“Angie and John will be your servers this evening. Enjoy,” said their hostess, handing a menu to each of them and a wine list to Sarge.
Sarge settled in and admired Julia. He could get used to this.
“Tell me more about your Macaroni,” said Sarge, knowing he was about to be abused for this.
The swift kick in the shin from her red-soled heels was his answer.
“Ouch,” exclaimed Sarge.
“Shut up or I’ll do it again,” said Julia. Sarge knew she meant it.
“Good evening, I’m John,” said John the server.
“And I’m Angie,” said Angie the server.
“We’ll be happy to serve you this evening,” said John-Angie in unison. Shtick, I like it.
“This evening we are featuring two of Stephanie’s favorite comfort foods—a pumpkin cider-brined pork chop served with a maple bourbon squash and a stuffed twice-baked potato, or you might prefer our fabulous Irish beef stew, served with mixed root vegetables,” said Angie.
Sarge and Julia were noncommittal as they examined the menu. Sensing their need for additional time, John suggested an appetizer.
“Perhaps we could start you out with the pan-sautéed crab cakes, or everyone’s favorite—baked macaroni and cheese balls.”
“I think we’ve had enough talk about macaroni tonight,” said Sarge, trying to keep his composure.
He made eye contact with Julia, and they both started laughing at the Marconi reference.
“Sorry, guys, inside joke. We’ll both have a couple of single malts, make it Glengoyne, with a splash,” said Sarge, putting on his best “I’m sober, really I am” demeanor.
“Yes, sir,” said John. “I take it no appetizers this evening?”
“No, thank you. We’ll take a moment to look at the menu,” said Sarge, still avoiding eye contact with Julia.
As John-Angie tucked tail and hustled off, Sarge thought it safe to look at Julia and found this to be in error. She had both cheeks puffed out like she just swallowed a mouthful of baked macaroni and cheese balls. Damn, it was on again, he thought as the both of them burst out in simultaneous laughter.
“Now listen,” said Sarge, leaning back in his chair. “You are causing a disruption in this establishment, and we may get kicked out.”
“Me,” defended Julia. “You started this whole macaroni thing. Are you going to let me tell you about the Marconi or not?”
Angie delivered the fifteen-year-old Scotch whisky to the table.
“Give us a little time before we order, Angie,” said Sarge, sharing a clink of the tumblers with Julia.
His first sip of full-bodied Scotch went down smoothly, not that he expected any different from the Glengoyne distillery.
“This is a big deal, Sarge,” began Julia.
“I know, Julia. I’m well aware of the prestige associated with a Marconi. Congratulations.”
The National Association of Broadcasters established this award in honor of Nobel Prize winner Guglielmo Marconi over twenty-five years ago. The Marconi Award recognized radio stations and broadcasters for their excellence in a variety of categories. The award had never been given to a predominantly Internet broadcasting medium, until now. In yet another first for Julia, and the Herald, the Marconi Award for News/Talk Station was granted to the Boston Herald Radio. It was a big deal.
“We received the call today from the NAB announcing the decision. When we were included in the call for entries back in May, I didn’t think we had a chance,” said Julia, lifting her glass for a toast. “They’ve never granted a Marconi to an Internet broadcast. We’re the first.”
“I am so proud of you,” said Sarge, clinking her glass and taking a sip.
He could see his words warmed Julia, further recognizing the deep-seated effect on her. Her talents and accomplishments amazed him.
“As you know, the concept of taking Internet radio to this level had less to do with winning awards and more to do with the dissemination of information worldwide. Our friends,” said Julia, with a nod of her head toward downtown Boston, “were very supportive of the project when we approached them in 2012.”
There it was, the reminder—the aide-memoire. Their lives were dependent upon an association, known only to a few, that prevented a normal relationship. Sarge leaned forward to speak.
“You and I have discussed this many times. I am proud of what we have accomplished with our side work,” said Sarge with a hushed voice. “But I get the sense our participation is going to escalate in a big way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Julia, her inquisition interrupted by their servers.
