“Feels a lot like a bribe.”
Pope suddenly became very serious. “You’ll think bribe, Mariana, if something goes wrong and Crosswhite needs you to get directly involved. Now, stop your pouting. You’re a valuable operative, and it’s time to act like one. The world gets more dangerous every day, and a strong stomach is required.”
57
Dragunov was on point, keeping close to the northern tree line as they moved eastward. He suspected that more Chechens were on the way, and that he and Gil would be intercepted before they made it to open country. But by sticking to the edge of the forest, he hoped to avoid being caught up in another tiger sweep.
He had torn a strip from his shemagh and used it to tie his injured testicles against his leg, but they had worked loose and were once again rubbing painfully back and forth. At least he could no longer feel wet blood running down his legs. This told him the bleeding had stopped, and he was grateful for that.
A stick snapped at their two o’clock, fifty yards out, and both men froze. The first signs of daybreak were beginning to show in the sky, and they were still a full click from the valley, where they hoped to draw Kovalenko into the open.
They took cover and scanned the forest through their NVGs, watching a long skirmish line of men materialize gradually out of its black depths. Two Chechens came directly toward them at the extreme right flank of the tiger sweep, lagging slightly behind the rest due to the extra-rocky terrain inside the tree line, where small avalanches of football- and basketball-sized rocks has been accumulating for centuries.
Gil drew his knife, and Dragunov followed suit. If either Chechen made a sound, the two compatriots would quickly find themselves cornered with nowhere to run but over the open rocks at the base of the mountain. There they would be picked off at the enemy’s leisure.
Dragunov moved forward to take cover behind a thick tree. The pair of Chechens were not walking directly abreast but were moving almost single file, with fifteen feet between them, and Dragunov knew he would have to take the one in back before Gil could take out the man in front.
He kept low as the first of the Chechens brushed past the tree with his AK-47 slung lazily over his shoulder. Then he stood and readied himself for the second one to pass.
Gil crouched in the rocks, watching the first Chechen coming directly at him. If Dragunov couldn’t take his man first, they were in big trouble because Gil wouldn’t be able to afford the luxury of waiting; he would have to act the second the Chechen drew within striking distance. His Chechen came on steadily, but Dragunov’s man stopped to take a leak on the tree. Gil braced himself, waiting until the last possible instant before coming off the ground like a striking anaconda, ramming the knife up through the bottom of the Chechen’s jaw to sever the brain stem. He stood with the Chechen twitching in his arms, while Dragunov’s man finished taking a pee.
Dragunov held his breath until the man walked past, buttoning his fly. Then he stepped out and grabbed him from behind, cupping his hand over the Chechen’s mouth and stabbing the blade into the base of his skull.
Both men lowered their kills to the ground and moved out, cutting deeper into the forest away from the rocks, where the going would be faster. They covered a little over a hundred yards before sweeping around a formation of boulders and running smack into five Chechens left behind on the chance that Gil and Dragunov managed to slip through the skirmish line undetected.
A wild melee ensued.
Dragunov was struck in the head with the barrel of an AK-47, and his face was torn open along the cheekbone. He reeled backward against the boulder, and the Chechen’s rifle went off in his face. Had his eyes not been closed, the muzzle blast would have blinded him. As it was, the bullet creased the side of his head and took off part of his ear.
Gil managed to shoot the Chechen off of him before he was struck on the breastplate by a five-round burst that knocked him off his feet. He landed on his back, and the Chechen stood over him, banging the heel of his hand against the receiver of his jammed AK-47. Gil squeezed the trigger on his AN-94 and emptied the magazine, killing his attacker and one other man. He scrambled back to his feet and was immediately tackled by a man who was either too panicked or too inexperienced to unsling his rifle.
Dragunov grabbed the barrel of the Chechen’s AK-47, managing to deflect it and avoid taking a burst of fire to the belly. The Chechen twisted the rifle free of his grasp, and Dragunov delivered him a vicious uppercut that chopped off part of his tongue. The two men fell over in the rocks, slugging away at each other.
Gil was down on his right knee, with his left shoulder braced against a tree, barely maintaining his center of gravity as he tried to get loose from the Chechen, who had him around the waist from behind. The man was bigger and stronger than Gil, but he didn’t seem to know what to do beyond wrestling his opponent to the ground. Gil knew if he ended up on the bottom he was finished, but his right arm was caught inside the Chechen’s bear hug, so all he could do for the moment was keep his opponent in an awkward headlock with his left arm and hope the guy made a mistake.
Dragunov was shoved over onto his back and took a knee to the groin. Seeing stars, he clamped his teeth down on his attacker’s thumb and tried to bite it off. The Chechen flailed around in a desperate bid to keep his thumb, and this allowed Dragunov to use a hip-escape maneuver to slip out from beneath him and finally draw his knife. The Chechen caught Dragunov’s knife arm with his free hand and deflected the thrust away from his belly.
Meanwhile, Gil shoved upward with his right leg, using every ounce of strength he had, nearly blowing out his anterior cruciate ligament in the process of forcing himself to his feet. This must have surprised the Chechen, because he seemed to lose focus for a moment. Gil broke free of his grip, twisting into him and jamming both thumbs deep into his eye sockets. The Chechen screamed and grabbed for Gil’s arms, but Gil locked his legs around his waist and delivered a nasty head butt. The Chechen’s legs gave out, and Gil rode him to the ground, clawing out both of his eyes and then jumping to his feet.
“Now, fuck you!” he snarled at his howling opponent, grabbing the AN-94 and jumping to where Dragunov still fought for his life. He stuck the muzzle into the Chechen’s side and squeezed the trigger without result. The magazine was empty.
Swearing, Gil drew the knife and rammed it into the side of the Chechen’s neck. The Chechen went limp, and Gil stabbed him again for good measure.
Dragunov rolled clear of the body, spitting out the Chechen’s thumb and struggling to his feet. Both men were too exhausted to speak, so they bumped each other on the shoulder and took off toward the east. Day was beginning to break. They knew that every Chechen in the world would soon be hot on their heels — and that Kovalenko would be with them.
58
The president of the United States glanced away from the screen to see General Couture lighting up a Pall Mall cigarette with a First Air Cavalry Zippo lighter. They had all seen the melee, and no one in the room could believe that Gil and Dragunov were still alive.
“Is smoking allowed in here, General?”
Couture shook his head. “But you’re the only man in the room who outranks me, sir. Would you like me to put it out? It’s Shannon’s fault. He does this to me every time.”