09.Deep Black: Death Wave Page 14

  Dean wanted to be as far away as possible when that happened.

  10

  ART ROOM

  NSA HEADQUARTERS

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  WEDNESDAY, 2305 HOURS EDT

  Akulinin’s voice was coming over the speaker in the Art Room’s ceiling. “Keep going! Kick, Masha! Kick!”

  They heard the splashing, heard Akulinin’s gasps as he breathed between shouted encouragements.

  “Ilya!” they heard a woman’s voice call, ragged with terror. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m right … here! You’re doing … fine!”

  In the distance, they could hear the helicopters.

  “I wish we could see,” Marie Telach said. On the large display, zoomed in now to show only the area near the Panj River a few miles upstream from the bridge, a single green icon slowly moved in the middle of the river. Two red triangles showed just to the north and farther upstream.

  That’s where Charlie Dean is right now, Rubens thought. “How long before support gets there?” he asked.

  “NATO One-Three is five minutes out,” Vic Klein said. “Delta Green One is eight minutes.”

  NATO One-Three was a flight of German Tornado combat aircraft with Tactical Reconnaissance Wing 51 “Immelmann,” deployed to Afghanistan as a part of the NATO force there. Delta Green One was the rescue helo out of Kabul.

  “Just … hang on to … the pants,” Akulinin’s voice said. “We’re—” The voice was lost in a burst of static. Then, “Relax … keep kicking …”

  Radio signals from the implant transceiver were blocked by just a foot or so of water. As long as Akulinin was floating or swimming on the surface, enough of the antenna in the belt around his waist was close enough to the surface that they could still pick up his signal. But every once in a while, he let his legs sink as he either treaded water or stood on the bottom, trying to keep Alekseyevna from floundering.

  “… pants … losing … air!”

  “It’s okay … almost across … I’ve got you …”

  This, Rubens thought, is the worst part of this job. Knowing what they’re going through over there. Not able to do a damned thing to help …

  “We just lost one of the Hip-Cs,” Telach reported. On the screen, one of the two red triangles had winked out. It might have crashed—or it might have simply landed. There was no way the E-3 Sentry’s radar could distinguish between the two.

  “We have more hostiles inbound,” Klein added. “That stretch of riverbank is becoming a war zone.”

  NORTH BANK OF THE PANJ RIVER

  SOUTHERN TAJIKISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0807 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Cautiously, Charlie Dean raised his head. One Hip-C had just set down in the cotton field, smoke streaming from its engines and rotor head. The other hovered a few hundred yards off. The rear ramp on the grounded aircraft was open, and Russian soldiers were spilling out.

  There was no sense in getting into a firefight with these people. They were unlikely to be willing to cross the river, but they would be beating through the fields looking for him very soon now.

  The river was fifty yards to Dean’s back. It was time to leave beautiful, mountainous Tajikistan and see what the climate was like south of the Panj.

  He turned away and crawled.

  KOWL-E BAZANGI

  NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0808 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Gasping for breath, Ilya Akulinin struggled forward, felt mud beneath his feet, and almost shouted his triumph. He had one arm around Masha, who still clung desperately to the half-inflated uniform trousers.

  “I feel the bottom, Masha! We made it!”

  Masha choked and spat water, then dragged in a ragged lungful of air. Too exhausted to reply, she managed a nod, however, and began kicking even harder.

  As they’d entered the river on the other side, Akulinin had pulled his own belt out of his trousers and threaded it through the handle of the briefcase, bucking it to create a loop that he’d slung over his head and one shoulder. The briefcase had floated at first, but about two-thirds of the way across it had begun to fill with river water and now dragged against his neck as it tried to sink. Akulinin stumbled a few feet farther toward the south bank, then held Masha with one arm as he pulled the belt off again and began dragging the half-sunken briefcase behind him.

  He’d dropped the black bag with its high-tech burglary kit and the AKM in the river once he’d had to stop wading and start swimming. Masha tried to stand now, thrashing in the water. He reached under her arm and hauled her up and forward, dragging her the last few steps onto the muddy riverbank.

