the back of the vehicle and allow it to take him close to his destination.
The truck slowed and stopped about 250 feet from his position. Two men approached the vehicle. They were dressed in white and carrying guns. They spoke to the driver of the truck before waving him on. The truck drew nearer to Will, but the soldiers stayed motionless in the center of the road, watching the vehicle. He knew that if he stepped onto the road at this point he would be spotted and could easily be shot. The truck was now only a few feet from him. He kept staring at the soldiers. The truck drew alongside him, audibly changed gears, and started moving faster. One of the soldiers turned to face the other direction. The truck passed Will and in seconds would be out of range for what he needed to do. He stared at the other soldier, willing him to turn and join his colleague. The soldier placed the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, looked to his left and right, and turned. Will wasted no time. He jumped up, sprinted onto the road, and chased after the truck.
It was now fifty feet ahead of him and picking up speed. He wondered if he had the strength and pace to reach it and if the two soldiers would turn around and shoot him in the back. He lowered his head, ran faster, got closer to the truck, heard it change gears again, realized that it was about to accelerate away, pumped his legs and arms harder to bring him within five feet of its rear, and leapt forward.
He grabbed the vehicle’s rear bumper and wrapped his arms tightly around it. Snow sprayed up either side of his body as he was dragged and tossed violently over the ground. He pulled with his arms and tried to move his body into a crouch position, but he slipped so that he was again horizontal and being dragged along the road. The soldiers were now 150 yards away, but the vehicle’s rear lights would still allow them to see him if they turned to face in his direction. He ignored the paratroopers and looked quickly to his left and right in case the truck was passing one of the jeeps or other paratroopers on foot. Pulling again, he kicked at the rapidly moving ground, looked up, saw a rear door handle on the truck, took a deep breath, and lunged upward toward the handle. He grabbed it with one hand just as the truck made a slight turn on the road and lifted his whole body into the air. Yanking with the arm holding the handle and the arm holding the bumper, he slammed his body against the back of the truck and lifted his knees high before banging his feet down onto the bumper. Out of breath, he felt pain creep over his back and legs. But he was secure on the vehicle, out of sight of its driver, and now out of sight of the foot patrol.
The truck drove steadily for a minute before breaking hard, skidding over the icy ground, and stopping. Will kept his grip firm while desperately looking left and right. He heard a door on the vehicle open and close, men’s voices and dogs barking, and he saw light on the ground. Standing fully on the bumper, he placed one foot on the door handle by his waist, thrust upward with his leg, and grabbed the top of the truck. Keeping his body flush against the vehicle, he pulled his body quickly onto the roof and lay there with his body pressed flat against its surface. The voices were all around the truck, and, judging by their noise, there was at least one dog to his right and one dog to his left. He was fifteen feet aboveground, hidden from view, and the snow-carrying wind would make his scent untraceable to the dogs. But he was surrounded, and if any of the men decided to check the truck’s roof he would have no choice other than to fight his way out of the place that was clearly the main checkpoint entrance to the submarine pens and their surrounding quarters.
He heard the truck’s rear door open and then footsteps inside the vehicle, directly beneath him. At least one of the men was searching the interior. The door slammed shut, followed by the bark of a dog and more voices. Will resisted the temptation to look over the side to see how many soldiers were around him. He kept motionless and waited. A door from the truck’s cabin opened and closed; then the vehicle shuddered as the driver engaged the gears and gunned the engine. A man said something loudly in Russian, and the truck moved slowly forward before picking up pace.
Will crawled quickly along the roof so that he was in the center of the truck, keeping low in case his increasing distance from the checkpoint gave the soldiers there visibility of him. As the truck moved onward he waited for thirty seconds before raising his head a few inches to look around. Everywhere was brightly illuminated. He saw buildings and submarines. The vessels were berthed alongside walkways, and as the truck continued on, Will counted sixteen craft. He saw four Delta IIIs, five Akula Is, one Akula II, and six Oscar IIs, one of which was captained by Svelte.
