“Hello? Hello? Caller, this is Foxtrot Leader of the United States Army Airborne. Can you hear me?”
Linko reached up for the mic and pulled it down to him. He tasted the dead woman’s blood in his mouth. “I can hear you.” He spoke in an American accent.
“Okay, you people just keep your heads down. We’ve got planes in the area on recon missions. We can get there in seven minutes.”
Linko didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything he needed to say. All he had to do was stay alive — and find Boris Glukov.
And he only had seven minutes to do that.
Once that window of opportunity was over, he felt certain getting information from Glukov was going to be even more difficult. He gazed back at the cave where Glukov had disappeared with the American, Thomas Lourds.
Cursing, Linko returned to the front of the van and peered at the cave mouth. He kept expecting Glukov to appear there like a cuckoo bird popping out of an alarm clock, then get shot down.
If that happened, there might be no promotion. Even worse, Linko was certain he would secure the enmity of the Russian president.
Forcing himself up, he lunged from the cargo van and raced for the cave seventy meters away. He counted his steps, hit ten, and threw himself into the nearest pile of snow. He leaped in like a swimmer, hands thrust forward to break the surface before him, then he was kicking to get in more deeply.
Bullets zipped through the snow and slapped into the earth around him. He forced himself to be still, to allow the gunners to think they’d killed him and move on to other targets.
Then he pushed himself up and ran again, knowing that the playing dead trick wouldn’t work again on any of the attackers that had fallen for it before.
Luck was with him, and he made it to the incline leading up to the cave. His breath came in ragged gasps, throwing out gray clouds in front of him. He shoved a sawhorse aside, noting the dead ANP guard draped over another sawhorse only a short distance away.
Linko ran hard, digging his boots into the frozen ground and staying bent over as he ran, using his hands and arms as another set of legs and feet to keep himself balanced and on course. He had a better sense of their attackers now and knew there were a lot more of them than he’d originally thought.
When he reached the same level where the cave was, he flattened against the mountain two meters away. The mountain had a natural crevice there that just fit him and kept him out of the field of fire.
Almost at his feet, a wounded ANP officer lay choking in his own blood. He looked to be about twenty-two or twenty-three, and Linko knew he wouldn’t be growing any older. Part of his neck had been ripped away, and even if Linko had wanted to help him, there was no way to stem the flow.
The young ANP officer reached out toward Linko. He was clearly unable to speak, but there was no mistaking his plea for help.
Linko ignored him, looking around for anything he could use. Almost immediately, he saw that the officer had dropped his service pistol in the snow nearby.
Linko squatted down and picked up the weapon, taking some confidence just from having it in his hand. He popped the magazine out and found that there were still nine rounds in it. Shoving the magazine back into the pistol, he scanned the man for spare ammo, ingoring his rasping, bubbling breath. Moments later, the ANP officer went silent.
Rocks tumbled down across his shoulders, and he knew things had gone from bad to worse. The attackers had set up a secondary force to catch them in a crossfire.
At that same moment, Anna Cherkshan ran out of the cave and froze, staring at the bodies spread out all around her. Gazing at the young woman, Linko knew she was moments away from being shot dead.
20
Mastering the fear that vibrated through him as he watched the news camera sweeping across the carnage at the dig, Cherkshan reached for his phone. Helplessly, he watched the cameraman panicking and swinging the camcorder wildly. The dead man vanished from sight, but he was replaced by more than a dozen bodies lying haphazardly on the snow-covered ground.
The camcorder operator’s irrationality vented itself in a litany in English. “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod!”
Cherkshan tuned the man out and punched the number for his attaché’s line.
“Yes, General.”
“Get me someone in the United States Army Base covering Herat.” The intel the FSB had access to would have that knowledge. Cherkshan waited, forcing himself to breathe, but he thought of Anna and how — only moments ago — he’d been glad she was there and not in Moscow while President Nevsky gave his speech.
Three intolerable minutes passed. The casualties on the television monitor continued to mount. Obviously shocked but trying to remain professional, an anchorwoman at the news station in the United States tried to bring order to the chaos erupting across the channel.
The anchor was young and had a reddish tint to her fair hair. She reminded Cherkshan of Anna.
The phone clicked in Cherkshan’s ear. “This is General Mitchell Clark’s attaché. To whom am I speaking?”
Cherkshan answered in English. “This is General Cherkshan with the Defense Ministry of the Russian Federation.” He knew the American army would know who he was at once. He had a widely decorated career.
The man’s laconic tone vanished. “General Cherkshan. How may I help you, sir?”
“I need to speak to your commanding officer.” Cherkshan hurried on, watching the events unfold on the television monitor. If something happened to Anna, he didn’t know how he was going to tell Katrina. “I want to verify that you are responding to the Taliban attack on the archeological dig at Herat.”
“Sir, I’m not at liberty—”
“My daughter is there. I want to know that you’re aware of the situation and taking steps.”
The attaché hesitated only a moment. “Got two girls of my own, General. This is off the record, but rest assured that we’re already en route. We’ve got a team three minutes out. Your daughter’s not out there alone.”
“Thank you.” Cherkshan broke the connection, then took out his personal cell phone. He punched up his address book and found Anna’s name. He pressed the button and listened to the phone at the other end ring and ring.
At the mouth of the cave, listening to the blistering cracks of the rifles all around him and spotting snow spraying up nearby as bullets whistled through it, Lourds didn’t hesitate. But he did realize full well what he was about to do.
“Thomas!” Boris charged after him, but Lourds was in shape from playing regular soccer and left his friend behind. “Don’t go out there!”
Lourds focused on Anna. She stood frozen in disbelief, staring down at a young ANP officer lying dead at her feet. Moving at full speed, Lourds was grimly aware of a line of bullets chopping across the snow-covered ground toward Anna. He lunged, throwing himself forward and spreading his arms. Trying to yank her back into the cave would only have gotten them both killed.
When he slammed into Anna, her breath whooshed out of her. Petite and little more than half his weight, she left her feet like a wide receiver hit by a linebacker. Pain shot through Lourds as they flew through the air. Her elbow struck him in the face and made his eyes water. Then they landed hard, with him on top.
She lay under him, gasping for air, and he tried to keep from smashing her flat. Desperate, Lourds looked around for cover.