36
ABOARD THE USS
OHIO
,
Mediterranean Sea
“Chief of the Watch, emergency blow!” said Captain Daniel Knight, ordering the boat to the surface. “All lookouts to the bridge.”
“Aye, sir!”
Knight crossed the con to the SEAL team leader, Senior Chief Dexter “Dex” Childress, who had just heard over the radio that one of his SEALs was dead and another wounded so badly that he couldn’t return to the
Ohio
via the SDV.
“You’ll be going ashore hot, Chief, so take whatever you think you’ll need.”
Childress, thirty-five, was of medium build, with a perpetual five o’clock shadow. “Aye, sir. Any idea who’s doing the shooting?”
“You know what I know, Chief. Let’s just hope it’s not the Italian navy, or we’ll all be standing tall before the man when this is over.”
“Roger that, Captain.”
Minutes later, Childress stood on the deck of the surfaced sub
marine with his NVGs on, watching as six other SEALs finished inflating a pair of black CRRCs—Combat Rubber Raiding Crafts.
“I guess so much for a low-impact exfil, eh, Senior Chief?”
Childress looked at his number two, Petty Officer Winslow. “I warned the head shed to send more men, Winny. What the fuck else could I do?” He felt sick to his stomach, never having lost a teammate before. “Fucking half measures.”
“We’ll get it sorted,” Winslow said, bumping him on the shoulder. “We’ll get it sorted.”
The boats were ready and in the water a minute later. The SEALs loaded up four men to a craft.
Knight stood in the conning tower, watching them through a pair of night vision binoculars as they sped away.
“What do you think, Captain?” asked the chief of the boat.
Knight glanced at him. “I think we’re probably about fifteen minutes away from an international incident, Chief—but we’ll see.”
“How long before we contact Fleet Command, sir?”
“Let’s get below and do that now. The admiral’s going to have a cat. All lookouts below, and prepare to submerge the boat to one-six-zero feet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Childress sat in the team leader’s position on the forward port side of the boat, watching out over the gray-white surface of the water through infrared, the cold sea spray on his face. He and his men were headed into allied waters—armed to the teeth—without the Italian government’s permission.
Winslow spoke to him over the radio headset as they raced along the surface. “What are the rules of engagement, Senior?”
Childress glanced over at the other boat, seeing Winslow looking back at him. “Whatever’s necessary to make sure no more of our people get killed.” He took an instant to make sure of his feelings and then added: “I’ll accept full responsibility.”
“Roger that,” Winslow said. “I’ve got your back.”
Within ten minutes, they were in sight of the extraction point,
and Childress spotted a man on the beach, kneeling over another man. As they drew closer, he realized the kneeling man was performing CPR—and that another, much cooler body lay not far off, with its legs still in the water. He signaled the coxswain to head directly for them, and the coxswain gave him a thumbs-up.
“Come on, you stupid American,” Dragunov growled. “Breathe!” He gave the dying SEAL a precordial thump to the sternum in an attempt to get his heart going again. He could hear the encroaching boat motors behind him as he lifted the SEAL’s chin and breathed into his mouth. He then resumed CPR: fifteen chest compressions for every two breaths.
The boats came ashore on either side of him, and two SEALs rushed to take over CPR as four others spread out in a defensive arc.
“Sir!” Childress said. “Are you Major Ivan Dragunov?”
“Yes,” Dragunov said, sitting back in the water to rest against his arms, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. I did my best.”
“I appreciate you—”
“He’s got a pulse!” Winslow said, his tone desperate. “Permission to haul ass, Senior Chief?”
“Go!”
Both the dead man and the dying SEAL were loaded immediately into the CRRC, and the secondary team raced back out to sea in the dark.
“Major, where is Chief Shannon?”
Dragunov got to his feet and pointed inland. “He went after Kovalenko to keep him from killing you as you came ashore. He could be dead, for all I know. But I think probably he is still alive because Kovalenko hasn’t shot at us. Give me a weapon, and I’ll go look for him.”
“Negative,” Childress said, scanning the shoreline but seeing no heat signatures. “We have to go, sir.”
“That’s your man out there,” Dragunov said. “You’re going to leave him?”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have a choice. You’d better get in the boat now, sir.”
To Dragunov’s own surprise, this angered him. “Shannon told me SEALs don’t leave their people behind.”
Childress felt like shit. “We don’t leave our people behind, sir, but this is different. We have to go.”
“
You
go!” Dragunov said, waving them off. “I’m going after Shannon. You won’t give me a weapon? Okay, give me your night vision!”
