by Dale Brown
Black Wolf
( Dreamland - 12 )
Dale Brown
Jim Defelice
The deadliest weapon… is man
Top NATO representatives meet in Kiev to forge a new alliance… Powerful elements within a newly resurgent Russia decide the alliance must be stopped at all costs…
The warriors of Dreamland have moved on. Some, like Breanna and Zen Stockard, to positions of power and influence; others, like Danny Freah and Nuri Lupo, into Whiplash, a cutting-edge combination of brain and brawn. Tasked by the President to handle the country's most deadly and sensitive jobs, the elite SpecWarfare unit marries muscle to technological prowess.
But can even Whiplash stand up to a covert Russian army of genetically enhanced assassins known only as the Wolves?
The stories about them sound like sheer fantasy: the killers are said to be nearly invisible and virtually unstoppable, endowed with super-human strength and endurance. But when Danny Freah and company discover they do exist, Danny stumbles on an even darker and deadlier secret:
One Wolf, the most ferocious of all, comes from the heart of Dreamland itself. And Danny saw him die more than a decade before.
Dale Brown, Jim DeFelice
Black Wolf
Whiplash: Duty Roster
Lieutenant General (Ret.) Harold Magnus
Magnus once supervised Dreamland from afar. With Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian as its on-the-scene commander, the organization succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Now as deputy secretary of defense, Magnus hopes to repeat those successes with Whiplash. His handpicked commander: Bastian’s daughter, Breanna Stockard.
Breanna Stockard
After retiring from the U.S. Air Force to raise her daughter and help her husband’s political career, Breanna found herself bored with home life. She was lured back to a job supervising the development of high-tech wizardry under a combined CIA and Pentagon program. But will she be happy behind a desk when her agents are in trouble?
Jonathon Reid
Reid’s official title is Special Assistant to the Deputy Director Operations, CIA. Unofficially, he’s the go-to-guy for all black projects, the dirtier the better. He knows how to get around Agency politics. More importantly, he knows where all the Agency’s bodies are buried — he buried half of them himself.
Colonel Danny Freah
Fifteen years ago Danny Freah won the Medal of Honor for service far beyond the call of duty. Thrust back into action as the head of a reconstituted and reshaped Whiplash team, he wonders if he still has what it takes to lead men and women into battle.
Nuri Abaajmed Lupo
Top CIA operative Nuri Lupo is used to working on his own. Now the young CIA officer has to adjust to working with a quasimilitary team — at least half of whom he can’t stand.
Chief Master Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland
Boston finds himself shepherding a group of young CIA officers and special operations warriors across three continents. To do it successfully, he has to be part crusty old dog and part father figure.
Hera Scokas
Despite her ability with languages and the black arts of special operations, Hera Scokas hasn’t been able to climb the CIA career ladder as quickly as she wished. Now that she’s been given her greatest opportunity, she faces her greatest challenge: taming her personality to get the job done.
Captain Turk Mako
An Air Force pilot on special assignment to the Pentagon, Turk Mako thinks of himself as the last of a breed. Real live fighter jocks are being rapidly replaced by “back home boys”—pilots who control unmanned aircraft from hangars in the States. Mako is out to prove neither he nor his profession is — obsolete.
Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons
Once responsible for the teams that kept Dreamland’s top aircraft in shape, the former chief master sergeant is now Breanna Stockard’s right-hand graybeard and fixer.
Flashback: Revolution
January 1998
1
Moldova, east central Europe
1998
Mark Stoner ran for the Aerospatiale helicopter, trailing the rest of the commando team as it headed for the last of the four helos.
We made it, he thought. We’re OK. We’re good.
Good, good, good.
The CIA officer jumped into the helicopter just as it started to lift off the ground. He lost his balance, spinning toward the floor as the helo shuddered against a sudden buffet of wind. One of the Romanian commandos he was with grabbed him, easing his fall.
Stoner looked back toward the door just in time to see the chopper clear a row of trees by bare inches, the angled tops of the evergreens like sharp black spikes in the night. As the helicopter banked around the woods to set a course westward, a large slash appeared in the sky, a sword that seemed to swing up from the ground
But this was an optical illusion. The black shape was the spire of the church they had struck, the haven for rebel guerrillas who had nearly succeeded in destroying Romania’s gas pipeline network. Aided by Russia, the rebels had come perilously close to plunging Western Europe into a very cold winter. That wasn’t going to happen now.
But Stoner hadn’t come just to prevent that. The CIA agent had been after evidence proving Russia had helped the guerrillas as part of a bid to raise its prices for natural gas, and to keep Eastern Europe under its thumb. Stoner had grabbed a computer and disks from the church basement that proved just that. The colonel who had led the men was already transmitting some of the files back to his headquarters via a data link Stoner provided, courtesy of the Dreamland Whiplash deployment team.
No matter what happened now, the operation had been a success. A big success — one more win in a résumé filled with wins.
