Ghosts of War

by Brad Taylor

  I told him Jennifer and I needed to discuss the proposal, and that he needed to bring some assurances we’d be taken care of if the worst happened, then we left the room. Jennifer and I wandered the old square looking for a restaurant or café to stop and talk in. That’s when I saw the sign for Whiskey in a Jar. The perfect place.

  Well, Jennifer would rather have found some old Wroclaw bakery, but I texted the location to Aaron, short-circuiting her ability to say no.

  We were on our second plate of fries, and the Cokes were growing warm—because apparently ice is a rarity in Europe—and we still hadn’t made up our minds.

  Jennifer rubbed my arm across the table and said, “Maybe we do the job. For them. It’s not that hard, really, and it would mean a lot to Shoshana.”

  I said, “She’s fucking crazy. You want to risk our lives for that?”

  Jennifer said, “No. Of course not. But she’s not crazy. We’ve done several operations with her, and she’s always right. Scary right. I think we should.”

  I said, “You sure?”

  “Well, you’d get some high adventure out of the trip. Make that flight worthwhile. But only if we get the support from Aaron.”

  Before I could answer, Shoshana came into the bar, squinting her eyes in the gloom. Aaron followed close behind. I said, “Looks like we’re about to find out.”

  I waved and they came over, Shoshana beaming like she was a cat with a cornered mouse. Aaron said, “Well?”

  I said, “Well, what? I’m the one waiting on an answer.”

  “You are in. We have a lawyer in Warsaw. One with highly placed connections. You’ll be covered and shuffled out without drama, provided we don’t do any permanent harm to anyone.”

  I simply nodded.

  He repeated the question. “Well?”

  I looked at Jennifer one final time. Shoshana went from me to her, then started bouncing on her toes, a smile on her face. “They say yes.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Can you turn that crap off for one minute and at least let us be the ones to say it? Just for formality’s sake?”

  She ceased moving and made a concerted effort to stop the grin, looking for all the world like a child. Nobody said a word. Shoshana leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, saying, “Thank you.”

  Jennifer smiled at that. She said, “Yes, we’ll do it.”

  15

  The car drove by the front gate at a steady pace, like a tractor dragging a plow. It neither slowed when the harsh lights of the gate came in view nor sped up once it was back in the darkness. It did nothing to give anyone concern that reconnaissance was in the works. Not that the guards would have believed it, no matter what the car did. The driver could have parked out front and pulled out a video camera, and the men manning the gate would have remained listlessly behind their drop bar and chain link. They couldn’t be faulted for that. They were, after all, on a military base in the heart of the last dictatorship in Europe. The 61st Fighter Airbase, Baranovichi, Belarus.

  In a country nearly impossible to enter as a tourist, with a secret police still enamored of the legacy of the Stasi and the KGB, Belarus was a dinosaur. An aging relic of the Cold War where “Let me see your papers” wasn’t a satirical comment, but a daily occurrence. It would be preposterous for anyone to believe one could attack a military base in the heart of the state without substantial help from those same forces.

  Unless one had help from forces that were just as good, and just as vicious.

  Kirill Zharkov said, “Misha, keep going another mile. The turnout will be on the left.”

  Misha said, “Same old Belarus. I’ll bet those weapons aren’t even loaded.”

  From the back, Oleg said, “Yes, getting in will be easy, but we still need to get out.”

  Kirill said, “We’ll drive right through that gate in the chaos.”

  “What if they lock it down?”

  “They’ll be looking for Chechen insurgents. Not Russian officers.”

  Oleg remained silent. The headlights hit the gravel turnout, and Misha pulled into it, finding a rutted dirt road. He bounced down the track for about seventy meters, until he was hidden in the wood line, then stopped. He flashed his lights and received two small blinks from a flashlight thirty meters away. He pulled forward, getting off the track far enough to allow another vehicle to pass.

