Commander-In-Chief (48 page)

Belanger had been given the GPS coordinates to use for positioning created by the EARLY SENTINEL program at the NGA, although as far as he knew this was just information created by Pentagon planners, typical in any such deployment. Still, the specificity of the deployment order was a surprise to Belanger, his company commanders, and their lieutenants.

Belanger held his men back from these positions, however, and moved instead to positions just north of Vilnius. There were three camps in total, one for each of his three rifle companies; each camp also contained supporting tanks, Cobra gunships, and platoons of antitank weapons and mortars from the weapons company. From here they could quickly move into even more advanced staging areas, as intelligence about the location of the Russian forces on the other side of the border improved.

As soon as it was decided just where the Russian armor spearheads would breach the border, Belanger would task his three companies accordingly, filling in behind and around the meager Lithuanian forces already at the border and doing all they could to ready themselves for the Russians’ assault.

Three hours after arriving in the country, Belanger paced
around his command center. It was a high school gymnasium, and a hell of a lot nicer than most places where he’d worked on his half-dozen tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Still, Rich Belanger knew he was in range of Russian missile batteries inside Belarus, as well as ballistic missile batteries in Kaliningrad.

As he paced, he thought over his tactical situation. He was the battle-space commander, but the reality was he knew if he stayed in fixed positions to fight, he and his twelve hundred men would be little more than a speed bump against the Russian onslaught.

Political forces would dictate Belanger’s long-term prospects, but in the short term, he was in charge of his own destiny, and he knew there was only one way to success, one chance to outlive his opponents for the next seventy-two hours.

Shoot and scoot.

He knew he and his battalion would live longer if they kept moving, but for now, they just needed that critical piece of information that would tell them
where
to move to.

A
t eleven-thirty p.m. Chavez stood outside a locked metal gate under the archway of Pete Branyon’s apartment on Ligoninės in Vilnius Old Town. Behind him was an open parking lot, and beyond that a small park, its trees bare in the cold. On the far side of the park was a row of old buildings, and in one of them, from what Ding had learned from Lithuanian intelligence, were an unknown number of foreigners who had been conducting surveillance on the building.

There was speculation as to whether these men were waiting to see if Branyon returned, or possibly even seeking information on the two men who’d managed to rescue Branyon the day before. Ding thought it could be the latter, since these men were obviously working with the Russians, and the Russians had probably assured the men they were watching all foreign intelligence operations in the area.

They would have been surprised by the fast rescue of the CIA man, and probably very troubled by the fact they didn’t have as good an understanding of the opposition as they had thought.

Branyon’s home would be as good a place as any to be on the lookout for his mysterious protectors.

Ding took his time looking up and down the quiet street, lit only by the glow of streetlamps; then he unlocked the gate with a key provided to him by the deputy chief of station. He drew his pistol, then entered alone, disappearing under the arch. This led him to the small center court of the building, and here he took a stairwell to Branyon’s apartment on the second floor.

In his earpiece Ding heard, “Okay, you’ve left my line of sight.”

“Roger that,” Ding said, and he kept climbing.

Dom Caruso was tucked under a graffiti-covered alcove on the same street as the men watching Branyon’s house, just below and thirty yards to the right of their position. He sat cross-legged, a half-consumed bottle of beer in his hand and three more waiting alongside it. He was dressed like a bum, or what he thought a bum might look like in Lithuania, although he hadn’t been here long enough to really know. He wore an old coat he’d bought at an outdoor flea market that afternoon, and an old felt cap, and he’d darkened the three-day growth of stubble on his face with charcoal, giving him more of a beard than he really had.

Most of the time Dom just sat there and nursed his beer, but he stole quick looks here and there with his binoculars and his FLIR monocular, both taken out of the inside of his coat each time he used them. On the first scan after Ding went into the building, Dom took a moment to center his glass on the Land Cruiser that Chavez had driven up in. It was parked in the lot near the entrance to Branyon’s building, and through his binoculars Dom could make out the bullet holes even all the way over here. His hidden earpiece had a sophisticated microphone built in that allowed him to transmit even whispers to Ding’s earpiece. He held his beer up to his mouth and
said, “Driving over in a shot-up vehicle was a bit much, don’t you think?”

As Chavez climbed the stairs he chuckled softly. “Nobody ever accused me of being subtle. We know there is a lot of oppo, and we know they are trained tactically . . . but we don’t know if they are very smart.”

