Tom Clancy Under Fire (31 page)

“You’ve done okay, Ysabel. Hell, you saved me at least once.”

“At least twice.”

“When’s your birthday?” asked Jack.

“What? Um . . . June twenty-first.”

“I’ll buy you an assault rifle.”

“That’s so sweet, Jack. You know just what a girl wants.”

She hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Come back safe.”

•   •   •

AS THE TERRAIN
around Bamlag was either too swampy or too rugged for a fixed-wing plane to land, and he couldn’t spare what few helicopters he had, Medzhid had arranged for their transport an Aviatik-Alliance seaplane, which would land near Bamlag on an unnamed lake.

The dual-engine parasol-winged craft was painted a mottled gray and brown; its tail and fuselage bore the Ministry’s eagle emblem in matte black paint.

Jack climbed down the ladder and waited his turn to pile into the Aviatik’s belly. Once they were seated, Seth leaned in the door and said, “Good hunting. Bring Koikov home and we’ll stuff him down Nabiyev’s throat.”

He slammed the door shut.

The pilot climbed into the cockpit and began going through his preflight checklist. Out the windows the water of the harbor was flat and black; beyond the seawall, Jack could see the pulsing beacons of offshore oil platforms.

The engines coughed once, then turned over and started spooling up. Jack could feel the vibration in his feet.

Seated in the row behind the cockpit, Spellman leaned forward, asked the pilot a question, then shouted the answer over his shoulder to Jack and Dom: “Ninety minutes’ flight time.”

Dom leaned over to Jack and said, “Is this guy Spellman any good?”

“He saved my ass in Tehran. That’s good enough for me.”

•   •   •

SEVENTY MINUTES
after they lifted off, the pilot turned west over Bakhtemir and headed inland for another twenty kilometers before putting the Aviatik into a gentle descent and bleeding off altitude until they were only a few hundred feet off the ground.

The pilot turned in his seat, got Spellman’s attention, and pointed to the set of white headphones hanging from the bulkhead. Spellman donned them, listened, then said over his shoulder to Jack and Dom, “Nine miles out.”

At four miles the pilot throttled back and kept descending until through the window Jack could see the plane’s barely perceptible shadow skimming over the rugged, boulder-strewn landscape.

The pilot held up two fingers: two miles.

Another minute passed. The pilot cut the engines. The sound faded until Jack could hear only the wind hissing through the door’s gasket seal.

“Touching down,” Spellman called.

The Aviatik’s belly kissed the surface of the lake. The craft bounced one, twice, then settled, hissing over the water. The pilot brought the nose around until it was aimed at a curve of white beach, then let the plane’s momentum carry it to within a hundred yards of the shoals, where he goosed the throttle until the keel scraped over the sand.

Spellman took off his headphones and returned them to the hook. “We’re on foot from here.”

T
HE CLOUD COVER
was slow-moving and partial, leaving the moon a hazy disk that slid into and out of view as they walked. Jack would have preferred full dark but ops like this one were rarely served up perfectly to those involved.

A quarter-mile out they stopped and settled behind a cluster of chest-high boulders. Dom handed Jack one of the ARXs. Together they ran a weapons check, then attached the multipoint slings and draped the ARXs across their chests. Spellman was doing the same with his sniper rifle.

“Fucking Vietnam-era Dragunov,” he muttered. “Is this the best they can do? At least the suppressor looks decent. Shit, I don’t even know if it’s sighted in.”

“You’ll have to do it on the fly,” said Dom. “How long will our pilot wait?”

“As long as it takes. Or until he gets shot at, I imagine.”

Dom handed out the headsets and they ran a comms test, then switched channels and did the same with the Aviatik’s pilot.

Jack said, “Let’s check the ground.” He poked his head over the boulders and raised his binoculars.

Though eight thousand miles from its Siberian namesake, Bamlag West Prison looked like all the other satellite images of gulags Jack had seen. Set on flat barren ground, the rectangular-shaped compound was enclosed by twelve-foot-high barbed-wire fencing, much of it half collapsed.

“Plenty of entrance points,” Jack told them.

In the center of the camp stood a watchtower, which divided the compound into north and south sections, the former containing nine windowless, barracks-style prisoner huts arranged in a three-by-three square; the latter five wooden structures Jack assumed were administrative buildings. While these buildings sat close to the perimeter, none of the barracks sat closer than 150 feet from the fencing. This would be the no-go zone, Jack guessed. First the wayward prisoner would get a warning shot; after that, one through the head.

He relayed to Spellman and Dom what he was seeing, then zoomed in on the admin buildings.

“No movement and no lights,” he said. “And no sign of the SUV from Koikov’s cabin.”

He panned to the watchtower and dialed the binocular’s focus wheel until the tower’s hut became clear. Beneath the eaves of the slanted roof he saw a bank of windows, most of them broken.

“I’ve got movement in the tower,” Jack reported. “Looks like one man.”

“Armed?” asked Dom.

“Can’t tell; he’s just a silhouette.”

“I’m not sure I can get him from here, not with this,” Spellman said. “Let me take a look.” He dropped to his belly and scooted sideways until he could see around the boulder pile. He pressed the Dragunov to his cheek and peered through the scope.

