Long Shot

21

An hour later, the crew chief touched Kyle on the shoulder and held up two fingers: two minutes. Baldwin put away his book; Perry detected the movement, awoke and got ready without saying a word. Baldwin tapped a gloved finger on Anneli’s knee and gave her a thumbs-up sign of encouragement just as the bottom seemed to fall out of her world. The helo dumped power, bucked into a descent, nosed up and settled to the deck of the aircraft carrier as easily as an elevator. The chief pulled the door open, pointed outside and threw them all a quick salute.

A carrier never sleeps while at sea, so the time of day means little, and a helicopter coming aboard was a routine piece of business. Anneli was almost overwhelmed by the smell of fuel and oil, the rumble of machinery and the activity of crew members in vests of various colors who rushed about in choreographed chaos. The wind came across the deck from a sea that was surging near gale force.

A young woman officer collected them, tugging a gold-braided blue baseball cap over her brown hair, the gold leaf of a naval lieutenant commander glinting on her jacket collar. “Which one is Bounty Hunter?” she asked in a loud voice that could barely be heard over the wild wind and the shipboard noise. When Kyle acknowledged his code name, she said, “Follow me.” She led them across the wide deck to where a long silver aircraft was tied down by cables of braided steel, with its big wings folded back against its sides like a big butterfly at rest.

The turboprop Grumman C-2A Greyhound was a carrier onboard delivery plane, better known by its initials: COD. The rear hatch was open and the officer led them into the passenger bay where pairs of empty blue seats awaited in twos. She saluted and left without another word, not knowing the mission or the names, but having done her assigned job.

Now, under the watchful eye of still another crew chief, the group buckled into over-the-shoulder harnesses before it dawned upon Anneli that they were all facing backward, toward the rear hatch that was already being sealed shut. They were the only passengers. The flight crew had completed the preflight checks before they arrived. The wings folded out, the GW deck people performed their tasks flawlessly and the COD trundled into launch position and hooked to a catapult. The carrier was making twenty knots straight into a ten-knot wind, for a combined speed of almost thirty-five miles per hour that maximized the air flow to help the plane get more lift off the deck.

“Hold tight,” Swanson said to her, reaching over to place his hand on hers as the twin engines went from a comfortable whine to a howling roar, and the aircraft vibrated like a juice mixer. “This is going to be a kick.”

An enormous jerk threw them against the straps as the steam catapult hurled the plane straight and hard off the bow, and they accelerated from standing still to better than 160 miles per hour in two gut-churning seconds. Kyle gave Anneli a single absentminded pat. “That’s all there is to it,” he said when it was done, then settled into his seat. Anneli fought to remain as quiet as everyone else and tried not to throw up.

Kyle mentally ticked off another point on his checklist and looked at his watch. It was just after 0100. So far, so good. This aircrew also knew the destination, but not the reason for the trip, or the identities of the passengers. The awkward COD climbed higher and moved onto a westerly course toward a small airbase located southeast of Riga, in Latvia, near the town of Lielvārde. The pilot jacked the speed up, as fast as the old bucket could safely fly.

The transfer routine was repeated when the COD touched down in Latvia, deposited its passengers, made a quick visit to the refueling barn and then took off back for the carrier. The quartet of special operators was on NATO turf now, which gave Swanson confidence that the secrecy level was holding. They swapped into a fast little Gulfstream passenger jet that was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency. The plane wore no markings and was painted in a flat black. It had flown in earlier to provide for the next leg of the trip. They were soon back in the sky, this time for the quicker jump down to Lithuania. There was no crew chief this time, just a couple of CIA pilots in their front cabin, and rations were stored in a small galley. Swanson bit into a turkey and cheese sandwich, still thinking about the timetable. They were racing the dawn, and everyone felt the tension, which built by the mile. He had no options at this point: either his hasty plan worked, or it didn’t. Step by step. Brick by brick. Outrun the rumor mill, gossips and informants.

Darkness was still as thick as ink when the Gulfstream sliced down and made an easy landing on a narrow military airstrip. It rolled to a halt at a hangar that sat off by itself some distance from the tower. Armed guards were alert along the perimeter. Inside the hangar was still another helicopter, a unique, angular bird that was one of only a handful of its type in existence. One more ride, Swanson told his team. Not long now. They climbed aboard the stealth helicopter.

Thirty minutes later, Major Juozas Valteris heard a big presence pass overhead as he stood on an armored car near the Kaliningrad border, but the sound was much softer than he had expected. He was the only member of the Iron Wolf Mechanized Battalion who had been briefed in advance about what was happening, and he had the men on alert, but with their fingers away from their triggers, under a firm order not to fire. The soldiers looked up when they heard muffled thuds in the sky, but saw nothing. Whatever it was had come and gone so low and fast that it was invisible.

The stealth UH-60 helicopter was flown by an American crew from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne), the highly trained Nightstalkers, and it almost skimmed the big lake as it flew across the water. The aircraft, although rare, was a distant and customized cousin of the old Sikorsky on which Swanson, Anneli and the SAS snipers had begun their trip hours earlier.

This new crew chief also eventually held up two fingers for the two-minute warning, and then prepared to throw out long coils of heavy rope that were attached inside the cabin. Swanson and Baldwin watched the looming ground before them through night-vision scopes, and Anneli held her arms wide while Gray Perry, the strongest member of the group, snapped on four heavy D-rings to secure her harness to his own. The helicopter flared to a stop and the ropes went out.

