by L. J. Martin
We work with Paul and Al until five P.M., then head to the hotel, our heads stuffed with C.I.A. game instructions, and ears ringing slightly from putting lots of lead downrange.
I do want to add a couple of apps to the iPhone, apps that have come in very handy in the past, and do so. No telling what we'll be up against on this op.
10
I know the Willard Hotel has been around for at least a hundred and fifty years, but I'll bet now is the first time there have been four guys, non military guys, in camouflage outfits, and two butt ugly guys in sport clothes, yucking it up in their very exclusive dining room. Definitely the first time on a State Department expense account.
Skip, Hank, BeBe, TooBad, Pax and I are on our second imbibement and chowing down on soup and salads when Natele wanders in. As I suspected, she's dumped the scarf and the deep vee plunges well below a nice cleavage that must be formed by some apparatus built into the suit coat, as there would be the obvious bra strap if not. Or so I guess, as many of the mysteries of women still escape me, and that even after I've peeled the outside layers off more than my fair share.
We're at a round table for six as I really didn't expect her, but the boys are more than willing to squeeze together and make room. She looks each of the new guys straight in the eye and shakes hands with an affirmative grip, then thanks the waiter who's borrowed an unused chair from another table.
We've been well versed on our exit from the U.S., but not on much more. We're flying to Lask AFB in Poland, where we'll meet up for a briefing with General Gordon Holland. He's a military attaché to NATO, representing the U.S., and his daughter is the target of the Red Baltic abduction.
We all retire to the suite Pax and I are occupying for a quick update from Natele, who has some detailed pictures of the Mercedes van she'll be piloting. To our surprise there's a C.I.A. photographer waiting at the door, and in moments we're standing before a white drop-cloth having passport pictures taken.
After he leaves, Natele breaks out another folder, this one describing the van.
"This baby looks like a standard Mercedes Sprinter, made in Mexico, strangely enough. However it's thirty-five-hundred cc v6 has been worked over a little. It's now closer to forty five hundred and tricked out, it'll spin the wheels off if you're not careful...if I'm not careful, I should say."
"Okay," I say, "so it's hot. How's it configured inside?"
"Seats for six plus a bunk and galley, even a head. But that's not the good part. Push latches drop down six headliner compartments and some side panels. Lot's of toys are hidden in the van, including a couple of rocket launchers and more. We'll go over it all when I tie up with you guys in Tartu."
"Where the hell is that?" Pax asks. The other guys have been swiveling their heads like they're watching a tennis match.
“It’s the second largest city in Estonia in the south near Lake Piepus.”
“Pie-puss,” Pax says, with a slight smile since he’s amused himself. Now it’s his turn to lick his lips and his eyes can’t help but fall to the generous cleavage of his instructress.
“Close,” she says with a condescending smile, “…Piepus. The largest dual border lake in Europe. Russia on one side, Estonia on the other. We have reason to believe the girls are being held on its shores.”
"So," I ask, "is the van going in the C-130?"
"No, it'll be waiting in Riga, Latvia, and I'll have the help of another agent to drive over. I'll be leaving you at Lask. The bikes will be aboard and we'll go over some tricks during the flight. And it's coming way to soon so I'm out of here. I've got to pack and get a couple of hours of shuteye."
"You're welcome to lay down here," I say, and almost choke on the words as it's way to obvious. So obvious the other guys groan and give me a thumbs down, so I quickly add, "you can have a bedroom."
She laughs. "And who's going to pack my duffle?"
She rises, gives us a wave over her shoulder as she heads for the door, where she pauses. "Be at the front door at 3:00 A.M., gentlemen. We're wheels up out of Andrews at four. Sleep tight."
And she's gone.
The same Air Force corporal is driving the van that picks us up, and, as usual, is all biz.
I ride up front with her. "Don't you ever sleep?" I ask.
"Yes, sir."
I laugh. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"My job, sir, is to drive."
"Okay, corporal, drive."
