Emerging from the tall grass at the edge of the beach, Farrington was greeted by the business end of Gosha’s OTs-3 SVU sniper rifle, extended over the bow of their boat. The 23-foot whaler sat slightly canted on the sand with its engines idling. Gosha stood up and took station behind the whaler’s center console, while Farrington and Misha waded up to their knees in the frigid water and lifted themselves over the side of the boat. Before he had a chance to think about taking a seat, the engine roared, pulling them off the sand and into the deeper water of the reservoir. Gosha lowered his night vision goggles and pointed them in the direction of the southwestern end of the reservoir. Moments later, their boat accelerated to thirty knots, or roughly thirty-five miles per hour, skimming the surface of the lake.
The boat travelled significantly slower than a car and would eat into the precious block of time left to reach the border, but it afforded them a few advantages they could not ignore. The reservoir and the wide river beyond it could not be easily blocked like a road. Russian authorities wouldn’t expect them to travel by fast boat, and by the time they started to consider the possibility, Farrington’s team would be back on dry land. While not the fastest way to reach the border, travelling southwest across the entire length of the reservoir was the most direct route to their next checkpoint.
One hundred kilometers from their starting point on this beach, the reservoir turned south, emptying into a wide river delta, before narrowing again and becoming the Ob River. They would swap the boat for two SUVS hidden on the delta’s western shore. From there, they faced a 160 kilometer journey across dirt roads and rolling hills to the border, passing north of Lake Kulunda, a massive salt lake surrounded by industrial facilities.
Viktor’s Solntsevskaya scouts had mapped the entire route with GPS, claiming that it could be done in less than two hours. Farrington had his doubts about their estimate, given that they had conducted the dry runs during full daylight, when the SUVS could be pushed to 50 miles per hour on dirt roads. His team would make the same trip employing night vision, more than likely restricted to 35 miles per hour. It could take them nearly three hours to arrive within striking distance of the Russian/Kazakhstan border. At their current speed, they would arrive at the next checkpoint at 1:35 AM, giving them little leeway for the three-hour land portion of the exfiltration plan.
Sunrise was at 5:25 AM, but he had to subtract thirty minutes from that time, since the helicopter pilots had been ordered to turn back at civil twilight. D.C. wanted their precious birds clear of any inhabited areas by sunrise, which left him with a drop-dead arrival time of 4:55 AM. Three hours and twenty minutes to travel 160 kilometers, leaving him less than twenty minutes to deal with the unexpected.
He took the seat next to Gosha, which provided him some shelter from the thirty-knot artificial wind and gave their situation some thought. They’d have to make up some time on the open water. He glanced back at Sasha, who lay across the back of the passenger compartment on the deck, supported and surrounded by cushions taken from the seats and various life jackets found stowed throughout the boat. Seva sat behind him on the rear cockpit bench along the stern of the boat. Seva had regained consciousness after they crossed the Ob River dam, complaining of blurred vision and a throbbing headache. Since a strong possibility existed that he had suffered a concussion, he would rest and tend to Sasha’s comfort during the crossing. Only three out of six operatives remained fully combat-ready with nearly five hours left to go. The odds were not stacked in their favor.
He leaned over and yelled into Gosha’s right ear. “Open this thing up to just under full throttle. We need to make up some time.”
Gosha nodded and pushed the dual throttle forward as far as it would go, notching it back just slightly to avoid a full redline situation. Viktor’s men had assured him that the boat was in top condition, but running an engine at its full RPMs for an extended period of time was tempting fate, and he couldn’t imagine any of them had much karma left to spare at this point. The boat accelerated across the water, reaching 43 knots. He examined the dimmed chart plotter on the navigation screen and noted their new estimated time of arrival at checkpoint three. 1:10 AM. Twenty additional minutes to deal with the unexpected. Staring out into the impenetrable darkness, he couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that they would need more time.
Chapter 55
The president paced in front of his desk in his study, considering what Jacob Remy had just suggested: sending the helicopters back to Kyrgyzstan and letting Sanderson’s team fend for themselves inside of Kazakhstan. Remy’s logic was cold, but had been built on the realities of the situation. He needed to war-game this more, to make sure Remy wasn’t exerting undue influence. Remy had made it clear from the very beginning that he didn’t want to use U.S. military assets for any phase of the operation, but Sanderson wouldn’t budge without the guarantee of a military-supported extraction. Since everybody wanted to see the Russian bioweapons program destroyed, the limited use of military assets was approved. Now they were all having second thoughts.
“What are we looking at if we send the birds back to Kyrgyzstan?” he said.
“We avoid a potential disaster. This whole helicopter thing was just appeasement from the beginning. We can’t allow the birds to cross the border to pick up the team, so Sanderson’s people were always working under the assumption that the team would have to figure out a way to get into Kazakhstan. Shit. If they can get into Kazakhstan, we can send some fucking cars to pick them up at the nearest gas station. Anything but risking one of those helicopters.”
“Mr. President, Mr. Remy,” Lieutenant General Gordon said. “Two things to consider here. First, we gave Sanderson our word that his team would be picked up at the border and flown to safe—”
“Not if half of the Russian Army is on their heels,” Remy cut in.
“I don’t remember any conditions to their extraction, other than it taking place on Kazakhstan soil,” Gordon countered.
“This just got far more complicated than just a simple handshake,” said James Quinn, the National Security Advisor. “Light elements of the 21st Guards Motor Rifle Division in Altay have been activated, along with the 122nd Reconnaissance Battalion in Novosibirsk. We’re talking a lot of Russian soldiers combing the area with crappy command and control. If Sanderson’s team gets caught up in a fight, the Russians might not stop at the border. We can’t put those helicopters in that kind of a situation.”
“I understand the complexity of these missions better than anyone in this room,” Gordon said. “Trust me, I’m not blind to the possible consequences here.”
“Then you can see why we can’t afford to lose one of those helos. Especially to the Russians,” Remy said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have insisted that we use them, if you weren’t prepared to lose them,” Gordon said, directing his comment at the National Security Advisor.
“The task force has to fly within detection range of Semipalatinsk Airport to reach any of the possible extraction points. We can’t do that with conventional helicopters. You said it yourself,” Quinn reminded him.