraped his fingers to hell as he fired back, the rubber slug slapping his target with a thud.

  Ferg jumped to his feet and fired twice more, crazy with adrenaline now. He took a few hard shots to his chest before he had a target; he saw legs and fired the shotgun point-blank at the man’s face. His target howled and fell down. Ferg reached to grab him, then saw the other man climbing the rocks at his left to get away. He raised his gun and fired but either missed or didn’t do enough damage to stop him. Ferg fired again, then started after him, running and shooting until his gun was empty. He threw down the weapon and kept going, closing the distance to five yards before the man whirled.

  He had a pistol in his hand. Part of Ferg’s brain saw the weapon and tried to tell his body to duck away; the rest missed it entirely. One of the bullets landed hard against the top of his body armor, but Ferg didn’t feel it—he’d already launched himself into the man’s midsection, tackling him against the stones. His right hand fished for the man’s neck and found a knife blade instead. Ferguson swung around, pinning his opponent and smacking his head back at the same time.

  There was a flash, and Ferguson felt his head slammed to the side. Rankin had caught up and nailed them both with the net.

  Ferguson, his back caught in the netting, saw the shadow of his assailant in front of him. He punched at it; the knife clattered away, and the Chechen, already stunned by the flash-bang, fell senseless. Ferguson stood up, pushing against the Teflon material of the net.

  “Looks like you caught dinner,” he said to Rankin, who had his Uzi practically in Ferg’s face.

  “This better be him.”

  “There was one back on the lip of the ravine,” said Ferguson.

  “I got him,” said Guns. He’d had to put a burst from the MP-5 into the man’s head when the bastard reached for his gun.

  Conners and Rankin helped Ferguson out of the netting, then pulled the other man out and trussed him with handcuffs that looked like twists for Hefty garbage bags.

  “Kiro,” said Conners, shining a flashlight in his face. “Yeah, that’s the bastard.”

  “Take his picture so we can upload it to Corrigan and make sure,” said Ferg, handing the small digital camera to Rankin. As he ran back and grabbed his shotgun, something exploded at the top of the hill; Ferguson heard the heavy thump of the helicopters and started shouting to the others.

  “Go, let’s go! Go!” he repeated, over and over.

  Conners carried the Chechen over his back like a sack of potatoes. He started to slide him onto the seat of one of the bikes behind Guns, but Ferg stopped him. The CIA officer jabbed two syringes of Demerol into the terrorist’s rear, counting on the synthetic narcotic to keep him dazed for a while. Then he pushed him onto the bike, holding it while Conners got on at the rear. It was a tight squeeze, but it beat walking.

  The helicopters were taking turns pounding the front of the fort and circling nearby. There was a chance they would see the bikes as they headed into the forest, but once they were in the trees, the choppers would have a hard time pursuing them.

  “Do it,” said Ferguson over the com set.

  Guns stalled the bike, then kicked three times before it started again. This time they jerked forward, nearly falling over but finally gaining their balance.

  Something exploded behind them. Conners heard the roar of the helicopter and leaned his head into his prisoner’s shoulder, waiting for the cannon shells to tear them apart. They were nearly a mile away before he realized they were going to make it.

  13

  CHECHNYA—LATER THAT DAY

  The prisoner’s moans weren’t enough to match his voiceprints, but Ferg decided they’d keep the bastard incapacitated with the Demerol rather than trying to get him to say something coherent over the sat phone. The visual image was a match at least, and as far as he was concerned, that was good enough. According to Corrigan, the Russians were telling headquarters that they had completely obliterated the guerrilla stronghold. Sixteen Chechens had been killed. The attackers had suffered three fatalities and five wounded.

  The skies overhead were filled with Russian aircraft, complicating the team’s escape plans. They were about fifteen miles southwest of the cave complex, holed up in rocks with a good view of the valley to the west, all the way to the eastwest train line to Georgia. There was an airstrip about three miles to the south where they had originally planned their pickup, but Van Buren had put the operation temporarily on hold. The Russians had put some Hinds there, along with supporting troops.