It's a little over twenty minutes to Andrews and we arrive at 0322 at a gate far from the main, and are quickly beside a C-130J-30, which I know is only good for about 2,500 miles without additional fuel pods, which means we'll have to stop and fuel up somewhere along the way.
Natele is standing beside the ramp, dressed in a cammie jump suit and looks great even in that.
We enter the cavernous aircraft up the rear ramp, each of us carrying at least one duffle, and make our way forward. The six Husqvarna 701 bikes have been strapped to the wall by the loadmaster and still we could have played a game of volleyball inside. We make our way forward to where a dozen bunks fold down from the walls and where a metal table and bench, bolted to a bulkhead, will accommodate eight.
"Pick a bunk, gentlemen," Natele instructs. "I'm forward in the flight engineer's bunk, so don't worry about me. You can get some zees after we do a quick study of the bikes and after we have some breakfast. I'm cooking, you lucky devils…MREs in the microwave, but the coffee is decent."
The Husq's are the latest from a company making some of the world's hottest machines. Two of them are equipped with rear facing tubes that look to be part of the multi-tube exhaust system, but are in fact small rocket launchers, and all have saddle bags, the bottom of which, on one side are full of tetrapods that will discourage pursuing vehicles by blowing tires. On the other side are two one inch thick by four inch diameter land mines that can be dropped one at a time. And once dropped will arm themselves and won't have to be actually run over by a pursuing vehicle. They'll detonate if one passes within six feet.
We've even managed to take our eyes off Natele a few times while she's explaining the controls.
I love this James Bond crap, as do the other guys
11
B.J. had finally managed to saw the last set of cable ties in half using the sharp edge of the bed frame.
The pig, Vadim, had done as they'd all suspected would happen, as had a fat one who was named Zakhar, called Zak by his buddies. They'd come up the stairs and bent both Coleen and Phyliss over the bed, face down, and ravaged them from behind. They had screamed and cried, but it only seemed to encourage them. For some reason, they'd ignored B.J., making her sit in the single chair and watch.
She expected them back for a repeat performance, only this time it was Yegor who showed up just after light disappeared from the window. He reeked of vodka, and was laughing and swaggering as he entered.
B.J. heard him coming up the stairs, and with her hands behind her as if she were still tied, she took the seat and waited.
Luckily the others below had a television blaring.
The first time they had busted the buttons on Coleen's shorts so when he rolled her over and jerked them down, they came easily. With her face down on the bed, with Phyllis jammed up against the headboard, watching and crying, he dropped his pants and rutted like a boar and began driving into her.
B.J. was only steps away, and waited until she thought he was nearing orgasm, then rose as quietly as she could, picked up the heavy pitcher, half filled with water, and as if she was firing a penalty soccer ball in from the sidelines, swung it over head and smashed it over Yegor's black-hair covered pate.
He sagged to his knees with an oomph that rang across the room, but didn't go to his back.
She picked up the heavy bowl and with the same swing brought it edge first to the same spot—easily discernible as it was bleeding from a two inch gash.
This time he flopped across Coleen, who wiggled out from under him, her hands still bound behind her. A
s he rolled away, B.J. was startled as his eyes were still open, then she realized they were unmoving. She'd crushed his skull as gray matter was oozing from the wound. She thought for a moment she was going to be sick..but the urge passed as she realized she was glad she'd killed him.
She put a finger to her pursed mouth, quieting the other two girls, and listened. No footfalls on the stairs, nothing but the blaring television.
B.J. had thought this thru. She had a battle plan.
"Shut up," she commanded them, but quietly. "I can't get away if I have to drag you two behind. So you're staying. I'm going for help."
"You can't leave us," Coleen screamed, and B.J. moved quickly and clamped a hand over her mouth, hard enough that Coleen knew she was serious.
"I can't take you with me. You can't run a quarter mile, I can run a marathon. Now shut up and don't give them reason to come upstairs."
Both of the girls looked very frightened, but stayed silent, as B.J. went to work on raising the window and prying a bottom board away.
