Ravensdale finished his drink and left the woman sitting there. He did have something better, but wanted to keep it as an ace that he could play later. The girl at dinner, Anneli, had mentioned the name “Calico,” and had asked Swanson if she would be angry about them leaving. Swanson had silenced her. So Calico was a woman, and a code name, probably CIA. The general would set his NATO intel dogs sniffing around to pin down that identification by claiming she might be an allied spy who was feeding information to Moscow.
21
An hour later, the crew chief touched Kyle on the shoulder and held up two fingers: two minutes. Baldwin put away his book; Perry detected the movement, awoke and got ready without saying a word. Baldwin tapped a gloved finger on Anneli’s knee and gave her a thumbs-up sign of encouragement just as the bottom seemed to fall out of her world. The helo dumped power, bucked into a descent, nosed up and settled to the deck of the aircraft carrier as easily as an elevator. The chief pulled the door open, pointed outside and threw them all a quick salute.
A carrier never sleeps while at sea, so the time of day means little, and a helicopter coming aboard was a routine piece of business. Anneli was almost overwhelmed by the smell of fuel and oil, the rumble of machinery and the activity of crew members in vests of various colors who rushed about in choreographed chaos. The wind came across the deck from a sea that was surging near gale force.
A young woman officer collected them, tugging a gold-braided blue baseball cap over her brown hair, the gold leaf of a naval lieutenant commander glinting on her jacket collar. “Which one is Bounty Hunter?” she asked in a loud voice that could barely be heard over the wild wind and the shipboard noise. When Kyle acknowledged his code name, she said, “Follow me.” She led them across the wide deck to where a long silver aircraft was tied down by cables of braided steel, with its big wings folded back against its sides like a big butterfly at rest.
The turboprop Grumman C-2A Greyhound was a carrier onboard delivery plane, better known by its initials: COD. The rear hatch was open and the officer led them into the passenger bay where pairs of empty blue seats awaited in twos. She saluted and left without another word, not knowing the mission or the names, but having done her assigned job.
Now, under the watchful eye of still another crew chief, the group buckled into over-the-shoulder harnesses before it dawned upon Anneli that they were all facing backward, toward the rear hatch that was already being sealed shut. They were the only passengers. The flight crew had completed the preflight checks before they arrived. The wings folded out, the GW deck people performed their tasks flawlessly and the COD trundled into launch position and hooked to a catapult. The carrier was making twenty knots straight into a ten-knot wind, for a combined speed of almost thirty-five miles per hour that maximized the air flow to help the plane get more lift off the deck.
“Hold tight,” Swanson said to her, reaching over to place his hand on hers as the twin engines went from a comfortable whine to a howling roar, and the aircraft vibrated like a juice mixer. “This is going to be a kick.”
An enormous jerk threw them against the straps as the steam catapult hurled the plane straight and hard off the bow, and they accelerated from standing still to better than 160 miles per hour in two gut-churning seconds. Kyle gave Anneli a single absentminded pat. “That’s all there is to it,” he said when it was done, then settled into his seat. Anneli fought to remain as quiet as everyone else and tried not to throw up.
Kyle mentally ticked off another point on his checklist and looked at his watch. It was just after 0100. So far, so good. This aircrew also knew the destination, but not the reason for the trip, or the identities of the passengers. The awkward COD climbed higher and moved onto a westerly course toward a small airbase located southeast of Riga, in Latvia, near the town of Lielvārde. The pilot jacked the speed up, as fast as the old bucket could safely fly.
The transfer routine was repeated when the COD touched down in Latvia, deposited its passengers, made a quick visit to the refueling barn and then took off back for the carrier. The quartet of special operators was on NATO turf now, which gave Swanson confidence that the secrecy level was holding. They swapped into a fast little Gulfstream passenger jet that was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency. The plane wore no markings and was painted in a flat black. It had flown in earlier to provide for the next leg of the trip. They were soon back in the sky, this time for the quicker jump down to Lithuania. There was no crew chief this time, just a couple of CIA pilots in their front cabin, and rations were stored in a small galley. Swanson bit into a turkey and cheese sandwich, still thinking about the timetable. They were racing the dawn, and everyone felt the tension, which built by the mile. He had no options at this point: either his hasty plan worked, or it didn’t. Step by step. Brick by brick. Outrun the rumor mill, gossips and informants.
Darkness was still as thick as ink when the Gulfstream sliced down and made an easy landing on a narrow military airstrip. It rolled to a halt at a hangar that sat off by itself some distance from the tower. Armed guards were alert along the perimeter. Inside the hangar was still another helicopter, a unique, angular bird that was one of only a handful of its type in existence. One more ride, Swanson told his team. Not long now. They climbed aboard the stealth helicopter.
Thirty minutes later, Major Juozas Valteris heard a big presence pass overhead as he stood on an armored car near the Kaliningrad border, but the sound was much softer than he had expected. He was the only member of the Iron Wolf Mechanized Battalion who had been briefed in advance about what was happening, and he had the men on alert, but with their fingers away from their triggers, under a firm order not to fire. The soldiers looked up when they heard muffled thuds in the sky, but saw nothing. Whatever it was had come and gone so low and fast that it was invisible.
The stealth UH-60 helicopter was flown by an American crew from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne), the highly trained Nightstalkers, and it almost skimmed the big lake as it flew across the water. The aircraft, although rare, was a distant and customized cousin of the old Sikorsky on which Swanson, Anneli and the SAS snipers had begun their trip hours earlier.
This new crew chief also eventually held up two fingers for the two-minute warning, and then prepared to throw out long coils of heavy rope that were attached inside the cabin. Swanson and Baldwin watched the looming ground before them through night-vision scopes, and Anneli held her arms wide while Gray Perry, the strongest member of the group, snapped on four heavy D-rings to secure her harness to his own. The helicopter flared to a stop and the ropes went out.
The four made their way through the forest on soft feet. Baldwin, on point, moved like a bug with his enhanced night-vision goggles painting the way. Kyle was next so he could control the operation, and watched both flanks. Anneli was right behind, concentrating on stepping precisely where Swanson had stepped and not saying a word. Corporal Perry was Tail-End Charlie, guarding the rear. They avoided the matted path that had been worn into the forest floor over the years by the passage of many Russian soldiers and vehicles visiting the beach. The trees offered protection and safety.
The slope up from the lake was gradual, and the ascent was no problem for the physically fit men, but Anneli felt the burn in her thighs and lungs, and was breathing harder. Instead of being afraid, she was fascinated by the strange world and the three snipers who were moving so slowly and smoothly through it. They disturbed as little dirt and as few leaves as possible, and even the nocturnal animals gave them space without panic, somehow understanding that these new beings in the habitat were not threats to them. This was a different sort of predator, after some other species.