Assassins edge, p.6
Assassin's Edge, page 6
They were presently five miles outside the twelve-mile territorial limit. Under better conditions, lights on the southern coast of Crimea might be visible off the port beam. Highstreet had been occasionally jinking closer to shore, teasing the Russians, who were certainly tracking their every move. Still, he had to be careful, his orders from Fleet being unequivocal: they were never to “bust the dashed line.” Five miles, in his opinion, was plenty to work with, and the compass soon settled on the new heading.
Highstreet had assumed command of Ross one year ago, a mandatory step in the career of any surface warfare officer who aspired for promotion. During his time at the Naval Academy he’d envisioned this day, a third-generation captain in the United States Navy, following his father and grandfather. That his own command had come slightly below the zone he carried with no small amount of pride.
He got out of his seat and ventured outside. On the port wing he was hit by a cool breeze, and he pulled the collar of his jacket higher as he studied the horizon. The night had been pitch-black, the Sea living up to its name. He could barely see the water, no breakers to define its surface, and the visibility was so poor he struggled to make out their own bow. With no moon or stars, no lights from shore, the blackness felt stifling. Even Ross’s own subdued lights were beaten into submission by the fog. He’d seen such conditions before, and he knew they often continued for weeks at a stretch in these waters. Whatever morale boost the crew had gotten from shore leave in Romania would dampen quickly in the abyss that was March on the Black Sea.
“Captain!”
Highstreet edged back inside. The ensign behind the main nav display was looking at him anxiously.
“What’s up?”
“I show a position jump.”
“A what?” Highstreet went and stood next to him.
“Our position on the map—it just shifted almost twenty miles.”
The captain looked down and saw a significantly different picture than he’d seen minutes earlier. “What the hell? Nav, did you cross-check the GPS data to—”
Highstreet was cut off by the sound of a collision warning. He checked the screen and saw a flashing red return less than a hundred yards ahead.
“Helm, all back emergency! Left full rudder!”
Everyone on the bridge braced as the twin propellers reversed pitch and began biting into the sea.
“Sir!” shouted the lookout on his right. “Ship dead ahead!”
Highstreet looked up and saw it—a dark shape looming over the bow like a mountain. It was far bigger than Ross and he saw stacks of shipping containers piled high. Ross shuddered under the pull of her great twin propellers. She was slowing rapidly … but not fast enough.
“Sound general quarters!”
The order went out over the loudspeaker, and across the ship crewmen rushed to close watertight doors. But they had only seconds.
The massive ship rose out of the gloom, the spray of her deck lights hovering like so many moons. Highstreet could tell the container ship was also trying to maneuver, and in the last instant he realized his turn minutes earlier had probably negated their evasive move—two people trying to pass on a sidewalk but moving laughably in the same direction.
Highstreet watched helplessly, the sickening inevitability clear. On his order, the officer of the deck again took to the loudspeaker, “All hands brace for impact!”
Highstreet gripped a rail and held tight. Everyone on the bridge was thrown violently to the deck as Ross’s bow scythed squarely into the beam of the massive freighter.
NINE
Tracer took Slaton and Davis to an adjacent building to be fitted for gear. He began with real winter clothing: synthetic base layer, winter camo jacket and pants, wool socks, boots, gloves, beanies, and goggles.
He gave them each a loaded backpack, and after itemizing the contents, Tracer said, “That’s basically your survival gear. Either of you want a weapon?”
Davis said, “I’ll make do with the ice axe.”
Slaton suppressed a smile, and said, “SCAR-H?”
“I can do that.” Tracer disappeared into a nearby room and emerged with an FN SCAR-H. It was one of the assault rifles issued to SEAL units, and he was given the standard version, a middling blend of close-quarters functionality and long-range accuracy with a twenty-round magazine.
“Okay,” Tracer said, “next comes the dive gear. We’re not sure if that’ll be necessary, but the plan is to bring three sets: the two of you and myself.”
It took nearly an hour to get geared up, fitted, and briefed on the peculiarities of the SEAL-spec rig. “We have more exotic stuff,” Tracer said at the end, “but there’s not enough time to check you out. This will get you down to a hundred feet, maybe one-twenty in a pinch with limited bottom time.”
“Any deeper than that,” Slaton said, “and I’m happy to leave it for an underwater drone.”
Tracer gave both men a refresher on dry suits. Unlike a standard wet suit, which trapped a warm layer of water next to the skin, full dry suits were the only option for diving in extremely cold water. They were also bulky, annoyingly buoyant, and difficult to work in.
As they loaded it all into the back of the Land Cruiser, straining the ample cargo bay, Slaton was beginning to see Sorensen’s wisdom in keeping the contingent small. Between the mission and dealing with an Arctic winter, they were going to be hauling a lot of gear.
“We’re also taking two snowmobiles,” Tracer added. “It’s the only way to get around on Wrangel this time of year. They tell me New Mexico is already carrying two—they were taking part in a winter exercise before getting diverted to Wrangel. Lucky for us, New Mexico is also fitted with a lockout chamber.”
“A what?” Davis asked.
“It’s a compartment that can be flooded, a way to deploy and recover divers. It’s the only way to go, especially in bad weather.”
