Marcus heard the crackle of gunfire.
Then Vinetti finally engaged. His first shots blew out the windshield of the lead Toyota, instantly killing both the driver and the man riding shotgun. The truck swerved violently and plunged into a large ditch. That gave Marcus just the time he needed to load the first RPG, aim, and fire at the second Toyota. The grenade exploded on contact, killing everyone in and on the truck, while the third pickup smashed directly into the back of it.
Boom, boom… crack, crack, crack.
The sounds from the mountainside changed as Vinetti fired the last of his sniper rounds and switched to Marcus’s M4, felling one jihadist after another.
Marcus knelt close to one of the burning trucks to give himself some cover.
He feverishly reloaded the RPG launcher, wondering if at any moment the heat would cook off the explosives before he could pull the trigger. It hadn’t happened yet, and Marcus begged God that it wouldn’t. He took aim once again, settled himself, and fired.
Again the grenade hit its mark. He felt the concussion and thought he’d been nearly deafened by the blast until he heard the pinging of multiple rounds off the pickup beside him. Then he felt the bone-rattling impact of two rounds hitting his bulletproof vest, sending him sprawling and the grenade launcher skittering across the road. The heat was unbearable. He was just a few inches from the flames. All the air had been knocked out of him and he was immersed in thick black smoke. Unable to breathe, unable to see, he jerked away from the roaring truck. He scrambled desperately to his feet, knowing he needed to find cover, and then he felt the searing pain of a round slicing through his left shoulder.
An instant later he landed face-first in the gravel, then slid off into a ditch along the side of the road. For a moment, everything seemed to go into slow motion. But at least he was somewhat shielded by the berm and thus from the worst of the heat. His lungs greedily sucked in as much air as they could. But he could hear the crackle of more automatic gunfire. He could hear bullets whizzing overhead, and he felt his hand moving to his holster.
Then the slow motion came abruptly to an end. Suddenly everything was clear. Everything was sharp. He grabbed his pistol, flicked off the safety, and peered up over the road. A Taliban fighter was coming on fast. He had an AK-47 aimed directly at his face. Marcus pulled his trigger first and the man went down. Right behind him was another fighter. This guy, too, was charging directly at him and unloading his Kalashnikov as he came. Marcus had two options—duck and cover, or fire back. He didn’t remember deciding. He just remembered pulling the trigger again and again until the man dropped.
Marcus grabbed one of the AK-47s slung over his back and worked his way through the roadside ditch, toward the convoy. Shoot, reload, repeat, and keep moving. That was his mantra as Vinetti rained down death from the mountainside. They made a pretty good team, but they were no match for what was coming next. The last thing Marcus Ryker saw before he took another bullet and blacked out was an American A-10 Thunderbolt swooping down from the sky unannounced and lighting up the road with 30mm shells that destroyed everyone and everything in its path.
The good guys had arrived, and not a moment too soon.
22
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA—18 DECEMBER 2004
Luganov’s chief of staff had not been kidding.
The winter wedding of Oleg Stefanovich Kraskin to the only daughter of the president was a spectacle beyond anything the Russian people had witnessed in the modern era. The event, patterned precisely after the marriage of Nicholas II to Alexandra Feodorovna in 1894, down to the smallest detail, had taken years to plan. And all of it was designed to evoke every bit of the pomp and circumstance and glory of the czarist era, before the Russian Revolution, before the Soviet Union, before the collapse of the Soviet Empire and the humiliating decline of Russian power and prestige.
Oleg had barely been included in any of the planning. Indeed, he had been so busy with his work at the Kremlin that he had never even been to the Winter Palace, much less the Grand Church anytime during their long engagement. So when he and his parents arrived from the airport on that snow-covered yet sunny Saturday morning in a heavily guarded motorcade about an hour before the ceremony began, Oleg found himself overwhelmed by the stunning locale.
The Winter Palace, Oleg knew, was once the official residence of the czars. The green-and-white structure on the banks of the River Neva in St. Petersburg was long and low, rectangular and mammoth, with more than one thousand rooms and more than one hundred staircases. The cathedral known as the Grand Church was located on the east side of the palace grounds and was spectacularly ornate with its massive onion dome, gilded and gleaming in the sunshine so rare at this time of year. Inside, the main sanctuary was more beautiful than anything Oleg had ever seen before. The white marble walls and columns were trimmed with gold. The high ceilings were adorned with gold sculptures. The chandeliers and lamps were made of pure gold. Enormous gold statues of angels, each bearing wings, some holding trumpets, were mounted on the walls. Pews accommodating a thousand guests had been set up in the long hall before an altar under a soaring dome. Light streamed down onto the altar through stained-glass windows, and mounted on the wall above was a gold statue of the Christ, hanging on a cross, surrounded by golden angels.
