“What is the target, Stew?”
“Why, Aggie, my dear, we are going to crash a birthday party.”
THURSDAY, APRIL 14
ABOARD THE VAGABOND
Kyle Swanson was a firm believer in the six-P sniper mantra that “Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance” and left as little to chance as possible, because something was always going to go wrong on a mission, and usually at the worst possible time. Without good planning, however, you didn’t have a prayer. He had been aboard the yacht when Sir Geoffrey Cornwell arrived early on Thursday afternoon. The old man looked good, although still very unsteady on legs that had been smashed during a terrorist attack on his castle in Scotland several years ago. The brilliant mind, though, remained as sharp as ever.
“You should not be here,” Kyle scolded the chairman and chief executive officer of Excalibur Enterprises once Jeff was made comfortable in the spacious salon.
“Pat sends her love. She chose to stay at home,” said Jeff. Lady Patricia, Sir Jeff and Kyle were the sum of a peculiar process in which three adults who had no one else had decided to create a family amongst themselves. Swanson was the adopted son. “She also told me to remind you to stop getting into trouble, get married and present us with scads of lovely grandchildren.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” If he lived long enough, Swanson would be the sole heir to what had become a sizable fortune. Cornwell had created a weapons development company after he was forced to retire for medical reasons from the Special Air Services, in which he was a colonel. He broke a leg during a training jump and it did not heal enough for the SAS doctors to risk him doing it again. His little company came of age as the big dollars flowed in the War on Terror, and the springboard to that success was the mighty sniper rifle known as the Excalibur. While recovering from a wound of his own, Swanson had been loaned to Cornwell by the Marine Corps to help develop the state-of-the-art weapon, and the strong relationship with Pat and Jeff grew from there. Once the company became a known quantity in defense contracting circles, Cornwell discovered a genius for business in a variety of fields and the business was now worth billions. Kyle Swanson was executive vice president when he wasn’t operating in the dark world as a master sharpshooter for the CIA.
“We have a guest for dinner tonight, Kyle,” Cornwell said. “My friend Freddie is flying over to be with us.”
Swanson almost choked on his drink. “The same little shit who threatened to blackmail us out of business if I didn’t do what he wanted?”
“The very one,” Jeff replied genially. “Time to mend some fences, eh? And you will be polite and will not refer to General Sir Frederick Ravensdale, the deputy supreme allied commander of NATO in Europe, as a little shit. At least not to his face.”
Swanson lifted his beer. “Gee, Pops, do I have to?”
“Yes. Now that I’m settled aboard, please call in the SAS boys and that lovely dark-haired creature that I saw them orbiting about on deck. I assume that is your Miss Kallasti. Patricia will be quite pleased when I send a photograph, and she may start thinking about wedding gowns again.”
“Oh, Jesus, your wife has problems. I suggest we place her in an assisted-living facility.”
Sar’nt Stanley Baldwin and Corporal Grayson Perry had known Cornwell only as a legend within their elite unit, and that cemented them as friends from the first handshakes. Anneli stayed close to Kyle, shy in the presence of a man of such obvious wealth and power, but Jeff smashed that barrier within minutes. The waitress from Estonia was soon laughing with the rest of them. Cornwell told a naughty story about a new member of Parliament.
The captain of the Vagabond, Trevor Dash, leaned into the cabin and motioned Kyle outside. “You have an urgent contact from Langley,” he said.
* * *
THE PRIVATE, ENCRYPTED CALL from Marty Atkins did not take very long, since it was just a broad overview. Swanson confirmed that the secure computer was ready to receive a large data dump, and it lofted over the Atlantic Ocean in an incredibly short time, for the yacht’s comm suite was totally compatible with the machines in Virginia. Soon, Kyle was calling portions up on the screen while the large printer in the corner spat out page after page. It did not take long to understand that this was a big-league mission that reached far beyond a diplomatic protest note. He liked it, although he knew nothing about the country called Kaliningrad.