“Fair enough,” said Dom. “Carry on.”

When Ding arrived at Branyon’s apartment he began to turn on lights, telegraphing the fact he was there to the mysterious opposition, in case they hadn’t noticed him.

Dom remained in the dark, scanning the area, searching for any signs of life.

Five minutes after Chavez entered the apartment, Dom saw two men walking through the park. One had a bottle in his hand, and they staggered a little while they walked, but Dom kept his eyes on them anyhow, in case it was a ruse.

The men kept going, and they walked out of the scene without ever looking in the direction of Chavez’s location.

Another few minutes passed. Dom was switching between his regular binoculars, which worked fine here because of the streetlamps, and his FLIR monocular, which helped him scan all the windows, rooftops, and dark alcoves around the square for heat signatures, just in case someone was lurking there.

Ding opened the blinds on the second floor, then looked out over the little park.

Dom said, “Dude, you are silhouetting yourself. Giving them a target.”

Ding replied, “I’m trying to get them to take the bait.” He closed the blinds after a few seconds and turned out a light in the kitchen.

Caruso saw nothing that aroused any suspicions. He said, “If
the watchers in the apartment on my left are interested, they should be looking at you right now.”

Just then, Dom heard a car start in the parking lot on the far end of the alcove behind him. He knew this lot was used by people in the buildings all up and down this side of the street, meaning one of the unknown opposition team members might be behind the wheel. Dom quickly made sure all his gear was well tucked away, and he moved into the doorway of a hair salon next to the alcove.

Seconds later, a vehicle pulled into the tunnel from the parking lot behind. It had its lights off, and it stopped at the back of the tunnel, just idling there in position.

Dom said, “Okay, Ding. You called it. I’ve got some kind of a hatchback vehicle idling in the dark near my poz. Looks like two inside, but can’t confirm that.”

Ding said, “It’s about damn time. I was thinking about making myself a sandwich.” Then he added, “Keep an eye out for others.”

“You’ve been spotted by the other side . . . Why wait around until a whole busload shows up?”

“I want to make it look good. I’m going to sit it out for a couple more minutes, then I’ll roll out of here. You follow anybody following me.”

“Got it,” Dom said, and he sipped his beer.

Dom had a 2011 Honda CBR250R street bike parked against the curb a half-block up the street. It was an entry-level bike, nothing that was going to outrun any fighter planes, but for the twisting turning streets of Vilnius, it was agile, small, and, most important, it would not stand out.

After five minutes more Ding turned off the rest of the lights in Peter Branyon’s apartment, then he appeared in the archway at the front of the building carrying two suitcases. These he put in the back of the Land Cruiser, before climbing behind the wheel.

Dom watched all this, and whispered behind his beer. “What’s in the suitcases?”

“Just some books I threw in to make them look heavy. Do I still have eyes on me?”

“Affirm. The car is on my left, twenty-five feet away, but I’m tucked into a doorway and out of their line of sight. I won’t be able to go back to my bike until they take off after you.”

“Okay,” Ding said. “But watch out for other vehicles. If they have the manpower and they are interested enough in who I am and what I’m doing, then they’ll do a multicar surveillance package. Honestly, I’d just as soon get as many of these fuckers in one place at one time, lead them all into the police roadblock.”

“Roger that,” Dom said, and just as he transmitted he heard several car doors shut in the parking lot on the far side of the tunnel. “Careful what you wish for, Ding. You’re about to be leading a parade.”

Minutes later, Chavez drove off from the other side of the park, turning his bullet-pocked Land Cruiser in the direction of Caruso and the opposition vehicles, then turning right.

As soon as he disappeared, three vehicles emerged from the passageway through the building on Dom’s left. A gray Škoda hatchback, a black Ford four-door, and a black BMW SUV.

“Okay, Ding,” Dom said. “I’ve got three vehicles following you.” He described the vehicles as he rushed to his motorcycle.

“The BMW was in back, right?” Chavez asked over the net.

“How’d you know?”

“The Škoda and the Ford are full of labor, the Beamer is management. No team leader is going to sit in the back of a piece-of-shit hatchback while his muscle drives a BMW.”

Dom whistled gently into his mike. “You have been doing this too long.”

“Tell me about it,” Ding said. “Catch up to us, but don’t let them see you.”

