Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  THE BLACK TRAIN

  Brokk Mihailovich writhed on the bucking and jerking floor of the freight car, searching for a bit of comfort. His bruised eyes and the broken nose and the cuts on his face gave him the look of a battered raccoon. The forsaken passengers aboard the train had lost one man during the first night, an elderly fellow with a bad head wound who had coughed blood from the moment he was thrown into the stinking car. So far today, the only death had been a frail child who had been hauled in along with her mother. Both had been cruelly brutalized. The child, about twelve, died with tears on her face, unable to comprehend what had happened. That left a cargo of nineteen people still alive and rolling northeast, unaware of any legal charges against them, unaware of where they were going, unaware of what the next mile might bring.

  Mihailovich lay still so it didn’t hurt so much as the train lurched onward. He had spent the previous night—Two nights ago, was it now? He had missed some hours while unconscious—in a warm bed with Anneli after drinking with that Canadian writer who could hold his liquor but who had proven to be of no use to them politically. Breakfast had been a bit of pastry and coffee, and she was still beneath the sheets when he left for the university. He was scheduled for a nine o’clock lecture on the strategic business skills necessary for working in this changing new day of progress in Estonia. A few students were still yawning during the early class, but they all made it through. It was a bright group, and he had hopes for them. They were the future of the nation.

  By noon, Brokk was well into the stride of his workday and had gathered his popular usual luncheon group on the greening lawn to discuss politics. He acted as an unofficial moderator so the kids could debate aspects of freedom and reform. It was stimulating and hopeful and inspired volunteers to help his campaign for mayor.

  When Brokk went into the bathroom to empty his bladder of the strong coffee and tea he had been drinking throughout the morning, there was a large, lumbering man with wavy brown hair and a round face at the sink. He looked out of place on the campus in his lace-up boots with thick heels and heavy vest over blue work trousers; he smelled of cigarette smoke. The man did not even glance into the mirror, but concentrated on washing his hands, sluicing water around and around.

  Brokk stepped to the urinal and pulled at his zipper and stared down, as men do in public bathrooms to create a polite zone of privacy. The man at the sink turned off the water, pulled a paper towel from a dispenser on the wall and slowly dried his hands. Brokk finished, straightened himself, adjusted his backpack and went to the now-vacant sink. The big man reached into a vest pocket as if he was taking out a cell phone, but suddenly spun back and plunged the twin prods of a stun gun into the side of Brokk’s neck. The young lawyer arched back in pain as the electricity seized him and there was a sudden smell of burned flesh. He collapsed to the dirty floor with arms and legs thrashing in spasms, his mouth gaping open in surprise, then his body went limp. Brokk did not feel the prick of the needle that was thrust into his arm to administer a strong sedative.

  That was when he lost track of time, for when he swam back to the surface of consciousness, he could not count how long he had been out. He awakened in a windowless room of sturdy stone walls. When he had groaned, someone sloshed water into his face and demanded, “Where is the girl?”

  Brokk’s confused brain could not shape who was yelling at him or what the loud voice was yelling about. The beating began. “Your slut, lawyer-boy! Where is your partner, Anneli Kallasti?” He realized that whoever this was did not have her in custody, a bit of knowledge that made him feel better. Knowing his own future had flown from being bright and limitless to being as bleak as a dirt grave no matter what he said or did, he would not give her up. They worked him hard. His lies made no difference.

  Later, he was pulled from the room with his toes dragging along the stones because he could no longer stand on his own. In a cavernous terminal waited a diesel locomotive and a string of freight cars, all painted flat black and lined up in deep shadow. It seemed like a long, hungry snake. Soldiers with weapons guarded each car. Other prisoners shuffled forward on their own or were carried into the cars, then the guards slammed and locked the doors. Brokk passed out again. When he awoke, pain was squeezing his head and he rolled to his side and threw up, coughed and wiped his bloody mouth on a sleeve and wondered in a brief moment of clarity if he had said anything that might have helped them find Anneli. He hoped not.