Natele serves the MREs like the best hash house darling, and like all MRE's all you can say is "filling." This is a confident woman, so confident she preforms normal female tasks as if she were one of the boys.
Then we hit the cots.
We touch down in Iceland, then again at RAF Croughton, near Northamptonshire, in central England, long enough to refuel. Between there and Lask Natele again serves up coffee and MRE's from the microwave. We do discover she's no slouch at cribbage and more than one of the guys donate a penny a point to kill time. Of course, it's unfair trying to concentrate on the cards with her across the table from you.
While we travel the guys pick out a Husq—all the same red but the leathers and helmets are different colors. All of us repack our duffles into the saddle bags, what we can't get in will go with Natele to be packed in the van.
The Ingrams fit nicely into the saddle bags and the sidearms are easily concealed under the leather jackets.
It's exactly eight hours difference between Lask and Andrews, but the flight, with refuel stops has taken eleven, so, time wise, with the rotation of the globe, it's nineteen hours later when we land. Lask is outside of town a couple of clicks and, unlike most U.S. bases has only one runway. It formerly hosted a full American contingency of F16 pilots. It still hosts some pilots and others who train the Polish pilots, particularly in the super effective battleground attach ship, the Warthog A-10. Of course, in my opinion, the administration set out to destroy American military superiority. Poland has a squadron of A10s. Congress has just revitalized the A-10 over the objection of the administration by blackmailing the president. No A-10, no government funding. Thank God a few in congress have the brains to ask the military what it needs, and the guts to follow through.
A-10's from the 354th Expeditionary Fighter Squadron in support of the European Theater Security Package, Operation Atlantic Resolve, are again stationed there. Some think she's an ugly little beast; I, having been on the ground while she was at work, think she's as beautiful as any aircraft ever built.
It's ten P.M. There's no welcoming committee, in fact of our group only Pax and I are shepherded, by Natele, into a Quonset hut that's hardly a command center, and in fact looks more like the base groundkeeper's office. We're not introduced to two U.S.A.F. officers present, who quickly leave the room as we enter. The room is painted light green except for a concrete floor painted battleship gray and the tables and files are all gun-metal gray. Only one four-florescent-bulb fixture is lit over the single table surrounded by four folding chairs. It's Spartan, to say the least.
General Gordon Holland is a half head shorter than either Pax or me, but even though he's on the shady side of fifty, looks like a guy not to be messed with. He's half Jimmy Cagney and half John Belushi. He looks like he could do backflips, even though a little barrel chested…a chest covered with ribbons, I might add.
"Take a seat, gentlemen," he commands. "Miss, there's coffee on the sideboard."
"Yes, sir," Natele says, and hops to, not her normal reaction to men, I've noticed, but then this is not a normal guy.
I extend my hand but he ignores it with a palm out.
"Fellas," he says, "I don't want to know your names or anything about you. This is totally unsanctioned, as you know. What I want is for you to know all I know. And for you to guarantee me your total discretion. From now on you're Clark and Kent, and I hope you get the inference. Your total discretion?"
"You got it," I say, and Pax parrots me.
He shoves a folder over the table to us.
"As you've probably been advised, the U.S. Military nor NATO will have anything to do with this operation…that's the official line. However, this is my daughter. Her brother, Chuck, is an A10 pilot right here on this base training the Poles…you know the Wart Hog?"
"Know and love them, sir," I say.
"He, and his aircraft…his alone…are at your disposal."
You couldn't have wiped the grin off our faces with a bulldozer, but we say nothing as he continues.
"In the folder and programed into your phones is a number for you to call. It's my personal cell phone, and my phone is encrypted with the latest. Chuck's number, Chuck Holland, is programed into your phones as well. If you get in a situation where you absolutely have to have what the hog can deliver, call him. If that happens it's very likely my son and I will be up for a general court-marshal, but as I said, it's my daughter, and it's his sister…so be it."
He stands. "You'd better get to work. We have our first deadline in a little over twelve hours and I don't think you can even get to the area by then. God help those girls if you can't. Now, go kick some ass."
