Red Sky

by Chris Goff

  The envelope!

  Jordan checked the location of the men with the RPG. They were eight hundred meters back, still out of range, while the two soldiers made a break for their armored fighting vehicle. No way was she going to let them get away with whatever intel was in that envelope. Not without trying to stop them.

  Recognizing that her 9-mil was useless at this distance, she ripped the captain’s rifle free of the dash mount and racked the gun. Bracing her arm on the window frame, she took aim and fired.

  The man bringing up the rear screamed and clutched his right shoulder. His gun dropped from his hand, catching at the end of its sling and eliciting another yowl of pain. Jordan popped the latch on the passenger door. It might be too late to help the ambulance drivers, but she had a duty to try to retrieve that envelope.

  “Let it go,” Melnyk shouted, turning the key again. This time the UAZ growled to life. Hitting the accelerator, he swung the vehicle sharply to the left, knocking Jordan off balance and throwing her against the door.

  Grabbing hold of the window frame, Jordan swung out over the road. Black asphalt moved under her feet as the UAZ jounced side to side on the pitted surface. Scrabbling for a better hold, she caught the rifle between her body and the door and wrapped her elbows over the window ledge. The toes of her shoes dragged on the road, and she pulled up her legs.

  “Hey!”

  Leaning sideways, Melnyk clamped a hand onto her belt and hauled her back in. “What are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

  Jordan collapsed back against the seat and slapped down the door lock. She saw no benefit in pointing out that he was to blame for her near-death experience. Instead, she offered a thin smile and some bravado. “Can’t a girl have any fun?”

  “Just find us a way out of here.”

  Jordan glanced back. The soldiers had reached the AFV, and it was bearing down on them. With the UAZ quickly moving back into range of the RPG, time was of the essence.

  Jordan scanned the area. Both sides of the road were lined with shallow ditches and dense forest. The headlights of the AFV flared in the rearview mirror. Ahead of them, one of the men raised the rocket launcher to his shoulder. Jordan’s heart hammered against her ribs. In thirty seconds, she and the captain would be dead.

  Then a slight change in the shadows on the right caught her eye. “There.” She pointed. “Four meters ahead. There’s an opening in the trees.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Trust me. There’s a cut in the trees.” Unless it was just a trick of their headlights reflecting off the low cloud cover. But she couldn’t afford to doubt herself.

  Melnyk swerved left.

  “Wrong way.” Panic rose up, gripping her throat, until she realized he’d done it on purpose. Like a quarterback draws the opposition offside, the captain had faked. As the man with the RPG corrected slightly left, Melnyk yanked the wheel hard to the right.

  The UAZ pitched up on two wheels before settling back down and rocketing toward the ditch. Time ticked by. The whistle of the incoming shell grew louder and faster. Jordan covered her ears and braced for impact.

  The grenade struck, cratering the asphalt where they’d been just seconds earlier. The blast spewed forth a geyser of burning rocks and dirt. The rear end of the UAZ lifted, and the vehicle lurched forward. Visible in the soft light of the dashboard, the captain’s face twisted in triumph.

  Jordan watched him struggle to regain control of the UAZ. Speed carried them across a shallow ditch and sent them fishtailing along the cropped vegetation of a six-foot-wide access strip. Axle deep in the weeds, Melnyk slalomed through a row of protruding stumps. He met the challenge like a pro.

  Twisting around in her seat, she could see one man trying to reload the rocket launcher while the other sprayed semiautomatic gunfire in their direction. There was no point in returning fire. No one could make a shot count from a moving vehicle at this distance—except maybe Batya Ganani. The Shin Bet agent had proven her skills during a case the women had worked together in Israel six months back. Too bad Batya wasn’t here.

  Light filtered through the blast haze as the AFV shot into view behind them.

  “They’re Russians,” Jordan said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. They’re Russians. They’re driving a new-model GAZ Tigr.”

  “That’s impossible. Why would they be this far west?”

  The inside light of the GAZ flashed on as the driver collected the two men with the RPG. In the passenger seat, Jordan spotted the wounded soldier sagging against the front passenger-side door. Now was the time to try to disable their vehicle.

  “Slow down, Captain!” Snatching up the rifle, she rested her elbows on the back of the seat, braced the gun, and aimed for the GAZ’s tires.

  Her first shot glanced off the bulletproof glass of its right headlight. The driver backed up as Jordan fired off another round. By then the GAZ was too far back.

  “Damn!”

  Melnyk accelerated. “We’re almost to the road.”

  “They’ve turned around.” Jordan rose on her knees and watched the GAZ heading east, back toward the burning ambulance now completely engulfed in flames.

  “Of course, they got what they came for,” Melnyk said.

  The documents.

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Why would the Russians want those papers? If they were Chinese agents, she might understand.

  “What was in the envelope?”

  “How would I know? You saw it. The letter was sealed.” His question made Jordan uncomfortable. It was clear Melnyk was right about what the men had been after, but what had McClasky discovered? Jordan turned back around. “The only way to know what was in there is to capture the bastards. Where does the road go?”

  “It connects to the M03 in Podil.”

