“Copy. Let’s load up the bodies and get these vehicles out of sight. Gosha, keep an eye out for unexpected company on the road.”
“Already scanning. Looks clear.”
Farrington yanked the blood-slick body up by its vest and pushed it through the front seats into the back of the Tiger. The inside of the vehicle looked ghastly through his NVGs, still sizzling and smoking from the intense damage done by the grenade. He counted three bodies, including the driver, all blasted beyond recognition, much of them adorning the seats and equipment. He flipped the starter switch and the diesel engine roared to life, which was a small miracle after the grenade blast. He stopped for a moment and examined the back of the Tiger again, pausing to look up through the hatch at the overcast night. Instead of driving off with the other Tiger, he climbed over the dead driver and stood up through the hatch, examining the Pecheneg machine gun. He pulled the charging handle back and aimed down the road, firing off a burst.
“You got something?” Gosha asked.
“Negative. Just thinking,” Farrington replied, looking at the second Tiger crossing the highway.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Misha said.
“That we just traded in our unarmored SUVs for heavily armored jeeps?” Farrington said.
“Exactly,” Misha said.
“Sounds like a plan. Let’s transfer all of the gear and get out of here.”
Six minutes later, they were packed into one of the Tigers, headed west along the improvised road at nearly 65 miles per hour. They’d lost nearly fifteen minutes dealing with the checkpoint, but they could make up all of that time in their new transportation. If anything, they might even gain time. Similar to the “Humvee,” the Tiger was a high-mobility, multipurpose military vehicle, equipped with a powerful diesel, turbocharged, air-cooled engine. Independent torsion suspension, telescopic shock absorbers and regulated-pressure tires gave it a top speed of 55 miles per hour over rough terrain and up to 90 miles per hour on the road.
The Tiger’s unyielding endurance for poor road conditions left Farrington confident that they could condense the team into one vehicle. He’d chosen the jeep with the grenade launcher because the weapon presented a capability they didn’t have organic to any of their weapons — long range high-explosive munitions. The Pecheneg machine gun would have been nice, but the ability to fire 30mm grenades at a rate of two per second would come in handy if they ran into any more armored vehicles. He could almost guarantee that these wouldn’t be the last Tigers they ran into out here. He just hoped they didn’t bump into any light armored vehicles from the 21st Guards Motor Rifle Division. The 30mm grenades would be useless against those, along with everything else they carried.
Chapter 58
Karl Berg removed his headset and turned to Audra Bauer, who was examining satellite footage on her two screens.
“They’re clear of the checkpoint, moving west in one of the Tigers,” Berg said.
“Smart move taking the Tiger,” she commented.
“They’re going to need all the help they can get. The Tiger might give them the edge they need to pull this off. They won’t have to stick to roads or trails when they get near the border, which is a major improvement to their plan. They should be able to slip through the 21st Motor Rifle Division units along the border,” Berg said.
“Speaking of the 21st, satellite imagery and electronic intercepts confirm that a brigade from the 142nd Motor Rifle Regiment has started to deploy from their base in Biysk. Estimated time of arrival along the border zones for the bulk of the brigade is two hours. Early elements will arrive within the hour,” Bauer said.
“Shit. We’re looking at BTRs, BRDMs, Urals and Tigers. Anything with wheels. They can’t move the tracked infantry fighting vehicles into that area fast enough. How many are missing from the base in Biysk so far?”
“They’re still counting. At least thirty BTR-80s and seventy Tigers, along with a dozen utility trucks. All headed west.”
“Add that to the 122nd Recon Battalion’s sixty plus Tigers to the east and we can conclude that somebody’s pissed back in Moscow,” Berg said. “Audra, can you direct one of the satellites to babysit the checkpoint Blackjack just eliminated? Eventually, someone is going to wonder why the checkpoint isn’t responding and take a look. I want to give Blackjack a heads-up when that happens,” he said, standing up.
“Sure. You headed somewhere?” she said.
“I need to make a call,” he said.
“Your guy in Russia?” she said.
“Could be a woman. I was a hot ticket back in the day,” he said, winking.
She shook her head and started typing instructions to the NRO satellite handlers, leaving Berg to his phone call. He was glad she quickly assumed he was calling Kaparov. It made sense given the fact that Vektor had been attacked. At some point during the night, if it hadn’t happened already, Kaparov would be awakened with the news that a facility containing samples of biological material suitable for weaponization had been breached. Of course, there would be no mention of the bioweapons laboratory. Kaparov would be asked to analyze the threat posed by the possible theft of viral samples like smallpox and avian flu. He’d wait for Kaparov to call with the “shocking” news.
No. Berg had a different call to make. One he couldn’t make in the CIA operations center. If anyone discovered what he had arranged behind all of their backs, he ran the risk of losing the asset before it could be employed. It was better that they discovered his plan when the consequences of shutting it down outweighed letting it proceed.
He exited the “Fishbowl” section of the operations center and walked toward the exit, eager to retrieve his cell phone.
“I need to make a call outside of the operations center,” Berg said, addressing the two security guards manning the entrance station.
Less than a minute later, he stood in the hallway outside of the operations center. He walked through the deserted hallway and speed-dialed the number he needed. He waited for the call to connect, which took several seconds, since the signal had to travel halfway around the world and negotiate encryption protocols at its destination.
“Weatherman standing by for you to authenticate.”
Berg pressed the ten-digit combination of numbers assigned for the operation.
“Good evening, Mr. Berg. Black Rain is spooled up and ready for launch.”
“Good timing, Weatherman. Launch Black Rain immediately and proceed to holding area over Lake Kulunda.”
“Roger. We’ll have her airborne in a few minutes. Time to station estimated at 0425 local.”
“Copy 0425. I’ll open a channel in the operations center for terminal control at approximately 0400 local. Have a safe flight,” Berg said.
“We always do. I’ll expect to hear from you at 0400 local. Weatherman out.”
Berg put the phone back in his jacket pocket and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He was extremely nervous about the next three and a half hours. If he got lucky, Farrington’s team would slip through the Russians’ net and drive right across the border to be picked up by Black Magic. Black Rain would never be used, and it would be high fives all the way to the White House. Berg was no stranger to luck, but his breaks didn’t come so neatly wrapped. Three and a half hours and this would be over, one way or the other, and nobody could accuse him of shortchanging Sanderson’s people. He could live with the consequences of putting Black Rain into play to give Farrington’s team a fighting chance.