•   •   •

C
havez had to drive through late-night Vilnius pretending he did not see the three vehicles behind him. The men inside, assuming this was part of the same force he and Caruso had encountered at the border the night before, had proven themselves to be well trained with their weapons. But they were not terribly good at surveillance.

Chavez couldn’t lose the three-car tail. The entire objective to this mission was to lead them to a police roadblock on the Drujos highway, just east of the Old Town. The location had been selected because it was close enough to the city that Chavez and Caruso felt confident there was little risk the tail would give up and just return to their apartment, and far enough away from homes, apartments, and public spaces that a shootout would not create a massive bloodbath of civilians.

•   •   •

C
havez spoke in a normal voice in the Land Cruiser, knowing Dom would hear him in his earpiece. “I’m two klicks out from the roadblock. Still just the three vehicles tailing me?”

Dom had to speak louder, as he was riding on the bike, but his helmet muted much of the noise from the engine and the wind. “Affirmative. They are all lined up and following you like you’re the Pied Piper.”

“Good, keep an eye out for any joiners. We don’t know how many of these guys there are, and we don’t know their operational relationship with the Russians in the area, if any.”

“Roger that.”

The plan Chavez and Caruso had ironed out with the ARAS unit in charge of manning the roadblock to take down the foreign operators was for Chavez to drive his Land Cruiser under the pedestrian bridge over the four-lane road, then continue on past Vitebsko, a small street that ran off to the left. Once he passed, six ARAS police cruisers, each with two officers inside, would race out into the highway and block the road. Another half-dozen men would be up on the pedestrian bridge over the highway, armed with powerful spotlights, HK G36 rifles, and Benelli shotguns.

There were eighteen in the ARAS force in total, not ideal as far as Chavez was concerned, but it appeared the group following him in three cars would not be anticipating the ambush, so he thought the plan reasonable considering the threat.

Traffic was virtually nonexistent on this stretch of the highway now, and both Chavez and Caruso were thankful for this. The ARAS roadblock would catch anyone driving by once it was sprung, so if the men in the three cars tailing Chavez decided to fight it out, civilians might well be caught in the crossfire if there had been much traffic.

Ding called Dom over his earpiece. “Okay, I can see the pedestrian bridge ahead. You need to back off now so you don’t end up downrange if the shooting starts.”

Caruso did as Chavez instructed, slowing his motorcycle to a crawl on the road. He watched the taillights of the BMW SUV, the third of the three vehicles in the tail, get farther and farther away.

Dom decided to proactively block the road so no one else got closer. He turned his bike around, and shined the headlight back toward any oncoming traffic. And he pulled out a flashlight from his jacket. He climbed off his bike and stepped into the next lane, then began waiting for cars.

•   •   •

C
havez passed under the pedestrian bridge that represented the opening jaw of the Lithuanian federal antiterrorist team’s trap, and he kept rolling through, passing Vitebsko Street on his left, and continuing on. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw the lights of the first vehicle behind him, some 150 yards back. It was racing right into the trap.

The gray Škoda passed first under the pedestrian bridge, and just as it did so, a row of Lithuanian police cars raced out in front of it, covered all four lanes, and screeched to a halt. The Škoda skidded to a stop in the middle of the road, and behind it, the black Ford four-door did the same.

Men leapt from the police cars, swinging rifles out in front of them and leveling them toward the three vehicles, while just behind the Škoda and the Ford, the black BMW X3 pulled to a more controlled stop, just west of the pedestrian bridge that ran above the highway. Men on the bridge flashed lights on all three vehicles, some of them facing east to the two cars pinned in and others facing west to the BMW in the rear.

Eighteen men in black body armor and holding rifles or shotguns began yelling at the three drivers to turn off their engines.

The BMW was the first vehicle to move. Its tires screeched as it was put in reverse and the accelerator stomped to the floor. Men on the bridge yelled down to the driver, ordering him to halt, but the SUV launched backward, surrounded by the smoke from its tires. An officer on the bridge fired a shotgun blast at the hood of the vehicle in an attempt to knock it out of action, but the vehicle kept moving backward.

An order was initiated by the on-scene commander to open fire
on the BMW, but before he’d finished giving the order, gunfire erupted simultaneously from both the Škoda and the Ford, two vehicles that were just twenty-five to fifty feet from the ARAS roadblock. Shooters inside the cars fired through the windshield and out the side windows, surprising the police force with both the audaciousness of the act and the volume of fire.