  “That’s a major east-west highway. Can you get roadblocks set up? How many roads turn off between here and there?”

  The captain snatched up the radio and tried reaching the command center.

  Static.

  “There are only two roads,” he said. “Both go north, but they are very small.”

  They were nearing the edge of the farm field, and Jordan could see a narrow strip of gravel coming up fast. “Turn right.”

  “What if they’re waiting for us?”

  “They aren’t.” Jordan was sure of it. “They could have easily caught us back there. I’d lay odds they’re looking for a doctor.”

  Melnyk turned right, skidding onto the gravel road and accelerating to the south. In six hundred meters, he swerved onto the Oblast road, tires squealing. At the intersection of M03 and T1720, he stopped.

  “We need this road covered in both directions,” he said, reaching for the radio again. “Hycha or command, come in!”

  “Tak.”

  At last, a voice.

  “Hycha? You’re breaking up,” Melnyk said. “We need the local police and military setting up roadblocks at all major intersections along the M03.” He spoke in Ukrainian, describing the vehicle they were after and issuing orders. Jordan listened carefully, surprised by how much she understood or could extrapolate. “They have a five- to six-minute lead.”

  “Anything else?”

  Melnyk looked over at Jordan. “Yes, one of the men is wounded. Notify the hospitals to be on guard.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Jordan could hear Hycha barking orders at someone in the background. He hadn’t been behind them in the rental car as planned.

  “Where are you now?” Melnyk asked. “You were supposed to be tailing us.”

  “I’m sorry, Kapitan. I stopped at IIC headquarters in Myrhorod. I’m just leaving now.”

  Melnyk’s set jaw said what he thought of Hycha’s answer. The sergeant would have some explaining to do.

  “Meet us at the ambush site,” Melnyk ordered. He swung the UAZ around in the road, and as he pulled forward, a speeding police car shot past with lights blazing. By the tim
e they got back to the scene, several patrol cars were parked sideways, blocking the road. Barriers had been set up to keep back the locals and the press.

  Melnyk maneuvered his way through the makeshift roadblock after an officer waved them through.

  “It didn’t take long for the press to get here,” Jordan said, staring at the mob collected behind the barricades on the other side of the crime scene. There had to be ten or twenty reporters pressing in close and taking pictures of the charred remains of the ambulance.

  “It never does with major disasters.” Melnyk pulled onto the shoulder and turned off the UAZ. Jumping out, he signaled for Jordan to follow. After walking about ten feet, he stopped and pointed to marks on the road. “This is where the Russians blocked the road.”

  Flagging several skid marks on the asphalt, they continued looking for identifying marks. When Melnyk stopped to confer with several officers, Jordan kept on toward the burned-out hull.

  The vehicle was blackened beyond recognition. The glass in the windows was gone, and the back door gaped open. Choosing her route carefully, Jordan worked her way along the side of the ambulance to the rear doors, peering inside. Charred remains were all that was left of McClasky and Zhen.

  In direct conflict with the solemnity of the scene, refractions of light from the photographers’ flashes pulsed through the holes in the panels, creating a strobe-light effect in the blackened interior, like a disco ball spinning in a party bus. From what she knew of McClasky, he would have enjoyed the dichotomy.

  Sensing the captain approaching, she turned.

  “We need something to collect the remains,” she said, keeping her voice low. Even the whisper of breath might be enough to disturb the ashes. “Some way to protect them.”

  The captain radioed for someone to bring two bags.

  Jordan looked up at the sky, fearing it might start to drizzle again. “You know that George McClasky was a hero.” She glanced sideways at Melnyk. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? How could you?”

  McClasky had worked in the shadows during most of his service, but he was an inner-agency legend. In his forty years, he’d been credited with hunting down and bringing to justice over eighty-six fugitives or wanted terrorists and had overseen security details in some of the most dangerous places in the world. Examples of his exploits were still used for training, and stories about him were told wherever agents gathered with drinks in hand. He deserved better than to have it all end here, like this.

  Another pop of light broke through her reverie, making her wince. Whoever had taken the photo was close. Shielding her eyes, she tried to pinpoint the source.

  Across the road to the west, two hundred feet inside the press barrier, stood a tall man checking his camera. Was it the same man who had taken her picture in Hoholeve?

  “Hey,” she hollered, hoping to get him to raise his head. He responded by covering his face with his camera and snapping another picture.

  Jordan considered flipping him the bird, but she didn’t think the RSO, the regional security officer, would appreciate the image splashed across the newsfeeds. Instead, she held up her hand, blocking his shot of her face. He switched angles.

  “Enough with the pictures,” she said, moving toward him.

  Lowering the camera, he nodded, dipping his head and moving away.

  “Hold up. I want to talk to you.”

  Instead of stopping, he bolted, slipping back through the barrier and ducking into the crush of journalists. At Jordan’s shout, one of the Ukrainian privates nearby made a grab for his sleeve, but the photographer dodged and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Vybachte, ma’am.” The private shrugged, and Jordan waved off his apology.

  “You may find yourself on the front page tomorrow,” Melnyk said after she’d made her way back. “Perhaps the picture of an American agent deep in thought will override one of the carnage.”