Childress signaled for the other three SEALs to surround the Russian officer. “Major, the second that boat slid ashore, you became my responsibility. My orders are to see you safely aboard the
Ohio
, and that’s exactly what I intend to do—with or without your cooperation, sir.”
Dragunov stood glaring, glancing over his shoulder at his competition and finding it formidable.
Childress could see him swaying on his feet. “Major, you’re dog-ass tired, sir. Why don’t you get in the boat? We’re running out of time here.”
“Chort!”
Dragunov snarled, walking into the water and getting into the CRRC.
The SEALs shoved the boat into deeper water, and Childress climbed in beside Dragunov, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Chief Shannon, Major. He’s survived a hell of a lot worse.”
“I know,” Dragunov grumbled as the motor was started. “I was watching on satellite when they tried to kill him in the Panjshir Valley.”
“Say again?” Childress said over the drone of the motor.
Dragunov shook his head, feeling very tired suddenly. “Nothing . . . nothing.”
37
SICILY
Gil could feel the Wolf among the rocks now, and he somehow knew that Kovalenko could feel him as well, a strange electricity pervading the air. He realized the folly of hunting a Spetsnaz sniper over unknown terrain with nothing more than a pistol, but there was an arrogance within him that was tired of being beaten to the trigger, tired of running away. He and the Chechen had drawn each other’s blood, and there was no avoiding the now-personal nature of their enmity. So far each had survived what the other had thrown at him, but each was painfully aware that the contest would remain unfinished until one or the other had proven himself the better man.
Gil had lost the sat phone in the water, so there was no calling on Midori or the
Ohio
for support. He was completely on his own, and it was only a matter of time before the driver of the car called the police. Soon the entire cape was likely to be crawling with carabinieri—and dogs.
He moved south for a hundred meters, stopping when his in
stincts told him the enemy was near. Poking his head around a boulder, he saw in the greenish-black field of his NVGs the figure of a man positioned in the rocks seventy-five yards to the south. The enemy sniper was aiming a rifle over the top of a jagged outcrop, obviously focused on the dirt road, leaving his rear entirely exposed. This made little sense to Gil until he moved east and saw that the grassland opposite the escarpment was sectioned off by the chest-high rock walls of what appeared to be ancient Sicilian farmlets. Any maneuvering through those farmlets would be slow and tedious, leaving him vulnerable every time he climbed over one of the walls.
The only viable route of advance was over the rocky escarpment, which would mean taking his eyes off of Kovalenko for lengthy periods, maybe even losing his line of sight completely until he drew within just a few feet. He searched for a landmark parallel to Kovalenko’s position that he could use as a geological reference point to keep track of his progress. The last thing he needed was to step blindly around a rock and suddenly find himself face-to-face with the enemy.
Gil was unable to find a definite geological reference, so he settled for what looked like a soda can alongside the road roughly even with Kovalenko’s position. He moved out, keeping tabs on the Chechen as best he could until a sheer rock face forced him up and over the top of the jagged escarpment, completely out of view of his target. The going was unsteady over the jagged rock, but within thirty feet, he came to a wide crevasse ten or twelve feet deep. He marked the location of the can and lowered himself down carefully, creeping forward toward the opening of the crevasse, expecting to emerge with a clear shot at Kovalenko from less than twenty feet.
He felt a slight pressure against his right shin and froze in place, but it was already too late. An empty mineral water bottle, stuck upside-down on a stick, tumbled from the shadows overhead and shattered against rocks, making a noise loud enough to wake the dead.
“Stupid motherfucker!” he swore silently, crouching to touch the black bootlace that had been stretched across the crevasse as a trigger for the ad hoc booby trap.
“Throw out your weapons!” called a voice with a Chechen accent. “You’re cornered. There’s no escape.”
Gil took a quick glance around, seeing no immediate line of retreat.
“Come and get me!”
“It was you in Paris, yes?”
Gil made a closer examination of the walls. They were too smooth to climb and too far apart to brace himself between them and shinny out.
“You can forget climbing out!” Kovalenko called to him. “That
was
you in Paris, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. So the fuck what?”
“Who told you to look for us there?”
“Fuck you care?”
Kovalenko chuckled. “I lost a good friend that night. I want to know who else to kill.”
Gil thought that over, deciding, “What the fuck? I just might die in this fucking rat trap.”
“His name’s Tim Hagen. Cocksucker wants me dead—don’t ask me why.”
“I will remember his name,” Kovalenko replied. “Now throw out your weapons.”