A Russian general named Victor Mizon was getting his second star and being bumped up from a deputy chief of the Border Service of Kaliningrad to be a first deputy head of the service. By coincidence, the promotion would become effective next week on his birthday, during a final tour of his field command. A party was being arranged in his honor at a small border camp south of the city of Nesterov, a base where the general had once served as a mere lieutenant.
With bureaucratic efficiency, it was known as FSB Artillery Camp 8351 on Moscow lists, and as Rooster Cap Nowak in NATO, which used computer-generated code names. It lay almost right on the boundary between Kaliningrad and Lithuania, and was only a stone’s throw from Poland. That corner emplacement was protected by a battery of 120mm heavy mortars, with a range of sixteen miles, artillery pieces that were capable of lobbing high-explosive rounds into two adjoining countries.
A heavy forest and swamp lay along Lake Vištytis, which stretched toward Lithuania. A road network that fed through the border camp junction showed routes all the way to Poland. Swanson made another note. Doing a sniper hit was one thing; extracting was a different ball game. The entire operation was going to be dicey. Difficult, but he still liked it. It was a straight, sweet and simple retaliation for a Russian attack that had claimed the lives of eight soldiers plus the Russky pilot.
He continued reading, growing more fascinated with each page. Another factor was the quality of the unit there. Once, such a place had been staffed by mere border guards with a couple of machine guns, but in recent years, the duty had been wrapped into the Federal Security Service, the FSB, which indicated an upgraded level of militarized training. The background papers showed it was no isolated independent operation of the state. It now belonged to Russia’s huge Western Military District, which was based in St. Petersburg; in other words, it was part of the Russian army. No FSB general, not even one with personal alumni links, would bother to inspect a mere wide spot in the road where guards checked the papers of truck drivers. There were real soldiers there. It was something else to put in the mix.
When the computer downloads and printouts were finished, he momentarily studied a file photo of the target, then shifted the data to a flash drive, wiped the secured memory and locked everything in a safe. He was astonished to realize that more than two hours had passed since he had entered the room, and also that he needed a shower. The smell of stale sweat might hint that he was under pressure. It was nothing that a bar of soap and some hot water could not cure. Never let ’em see you sweat, he thought, and hurried to his cabin.
His personal warrior ethos did not allow him to quibble with what was, at its root, an assassination order. Marty Atkins had told him that it had been cleared to the top, which Kyle knew meant it had been stamped by the White House. That was enough for him.
20
ABOARD THE VAGABOND
GENERAL SIR FREDERICK RAVENSDALE, GCB, GBE, DSO, had arrived by the time Swanson returned to the great cabin. The famed Briton was immersed in light conversation with his SAS pals—a corporal, a sergeant and a retired colonel—as if they were sitting around a campfire somewhere, telling war stories, instead of at a table set for dinner with fine china and silver. Like other elite services, the SAS did not let rank stand in the way of unit cohesiveness, and everyone was in a good mood. The general was tall, with silvering hair and a perfect smile and impeccable manners. Kyle had last seen him in London, and the man had not lost an inch of gravitas since then. Swanson sized him up and thought, some guys have it all. The welcome was quick and seemed genuine, but Kyle, on close inspection, detected t
he wary blue eyes had lines in the corners and shadowy bags beneath, not an unusual look for someone under immense pressure in an important job.
Swanson greeted him with courtesy, then sat in the chair that had been kept empty. He took the step needed to bury the hatchet and soothe the general’s complaint about Swanson not wanting to interview the Russian defector. “I apologize for the misunderstanding on that other matter, General. That issue is back on track, and I trust any disagreement has been laid to rest.”
Ravensdale nodded with solemnity. “Done and done, Kyle. It was never a personal matter. Only that NATO was very concerned with that delicate situation.”