“Or if you don’t want anybody to see you jumping in,” Slaton added.
“Yep.”
When they finished loading, Tracer, who would act as operational commander of the mission, assembled the entire team in the brown-slush parking lot. Slaton and Davis were introduced to Sorensen’s EOD team. Both were former Navy SEALs who had transferred into SOG. Ben “Super” Kuperman was a ten-year frogman with multiple deployments downrange. George Sharp was an EOD instructor before landing at the CIA. The two wiry explosives experts had clearly worked together before, evident by a constant stream of gallows humor that would have left the Grim Reaper doubled over in stitches.
Last to be introduced were the comm specialist and combat medic, and Tracer’s two recruits. In Slaton’s view, every one of them seemed solid. They eyed him in return with clear curiosity, causing him to suspect his reputation had preceded him. The legend of an Israeli assassin who spanned the world like a shadow, and who reappeared regularly after rumors of his demise, had long been talked about in Special Ops circles. To have an Israeli before them now who might or might not be that ghost was rocket fuel for speculation.
Slaton said nothing to confirm or deny the suspicions. Either would only complicate matters, and everyone needed to focus on the task at hand.
Tracer announced that a meal would be served in the main building—the last hot chow they would likely get for days—before giving everyone twenty minutes for personal prep. As they walked back to the main building, Davis pointed out a recent repair in the nearby perimeter fence. “You have a security breach?” he asked Tracer.
“Actually, yeah. But not the kind you worry about in most places. A bear tore through the fence to get to the dumpster.”
“They a problem here?”
“When they want to be. There’s one Kodiak bear per square mile on this island. That works out to one for every three people. You won’t see any this time of year, though. Males won’t start coming out for a month or so.”
“I hear they’re big,” Slaton said.
“Around fifteen hundred pounds, which makes them bigger than grizzlies. Ten feet tall when they stand. There’s only one bear subspecies on earth that’s bigger.”
“Dare I ask?” said Davis.
Tracer laughed. “Polar bear. As it turns out, Wrangel Island has one of the densest populations of those on earth. And they don’t hibernate.”
“Of course.”
“Wouldn’t worry about it,” Slaton said. “The way I see it … those bears are going to be the least of our worries.”
* * *
Arkady Nabiyev pushed his ancient wheelbarrow from the tiny shed to the far side of the yard. His chore today was to prepare the small rose garden for spring. It was time to turn the soil and clip back for new growth. Having worked inside the walled compound for nine years, he had developed an attachment to the garden. The grounds surrounding the Israeli embassy in Kazakhstan were not large, and certainly not his own, yet he kept them with pride.
He set the wheelbarrow down at the edge of the rose garden and took to his task methodically, clipping stems and churning soil. Arkady had been at it for ten minutes when he noticed something on the ground near a wintering Duc de Cambridge: a tiny shard of red plastic the size of his thumb.
He picked it up and turned it in his hand—a mistake, he would later be told, but not one he could have been expected to foresee—and then snapped it open from the tiny pivot point. He had never in his life owned a computer, yet he knew what it was. His son had used such devices in school, and his nephew once used something similar to show him family photos on a laptop.
Arkady glanced at the embassy’s distant entrance. He knew perfectly well where he worked, and by extension, he understood the device might be meaningful to his employer. The question of what to do with it floated for a moment, but was quickly resolved. Some of his Muslim friends had issues with the Jews, but those here at the embassy had always treated him well.
He went to the main entrance and asked to see the facility manager. Arkady was not allowed inside the consulate without an escort, and as the full-time gardener he rarely needed such access. The shed held his tools, and a small covered table gave him a place to eat lunch. When the weather was bad, often the case in the winter, he simply took the day off. That he did so at full pay did not go unappreciated.
It took ten minutes for the manager to arrive. He smiled, although in a way that suggested to Arkady that he ought to be brief. The man was probably expecting questions about what annuals to plant in the spring, or perhaps a request for a bit of cash to purchase a new spade. When Arkady held up the plastic flash drive, the look on the manager’s face shifted.
“I found it in the rose garden,” Arkady said.
The man took it, and after a brief inspection, he squinted and asked, “On the east side, near the wall?”
“Yes.”
After a brief hesitation, the Israeli said, “Come inside, Arkady. I may have a few more questions…”
* * *
For two reasons President Cleveland took the news about Ross badly. First was that it arrived at five fifteen a.m. after her morning shower. Second was that it was delivered not by any element of the national command authority, but inadvertently by her valet as he set out the presidential morning tea.
The valet turned on the morning news, as was his custom, and the footage was a nightmare. The aftermath of a maritime collision on the Black Sea was presented in a choppy, unstabilized video: the foundering destroyer Ross, listing badly to port and with gray smoke billowing from a gash in her hull. A sodden American flag amidships hung into the sea like a wet beach towel. The camera shifted, and in the distance a massive container ship sat becalmed with a great dent on her starboard waterline. The air and water around Ross were besieged by rescue vessels—fishing boats, ferries, and a helicopter bearing Ukrainian markings—circling like so many vultures around a mortally wounded animal.
