Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “Yes. Well, dear boy, what is your status?”

  “I am finally about to board a plane and go back to the States. I am tired, and need to get back to the office. Also, I am more than a little pissed off at what has been happening around here, particularly those calls. We can’t really talk about this over Skype.”

  “Then come to London!” Lady Pat repeated her invitation, tinting it with an edge of demand.

  Jeff turned serious. “Let us talk about business for a moment, Kyle. As I understand it, you desire to return to the office as soon as possible, am I correct?”

  “Yes. The original parameters of my trip to Europe were changed without my advance knowledge or approval.”

  “I see. I see.” Cornwell was making a note. “I am afraid that a lot of things have changed. Some of the calls I received were thinly veiled reminders that European governments and our friends in Washington are the biggest and best customers for Excalibur products.”

  “The bastards. That’s blackmail. I don’t do what they want, we lose future contracts.”

  “My dear friend Freddie R. was most vocal about the situation,” said Jeff. “You recall Freddie, of course.”

  Kyle did. Left unsaid was that General Sir Frederick Ravensdale was the deputy supreme allied commander in Europe. “He was somewhat threatening, to be precise.”

  “Blackmail,” Kyle repeated.

  “That’s a very harsh term and should not be bandied about lightly where our friends are concerned. What I take away from all of this nattering is that they want you to stay involved. Insist on it, actually.”

  “What about Excalibur?”

  “Janna is handling the Washington affairs quite adequately for the time being. I am more concerned with the company’s future access to our friends and allies. Those links must be maintained at all costs, Kyle. Do you understand?”

  Swanson gritted his teeth in frustration. Here it was again; that feeling that he was being used by forces unknown. Sir Jeff and General Ravensdale, the Deputy SACEUR, were formidable men. In Kyle’s view, they were also being used. By who and why; he had no clue.

  “Okay, boss. I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do. That may be the quickest way out.”

  “Very well. I knew you would understand. And Pat is right. When this is all done, drop by and spend some time with us here before you head to Washington.”

  “Yea.” Pat cheered off-screen.

  “Still, I want some control over my own operations. How about lending me the boat for a couple of weeks? I can park it nearby and stage out of it.” The company yacht, its private helicopter, solid communications suite and crew of military veterans would provide a comfort zone. If Swanson was being forced to play the game, at least he would attempt to play by his own rules.

  “Consider it done. I’ll get the Vagabond started. Be careful.” The older man’s face was now that of a concerned father and less of the former SAS colonel who knew more than he let on. “If you need anything, I am here.”

  “Love you both,” Kyle said, and terminated the video call, then whispered to himself, “Damn.”

  14

  ESTONIA

  STAFF SERGEANT BRENDA HUTCHINSON of the U.S. Air Force was startled and cried out with both surprise and pain. She was strapped into a seat aboard an RC-135U reconnaissance plane that was flying a racetrack pattern over the Baltics to keep an eye on the Russians by monitoring the electronic cloud. The long flight from the spy plane’s home base at RAF Mildenhall in the United Kingdom had so far been without incident, as they usually were. The four-engine plane with swept wings was calmly cruising in the sunlight above the Sunday storm that was pummeling the earth below, and it was over Estonia when she was blasted by a sudden eruption of signals that came out of nowhere, without warning and at a volume so loud the sergeant jerked her padded earphones from her head. The screen in front of her that charted aircraft and ships turned to green-and-white jibberish.

  “What’s wrong, Hutch?” She felt a hand grip her shoulder as Captain Stan Morris leaned over. He also saw the normally crisp screen fall into meaningless flashes and zigzags and looping swirls.

  “We were just jammed with an electromagnetic pulse, sir,” she said, quickly clamping her headset back on to begin working the knobs and switches and reading her dials. “Something fried us hard, all across the spectrum. We’re almost blind.”

  The intercom was alive with similar reports from other stations on the aircraft and the big plane was jerking in the sky as automatic controls balked and the pilots fought to resume command. After about twenty seconds, the plane steadied and the electronics came back online through the emergency backups.