“It seems to be getting more delicate by the minute.” Kyle had to keep reminding himself that he was now a civilian with money and influence, and did not need to say “sir” to anyone. He changed the subject. “In any case, I am glad you came out tonight. I need your permission to borrow these two SAS boys for a special mission. Maybe we can get them to do something more to earn their keep than babysit Anneli out here on open water.”
“Hey, I don’t mind this assignment at all!” Baldwin protested with a chuckle. “It may be hard duty, but someone has to do it.”
Anneli had been charmed by the suave General Ravensdale and was between the general and Sir Jeff at the table. She followed the banter, but did not understand some of the English old-chap and military idioms. She liked strong men.
“Is it something that we should discuss in private, then?” the general asked, glancing at Anneli.
Swanson rubbed his hands together, shook his head. “Not at all. She is part of it, so she might as well hear it now. Jeff is cleared for everything, so I can read in all of you at the same time.” For the next few minutes, he sketched the idea for the job that lay ahead, in very broad terms. The others listened without interruption. In retaliation for the Russian strike against the Finnish missile battery, Kyle had been tasked to raid an isolated Russian fire base in Kaliningrad and take out a senior military officer. The place bore the awkward code name of Rooster Cap Nowak.
Ravensdale kept his face rigid throughout the briefing, but was about to explode inside. “I had not been informed of any of this, Kyle. NATO has not been informed.” The voice remained soft, but was suddenly icy, and the jaw was clenched. “I find that to be most disturbing.”
Swanson calmly picked up a fork and speared a tiny tomato. “It was decided at the very highest levels, General Ravensdale. My assignment arrived about two hours ago, and I was instructed to inform you verbally. So far, the only people who know about it beyond the six of us in this cabin are the president of the United States, your prime minister in the UK, a handpicked few of their closest aides, my direct boss in the CIA, his target-choosing team, and the head of MI6 in London. The circle could not be tighter.”
Ravensdale eased a bit. “Very top secret. I certainly understand that, but the need for such an extreme measure escapes me. I trust every member of my staff implicitly.”
Swanson responded, “Of course you do. But a mole exists somewhere in our huge allied intelligence-gathering world. That disturbs me. I want this kept as tight as possible, since four of us at this table are going to be on the ground.”
Jeff spoke almost with a laugh. “It is too tight, Kyle! Hopelessly so! Many others will have to be involved. The logistics requirements alone will be horrendous. This cannot remain a close secret for very long.”
“You are absolutely right, so we do it with the highest possible need-to-know priority and hold all instructions until the last moment. Then we push everything through as fast as possible. Secrecy and speed are our best weapons and greatest protection.”
Ravensdale could accept that. “Very well. This is going to be dangerous. I certainly authorize that our SAS lads go with you, but why take Ms. Kallasti?”
Kyle looked over at her and recognized the excitement growing on her face. “She speaks about nine hundred languages and we need a linguist. Also, I think she will want to come anyway. She has a dog in the fight.”
Anneli spoke fast, the words gushing from her. “I will go. Of course I will! Are we telling Calico in advance this time?”
Kyle scowled. “She also will be informed when appropriate.” He was going to have to give Anneli a serious lecture on security. The people in this cabin could be trusted, but she had to understand that she must never mention CIA operatives in the open, even by code names. Ever.
Ravensdale apparently had taken no notice. He had a sip of wine, and said, “So this border firebase sits close to the point where the Kaliningrad-Polish-Lithuanian borders intersect, Kyle? I must say that it sounds quite dicey. How are you going to get in?”
“Good question,” echoed Sergeant Baldwin.
“I have no idea. As I say, I just received the orders and have been reading the briefing papers. We’ll figure out something. At worst, we could do a HALO.”
Baldwin laughed. “Anneli, HALO means a high-altitude, low-opening parachute jump from an airplane from about twenty thousand feet, into the middle of the night. We free fall forever before opening the canopy.”
She paled at the thought.
“Here is a better question,” said Jeff. “How are you going to get out?”
