Landsbergis’s final piece of intelligence had been about where the team was now headed.
Across from the border checkpoint, along the shores of Lake Goldap, was a Russian campground. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a wonderful place to take a family. It had cabins, picnic tables, showers, toilets, a dining hall, a trading post, and a stage for skits. But for all its outward appearances, in reality, it was an underground railway stop for Russian spies.
As they moved into and out of Poland, Lithuania, and other adjacent NATO countries, many of the spies came to the campground to unwind and be debriefed. It was a hangover from the KGB days when vacation camps had been created to provide inexpensive holidays for officers of good standing.
There was plenty of cheap booze and even cheaper women, rotated in from neighboring Belarus a month at a time.
American movies, dubbed in Russian, played in the theater while meals that sounded classy, but were actually very low-rent, were cooked up in the vermin-infested camp kitchen.
Over at the Russian border patrol checkpoint, the officers had been instructed to ignore the alcohol-fueled parties as well as anything else that took place at the camp — if they wanted to keep their jobs.
But those kinds of things usually happened at the height of summer. Now it was off-season. Activity at the camp might just give the border guards something to pay attention to. It could go either way.
Covering the distance to the camp was made difficult by Tretyakov’s unwillingness to walk. They would shove him forward and he would cooperate for a few steps and then he’d go back to shuffling his feet.
Harvath reached over and placed his fingers beneath the man’s injured jaw. The area was so sensitive that the Russian’s entire body seized, his eyes began to water, and he came right up onto his toes.
It only took once to secure his compliance. There was no more slowing the team down after that.
From where the Lithuanian had dropped them off, it was a full ten kilometers to the border, but only three klicks to the campground.
They proceeded in a staggered formation, with their night-vision goggles on and their suppressed weapons hot, ready for anything.
Their hope, of course, was that they wouldn’t encounter anything; that they would just move quietly through the campground and no one would know they had ever been there.
That hope, though, was dashed the moment they set foot on the property. Coming up the road from the main camp building was a small Russian military unit.
Sloane was on point and gave the signal for the team to melt into the woods. There, they all froze and didn’t make a sound.
Harvath had Tretyakov lie on his stomach. Crouching next to him, he placed his fingers under his jaw, a subtle threat of what would happen if the GRU officer tried to call out through the duct tape over his mouth, or if he made any sound at all.
They waited for what felt like an eternity for the soldiers to pass. There were eight of them, and they were heavily armed.
From where Harvath and his team were hiding in the trees, it was impossible to make out whether these were regular troops augmenting the border patrol, or if they were a more specialized unit. Harvath didn’t want to get close enough to find out. Getting Tretyakov off the ground, they pressed on.
They had only been back on the road for a few moments when they heard a vehicle coming from behind them and were forced to return to the woods again.
It was a truck carrying additional Russian troops, and it was headed into the camp.
Damn it, thought Harvath. They’re flooding the zone.
Whether the troops were just bivouacking at the campground between shifts at the checkpoint or were being spread out in a more organized fashion along the border, it didn’t matter. They were standing between the team and their exfil.
Staelin came over and crouched down next to Harvath. Keeping his voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I’m guessing the plan didn’t involve the campground being full of Russian soldiers.”
Harvath shook his head. “If I’d known, I would have brought more hot dogs.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to avoid contact at all costs. I’m not really in the mood for another gunfight.”
“Agreed,” Staelin replied. “So do we try to go around them?”
For the time being, it seemed like the only possible answer, and Harvath nodded. Getting Tretyakov to his feet, they changed course and pushed deeper into the woods.
It made for even slower going. The ground was uneven and there were plenty of hidden hazards — rocks, roots, and downed branches to trip them up. But it wasn’t as if they were swimming in options. They had no choice but to push forward.
If they could get to the other side of the campground, there would be a small clearing to cross, and after that, Harvath prayed, nothing preventing them from getting to the water. Then, once they had reached Lake Goldap, they could head for Poland, and freedom.
But no sooner had the thought entered his mind than Sloane heard something up ahead and gave the signal for the team, once more, to freeze.
CHAPTER 73
Harvath tightened his grip on Tretyakov, just as a barrage of gunfire erupted around them.
“Contact left! Contact left!” Sloane yelled.
Somehow, somewhere in the woods, the Russians had spotted them. Immediately, the team returned fire.
“Move! Move! Move!” Harvath ordered.
Everyone, including Tretyakov, kicked it into gear.
The wild, indiscriminate shooting seemed to be coming from every direction. The Russians were not only undisciplined, but were also going to end up killing one of their own.
At that moment, Harvath heard a cry from Tretyakov’s duct-taped mouth and saw him drop. He had been shot in the back of the leg.
Slinging his weapon, Harvath helped him back up and forced him to keep moving. It was obvious that the Russian soldiers weren’t planning on taking any prisoners.
Whether they knew Tretyakov was with them was immaterial. They were throwing so much lead in their direction that there was no way they could expect anyone to survive.
Raising his Rattler in his right hand, Harvath fired off a burst to their three o’clock.
The soldiers pursuing them from that side responded, and Tretyakov was shot again — this time in his upper arm.
“Fuck!” grunted Harvath.
They needed to find cover fast, or they were all going to be cut to ribbons. There were just too many guns on the other side of this fight.
Through the branches up ahead, Harvath spotted what looked like the remnants of an old stone foundation — maybe from a caretaker’s cottage or a previous lodge of some sort.
“There!” Harvath shouted, directing his team to it.
They all scrambled or leaped over the foundation wall. Harvath helped Tretyakov as Chase and Sloane laid down cover fire.
Finally getting up and over, Tretyakov landed hard on the other side, followed by Harvath.
“If I had known we were going to be taking on the whole Russian Army,” said Staelin as he changed magazines, “I would have brought along a little more ammo.”
Like Tretyakov, Harvath’s exfil plan was shot to shit. All the work Haney and Barton had done staging dry suits, full face mask SCUBA gear, and propulsion devices was out the window.
Even if they could get to all of it, it was highly unlikely they could successfully transport Tretyakov, underwater, to the Polish side of the lake where the boat was waiting.
He was going to have to come up with another plan. And right now, there was only one plan he could think of. Activating his radio, he hailed Barton.
“What the hell is that for?” Jasinski asked, as the SEAL flipped open the Storm case and removed a Mark 48 belt-fed machine gun.