“So, what may we serve you for dinner tonight?” said John.
They both scrambled to take a last minute look at the menu.
“I will have the Asian yellowfin tuna salad, please, and another cocktail,” said Julia, noticing Sarge’s smirk.
Sarge ordered the shepherd’s pie.
“What?” asked Julia, after the servers disappeared.
“Asian, imagine that. I could have taken you to Panda Express,” said Sarge, spreading his legs apart to avoid the expected kick—which he did.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sarge proudly.
“You’re adapting,” said Julia, bringing her heel down on his toes.
“Hey!” squalled Sarge.
“Do you think I only have one cannon to fire, Monsieur? Do you want a war? I will give you a war!” said Julia, switching to a French accent.
“Je me rends,” said Sarge in French, raising his white cloth napkin in surrender.
The two had a good heartfelt laugh. He really missed her and vowed to do something about that.
“Speaking of the French,” said Julia, changing the subject slightly. “They seem to have brokered a peace in Ukraine.”
“Maybe,” said Sarge. “It seems to me they gave the Russians everything Putin wanted, including the two French-built Mistral-class warships bought and paid for by Moscow. The price tag on those two battleships was one point six billion, but closing the deal was more symbolic than anything. The administration used words like ill-advised when criticizing the sale, but it came down to economics for the French. They need the euro.
“The Eurozone’s finances are in shambles,” continued Sarge. “Spain, Italy and Greece are technically bankrupt. Their national debt to GDP ratio is approaching two hundred percent. It’s unsustainable, yet these three countries refuse to implement any form of austerity measures. Germany and France have coddled them for too long. They no longer fear any repercussions for their fiscal mismanagement.”
“So the sale of the ships to the Russians was about economics?” asked Julia.
“I think so,” replied Sarge. “Also, appeasement. The French are tired of fighting our battles, not that they do much anyway. As for the brokered peace you referenced, it’s a farce just like all of the other cease-fire accords reached the last few years. Every time a peace agreement is reached, Putin reloads and advances. This time is no different. Apparently, a deal has been reached allowing the Russians to bring ‘aid supplies’ along the northern coast of the Sea of Azov, effectively creating a much sought-after land bridge from Russia to the Crimean Peninsula.
“Putin is a nationalist and he’s wildly popular in Russia right now. In fact, his popularity is widespread around the globe, except in Kiev and Washington, of course. And there’s good reason for this. Putin is principled. Everyone knows what his goals are, namely the restoration of the Soviet Union.”
“I get that,” said Julia. “Standing on your principles is a rare trait these days. Why is this land bridge to Crimea so critical?”
“Strategic geopolitical decisions are rarely made based on a single factor. Putin is an incredible strategist on the world stage, unlike our present leadership. The United States has been outmaneuvered at every turn, and Putin’s conquest of Crimea and eastern Ukraine is no exception. I believe initially, Putin thought he was losing Ukraine to NATO and the West. Perhaps Crimea, wit
h its huge ethnic Russian population, was an easy and likely target to gain a foothold.
“Think about it. The actual acquisition was rapid, bloodless and highly effective because Russia already had boots on the ground, and the pro-Russian populace welcomed them with open arms. Geographically, Crimea is easy to defend. At first, Putin may have underestimated the effect of the Western-imposed sanctions, especially the Saudi’s complicity in driving the price of oil way down. But in the end, it’s all about money, and the price of oil returned to one hundred dollars a barrel.”
“That didn’t take long, did it?” added Julia.
“No, which brings us back to the original premise,” said Sarge. “The premise that there is a peace accord in Ukraine is a joke. The pause in the conflict allowed Putin to regroup and advance his goals. In this case, he receives a land bridge to Crimea, which was one of his early military strategies. But more importantly, he now has direct access to the Black Sea via the port of Sevastopol, the traditional home of Russia’s Black Sea fleet. Russian naval power in the Mediterranean will grow exponentially.”