But to Mark Stoner, the mission was a loss — a deep pit of blackness that drilled into his chest. To get the information for the raid, he had tracked down one of the guerrillas’ key leaders, a woman named Sorina Viorica. He’d gone behind the lines, met her, and helped her escape when other rebels turned against her.
Along the way, he fell in love with her.
It didn’t change their arrangement: she gave him the information he needed for the raid, he helped her escape Romania.
Yet it changed it profoundly. He could count on one hand the times he’d been in love, and not use half the fingers.
“Great mission!” shouted Colonel Brasov, the Romanian commander.
“Yeah,” said Stoner.
Brasov began thanking him for saving his men from an ambush.
“You are hero for us,” the colonel told him in his unsteady English. “Real hero.”
He added something in Romanian. His men nodded, adding their own words of praise.
Stoner shrugged them off. What was a hero?
The soldiers looked at him as if he was superhuman, as if he was part of a different race. But he wasn’t. He was just like them — he was flesh and blood, creaky bones and cramped muscles. There were moments when he hesitated, seconds ticking away under fire, times when he felt fear.
Fear in his gut. Paralysis that filled him like a damp wind collecting over a bog.
People didn’t understand how much it really took. The bosses back home didn’t know the price of each mission, of each instance where someone looking from the distance could say, “Good job. Good mission. Way to go.”
Another star in the folder, eh, Mark?
He died a little bit every moment on those missions. He felt dead now — heart pumping, lungs filling, but just as certainly dead inside.
Stoner’s sat phone began to ring. He pulled it out but had trouble hearing.
“Stoner, this is Dog.”
It was Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Basti
an, the leader of Dreamland himself, miles away, over the border, circling in an EB–52 Megafortress to provide radar coverage.
“This is Stoner!” Stoner yelled into the sat phone, trying to make himself heard over the helo’s turbines.
“Stoner, tell your pilot and Colonel Brasov there are four MiGs headed in your direction,” said Colonel Bastian. “They’re about ten minutes away from the helicopters.”
“Four what?”
“Four MiGs. Russian fighters. Get the hell out of there. Get over the border.”
“We’re working on it, Colonel.”
Stoner turned to Colonel Brasov and tugged on his arm.
“There are fighter jets headed in our direction,” he said. “They’re about ten minutes away.”
Brasov’s face blanched — he’d said on takeoff that it would take the helicopters roughly thirty minutes to reach the border — then went forward to the cockpit to tell the pilots.
There were thirty soldiers in the rear of the helicopter, along with two of the prisoners, a dozen boxes from the church, and the two footlockers. There were also several bodies stacked at the back. The Aerospatiale was designed to hold about twenty-five men, counting the crew; the extra weight slowed it down dramatically.
Brasov returned, a frown on his face.
“We will stay very low to the ground,” he said, shouting in Stoner’s ear. “They may not see us on their radar. But it will be tight.”
The helicopter suddenly veered hard to the left. Stoner had trouble staying on his feet. The chopper ran a tight zigzag across the fields, the pilot trying to get as close as possible to the trees and buildings so the Aerospatiale would blend into their radar returns and be lost to the MiGs. It was a time-honored solution to the problem of escaping more powerful aircraft.
The problem was, the aircraft they were trying to dodge had look-down radar specifically designed to counter that tactic. And the French-made helicopter wasn’t the most maneuverable chopper in the air.
Stoner realized they were going to be caught. They had to do something desperate — sacrifice themselves maybe, to save the others.
“We’re not going to make it,” he told Brasov finally. “We can’t outrun them.”
The colonel nodded grimly.
“A mother bird when its nest is being attacked pretends to be wounded, drawing the predators away,” Stoner continued. “You could do the same — have one of the helicopters peel off, get the MiGs interested, then land. Everyone runs for it — the MiGs come down and investigate. The other choppers get away. We make our way home by foot.”
Instead of answering, Brasov went forward to the cockpit. Stoner glanced around the cabin. The troops were quiet now, aware they were being pursued.
“You are full of good ideas, Mr. Stoner,” said Brasov, returning. Then he added, “The Russian aircraft are almost on us.”
“How far is the border?”
The colonel just shook his head.
“I would not ask my men to make a sacrifice I was unwilling to make myself,” he said.
“Neither would I,” said Stoner. He glanced around the cabin as Brasov spoke to the pilots. It was one thing to risk his own death, another to risk those of the men around him. He’d just saved a bunch of them. Undoubtedly they were thinking about their families, about getting home, and now he was dooming them.
Colonel Bastian was under orders not to interfere. Bastian wasn’t exactly known for following orders, but in this case he might not have any choice. He was too far away to intercept the MiGs.
Still, Stoner found himself wishing he would.
The helicopter popped up suddenly. Stoner fell back against the bulkhead, then slipped and fell on the deck. Two of the Romanian commandos helped him to his feet.
