Endwar_ The Hunted Part 14

Brent longed to pull up a close-in satellite view of the area so he could tell George where the troops were moving. The team had nothing, though, technology rendered useless by more technology. They would rely now on their good old-fas.h.i.+oned wits to escape.

Thomas remained in the shed, staring through that dusty window at the second story of the apartment. He could see Russian troops appearing in the window from where George had escaped. They were tearing up the house, while one remained there, sweeping the yard with his scoped rifle.

With an audible s.h.i.+ver, Thomas swore again as the Russians shouted to each other on the other side of the fence.

Brent could barely breathe now as he checked the images coming in from George's goggles. "George, just get some cover like your brother and wait for us."

"That's the plan," said the spy. "That's the plan." He burst up from the parked cars.

From around the corner of the next apartment building came two Spetsnaz troops-Grim Reapers dressed in black uniforms and web gear, with black helmets and balaclavas concealing their ident.i.ties.

They were but fifty meters away.

George dropped to the ground and shot one guy in the face with his pistol, while the other ducked and George did likewise. Gunfire struck the cars behind him as he jogged around and sought cover once more.

Brent wanted to scream at the Splinter Cell, tell him not to remain there in a standoff while that Russian troop called for backup. But George was a seasoned veteran and didn't need Brent pointing out the obvious.

In fact, George did something remarkable again. He suddenly broke cover and darted to the building, even as the trooper, who'd sought refuge behind the corner, eased out for another look, the top of his helmet jutting out.

While the Russian's gaze was reaching out toward the car, George came at him from the side, sliding an arm around the man's head while raising a combat dagger high in his free hand.

George plunged the knife deep into the man's neck, just north of his clavicle, then George grabbed the hilt and got to work. To say that George opened up the man's head like a Pez dispenser would be understating the point, and Brent had a front-row seat to all the carnage. He grimaced.

George dropped the body and s.h.i.+fted to the front side of the apartment. He hunkered down beside a row of shrubs and stole a look out at the helicopter sitting in the field across the street.

Oh, no, Brent thought. I hope he's not thinking what I'm thinking ... I hope he's not thinking what I'm thinking ...

Two civilians had come out of the homes, one holding a kitchen knife, the other an antique-looking pistol. They were a husband-and-wife team, white-haired, wizened, and wild, and they waved and shouted as two troops who'd been stationed just outside the helicopter drifted toward them.

"No, don't do it," Brent muttered aloud.

It was over before it started. One Russian shot both the man and the woman execution style, boom-boom. And George just sat there and gasped. Then George cleared his throat and said, "Thomas, stay in the shed."

"I will."

George sighed into his microphone. "They must've found our car by now. We can't get out on foot or by car if they still got that bird."

"George, don't even think about it," said Thomas.

"George, just dig in and do not do anything," said Brent. "That's an order!"

"Too late."

"Voeckler!" Brent cried. "What're you doing?"

The image coming in from George's trident goggles grew so shaky that Brent couldn't see anything.

But he could hear the man breathing. Faster. And faster. Panting now.

[image]

The Snow Maiden let out a faint snort as she glanced sidelong at Hussein. The boy was staring out the window, looking bored and about to fall asleep as they continued on toward Dover.

Chopra was droning on and on about what the boy's father had wanted for him, and the old man's cadence and tone had become yet another form of white noise, like the wind buffeting the car, the engine's hum, and the steady vibration of the tires on the pavement.

Even the Snow Maiden herself was beginning to drift off, barely listening, reminding herself that if she didn't keep her guard up, the sixteen-year-old next to her could launch a surprise.

Abruptly, her cell phone rang. "You'll be met at Dover," said Patti. "They know you're coming."

"Excellent. Thank you."

"I'll see you in Geneva. Excellent work, as always."

"You might want to call Izotov and thank him as well."

Patti laughed. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that."

The Russians-in their attempt to capture her-had inadvertently helped her escape. It seemed they might come in handy now, and she thought about manipulating them to her benefit in the near future.