“Eat me.”
“I promise to let you live.”
Gil didn’t even dignify that with a response.
“Listen, I don’t need to kill you to keep you from following me.”
“Fuck is
that
supposed to mean?”
“It means I give you my word as a soldier to only shoot you in the knee. That’s a healthy compromise, no?”
Gil laughed.
“Listen to me!” Kovalenko insisted. “I no longer
want
to kill you.
You’ve proven a worthy adversary—and I’ve proven myself the better man. Let us settle this like those who came before us. Yield to me, and you will live. I swear it.”
Gil shook his head, believing the Chechen actually meant what he said. “I’m not volunteering to be shot in the fucking knee.”
“In the elbow, then. I give you the choice.”
“You’re a generous
sukin syn
, I’ll give you that.”
It was the Chechen’s turn to laugh. “I like you, but soon my people will arrive. They will have grenades. Do you want that?”
“Bullshit,” Gil said. “We both know ain’t nobody comin’ except the police. I’ll take my chances with them.”
There was a long pause, and Gil moved to the back of the niche, watching for Kovalenko to appear above him.
Almost an entire minute passed before the Chechen spoke again. “You have night vision, yes?” There was a perceptible urgency in his tone that hadn’t been there before, and his voice was coming from a lower angle among the rocks.
“Why you wanna know?” Gil inched forward with the pistol ready to fire over the lip of the opening.
“Throw it out to me, and I’ll leave.”
“No. Get your own.”
This time there was no reply, and after five minutes of waiting Gil began to feel as though he were alone. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?” he muttered.
An animal growled above him, and he looked up to see a Doberman pincer. It snarled and showed its teeth. Then a second Doberman appeared, and both dogs started barking crazily, letting their handlers know exactly where they were.
“Sorry about this, guys.” Gil aimed the suppressed M11 upward and shot both dogs through the bottom of the jaw, killing them instantly.
He moved to the opening of the crevasse and stole a look around the corner, seeing Kovalenko running away down the dirt road to the south, already well out of pistol range.
A police car came jouncing through the curve to the north, its red and blue lights dancing off the rocks, and Gil watched on as Kovalenko turned around, dropped calmly to a prone position, and pulled the rifle into his shoulder.
The Chechen fired two shots in quick succession. The police car swerved off the road, and Kovalenko was back up and running a second later.
There was a lot of shouting now coming from above and behind Gil’s position, the handlers calling excitedly to their dogs.
Gil stepped out of the crevasse and slid down the face of a boulder.
“Halt!” a voice shouted from above as he scrambled toward the road.
Pistol shots rang out, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks at his feet as he darted across. A bullet zipped past his left ear, and he disappeared into the darkness.
Three more police cars came through the curve with searchlights cutting back and forth. One of lights locked onto Gil, and he sprinted for the sea. The cars slid to a stop as he was running into the water, and a burst of submachine-gun fire stitched the surface. A bullet pierced his right calf, and he dove into barely thigh-deep water, bashing his face against the rocky bottom and stroking wildly for the safety of the deep.
He swam until he thought his lungs would burst, daring to surface only at the last possible second, still only fifty yards from shore. Gil was marked almost instantly by the beam of a flashlight and driven back under by more machine-gun fire. He swam harder than he’d ever swum in his life until at last the bottom fell away, enabling him to dive deep enough to strip his shoes and clothing, racing to the surface for another precious gulp of air.
He swam northward, managing to leave the searchlights behind, stroking smoothly beneath the surface. Entirely in his element now, Gil made his way back to the SEAL team extraction point, where the two frogmen had been shot. It took five minutes of cautious search
ing, but he found the dead SEAL’s dive gear and slipped beneath the surface to put it on. Then he poked his head out of the water one last time, pulling on the full-face mask equipped with through-water communications and disappeared for good beneath the surface.
“Typhoon actual to Typhoon main. Do you copy my traffic? Over?”
Ten seconds later, he was answered by the
Ohio
: “Go ahead, actual. We copy.”
Now that he had swim fins, Gil was quickly leaving the shore behind him. “Main, be advised the target has escaped due to intervention of local law enforcement. I am now in the water and safely away. Break.”
“Go ahead, actual.”
“Can you lock out a second SDV team to help me locate the first vehicle? I was unable to retrieve the transponder unit, so I’m swimming blind. Over.”
“Roger that, actual. The team is gearing up. ETA at outer marker twenty-five minutes. Over.”
“Copy, main. I’ll be standing by out at the outer marker.”