Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  He saw Joe smiling.

  "I know. The guy's a regular spook."

  They all knew Joe Nguyen liaised with Brackman to pass information across to CIA. Occasionally, he took on additional tasks where they coincided with his work for the Dragan Foundation. It was just one of the intelligence tentacles of the US intelligence gathering apparatus.

  They exited his office through a rear door, which gave access to a spiral staircase that led up to the roof. When they reached the top, Dragan opened a door, and a fierce crosswind hit them. They walked out onto the flat roof, and in front of them a helicopter sat waiting. It was no ordinary aircraft. As usual, Dragon opted for the best. This was a Sikorski S-92, a large craft able to carry up to ten people in considerable luxury.

  "My pilot will fly you out to Teterboro Airport where I have an aircraft waiting on the ground to fly to Europe."

  "To Finland?"

  He nodded. "Finland, yes."

  "That's something of a coincidence," Al said, his face suspicious.

  Dragan's reply was smooth. "I assure you it's routine, nothing more. The Dragan Organization carries cargo all over Northern Europe, and we fly to Lappeenranta about once a week. It's a very isolated area, and in winter our flights are one of the few ways for the locals to get goods and supplies in and out." He smiled, "I must go. I need to head off the Feds. I wish you luck."

  "When do you plan to get there?" Raider asked.

  "I'll join you in Moscow. First, there are arrangements I need to make. Transport and weapons for Andy Lorak, and hopefully someone to advise you about the best way to get inside the Pamyat museum."

  "Why do we need help to infiltrate the building? We've done it many times before."

  "This time it's different. The building is vast and rambling, and with a number of underground storerooms. It could take you a week to search the place thoroughly, and I doubt you'll have more than a couple of hours when you get inside. The person I have in mind knows the place well."

  "An insider, an employee? Or one of your spies?"

  He smiled. "Something like that. Have a safe journey. Remember, that file has to be recovered."

  Raider stared at him. "Understand this. I'm going for my daughter. That's my priority."

  He nodded vigorously. "Of course, of course. Mine, too."

  The four men stared at him, their faces incredulous.

  Only Waite replied, "Yeah, right."

  * * *

  It was dark, and the air was stuffy, so she couldn't breathe, not easily. She didn't know where she was, only that there was a continuous noise that assailed her ears like the distant roar of traffic. She realized she could still be on an aircraft. That was possible. She was groggy, like she'd just been woken from a deep sleep, except this was different. Her mouth was dry, and her head throbbed with pain. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they were held immobile with leather straps, and she began to panic.

  "Help, let me out of here. Someone please help me!"

  She shouted for what seemed like hours, although it was probably nearer to a couple of minutes. Light appeared over her face, and she blinked as someone removed a covering from in front of her face. Hands unstrapped her limbs and helped her out of her prison. She saw it was some kind of a traveling trunk, a big aluminum case.

  The person helping her looked ominous in a black ski mask. The lips inside the mask moved as he spoke to her. His eyes frightened her the most. They had an intense, crazed look to them. Like he was, well, high on something. She'd learned about that in school.

  Is he a drug addict? Is he going to kill me?

  "How do you feel, Abigail?"

  She felt like she was dying. "I want to go home. Please, let me go home."

  She looked around and now saw she was in fact in the cabin of an aircraft.

  He shook his head. "I'm sorry. You can't go home. Not yet. We have business to complete with your mother."

  "With my mother? What business?"

  The lips moved into a semblance of a smile, but it was ghastly to look at. "I can't talk about that. If you're a good girl and behave, you can sit in a seat like a grown up. But you'll have to promise to behave."

  She stared at him. From what she'd seen on the TV, she figured he was a Russian.

  "I don't want to behave. I want to go home to my Daddy."

  "Your father? Why him?"

  "Because I want to tell him what you've done, so he'll come and blow your head off with his big gun."

  As the man was strapping her back into the box, she smiled at the thought of his scared face when she'd threatened him.

  He'll be even more scared when he meets my Daddy.

