Frozen Conflict (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 4)

by Peter Nealen

  Chapter 5

  Brannigan looked around at his team of mercenaries, bundled up against the cold and huddled around the crackling fire pit. Their numbers were getting a little thinner. Doc Villareal was dead, killed by a grenade blast in northern Burma. Aziz had been shot on the Tourmaline-Delta platform. Tanaka had died in Yucatan. And now Gomez was a no-show.

  But he still had a team, and an effective one. Provided Hart, who was visibly hungover, didn’t turn himself into a liability.

  “That’s the situation and the mission, gents,” he said. “Less than ideal, if I do say so myself. I don’t like working with organized crime, especially not after Dubai, but Ms. Dalca demonstrated that she can come through with what she promises in Mexico. And if we’ve got a chance to get some insight into who these mysterious mass-murderers are, I think it’s worth the risk.”

  “Hell of a risk,” Wade said. “But I agree. And I’ve always been a little pissed that I missed the days when Russians were the bad guys. It should be a whole different ballgame from the usual Middle Eastern booger-eaters.”

  Wade was nothing if not predictable. He might know about the on-the-ground situation wherever they were going, but that didn’t mean he particularly cared. He was in this for the challenge and the money.

  “Do we have any sort of contingency plan that doesn’t rely on the estimable Ms. Dalca’s assets?” Flanagan asked.

  “Not much of one,” Brannigan admitted. “None of us have many contacts in that part of the world. In fact, does anyone here speak Russian or Romanian?” There were a lot of shaking heads. “So, our contingency plan is to take stacks of cash, along with enough papers to pass ourselves off as tourists, keep a change of clothes in your rucksack, and learn all the routes out of Transnistria, the more covered and concealed the better.”

  “That’s why a good chunk of our train-up for this is gonna be simple, straightforward E&E,” Santelli piped up. Escape and Evasion was something that a great deal of emphasis was placed on in the Special Operations communities that they all came from, but actual training in it was often minimal. Depending on getting slots, the Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape course could be somewhat useful, or it could be little more than a check in the box. “We’ll do some shooting, some immediate action drills, and then we’re going to run through a couple of E&E scenarios, with half the team acting as OPFOR to hunt the other half.” OPFOR, or Opposing Force, was often given short shrift in a lot of military train-ups, too, but the Blackhearts knew Santelli well enough to expect that he wasn’t going to go easy on the teams making their E&E route through the Rockies.

  The fact that it was presently winter didn’t endear any of them to the idea any more.

  “Just like the first time,” Brannigan said, “I’ll be here for the first day or two, but then I’ve got to cut away for a bit. We’ve got a gap in our team roster that needs to get filled.” It’s been too long since Doc died. We went into Mexico without a medic, and very nearly paid the price for it. That Doc Villareal could never really be replaced wasn’t something he wanted to think too much about.

  Nor was the fact that he blamed himself for Villareal’s death.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Childress said from the edge of the snow-piled campground. It took a moment for most of the rest to hear what he was talking about, but soon the snarl of a snowmobile became audible, drifting through the trees, muffled by the heaps of snow on the ground and the branches above.

  The men spread out a bit, and weapons were produced and held discreetly, often behind trees. Anyone coming after them and causing trouble was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

  Brannigan stayed where he was next to the fire, his hand resting on the butt of his Redhawk. He’d switch to his custom 1911 when he was going down into town, but up in the mountains, he liked the Magnum. It was good for much bigger predators than human ones.

  He could see a bit of movement through the trees. He felt a sudden sense of déjà vu. There had been an awful lot of people coming unannounced into his little corner of the mountains, lately. He didn’t like it.

  The snowmobile appeared through the trees, driven by a man with his face swathed in a dark scarf, reflective goggles over his eyes. He brought the vehicle to a halt and sat back on the seat, slowly taking his hands away from the handlebars and reaching up to his face. He started unwinding the scarf, then pulled the goggles up onto his forehead.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Gomez said. “What did I miss?”