President Cleveland dressed quickly and rushed to the basement.
The White House Situation Room had recently undergone renovations. Communications had been upgraded and high-definition monitors installed, assuring secure links for the nation’s leadership to any command post or frontline military unit in the world. Unfortunately, technology did nothing to resolve the lack of sheer square footage. Being situated in the White House basement, the room’s hardened walls were constraining, and its low ceilings magnified the lack of space. When attended by a full complement of staff, the SR was nothing short of claustrophobic. For that reason, Cleveland limited the size of meetings whenever possible.
She walked in that morning to find a skeleton crew, the overnight watch team at the end of its shift. Everyone stood when the president entered: four duty officers, one communications specialist, and an intel analyst. Three were active-duty military, attached to the NSC from the Pentagon, while the others were permanent party NSC staff.
“Why wasn’t I notified of this?” the president demanded, pointing to a screen on the far wall displaying the ongoing news coverage.
When no one spoke up, the duty officer in charge realized he was holding the short straw. “We’ve been following it closely, Madam President, but information is just now arriving. We were planning to cover the Ross incident during the morning briefing.”
“Where exactly did this happen?”
“Ross went down in the Black Sea, south of Crimea.”
Cleveland stared incredulously at the messenger, a vaguely familiar Navy officer whose name tag said JACKSON. “Went down? As in sunk?”
“I’m afraid so—the news footage is a couple of hours old. It all happened very quickly. Ross collided with a larger ship.”
The president looked accusingly at the rest of the team, then locked back on the man in charge. In an unfortunate twist of fate, he happened to hold the rank of a Navy captain. “And how could this happen?”
The captain’s hesitation might have been taken for embarrassment. In truth, he’d spent his entire career in Navy intelligence, with virtually no time at sea, and had been asking himself the same question. How does a United States Navy destroyer run into another ship and sink in less than an hour? “We have no details on the collision, ma’am. The good news is that there were a number of other ships in the area and they’ve been taking on survivors. I can tell you there were three hundred and twelve crewmen on board Ross. On last word, two hundred ninety-eight are accounted for.”
Cleveland was suddenly consumed by an uneasy feeling. Only two days ago she’d been getting briefed on a disaster involving an Air Force reconnaissance aircraft: seventeen crewmembers presumably lost. Part of her wanted to be grateful that today’s disaster had better prospects for the crew; grateful that she didn’t have to approve another risk-laden rescue mission. What filled her head instead was What are the chances of two disasters in two days?
“I want everyone here in one hour for a full NSC meeting,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll send out the alert.”
Cleveland headed for the door, and on her way out she glanced back once at a room that was about to get very crowded.
TEN
Slaton was in the equipment room packing the last of his gear when Sorensen appeared. She rounded a rack of diving rebreathers and stood watching him. “The Ospreys arrived right on schedule.”
“Good to hear. How’s the weather on Wrangel?”
“Getting worse, but the forecast is for gradual improvement beginning in a few hours. New Mexico should be able to give us an update before we launch on the insertion.”
Slaton wedged snowshoes into the oversized rucksack he’d been given.
“I wanted to have a word before you leave,” she said.
He zipped the duffel closed and gave her his full attention. He’d worked with Sorensen enough to have a loose read on her moods, yet right then he was drawing a blank. “What’s up?”
“To begin, I owe you an explanation as to why you’re not running this op. I know how much experience you have when it comes to—”
“No,” he broke in. “I wouldn’t have wanted to run it. Tracer is solid, and we’re using guys from his team. They’ve worked together, trained together, and the four guys from your section have similar backgrounds and training. Putting me in charge would only have complicated things. I’m only guest help, here because this crash is tied to another mission—finding Anton’s daughter and getting her back.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for understanding.”
“What else?”
A hesitation. “Aside from you, there’s one other outlier on this expedition.”
“Jammer.”
She nodded.
“I think he was a great choice. We’re dealing with an air crash, so we need someone with his expertise.”
When Sorensen didn’t respond, Slaton thought he understood. He went closer and held her with a level gaze. “Are we venturing onto delicate ground, Miss Deputy Director?”
“I wish it was otherwise, but yes. I’ve asked for Jammer’s help before, but never on a mission that put him in harm’s way. In those ops there ended up being problems, but they were either unexpected or … of his own making.”
“I don’t see any need to worry—we’re just looking for a downed airplane.”
Sorensen looked obviously at two assault rifles cradled in a nearby Pelican case.
“Look, Anna … can I offer a little advice?”
“Sure.”
“When I served in Mossad, it was a lot like the organization you run now—a small community that’s tight and familiar. You build relationships over time, get to know people and care about them. But invariably, the commander has to send his unit into dangerous places to do dangerous things. It’s the nature of the business. At a time like this, with everyone loading up, it’s natural to have reservations. I’d think less of you if you didn’t have them. But an hour from now, when those Ospreys take off, everything turns to business. I’m sure Tracer and the others see it the same way. No room for doubts or distractions. I’ve also spent time in command centers, watching ops like this play out, so here’s my advice—you owe it to everyone to adopt the same mindset. Focus completely on the task at hand. That’s the best you can do for any of us.”
