Often drivers on the steppes didn’t bother about a road as such, the land being so amenable to vehicular traffic, even in the stonier southern regions of the Gobi, that a driver, providing he had a good compass and/or good sense of direction, could easily make his own road. In doing so, he scarred the topsoil for decades. The earth was so porous, the hold of the grass so tenuous, that once driven over it took decades to heal.
The truck, its headlights two dim orange blobs, was off to his left, following the course of the river, probably heading for some gher settlement of a few nomadic herder families. Often herders were told when and where to move to better pastures by the party, whether they liked it or not. Suddenly something moved in front of him. His hand dove for the 9mm but in a vibrant moonlight he saw it was a tarbagan, a marmotlike animal, scuttling down toward the river. It was then he heard the feint but distinctive wokka-wokka of a helo coming eastward from the city.
He scanned the sky for any sign of a chopper’s searchlights, but in the cloudless black velvet sky of Mongolia, where stars were so clear that they seemed to spangle just above his head, he could see nothing.
He heard the helicopter sound the away and felt reassured by the feet that the SAS/D’s greatest weapon was that they were moving south from the city to escape, before turning east. It was the exact opposite of the direction someone heading out of the city would take if he wanted to head back toward the Hentiyn Nuruu, closer to the Siberian-Mongolian border. All logic would tell the Spets to head north, into the mountains, to where the SAS/D had been inserted, and not to head south, away from the Siberian-Mongolian border.
There was only one hitch, however, to the fallback extraction point east of the city: Jenghiz had been given it, too. After he’d handed the message “prayer” to the president, had he betrayed the extraction point, or had he only had time to say a few words as he’d fingered Aussie Lewis and the other three SAS/D troopers before Aussie had shot him dead?
If Aussie was a betting man, and he indubitably was, then he would say Jenghiz hadn’t had a chance to say anything else. But the thing that made gambling gambling was that you could never be sure. The outside chance was always lying in wait for you. Would the Spets be waiting? If Jenghiz had talked, though Aussie would still bet dollars to donuts that he hadn’t, Aussie, Salvini, Brentwood, and Choir Williams would be hurrying into a trap — which might explain the present lack of local activity. The Spets wouldn’t want to give their hand away. On the other hand, there might be no local activity because Jenghiz hadn’t a chance to say much else.
In Ulan Bator the president was still badly shaken. This “business at the temple,” he nervously joked with his advisers, “is what becomes of converting from the party to Buddhism. You go to the temples and you get killed.” They all laughed at the irony of their chief, who, like so many others in the Communist world, had suddenly become a religious convert after perestroika and glasnost. On a more serious note, the aides pointed out that if the SAS/D men had wanted to kill him, he would have been dead. “They shot the man Jenghiz because he betrayed them, Mr. President.”
“Yes,” the president conceded. “You are right, comrade. I was not the target.”
“Have you shown the Siberians your request from the American general?”
“No.”
The aides understood the president’s wisdom in this. If they gave it to Marshal Yesov’s HQ, the Siberians would want to move even more Siberian divisions into Mongolia.
“But we have to give Novosibirsk something,” another aide put in. “There were Spets in the temple. They saw the guide hand you the prayer strip. You cannot tell them it contained nothing. They won’t believe you, and their suspicion could do more damage to us than—”
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right, comrade,” the president agreed at once, full of gratitude, more than he could explain, for the comfort and attendance of his friends after the fright he’d got in the temple. He asked the aide to look at the paper again, at the American general’s request for free passage of American troops across eastern Mongolia should it become necessary. The American general had clearly meant the message to be seen only by the president. But the guide Jenghiz had added something else. At the end of the prayer there was another sentence: “Save my family” followed by seven numbers.
“What are these?” the president asked his aide.
“Coordinates, I believe, Mr. President. Map references.”
The president had a moment of inspiration. “Should we give these to Novosibirsk? Tell them it was an assassination party against me and this is the enemy’s escape plan?”
The aides nodded. They liked the idea. There was a danger of course that if captured, the SAS/D men would be tortured and confess Freeman’s request, but the chief aide said that this was highly unlikely now that the SAS/D and Spets group were on the lookout for one another. There would be no prisoners if they met.
“Yes,” the president said, brightening with me prospect. “Yes. Give the Siberians the coordinates. Let them think the SAS was on an assassination mission. Tell them the bullet was meant for me instead. Whether they believe it or not, they’ll settle for an SAS/D troop. Yesov can do what he likes with them.”
The aide tore off the coordinates and gave them to a messenger. “Have these radioed to Novosibirsk. Immediate.”
Novosibirsk bounced the encoded signal off satellite, and within minutes the Spets squad was enplaning a Kamov Helix-B chopper armed with a four-barrel rotary 7.62mm gun behind a starboard articulated door and an array of antitank Spiral radio-guided missiles and two 80mm rocket packs on four pylon hard points. The Helix would take them to Nalayh, the extraction point for the SAS/D troop no more than five miles north of Nalayh township’s center.
But even with the Helix-B the praporshnik and his six-man team knew they’d have to hurry, for the SAS/D was as well trained as they were. They knew that for a member of the SAS to be “badged” with the highly coveted Special Air Services beige beret with its cloth insignia of a blue-winged white dagger on a black shield, the SAS recruit had to go through a grueling regimen with everything from crosscountry marches with full packs to the HALO — high altitude, low opening — drop with oxygen mask and full gear.
The SAS/D commando requirement for an “in-house” assault was that a man armed with a submachine gun must be able to burst into an embassy or enemy HQ and mortally wound three opponents using only one magazine from as far away as thirty feet. As with the Spets, no more than three shots were allowed on target, and in SAS close-quarter battle every SAS man, no matter what his previous incarnation— artillery, engineering, catering corps, or infantry — had to be able to achieve “minimum kill,” taking out four men from a distance of sixty feet with no more than thirteen rounds of 9mm from his Browning pistol. If he had to go to a second clip he was disqualified.
Only after they’d finished their course in the Black Mountains on the Welsh-English border where the SAS “Sabre” combat groups were trained — eighty men in a squadron — would they be allowed to graduate with the coveted insignia, “Who Dares Wins.” The Spets leader had studied the SAS minutely. He knew also of their tremendous esprit de corps, how hard they trained to “beat the clock,” for when SAS men were killed in action the regimental tradition called for their names to be carved on the clock at Hereford HQ.
Since 1950, over 270 had died in action — not a lot compared to the casualty list of regular army line units, but for a small, elite unit like the SAS it was heavy enough. And among those had been twenty-one American dead from U.S. Special Forces who had served with and helped train the SAS in “field medicine” and LIT — language immersion techniques.