  “Just about the whole brief,” Brannigan said, as the Blackhearts drifted back to the fire, various pistols and, in Wade’s case, a full Mossberg Shockwave 12 gauge, disappearing back into coats and waistbands. “Get caught up somewhere? We kinda figured you weren’t coming.”

  Gomez’ face was unreadable at the best of times. It was still stony as he swung his leg over the snowmobile. “Had to deal with some family troubles,” he said evenly.

  While Gomez was usually inscrutable at best, Brannigan’s eyes narrowed as he picked up something in the younger man’s tone. He knew that Gomez had been a Recon Marine, and suspected, from his facial features, that he had more than a little Apache in his ancestry somewhere. That was about where his knowledge ended. The man kept to himself, and was even more sparing with his words than Flanagan. But there was a grimness in his voice that suggested something besides his usual hardass façade.

  “Is it dealt with?” he asked quietly. A few eyes flicked to him, then back to Gomez. But the lean, hawk-faced man’s black eyes betrayed nothing.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “But it’ll keep.”

  Brannigan watched him for a second before nodding. Gomez had demonstrated repeatedly since Burma that he could handle himself. If and when he decided to read the rest in, he would. Until then, there was no point in badgering him. He wouldn’t say a damn thing until he was ready.

  “Well, Roger can fill you in when you get a chance,” he said. “We’ve got some prep work to do in the meantime.”

  ***

  Brannigan didn’t go to Chavez looking for his new recruit. He was sure that Hector would have some good names for him, possibly even a few from the maritime security company that he ran, but he had a specific man he needed to talk to for this. He knew there was some risk involved in letting yet another outsider in on the Blackhearts’ existence and what they did, though he was going to stay as discreet as possible. But he trusted this man even more than he did Hector Chavez.

  Ben Drake had been his first Platoon Sergeant, way back when. Drake had known him as Lance Corporal Brannigan, long before he’d become an NCO, and then gotten a commission. He’d seemed like a weathered, gnarled old bastard then. He’d stayed in long past when most men had retired, finally accepting retirement as a Master Gunnery Sergeant after thirty-two years in the Marine Corps.

  Some men stayed in that long from sheer inertia. They had no idea what they’d do with themselves on the outside, so they clung to the Marine Corps as home until they were finally thrown out, albeit with a hefty pension. Not so Master Guns Drake. He’d stayed out of a sincere love of the job and the men, and he had kept on mentoring and training right up until the day he had gone on terminal leave and hadn’t come back.

  He had to be pushing eighty years old, but if there was one man who knew just about everybody, it was Ben Drake. And if anyone could find the kind of man Brannigan was looking for, it was him.

  Drake hadn’t gone the recluse route like Brannigan had. His house was a simple, two-story home in Spokane that had been built in the ‘30s. It had red brick below and red-painted siding above. There was even a white picket fence around the front yard.

  Brannigan stepped out of his truck and looked up and down the street. Willows and elms grew along the street, obscuring a lot of the houses and providing shade in the summer. There were a few cars parked on the street, but there was no one in sight.

  He stretched. It had been a long drive from the cabin, but it had been doable, and he could actually cover t
he ground faster in his truck than if he’d waited for a flight, flown to Spokane, gotten a rental car, and then driven to Drake’s house. He was just sore, and his wounds were tightening up again. He deliberately stretched at the scars, trying to make sure he didn’t lose too much function.

  As he did so, he kept scanning the street, listening. He realized he was being a bit paranoid. Drake was the Grand Old Man; he had to have thirty years’ worth of Marines coming to call at various times. Hell, it wasn’t even Brannigan’s first visit since the Old Man had retired.

  He stepped through the gate in the picket fence, up the steps to the porch, and rang the doorbell.

  Anyone but Ben Drake, with that much time in the Marine Corps, might have had an electronic doorbell that played the Marine Corps’ Hymn when it was pressed. Drake didn’t, however; his doorbell was a simple chime. A moment later, the door swung open.

  Ben Drake was looking a little more stooped, a little more frail, than he had the last time Brannigan had seen him. Wearing his usual khaki slacks and collared shirt, he squinted through the screen door at the towering figure standing on his stoop.