  “Find them, Hutch,” the captain said. The diminutive sergeant knew her business, and her fingers attacked the keyboard. “Find the bastard. Get the source.”

  On the intercom, they heard the aircraft commander tell everyone to hold on because they were breaking off from their pattern and retreating to the west, where a couple of NATO F-15C fighters could rendezvous and escort them safely home.

  “Too late! They’re right on top of us!” Hutchinson yelled. “There’s an Ilyushin-20 coming up at two-sixty degrees, blasting and jamming.” The powerful Russian electronic intelligence plane had hidden in the storm by flying low and cloaking itself with the lightning and bad weather, and had jumped up when the American plane was less than five miles away and closing.

  “It’s got company!” Sergeant Hutchinson shouted, discarding her normally measured, quiet tone.

  Also rising like hungry sharks from the gray storm into the bright sunshine were a pair of giant Tupolev-22M2 Backfire bombers and four Sukhoi-27 Flanker fighter jets. They barreled forward to intersect with the American spy plane in the middle of its evasive curve, almost on a collision course, with the IL-20 electronics devil painting the path between them with overpowering strength.

  The entire Russian formation continued to climb by them, intentionally giving the Americans a perfect view of full racks of rockets and antiaircraft missiles on the Flankers. Each Backfire bomber had a huge AS-4 cruise missile slung beneath its center line. The electronic jamming ceased abruptly and as Staff Sergeant Hutchinson watched her controls come back to normal limits, the Russian flight went majestically on its way, carving through the sky of Estonia in clear violation of designated border air space. They did not care.

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  Swanson mulled over his new instructions and hoped that the airline could extricate his luggage from the plane before it took off. It was to be taken back to the hotel, and he would return to the same room he had left only a few hours earlier. That gave him plenty of time to wait in the VIP lounge and try to shuffle the pieces of the puzzle.

  Why me? That was the question, not what he was doing in Belgium. Whoever was running this show wanted Kyle Swanson and no one else to be on hand, which made no sense at all to Kyle. He was not suited to the task and felt uncomfortable and inadequate trying to do it. Swanson did not buy the explanation that Ivan Strakov would speak only with him, for they barely knew each other. They had been on duty together only for a single bit of time back in the day, and even then, it was not a close friendship.

  Strakov had crossed over from Russia with more than enough clout to set ideal conditions of his acceptance by the United States intelligence agencies and be treated like spy royalty. Instead of residing in some comfy CIA safe house in the fox country of Northern Virginia, he had steered the decision to move to the stuffy confines of Koekelberg, a neighborhood of Brussels. Colonel Tom Markey had observed that Ivan was always devious and operated behind the scenes in the world of intelligence, and that he seldom made a move that he had not planned out thoroughly in advance. There was no reason to trust the Russian.

  A hostess in a dark skirt, white blouse and a bright red scarf knotted around her neck approached Swanson and said the bags had been rescued, then she wanted to know his next step. Would the gentleman like for her to call a hire car for the tr
ip back to the hotel, or perhaps just a taxi?

  Kyle came out of his reverie. The one thing that the Russian defector really knew about Swanson was that he was a big-league sniper. They had met on the job, and Strakov, as a student in scout-sniper school, had watched Kyle fire with incredible precision. After they went their separate ways, perhaps Strakov the spy was able to keep tabs on his former mentor, although most of Kyle’s record was intentionally blank because of the secretive nature of his missions. It was a long reach, but it made some sense, because it was the only strong link between them. For some reason Strakov had this strange determination to keep him so close at hand.

  There was no reason at all that he should trust the Russian.

  “No, miss, thank you,” he said with a sunny smile to the hovering hostess. “Instead, I would like to board the next plane leaving here for Tallinn, Estonia. What time would that be?”

  She turned and examined a screen discreetly set into the wall. It listed the departures and arrivals. “There is an Estonian Air flight leaving in about two hours, weather permitting. Would that do?”

