Vektor (48 page)

“Black Rain reports good hits on all targets. Four BTRs and two Tigers destroyed on the road. Three Hellfire missiles remaining. Black Rain will remain on station until all ordnance expended,” Sanderson said.

“Copy. Just make sure Black Rain keeps us positively identified throughout the city. We’re driving a Tiger and I just saw what a Hellfire missile can do to a Tiger,” Farrington said.

“Roger. Recommend that you activate your IR strobe once inside the city. That’ll keep Black Rain off your ass. Use the lowest intensity setting. Remember, the Russians can see that strobe with their night vision. Black Rain is repositioning to cover you from the top down.”

“We’re less than a minute from entering the town. Any chance of a straight shot across?”

“Not likely. I’m looking at eight Tigers and five BTRs less than two kilometers from the northern access road. Even if you did slip by, they’d be all over your ass on the way to the border. You could have avoided all of this drama by staying on the trails,” Sanderson said.

“And we’d be forty kilometers from the border instead of fifteen, with little chance of reaching our pickup. We weren’t making enough progress,” Farrington said.

A few seconds of icy silence hung over the net before Sanderson spoke.

“Let’s get you through the city undetected. You’ll have to slow down as soon as you reach the first houses on the left. You’ll need to take a left on a dirt road just past the seventh house. This road will curve to the right and put you at a dirt intersection with homes on all four sides. Take another left at the intersection. We’ll assess enemy vehicle movement from there,” Sanderson said.

“Solid copy. We’re passing the destroyed BTRs right now,” Farrington said, tracking the wrecked convoy through his windows.

The first armored vehicle remained upright on eight surprisingly intact wheels, burning brightly through the blown side and top hatches. A massive hole above the troop compartment poured thick smoke and sparks into the darkened sky. The second and third BTR on the road had fared no better, belching flame through every opening into the Siberian air, evidence of torn metal and burning material scattered on the road between them. The last BTR had been knocked onto its side by the force of the explosion that inflicted a three-foot wide hole in its left side and blew the turret at least fifty into the field. Misha swerved to avoid the smoking chunk of metal as they passed down the left side of the road, giving Farrington a view of the twisted gun barrel sticking up from the grass. Looking back as the Tiger rejoined the road, he could see an area the size of two football fields softly illuminated by dozens of small fires and burning fragments thrown from the obliterated vehicles. The glow receded as their Tiger reached the first house and Misha started counting the houses out loud. Misha found the dirt road and slowed to make the turn.

“Gosha, activate the strobe,” Farrington said.

“Strobe activated,” Gosha replied.

A few seconds later, Sanderson’s voice echoed through his headset.

“Russian vehicles are starting to deploy east through the town in response to the explosions. If they keep going east, you’ll run into them trying to break through to the west. We’re going to hit the first one to reach the northern road with a Hellfire and try to draw them away. I’ve just been told that Black Rain has identified your strobe and marked your vehicle as friendly. You’re looking good. Keep heading south on that road.”

It now seemed that the only people who didn’t know where the vehicle was headed, were the people actually in the vehicle. Farrington stared at the green image ahead, trying to make sense of the dirt road that barely stood out from the rest of the landscape. Several scattered houses forming the rough outline of a road guided them, but for all he could tell, they could have been driving through a row of backyards.

“Coming up on a right curve. Make sure you take a left at the first intersection after the curve. Once you take that left, keep going and don’t turn west until I tell you to. You’ll be off-road at that point, but there’s a massive windbreak on the eastern edge of town that will keep you hidden. Keep pushing south,” Sanderson said.

“Got it. Misha, can you see a curve?” Farrington said.

“I can’t see shit.”

“Coming up in thirty meters. On my laser. You might want to slow down,” Gosha said.

Both of them saw a bright green line mark the start of the curve, which gave them a better frame of reference, but did little to help either of them identify the turn. Misha slowed at the point and started to gently turn.

“Sharper turn! You’re gonna roll us into that ditch,” Gosha said.

Farrington felt the vehicle lurch to the right, as Misha turned the wheel suddenly.