  For a second, Brannigan wondered if Ben was getting too old. Maybe he didn’t recognize him…

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Drake’s voice had gotten softer and a little phlegmier since Brannigan had seen him last. “John Brannigan himself, come down off the mountain to see his old taskmaster.” He stepped back from the doorway. “Come on in, John. Come on in.”

  Brannigan stepped through, looking around. The house hadn’t changed a whit since he’d last stood in it. The small living room with its soapstone stove at one end was still furnished simply, with a couch, two easy chairs, and a coffee table. A yellow flag with three horizontal red stripes hung below a US flag and Marine Corps flag behind the woodstove, with an ancient, battered Garand on hooks above them. Those were the only monuments to Drake’s thirty-two years of service to be seen in his house.

  “Have a seat,” Drake said, as he shuffled toward the dining room. He wasn’t moving as well as he had been the last time. But then, how long ago had the last time been? Brannigan didn’t want to think about it. “You want a drink?”

  “Just water’s fine, Ben,” he said, as he settled himself in one of the easy chairs. Drake snorted.

  “You’re retired now, John,” he said reprovingly. “Just like me. There is nothing in the world that says we can’t have a little snort at one in the afternoon.”

  Brannigan smiled behind his mustache. “I’m actually only semi-retired, Ben,” he said.

  The old man’s rheumy eyes flicked up from the bottle of Glenlivet he’d taken down from the shelf above the kitchen table. He was definitely slowing down, but there was nothing about Ben Drake’s mind that had dulled at all.

  “Is that so?” he said, as he poured a generous bit of whisky in the glass, corked the bottle, and put it up on the shelf again before filling another glass with ice water and shuffling back into the living room. “Not that that’s much of a surprise, after some of what I’ve been hearing lately. I’m just kind of surprised that you’re getting back on the horse so quickly.”

  Brannigan accepted the water glass as he studied his old mentor with narrowed eyes. “What have you heard?” he asked.

  “Little to nothing, that you didn’t just confirm, anyway,” Drake grunted as he painfully lowered himself into the other chair. “I’ve heard that Hector Chavez seems to have a side operation going; he tends to disappear for periods of time, turns his phone off, that sort of thing.” He took a sip of the Scotch. “Not terribly normal for the CEO of a maritime security company. I hadn’t known that you were involved in it, though, whatever it is.”

  “I need a doc,” Brannigan said, without further preamble. He needed Ben’s help, but the state of the old man’s health and the sight of his peaceful little house had awoken a strong desire to limit Drake’s direct involvement. He didn’t want the old man getting tangled up in all of this. “And a Russian speaker.”

  Drake didn’t react, but Brannigan could tell the wheels were turning behind those tired old eyes. He was putting the pieces together. Well, that was why he’d come to the Old Man in the first place. There was a reason that Master Guns Drake was the Grand Facilitator, as some had called him.

  “I might just have the man you’re looking for in mind,” he said, after a couple minutes of thought and about half the glass of whisky. “He’s in between gigs right now, if my creaky memory serves. I suppose you can’t tell me exactly where you’re going?” When Brannigan shook his head, Drake just nodded. “Didn’t figure. Hold on.” He put the whisky glass down on the end table next to his chair and levered himself to his feet with a stifled groan. Shuffling back into the kitchen, he came back to the living room with an actual old Rolodex. At Brannigan’s faint smile, he grinned.

  “Oh, yeah, I don’t keep these sorts of things on a computer,” he said, “even if I owned one of the damned devices.” He sat back down, a process that took the better part of a minute, and started shuffling through the Rolodex cards. “Ah, there he is.” He pulled one out and passed it over to Brannigan. “The man himself.”

  Brannigan looked down at the card. In neat, precise block letters was printed the name, “Erekle Javakhishvili.” A phone number with a question mark next to it was right below it, along with a PO box in Bismarck, North Dakota.

  “What can you tell me about him?” Brannigan asked, as he pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and quickly wrote down the contact information before handing the card back.