  Pride made her do her best to conquer her fear, although inside she was quaking with terror.

  Daddy, where are you? Come and get me. I need you to take me home to Mommy.

  * * *

  Kiev, Ukraine

  The building had once been a hotel, but they'd taken it over during the recent political upheaval. The former owner, a man with Russian ancestry, disappeared overnight. Some said he'd fled back to his hometown in Russia to avoid the troubles. Others said his bones were rotting in a shallow grave in the forest outside of the city.

  The conference room, once the main dining room, was bedecked with nationalist paraphernalia. The imagery was disturbing, for the old Svoboda flag had marked similarities to the Nazi swastika. The new flag was less controversial, a hand held up to show three fingers, the common gesture of the Ukrainian nationalists. Built into the center of the wall on one side was a huge, stone fireplace that currently held a roaring log fire.

  There were only two men in that room. One sat the head of the table, middle aged, a bull of a man, and with a muscular physique. He had a shaven head and thick, twisted lips that appeared to be frozen in a perpetual sneer. The only nod to his position as the head of Svoboda's action department was his clothes, a well cut suit over a white, open necked shirt. The other man could only be ex-military. He was on his feet, almost at attention, his shoulders squared and his hands hanging loosely at his sides. There was something about him, a kind of alertness in the way he held himself. It was as if he was ready to spring into action should the order be given.

  Roman Korolev worked for the man sitting at the table. Mikhail Antonov, a fanatical anti-Communist, had worked tirelessly to gain independence for Ukraine. Since the breakup and the formation of the Russian Federation, he'd continued to agitate for complete independence and separation from Russia. His work for Svoboda included a range of activities, from fundraising and distributing literature, to the assassination of pro-Russian sympathizers.

  Roman Korolev, his bodyguard, was the instrument he used for those assassinations. Korolev was former Russian Special Forces. When the Soviet Union began to disintegrate, he lost his commission in the Red Army. It meant he was forced out on the street overnight, literally penniless. He began working as an enforcer for a Russian mafiyoso until he came to the notice of Antonov, who recruited him to the cause of Svoboda. The recruitment involved disentangling himself from his Russian Mafiya involvement, which he achieved by the simple expedient of killing his former employer. Since then, he'd devoted his expertise in the dark arts of murder to the cause of Ukrainian Nationalism, to Svoboda.

  "We have to have that file. I want you to drop everything, locate those documents, and bring them to Kiev where they belong. If they use it to blackmail Putin, we'll have Russian tanks rolling across Ukraine inside a week.

  "It could be hard," Korolev objected, "They'll protect that file like the crown jewels of Tsar Nicholas II. Just finding out where it's hidden could be almost impossible."

  "It's in the former Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum, in Moscow."

  Korolev raised his eyebrows in astonishment. "You know this? How is that possible? Do we have someone on the inside?"

  "How I know is not important. All you need to know is the file is there. However, there is an added complication. We understand another party may be about to att
empt to recover the documents. That must not happen."

  "You mean Putin's people?"

  He chuckled. "Not a chance, much as they'd like to try. No, the Kremlin is totally infiltrated by Pamyat people. If they try to attack the museum, there'll be a bloodbath on the streets of Moscow. It could even bring about the downfall of the President."

  Korolev nodded. "So who?"

  "The Americans."

  His eyes shut in astonishment, and Antonov explained what he'd just learned about the kidnap of the little girl from New York City. "They've blackmailed her father, an ex-military man, to recover the girl and hand the file to the Kremlin. It's a small operation, only four men, but I'm told they're all experts. They'll also be well armed, and the last thing I want is to involve our organization in a gunfight on the streets. However, I believe there is a way we can make this work in our favor. This is how we'll do it."

  Twenty minutes later, both men were toasting themselves with locally produced Ukrainian vodka.

  Antonov held his glass high. "To the success of our mission, and the death of our Pamyat opponents. Za vas, Roman!"

  "Za vas, Sir. Death to Pamyat, and death to the Americans."