  “This is a hell of a way to teach someone to swim,” she said.

  “Sink or swim,” he told her. “It’s the only way.”

  The two of them dropped onto the bank, trying to catch their breath. Akulinin looked back across the river, toward the flat green cotton fields beyond, looking for Charlie Dean, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see him.

  One helicopter appeared to have landed, but the other was hovering motionless perhaps four hundred yards to the north, its nose aimed directly at the two of them on the south side of the river.

  Then the aircraft’s nose dipped slightly, and it began to move, flying directly toward them.

  “Come on!” he shouted, grabbing the woman’s arm. “Run!”

  APPROACHING THE PANJ RIVER

  SOUTHERN TAJIKISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  “Sir! There they are!”

  The FSB sergeant pointed over the pilot’s shoulder, and Lieutenant Colonel Vasilyev raised his binoculars, studying the swampy area just beyond the river. He could see two people at the water’s edge, stumbling through the waist-high marsh grass.

  Vasilyev slapped the pilot’s shoulder. “Move across the river!” he ordered. “We will put troops down to encircle the bastards!”

  “Sir! That’s Afghanistan over there!”

  “Don’t give me a damned political lecture! Just fucking do it!”

  The helicopter roared south across the Panj.

  NORTH BANK OF THE PANJ RIVER

  SOUTHERN TAJIKISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  “No!” Dean shouted. “No, you bastards!”

  The airborne helicopter was in motion now … not toward Dean, off to the east, but toward the south, toward the Panj River and his friends on the south bank. From here he could see them, two tiny, dark figures at the water’s edge.

  Kneeling, he raised his AKM and opened fire, sending a long volley toward the Hip-C, continuing to fire until the weapon clicked empty. So far as he could see, he hadn’t even hit the aircraft.

  He heard bursts of full-auto gunfire, heard the crack of rounds snapping above his head. The troops on the ground were closing in, firing as they moved.

  His weapon empty, he dropped it and sprinted toward the river.

  The Russian helicopter continued flying south, roaring low over the river, crossing the border into Afghanistan. The Russians were risking an international incident to capture two fugitives.

  But … why not? This stretch of ground south of the looping, twisting Panj was a desolate wilderness of marshes, bogs, and lakes called the Kowl-e Barzangi. The International Bridge and the village of Shir Khan were a good six or eight miles downriver. The nearest built-up area was the district capital of Kunduz, almost forty miles to the south.

  He saw the helicopter in the distance pass low above the running figures, swing around, and settle toward the ground two hundred yards inside of Afghan territory.

  KOWL-E BARZANGI

  NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  The Hip-C roared low overhead, its rotor wash slashing at the two of them as they ran. “Down!” Akulinin yelled, and they flopped forward onto the muddy ground. The helicopter slowed, drifting sideways as it turned thirty yards away. Akulinin could see the door gunner standing in the open door just behind
the cockpit. The man was actually grinning as he pointed at them, calling something to others in the cabin. The ramp in the rear of the fuselage was coming down.

  Akulin could read the aircraft registry number on the tail boom, 10450, white numerals outlined in red. The same Hip that had brought the bodies of Zhern and the other two to Ayni. He wondered if Vasilyev was on board.

  The first Russian soldiers jumped from the open ramp.

  “This way,” Akulinin told Masha. If they ran east, trying to work their way around the front of the aircraft, they might be able to stay ahead of the ground troops, at least for a time. If whoever was in command over there was smart, though, he would order the Hip to drop off a few troops at several points in an arc, surrounding them.

  Akulinin had never felt so helpless. They had no weapons—not even the Makarov pistols that had originally been issued to him and Dean. Those were back in the abandoned car, an added encumbrance better abandoned at the time.

  Capture, he knew, would mean savage beatings and interrogation and imprisonment for both of them, probably rape for Masha, and he couldn’t do a damned thing to stop them …

  NORTH BANK OF THE PANJ RIVER

  SOUTHERN TAJIKISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Bullets slapped and cracked around him, but Dean kept running, bare, muddy legs pumping as he raced flat out for the river. He reached the bank and kept going, launching himself flat through the air, arms extended, hitting the water in a shallow dive as the soldiers ran after him across the field.

