"Okay, gentlemen, I'm in. I'll do this. I'm ready to go."
"Thank you, Pete." Admiral Getman rose and extended his hand, which Pete grasped. "The president thanks you too. And I will miss you."
CHAPTER 3
The Caucasus Mountains
The Russian Republic of North Ossetia
Hidden in the shadows under the crevices of the rocks, their positions were revealed by the red glow of their cigarettes. They had waited for an hour already.
Listening.
Their feet and legs ached. They knew, from surveying this position dozens of times in the daylight, that the mountain steeped down at a forty-five-degree angle. One slip of a boot would plunge them hundreds of feet into a dark abyss.
Sergei checked his watch.
Five minutes till midnight. The time – the nearness to the hour -ignited his heartbeat.
He sucked on his cigarette, flicked it down, and watched the burning tip vanish in the darkness below.
Sergeant Natasha Asimova downshifted, again, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The engine whined and strained, but kept pulling the KAMAZ 4310 military truck up the incline.
"Are we going to make it, Sergeant?" one of the two guards yelled from the back.
"Dah, dah, " she said. "My truck has never failed me on this run." She pressed her boot against the clutch, then downshifted once more.
"Once we make it around the last curve, we will be at the top of the mountain, and then it is all downhill from there."
"Arkady has never made this run before." The other guard laughed. "He's a mamma's boy from the coast at Arkangel. He's afraid of heights!"
"Shut up, Boris Andropovich!" the first guard shot back.
"Comrades! Silence!" Natasha snapped. "I must concentrate, or we will run off the cliff."
"Sorry, Sergeant."
The moon crested over the jagged peaks above their heads, bathing them in a pale radiance, illuminating the shadowy outlines of his comrades, who were also crouched down along the rocky incline below the winding, mountainous road.
Sergei drew the cool, thin Transcaucus air into his lungs. The engine from the distant truck whined and shifted gears, straining to pull its cargo up the incline of the road.
A brief, shrill whistle pierced the chilly night.
Sergei looked to his left. Mikhail, the team leader, signaled thumbs-up.
This is it.
He worked the action on his AK-47. The clank of chinking metal from the other platoon of assault rifles followed, echoing off the rocks and down the steep mountain.
The sound of the truck grew louder… louder…
And then, headlight beams flashed over the crest of the road above their heads.
"Seachess!" Mikhail barked in Russian. "Now!"
Sergei and eight other members of the team leaped over the ledge and onto the road.
Dual headlights came out of the night up the hill. The military truck, its engine struggling to make the top of the hill, was slowing under the strain of the climb.
"Stop the truck!" Mikhail shouted.
The truck slowed even more.
Good.
Perhaps this would be easier than anticipated, Mikhail thought, as the freedom fighters approached the truck.
Then the engine revved. Gears shifted. The truck lunged forward. The driver was making a run for it.
"Shoot the tires!"
Multiple gunshots echoed off the canyon walls. The front of the truck thumped down onto the concrete.
"Don't shoot!" The driver, a blonde woman wearing a Russian military uniform, squinted at the high-beam flashlight in her face, then whipped out a pistol.
"Take cover!"
Three sharp bursts rang from the woman's pistol. Sergei immediately fired back in the direction of the driver. "Perimeter positions!" Mikhail ordered. "Out of the truck!"
Sergei and another commando took positions around the rear, training their rifles on the closed doors. The twin back doors flew open. Two silhouettes emerged from the cargo bay.
"Fire!"
The crack of rifle fire, like the sound of a volley fired by an execution squad, echoed against the mountain walls. The two guards who had rushed out the back doors lay bleeding on the road from Sergei's weapon. The driver's head hung out the window, her eyes frozen open in the moonlight. Blood trickled from her gaping mouth.
"Get the cargo, " Mikhail ordered. "Now! Move!"
The Alexander Popovich Sochi, Russia
The telephone rang and Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov pushed up from his rack and rubbed his eyes.
A flip of the lamp switch on the table beside his bed reminded him that he was not alone in the captain's stateroom. The pretty blonde woman – he couldn't remember her name at the moment, perhaps either Elena or Tatiana – grunted and rolled over. Too much vodka was bad for the memory. Not that her name mattered at this time of morning. The clock on the bulkhead showed 3:00 a.m. But still…
The phone rang again.
"All right. All right." Batsakov cursed as his feet met the cold deck. He reached for the shipboard telephone.
"Dah."
"Kapitan Batsakov?"
"Dah."
"This is the guard at the end of Pier Three."
"What is it?"
"Sorry to interrupt, Kapitan, but there is a truck here at the end of the pier. They claim to have cargo for your ship. The driver says his name is Mikhail Abramakov. His papers match that, Kapitan."
"Oh, dah! Dah!" Amazing how the prospect of American dollars could cure even a vodka-induced amnesia. "We're expecting that shipment. Wave Abramakov through the checkpoint and send a few stevedores down to the pier. I'll be right down."
"Of course, Kapitan."
Batsakov hung up, then picked up the phone again and called the bridge. "Dmitri, this is the captain. Round up three deckhands and meet me at the quarterdeck in five minutes. Yes, of course I know what time it is." He swigged the lukewarm vodka in the clear glass beside the bed. "Get them out of the racks and get them moving! Now!"
He hung up the phone and slapped the now-empty vodka glass back on the table.
"What time is it, Yuri?" The blonde was sitting up, rubbing her eyes and squinting at him.
"Look, Elena, darling, it has been much fun, but something important has come up. I have work to do, " he said, putting his arms into a black pea coat. "Go back to sleep. I will send my steward up to help with your things in the morning."
He opened the cabin door and started to step out.
"Tatiana, " the blonde snapped.
He looked back in and saw the perturbed-looking blonde helping herself to the bottle of vodka on the side table.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm Tatiana!" Her blue eyes blazed fury as her lips met the opening of the glass bottle. "You called me Elena!" she said, after an angry swig.
"Yes, my apologies. You are so beautiful – that plus the vodka – forgive me – I was not thinking straight. I will call you when I am back in port."
He slammed the door closed just in time to block the airborne vodka bottle. He walked away to the sounds of shattering glass and the fading strains of "call Elena next time you're in port, you fat pig."
Five minutes later, Batsakov approached the quarterdeck of his freighter. The lights along the pier cast an eerie, pinkish glow on the concrete below.
A black panel truck was rolling up the pier. It stopped at the end of the catwalk and switched off its headlights. The doors opened, and four men, dressed in black, stepped into the night. They opened the back of the panel truck and removed a large wooden crate, which took all of them to handle.
As a fifth man started bounding up the catwalk to the ship, Batsakov motioned for his deckhands to head down to the pier to assist in getting the wooden crate out of the truck.