  Swanson nodded and fished out a corporate credit card. “Would you please get me a first-class ticket? Put the bags on it, and also please bring me a glass of beer. Thanks.” While his wallet was opened, he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and gave it to her as a tip. “Appreciate your trouble.”

  “It is not a problem, sir. I’ll make the arrangements, and then I will fetch that beer.” He watched her walk away, moving easily and confident in her abilities. The hostess, about thirty years old, her brown hair tucked neatly out of the way, was used to dealing with important executives and did not bat an eye at the unexpected request. Dealing with problems of elite passengers was her job and she was good at it and reflected her years of experience. In such a major airport, she had seen it all. Beneath her extremely personable act was an efficient machine.

  Kyle, too, was a machine, only at another level. His skills were quite different from those of the hostess. One thing that he had learned over the years was that when all of the computations had been made, sometimes you still had to rely on your gut instinct and come up with what snipers called a SWAG—a scientific wild-ass guess. He rose and checked the screen himself, affirming his decision.

  A call to Calico confirmed that he would be back to participate in Ivan’s strange debrief, and that she could call off the dogs. In trade, he wanted a brief visit with Anneli Kallasti at the safe house. He said he needed to pick the girl’s brain about something that happened in Narva before talking to the Russian again. Calico gave him the address.

  Kyle then used his directory to call up the private number of Special Agent Lem James of the Diplomatic Security Service back in Helsinki. He dialed and the gruff voice answered immediately. Swanson made it quick, asking the big man to see if his pal Inspector Rikka Aura of the Finnish Security Intelligence Service would reveal the source of her tip that Swanson was to arrive on a specific diplomatic flight on that fateful night in Helsinki. James agreed that it was odd she knew the exact arrival time, and said he would try. Kyle promised a beer in return for the help, and hung up.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Christopher Thompson preferred casual clothes to suits and ties and formal wear, although some criticized him for not properly carrying the dignity of the office. He worked better in an old sweater and tan chinos and comfortable running shoes, but could change into the dark suit costume within minutes in the private bathroom just off the Oval Office in the White House. He had been elected because of his intelligence and political skill, not because of his tailors. Two years into the office, the public had grown to tolerate the personal quirks of the tough former U.S. senator from Missouri who campaigned in a pickup truck. “Truman-like” was the usual term for his decisive decision making, and his desk proudly displayed the little sign “The Buck Stops Here” that had been made famous by President Harry S. Truman.

  “So is this Russian guy the real deal? He seems to me to be a pretty weird duck,” Thompson asked. He had read the brief and was now walking around the Oval Office, a rangy figure with a full head of hair that was turning silver, and his hands in his pockets. Outside, the sky was blue and the rose garden was in riotous bloom, as were the Japanese cherry trees along the National Mall and the Tidal Basin. He was stuck indoors on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

  National Security Adviser Dean Thomas answered. “Right now, it appears that he is, sir. The first thing he gave us was a winner. He revealed the previously unknown information that Moscow had fielded their new Armata battle system, their biggest and newest tanks, in total secrecy. We knew nothing about that. Then the Russians began this giant military exercise in the area around St. Petersburg yesterday and those things suddenly popped up all over the place. Satellite pictures showed them clearly. NATO considers the machines to pose a serious threat.”

  “So score one for this Colonel Ivan Strakov,” said the president. He recalled that the State Department was protesting the increasingly hostile Baltic overflights by Russian aircraft.

  “Yes, sir. The tanks are one thing, but Strakov’s real value is going to be in the cyber-warfare arena, once he starts talking.”

  “Tell me again why he is still over in Europe instead of being locked up tight and safe over here? That makes me uneasy. The Russians might try to retrieve him.” The president stopped, leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. He sounded accusatory.

  Thomas replied, “Our allies want to keep him close at hand in Brussels. They have him well protected.”