  He surfaced swimming. He could hear shouts and gunfire behind him, but he focused all his strength on the swim, all of his attention on the southern bank thirty yards away.

  KOWL-E BARZANGI

  NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  “Ilya! I can’t go any farther!”

  “We’ve got to! Now move!”

  The ground was soft and uneven, thick with marsh grass and difficult to walk on, much less run. Akulinin turned his head in time to see the Hip lifting up off the ground, leaving behind four soldiers who were making their uneven way across the marsh toward them. The helicopter drifted forward, searching for another place to set down, a place where the fugitives’ flight could be boxed in.

  Maybe if they doubled back toward the river …

  The explosion staggered Akulinin and drove Masha to the ground, a thunderous crash and a ball of orange flame erupting from the helicopter’s engine compartment and boiling into the early morning sky. The aircraft jerked sideways, and the rotors snapped free, pin-wheeling across the marsh directly toward Akulinin and Masha. Both ducked low and felt the breath of the hurtling blades rush overhead. The Hip slewed wildly and slammed belly-down into the ground. Akulinin caught the harsh stink of jet fuel as the aircraft’s fuel tanks exploded, sending a second shock wave racing across the marsh.

  “Yeah, you bastards!” Akulinin shouted.

  Moments later, a shrill roar sounded overhead as two jet fighters banked sharply above the swamp. He could make out the Iron Cross on the wings—German Tornados.

  And as the Tornados’ thunder dwindled into the distance, Akulinin heard another sound: the fluttering clatter of a large helicopter in the distance. This one sounded like it was coming from the south, however, not from the north.

  Slowly, he raised himself into a crouch, holding the draining briefcase, the looped belt still hanging from the handle. He looked for the Russian troopers on the ground, but saw no one. The wreckage of the Hip was close to where he had last seen them. Maybe the crash and explosion had killed or injured them. Maybe they were crawling for the river …

  “Ilya?” Marie’s voice called in his head. “Ilya, do you copy? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he managed to say. “Not sure how …”

  “Two NATO aircraft are in your area now. Do you see them?”

  “They’ve been and gone. I hear a helicopter now.”

  “That’s Delta Green One on SAR. They’re coming to get you out. But stay alert. We’re tracking more hostiles north of you.”

  “Copy that,” Akulinin said. He helped Masha get to her feet.

  They had to get clear of the smoke from the burning wreckage, so the SAR chopper could see them.

  “It’s okay, hon,” he told her. “We’re going home.”

  PANJ RIVER

  NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN

  THURSDAY, 0810 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Dean dove beneath the surface as bullets struck the river around him. Submerged, he could hear the sharp chirp of the rounds striking the water to left and right, but he kept swimming, holding his breath for as long as he could, holding it until he thought his lungs would explode with the effort, then surfacing again with a gasp.

  Gunfire cracked and chattered from the northern bank. He felt mud beneath his knees and hands, felt the riverbed rising to meet him. Blinking, he could see the south bank just a few yards ahead—and he could see a billowing column of smoke, a lot of oily black smoke staining the bright blue of the sky.

  He didn’t dare try to climb the bank. The soldiers were only thirty yards away; several, he saw, had taken a few steps into the river, firing at him wildly. One pulled out a grenade, yanked the pin, and hurled it at him. Dean ducked beneath the water and swam hard; the concussion from the grenade struck him a few seconds later, slamming his chest and his lungs.

  He surfaced, gulping air as spouts of water splashed nearby. Submerging again, he swam with the current, letting the flow carry him underwater, dragging him downriver. If necessary, he thought, he could drift with the river for as long as it took to reach Shir Khan, sticking his head up only to grab a quick breath when he couldn’t hold it any longer.

  He was exhausted already, though, and not sure he could keep moving for that long. Besides, while the Russians across the river appeared to be appallingly bad shots, they might well get lucky—or decide to swim across themselves and pick him up.

