Page 29 of Dead Fall

Harvath was about to respond when they arrived at the vestibule and Symon, helmet in hand, pointed at the doors on both sides and asked, “Port or starboard?”

Tactically, Harvath could come up with good reasons against both. They were in the middle of the Ukrainian countryside. There was nothing but fields outside and very little cover or concealment along the tracks.

Symon walked over to the door on the right and peered through the glass, assessing the situation. He then stepped over to the door on the left.

After taking a look, he turned to Harvath and said, “We’re going out this door. Put your helmet on.” Smiling, he added, “Just in case.”

No sooner had the man uttered those words than a high-caliber sniper’s bullet pierced the glass and went through his skull, just above his right temple.

As blood, bone, and bits of brain showered the vestibule, Harvath hit the deck. He had no idea where Artem was, though he assumed the man had moved through the train up to the first carriage to figure out what was going on. They didn’t have radios or any other means by which to communicate.

Harvath thought about hitting the opposite door and droppingdown under the train, but he knew that as crude as the Russians were, if they wanted to kill as many passengers as possible, they’d have hitters on that side, too.

By the same token, the train was almost empty. If they’d done any reconnaissance whatsoever, they’d know that. This couldn’t be about flushing out passengers just so they could gun them down, could it?

Then Harvath, who hated wearing helmets, heard a telltale whistle through the broken window and couldn’t get his on fast enough.

They weren’t shooting people as they got off the train, they were shooting people to keep themonthe train. At least to keep them on the train for the incoming mortar rounds to do their work.

Scrambling to his feet, but keeping below the window line, Harvath sprinted for the rear of the train.

As he moved, mortar round after mortar round landed behind him. The Russians had sabotaged the tracks not just to interfere with this particular route, but to bring one of its trains to a standstill so that they could effectively shell a stationary target.

There was no time to grab the rest of his gear and he sped right past his compartment. The sounds of the explosions were deafening.

His back was burning; absolutely on fucking fire. He couldn’t tell if it was from the heat of the mortars detonating, or if he’d been riddled with shrapnel and his brain hadn’t yet had time to connect the dots.

All he knew was that movement was life.Get off the X. Move. And that was exactly what he continued to do. Still crouching low, he ran as fast as he could to the back of the train. What he would do once he got there, he still hadn’t figured out. There were two more cars to go.

In the next vestibule, there was a young woman facedown on the floor. The broken window above her and the amount of blood pooled around her told him all he needed to know. There was no point in stopping to check on her or render aid. She was dead.

He noted that she had been shot on the opposite side of the train from Symon. That meant that he had assessed the situation correctly. There were shooters on both sides. The question remaining was, how many?

Was it a single sniper—one left, one right—with enough setback to beable to target the length of all the cars? Or were there teams positioned up and down the tracks?

This was one of the worst parts of what he was called to do—making life-or-death decisions with little to no reliable information. And just like right now, there never seemed to be enough time in which to make them. But he had no choice. The explosions were chewing up the train, the mortars landing closer and closer to his position. The only way out of this was via the rear door at the back of the train.

There was just one problem. The final carriage was a dining car with even bigger windows and they lined both sides. Unless Harvath planned on crawling, which there was not enough time to do, he was going to have to risk exposure—unless.

At the head of the car was a fire extinguisher. Ripping it off the wall, he pulled the pin and clamped down on the handle, filling the carriage with retardant fog. It wasn’t perfect, but it would at least add a little camouflage to his movements. Putting his head down, he charged.

Instantly as he entered the carriage, the windows began shattering from sniper fire. They had no idea who he was or where he was, just that someone was very likely attempting an escape. In order to compensate for the poor visibility, they were throwing rounds everywhere. Harvath knew that if he didn’t make it to that door in the next three seconds, one of those bullets was going to find him. He ran as fast as he could, his ears already ringing from the explosions.

Hitting the door, he tried to open it, but it was locked. The mechanism was foreign to him and he couldn’t see well enough to unlock it.

As he struggled with the handle, the sniper fire intensified. The bullets were not only coming through the windows, but also through the walls. The glasses, dishes, and ceramic coffee cups were shattering across the shelves just behind him.

Harvath fought to maintain his cool. In the back of his mind, however, he was aware that not only were the odds of getting hit by one of the bullets increasing exponentially, but so were the chances that the final mortar, meant to destroy the carriage he was standing in, had already been loosed. At any moment, he would hear its shrill, unmistakable, inbound whistle. Then he did. The mortar was headed straight for him.

Feeling along the doorframe, he found what he was looking for—an emergency release. He punched it and the lock released. Throwing the door open, he didn’t have time to weigh his options. All he could do was jump—and that’s what he did.

As he jumped, the last and final mortar hit the carriage. The force of the blast sent Harvath flying beyond the tracks and into the field.

He landed hard, taking the brutal brunt of the fall on his left side. But at least he was alive. For the moment.

Around him clods of dirt began jumping into the air. At least one of the snipers had him in his sights.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a shallow culvert several feet away and lunged for it, hoping to escape their crosshairs. Off in the distance, air raid sirens wailed.

---