For just the briefest of moments, though, she took herself back to the tiny town of Banff, just off the Trans-Canada Highway, seventy-eight miles west of Calgary. She was with Green Vox, that terrorist leader whose ident.i.ty was kept a secret so that he could "live forever" through any number of followers a.s.suming his role. Together, they had chosen Banff so they would be upwind from the nuclear fallout, once she had detonated the nukes. But the entire operation had been foiled by the Americans. No matter. She'd had other plans.

"I am Snegurochka. What did you expect?" she'd asked the terrorist.

"Viktoria, what are you doing?"

"Did you really really think I was working with you?" think I was working with you?"

His mouth had fallen open. "You can't be serious."

She'd grinned and aimed the gun at him.

Vox's eyes had widened. "Go ahead, kill me. Green Vox will return. He always does."

She shot him between those eyes.

"Yes," she said, staring down at his body. "You always come back-and always as a man. What a pity."

Now as she sat in the car, she realized that an aching fear had brought on the memory. She was worried about whether the Green Brigade Transnational had given up on their quest for revenge. Perhaps her work in France had reminded them of the futility of getting too close to her.

The Americans and the Russians were so predictable, but these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ... they were the wild cards and could appear at any time. And as she'd speculated, they could be getting leads from Izotov, who'd perhaps hired them as mercenaries in addition to his "official" efforts involving Haussler and the Spetsnaz troops. Izotov was a clever one who could be feeding information to the terrorists that he wasn't sharing with Haussler. He might even be playing them against each other and would reward only the victors. She knew him all too well, knew that all he cared about were end results and that people were disposable, people like her husband and brothers.

In the Snow Maiden's Russia, loyalty was a spring flower that wilted far too quickly without water.

"We're almost out of gas," Chopra said, wrenching her from her thoughts.

"Then you'll stop at the next petrol station."

"I don't have cash, and if we use cards they will find us."

"Exactly."

"Please don't kill anyone else."

She took a deep breath. "If they cooperate, I won't. But I make no promises."

"How did you get to be so deplorable?"

She attempted to speak softly and not through her teeth. "I used to think they made me who I am. But I've always had a choice. So I choose to be this way."

"Why?"

She let the question hang for a moment, then said, "Because I will never become their victim."

"How would you become their victim? And who are they?"

"Doesn't matter."

"What happened to you? I'm sure you were a little girl once. A sweet child."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "Yes. Once ..."

[image]

Brent wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't help himself. He was as much horrified and fascinated by George Voeckler's insanity ... or bravery-the line between them was often indistinct.

The Russian pilot and co-pilot were in the c.o.c.kpit of that enemy chopper and could effortlessly lift their 12.7-millimeter four-barrel machine gun, bringing it to bear. But George Voeckler knew that as well, which was why he jogged along the front of the apartments, keeping low and breaking cover only at the last second to run at the chopper, rear back, and hurl his grenade, one of six "Ghost Recon specials" given to him by Brent.

Just as the pilot swung his gun around, the fins and engine on George's L12-7 activated, and the tiny missile streaked into the open bay door.

The whish was followed immediately by a m.u.f.fled explosion that echoed strangely louder from inside the chopper.

The explosion was clearly not enough to destroy the bird, but the pilot and co-pilot had to be seriously injured, Brent thought. Thick smoke poured from the open bay door, yet the rotors kept on spinning.

A moment later, one man jumped out, staggered onto the ground, and fell. The other pilot never appeared.

As expected, the explosion drew the attention of the rest of the Russian troops, and even as George began hightailing it back out of there, the camera images making Brent dizzy, the window showing his input went blank for a second.

Gunfire boomed.

And then that "blank screen" turned out to be the pavement as the camera was raised, and it appeared someone was holding George's trident goggles.

Haussler's smug face panned into view. "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, Americans! I see you, too, have come hunting. Until we meet again." Haussler dropped the goggles, and he might've stomped on them because the signal cut off.

Thomas screamed into his microphone, and Brent got on his channel. "Don't you move. You stay there. I've lost one man, and I won't lose another, do you hear me, Thomas?"

"No way. I'm going!"

"If you go, you die, and you die like a fool. That's not what your brother wants. Do what he said. Stay there! We're coming for you!"

