Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He had been fortunate enough to be provided with two working prototypes only weeks before that made his mission, completely off the books, possible. The weapon had been modified to now be mounted to a tripod with motors that could be controlled by the Linux based software it contained, the iPad acting as a remote control.

  It also was able, with an additional wide-angle camera, to track multiple targets, rather than the single target the unmodified weapon could follow.

  He selected the last of the guards with the weapon mounted across the street, then activated the program with a ten second countdown, flipping to the control screen of the second weapon, activating its own five second countdown.

  Placing the iPad in his bag sitting on the chair beside him, he reached into his jacket, faking a scratch should any of the security detail be alert enough to catch it. An engine started down the street and a black SUV began to roll forward, its driver his trusted second-in-command, Major Maxim Somov, one of only two men he risked taking on the mission, his scratch a signal that all hell was about to break loose.

  Half a dozen cracks echoed through the square, the entire incident taking less than five seconds, six bodies crumpling to the ground as Chernov jumped from his table, putting a bullet in the homophobe, then injecting Levkin with a sedative as he pulled him to his feet. Before it fully took effect, the aged man was shoved into the back of the SUV and seconds later they were out of the square, a gathering crowd left to wonder what had just happened.

  And they would be left wondering; the two automated weapons already being collected by his third man and returned to Moscow, nobody the wiser they had been used.

  Sergie Tuzik Residence, Moscow, USSR

  February 7, 1982

  Sergie could feel the shaking in his hands as his body demanded more alcohol, the withdrawal painful, but tolerable. Every day at his job he endured it, drinking on the job frowned upon even in the vodka loving republic. Especially for intelligence officers.

  He sat in his chair and watched yet another rerun of the Seventeen Moments of Spring—part four if he remembered correctly—on their tiny black and white television, glancing at his watch for the hundredth time since he’d been home. While his wife had prepared dinner and the children did their homework, he had retrieved his cash from its various hiding places and gathered all their IDs should they be stopped on the street. He had dropped a hint at dinner of a surprise tonight, and the kids had grilled him but he had refused to say anything except that it was something they all had wanted, and that they would all be incredibly surprised and happy when they saw it.

  Even his cold-hearted bitch of a wife had seemed excited, her hand actually touching his for a brief moment, squeezing it as if there might still be some love there.

  He closed his eyes, tuning out the television, picturing his wife Katarina when she was younger. They had been happy. Deliriously happy. But that was youth. No responsibilities, no realization of what the world was really like. Grand ideas, grand visions, grand naiveté.

  They had married in their mid-twenties, held off having kids for a few years while he established his career and they used his meager salary to create a home out of their state issued apartment. Then two kids in rapid succession, and then the bliss turned into misery, Katarina not taking well to motherhood.

  That’s when he had begun drinking.

  He was Russian so he had been drinking from a young age, but rarely to excess. Drinking was thought of differently here than in the West. As long as it didn’t affect your job, your contribution to the State, then nobody cared.

  And it hadn’t. His career was a success, a Lieutenant Colonel by forty, with prospects of a promotion in the near future. He was good at his job, dedicated, and enjoyed the rewards that went with his higher position—a slightly bigger apartment if available, and one vacation per year in the Crimea. Soon he’d be eligible for a vacation in Cuba. He couldn’t even imagine what that must be like.

  But soon he wouldn’t have to. Once he was safely in the United States, he would disappear and move south, to Florida or California, and never experience the cold again.

  I hate the cold.

  He looked at his watch.

  8:35.

  He stood up and turned the television off.

  “It’s surprise time!” he yelled, his voice genuinely jovial as he pictured a beach umbrella with he and his wife perched under it, enjoying the sound of the surf, the kids playing in the crashing waves.

  Could we be happy again?

  “Just what is this surprise?” demanded his wife from the kitchen, her tone all bitch.

  Maybe not.

  “Just get dressed, we’re going out. We have to be there in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes! Are you crazy? At this time of night? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Please, Katarina, I beg you, don’t ruin this for the kids. I promise you that you’ll love the surprise.”

  She frowned at him and tossed her tea towel on the counter, stomping down to their bedroom. The kids, who usually had no respect for him, were already at the door dressing for the frigid outdoors. He went to the bathroom, locking the door, and began stuffing his cash into his socks, underwear, and an unsuspicious amount in his wallet to ‘pay’ for the surprise.

  With their identity papers secure in one pocket, he went to the front door and shoved his boots on, lacing them tightly, then putting on his jacket, hat and gloves as his wife joined them, still not pleased.

  He pointed at the boys’ feet.

  “Make sure your boots are tied tight. You might have to do some running for your surprise.”

  The boys immediately dropped, exchanging excited glances, redoing their laces so tightly circulation might have been affected.

  “If you think I’m doing any running tonight, you’re kidding yourself.”

  “Yeah yeah,” he muttered, glancing at his watch.

  8:42.

  “Let’s go!” he said, slapping his gloved hands together. They all exited and the boys excitedly rushed down the six flights of stairs, his wife slowing them down with her lackadaisical attitude, constantly bitching.