  The train was under speed, stopping periodically to load even more prisoners and remove the corpses. It was impossible to tell time or direction, but the stunned prisoners talked among themselves and decided it had to be going east and north, and out there lay the great Siberian wastelands.

  Dying wasn’t so hard, Brokk thought as blood hemorrhaged in his head. He had made a difference, had done all he could to help his country, and although the election would turn out badly now, he hoped the people would rise up to stop any attempt at reunification with Russia. Also, and just as important to him, he had enjoyed the love of a good woman; every moment with Anneli had been a treasure. Finally, tired and hurt and without hope of being saved, he gave up, smiled at the remembered image of her face and floated away. His final view was one that was conjured by his imagination; a black train far below him, snaking through the dark countryside.

  12

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  NATO, THE NORTH ATLANTIC Treaty Organization, had existed for more than half a century, a security alliance founded upon the pledge of mutual defense in the event of an armed attack on any member state by an external party. It achieved its original goal, which was to corral Soviet expansionism in Europe. The demolition of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the reunification of Germany, and the end of the Cold War meant that NATO had won. In a sudden rush, the countries of Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland, free of Moscow’s rule, joined the alliance. Since then, another seven former Soviet republics that had been members of the defunct rival Warsaw Pact came aboard. By 2009, NATO boasted twenty-eight member nations, from as large as the United States to as small as Estonia. Russia was reduced to being a second-rate power and a shattered empire. The Russian economy stagnated, so did the military budget, but eventually the big ship had righted itself. Now the Bear was stirring again, starting the long climb back into the game. It dealt first with the rebels in Chechnya, and then had tamed Georgia, and next took a big bite of the Ukraine. NATO did nothing. The time had come to pay attention to the northern front.

  General of the Army Pavel Sergeyev, the chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation, could read that story just by looking at the huge map of Europe that dominated an entire wall of his magnificent office on Znamenka Street in Moscow. All of those upstart Warsaw Pact deserters were now having second thoughts: Moldavia, Romania, Slovenia, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia were quaking in their boots. He laughed to himself. Tiny Lithuania had announced with great fanfare that it had formed a Rapid Reaction Force to confront any Russian aggression.

  Sergeyev pressed the handset of a telephone close to his ear to better hear the cold voice of Colonel General Valery Ivanovich Levchenko, the commander of the Western Military District, who was headquartered in St. Petersburg. The colonel general was an active man, popular among his troops for his touch with the common soldier. Chief of Staff Sergeyev asked, “How was your run this morning, Valery Ivanovich?”

  “Brisk and satisfying,” came the reply over the encrypted line. The man had the lean body of a greyhound. Each day, the colonel general went for a run of ten kilometers with an enlisted man from one of his services. Today, a common soldier from the 20th Guards Army had been given the honor of galloping alongside the fifty-year-old general, and the younger man’s fresh lungs were burning with effort by the time they finished the hard pace. The general did not jog; he ran and always finished with a hard, kicking sprint. It was all right for the enlisted man to finish first, and be rewarded with a week’s liberty, for the general was no longer in the condition he wa
s in back during his Olympic years, but woe be unto any who could not finish the workout. Break an ankle, pull a hamstring, rip a knee muscle or fall out of the run for any reason at all and that soldier, sailor or airman would be demoted one rank on the spot and transferred to what the general called his “Goon Squad” that pulled every dirty job he deemed fit. For Levchenko, there was no excuse to ever quit until the job was done.

  “Are you prepared to launch the exercise?”

  “At your command, sir.” Colonel General Levchenko was not flustered by the implied criticism of his superior. Of course he was ready. “The needed infrastructure is in place along the border for Operation Hermitage, and we are shifting units forward as the fields dry out enough to support armored vehicles. More fuel and ammunition and air-assault units still need to be prepositioned. It will not take long.”