The four made their way through the forest on soft feet. Baldwin, on point, moved like a bug with his enhanced night-vision goggles painting the way. Kyle was next so he could control the operation, and watched both flanks. Anneli was right behind, concentrating on stepping precisely where Swanson had stepped and not saying a word. Corporal Perry was Tail-End Charlie, guarding the rear. They avoided the matted path that had been worn into the forest floor over the years by the passage of many Russian soldiers and vehicles visiting the beach. The trees offered protection and safety.

The slope up from the lake was gradual, and the ascent was no problem for the physically fit men, but Anneli felt the burn in her thighs and lungs, and was breathing harder. Instead of being afraid, she was fascinated by the strange world and the three snipers who were moving so slowly and smoothly through it. They disturbed as little dirt and as few leaves as possible, and even the nocturnal animals gave them space without panic, somehow understanding that these new beings in the habitat were not threats to them. This was a different sort of predator, after some other species.

The snipers smelled the smoke before they saw the orange glow of a cigarette being enjoyed by a sentry at an outpost shack beside the trail. They stopped and watched for a minute, logging away the information that it was just one man, and the position would have to be dealt with on the way out. They could do nothing immediately because the man probably was due for relief within a few hours and any new sentry finding the corpse would raise an alarm. Baldwin led them deeper into the woods and they bypassed the guard without being noticed.

Onward they moved, taking one careful step at a time and keeping their weapons ready beneath old growth trees that blocked the stars and held the moisture in a mist of damp, chill air. Baldwin suddenly went to one knee and raised a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. Having become accustomed to the night and the wooded labyrinth, they felt the presence of other humans. For a full minute, they remained silent and still, then Baldwin whispered into the small microphone on the radio that linked the team members, and while the others went flat, he snaked away in a low crawl and disappeared into the muck.

He told them a few minutes later that they were there: They had reached the final firing position.

By the time the new sun began to brighten the sky at their backs, the snipers had built a pair of hides among the thick bushes and tangled roots at the crest of a ridge overlooking Rooster Cap Nowak. Many years ago, when the camp was first built, bulldozers had pushed the forest back, but the need for total vigilance had been slight during decades of no wars in this tiny part of Russia that was not even in Russia, and the woodland vines had marched back in their own time.

Hide sites had been easy to find in the remarkably thick undergrowth, and they had used entrenching tools to dig in from below and behind the old foliage, and swept away their tracks. The resulting spaces were like the burrows of large animals. Through openings between the leaves and branches, each had a clear view of the artillery base, although they remained invisible to any naked eye from below. Before settling in, they took turns cautiously emptying their bladders in the undergrowth and covering the scent with dirt, and then began the long and arduous day of waiting and watching, lasering ranges and sketching the target area. Waiting. Waiting.

The camp guards stirred to life with a morning formation at 0630 in a small central square and ran the Russian flag up a pole. Around the open area were a number of buildings that were standard for any such site — supply sheds, barracks, garages and mess halls. The nearby roads had been closed at midnight, and the first shift of soldiers carrying AK-47s opened the yellow barrier gates to serve the few early-bird trucks waiting to be checked through. The snipers estimated that about seventy-five men were in the camp, all going about routine duties and indicating no unusual level of alertness. “Just another day in paradise,” Sergeant Baldwin quipped over the radio net as he studied faces through his scope.

Swanson examined the firepower at the camp’s three strongpoints — all of them .50-caliber machine guns mounted behind sandbag parapets and interlocking the road junction, not facing the surrounding area as they should. The crews were running normal checks, cleaning and loading the weapons. Each guard post also had a protected pit holding a 120mm mortar, real man-eaters that could reach up to sixteen miles with an explosive charge that had a kill radius of some seventy yards. Now he knew which monsters would be chasing them back to Lake Vištytis.

Anneli wore a set of headphones attached to the man-pack acoustical surveillance device that she had hauled in. The simple device designed for field use emitted an invisible and narrow laser beam that bounced back to a small parabolic dish and delivered signals so clear that she could pick up individual voices. During the formation, an officer addressed the men, and she listened carefully, her face scrunched in concentration as she simultaneously translated word for word. It was all routine housekeeping assignments until the end.

“This evening at eighteen hundred hours, Lieutenant General Victor Mizon will arrive by helicopter. He has been our commander as deputy chief of the Border Service here, and has recently been promoted. The general is making a farewell inspection of all Kaliningrad facilities before his reassignment to Moscow. Our camp is on the agenda because he once was posted here when he was just a lieutenant.” When the briefing officer paused, so did Anneli. When he continued, so did she.

“This is also the general’s birthday and we will honor him with a celebration.” She added as an aside that some of the men in ranks quietly cheered that news.

The briefer continued. “Most of today will be devoted to preparing for this inspection. We want our camp to be immaculate by the time his helicopter arrives. At his request, there will be a reception line at eighteen thirty hours so he can personally greet each soldier and officer here. Afterward, General Mizon will have dinner in the officers’ mess, and our cooks will prepare special dishes for everyone. The men on duty will eat on a rotation schedule. He will spend the night here. His departure is scheduled for ten hundred hours tomorrow morning. Look sharp, men. One of our own is ascending to high rank!”

Anneli removed the headset and rubbed her ears. “Was that okay?” she asked Kyle.

“Finest kind,” he said, astonished at her literal and immediate translation. “You boys hear all that?”

“Oh, yes,” said Corporal Perry. “We have him right down to the minute. He is coming in right at six o’clock. No guesswork. Good job, Anneli.”