The Sniper and the Wolf

54

The president of the United States, along with General William Couture, Chief of Staff Glen Brooks, the secretary of defense, and assorted members of the Joint Chiefs, sat before a pair of giant high-definition television screens in Satellite Command Center 4, watching on helplessly as Gil and Dragunov walked unwittingly into the L-shaped ambush. The white heat signatures of thirty-five Chechen bushwhackers were visible to all.

“My God,” the president muttered, his palms sweating. “Can’t they see them?”

“Apparently not,” Couture said, clenching and unclenching his teeth. “If they’re not using thermal night vision, they may not see them until they’re right on top of them. It depends on how well hidden the enemy is, sir.”

One of the two figures reached out and touched the other on the shoulder, halting their advance.

“There! They see them!” Brooks piped up.

“For all the good it’s going to do them,” muttered one of the Joint Chiefs.

They watched as Dragunov pointed out the enemy positions over Gil’s shoulder, with everyone in the room guessing that it was Gil doing the pointing. The figures then lowered themselves to the ground and were in the process of backing away when all hell broke loose on the screen.

The president watched the hot tracer rounds zip across the screen, the flares going off, followed by the explosions of 40 mm grenades and men thrown dead against the ground.

“Holy Jesus,” he said, getting to his feet and making it so Couture had to push back from the table to see. “We’re going to lose him this time.”

Couture nodded, silently agreeing with the commander in chief that no one was likely to survive such a hailstorm of lead.

Brooks, who had never experienced more during his time in the Teams than a limited exchange of fire over a couple hundred meters, was filled with a mixture of dread and awe. He was sure he was witnessing the final moments of a fellow SEAL.

The RPG detonated against the tree in a white flash, temporarily obscuring their view of the battle, and everyone held his breath. A few seconds later, they saw that Gil and Dragunov had successfully broken off contact with the enemy, and they released a collective sigh.

“How the hell did they manage that?” the president wondered.

Couture frowned as he watched Gil and Dragunov run for their lives. “Shithouse luck, sir.”

The president wiped the sweat from his brow. “My God. Look at them go.” He watched them run for almost three hundred meters over rugged forest terrain. Then both men suddenly went down.

“They’re hit!” Couture exclaimed, looking across the room at the air force liaison officer. “Tighten that frame, Major!” He pointed to the other screen. “And pull that one back. Try and find who shot them.”

One camera zoomed in; the other pulled back.

“They’re moving,” someone said. “They’re still alive!”

“But who the hell shot them?” Couture asked in frustration. He was on his feet and stepping closer to the wide-angle television screen. “There aren’t any heat signatures for more than three hundred yards.”

“Maybe it was a booby trap,” Brooks ventured.

Couture shook his head. “We’d have seen an explosion.”

“There!” someone said, pointing at a brief, partial heat signature of a human form fifty or sixty yards west of where Gil and Dragunov were now dragging themselves to cover behind some rocks. The partial signature disappeared again almost as suddenly as it had appeared.

“Shit, that’s a sniper in a shielded ghillie suit.”

“What’s that?” the president asked.

“A camouflaged cloak made of heat-absorbent material,” Couture replied. “Whoever we just saw, Mr. President, he knew someone might be watching from above, and he’s taken steps against being picked up on infrared.”

Brooks snapped the pencil he’d been twiddling in his fingers. “Five’ll get you ten it’s Kovalenko. This op was compromised before they ever left Moscow.”

The president’s eyes were fixed to the screen. “Can someone please tighten the shot? I’d like to see what our men are doing behind those rocks.”

“Whatever they’re doing,” Couture said, “they’d better do it fast because here come those mean little bastards from the ambush.”

The president glanced at the other screen, where more than twenty human heat signatures were sweeping quickly westward toward Gil’s position. “I’m not going to lie,” he muttered, overawed by what he was seeing. “I’d be terrified. Hell, I’m terrified just watching it.” He met Couture’s sympathetic gaze. “Any chance they’ll surrender, General?”

Couture shook his head. “Men like Gil Shannon and Ivan Dragunov don’t even know the meaning of the word, Mr. President.”

The president turned to Brooks. “Get Bob Pope on the phone. We need to find out if Moscow’s watching this and whether or not they intend to provide any support.”