  Kirill exited and met the man with the flashlight, standing next to a Belarusian army lorry. They shook hands and Kirill said, “Dmitri, really good to see you. I was worried you’d have issues. Any trouble?”

  “No. Minsk is no different than Moscow. Weapons and uniforms were right where they were supposed to be.”

  “You sure you weren’t identified? Followed?”

  “Would I be sitting out here in the woods if I had been? The Israeli passport was a genius idea. Two days of shopping and they quit looking at us.”

  Kirill nodded. “Good enough. The special weapons are here as well?”

  “Yeah. Two AK-74s in cloth bags. A note on them says not to touch them. What’s that all about?”

  “They were collected off a battlefield in Dagestan. They have the fingerprints of a Chechen warlord.” He smiled in the dark and said, “The FSB has been keeping them for a special occasion.”

  The other two men from the car came forward. Oleg shook Dmitri’s hand and said, “Where’s Alik?”

  Dmitri hooked a thumb at the lorry and said, “Changing. Getting promoted by about ten ranks from what he was when he was booted from the army.”

  Kirill laughed and said, “Everyone, do the same. Guard shift is in one hour. We need to be through the gate before then. I want to attack during the change, when there’s confusion on who’s in charge of what.”

  Thirty minutes later, they were all dressed as Russian air force officers, Kirill the ranking man as a major, the rest captains and lieutenants. It might have been more imposing—and thus easier to penetrate—pretending to be a higher rank, but there was only a single Russian Su-27 squadron here, and that meant very few high-ranking members of the Russian military. Someone of that rank would be remembered—and questions would flow afterward. Captains and lieutenants were a dime a dozen.

  Kirill gave the command to load, and they bounced down the lane, passing the car they’d used for reconnaissance, Dmitri driving with Kirill in the passenger seat. The other men were in the back, weapons under a blanket. They hit the blacktop and began retracing their steps.

  They saw the glow of vapor lights in the distance, like a small stadium in the woods, and Kirill tensed up. He said, “Remember, you defer to me. I don’t want to see your temper tonight. I outrank you, I’ll do the talking.”

  Dmitri nodded and said, “I understand. But if they give us any shit, I’m killing them.”

  Kirill laughed and said, “It won’t come to that. Remember your time in the military? Would you have given a shit about a couple of drunk officers showing up?”

  The full glare of the vapor lights hit the windshield as they came around the bend. Dmitri said, “I’d have killed them, too.”

  He pulled the truck straight up to the drop bar as if he belonged, which Kirill knew was half the battle. Act like you’re confused, and you’ll get a strong response. Act like you’re in charge, and people will let you be in charge. He knew no soldier wanted trouble from his commander for being a jerk at the gate. Especially to Russian officers on a Belarusian base.

  A guard popped out of the small shack next to the drop bar and came forward, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder, a flashlight in his hands. Kirill leaned over and presented his Russian credentials outside the window. As if he’d done it a hundred times in the past. The guard took one look at the uniforms and that was it. He didn’t even bother to turn on his light to see the identification. He waved behind him, and the drop bar rose.

  Dmitri muttered, “Well,
that was easy.”

  16

  His statement was belied a mere five minutes later, as they took a wrong turn and ended up on the main post, with Belarusian airmen working the midnight shift looking at the lorry curiously. They drove around a traffic circle and back out, headed the way they had come. Kirill cursed and said, “Where the hell is the airfield? We need to find the Russians.”

  Dmitri said, “We’ll have to stop and ask.”

  “Are you fucking crazy? Ask where our squadron is? At two in the morning?”

  Dmitri saw a vehicle coming toward them and said, “Yes. We’re drunk Russians. Nothing new.”

  He leaned out, and acting like he was inebriated, asked directions to the cantonment area for the Su-27 squadron. The man in the car laughed at the predicament and gave them instructions. In short order, they were driving parallel to the flight line, the runway to the right and a distant glow in front. As it got closer, they saw open-bay hangars with the dual-fin Su-27s inside, sleek killers posted to Belarus as a hedge against the West.