  He surfaced again, gulping down air. He could hear thunder in the sky. More aircraft, he thought, coming out of the north.

  Great. What now?

  The aircraft, two of them flying low and wingtip to wingtip, howled overhead. Dean had just a glimpse of the gray shapes—twin-tailed Russian MiG-29 Fulcrums—but then he blinked and almost yelled out loud because he’d caught just a glimpse of the red, white, and green roundels on the undersides of the wings.

  Not Russian! Indian! Those MiGs must be patrol aircraft out of either Ayni or, more likely, Farkhor, off to the southwest.

  The jets banked above the Panj, circling back to the north. The Russian troops on the northern bank watched them for a moment, then appeared to arrive at a consensus, turning away from the river and jogging back into the cotton fields beyond.

  After a moment, Dean crawled out of the water. North, he could see more Russian soldiers, but they appeared to be converging on the downed Hip, the manhunt forgotten.

  South, the second Russian helicopter burned in the marsh, while two more jet aircraft made a thundering turn in the sky. He began walking.

  Five minutes later, he caught up with Akulinin and Maria Alekseyevna.

  “Charlie!” Ilya cried. “You made it!”

  A helicopter, a ponderous U.S. Air Force HH-53 Super Jolly, was approaching from the south, easing its way toward the pillar of black smoke.

  “Where the hell are my pants?” Dean asked his partner.

  NSA HEADQUARTERS

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  WEDNESDAY, 2312 HOURS EDT

  “Delta Green One reports three people on board,” Marie Telach said. The stress in the Art Room over the past few moments had been twanging tight. She sounded utterly drained now.

  “That’s good,” Rubens said, nodding. “That’s good.”

  “They are en route now and will be in Kunduz within half an hour.”

  “I think,” Rubens said, “they can make it the rest of the way on their own. I’m going home to bed. I suggest yo
u do the same.”

  “Sounds like a great idea, sir.”

  “Before you go, please convey my thanks to the commander of NATO’s German contingent. I know they didn’t want to engage.”

  But they had. Thank God.

  Although it was widely seen as an American war, Afghanistan was NATO’s first combat deployment outside of Europe.

  Since December of 2001, the North Atlantic Treaty Alliance had forces in Afghanistan. The embattled country had been divided into quarters. Although a number of NATO nations shared the responsibilities for each sector, and some commands rotated among several nations, the United States had the primary responsibility for the southeast, Canada for the southwest, Italy for the northwest, and Germany for the northeast, including the district of Kunduz. A fifth zone had been established around the capital of Kabul, with primary jurisdiction there belonging to the French.

  In the late summer of 2009, German troops at Kunduz, thirty-seven miles south of Afghanistan’s northern border, had spotted two NATO fuel tanker trucks recently hijacked by Taliban insurgents. They’d called in an air strike, and a U.S. fighter had been vectored in, destroying both trucks. Ninety people had been killed.

  Unfortunately, at least forty of those killed had been civilians—a fuzzy distinction, perhaps, in an insurgency where a Taliban fighter could simply drop his rifle and become an instant civilian … but there’d been kids among the dead as well. New rules of engagement had immediately been clamped into place, further hampering the U.S. and NATO troops in Afghanistan. There’d been a lot of recriminations in Germany over the incident and elsewhere in Europe as well, questions about what NATO was doing fighting a war so far from Europe.

  The Immelmann squadron commander had not been eager to engage Russian helicopters on the northern border, and it had taken a phone call by Rubens to the four-star U.S. general in command of the entire NATO force structure in Afghanistan to get a pair of Tornado fighter-bombers airborne. At that, the Germans had announced that they would not engage unless foreign troops actually crossed the border. Rubens was just glad that they’d decided to follow through. The Germans might yet have waffled or insisted on getting repeated confirmations of their orders. He knew, though, that those German pilots maintained their long-established tradition of hating Russians, especially the FSB successors of the old KGB, and suspected that that might have tipped the balance once the Hip-C had crossed into Afghan airspace.