  Chief of Staff Sergeyev thought that through for a couple of moments, with his head down and his chin on his chest. He puffed on a cigarette. “And where do we stand with the resettlement program?”

  “The voluntary relocation is, of necessity, going slowly, but progress is satisfactory. Elements of the Sixteenth Spetnaz Brigade, in civilian clothes, are furnishing manpower to help convince dissidents in the target areas that they might be happier living elsewhere.”

  “Nicely put, Valery. ‘Voluntary relocation.’ I like the sound of that,” said the army’s chief of staff. “I think that someday you may wish to take off that uniform and become a politician.”

  The business was done, and they were just fencing now. “I have no interest in politics, Colonel General. I have served the Motherland for thirty years, and my only wish is to continue doing so as a commander. I understand that this operation is part of a larger and important political component and I gladly leave that to you and our other leaders in Moscow.”

  “I know, Valery. I know. You are the best field commander I have and your skills are needed where you are.” There was a pause. “I told the men in the Kremlin that the only problem was that Valery Ivanovich would want to personally lead this from the front lines. They were shocked, and I agree with them. One reason for my call is to remind you, Colonel General, that you must remain within your headquarters.”

  “Ah. The problem with being a general is that I cannot be aboard the lead tank going into the fight. I work best when my boots are muddy.” He poured a glass of good vodka and drank it down in one swift gulp.

  “From where you sit in your St. Petersburg palace, Estonia is only ninety-two miles away. That is close enough for my valuable commander. Let our young soldiers do the fighting. That is why we train them.”

  “Whatever you say,” replied Colonel General Levchenko, knowing it was a lie when he uttered the words. Things were in motion for the run-up to Phase One of Operation Hermitage and he did not have to be personally on the scene until it was time to spring the trap with Phase Two. Then he would be where he was really needed. The men within the redbrick Kremlin walls and generals in the military headquarters in the Arbat did not have to know that. Colonel General Levchenko did not believe in sharing his plans. The bureaucrats could order him to boil water, but building the fire was up to him.

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  Kyle Swanson got his first surprise of the day when he met the case officer who had been assigned by the CIA to oversee the initial debrief of Colonal Ivan Strakov. He recognized the blond hair, slim figure, elegant bearing, fashionable clothes and open smile of Jan Hollings. Calico stood and extended her hand.

  “You?”

  “Don’t worry, Mister Swanson. I left Anneli safely tucked away for a few days. The company brought me in last night because Ivan apparently operated partially on my turf. The theory is that I might be able to recognize flaws in his story.” She sat down again, then introduced two other agents, a younger tech and an older analyst. “I will return to Tallinn as soon as you are through with him and things check out. Still, it is nice to see you again so soon.”

  The woman was full of surprises. At no point had she mentioned her husband, Colonel Thomas Markey. Agents were always changing their appearance with such little alterations. Beneath that cool outward appearance, Calico was a very complicated woman. Kyle had no problem with her running this show. Anybody, as long as it was not him, was acceptable.

  “Fine by me. When you see Anneli, please tell her that I said hello. She’s a good kid. No word on her boyfriend?”

  Jan twitched her lips. “No. Too soon to hope for that. I honestly do not have high hopes, but she thinks you are Superman and can find him.” She lifted her chin toward the tech, who switched on the video and audio equipment, and a black curtain slid away from the one-way mirror.

  Ivan Strakov waited patiently in a chair at the usual table. He wore glaring orange coveralls, but was not in restraints. Instead, he was working a crossword puzzle, although he was not allowed a sharp object like a pen or pencil. Ivan was unraveling the tangle of words in his head.

  The technician handed a clear earbud to Kyle, who stuffed it into the canal of his right ear and wiggled it to make it comfortable. It was invisible. “Testing. Can you hear me?”

  Swanson said, “Perfectly. I’m ready.”