  They swallowed the fiery spirit and hurled the glasses into the huge, open fireplace.

  * * *

  Raider was last aboard the Sikorski S-92. Dragan had outfitted it with luxurious armchair style leather seats, and he sank into the soft upholstery. They'd also spared no expense with the additional soundproofing, and it made for a quiet and comfortable ride to Teterboro. The aircraft was waiting for them. It was painted in the Dragan livery, a cargo variant of the Boeing 737-800. Unlike its older sister aircraft, the next generation 737 had the fuel capacity to cross the Atlantic carrying a full load of cargo or passengers. For this trip, the fuselage was packed almost to capacity with a variety of wooden crates and cardboard cartons. There were no soft, richly upholstered seats.

  The pilot didn't introduce himself, just stayed in the cockpit, presumably carrying out his pre-flight routine. The co-pilot walked aft to greet them. Unusually, he was wearing a long, thick sheepskin coat.

  "Hi guys, I'm Maksim, the second officer." He spoke with a strong accent, "Welcome aboard. I'm afraid we don't have any seats, but you're welcome to choose anywhere to hunker down."

  They swapped glances with each other. The guy looked as if he should have still been in school. He looked no more than twenty years of age. The long coat made him look like something of a hippie. They made themselves as comfortable as possible, using cardboard cartons as back supports.

  "This is something of a comedown after the Sikorski," Al sighed, "I knew the luxury was too good to last. As for that kid, he doesn't look old enough to ride a motorcycle, let alone fly a four-engine jet. Aren't you checked out on multi-engine jets?" he asked Raider.

  He grinned. "A long time ago, and that for turboprops. We'll be fine."

  Waite grimaced. "Yeah, right."

  Without any announcement or warning, the pilot started engines, and they began to taxi toward the main runway. Less than a minute later, they were climbing to altitude for the first stage of their long journey to Russia. When they were over the water, Maksim appeared from the cockpit, still clad in his long coat.

  "Mr. Dragan packed some gear for you guys. It's in two of the crates stowed in the middle of the cargo. I'll show you."

  He dragged several wooden cases aside and finally reached two wooden boxes, each about five feet long, three feet wide, and three feet high. He produced a pry bar, opened the first crate, and stood back.

  "I'll leave this to you guys. They told me to make sure I didn't see any of this stuff."

  He returned to the cockpit, and Joe began dragging out the contents of the crate. As the others watched, he produced four automatic rifles, M4-A1s and a pair of Heckler & Koch HK MP5SDs. A variant of the classic MP5 machine pistol, the SD stood for Schalldämpfer, German for sound suppressor. Raider picked up one of them and whistled.

  "He's expecting us to do some serious shooting. These babies are so quiet you could listen to opera and not miss a note while you had the trigger pressed."

  Joe smiled. "I don't think he had opera in mind."

  "Probably not. What else did the remarkable Alexander Dragan think to pack for us?"

  Joe pulled out more weaponry. A half-dozen handguns, Colt .45 automatics, and then their eyes popped wide. An M32 multiple grenade launcher appeared, capable of firing a half-dozen forty-millimeter grenades in a matter of seconds. He began delving further into the crate, but Raider stopped him.

  "Two questions, Joe. First, where the hell did he get all this stuff? I thought the M32 was military use only."

  "I've no idea, but you know Dragan. He ships a lot of weaponry to Ukraine."

  "You don't say. Second question, a few hours ago, this operation wasn't even on the board. How come he managed to put it together so fast? The helicopter conveniently waiting on the roof of his headquarters building, and this aircraft already on the tarmac at Teterboro; even the arrival of the Feds was just a little pat, don't you think?"

  Joe averted his eyes at first. At least he had the grace to look guilty. Finally, he met his gaze. "I couldn't say, I'm not told every decision he makes. But yeah, he's as slippery as hell, and he does seem to have moved fast." He looked at each of them in turn, "Sorry, guys, that's all I know. You want me to unpack the rest of it?"

  "One moment."