“Nobody said a fucking thing about a ditch!” Misha replied.

“This looks good,” Farrington said, pretty sure they were straightened out on the road.

A few seconds later, they reached the intersection and turned left, continuing south into the fields behind a large barn and several unlit homes. He saw the thick row of trees Sanderson had mentioned past the houses, and directed Misha to work his way along the field until they found an opening in the tightly sown windbreak.

“Missile away,” Sanderson said.

Farrington leaned forward and craned his neck to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the inbound Hellfire. A bright flash reflected off the treetops and the top of the barn, blinding his night vision goggles, followed by a massive crunching sound.

“Scratch one BTR. Find a path through the trees and stand by to make a high-speed run due west,” Sanderson said.

“Follow my mark, Misha,” Gosha said.

Misha accelerated toward the tree line, chasing Gosha’s laser. He stopped the Tiger less than twenty meters from the opening.

“Russian units are speeding to the site of the destroyed BTR. We’re going to fire one more at a building north of the city. As soon as you hear the explosion, take off looking for an east-west road. All of them cut directly across the town. Deactivate your strobe,” Sanderson said.

“Strobe deactivated,” Gosha said.

“We’re at a break in the trees,” Farrington said.

“Stand by…missile away,” Sanderson said.

Eight seconds later, Farrington saw a bright green flash to the north. He slapped Misha’s shoulder, and the Tiger rocketed forward before the sound of the explosion reached them. Misha turned the jeep left on the gravel road just beyond the trees, searching for a westerly route. Farrington spotted what appeared to be a wide turnoff coming up on the right.

“Try that,” he said, pointing uselessly at the turnoff.

“Where?” Misha said, slowing.

“Right there. Looks like a car parked at the corner, or some kind of—”

“Got it,” he said, swinging the car onto the road and speeding up.

“You’re clear to punch through town. The closest units to the south are three kilometers away, just entering Slavgorod,” Sanderson said.

A few minutes later, Misha brought the Tiger to a halt in unfamiliar territory on the far western outskirts of town. They needed to connect with one of the major jeep trails headed southwest, which would feed into a network of smaller westerly trails that emptied directly into the border less than twelve kilometers away.

“Anyone following us?” Farrington said.

“Not that I can tell,” Gosha said.

“You look clear from where I’m standing,” Sanderson said, eliciting a few tired laughs.

“Anything ahead of us?” Farrington said.

“Nothing heavy. We’ve spotted a few Tigers running up and down the border, but we’ll help you get past those. I’m going to notify control, so they can release Black Magic from the holding area,” Sanderson said.

“Copy. We’re moving out.”

Farrington looked at his watch and smiled.
4:27
. They had nearly thirty minutes to travel twelve kilometers over flat terrain, with nobody in immediate pursuit. Maybe this hadn’t been the suicide mission he expected after all. Then again, it was too early to start thinking like that. A lot could go wrong in twelve kilometers.

“Head out on the trail to the left at fifty miles per hour. If it stays southwest, increase your speed. Stay frosty, gentlemen. We ain’t out of the woods yet.”

Chapter 65

3:39 AM

CIA Compound, Manas Airbase

Manas, Kyrgyzstan

Dean Canales stared at the shifting infrared image of the Tiger on his screen and manipulated the joystick at his station to decrease the magnification and display a more panoramic view. Based on the Reaper’s sensor input, Blackjack was less than three kilometers from the Kazakhstan border, with a clear path ahead of them. The nearest enemy vehicle, a heavily armed Tiger, sat four kilometers southwest of them at the end of the jeep trail in front of the border. Blackjack had jumped the trail a few kilometers back, heading due west at a conservative off-road speed that would put them on Kazakhstan soil in six minutes if they didn’t blow a tire. Even if they blew a tire at this point, they could limp across the border in time to meet their pickup.

“Let’s do one more sweep for hostiles. Climb to three thousand feet and start a three sixty centered on Blackjack’s current position,” Canales said.

“Roger. Climbing,” the other CIA employee said.

“All right. Let’s see who’s out there,” he said, adjusting his joystick to sweep the area north of Blackjack.

