The Sniper and the Wolf

63

“There, right there!” General Couture pointed urgently at the screen, which now showed the battleground in living color by the light of day. “That’s the ghost! The guy in the ghillie suit we can barely make out!”

“Gotta be Kovalenko,” Brooks said, watching the camouflaged image moving stealthily along through the bare forest.

“Well, he’s hell and gone from the bridge crossing, isn’t he?” Couture grumbled, getting out of his chair. “ ‘Russian intelligence.’ Now, there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”

The president was at the back of the room, talking on the phone with Secretary of State Sapp, who was at the Georgian ambassador’s house trying to arrange for air support from the Georgian army. From the sounds of the conversation, Sapp wasn’t making a great deal of headway.

On the other screen, Gil and Kovalenko were approaching the edge of the forest at the opening to the valley.

“God in heaven, where are they going?” wondered the aging secretary of defense. “It’s a no-man’s-land.”

“I’m guessing Shannon’s going to try to set up a hide,” Brooks said. “All he needs is a few hundred yards of clear killing ground, and he’ll pick those Chechens off to the last man.”

Couture stepped up to the screen, tapping Kovalenko’s image. “Not if this son of a bitch has anything to say about it.”

“I can’t argue with that, Bill. I think we’re about to see a real-life sniper duel.”

Couture turned to the air force liaison. “Major, get a tight shot of the rifle this man is carrying, and do a screen capture. Then run it past G2 — see if they can’t figure out what that damn thing is.” “G2” was military slang for intelligence.

The president put down the phone and returned to his chair. “The Georgian ambassador is still trying to get his government on board, but it’s not looking good. Has Pope called back?”

Couture shook his head.

“Want me to give him a call, sir?” Brooks asked.

“No,” the president said. “He’d call if he had anything. There’s no point in interrupting him.”

Couture smiled inwardly, recalling how distrustful they all had once been of the new CIA director.

The images of seven men appeared at the bottom edge of the screen, hiking north along the bank of a wide mountain stream that cut the valley for which Gil and Dragunov were bound.

“Tighten that up, Major.”

The seven looked to be Chechen fighters, heavily loaded with packs, machine guns, and RPGs. They were walking slowly — plodding along — and seemed to have hiked in from a long way off.

“Insurgents,” Brooks muttered. “Probably coming up from Azerbaijan.”

Couture lit a cigarette and exhaled with a sigh. “Get ready for another gunfight, gentlemen.” He clicked the Zippo’s lid closed and tucked it into his pocket, muttering to himself, “Okay, Gil. Don’t get sloppy now.”