  Raider walked forward to the cockpit. The door was unlatched, and the co-pilot turned in surprise as he walked in. The aircraft captain ignored him.

  "What can I do for you?" Maksim asked with a cheery smile.

  "The cargo in back, where's the manifest?"

  "The manifest? Well, er, I have it here, somewhere. Why?"

  "I need to see it."

  Something in his expression convinced Maksim he was serious. A minute later, he walked aft clutching the sheaf of documents. He rejoined the others, and they checked through the list. Joe stood to one side, shuffling his feet, almost as if he'd seen the manifest before.

  "Let's see, the crate with the weapons, it's labeled, 'spare parts, diesel agricultural engines.' Yeah, it's right here. Dated January 21, that's three days ago. Just after the Putin file was stolen from Mariyah's house. Joe, how come? You work for Dragan, you must have an idea."

  He shrugged. "I guess he planned to go after it, right after it was stolen. It makes sense he'd want to prepare in advance."

  "What aren't you telling us? It stinks. This is no last minute operation."

  "I honestly don't know. Look, do we go ahead with this or not?"

  He sighed. "You know what's at stake. We have to go ahead. It'd just be nice to know what's behind all this."

  Joe didn't answer. Instead, he picked up the pry bar and opened the second crate. By the time he'd finished unloading, they had almost enough gear to start a war. Camouflage pants and jackets, padded winter camouflage, Kevlar helmets, night vision equipment, and even GPS wrist mounted navigation systems. There was also a set of state-of-the-art comms systems, one for each man, and a complete set of spare headsets. They checked everything out and made sure the electronics were all functioning correctly. There was more than enough spare ammunition and grenades, and they spent some time loading the combat webbing with everything they'd need. Lastly, Joe pulled out a long, black, slick-looking case from the bottom of the crate.

  "I'd better check this out for him."

  He meant Dragan. It was a VSS Vintorez, a sound-suppressed sniper rifle. The weapon used a heavy subsonic 9mm cartridge and was almost totally silent in use. The Vintorez was developed in the 1980s primarily for Spetsnaz units, the perfect rifle for undercover or clandestine operations.

  "So he is joining us," Raider said quietly, "I had my doubts."

  "If there's a chance of taking a pop at Pamyat, he'll want to be there."

  He grimaced. "If we hit trouble, he'd best make sure he doesn't miss. And something tells me we're going to
hit trouble. This operation stinks like dead polecat."

  * * *

  They droned across the Atlantic on their long journey to Finland. After they'd been in the air for three hours, Maksim brought around packets of sandwiches and a flask of hot coffee. He handed them over without a word. The interior of the aircraft was very cold, and despite his thick sheepskin coat, he was almost blue. Before he re-entered the cockpit, Waite called him back.

  "Hey, can't you do anything about the heating? We're freezing in here."

  He chuckled. "Tell me about it. The system hasn't worked properly for the last four flights. When I asked them to repair it, they told me we don't need to keep cargo warm.

  "What about the aircrew, you and the Captain?" Waite persisted.

  "I guess they count us as cargo."

  He disappeared into the cockpit and closed the door. Joe suddenly jumped to his feet.

  "I just remembered. We do have warm clothing. The padded Arctic camouflage in the crate."

  They helped him drag the thick, white suits out of the crate, and they pulled them on. It felt better; although quite how they'd explain why they were wearing military camos when they arrived in Finland was another matter. They sat munching sandwiches and drinking coffee, and finally Raider tried to doze, but it was impossible. He'd traveled the world in military aircraft, especially the C-130 Hercules, and the much larger C-17 Globemaster, but the icy interior of the 737 for some reason was much worse. Or maybe it was the uneasy feeling they were being drawn into some kind of dark and complicated world, a murky quagmire of which they knew little. He was certain they hadn't been given the whole story. Yet the prize at the end was the biggest he'd ever gone after in his life. No less than the life of a young girl, his own daughter. Almost as important, there was also fate of an entire country resting on the outcome.