“If it is, it’s coming right at us!” another said nervously.
Startled, Tarzarov swung toward the nearest window… just as the decoy drone slammed into the side of the Sukhoi Superjet and ripped through the fuselage in an expanding ball of fire. Carbon-fiber composites shattered under the enormous impact — sending lethal fragments sleeting through the passenger cabin. Soldiers were torn out of their seats and sent flailing through the air. Sergei Tarzarov opened his mouth to scream, and then died… engulfed by a tidal wave of flame and shrapnel.
Streaming fire and smoke from the huge gash torn through its midsection, the Sukhoi Superjet rolled over and fell out of the sky. It smashed into the ground just short of the runway and blew up.
The Russian soldiers guarding Macomber had all turned to watch the big, twin-engine jetliner coming in for a landing. When it hit the ground and exploded, they stood frozen — staggered by the catastrophe. For a split second, the flash cast gigantic shadows of men and machines slanting down the runway. Ian Schofield felt the ground shake and rumble.
“Wolf team, this is Wolf Three. Execute. Repeat, execute,” he said quietly into his mic.
Sergeant Davis’s sniper rifle coughed quietly, echoed moments later by shots from Sikora and Knapp. Two of the Russians dropped like puppets with their strings cut. In a spray of blood, a third spun through a half circle and then folded over.
From farther down the tree line, Chris Walker fired one of his Spike-SR antitank missiles. The tiny missile streaked low across the runway and hit one of the BTR-82s right below its 30mm gun turret. The enemy troop carrier rocked back as the tandem-charge HEAT warhead ripped through its thin Kevlar-laminated armor and exploded inside. Flame ballooned out of every opening.
“Nailed him!” Walker whooped jubilantly over the circuit. He dumped the expended missile case and reached for another of the nine-kilogram, man-portable weapons.
Unfortunately, a gunner on one of the surviving BTRs was more alert than his comrades and had lightning-fast reflexes. The Russian spotted the small puff of smoke rising from Walker’s position, spun his turret around, and fired a quick burst that cut the Iron Wolf commando in half.
“Damn it,” Schofield muttered. Without those Israeli-made antitank missiles, they had nothing that could even scratch those two remaining Russian armored vehicles. Their gunners could stand off at leisure and pound this patch of woods into kindling.
“I’m on it,” he heard Karol Sikora yell. With more guts than sense, the Polish Special Forces soldier broke cover, sprinting toward Walker’s mangled body. One of the BTR turrets whined around, traversing fast toward him.
Suddenly the XCV-62 Ranger streaked low overhead, roaring down the length of the runway. Flares rippled into the air in its wake, streaming in all directions. Still burning, they bounced off the concrete and pattered down around the Russian vehicles.
Apparently believing that they were being strafed, the BTR gunners spun their turrets away — frantically tracking what they perceived as the more immediate threat. Tracer rounds streamered toward the black, batwinged aircraft as it rolled back to make another pass.
Beside Schofield, Sergeant Davis fired again, killing a fourth enemy foot soldier who had been pounding on the outside of one of the BTRs, trying to attract the attention of its crew. And then the armored car exploded. Hit broadside by another Spike missile, the gutted wreck sat motionless, wrapped in oily black smoke and sputtering flames.
Panicked, the driver of the last surviving Russian troop carrier popped his six 81mm smoke-grenade launchers. Gray clouds blossomed in the air, hiding the BTR from view as it reversed away at high speed — hightailing it for cover behind one of the distant airport buildings.
“That’s our cue, Sergeant,” Schofield snapped, leaping to his feet. He headed straight into the smoke with his Polish-made Radon assault rifle up and ready to fire. Davis scooped up his own carbine and plunged after him.
Moving fast across the runway, the two Iron Wolf commandos raced toward the spot where they’d last seen Macomber and his captors. They entered an eerie, half-lit world. The fires consuming the two destroyed Russian BTRs flickered redly amid a thickening haze of black-and-gray smoke.
Schofield saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun to the side and threw himself prone. An assault rifle stuttered; 5.45mm rounds whipcracked over his head. He shot back at the flashes and heard a Russian screaming in agony. Davis fired a second three-round burst and the screaming stopped.
Breathing hard, the Canadian captain scrambled back to his feet. They moved on, deeper into the drifting smoke. Contorted corpses littered the concrete, sprawled in pools of blood.
“I found the major!” Davis shouted, dropping to one knee beside a man lying curled up on the ground. It was Macomber. The Iron Wolf sergeant laid his carbine down and pulled out a combat knife to cut the flexicuffs binding the big American’s wrists.
Just then, more flashes sparkled in the smoke, accompanied by the crackling sound of rifle fire. Hit twice, once in the shoulder and once in the chest, Davis groaned loudly and collapsed next to Macomber.
Furious, Schofield returned fire, killing the Russian soldier who’d played dead long enough to bushwhack his sergeant. Then he turned and hurried over to Davis and Macomber. Both men were alive, though it was clear that Davis was badly wounded.
He took the sergeant’s knife and slashed through Macomber’s bindings. Then he rolled the big man over. “Can you move, Whack?” he asked urgently. “Because I need your help with the sergeant here.”
“Hell, yeah,” the American muttered groggily. “I can’t see for shit. But I can move okay.” He forced open a blood-caked eyelid and offered Schofield a painful grin. “Guess I can’t court-martial you guys for coming back for me, can I?”
“It might be considered bad form,” the Canadian agreed. Taking hold of Macomber’s hand, he hauled the bigger man upright.
Then, dragging Davis between them, they staggered back through the smoke and out onto the runway — in time to see the Ranger touch down. The Iron Wolf transport rolled toward them, braking hard. Mike Knapp and Karol Sikora burst out of the forest on the other side, already loping toward the batwinged aircraft as its rear ramp whined down.
THIRTY-NINE
Slowly, Gryzlov put the secure phone down. He sat in uncharacteristic silence for several moments, digesting the incredible news Colonel Balakin had just relayed. Around the conference room table, the most senior members of his national security team sat frozen, plainly afraid of how he would react to this catastrophe. He had summoned them to this late-night meeting to share his triumph, the culmination of months of careful planning and intense effort. Now, instead, they were here at the very moment when the taste of victory turned to ashes in his mouth.
In the bad old days, those who served a Russian strongman like Ivan the Terrible or Stalin knew they could be exiled, imprisoned, or executed on a whim — savaged by a tyrant lashing out in the face of humiliation and failure. Not much was different under the rule of Gennadiy Gryzlov. Punishments meted out to those who fell out of favor might carry a veneer of legality, but they were no less arbitrary.
For now, Gryzlov ignored their fear. There would be time enough later to savor his power over Sokolov, Kazyanov, Titeneva, and the others — power that had, if anything, just become even more absolute. While he regretted Sergei Tarzarov’s death, there was no denying that the older man’s connections and carefully cultivated ties to Russia’s business, military, and intelligence elites had checked Gryzlov’s authority and ambitions. Tarzarov’s gray, shadowy presence inside the Kremlin had acted as a constant reminder of older days and other leaders. Wittingly or unwittingly, he had sometimes served as a rallying point for those who feared their president’s aggressive behavior.