“Too risky,” he said after a few moments. “If I miss the first shot, I doubt I’ll get a second. Plus, with these subsonic rounds I’ll need to be closer.”

•   •   •

THE APPROACH
was painstakingly slow. Spaced at twenty-foot intervals with Spellman on point, they belly-crawled from boulder to boulder, most of which were barely bigger than their heads. Soon Jack’s elbows ached and he could feel the slickness of blood beneath his camouflage jacket.

Occasionally Spellman would signal a halt with a closed fist beside his thigh and they would stop and survey the compound through the Dragunov’s scope before continuing forward.

After twenty more minutes Spellman stopped again.

Through his headset Jack heard, “Signs of life. Side door of the building on the far right. Call it Building One.”

Slowly Jack brought up his binoculars and zoomed in on the building. Seeping from the edges of the side door was light. “I see it. What about the tower?”

“Wait one.”

Jack watched as Spellman side-scooted until he reached a boulder ten feet to his right. “Clear shot,” he whispered.

“On your time,” Jack replied.

Dom called, “Hold. I’ve got movement. Building One side door opening. One man coming out. Door is shutting.”

“I’m on him,” Spellman said.

Through his binoculars Jack watched the man stride across their front from right to left. His figure was broken up by the barbed-wire fence.

“Shot doubtful,” Spellman said.

The man raised a hand to his partner in the tower, then stopped at a building with a tall, corrugated garage door set into its front wall. He stepped though the pedestrian door and disappeared inside. The interior was dark.

“Calling that Garage,” Dom said.

“Matt, how’s the angle?” Jack asked.

“If I get him coming out the door the guy in the tower won’t see him go down.”

“Do it,” Jack said.

Now we find out how good the Dragunov’s suppressor is.

•   •   •

FIVE MINUTES PASSED.
Then, from Spellman, “Garage door is opening.”

“Take the shot,” Jack ordered.

Spellman’s Dragunov bucked. The rifle’s report was no louder than a rock cracking against one of the boulders.

At the garage door, the man stumbled back across the threshold. As he fell Jack caught a glimpse of what looked like a vehicle’s front quarter-panel.

“Heart shot,” Dom called. “Nice shooting.”

“I’m switching to the tower,” Spellman replied. “He’s looking around. You guys see any movement on the ground?”

“Negative.”

“Negative.”

“Firing.”

Through his binoculars Jack saw the tower guard’s head disappear in a cloud of dark spray.

“He’s down,” Dom reported, then chuckled softly. “Very down.”

•   •   •

WITH THE GROUND AHEAD
clear of targets, Dom and Jack left Spellman on overwatch and sprinted ahead, slipped through a gap in the fence, then moved to the garage. Dom posted on the front right corner, ARX pointed at Building One. Jack nudged the dead man’s legs off the threshold, then closed the door and proceeded to the building’s opposite corner; he peeked around it.

“Clear on this side,” he called. “Matt, come up.”

“Moving.”

“Hold!” Dom called.

Jack looked left and saw Building One’s door open, casting a rectangle of light on the dirt. The man started walking toward the garage.

Dom said, “He’ll have me in ten seconds.”

Spellman called, “I’ve got more movement—past the guard tower near the barracks. Three men, all carrying SBRs,” he said, referring to short-barreled rifles. “They’re headed your way.”

“I’m slinging,” Dom said, simultaneously backing up and shifting his ARX so it was hidden behind his body. “Jack, can you—”

“Yep. Just stay out of my sight line.”

The man kept coming.

He stopped. His posture stiffened.

Dom took a step to his right.

“A little more,” Jack whispered.

Dom took another step, then raised his hand in greeting. The man waved back. His shoulders relaxed and he started forward again. Jack let him get to within six feet of Dom, then shot him in the forehead. As he went down, Dom asked Spellman, “Any reaction from your three?”

“No, but you’d better get that body clear. Wait until I tell you . . . Okay, go now.”

Hunched over, Dom walked to the man’s body, lifted it under the shoulders, then dragged it to the garage. Jack opened the side door, and Dom backed through and dumped the body beside Spellman’s kill. The man was in desert camouflage identical to their own; Jack saw no insignias or patches.

“Matt, can you move?” he asked.

“Maybe. I’ll lose sight of them, though.”

Jack considered this. “We need to consolidate. Move up when you can. I’ll cover you.”

Jack slid along the wall to the corner and looked around it. The three men were fifty yards away and passing through the tower’s buttresses. Over his shoulder he heard the soft scuff of a boot in the dirt, then Spellman’s voice: “Here.”

“Into the garage.”

Spellman stepped through and Jack followed, closing the door behind him.

“It’s clear,” Dom said. “There’s another door at the back, but it’s locked on our side. Hey, Jack, I’m pretty sure this is the SUV I tailed.”

Jack knelt beside the vehicle’s front tire and clicked on his penlight. In the sidewall was the depression from Jack’s bullet at the cabin. “Yep. We’re in the right place.”

“It’s better than that,” Spellman replied with a smile. “That, gentlemen, is a Volvo XC90—standard issue for Dagestani government officials. Let’s see if we can get a VIN . . .” Spellman opened the Volvo’s door. The dome light popped on. He climbed in and leaned over the dash, looking.

Near the back of the garage came the sliding thunk of a dead bolt.