  Kirill said, “There you go. That’s the target.”

  Dmitri said, “We got another checkpoint.”

  Kirill refocused to the front of the vehicle and saw a barricade of orange cones manned by a single Russian.

  Kirill said, “Shit. Get ready. We might not bluff our way through this one.”

  They pulled up, and a Russian airman came forward, clearly confused at the Belarusian truck. He saw Dmitri’s uniform, and, in a semi-joking manner, said, “Why is a lieutenant driving a truck?”

  Kirill wasted no time, leaning over and shooting the man in the face with a Makarov PM pistol, the gunshot shattering the night. He watched the body drop, then shouted, “Let’s go!”

  The lorry jumped forward, flattening the cones and racing down the sliver of blacktop to the hangars. The men in the back began shouting questions, wondering what had happened. Kirill separated the canvas behind the cab and said, “Get the RPGs ready. We’re attacking now.”

  Dmitri pulled onto a pad adjacent to the hangars and killed the engine. Nobody from the Russian side of the base reacted. Time slowed back down. Kirill opened the door and jumped out, saying, “Misha, Alik, Oleg, let’s go.”

  He heard them scrambling over the gate at the back, then saw them run around, two holding RPGs and AKMs and one with the bags of AK-74s. Alik tossed Kirill an AKM, then readied his RPG, looking at him for instructions. Dmitri came around the cab, taking another AKM and waiting on Kirill for a command.

  Kirill was astounded that nobody had reacted. He’d expected to have to fight his way in and then blast his way out. The silence was deafening. He said, “Dmitri, take the far side security. I’ll hold the near. Misha and Alik, shoot the first aircraft, then the second. Destroy them both. Oleg, scatter the weapons next to the maintenance bay.”

  Dmitri scampered to the other side of the hangar, disappearing into the darkness. Misha and Alik looked at Kirill, and he said, “Well? Do it.”

  They took a knee, aimed their RPGs, and let them fly. It was surreal, like a practice range, the men kneeling just outside the lights of the hangar, the bird sitting stoically waiting for the punishment. The rockets sputtered out, streaking toward the twin tail fins of the jet, then impacted in an explosion of metal, followed by the ignition of the fuel, turning the hangar into an inferno.

  The men whooped and yelled like kids at a fireworks display, then reloaded. Kirill said, “The next. Hit the next.”

  He noticed Oleg and said, “What are you waiting for? Get rid of those weapons. Be sure not to touch any metal.”

  Oleg turned to go and they heard Dmitri’s weapon fire on full automatic. He shouted something and Kirill said, “Go, go!”

  To the two grenadiers he said, “Shoot! Blow up the next one!”

  They slid the rod of the grenade home, then took a knee. Kirill saw Dmitri bouncing back, still firing on full automatic. The grenadiers released their deadly missiles, and the second aircraft was engulfed in flames. Kirill said, “Shoot it again,” then raced over to Dmitri, crouched behind an aircraft tractor, seeing three shadows in the distance firing at them, none appearing too intent on pressing the assault.

  Kirill slid in next to Dmitri and grabbed his shoulder, saying, “Come on. Let’s go!”

  “They saw me. I was in the light.”

  Kirill paused, then said, “You sure?”

  “Yes, I know it. They were shouting at me in Russian, calling me by my rank.”

  Kirill turned and shouted, “Alik! Over here.”

  Alik scuttled over to them, the RPG launcher awkwardly banging against his knees. Kirill said, “I need a grenade on them. Before others come and they can tell them what they’ve seen.”

  Alik glanced across the tarmac, seeing the three Russians crouched behind a row of barrels, occasionally cracking rounds their way, none coming close to them. He said, “They aren’t hitting anything. We got the aircraft.”

  “They’ve seen Dmitri and his uniform.”

  Alik started to say something, then closed his mouth. Kirill said, “Kill them.”