  Maybe I should leave her behind.

  He felt a pit in his stomach at the thought.

  Let’s just get to America, and all of our troubles will be over.

  It was 8:44 when they finally went out the back exit. Sergie took the lead, setting a brisk pace that the boys eagerly followed, Katarina falling behind as she continued to whine.

  At the next street corner West stepped out of the darkness, hailing Sergie jovially in fluent, unaccented Russian.

  “Sergie, my friend! Are you ready for your big surprise?” asked the man, shaking Sergie’s hand as they exchanged kisses on both cheeks. “And I see your sons are all excited for their surprise, eh?” They both nodded vigorously, smiles spread from cheek to cheek. “And this must be the beautiful Katarina you are always telling me about,” said West as Sergie’s wife finally caught up. She seemed to almost blush, casting a surprised glance at him as West greeted her with a kiss of the gloved hand. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said. He held his hand out, indicating they should all proceed. “We must hurry. The surprise won’t like being kept waiting!”

  West set the pace, and this time everyone, including Katarina, kept up. Several streets were covered and within less than ten minutes they walked up to a warehouse. A side door was lit by a lone bulb. West walked up to it and knocked in a one-two-one pattern followed by a pause, then two more taps. He winked at the boys who were thrilled with the mystery of it all.

  The door opened and West urged them all inside. The boys went first, then Katarina, herself seeming to now be fully engrossed in the adventure, then Sergie, and finally West, who closed the door behind them.

  The room flooded with light as a man immediately approached them, a van in the center of the large room, all its doors wide open, roaring to life.

  West immediately turned to Sergie.

  “Intel?�
�

  Sergie reached into his mouth and found the string tied to a rear molar. He pulled on it, gagging as the small container at the other end pulled through his esophagus and popped into his mouth. He spit it out, along with a none-too-small amount of vomit. He yanked the string off his tooth then handed the dripping mass to West. West didn’t seem fazed at all, he simply took it and wiped it off with a handkerchief.

  West pointed at the van.

  “Everyone inside, quickly,” he said as he opened the canister, removing the microfilm.

  “What is going on here?” demanded Katarina.

  “We’re going on a trip,” replied Sergie as he herded his family toward the van, the man moving to the door of the warehouse. He glanced at West who was already examining the microfilm with a magnifying glass.

  “Where?”

  “To America.”

  Her jaw dropped then she suddenly sprung into his arms, hugging him hard and giving him his first genuine kiss in years. She let him go and immediately climbed into the van, urging her children to be quiet and listen to the men.

  “We’ve got company!” called the man at the door.

  “Let’s go, now!” ordered the driver.

  The man at the door ran over to the passenger side, slamming the rear door shut, then to the opposite side of the warehouse, opening a garage door as West strode over to the van.

  He shook Sergie’s hand.

  “Good luck.”

  “You’re not coming with us?”

  “No, I’m going to stay behind and buy you time. You just worry about your family now. You’re part of the Underground Railroad. You’ll be safe, but it will be a difficult journey. Listen to them, they know what they’re doing.”

  Sergie nodded and climbed in the back seat, West slamming the door shut behind him. The van rolled forward, toward the open door, the other man jumping in the passenger side, the vehicle roaring from the garage as soon as his feet were clear of the floor. Sergie waved at West as the American closed the garage door behind them, the children and Katarina joining in.

  West returned the wave, then disappeared from sight.

  And Sergie wondered if he would ever see the man again.

  Thirteen miles from Turkish coast, Black Sea

  Present Day

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson scanned the horizon with his binoculars, spotting dozens of craft of varying sizes in all directions. The Black Sea was busy with commercial, military and pleasure craft, and it was early morning, primetime for traffic on the world’s sixteenth largest body of water. He looked at his watch again.

  Five minutes late.

  He shouldn’t really be concerned. Five minutes wasn’t outside the window of leeway he had given the operation. Colonel Chernov had signaled coordinates when they had arrived a few hours before after over twelve hours of travel on commercial carriers as Mr. White and Mr. Green of the State Department.

  And now we’re sitting in the middle of the damned sea.

  Dawson had to admit he was impressed when the secure message had arrived. Chernov was fast, and if successful, it would be the second time he had come through for Dawson in only months. He shuddered to think what Chernov might one day ask for. Dealing with the Soviets—scratch that—Russians, was difficult at the best of times. And in recent years their increasingly belligerent government seemed to suggest they were heading back to the days of the Soviet Union, with an ignorant populace cheering it on due to a lack of progress on the economic front that only the naïve could possibly think would be improved by a return to communism.

  But Dawson didn’t for a minute think that was Putin’s intent. Communism doesn’t work, at least not Soviet style communism. Chinese style—at least that of the past ten to twenty years—seemed to be working for them as a country, just not a people. Dawson was hopeful that at some point the Chinese middleclass would be so large with wallets so full that they would demand and receive their freedom, and a country with a powerful economy would join the democracies of the world.