  The technician slid on a pair of earphones and turned to his electronic control panel. “Ready here, too,” he said. The older analyst nodded, his pen poised over a legal pad.

  Calico gave them all a final look, and said, “Then in you go, Swanson. Do this. I’m anxious to hear what he has to say.” She opened the door and Kyle walked through, then she closed it behind him.

  Ivan Strakov tossed the folded newspaper onto the table. “Took you long enough,” he said.

  Kyle placed his briefcase on the flat surface, opened it and removed some notes. “Narva is a dump,” he said, spreading his papers. Sketches and written reminders with other notes such as laser ranges scribbled in open spaces.

  “There are a couple of nice castles, though, right?” Ivan responded. “Good view from up in the gallery. So what did you see, Gunny?”

  “Not much, actually. The only thing worse than being in Narva, apparently, is being across the bridge in Russia.” Swanson peeled through the data, point by point, for thirty minutes, then called a break. He mentioned the upcoming election, but did not speak of the fight in the tower, nor the young couple he had encountered. He stuffed the material back into the briefcase and returned to the other room and handed it to the analyst. “For your files,” he said, and the man took it without comment.

  “That was a good general overview,” said Calico. “I recall much of that myself, although without the ranges and tactical details. Narva is a bleak place and doesn’t change much.”

  Swanson poured two cups of hot coffee and took a sip of one. To the tech, he said, “Ask Ivan if he prefers milk and sugar.”

  The youngster hesitated and looked at Jan Hollings, who looked at Kyle. “Come on,” Swanson said. “The guy is a spy. He knows we are watching and listening, so let me break the ice a little better with a common courtesy.”

  “Milk or sugar in your coffee, Colonel?” The tech asked with a calm voice.

  “Milk. Thank you,” he responded.

  Swanson went back in and gave Ivan the coffee. They sat silently for a while, just waiting. “So you directed that you would only talk to me, Strakov, and I came. Then you sent me off to chase this goose in Narva. I went. So it’s your turn.”

  Ivan agreed that it was fair to give something back. He asked, “Did you see the monuments?”

  Swanson nodded in agreement. “Even the bald guy, old Vladimer Ilyich Lenin himself, who is now hiding in a niche of the castle instead of standing in the square. I tried to catch most of them.”

  Strakov had a laugh, a genuine bit of humor. “Yes. Moving Lenin was quite a daring move by the Estonians. Then they also moved the war memorial, a statue of a Red Army soldier, and that really upset President Pushkin. What else? Think, Kyle. This is important.”

  “If it was important, why di
dn’t you tell me to be sure to find it?”

  “The process of discovery, Kyle. If I pointed you to it, my information would have been discounted. Tell me about the sad-looking cross that rises out of the stones down by the railroad tracks, with the big numbers nineteen forty-one through nineteen forty-nine.”

  “I’ve got to look at my notes again,” Swanson said to buy some time. He left his coffee on the table when he went back outside and checked through the papers. “Aw, shit,” he said softly, drawing a concerned look from Calico. “I should have caught that. So fucking obvious!” He went back in.

  “That is the memorial to the Estonians who were deported to Siberia by the Russians during and after the war,” he declared.

  Ivan Strakov rubbed his right palm over his face briefly, pulling at his cheeks. “Right.”

  “The Disappeared.”

  “Right. They are doing it again, this time to silence the critics and the dissidents, the journalists and clergy, the students and labor leaders. With those people removed in secrecy aboard what is known as the Black Train, a new tone can arise behind them and clever propagandists will rally to return beneath Moscow’s wing.”

  “You are preparing the battlefield.” Kyle pushed back in his chair and crossed his legs. He realized with a clutch of his gut that Ivan’s comment explained what had happened to Brokk Mihailovich and why those punks had come after Anneli. Had to be. With Brokk and his energetic adviser out of the way, the other candidate would win the municipal election in Narva and try to return it to Kremlin ownership. “Incredible. Moscow must know NATO will react to that.”