  “They’re Russian.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  Alik said nothing more, simply loaded another rocket. He sighted, then let it fly. The rocket-propelled grenade struck the center of the stack of barrels, the explosion shredding the three soldiers.

  Dmitri shouted, “Yeah!”

  Kirill said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  They sprinted back to the lorry, Oleg and Misha on the outside, nervously holding AKMs. Kirill said, “Did you drop the weapons?”

  “Yes. Near the maintenance bay.”

  Kirill nodded and said, “Everyone load up. Dmitri, you drive.”

  They started to move when a truck with an open bed came flying around the corner, bouncing into the light of the flames, revealing it was loaded with Russian and Belarusian security. Oleg shouted, “Shit!” and turned to fire. Kirill knocked the gun down and shouted in Russian, “There! They’re getting away! Across the tarmac!”

  The vehicle skidded to a stop next to them, and a captain jumped out, waving a pistol. He saw the flaming inferno, then took in the uniforms. He said, “What the hell happened?”

  “Chechens. Chechens blew the shit out of everything. They killed the man at the gate and then started shooting rockets. They escaped that way. They’re on foot. You can catch them.”

  The captain shouted at his men, then said, “Sir, can you secure this area? Make sure none of them are still here?”

  Kirill nodded, and the vehicle raced off, men hanging on with gun barrels bristling. Looking for an enemy that didn’t exist.

  Ten minutes later, the lorry was at the front gate. There was double the manpower from before, but no cohesive control. The men ran back and forth as if the movement alone were progress. Kirill grabbed one and talked to him, spreading more rumors, and then they were through, gaining their freedom simply by speaking Russian.

  17

  I felt someone lightly tap my thigh, then heard Shoshana whisper, “It’s time.”

  I shook the sleep out of my head and saw Jennifer slipping a backpack over her shoulders, now wearing skintight black Lycra leggings and an Under Armour top, courtesy of the Israelis. Surprisingly, it fit her perfectly. As if they knew who would be wearing it.

  I stood up and saw rain running down the window. I said, “That’s not a good omen.”

  Aaron, wearing jeans and running shoes, handed me a tiny headlamp and a leather sap filled with small lead shot. He said, “It was threatening to come down since we drove up, but it’s just a drizzle.”

  The sky had been overcast on the nighttime return, making the narrow blacktop leading to the castle bitterly dark. This time we’d traveled in a single vehicle, Shoshana behind the wheel, Aaron in the passenger seat. Jennifer and I were in the ba
ck, now part of their team. Which made me wonder when I’d crossed the border into lunacy.

  Through the trees, I’d seen the glow of lights and said, “You sure it’s not going to look strange for a car to pull up this late at night?”

  Aaron showed me the parking pass we both received earlier in the day. “Not when we have a room. We park, go upstairs, and act like we’re simply going to bed.”

  “You didn’t check out?”

  Shoshana said, “Why would we do that when we fully intended to come back?”

  I shook my head at the subterfuge, and Jennifer grinned.

  The parking area for the hotel was a little cramped shelf overlooking the valley the castle protected, requiring us to wind down a steep, potholed road running parallel to a stone wall. After bouncing around hard enough to cause the headlights to jostle like a drunken man waving a flashlight, we’d pulled off the road to the left, entering a small courtyard packed with about seven cars, all parked without any semblance of order.

  Aaron said, “Another reason to come in later. We won’t get blocked in by someone.”

  I said, “Yeah, that would suck for the getaway.”

  We’d exited the car and Aaron had led us to the stone wall. As I crossed the road, I saw it ran low around the side of the mountain, ending at what looked like an arched tunnel under the castle, a single lightbulb over the top illuminating the entrance.

  Aaron leaned over the wall and said, “That’s our access path.”

  He’d told us earlier that we’d be walking to the castle, and I could see a footpath paralleling the road, but lower on the slope, with benches every hundred feet or so for a walker to take a rest and gaze out into the valley.