Brent regarded the driver. "You need to get us there, now!"

The driver gritted his teeth and accelerated even more, as Thomas once more announced that he was going after his brother.

Brent wondered what he would do were he in that shed and his own brother had just been killed. Hiding there would feel like an act of cowardice. He should face his brother's killers. So he understood, in part, how Thomas felt, but remaining wasn't being a coward; it was being smart, and Brent so much as told the man that. "Just stay there, buddy. Stay there."

"I'm not leaving him there." Thomas lapsed into a string of curses.

"Just listen to me, bro. You got a whole squad of troops out there. And just you. I need you alive. You hear what I am saying? I need you to stay there. That's all you have to do. Just sit tight. We'll get George. He's not going to lie there for long. Just believe me, all right?"

Thomas kept swearing. "This is not the way it was supposed to happen. I'm the one who should've died! I'm the loser, not him! I'm the loser."

"Just calm down. We're on our way."

TWELVE.

Ghost Recon Team En Route to Sandhurst Brent had a.s.sumed that Haussler and his Spetsnaz team would call for immediate evac. Their chopper had been damaged, the pilots injured or killed.

But the Russians weren't going anywhere.

As a matter of fact, they were digging in around the target house, setting up defensive positions, and pretty much taking their time. A team inside was tearing the place to shreds in search of the Snow Maiden or any evidence that would lead to her location.

Much to Brent's chagrin, Thomas did leave the shed, but only after the troops turned more attention back on the house. He'd made a successful break.

Now he was at his brother's side. The Russians had stripped George of all of his gear but had left the body there. They couldn't operate George's Cross-Com or OPSAT or any of his other communications devices, but the Russians loved to reverse-engineer anything they could get their hands on.

As Thomas held his brother in his arms, Brent urged the man to take cover, reminding him that the Ghosts would be there in less than ten minutes.

"I don't care," said Thomas. "I don't care anymore."

Brent was at a loss. You could train operators time and again on how to deal with death and that you could never, ever afford a breakdown in the field. You owed it to yourself, your people, and your country to remain strong-and alive-because there would be plenty of time, far too much time, to grieve later. Everyone knew that. Everyone believed in it. But you never knew how you'd react if death was staring you in the face and it was your turn to feel the cold chill close, so very, very close ...

Nevertheless, this Thomas Voeckler guy had been an enigma from the beginning, and his dossier raised many unanswered questions, which in turn had raised Brent's brows : Thomas had attended Florida State University and had majored in psychology. At that time he'd had no desire to rise above slackerdom, let alone join the military like his brother had. He'd changed majors three times and had finally wound up with an English degree, which he did nothing with for ten years. When he wasn't taking, dropping, or flunking out of graduate courses, he'd been, in no particular order, a pizza delivery guy, an apartment building maintenance man, a clerk at a local video store, and an attendant at a state park where he rented canoes. He'd volunteered at a local library and at the local animal shelter on Captiva Island, Florida. He built houses for Habitat for Humanity. He fed homeless people during the holidays, even when he was only a pay-check or two away from being homeless himself.

This was not the profile of one of America's most cunning and lethal covert operatives.

Meanwhile, his brother moved up quickly through the ranks and had made a name for himself in the Marines and in Force Recon. George was a textbook operator, exactly the kind of man you'd expect to find in Third Echelon.

When Thomas had been recruited by Grimsdottir, he'd initially declined, admitting he was not cut out for this kind of work. She'd offered him a six-figure salary to entice him, and though Thomas finally agreed, he'd flunked out of the training program three times before receiving a provisional pa.s.s. He was no man of action, as evidenced by several broken bones and other a.s.sorted injuries during past operations.

But he was, as Grimsdottir had carefully noted in his record, meant to serve as his brother's primary alibi and not necessarily his field partner. Third Echelon had been experimenting for years with team operations: large groups, small groups, and pairs, but the implication in Thomas's dossier was that he should be a human mannequin, meant to stand around and look pretty but do nothing. George was to keep him on a tight leash.

Unfortunately, that was now Brent's job.