Despite the beauty, Oleg shuddered at all the iconography. Neither he nor Marina was religious. It all seemed so antiquated and banal. If it had been up to him, he would have whisked his fiancée off to Monaco for a quick civil wedding and a honeymoon among the glistening beaches of the Mediterranean and the high-rolling casinos of Monte Carlo. Unfortunately, as had been made clear to him time and time again, it was not up to him. So here he was, ready to participate in a spectacle designed to showcase the glory of Russia to the world.
Oleg excused himself from his parents and stepped into a back room to have a cigarette and change clothes. When he came out, he was not only in full regimental dress; he was wearing the exact uniform in which Nicholas II had been married, as his father-in-law-to-be had insisted. Oleg had initially chafed at the idea, but Aleksandr Luganov was not a man to whom one said no. Oleg’s mother dabbed away tears with her handkerchief as her son stood there in the hall wearing the tall, black leather riding boots, black trousers with a single gold stripe running down the outside of each leg, a bright-red tunic adorned with gold, gold epaulets, and a sword in a beautifully designed scabbard attached to a thick leather belt.
“It’s time,” said the Russian Orthodox archbishop, stepping out of a side chamber.
The cleric, the highest-ranking bishop in the Russian Orthodox Church, was stooped and graying. He wore a bulbous, bejeweled miter adorned with icons of Jesus Christ and two other figures Oleg couldn’t identify, a liturgical gown that reached to the floor, and a golden cape festooned with crosses and other Orthodox icons. In his right hand he held an enormous golden staff topped with a cross. He led them down a long, dark corridor and then through a door that opened into the grand hall. An aide to the archbishop directed Oleg’s parents to their seats as the organist began to play and Oleg’s heart began to race.
Had the ceremony—both the first portion known as the “betrothal” and the second portion known as the “crowning”—not been broadcast live to the world in its entirety and videoed so that the young couple could savor it later, Oleg would have been hard-pressed to remember much of it, so overwhelmed was he by all the guests, the klieg lights, the heavy aroma of incense, and his own dizzying emotions. The bishop’s words, the Scriptures that were read, the long passages of the liturgy, and the Communion service after the vows all went by in a blur. Oleg could not remember the names or faces of any of the dozens of heads of state and ambassadors and scores of Russian oligarchs and their trophy wives who attended.
What he would never forget, however, was the sight of the president leading his daughter down the aisle and the look of immense pride mixed with a father’s tenderness when he put Marina’s hand in Oleg’s. Even more, Oleg would always remember how stunningly beautiful his bride looked in the flowing white-and-gold silk dress and diamond-studded crown, the very one worn by Czarina Alexandra in 1894. He would remember the flicker of firelight dancing in her eyes as each of them held a single golden candlestick during the ceremony. And he would remember the moment her soft and supple lips parted and she affirmed her love and loyalty to him until their dying breath.
Afterward, the wedding party and all the guests moved into an exquisitely appointed state room housing the original wooden dining table used by the czars to entertain European guests back in the day. It could—and did—seat exactly one thousand guests and featured original china settings used by the Romanovs. The president and first lady sat at the head of the table. The newlyweds sat to their right, Oleg’s parents to their left. Oleg cared little for the gourmet menu or the wide variety of vodka and wine that was served or any of the toasts or the dancing. He hated all the eyes staring at him, all the cameras flashing, and the bright lights of the TV crews. He just wanted it to be over so he could sweep away his bride and enjoy their honeymoon in peace and quiet, alone and far from the hoopla.
His impatient daydreams were interrupted, however, when Luganov leaned over and whispered to him at one point during the reception. Having just lit up a Cuban cigar for himself and offered one to Oleg, the president had pulled his son-in-law close to him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Oleg Stefanovich, I would not have given my Marina to just any young man. I trust you, my son, and I see great potential in you. I know you will give me many grandchildren and raise them to be princes and princesses, loyal and brave. And I want you to know that if there is anything you need, you have only to ask.”
The man looked deep into Oleg’s eyes. “We are family now,” the president added. “Come what may, we must stick together, for the glory of Russia, for the glory of our dynasty.”