  Jordan scoffed. “You can’t be serious.” That was the last thing she wanted. Based on her experience with the media, the more gruesome or horrifying an image, the better. The St. Petersburg Times coverage of her father’s murder came to mind. The picture of him facedown in a pool of blood on the front page, one of her and her mother graveside on the follow-up. Photos like that were career-makers, and today’s images had the same sensational earmarks.

  Another plane down and the destruction of a military ambulance transporting bodies from the scene screamed that the war in Ukraine still raged. Grisly photos were bound to find their way into the news and onto social media websites. She could only hope her face wasn’t included in the barrage.

  “Tell me something, Agent Jordan, and this time I’d like the truth. Why would the Russians care so much about what was in that envelope?”

  It was a question she’d played over and over in her head. Zhen had known about something that happened in China, something McClasky was afraid to relay through normal channels. But she had no idea how that tied to the men who’d attacked the transport.

  “The truth is I don’t know.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “No.” Jordan didn’t even need to think about the answer. McClasky had written “top secret” on the envelope. “Whatever was inside, McClasky had classified for a reason.”

  “Well, I’d like to know what was important enough for the Russians to shoot down a plane and kill two of my soldiers to suppress.”

  Jordan rocked back on her heels. Melnyk was suggesting the secrets McClasky knew were responsible for the downing of PR Flight 91. She tested the idea, her mind flashing on the small metal fragments she’d found embedded in the fuselage.

  “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense.”

  “You suggested it yourself.”

  “That someone might have brought down the plane. But I never linked it to American intel.”

  “Do you know another reason?”

  She scrambled to come up with an alternative theory—one that connected the plane and the transport vehicle. “Who else was on board the flight?”

  “Mostly Poles headed home from holiday.”

  “We’re any of them doing business in China?”

  “Several, but from an early check, no one appears controversial. I imagine most were there purchasing products. Some were attending an IT conference.”

  “That could be the connection.” Jordan knew she was grasping at straws.

  Melnyk eyeballed her. “You must have some idea what your man was carrying.”

  Jordan met his gaze squarely. “All I know is that the letter originated in China and contained something McClasky learned in the course of picking up the prisoner.”

  The captain turned away, staring at the skeleton of the ambulance as if looking for answers there. “What did the fugitive do?”

  “Kia Zhen? He was a computer whiz kid, a genius. For him to be charged with espionage, he must have hacked into some sensitive material, most likely by accident.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “He was just out of high school. He wasn’t a spy.”

  “But if he’d come across something to trade . . .” Melnyk let the thought hang. “Why would China agree to extradite him back to the U.S.?”

  Jordan had been wondering the same thing. Extradition between China and the United States was handled on a case-by-case basis. It was possible the extraction wasn’t government sanctioned. “I don’t really know the specifics.”

  “You don’t seem to know much.”

  “I’m here on a ‘need-to-know’ basis.” The excuse sounded lame, but she’d pried all she could out of Lory. He’d been less than forthcoming with details.

  “Still, a Chinese American stealing government secrets—that’s big.”

  Big enough for someone to justify shooting a plane out of the sky to keep him from talking? Jordan found herself feeling defensive. “The kid had ties with the Asian gangs. Do you have any of those in Ukraine?”

  Melnyk shook his head. “No, but we have
plenty of Russian mobsters. For the right kind of money, they would kill their own mothers.”

  Jordan’s hands felt clammy. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”

  “That someone went to a lot of trouble to steal an envelope? Yes.”

  He was right, of course, but one thing bothered her. “How did they know it wasn’t destroyed in the crash?”

  She could almost see him churning the question in his head. When he didn’t respond, she knew he’d drawn the same conclusion she had. “The timing’s too perfect. Someone in Hoholeve, someone other than me, had to be looking for the envelope.”

  The captain’s mouth twitched, but he still didn’t speak.

  “Who else was on scene when I discovered the bodies?” Jordan asked, filtering through her mental snapshots of the crash site. There must have been fifty people roaming around.

  “A platoon of soldiers, the press, and a few local residents.”

  Any of whom might have supplied information to the attackers.

  “We need to narrow it down,” she said. “Plug the pipeline to our attackers and find them fast. If we locate the Russians and find the envelope, then maybe we’ll learn the reason behind the attacks. We won’t know what caused this until we have all the pieces.”

  “Maybe not, but we can make an educated guess.”

  Jordan felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach. Even the hint of a connection between the downed plane, the United States, and the destroyed ambulance would place the State Department in an untenable position. “We need to be careful what’s said to the press.”

  Melnyk glanced over. “Are you asking me to be silent?”

  “I’m asking you to be smart. There will be a lot of questions and a lot of people wanting answers. I just think it’s better for both our governments if we have all the facts before any information is leaked. Imagine the damage it could do if the Ukrainians accused the Russians of downing the plane, and then it turns out we were wrong.”

  “He who licks knives will soon cut his tongue.”

  Was this Ukrainian adage encouraging one to hold one’s tongue or to not tell a lie? Whatever it took for the captain to keep his mouth shut.