“Four. As soon as they can get airborne, they will. Each one will take a section of the search area. Once the aircraft is located, a rescue team will be sent in to—”
“No rescue team,” Minayev interrupted. “We will send our own people in.”
“Understood. Whom did you have in mind?”
“Wagner.”
The deputy blanched. Wagner was the call sign of a former Spetsnaz commander, Kazimir Teplov.
A twisted devotee of the Third Reich, Teplov was alleged to have selected the call sign himself—an homage to one of Hitler’s favorite composers.
The private mercenary company Teplov created bore the same name and was shot through with Nazi symbolism and ideology. Many of its members subscribed to Rodnovery, a brutish, cultlike religion that paid homage to Nazi paganism in general and the Nazi Schutzstaffel, also known as the SS, in particular. It had sprung up during the collapse of the Soviet Union and its logo was reminiscent of a highly stylized swastika.
As private military corporations were technically illegal in Russia, they were referred to as “ghost soldiers.” The deputy preferred the term “shock troops,” since there was no barbarity they weren’t willing to carry out. And as such, they were useful, especially when it came to off-the-books operations where plausible deniability was paramount.
They were the Kremlin’s “little green men,” multitudes of highly paid former special forces officers sent abroad to places like Syria, Ukraine, and Crimea to carry out Moscow’s bidding without leaving any direct fingerprints.
In fact, when Minayev had first discussed his plan with the Kremlin, the President had suggested he use Wagner for the operation, but the General had politely demurred.
Having been repeatedly pitted against less capable adversaries, Wagner’s people had begun to believe in their own invincibility. That kind of arrogance bred carelessness.
Minayev wanted men he knew and whose training he had personally overseen. He wanted men he trusted and who were loyal to him. His future was riding on this operation.
He also hadn’t wanted to give up the prized intelligence asset he was coordinating with in the United States—not to a cowboy like Wagner.
Minayev had been correct to keep the entire operation within his own control. It had been perfectly executed. Harvath had been grabbed, exfiltrated, and brought to Russia.
But despite all of his careful planning, the operation had now fallen short. Never in a million years would he have foreseen the flight from Murmansk to the GRU interrogation facility as being the weak link that would unravel it all.
If there were survivors, though, the operation might still be salvaged. The key was getting to them as quickly and as quietly as possible. Like it or not, Wagner was his best option.
“Should we update the Kremlin?” the deputy asked.
“Are you out of your mind?” the General replied. “Absolutely not. Until we have more information, we tell them nothing. Do you understand?”
The deputy nodded.
“Good,” said Minayev. “Now go track down Teplov. I don’t care where he is or what he is doing. I want him on a secure line within the next twenty minutes.”
CHAPTER 14
* * *
* * *
MURMANSK OBLAST
Harvath awoke with a start. There had been a crash—like the sound of a heavy piece of debris falling over. Was it one of the pieces he had rigged with a trip wire? Had someone crept into the tail section? Was it Josef?
Throwing off the blanket, he leaped to his feet and stood near the opening of the container, listening. It was dark and the storm was still howling.
He had blown well past the “couple of hours” he had allotted himself to sleep. Instead, he had been out for most of the night. His body was repairing itself, but he had lost precious time.
Like the wreckage outside, his fire had burned down. It was nearly pitch black.
Suddenly, he regretted not having dragged a little more of the mining equipment out of the container—just enough to create a space where he could have taken cover in case he had to fight from inside.
His ears strained to pick up any sound that might explain what he had heard.
Had it just been the wind? It seemed stronger than when he had gone to sleep. Maybe a gust had knocked something over.
That was the most logical assumption. But he had been trained never to assume anything.
For a moment, he wondered if maybe his mind had played a trick on him. Maybe he hadn’t heard anything at all. Then there was another sound.
This time it was unmistakable. It was a thud and sounded as if something had struck the