  “He’s Georgian,” Drake said, not even needing to think hard to recall the details. “Born and raised. Did time in the Georgian Army, including a tour in Afghanistan, right at the end of his term in 2004. Emigrated to the US afterward, joined the Navy, and became a corpsman. Wasn’t able to get home for the ’08 war in Georgia, but left the Navy shortly thereafter. Since then, I have it from reliable sources that he’s been bouncing back and forth between various PMCs of equally varying reputations and doing doc work for several Eastern Orthodox missions in Africa.”

  “So, he knows medicine in austere environments,” Brannigan said. He looked up at Drake. “What can you tell me about his character?”

  “He’s closemouthed about security matters, though you’d tend to miss it because he’s a gregarious son of a gun,” Drake said. The Old Man didn’t cuss much. “I never worked with him, but Smits and Turner did, and they both speak highly of him.” Brannigan nodded. He knew both men, and shared Drake’s trust in their assessments. “They say he’s no-nonsense, he’s got guts, and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. Oh, and he hates Russians with a passion, but he can pass himself off as one easily.” He raised a white eyebrow. “I’m guessing that’s going to be an asset, wherever you’re going?”

  “It could be,” Brannigan said. He held up the notebook. “There’s a question mark next to the phone number. How reliable is it?”

  Drake shrugged. “Couldn’t say. I’ve never tried calling it. The PO box is probably your best bet, though I think Smits might have an email address for him.”

  Brannigan nodded. “I’ll get in touch with Smits, then.” He stood. “Sorry I can’t stay longer, but I’m on a bit of a time schedule.” He tucked the notebook back into his pocket. “Thanks, Ben.”

  “Anytime,” Drake said, lifting his glass. “And John? Head on a swivel.”

  Brannigan smiled grimly behind his mustache. “All day, every day, Master Guns.”

  ***

  Erekle Javakhishvili turned out to be a wiry man, about five foot ten, with long, salt-and-pepper hair, a heavy five-o’clock shadow, bushy, caterpillar eyebrows, and thick facial features. His prominent nose was crooked; it had clearly been broken a few times. He was smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the tailgate of a massive, lifted pickup truck, when Brannigan pulled up in his rental car.

  Javakhishvili was relaxed, but watching every car pulling into the dusty riverfront parking lot wi
th a keen eye. There was a sort of wolfish awareness about the man that Brannigan picked up on right away. He hadn’t gotten a full rundown from Smits as to where all Javakhishvili had been, but that he’d spent a lot of the last decade and a half or more in some very dangerous places was evident in his manner.

  He parked next to the truck, feeling Javakhishvili’s eyes on him as he did so. His appraising glance as he’d approached had been unable to pick out whether the Georgian was strapped, but given the man’s alertness, and the fact that Brannigan was wearing his Wilson Combat 1911 under his own shirt, he simply assumed that he probably was.

  Killing the engine, he opened the door and unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. The rental SUV was dwarfed by Javakhishvili’s truck. He walked around the back hatch and approached Javakhishvili. “You must be Erekle,” he said, trying not to mangle the name.

  Javakhishvili took a deep drag on his cigarette, took it out of his mouth, and grinned. “Call me Herc,” he said. He had a faint accent, but not much. “It’s easier, and my name is a Georgianization of ‘Heraclius,’ anyway.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Colonel Brannigan.”

  They shook hands. Javakhishvili’s disappeared into Brannigan’s big mitt, but his hands were calloused and his grip firm. “That would be me,” he replied. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “What’s the job?” Javakhishvili asked, taking another puff. “Most of the time, I’m answering online job postings, not meeting an employer in a park based on a phone call.”

  “All I can say is that I need a medic. The job will be in Eastern Europe, it will be a high-risk personnel extraction, and could even involve combat,” Brannigan said. “I can’t tell you anything more unless you’re in. And once you’re in, you’re all the way in.”

  “Ukraine?” Javakhishvili asked, though it had the tone of speculation more than an actual question? “Going into Donbass, maybe?” He waved at Brannigan’s stony expression. “I know, I know. Security. Well, I’m in. Especially if it’s Ukraine.” He peered at Brannigan through a cloud of smoke. “I might even get to kill some Russians. Didn’t get a chance back in ’08.”