  The president rounded the desk and picked up the morning’s copy of The Washington Post. A front-page story had broken the news of Strakov’s defection, carried an old photograph of him in uniform and was comparing him to the American spy Edward Snowden. Television news had jumped on the story and it was spreading on the Internet like a rising wave. “Leaks like this drive me crazy, Dean. What’s next for him?”

  “We are still weighing the options, Mr. President. The chief problem remains that he will only talk to one American: Kyle Swanson.”

  “Swanson is another weird duck,” said the president, who knew the man’s checkered history. “Why is that a problem? He’s known for getting results.”

  “Well, sir, right now, we don’t know where Swanson is.”

  NARVA, ESTONIA

  The young man was about twenty years old, and beneath an unruly mop of yellow hair was the exuberant and handsome face of a boy who was in a hurry to become a man. Anneli Kallasti spotted him as soon as he entered the little club. “That one,” she quietly told Kyle Swanson.

  Kyle looked over. The kid wore an olive drab summer service uniform, with his garrison cap folded under the waist belt, and the single plain bar on the shoulder epaulets revealed that he was a corporal in the Russian army. It didn’t matter what his specialty was because Swanson just wanted to snatch a low-ranking plodder, one of those nondescript soldiers who actually make up an army. This one would be just fine. “Good. Let’s do it,” he said.

  Kyle had dashed from Belgium back to Estonia and went directly to the CIA safe house pinpointed by Calico, Jan Hollings. It was a small building divided into four apartments, with the ground floor designated for communications and logistics and minders. One of the upper apartments was vacant and Anneli was staying in the other, safe but bored. She was astonished to find Kyle at her door. He had her sit on the bed while he outlined his plan, betting on a positive reaction from her. With no word on what had happened to her boyfriend, Brokk Mihailovich, she had become nervous and unsure. Little had happened since Calico had put her in this secure but isolated location, because the problem of dealing with Ivan Strakov trumped the needs of a walk-in refugee. She jumped at the idea of returning to Narva for another brief expedition with Swanson, and changed into inconspicuous jeans and a dark sweater, and found a wig of shoulder-length auburn hair that instantly altered her looks.

  They were out of the safe house within fifteen min
utes and drove away without telling the CIA watcher where they were going, only that they would be back very soon and to keep that spare bedroom ready to receive another visitor.

  This time, the road to the border city was busy with traffic, although the weather remained sour, and making the trip in an automobile was much easier than doubled up on a motorbike, battling through freezing wind. Anneli talked almost nonstop, emptying her soul of worry, until Kyle slowly exerted control and focused her on the night’s mission.

  They went to a different place this time, because she and Brokk were too well known at the German Club. It was more of a down-scale bar frequented by Russian soldiers who crossed the bridge on leave to enjoy a tiny taste of Western decadence. Heads had turned when Anneli walked in, following slightly behind Kyle in a subservient manner. The soldiers saw a beautiful woman and a tough, scowling man, and commented that the world was unfair to allow such an ugly gorilla to have a princess like that. Must be a gangster, they concluded. Kyle kept his manner silent and stern as the couple went to a table, where he let Anneli do the talking. They had a small dinner and beer and watched the soldiers, many of whom openly gaped at her. Just watching her was worth crossing the border for on this wicked night. None of them was acceptable.

  Then about eight o’clock, the corporal came in with a few friends, and went directly to the bar for a drink. When he eventually turned his attention from his vodka to look over the crowd, he locked eyes with Anneli, who did not look away. The youngster blushed and turned back to his friends. The man who was with the beautiful girl suddenly slapped the table hard and jumped to his feet, leaned over and whispered something at her that made her start to cry. He stomped out of the club, leaving her alone, teary.

  Three other soldiers made approaches but she waved them off, and finally, young Corporal Valentin Serov shyly came to her table, and was lost in those big, wet eyes. Other soldiers silently cursed him. In ten minutes, when he had gentled her emotions, she rather guiltily asked Val if he would see her home, she didn’t want to be out in the street alone if that other man should attack her. Serov couldn’t believe his luck. He escorted her to the door and waved good-bye to his hooting friends at the bar.