The truck slowed, and Will quickly crawled farther along its roof until he was close to the cabin. Three hundred feet ahead of him were six men standing on the road. Four of them looked like naval guards; the other two were airborne soldiers. Will crawled rapidly back along the roof and decided that he had to get off the vehicle before it reached the men. He looked around, lowered himself down the back of the truck, and waited while continuing to look left and right. When he saw nothing, he jumped to the ground.
He rolled over snow and lay flat for a moment, watching the taillights of the truck move away from his position. He waited until the truck was closer to the men and would hide his movements from their vision. After counting five seconds, he rose to one knee and looked around again before dashing off the road and into darkness. Pulling out his handgun, he attached the sound suppressor to the weapon and walked carefully alongside a building wall while tightly gripping the gun. Svelte’s quarters were very close now.
He moved to the edge of the building and stood by a narrow road. There were buildings on either side of the route, and each one had an external lamp casting a dim light over the road. But none of the buildings had internal lights on, save one small hut. That building was Svelte’s quarters and would be where the man slept, washed, dressed, and sometimes ate when not dining in the officers’ mess or on board his submarine. It was about three hundred yards away from him on the left of the road. He looked up and down the route, checked his watch, and waited for a few seconds before deciding he had to move.
Moving out of the alley, he looked toward Svelte’s residence and tightly gripped his handgun. He knew he needed to be within the man’s quarters in seconds. He ran.
When he came to within a few feet of Svelte’s hut, he slowed to a walk, crouched low, and pulled out his military knife. He moved carefully forward, looking around, with his gun in one hand and the knife in the other. The narrow street was still quiet as he looked up and down the route. His eyes narrowed. A streak of light began moving slowly down the road. It was daylight.
Moving up to the hut’s door, he brought the knife up to force its lock. He frowned. The door was already ajar an inch. He pushed at it and immediately slammed his back against the adjacent wall so that he would not be visible to anyone inside. He waited, and when he heard nothing he swung himself low into the doorway with his handgun held forward. The room before him was small. It contained a tiny dining table and chair, a sofa, a television, an illuminated corner lamp, wall-mounted shelves filled with books, and a free-standing rack with a coat hanger holding an immaculately pressed naval captain’s dress uniform. Beyond the room was a corridor, and Will moved silently into it. To his left was a room with a toilet, hand basin, and shower cubicle. To his right was a closed door. He crouched down and moved to one side of the door while placing his knife into its scabbard. Then he removed his jacket hood, lifted his handgun up high, and used his free hand to open the door.
A man was lying in the center of the room, moaning. Will ran to him and crouched down. Immediately, he recognized the man from a photograph he’d seen in MI6 headquarters. It was Svelte, and he was dressed in uniform. The MI6 Russian agent’s face was screwed up in agony. His stomach had been torn open by a knife.
In Russian, Will said urgently, “I am a British intelligence officer.” He cradled the back of Svelte’s head and leaned down so that his face was inches away from the agent’s. “Who did this to you?”
Svelte’s eyes partially opened, his lips moved, but the only sound he made was a blood-filled guttural noise.
Will shook his head with disbelief. One of MI6’s most prized Russian agents was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. Will had traveled halfway around the world to meet him, but now it seemed that his journey might have been a waste of time. He moved even closer to him. “You sent us a message. What did it mean?”
Svelte shook his head; tears streamed down the sides of his face.
“Who did this to you? Who wants to go to war?”
Svelte gripped Will’s forearm tightly and opened his bloody mouth. But still no words came out.
Will felt anger, sorrow, and frustration that he’d not gotten to Svelte sooner. This was his fault. He’d failed the Russian officer. “Please… please try to speak.” He made no attempt to hide the desperation he felt. “I’m so very sorry. I should have got to you sooner.”
Svelte’s back arched as his body went into a spasm, and he cried out in agony. His body slumped back to the floor; his breathing was fast and shallow. Unscrewing his eyes, he stared straight at Will. “Not… not your fault.” He spoke with a barely audible voice. “Khmelnytsky… Colonel Taras Khmelnytsky. War between Russia and America.” He coughed blood and gritted his teeth. “Only Sentinel can stop him.”