John-Angie politely interrupted to deliver their meals. They were attentive but unobtrusive, like any upscale servers should be. Sarge surveyed his Irish stew. Stephanie’s self-described comfort food was very comfortable indeed. Julia seemed to be pleased as well because she dug into her salad. With food on their minds, they changed the subject, exchanging less serious talk about the world. Sarge melted into his surroundings, wishing with every smile and comment that he could have a real relationship with Julia. Before he realized it, John the server had deftly slipped the check onto their table in the customary American Express leather check presenter. Sarge stuffed it with twenties and sat back in his chair, noticing a group approach their table. He stood up to greet one of his students, Michelle Crepeau.
“Hi, Professor Sargent,” said Crepeau. “I would like you to meet my parents. This is my daddy, Kenneth Crepeau, and my mom, Lou.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” said Sarge, returning Mr. Crepeau’s firm grip with a handshake.
He introduced Julia, and handshakes were exchanged. “Did you folks enjoy your dinner?”
“We did,” said Kenneth Crepeau. “My Michelle has spoken very highly of you, Professor. It appears you have a real fan.”
“Well, let’s see how she feels after finals,” said Sarge to a round of smiles and giggles from Miss Crepeau.
Sarge noticed Julia studying him.
“It was very nice to meet you both. I’m sure your daughter will do fine,” said Sarge reassuringly.
Sarge settled back in his chair as the Crepeau family left, turning his attention back to Julia. Death stare.
“Is she one of yours?” asked Julia casually.
“One of my what? Students?” replied Sarge.
“You know,” pressed Julia. Oh boy.
“No, I don’t know,” said Sarge. Buy time. Hide the legs.
“A groupie student chick. I saw how she looked at you—Professor,” said Julia with her best schoolgirl voice.
Every fiber of his being screamed, Run, Sarge, while you still can, before she breaks your legs.
“Wait, what? No way. You don’t get your nookie where you get your cookies,” protested Sarge. She isn’t serious, right?
“I’m just kidding you, Professor. Jeez, touchy. You can put your legs back in front of you now,” said Julia, laughing. It was over, fortunately.
Pushing his chair back, Sarge helped Julia with her coat, and they walked toward the front door. Stephanie’s had a long wait list at this point. The entry and the bar overflowed with groups waiting to be seated.
“Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” asked Sarge, as politely as he could muster.
Julia locked her arm in his and leaned against him, reminding Sarge of what he had been missing.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Sarge, as the couple strode out into the cold night air.
Chapter 8
December 16, 2015
Mariupol, Ukraine
Nomad lay shivering on the rusted steel decking of the northernmost blast furnace tower in the thirteen-hundred-acre Azovstal Iron and Steel Works facility. Rising more than one hundred feet over the industrial site, the multileveled access tower gave him a commanding view of the bridge over the Kalmius River, along with the span of Highway M14 running parallel to the steelworks. He felt exposed and trapped in the tower, but the terrain south of the river didn’t give him many choices for a less conspicuous observation post. He was getting paid a lot of money to ensure this operation met Colonel Biletsky’s expectations, and the view from the furnace stack gave him the situational awareness required to pull off a two-pronged attack.
“Here they come,” said Nomad, tapping Anton Teresenko, Biletsky’s subcommander, on the arm.
“Right on time for once,” said Teresenko in broken English, raising his binoculars to examine the approaching armor column.
The two of them, along with three snipers from Azov Battalion, had climbed the towers in the middle of the night, concealing themselves in various locations among the steel girders before dawn. Nomad and Teresenko occupied the highest platform while the snipers nested one level below—scanning three hundred and sixty degrees for Russian or loyalist patrols. So far, all of the civilian ground activity in and around Mariupol had been restricted to the far side of the bridge, closest to the city’s central square. Few traveled outside of the heavily populated areas, for good reason.
