tank.
Vatz rushed toward Zack; never breaking cover, he said in perfect Russian, “Don’t miss.”
The sergeant answered in English. “Right. But forget the Russian, Nathan. Our cover’s been seriously blown.”
Vatz and his colleagues were Joint Strike Force soldiers wearing enemy uniforms. They would be considered spies. They would not be taken prisoner. There would be no diplomatic negotiation for their release.
Hurrying farther along the wall, Vatz found the detachment commander, Captain Tom Gerard, and the assistant detachment commander, Chief Warrant Officer 3 Douglas Barnes, speaking softly, Gerard working an index finger over his pocket PC. Next to them were the team’s two commo guys, and farther back were the two engineers and assistant weapons sergeant, Russian Varjag heavy pistols drawn as they covered the end of the alley. One of the two medics was positioned at the near side.
Somewhere in the distance voices lifted. The Spetsnaz dismounted forces were drawing closer. And the drizzle was beginning to get heavier, promising a downpour.
“Hey, Vatz,” grunted the captain. “Heard you calling, but I was on the Shadowfire with higher.”
“Bad news?”
Barnes, a round-faced man with more than twenty years of service, smiled broadly. “We have to fall back another half klick. Our friends across the street have pushed too far forward, and our bird can’t get in here. She’s already found a secure spot behind a parking garage near the old municipal airport.”
“Couldn’t be easy, huh?”
“Vatz, we’re a Joint Strike Force team in the middle of Moscow. Operational Detachment Alpha. Special Forces. The world is at war. Damn. If you wanted easy, you should’ve joined the—”
“My cousin’s in the Air Force.”
“I was going to say the circus.”
“We got one right here. What the hell happened? They were waiting for us.”
Gerard and Barnes just shrugged.
Vatz swore under his breath. “Let’s move.”
As team sergeant, Vatz was responsible for the fighting men during combat situations, which freed up Barnes and Gerard to maintain close contact with their company commander and coordinate team movements within the larger battle plan.
At the moment, Vatz was all about giving one order:
He called the others out of the alley, just as Zack announced that his missile was locked, his eye pressed tightly against the command launch unit’s night-vision sight. A heartbeat later, he fired.
The missile ripped away with a terrific
Like a star in the night, the missile streaked up into the dark mantle of clouds. Even as Zack ditched the launcher and scrambled to his feet, the projectile abruptly changed course, coming straight down in top-attack mode. It struck the tank’s turret with a powerful explosion that shattered nearby windows and, in turn, tore into the ammo compartment, creating several more explosions, white-hot shrapnel fountaining from the wreckage.
As more tongues of fire rose from the dead tank, Vatz signaled the others on down the avenue, then stole a glance at his wrist-mounted GPS. The captain had already programmed in their destination. All they had to do was leap over the debris and bodies, connect the dots, and they’d be home.
If you wanted easy.
The two medics, Patterson and Eck, were in charge of keeping the “package” in good shape, said package being one Pavel Doletskaya, a special forces colonel working for the
According to intel intercepted by the European Federation Enforcers Corps (EFEC), Doletskaya worked for the big man himself, General Sergei Izotov, the director of the GRU. The two were planning a covert operation with mention of the Amundsen Gulf region up in Canada. The EFEC had tipped off the Joint Strike Force, and the team had gone into isolation until the opportunity arose to abduct the good colonel. Weeks of planning had resulted in a clean snatch as Doletskaya was leaving “The Aquarium” (the nickname for GRU headquarters) and heading home for the night.
Moreover, the team had done a fine job of wrapping their package. They had bound his wrists, taped his mouth, and placed a ballistic assault helmet with full visor over his head. They needed to protect that head. What he had in it could prove extremely valuable. They had also fitted him with a Dragon Skin armored vest composed of silver dollar-shaped pieces of silicon carbide ceramic. The pieces overlapped like fish scales to help dissipate a bullet’s kinetic energy. Doletskaya was far better protected than any member of the team and, of course, worth a lot more to the JSF than they were.
Rifle fire suddenly erupted behind them, rounds burrowing into the wall just a meter behind Vatz.
He wanted to scream for the others to move faster, but that incoming was more than enough motivation.
They charged forward, Barnes and Gerard in the lead, the medics and Doletskaya and the rest right behind them. Vatz pulled up the rear.
Vatz raced to the next corner, dodged behind a wall, then rolled back and opened fire as Zack arrived at his side, adding more suppressing fire.
Six Spetsnaz troops were hustling across the road about a block away, muzzles flashing as they cut loose another salvo.
Vatz and Zack fired a few more rounds that sent them into crouching positions; then Vatz urged Zack back and the sergeant nodded and took off.
The wind picked up and the rain finally came, hard and heavy, in time with Vatz’s pulse.
Meanwhile, the team ducked right down another alley, heading for the next street, and a glance at his GPS told Vatz that the captain was taking a shortcut, probably getting word from Detachment Bravo. That Special Forces team was back at the tactical command post, monitoring their Blue Force Tracking screens and informing the captain that more soldiers were beginning to surround them.
Vatz got on the radio. “Victor Six, this is Vortex.”
“Go ahead, Vortex.”
“We have a squad in pursuit. Maybe more coming, over.”
“Roger, there are at least a few guys coming from the west, along with a vehicle from the north.”
“I figured. We’ll break off and intercept the dismounts. Buy you a little time, over.”
“Do it.”
“On our way. Vortex, out.”
Zack, who’d been listening over the channel, slowed as Vatz caught up with him. They continued straight up the street, toward a two-story warehouse or factory.
As they reached the corner, they jumped down a meter into a loading bay area, where collected rainwater nearly reached their knees.
Zack swore, slipped, fell face forward, and Vatz seized his arm and dragged him up. They trudged forward, out of the puddle, toward where flashlights — three to be exact — shone across the street from an alley that divided another two factory buildings in half.
Vatz tipped his head in that direction, and they sprinted off, able to reach the wall near the alley before the Spetsnaz troops emerged.
There they paused, and in the seconds it took to catch his breath, Vatz tapped his GPS, zooming in on his location to see if they should circle around the alley and come in from the back side or simply try a frontal approach.
A man’s voice, low and heavily burred, echoed off the walls. The Russians were right there.
Zack’s expression grew emphatic with the need for orders.
Vatz motioned Zack to crouch down, then whispered into his mike: “I got the first one.”
“Okay.”
The soldier reached the end of the alley, and Vatz already had his BlackHawk Caracara knife in hand, a black talon of steel that would cut silently and effortlessly through flesh.
The soldier came forward, waving his light—