As we disappear out the door, he shouts, "Good luck, bring those girls home."
While we were inside the Husq's have been transferred to a nearby CH46E, most likely a former Marine chopper, but this one now has Polish markings. I guess we're getting a little international cooperation. Next to it is a Jet Ranger with some markings in a foreign language, probably masquerading as a business aircraft…it's Natele's ride, so she tells me. The now floppy half-empty duffels are being loaded into the Ranger.
Natele hands me a satchel before she heads to her ride. "Passports for each of you…Australian…with only the first name the same. You're on a walk-about, only this one's a ride-about. There's two hundred grand in Rubles and Euros, only twenty-five in Rubles, the rest in Euros. That should get you boys by for a while, if you don't have to grease too many palms. By the way, 50 rubles at today's rate is only 75 cents, the price of a cup of coffee and sweet roll in Estonia. The Euro is close to par."
"I was told there would be a guy from NATO who was joining us?"
"Goings. He drove the van to where I'm tying up with him in Riga, Latvia. You'll meet him when we join up again."
There are seats for all of us in addition to the cargo space in the big chopper, but we've leaving Natele behind to go in higher style in the Ranger. She's given me written instructions as to where to meet her at a hotel in Tartu, only a three hour drive from Riga. We'll be set down on a farm ten clicks from the city and will do a recon of the area while she and Goings are driving the van from it's current location, where it awaits them in Riga, Latvia.
While we head into Estonia, I study the folder provided by General Holland. It seems they've got some pretty detailed info as to where the girls might be. One of them carried an Apple computer, and although they took and destroyed or disabled the girl's cellphones, they did not take the computer until they'd stopped near Lake Piepus. A sloppy mistake on their part located them, the Apple "find my computer" app gave the longitude and latitude of the stop…now if they only did not continue on.
When we land in a cow pasture somewhere in Estonia, the LZ lit only by the light of a single motorcycle, and unload, there's a guy awaiting who's astraddle a motorcycle with a Ural emblem on the tank, I presume a model name and I presume Russian made. It's got a sidecar, but no passenger, only a couple of fat
canvas bags.
He waves us to follow and leads us over a bumpy cow trail to a road, pointing eastward, he says his one and only word, "Tartu." He doesn't follow as we roar off.
The first crossroads we come to has a sign, Tartu Linn 10k. They've set us down close. From Tartu to Kallaste, the closest town to the coordinates of the "last known" is only another 48 clicks, so, presuming we can get through Tartu at cruising speed, we're only an hour from target. Much sooner into the fray than I could have possibly hoped. If we move on, we can reach that spot before the first kill time the General warned us about.
It's time to get down and dirty.
12
It was an hour before Alexei and the woman, Alena Misin, returned from a drive into Tartu, where they'd had dinner, picked up a few bottles of vodka, and some supplies. The back seat of Alexei's black Mercedes 500sl was full of boxes and sacks of groceries. He hated to use it for a delivery vehicle and normally kept it immaculate, except for the ashtray, always full of butts.
The instant Alexei walked in the door, a cigarette hanging from his lips, he demanded, "Where is Yegor?"
Vadim, Zakha, and Vlad all looked innocent, and shrugged.
"Is he upstairs bothering the girls?" he snapped, and when he got another shrug, spun and took the stairs three at a time. He'd ordered the men not to antagonize the girls, period. He'd probably have to kill them all, but wanted as little trouble as possible until that time. But he knew these men, like most soldiers, often thought with their dicks.
He flung the door open, then reeled back seeing Yegor, sprawled on the floor, blood puddled around his head, his eyes staring. Broken shards of white ceramic scattered around his head. He was not so handsome in death.
Two of the girls were on the bed. As Alexei's eyes focused in the semi darkness he searched for the other one…the critical one. Seeing nothing he strode across the room and with a hand behind her neck lifted Phyllis and slapped her hard, then slapped her again coming back the other way. He dropped her, senseless, blood flowing from a split lip, and turned to Coleen, who he'd already determined was the weakest of the three.