One of them said something in Romanian. Stoner thought he was telling him not to lose hope. He nodded.
Never lose hope. There’s always something.
Something.
He grabbed the spar as the helicopter whirled hard into the turn. The pilot had spotted a small clearing on the hillside ahead. He launched flares in hopes of decoying the Russian missiles, then pushed the nose of the helicopter down, aiming for the hill.
The helicopter blades, buffeted by the force of the turn, made a loud whomp-whomp-whomp sound, as if they were going to tear themselves off.
Everyone inside the helicopter was silent, knowing what was going on outside but not really knowing, ready but not ready.
“When we get out, run!” Brasov yelled. “Run from the helicopter. As soon as you can, make your best way over the border. It is seven miles southwest. Seven miles! A few hours’ walk.”
The men closest to him nodded, grim-faced.
The helicopter pitched hard to the left.
“You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met,” Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.
“You, too,” said Stoner.
“Until we meet again.”
Brasov held out his hand.
As Stoner reached for it he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she’d looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he’d had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of Breanna Stockard, who’d parachuted with him into the water. They spent the night together in the rain, without any hope of rescue. Now he saw her smiling face in the aircraft just after they were picked up.
He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.
There was a flash above him, and a loud clap like thunder.
And then there was nothing, no memory, no thought, no pain or regret.
Needs
The present: May 2012
2
Berlin, Germany
2012
Y ou are invincible.
The man they called Black Wolf heard the voice in his head, the words playing on an endless loop. He tried to block them out but could not. They were always there, part of an inner voice he could not control.
But there were many things he could not control.
You are invincible.
He was not invincible at all, nor was he a demigod, though some treated him as one. On the contrary, he knew very well the limits of his abilities, and had constant reminders of his mortality.
But he didn’t care much for what other people thought of him. He didn’t care much for other people at all.
The Black Wolf had obligations which he could not escape. He had duties and assignments. But he considered himself separate from them, separate from everything. They called him Black Wolf. He called himself… nothing.
The man they called the Black Wolf moved up the stairs to the balcony of the Konzerthaus Berlin, the famous orchestra house in eastern Berlin. A large crowd had come to hear a young Czech prodigy play a selection of Mozart, Vivaldi, and Bach with the Konzerthausorchester Berlin. Barely fifteen, the pianist was already famous and celebrated; it was said his music would move stones to tears. But a good part of his fame — or was it notoriety? — came from theatrical touches.
He dressed as a pseudogoth. His head was shaved, and while he wore black tie to the concert, he could generally be counted on to pull off his jacket and shirt at the end of the show and toss it to the crowd. Sometimes he would throw his trademark black T-shirt as well, and take his final bows bare-chested.
Witnessing such a spectacle, a reviewer for Le Monde had recently counted five tattoos in various spots on the pianist’s upper body. The prodigy had responded in a Facebook posting that he would gladly show her the rest at a private concert.
This wasn’t particularly adventurous stuff in other genres, but it was a revolution in classical music. The young man’s shows were always sold out, and generally attracted a much wider ranging audience than the typical symphony concert.
Wolf found his seat in the balcony
just as the lights dimmed. He listened impassively as the program started. A Mozart selection warmed up the audience. The notes darted back and forth in an intricate web, echoing themes, underlining them, then taking them apart. If many had come for the show, it was the music that transported them. The young man with the shaved head and tattoos played as artfully as anyone who had graced the stage since it was built. In his hands, the music became immortal.
The Black Wolf wasn’t interested in transcendence. He scanned the audience, looking for Helmut Dalitz. For Dalitz was scheduled to have his own reckoning with mortality before the program ended.
Helmut Dalitz was a wealthy international businessman. Once a banker, he now made his money by buying distressed properties across the world, fixing them or otherwise making them viable, and then selling them. He did this most often with apartment buildings, though he also did it on occasion with commercial properties.
It was one of the commercial properties that had brought Wolf here. For Helmut Dalitz, through a company that he owned, had bought a large, nondescript building in Rome, Italy, the previous year. The building, on Via Nazionale not far from the Termini train station, was a nondescript twelve story structure badly in need of maintenance.
There were many ways that maintenance could be done; since there were a number of vacant stores and offices, workers could have started with the vacant spaces, then gradually moved on, shuffling the existing tenants in and out of the different units like a game of musical chairs. Doing things piecemeal like that was common in Italy, where work tended to progress at a very leisurely pace, and disrupting old traditions for the sake of some new paint and a few daubs of plaster was antithetical to the national psyche.
But Helmut Dalitz was not Italian. More importantly, he disliked disorder, and the idea of slowly renovating his building did not sit well with him. It smacked of chaos and conflicted with his timetable for turning a profit. And so he had the building closed entirely, kicking out all of the existing tenants, something he was allowed to do by the terms of the sale and the tenants’ leases, even if these terms conflicted with the spirit by which most of the tenants had held their property.