  When the Soviet Union had collapsed, a corrupt, bankrupt basket case had been handed over to the people, and it had never really flourished. Frustrations had led to the “election” of Putin, a former KGB spy, who didn’t tolerate dissent, and changed the rules to fit his needs, essentially making himself leader for life until someone had the courage to put an end to it.

  Dawson feared the Russian people wouldn’t have the courage to stand up to him in time, and by the time they did, all the hard won freedoms they were slowly losing would be gone, and his death would only hasten the next dictator such as ex-Major General Levkin, who would take things even further.

  It was a slippery slope as his own country was learning. The knee-jerk reactions after 9/11 seemed perfectly sane at the time. Why wouldn’t you give your security apparatus more power to prevent further attacks? Why wouldn’t you invade countries that were a clear and present danger to your own? And now his country had been at war longer than even World War II, was nearly bankrupt, and had been caught with its pants down, spying on pretty much everyone on the planet, including its allies and own innocent citizens.

  And they wanted even more power.

  And the government seemed prepared to give it to them, one side calling it patriotism, the other using it as a bargaining chip to get other things rammed through that they wanted. Both were equally guilty of shredding the constitution and steering the country toward economic and democratic ruin.

  The entire damned world needs a wakeup call.

  He wondered if Crimson Rush might be a reminder to those who had forgotten that almost fifty years of the Cold War had brought the world to the brink several times. If it did go public, or worse, succeeded, perhaps the world could be taught a lesson that history shouldn’t be forgotten, lest it be repeated.

  An expensive lesson.

  “Check it out, BD.”

  Niner pointed slightly to the port side. Dawson turned and spotted a sixty footer heading toward them at full speed, and as it approached, he recognized Chernov at the helm. The engine powered down as the new arrival turned and moments later both boats were lashed together.

  Chernov waved, Dawson returning it after jumping aboard, then another man Dawson didn’t know pushed an elderly man he immediately recognized as former Soviet Major General Levkin, bound and gagged, toward the front of the boat, shoving him to his knees. It appeared he had taken quite a beating.

  The man eyed Dawson with suspicion, but no fear.

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  “Very little,” frowned Chernov. “I have confirmed however that he has indeed sold the codes for Crimson Rush to the Chechen Islamov, but that Islamov was only a middleman.”

  “Who was the receiver?”

  “He wouldn’t tell us.”

  Dawson motioned for the gag to be removed and the second man yanked it from Levkin’s mouth.

  “I’ve read your dossier, General. Seems you’d like to see a return to the old ways, to the old Soviet Union.”

  The man said nothing.

  We don’t have time for this.

  “Listen, nuclear codes have been sold to somebody and they intend to detonate those weapons for whatever purpose. I don’t care about your involvement. I just want to stop it. We’re talking potentially millions of lives here.”

  The man again said nothing.

  Dawson shook his head, pulling his weapon and aiming it at the man.

  “Are you going to be of use to me, or not?”

  Levkin glared.

  “Very well.”

  Dawson shot him in the left thigh.

  Levkin cried out in pain, tumbling forward onto his face. Chernov shook his head, smiling, as he pulled the man back to his knees.

  “Like I said, I read your dossier. You have a wife, three sons and two daughters, and fourteen grandchildren. That’s a big family.” Dawson squatted in front of the man, pushing his gun under Levkin’s chin, shoving it up so they were eye-to-e
ye. “If a single weapon detonates on American soil, I’m going to personally kill every single living member of your family, starting with your sons. What was your eldest son’s name? Yuri?” There was a flicker from the man—almost imperceptible, but there to see by the trained eye. “He lives in St. Petersburg if I’m not mistaken. My team will take out him, his wife, and their children—your grandchildren.”

  Dawson shook his head, removing the gun from the man’s chin.

  “I know it’s a horrible thing, but when you kill thousands of my countrymen, and perhaps millions, we will retaliate. We levelled Afghanistan for 9/11. Do you think we’ll hesitate to remove all traces of the family responsible for this attack? There’s no country to point at. If you had hoped to trigger a war with Russia, it won’t work. We know it isn’t the Russian government involved, it’s just you.” Dawson stood up. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  Levkin looked up at Dawson, his eyes burning with hatred.

  “If you touch my family—”

  “You’ll what? Bomb my country?” Dawson flicked his weapon, dismissing the statement. “We’ve already covered that.” He squatted back down. “Get this through your skull, General. I don’t care about your family. I don’t want to touch your family, and I won’t touch your family, if you tell me what I want to know.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who the codes were sold to.”

  “I have no idea. All I know is they were sold on condition they be used within two weeks.”

  “How many codes did you sell?”

  “All of them.”

  “And how many is that?”

  “Slightly over one thousand.”

  Dawson felt his chest tighten as he exchanged a glance with Chernov who, standing behind the General, could express his “holy shit!” expression.

  “And how many are still active?”

  “That I don’t know. Enough, I am certain.”

  “And where are they located?”

  “Again, I don’t know. But you do.”