Commands transmitted from the mobile ground control station took 1.2 seconds to reach Black Rain through a satellite link, which made operating the drone an interesting exercise in forward thinking. Nothing happened immediately, and high-stress situations required an odd form of time-delayed patience. Former pilots had a difficult time adjusting to a video-game-style flight mode that didn’t immediately respond to their “stick” movements, and were rarely transitioned to UAV programs. The CIA preferred to steal previously trained drone pilots from the Air Force, or in the case of Dean Canales, train them from scratch.

The Raytheon AN/DAS-1 Multi-Spectral Targeting System (MTS-B) mounted under the Reaper’s nose responded to his commands, sweeping north and panning out to an even wider view than previously established. Canales focused on the MTS-B’s infrared sensor’s input, which gave him the best chance of detecting any threats within the sensor’s view. The Siberian landscape had retained little of the previous day’s heat, providing a near perfect backdrop for the passive infrared sensor. The heat signature of a human or recently run vehicle starkly contrasted with the cold ground, making his job relatively simple. The system’s software did the rest, automatically locking onto these signatures for further investigation by human operators. Canales would make a quick assessment, based on system recommendations and his own experience, whether the Reaper needed to do a closer sweep over a detected signature.

With his eyes fixed to the screen, he reached for an insulated coffee mug on the floor with his unoccupied hand. He found one of the mugs and lifted it, quickly determining that it was too light to be his backup supply of caffeine. He moved his hand around under the thick leather swivel seat in frustration, finally deciding to take his eyes off the screen for a brief second. He turned the seat to the right and leaned his head over the side, immediately finding the tall black mug and lifting it from the floor. Now he was back in business.

He had crashed hard ten minutes ago, coming down off the incredible adrenaline rush initiated by the brief one-sided battle over Slavgorod. He’d fired more than his fair share of Hellfire missiles against Al Qaeda operatives or other “extremists,” and was no stranger to questionable drone missions, but what they did over Slavgorod was something different altogether. Whatever Blackjack carried in that Tiger had to be absolutely critical to national security because he had just committed an act of war against the Russian Federation to defend it.

He couldn’t imagine the agency debrief for this operation and all of the paperwork he’d have to sign swearing this to secrecy. The only immediate upside he could foresee would be an instantaneous transfer out of this shithole back to the United States. He expected to be on the first flight out of Manas after landing the Reaper, which suited him fine. Manas Airbase was a miserable assignment that he’d reluctantly agreed to take for the hardship pay.

When he returned his gaze to the multi-sensor input console, his eyes caught something exiting the bottom of the screen at high speed. He didn’t see enough of the image to determine what had crossed the screen, but based on the sensor’s orientation, it was travelling north to south. He nestled the coffee mug between his legs and checked the system for a software tag. Finding it at the top of the queue, he hooked the tag and clicked on the icon to slave the MTS-B turret on the Reaper to the heat signature. One point two seconds later, he experienced an adrenaline spike that felt like more of a heart attack. Two Mi-8 Hip helicopters had passed under his Reaper, headed toward Blackjack.

Chapter 66

4:40 AM

2.5 Kilometers from Kazakhstan Border

Russian Federation

The Tiger dropped into a shallow ditch, jamming Farrington against the four-point harness that had kept his body inside the vehicle over the past several minutes. The vehicle suddenly angled skyward and cleared the ditch in a violent lurching motion.

“You gotta watch that shit! We can’t get stuck!” Farrington said, fully aware that he was letting the conditions get the better of him.

“You didn’t see the fucking ditch either! I’ve been driving this motherfucker in the dark for four hours. I could use a little help watching the road!” Misha said.

“Check out the eastern horizon,” Gosha said, temporarily diffusing the tension.

Farrington raised his night vision goggles and risked a look out of the passenger window. The horizon indeed displayed a faint blue glow, which signified the beginning of nautical twilight. Soon enough, the landscape surrounding them would start to appear without the aid of night vision, exposing them to simple observation by border patrols or aircraft. He hoped to be flying across Kazakhstan in a helicopter by that point.