Patriot

CHAPTER 79

Ambrose led the men into the snowy woods. To the precise spot where he and Halter had hidden such a short time ago.

Their entire team were dressed in the winter combat whites of the Tenth Mountain Division. Congreve had promised snow, and he’d been right on the money. They looked like swiftly moving ghosts, with invisible feet, slipping silently through the trees.

“Here’s the spot, just here,” Congreve whispered to Hawke. “Clear shot at the main gate just outside the entrance at KGB II headquarters. Something’s going on. See the black Audi with the chauffeur asleep at the wheel out front?”

Hawke raised the binoculars and had a look.

“An A8. The kind of car you’re likely to see buzzing around the Kremlin,” Hawke said.

“Exactly,” Congreve said. “I recognized that plate number from the last time I was here. He’s back all right. That’s Uncle Joe’s car and driver, all right.”

“Good. I thought we’d end up in Moscow going door-to-door looking for a ghost. Do you know who belongs to the battered old jeep as well?”

“That would be our American cousin, Colonel Beauregard. He lives here on the base. Halter and I both saw his jeep parked out there before we saw him getting dressed down by Uncle Joe and his military tribunal. Halter told me that both the Colonel and old Joe maintain offices in that headquarters building. And private sleeping quarters as well. I think we just got lucky.”

“We could use a bit right now. What’s at the other end of that road disappearing around the trees over there?”

“That’s the original and primary Russian military operation. Four miles away. Nearly ten thousand troops over there. I’d leave that sleeping bear the hell alone.”

“What about the guard situation here?”

“Standard ops. Four Spetsnaz fighters outside at the gate, two more off duty inside the guard house. Twelve-hour shifts.”

“Okay, let’s get this done.” Hawke rose and went over to Stokely, who was crouching behind some fallen trees laden with snow, checking his weapons.

“Stoke, sniper time. We’re a go in five minutes. Where’s Fat?”

Stoke turned around and whispered over his shoulder, “Fat, on me. Now.”

“What’s up?” Saunders said, crouching down to join them, brushing fresh snow off the barrel of his sniper rifle.

“Two guards. Spetsnaz, nothing but trouble. One on either side of the gate. Take ’em out.”

“Spetsnaz? That’s all they got? Shit, man.” Fat brought up his weapon and sighted in on his designated targets, adjusting for elevation and windage.

“You don’t think much of them, Fat?” Hawke said. He always liked to hear what the real deal had to say. The guys who were in elbow deep and knew what they were talking about.

“Tell you the truth, compared to our reduced training lately, those dang boys over there are pure badass. Our current military is so watered down and pussified that it’s sickening, sir. I’m former Army Infantry and I’m pretty appalled at the lack of toughness in our current armed forces. I wanted my drill sergeants to kick my butt, ’cause I thought there was more dignity in getting hit in training than getting smoked in combat. But today? That’s why I quit. Hard-ass is just not allowed anymore because of the gradual pussification of standards.”

Hawke looked at him with new respect. He had the right man with the right gun. Same gun he’d probably carried as an Army Ranger sniper. A 5.56 semiauto sniper rifle.

“Take ’em out now, sir?”

Hawke looked at his watch and said, “Not just yet. More are asleep inside. Gator’s going to blow the gate in four minutes…”

“Got it, sir.”

“The two outside on my signal. The main assault starts in three minutes, Fat,” Hawke said. “Take out every guard you see as they come out the door. Then the rest. Wait a beat. Anything else presents itself, you stay here and do your job. Otherwise, double-time it and get with us on the way inside that building. You strong, Fat?”

“Army strong, sir.”

“Attaboy. There are your targets, son. On my mark… mark… four… three… two… FIRE.”

There was a barely audible phfft-phfft and the targets dropped, instantly dead of head shots.

“Gator? Situation report,” Hawke said into his lip mike.

“Gator’s in position, sir,” Hawke heard in his earbuds. “Charges set. Ready to trigger…”

Hawke said: “Mark… four… three… two… FIRE.”

The night lit up. There was suddenly a hole where the gate used to be…

“Let’s move!” Hawke cried, breaking out into the open and racing toward Gator’s new position inside the perimeter. Stoke and the others were right behind him, charging through the hard-packed snow and racing through the blown gate. Almost immediately, more off-duty guards burst out the door, weapons at the ready.

And, almost instantly, they were dead, smoked by Fat over in the woods.

“Heads up, Fat!” Hawke cried, taking a knee in the snow next to Gator. A group of six more Spetsnaz came busting out of the HQ, weapons up and charging toward their position…

“Fat, fire at will!” he shouted. He and Gator and everyone who had a shot took it. Even Ambrose, who was carrying a Bullpup AR-15 Stoke had given him, was spitting lead with the best of them.

It was over in seconds. The Stokeland Raiders had not only met the enemy, they had shredded them. The team bunched up at the foot of the steps up to HQ; their blood was up now.

“Gator! Go rig those charges around the base of the main door. Fat, grab that cover over there and waste anyone you see.”

“Charges set!” Gator said, moving away from the door.

“Gator. On my mark, breach and clear… on three. Mark… two…” The steel doors blew off the hinges and sailed out into the night.

“Go, go, go!” Hawke cried.

Hawke and the Raiders were up the steps and inside in a heartbeat. Hawke, his eyes darting everywhere at once, saw staff, military and clerical alike, throwing themselves to the floor. These men were in a blind panic at the sight of heavily armed military types, in ghostlike white regalia, who had just burst into their lives; all were stunned that this isolated and top secret enclave of the top KGB brass was not as inviolate as they’d been told.

“Chief Inspector, would you please translate something for me?”

“Fire away.”

“Everyone stay right where you are,” Hawke said, “facedown on the floor. No one will hurt you if you keep quiet and don’t move.”

“Done,” Congreve said, and told them what to do in Russian.

“Brock, get us a head count, please, and check them all for weapons… I said, don’t move!” Hawke shouted at a man who was rolling over onto his back with his hand going inside his jacket.

“GUN!” Stoke cried. “Boss, he’s got a gun!”

Stoke made a move to kick the small automatic out of the man’s hand, but he was a second too late. Hawke had pulled his 9mm sidearm from his shoulder holster and put a round between the man’s eyes.

Everyone got very still.

“That’s much better,” Hawke said. “Now, who in this room speaks English? And who is the highest-ranking officer? Please identify yourself.”

There was silence.

A moment later, someone on the floor in the far corner spoke up loud and clear and in English with a strong Texas accent.

The big man in khakis said, “Well, since you just shot Major General Yuri Andropov, I guess it’s me. Guilty on both counts.”

Hawke swung around and stared at him and said, “Beauregard?”

“That’s what they call me.”

“Stoke, escort that Yank soldier over there to the nearest conference room. Cuff his wrists to a chair and see what you can get out of him. I’ll be there in two minutes — need to find out what the hell happened to Gator and Fat. They seem to be MIA and I don’t—”

At that very moment, Gator entered the building and a second later he was speaking in Hawke’s ear: “You gotta come outside and see this. Fat was helping me finish rigging charges when we saw this guy diving into the backseat of that black Audi out front. Crawled out a bedroom window on the far side of the building and—”

“Let’s go,” Hawke said, headed for the door.