for you?”
“You’re good. It’s nothing.”
Brent and his team were but five minutes from reaching the northeast perimeter of the forest when Dennison called.
He’d thought he was being glib about following the trail of bodies to locate the Snow Maiden, but Dennison and her allies had been doing just that:
Flexford. Roadblock. Two dead cops.
The Snow Maiden had gone south, then had turned east and was now, perhaps, en route toward the coast to cross the English Channel and head into Europe. At least that was Dennison’s theory. The town of Dover was a major ferry port and about ninety kilometers away.
“There will be at least two or three obvious escape points,” Brent told Dennison. “And she’ll have decoys, just like the Seychelles.”
“We can’t expect anything less.”
“Right, so we need to track every vehicle between here and the coast,” he said, his voice growing more emphatic.
“Brent, that’s a huge search and a massive amount of data. The government’s declared martial law, but there’s a mad dash to the coast now, with thousands of cars on the road, and you know she could’ve changed vehicles.”
“But maybe she didn’t.”
“I’ll do what I can. Hammer out.”
Brent blinked hard and studied the terrain map and live satellite overlay in his HUD. Six Spetsnaz troops, identified as red blips, were closing in on the green blip, Thomas, who was still beating a serpentine path through the forest. The images streaming in from his goggles were blurry, jittery, but clearly noted his effort.
“Lakota, keep Thomas updated, over?”
“Roger, I’m on it,” she said, then immediately began speaking to the Splinter Cell, feeding him data on the Russians behind him so that he could concentrate on moving and communicating without splitting his attention between the course ahead and his own HUD. She would guide him directly toward their location.
The team came to a fork in the road, with the forest dead ahead, and Brent instructed both drivers to pull over and wait for them.
In silence the Ghosts dismounted from both trucks and expertly fanned out in a split-team formation, Lakota leading one group, he taking the other.
“Schleck, when we draw in, I need a sentinel, over.”
“Just say the word,” came the sniper’s immediate reply.
“Riggs, you, too,” Brent added.
“Hope I don’t break a nail,” she said with a snort.
“All right, Ghosts, listen up. We’ll flank, cross, and top down, with the package running a TD right up the middle.”
“You read my mind,” said Lakota.
Brent jogged with the fear and enthusiasm of a first-year cadet at West Point, threading through stands of large oaks and booting his way across a carpet of dirt and leaves. The air was much cooler and slightly damper.
Heston, Park, and Noboru fanned out to the left, while Lakota, Daugherty, and Copeland shifted right. The plan was simple: Guide Thomas through the center of their flanking positions, toward the trucks. Once he passed, they would squeeze the belt on the approaching Spetsnaz and catch them in a crossfire — which was, in fact, a diversion that would allow Riggs and Schleck — the sentinels positioned in the trees — to shoot them from their overhead snipers’ perches.
How much of that plan survived the first enemy contact was a question they had no time to pose—
Because in less than two minutes they’d have their answer.
Lakota cursed.
“What?” Brent asked.
“Check southern perimeter. Got some armed officers from Sandhurst moving into the woods. They must’ve spotted the Russians.”
Brent saw them, too. “Aw, man…”
“I know,” she said.
“Cross-Com, this is Ghost Lead,” Brent called into his mike, activating the Cross-Com’s new artificial- intelligence feedback control.
“Go ahead, Ghost Lead,” came the automated voice of a tactical computer aboard a satellite hurtling some 220,000 miles over Brent’s head.
“Lock on to foes. All others in the area are IDed as friendlies, over.”
“Roger. Foes locked. Friendlies identified. Four additional combatants moving into operational zone. Are these the contacts you wish IDed as friendlies, over?”
“Roger!”
“Designating.”
At least Brent’s people wouldn’t misidentify those officers from the academy; they would appear as green blips in the team’s HUDs. However, those academy personnel could easily mistake a Ghost Recon troop for a Russian — after all, both groups wore nondescript black, with only the design of their helmets being different, along with their communications devices. The Russians had a headset resembling a pair of sunglasses, whereas the Cross-Com was monocle-based.
Of course, you had to think like a young military man whose country was being invaded: Any guy with a gun who didn’t look like British military was an enemy. Shoot first. Apologize later.
Brent notified the rest of the team about the academy officers as he and the other group advanced toward their flanking zones. Their jobs were threefold now: rescue Thomas, ensure that the Brits did not interfere, and try to shield those officers from the Russians. If they had to neutralize one of the Brits, they would do so with less- than-lethal fire, and his team members carried an assortment of such weapons.
Amazingly, the initial plan was still in place despite one unforeseen complication.
He grinned darkly to himself and jogged on behind Heston, Park, and Noboru. They reached their positions, and he sent his three men ahead while he dropped behind a pair of trees and listened as Lakota instructed Thomas to begin turning northwest along a line that would take him directly between them.
“Riggs, Schleck, you up there?”
“Almost,” said Schleck, his voice tense.
“What’s the delay?”
“Sorry, Ghost Lead,” said Riggs. “My fault. I needed his help. I’m up now.”
“And so am I,” Schleck reported.
“Stand by…”
Brent lost his breath as he eyed the HUD and saw the Russians closing in on Thomas, coming within thirty meters. Automatic weapons fire broke the still, damp quiet.
That fire had come from the Russians, and through Thomas’s goggles Brent noted the trees splintering on Thomas’s right side.
At nearly the same time, more gunfire echoed from the south — this from the academy officers who were closing in behind the Russians.
Not good. One of their stray rounds could catch Thomas.
Brent watched now as two Russians broke off from the chase to circle back on the Brits.
He broke from his cover and ran parallel behind Heston, Noboru, and Park. “Ghost Team, I’m heading south after those two break-off guys. Once Thomas is through the gap, Lakota, you put the snipers to work, over?”
“Roger that,” she replied.
“Keep running, Thomas, you’re almost there,” Brent cried.
Only the Splinter Cell’s panting came through the mike. He was at his top pace now, his heart rate in the red zone, and he was probably scared as hell as another salvo of gunfire boomed.
