Knight stood in the conning tower, watching them through a pair of night vision binoculars as they sped away.
“What do you think, Captain?” asked the chief of the boat.
Knight glanced at him. “I think we’re probably about fifteen minutes away from an international incident, Chief — but we’ll see.”
“How long before we contact Fleet Command, sir?”
“Let’s get below and do that now. The admiral’s going to have a cat. All lookouts below, and prepare to submerge the boat to one-six-zero feet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Childress sat in the team leader’s position on the forward port side of the boat, watching out over the gray-white surface of the water through infrared, the cold sea spray on his face. He and his men were headed into allied waters — armed to the teeth — without the Italian government’s permission.
Winslow spoke to him over the radio headset as they raced along the surface. “What are the rules of engagement, Senior?”
Childress glanced over at the other boat, seeing Winslow looking back at him. “Whatever’s necessary to make sure no more of our people get killed.” He took an instant to make sure of his feelings and then added: “I’ll accept full responsibility.”
“Roger that,” Winslow said. “I’ve got your back.”
Within ten minutes, they were in sight of the extraction point, and Childress spotted a man on the beach, kneeling over another man. As they drew closer, he realized the kneeling man was performing CPR — and that another, much cooler body lay not far off, with its legs still in the water. He signaled the coxswain to head directly for them, and the coxswain gave him a thumbs-up.
“Come on, you stupid American,” Dragunov growled. “Breathe!” He gave the dying SEAL a precordial thump to the sternum in an attempt to get his heart going again. He could hear the encroaching boat motors behind him as he lifted the SEAL’s chin and breathed into his mouth. He then resumed CPR: fifteen chest compressions for every two breaths.
The boats came ashore on either side of him, and two SEALs rushed to take over CPR as four others spread out in a defensive arc.
“Sir!” Childress said. “Are you Major Ivan Dragunov?”
“Yes,” Dragunov said, sitting back in the water to rest against his arms, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. I did my best.”
“I appreciate you—”
“He’s got a pulse!” Winslow said, his tone desperate. “Permission to haul ass, Senior Chief?”
“Go!”
Both the dead man and the dying SEAL were loaded immediately into the CRRC, and the secondary team raced back out to sea in the dark.
“Major, where is Chief Shannon?”
Dragunov got to his feet and pointed inland. “He went after Kovalenko to keep him from killing you as you came ashore. He could be dead, for all I know. But I think probably he is still alive because Kovalenko hasn’t shot at us. Give me a weapon, and I’ll go look for him.”
“Negative,” Childress said, scanning the shoreline but seeing no heat signatures. “We have to go, sir.”
“That’s your man out there,” Dragunov said. “You’re going to leave him?”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have a choice. You’d better get in the boat now, sir.”
To Dragunov’s own surprise, this angered him. “Shannon told me SEALs don’t leave their people behind.”
Childress felt like shit. “We don’t leave our people behind, sir, but this is different. We have to go.”
“You go!” Dragunov said, waving them off. “I’m going after Shannon. You won’t give me a weapon? Okay, give me your night vision!”
Childress signaled for the other three SEALs to surround the Russian officer. “Major, the second that boat slid ashore, you became my responsibility. My orders are to see you safely aboard the Ohio, and that’s exactly what I intend to do — with or without your cooperation, sir.”
Dragunov stood glaring, glancing over his shoulder at his competition and finding it formidable.
Childress could see him swaying on his feet. “Major, you’re dog-ass tired, sir. Why don’t you get in the boat? We’re running out of time here.”
“Chort!” Dragunov snarled, walking into the water and getting into the CRRC.
The SEALs shoved the boat into deeper water, and Childress climbed in beside Dragunov, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Chief Shannon, Major. He’s survived a hell of a lot worse.”
“I know,” Dragunov grumbled as the motor was started. “I was watching on satellite when they tried to kill him in the Panjshir Valley.”
“Say again?” Childress said over the drone of the motor.
Dragunov shook his head, feeling very tired suddenly. “Nothing… nothing.”
37
Gil could feel the Wolf among the rocks now, and he somehow knew that Kovalenko could feel him as well, a strange electricity pervading the air. He realized the folly of hunting a Spetsnaz sniper over unknown terrain with nothing more than a pistol, but there was an arrogance within him that was tired of being beaten to the trigger, tired of running away. He and the Chechen had drawn each other’s blood, and there was no avoiding the now-personal nature of their enmity. So far each had survived what the other had thrown at him, but each was painfully aware that the contest would remain unfinished until one or the other had proven himself the better man.
Gil had lost the sat phone in the water, so there was no calling on Midori or the Ohio for support. He was completely on his own, and it was only a matter of time before the driver of the car called the police. Soon the entire cape was likely to be crawling with carabinieri — and dogs.
He moved south for a hundred meters, stopping when his instincts told him the enemy was near. Poking his head around a boulder, he saw in the greenish-black field of his NVGs the figure of a man positioned in the rocks seventy-five yards to the south. The enemy sniper was aiming a rifle over the top of a jagged outcrop, obviously focused on the dirt road, leaving his rear entirely exposed. This made little sense to Gil until he moved east and saw that the grassland opposite the escarpment was sectioned off by the chest-high rock walls of what appeared to be ancient Sicilian farmlets. Any maneuvering through those farmlets would be slow and tedious, leaving him vulnerable every time he climbed over one of the walls.
The only viable route of advance was over the rocky escarpment, which would mean taking his eyes off of Kovalenko for lengthy periods, maybe even losing his line of sight completely until he drew within just a few feet. He searched for a landmark parallel to Kovalenko’s position that he could use as a geological reference point to keep track of his progress. The last thing he needed was to step blindly around a rock and suddenly find himself face-to-face with the enemy.
Gil was unable to find a definite geological reference, so he settled for what looked like a soda can alongside the road roughly even with Kovalenko’s position. He moved out, keeping tabs on the Chechen as best he could until a sheer rock face forced him up and over the top of the jagged escarpment, completely out of view of his target. The going was unsteady over the jagged rock, but within thirty feet, he came to a wide crevasse ten or twelve feet deep. He marked the location of the can and lowered himself down carefully, creeping forward toward the opening of the crevasse, expecting to emerge with a clear shot at Kovalenko from less than twenty feet.
He felt a slight pressure against his right shin and froze in place, but it was already too late. An empty mineral water bottle, stuck upside-down on a stick, tumbled from the shadows overhead and shattered against rocks, making a noise loud enough to wake the dead.