  “Shouldn’t have pissed them off, huh?” Ferguson told him.

  “Guess not.”

  “It was an old car. Could have used a wash and wax.”

  “So you saved him money.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re working on finding a better site,” the SF colonel told Ferguson. “But the Russians are watching the main airports pretty closely. We may end up going to a backup plan, maybe getting a pair of helicopters.”

  “We’re not particular,” said Ferg. “Just get us the hell out of here.”

  “It’s safer for you to sit and wait. Only be a few days.”

  “I don’t like waiting around, VB.”

  “Neither do I.” Van Buren sighed on the other end of the line. “Corrigan says there’s a car for you at Narzan. Some CIA ops drove it down from Moscow in case you needed it. Fully fueled and everything.”

  “Yeah, he already told me. But that’s seventy-five kilometers away. We might just as well walk to Georgia.”

  “Your call.”

  Ferguson snapped off the phone without saying anything else.

  “Maybe we can take the bikes and swing up to the train line west of Groznyy,” said Conners, who’d been listening nearby. “Ride it all the way to Moscow.”

  “There’s an idea,” said Rankin sarcastically.

  “I’m serious,” said Conners. “Once we’re in the car, we can get pretty far. I’ve been looking at the maps, Ferg. Turn on the laptop.”

  Ferguson humored him, though he realized it would be far safer to wait there than try and hop a freight. A train line did run north out of Chechnya, and Conners showed Ferg from sat photos that it wasn’t well guarded beyond Groznyy heading north.

  “We need two spots to get on,” said Conners. “Nice grade with a curve would be perfect. Two guys get on, blow a lock off a boxcar, climb in, dump out shit, get the door open, make it easy to throw raghead over there in.”

  “What, you saw this in a dream?” asked Ferguson, impressed.

  “We used to hop trains all the time when I was a kid. Rode one up from Jersey to Ramapo up in New York once, caught another back. Be like old times.”

  “Patrol,” warned Guns, who had the lookout. “Trucks, a BMP.”

  Ferguson went to the edge of the mountainside overlooking the road. He could see the Russi
ans moving in a small caravan southward. Suddenly a white cloud appeared near the lead vehicle.

  “Great,” said Ferguson. “Just what we need.”

  They watched as a group of Chechen rebels picked off the Russian patrol from a hillside about a mile and a half away. By the time a pair of helicopter gunships arrived to assist the ground troops, it was too late; three of their trucks had been destroyed, probably by radio charges planted in the road though the rebels had also used rockets and possibly grenades.

  “Nice little operation,” said Rankin, genuinely admiring it.

  “That’ll take the heat off,” said Guns.

  “All right boys, saddle up,” said Ferg. “Narzan’s about fifty miles away. We have a car waiting for us. We walk fast, we can make it in two nights.”

  It was in fact less than fifty miles to the Chechen city, which sat west of Groznyy on the main eastwest highway in central Chechnya, but they couldn’t travel in a straight line. They took turns carrying their prisoner on a makeshift stretcher, trekking over trails that roughly paralleled what passed for the main road west.

  After about three hours of walking, they came to a small settlement at the intersection of three different mountains. They’d gone about five miles at that point—fantastic time considering the terrain—but the village stopped them cold. There were a dozen buildings scattered along the main road, which was more a trail than a highway. Rankin and Ferguson scouted the approach and saw two sentries in sandbagged positions next to barricades that blocked the way. They were Chechen guerrillas.

  Given the topography, there were dozens if not hundreds of spots where reinforcements might be lurking. If not for their prisoner, they might have been able to work a deal with the rebels. Instead, they had to find a way to skirt the tiny village; it was nearly light before they managed to get beyond it by crossing a field to the east and climbing a fifty-foot sheer wall. They pulled Kiro up by a rope, slipping and sliding, until they found their way to a cave about two miles southeast of the hamlet.