Gil shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. First he complained about what a huge pussy you are, and he then asked if I’d go along to look after you.”
The Spetsnaz man laughed.
“I felt bad for the guy,” Gil went on. “I couldn’t tell him no.”
Dragunov sat smiling. “You used an SVD for the Iran assassination, correct?” An SVD was the Dragunov SVD sniper rifle in 7.62 × 54mmR (rimmed), invented by Ivan’s grandfather.
Gil’s eyes narrowed. “I was never in Iran… Ivan.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dragunov said. “The rifle you have now is even better than the one you carried in Iran. It’s a match weapon taken from the Kremlin Armory.”
The SVD in Gil’s load-out was essentially brand new, with a black polymer stock, and equipped with the standard-issue PSO-1 scope, suppressed. The SVD held a ten-round box magazine, and Gil carried eleven mags. His main combat weapon would be a 5.45 x 39 mm AN-94 assault rifle with a GP-34 40 mm grenade launcher. His sidearm was a 9 mm Strike One Strizh. The rest of his load-out consisted of an NR-40 Russian combat knife, a dozen 40 mm grenades for the GP-34, six RGN hand grenades, medical bag, Russian third-generation night vision, radio headset, high-energy food bars, a water bladder similar to a CamelBak, and various incidentals.
“What speed are we jumping at?” Gil asked. “A couple thousand?”
“No,” Dragunov chortled. “One hundred miles an hour from five hundred feet. How fast was the 727 flying when you jumped into Iran?”
Gil ignored the question. “We should be HALO-ing in. This is fucking nuts.”
Dragunov crushed out the cigarette against the sole of his boot. “This way we’ll hit the ground exactly where we want to be.”
“With a pair of broken legs. Nobody uses drag chutes anymore, Ivan.”
The Russian double-checked his equipment, which was essentially identical to Gil’s. “The moon is waxing,” he said. “Umarov’s people watch the sky, and they have early warning patrols all over the mountains.”
“Well, with this noisy pig buzzing the treetops, I’m sure they won’t expect a fucking thing.”
“That’s right,” Dragunov said. “Only a fool would jump out of a jet plane at five hundred feet in the middle of the night.”
Gil pulled on his helmet and gathered the drag chute into his arms. “Fuckin’ nuts,” he muttered.
The red jump light came on a few moments later, and both men got to their feet, standing side by side as they waited for the ramp to drop.
“How much trouble are you in back in Moscow?”
“Enough,” Dragunov said. “But if I bring back Kovalenko’s head, all will be forgiven.”
“What if we bag Umarov, too?”
“If we can kill Dokka Umarov, I’ll be made a Hero of the Russian Federation.” This was Russia’s version of the American Medal of Honor.
“And what about me?”
“You?” Dragunov bashed him on the shoulder and laughed. “You, my friend, you’ll be given a cheap bottle of vodka and a free plane ride home.”
Gil laughed.
The ramp went down, and the light turned green sixty seconds later. They walked down either side of the ramp and tossed their drag chutes into the wind. The drag chutes were caught by the slipstream, and their main chutes deployed instantly, jerking them both from the ramp and out into the night sky. The engines of an An-72 are mounted on the tops of the wings, near the fuselage, rather than beneath the wings like most jet aircraft, so there was little jet wash to contend with. Still, when the chute deployed, the harness jerked into Gil’s groin so hard that he thought his testicles might have ended up in his throat.
There was barely enough time to stabilize their descent and get their bearings before they were dropping through the treetops three hundred feet apart.
Gil landed with both feet together in the crotch of a hardwood ten feet off the ground. He got loose from the harness and attached the night vision goggles to his helmet, scanning the terrain below for signs of movement. Seeing nothing, he shinned down the tree and unslung the AN-94.
“Typhoon to Carnivore,” he said quietly into the headset. “Do you read? Over.” He waited ten seconds and tried again. “Carnivore, this is Typhoon. Do you read?”
He began to move slowly in the direction of where he had seen Dragunov drop into the forest. A stick snapped, and he froze, lowering himself into a combat crouch near the base of a tree, scanning the gray-black woods through the digital night vision goggles.
“Typhoon to Carnivore,” he said in as low a voice as possible. “Do you copy my traffic? Over.”
Nothing.
He switched the channel. “Typhoon to Archangel. Do you copy?”
“This is Archangel,” answered a voice in Russian-accented English. “What is your status? Over.”
“Archangel, be advised I am on the ground but unable to establish radio contact with Carnivore. Over.”
“Copy, Typhoon. We will attempt to establish contact. Stand by.”
Gil waited a full a minute.
“Typhoon, Carnivore does not answer.”
“Roger that, Archangel. Will attempt to locate on foot.”
He moved out again, covering some two hundred feet before the sounds of voices drove him to cover behind a group of boulders. The voices were low, but the tone of conversation sounded confused.
Letting the AN-94 hang from its three-point sling, Gil drew his pistol and screwed the silencer to the end of the barrel. Then he moved forward through a gap in the rocks, spotting five bearded Chechen soldiers standing in a loose huddle. They gestured at the surrounding forest, shrugging as if they’d been unable to find something. Gil noted they had no night vision, but a small amount of light from the sliver of moon shone down through the bare limbs of the trees.
He was maneuvering through the rocks when he spotted Dragunov dangling from a tree twenty-five feet off the ground directly above the Chechens. He was swaying slightly with his arms dangling at his sides, his chin resting on his chest as though he were unconscious.
Gil hunkered down, balling a green and black shemagh over his mouth so that his whispering wouldn’t carry. “Carnivore, this is Typhoon. I have a visual on you from your left at ten o’clock. If you can hear me, open and close your hands.”
He watched as Dragunov opened and closed his hands three times.
“Okay. Give me some time to figure this out. Don’t go anywhere.” He backed away around the boulder, detaching from both rifles and making sure the sheath strapped to his right thigh was unsnapped.
50
Chief of Staff Brooks hung up the phone and turned to where the president and General Couture sat eating a dinner of prime rib and red wine. “That was Jay Tierney.” The US ambassador to Russia. “Shannon just made his shit list.”
The president looked at Couture as he poured himself a third glass of wine. “He’s been known to have that effect on people. Where is he now?”
Brooks retook his seat at the table. “Apparently he and Dragunov parachuted into the Caucasus about fifteen minutes ago. They’re going after Kovalenko and Umarov.”
The president lifted his glass. “What business does Tierney have being pissed about that?”
“None, sir.” Brooks reached for his glass of ice water. “He’s pissed because Shannon had lunch with Putin this afternoon and then took off without bothering to call Tierney to tell him what was discussed.”
Couture kept quiet, waiting to hear what the president would say.
The president sat back and sipped calmly from his glass of Merlot. Neither Couture nor Brooks was aware of it, but Pope had phoned two hours earlier to let him know about Gil’s meeting with Putin and that Gil was en route to the Caucasus. Pope had also mentioned to the president that he no longer had anything to worry about concerning his celebrations after the Iowa caucuses.