Daniel's voice filled the room. It was obvious from the background static and white noise that they were on the road.
"Barely alive. He had some kind of fucking seizure. His heart started doing all kinds of shit. We have him hooked up to a portable AED, but I don't know how much longer he's going to last. The thing's already shocked him three times."
"Keep him hooked up to the AED. What about the rest of your team?" Berg said.
"One of my men is seriously wounded and requires immediate medical attention. We left two others dead on the street. We just headed north on…what the fuck is…Birger Jarlsgatan? These street names are killing me."
"Understood. What happened to the Russian team?"
"Ten of them. All dead. We need to transfer vehicles immediately. Possibly split up," Daniel said.
"Did you recover any of the bioweapon?"
"Negative. We grabbed some papers. We didn't have time to search his apartment," Daniel said.
"Send him to the Ostermalm district. Tell him to take his next right," the operations watch officer said.
Berg glanced at the main screen above him and searched the Ostermalm district for an icon representing one of the replacement vans that had been activated.
"I have a van close to your position. Take your next right."
"I assume the van isn't white?" Petrovich said.
"It's blue," the watch officer reassured him.
"After the transfer, I need you to make your way north to E18. I'll direct you to a safe house in a quiet place called Viggbyholm. We're sending a discreet medical team to the same location. Keep Reznikov alive until you get there."
"It's all up to this machine. How far away is the safe house?" Petrovich said.
The route suddenly appeared on the wall monitor, extending from the current location of the transfer van to a location well north of the city.
"Seventeen kilometers. Twenty minutes without traffic. I'm estimating thirty to forty minutes for you right now," the watch officer said, reading what had been typed into a visible data field on the screen by their Scandinavian analyst.
"We'll get him there. Make sure there are enough medical personnel on scene to treat my guy at the same time. We just turned right on Sturegatan."
"Take your second right onto Linnegatan. The van is headed your way. It'll meet you in less than a minute at the corner of Linnegatan and Nybrogatan," the watch officer said, nodding at Berg.
"I understand your priorities," Berg said.
"Let's just make sure the medical team understands them," Petrovich said.
"Our van is parked in a handicapped space in front of a dark green awning that reads 'Gold and Silver,'" the watch officer said.
"Copy. We just turned onto Linnegatan. I'll be in touch shortly," Petrovich said.
The call went dead, and Berg looked over at Audra Bauer and Thomas Manning.
"We just need to keep them away from the police," Berg said, walking over to the two of them.
"That would certainly put a halt to this show," Manning said.
"That's the problem. This crew won't let a few police cars get in their way. They just took down an entire Spetznaz team. Probably a Zaslon team. The best in the business."
"Who exactly did we get involved with?" Manning said in a lowered voice.
"The only people who stood a chance of snatching Reznikov away from the Russians. I'd consider us to be extremely fortunate," Berg said.
"Let's just do everything in our power to guide them safely to Viggbyholm," Audra added.
The watch officer, a dark-haired, stiff-looking man dressed in a navy business suit, interrupted them. "Director Manning. The White House Situation Room."
"All right. I better take this. I'll have to brief our director after that," Manning said and stepped away.
"Nice job handling the team," Audra said to Berg.
"You should expect nothing less from your assistant deputy director."
"I'll have to keep a close eye on you. With a performance like this, I could easily be replaced," she said.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about. When they figure out the team belongs to Sanderson, I have a feeling I'll be looking for employment…if I don't get rendered in the middle of the night to some oil rig in the middle of nowhere."
"I'll be joining you," she said.
"No. I got your back on this one," Berg assured her.
"Maybe you could go to work for Sanderson," she joked.
"Trust me; I've given it some serious thought. Either way, we're not out of the woods with this op yet. A lot could go wrong in the next hour. I just hope they can get some actionable intelligence from Reznikov."
"Me too. This is just the tip of the iceberg."
Chapter 52
Frederick Shelby shifted uneasily in his high-backed leather chair. Operation Bold Scimitar's strike force was less than twenty minutes from touching down inside Sanderson's compound, and half of the room was still missing. He couldn't imagine what might be more pressing at 1:10 in the morning, but much to his surprise fifteen minutes ago, three of the key players in the room left suddenly after Miss Kestler took a phone call. The White House counter-terrorism director, along with the national security advisor and secretary of state, left without saying a word. At least the secretary of defense didn't leave. He had stayed glued to his laptop computer screen, probably shifting between the live camera feeds received from the assault force.
The two massive flat-screen monitors at the end of the room displayed a helmet camera feed from the SEAL force's commander, Lieutenant Commander Scott Daly; and a nose mounted feed from the lead helicopter, a Special Forces HH-60H Rescue Hawk from the Firehawks squadron. They had all watched the green images in silence as the darkened Chilean coast filled the screen and the strike force went "feet dry" over Chile at 12:37. Less than twenty minutes later, Operation Bold Scimitar lost half of its audience.
He stared at the empty seats around the far end of the conference table and directed his attention toward Lieutenant General Frank Gordon at the head of the table. The general's purposeful eyes were glued to his own laptop. He felt slightly disconnected without the same information feeds seen by the secretary of defense and the commander of U.S Joint Special Operations Command, but this was more a function of feeling left out than operational necessity. He was along for the ride as a courtesy and didn't want to overstep his boundaries.
The flat-screen monitor mounted on the side of the conference room showed the strike force's progress on a detailed topographic map and displayed a bunch of information on a side window that nobody had bothered to explain to him. A digital clock featuring three time zones counted away the seconds toward the strike force's proposed 3:30 AM local time arrival at the compound. He turned to his least favorite person in the room to ask a question.
"How does everything look, Gerry? On schedule?" he said.
Gerald Simmons, assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict Capabilities, regarded him with a thinly veiled annoyance, pretending to examine Shelby's laptop, which relayed no additional information beyond what the FBI director could already see for himself on the room's screens.
"Looks like they might arrive ahead of schedule. The flight commander made the decision to fly directly over a low mountain range instead of snaking through a few lower canyons, so they picked up a few minutes and saved some fuel. This might come in handy if they have to loiter around the Sand Box. You don't have this on your…uh…never mind," he said.
"Sand Box?" Shelby said, wishing he could rip the computer away from Simmons and bash it over his head.