“Dunno. A big lake separates it from Lithuania, but there are plenty of roads heading toward Poland, and the Poles are always willing to twist the Russians’ tail. I don’t have an egress plan right now.” He sat back and opened his hands. “In fact, at this point, I do not even know if this thing is doable at all. I have to give the boss my final decision after finishing the planning. I will not lead a suicide mission.”
“When do you plan to hit this strange little place?” General Ravenscroft showed his skepticism. “Granted, Kaliningrad is surrounded by NATO territory, but it will be difficult to reach.”
Kyle returned the steady gaze. “I’m sorry, General, but I don’t know that, either. The shop back at Langley is going to send some maps and overhead satellite surveillance. Obviously, there are going to be a lot of moving parts. It will take some time to assemble everything. The logistics, as Jeff says, are horrendous.”
“And do you have the name of the target? Any history on him?”
“No, General. It does not matter. Whichever senior officer is walking around when we get there.”
“There are a lot of gaps, Kyle. Having so many unknown factors makes me uncomfortable.”
Corporal Perry finished his bottle of beer. “Oh, hell’s bells, sir. It will be a walk in the park, hey, mates? I like it.”
* * *
RUN WITH IT. A life in the Marine Corps had taught Swanson the importance of keeping control, pushing the momentum envelope, but making decisions based on fact. The longer it took, the more people would become involved. The more people, the more risk. He fell silent while eating a dinner of fresh seafood and vegetables, for his brain was busy processing what was to come. Only one ear was tuned to snippets of conversation that might require a reply.
General Ravensdale made his polite excuses and left right after the meal. Splendid dinner and all that. Delighted to see you all. Have to be back at work first thing in the morning. Good hunting and don’t hesitate to call if I can do anything. His ride back to shore was provided by the Excalibur Enterprises helicopter.
As soon as the bird whirred into the darkening sky, the Vagabond leapt forward at full speed and made a sharp course change. Kyle went belowdecks and brought the briefing materials as the others gathered in a conference room that almost floated in security. Once the door bolt was sealed, no sound escaped and the comfortable cabin was immune to electronic spying. He spread on the table the paper squares that had been transmitted and they taped them together to form a single map of the region. An electronic image of the area was projected on the wall screen. The men liked hard maps when the going got hairy and the electronics might blip and start giving directions to the nearest McDonald’s.
“Here’s what we are going to do,” he started.
<
br /> “I thought you didn’t have a plan.” The corporal coughed.
“That was bullshit for anybody hanging around the dining area,” Kyle said as he stabbed his finger onto a neat layout of buildings. “I got it all. Our target will be at this fire base, this Rooster Cap Nowak, just inside the very tip of Kaliningrad. It’s about two miles from the Lithuanian border and about the same from Poland.” His finger moved east to the border area with Lithuania, which was dominated by a large body of water. “There is a low-lying beach area just on the edge of this big lake; you can see it here. I’ll blow it up on the screen.”
Swanson worked the computer keyboard and the screen narrowed to a satellite view of the lake, and magnified it to show a strip of cleared land that jutted from a thick forest. He flicked on a red pointer and put the laser dot on the beach. “Apparently, soldiers at the camp use this little place to go swimming and relax. Nobody should be there when we arrive in the dark, and besides, the weather and the water are still too cold in April. We insert and extract right there by helo.”
The sergeant looked over at Anneli and arched an eyebrow. “Do we fast rope or land?”
“Ropes. We hook her onto one of us with some D-rings on a harness and get down quickly. It should be only about thirty feet.”
She was standing with her hands on her hips. “You want me to jump out of a helicopter?”
“Consider it a very short circus ride, Anneli, but it will be over in a few seconds. The only alternative would be a HALO, trying to parachute in between a forest and a lake. Very bad things could happen,” said Baldwin.
“Oh. Okay.” She recalled with a shudder the idea of falling thousands of feet. “Helicopter, then.” The SAS guys laughed with her.
Long Shot Page 17
