“I need you to paint a target on map grid Sierra Foxtrot four-two-six-five, seven-three-two-eight. Over.”
The pilot of the AC-130U gunship acknowledged the receipt of this request, and less than a minute later, he delivered his answer.
“Checkmate One, low-light video shows a formation of seven T-72 main battle tanks occupying map grid Sierra Foxtrot four-two-six-five, seven-three-two-eight. Infrared scan indicates that vehicles are unmanned, with all propulsion systems inactive.
They may be big, ugly, and loaded for bear, but their diesels are cold as ice. Checkmate One. Do you require any additional services from us at this time? Over.”
Morrison was relieved by this report, and he looked over at his bald-headed Russian associate and smiled.
“That’s a negative, Spooky Threenine. It’s good to have you in the neighborhood.
Thanks for your help. Out.
“It appears that they produce as advertised,” he added to Kosygin while switching off the two-way.
The Russian grunted.
“We do not squander our defense dollars.
We Russians have learned over centuries to be economical.”
Outside, the heavy rains had stopped falling. Even then, dusk came early, and fog began developing as they approached the Salgir River valley.
Samuel Morrison waited until the Suburban’s driver was able to switch off the windshield wipers for the final time before pulling out a pair of cigars from his jacket. His seatmate readdressed his own two-way, and Alexi Kosygin looked disappointed as he lowered the radio and turned to Morrison.
“Even with the help of your communications van, I was unable to get through to the destroyer.”
“Do you want me to try routing the call via Nightwatch?”
offered the SAIC.
“No, my friend, I only wanted a routine SITREP. It can wait.
We’ll be out of this valley shortly, and then it’s but a ten-minute drive over the coastal mountains and down into Alushta.”
Morrison handed him a cigar, and the Russian sniffed it like a true connoisseur.
“Cuban?” he asked.
Morrison laughed and shook his head.
“I wish. It’s a domestic brand that I’ve gotten fond of, and a recent gift from a special friend. I’m saving mine for later tonight, after I get Two Putt settled into his dacha.”
“Then I’ll do likewise,” Kosygin said, taking a final sniff and stowing it away in his breast pocket.
Morrison put his unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and unfolded a detailed topographical road map on his lap. He switched on an overhead spotlight, then readjusted the fit of the bifocals that sat precariously perched on the end of his flat nose.
“We’re continuing to make damn good time, Alexi. It appears Comrade Zinoviev’s road crew has done a fine job after all. Other than that brief patch of rough pavement we came across while leaving town, the ride’s been smooth as silk.”
“I’ll reserve judgment until we reach Alushta,” said Kosygin.
“The Ukrainians are notorious for starting a project brilliantly, but failing to follow through all the way to the end.”
Almost to underscore his comment, the Suburban began bouncing up and down, while the tires started humming slightly.
“We must be crossing the drainage canal bridge,” Morrison observed.
“It’s another quarter of a kilometer to the main bridge spanning the Salgir.”
Another rough jolt signaled their passing over the final trestle, and the humming stopped. With the map spread out before him, Morrison looked out the left side window. The fog had further thickened, and he peered over the frames of his bifocals in an effort to spot any familiar landmarks.
Barely visible in the swirling tendrils of mist was the rocky outcrop known as the Salgir highlands. This lowlying, sixty-foot high plateau was a bane to local farmers, and extended all the way to the river.
By glancing out the window to Kosygin’s right, he could see a relatively flat expanse of forested land, filled with thick stands of mature Crimean pines. This ancient woods was all that remained of an immense forest that had once covered most of the peninsula and was now limited to five thousand acres, with many of the trees extending right down to the roadside.
Morrison felt his torso being pulled slightly toward his seatmate when the Suburban followed the road as it turned sharply to the west. It was the Russian who pointed out the ribbon of plowed-up pavement extending farther to the south. A pair of flashing, bright red warning lights could be seen through the fog here, and Kosygin identified them.
“That must be the barricade marking the spot where they closed the old road.”
Morrison nodded and looked ahead through the vehicle’s windshield. As they completed the turn, the road followed a gently sloping upward gradient, leading them toward a well-lit, steel girded structure a bare quarter of a kilometer distant.
“And that must be the new bridge,” he supposed.
“The last report from my survey team mentioned that there was a good week’s worth of work left before it would be open to the public.
I sure hope the concrete’s set.”
The fog swallowed the modern superstructure, and Morrison was about to return his gaze to the map when a pair of blinding flashes penetrated the fog at the base of the bridge. This was immediately followed by a pair of deep, resonant booms, and the SAIC’s first fear was that there had just been some sort of construction accident up ahead. But then a series of dreaded metallic thuds sounded from the immediate direction of the Suburban’s roof and doors, causing Morrison to cry out in horror.
“We’re taking fire!
“Checkmate Two!” he shouted into his two-way.
“Code One!
I repeat. Code One! Close ranks and let’s get over that friggin’ bridge!”
Oblivious to the vehicles ahead of them, the motorcade’s Secret Service drivers knew their first priority was to form a defensive shield around the President’s limousine. The trailing Suburbans quickly sped up until they were practically hugging the limo’s sides, with Morrison’s vehicle leading the way from the point of the V, and the trailing limo plugging up the rear.
Like a single entity, the formation shot forward in a burst of high speed. They passed by the BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, which had pulled off on the shoulder, its rooftop gunner laying down a constant barrage of fire toward the high ground on their left. Only a single Zil police sedan could be seen driving ahead of them, a mere ten yards away. They were rapidly closing on it, and Morrison was about to order them out of the way, when the sedan’s taillights suddenly disappeared.
“Hit the brakes!” he alertly ordered into the two-way.
Morrison braced himself as his driver followed his instructions, and the Suburban skidded to a halt mere inches from a major break in the pavement.
“My God!” proclaimed his driver.
“They blew the ramp. The three motorcyclists, the sedan — they must have driven right off the edge.”
“Turn around and head back the way we came!” Morrison ordered.
A round of slugs struck the truck’s bulletproof windshield, the sound of the careening shells swallowed by the screech of squealing rubber. Morrison briefly met the worried gaze of his seatmate before finding his torso thrown backward by the force of sudden acceleration. They were headed back to Simferopol now, with the SAIC’s vehicle in the trailing position, close on the rear fender of the limousine holding Two Putt.
Hundreds of incoming tracers lit the twilight in ghostly iridescent fingers. Most of the fire originated from the elevated ground of the highlands, which passed now on their right.
“Hang on, we’re goin’ right through the friggin’ killing zone!”
Morrison warned.
They sped by the BTR-60’s smoking hulk, where the bloodstained bodies of SWAT team Alpha littered the fog-shrouded ground. An overturned Zil police sedan, its wheels still spinning, lay nearby, and Morrison flinched when a rocket-propelled grenade struck the wrecked car and exploded in a glaring fireball.