The loyalist-backed government in Mariupol was still leery of the cease-fire, which resulted in the unconditional withdrawal of Colonel Biletsky’s ultranationalist Azov Battalion. Despite multiple confirmed media reports and sightings of the battalion driving in Odessa, more than three hundred miles away, memories of Biletsky’s brutal siege of the city remained fresh in pro-Russian memories. The smart citizens stayed close to the seat of loyalist power near the city center. The wisest had left long ago. After today, anyone with a speck of common sense would abandon the strategically located city.
“Can you estimate the lead vehicle’s speed?” said Nomad.
“Thirty kilometers per hour—very rough estimate. They’re moving at a normal road speed for armored vehicles,” said Teresenko.
“Any heavies?” said Nomad.
“Not yet. I’m seeing a long line of BTR-82s. No tracked vehicles,” said Teresenko.
“They’d tear these shitty roads to pieces. Tracks and asphalt don’t mix. The T-90s and BMP-3s are probably sitting on railway cars inside Russia, waiting for the green light. This is a publicity run, just like my intelligence sources predicted,” said Nomad.
“Let’s hope your sources are right. The unexpected arrival of a tank platoon would spell disaster for the battalion,” said Teresenko, lowering his binoculars.
“Don’t worry, my friend. These sources have never been wrong,” said Nomad, grabbing his encrypted satellite phone. “I’m going to start the sequence. There’s no going back from here.”
“There was no going back for any of us once the battalion abandoned Mariupol,” said Teresenko, moving one of his hands to activate his headset.
“Biletsky will get exactly what I promised, and Mariupol will be back in Ukrainian hands by nightfall,” said Nomad.
Teresenko stared at him for moment, absorbing his words before issuing several orders through his headset. Nomad pressed one of the saved numbers on his satellite phone, immediately connecting with a drone operator located somewhere in western Ukraine. High above, in the partially cloudy sky, a “company” co-opted MQ-9 Reaper watched over the bridge, ready to execute a highly unconventional mission.
“Skyfall, this is Nomad. We’re launching the barge. The show is yours,” said the mercenary, nodding enthusiastically at Teresenko.
“Copy that. Waiting for cast off,” said the voice on his phone.
Teresenko gave him a thumbs-up and whispered, “The barge is clear of the dock.”
“The barge is un
derway, Skyfall. Once your mission is complete, request a five-minute surveillance run east of Mariupol. I’d like to know what the Russians have in reserve,” said Nomad.
“Understood. Skyfall will proceed west before returning to base. Preliminary electronic intercepts and predawn thermals support original intelligence estimates. First Battalion, 35th Separate Motorized Rifle Brigade is travelling ahead of the brigade to secure Mariupol. The closest ground response will come from 2nd battalion—fifty plus kilometers away at the Ukrainian-Russian border,” said the drone operator.
“Air assets?” said Nomad.
“Nothing detected. The land bridge deal didn’t include airspace concessions, but the Russians are free to operate in the Black Sea. We’ll let you know if the situation changes.”
“Fair enough. I’ll let you concentrate on driving the barge. Looks like she’s responding,” said Nomad.
“We have positive control of the barge. You’ll get your fireworks,” said the operator, disconnecting the call.
“Everything is on track,” said Nomad, pointing toward the two lane concrete span.
Teresenko crawled behind him to get a better view of the .
“Keep an eye on the Russians for me,” said the Ukrainian.
“There’s nowhere to go on that road,” said Nomad.
“Until there’s somewhere else to go,” said Teresenko.
“Point taken,” replied Nomad, shifting his binoculars to the approaching vehicles.
Russian soldiers protruded from the top and side hatches of the BTR-82s lining the M14 highway, preparing for a warm reception from the pro-loyalist factions lining the downtown streets on the other side of the Kalmius River. Instead of AK-74s, they carried short poles featuring the white, blue and red striped Russian Federation flag, ready to wave in celebration of the historic event. Ukraine’s withdrawal from the areas surrounding Mariupol tacitly approved the formation of a “land bridge” between the Russian-Ukrainian border and the pro-Russian Crimean Peninsula.
The Loyal Nine Page 5
