That was something of an overstatement, since Dean had yet to receive a green light from Haster, but it was important to sound credible.
“As is the custom I brought a gift,” Dean said, as he opened the knapsack. “Please accept this gold bar as a token of my government’s respect for you and your organization.”
“My, my,” Jumah replied, as he accepted the bar. “Most gifts consist of sweet cakes! I accept with many thanks. Sin Jol needs many things and, as you Americans say, ‘money talks.’
“Please have a seat. Aybek tells me that you are part of a special operations team that stole a load of rhenium from the Russians. That is nothing short of amazing. Please tell me everything from start to finish.”
Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to tell the Caliph everything. That would be less than productive. Besides, he had a plan to sell, and only 30 minutes in which to get the job done.
So Dean hit the high points and left lots of details out. “And that’s how I wound up here,” Dean concluded. “Both Amir and Aybek have been quite helpful.”
Jumah smiled. “I’m pleased to hear it. They tell me that you have a proposal to make. Please procced.”
“Sin Jol is sworn to gain power through peaceful means,” Dean said. “But when you manage to accomplish that, as was the case in the city of Karabalyk, the government attacks.
“That forces Sin Jol to defend itself. Then the government accuses your organization of using violence to overthrow the government. Would you agree?”
“I would,” Jumah replied.
Dean nodded. “Okay. The United States doesn’t have the means to prevent the Kazakh government from using force against its citizens. But we can level the playing field a bit.”
Jumah was leaning forward in his chair. “And how,” he inquired, “would you do that?”
“Sin Jol would have won the battle for Karabalyk if it hadn’t been for air power,” Dean replied. “And, if you had a sufficient number of shoulder-launched missiles, you could neutralize the government’s advantage.”
Jumah leaned back in his chair. “That is, if I’m not mistaken, the same deal the United Sates offered the Taliban in 2001. The plan was to help the Taliban defeat the Russians.
“Subsequent to that the Taliban offered its protection to Osama bin Laden in return for large quantities of money. Aren’t your superiors concerned that something similar could occur here?”
The nature of Jumah’s response caught Dean by surprise. Instead of jumping on the opportunity to score some MANPADS, the Caliph was voicing the same concerns that the suits at the CIA and State Department were likely to put forward.
“The Taliban is a very different organization than Sin Jol,” Dean replied lamely. “And any agreement between the U.S. and Sin Jol would be subject to certain controls, including Allied observers on the ground, and a carefully calibrated delivery schedule for the weapons.” Dean was making the rules up on the fly, but thought they made sense, and might help him sell the deal back home.
Jumah was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “I believe, we believe, that the Allies will win the war. And if that’s the case, then a strong relationship with the United States would be to our advantage.”
Dean felt a sense of relief. “Exactly. In the meantime, I need your help to get our soldiers out of Russia, and out of Kazakhstan.”
“What would that involve?” The Caliph inquired.
“It would involve creating an airstrip,” Dean answered. “Nothing fancy. Just some level ground with a packed surface. We could use the bulldozer that’s sitting in your motor pool.”
“You’ve been here for the better part of two days,” Karimov interjected. “So, you know the government bombs us on a regular basis.”
“With your permission I will summon the 152nd,” Dean replied. “And they will use their shoulder launched missiles to keep the Kazakh air force at bay.”
“Tell them to come,” Jumah said without hesitation. “Work will begin the moment they arrive.”
Dean felt a combination of euphoria and dread as he emerged from the meeting. A deal had been done. But had Haster been able to sell the concept?
Dean asked Abdulov to take him up to the top of the fortress where he could make an unobstructed sat call. It was something of a shock to leave the relative warmth of the fort for the windy hilltop. Government bombs had done some damage to the fort’s “roof,” but none had been able to penetrate the mountain’s interior.
Snowflakes danced as Abdulov went off to chat with the Sin Jol lookouts. Dean placed the call to Haster. And, after working his way through the security protocols, got him on a statically line. “Good evening, your worship. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Bullshit,” Haster replied. “You couldn’t care less. What’s up?”
“Caliph Jumah agreed to the deal. Which is to say surface-to-air missiles in return for a landing strip. Did you sell it?”
“Yes, but just barely. All the pencil pushers wanted to lecture me about what happened when we gave MANPADS to the Taliban. As if I didn’t know. But even though it makes some of the bastards in State queasy, they want the rhenium, and the PR coup.
“One question though … How are you going to defend the construction crew from the Kazakh government?”
“That’s where the 152nd comes in,” Dean replied. “They have Russian Strela-2 missile launchers.”
“Good. But they’ll throw troops at you too.”
“Yeah,” Dean said soberly. “They will. An army of them.”
“Okay, keep me in the loop. If you need something let me know. But we’re stretched thin. Do you read me?”
“Yes, your supremacy.”
“Fuck you.”
“And you.” The call was over.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The City of Stones, Kazakhstan
Dean heaved a sigh of relief. He had what he needed. And more importantly what the 152nd needed. He thumbed the power button, watched his radio light up, and made the call. It was good to hear the sound of Quinn’s voice. Dean didn’t say that since others were listening. And Quinn knew that. “How ‘bout a sitrep, Delta-Six. What’s happening?”
“We have a deal,” Dean told her. “That includes an appropriate chunk of real estate plus some free labor. We’ll have to defend the site from air and ground attacks though. Over.”
“Understood,” Quinn replied. “We’re at Shagol, and there’s a lot of ordinance lying around. Not to mention the vehicles we need. Where are you? Over.”
“The City of Stones. Over.”
“Hold one. Over.”
Dean knew Quinn was asking someone to check a map. She was back a minute later. “Roger that, Delta-Six. We’ll head your way. Over and out.”
***
Shagol Airbase, Russia
Quinn had been working on her poker face for years. It was an important part of the Ice Queen persona. But it was hard to maintain following the call. There were two reasons for that. The first had to do with the fact that Dean was alive. That was silly, since their relationship was based on a dinner date, but Quinn needed something to hope for. Some possibility of love and comfort in a world filled with death.
The second reason was less abstract. Thanks to the fact that Dean’s call came only an hour after cruise missiles fell, and was heard by every soldier who had his or her radio on, morale would soar. Suddenly the 152nd had a goal. More than that, a way out, and a possibility of survival. The unit was already in the process of putting a convoy together and the soldiers doubled their efforts.
Fortunately, there was plenty of resources to work with. A number of vehicles had survived the B2 bombing including a GAZ Tigr and three cargo trucks, which the troops named Eeny, Mini, and Mo.
But that wasn’t all. A Chetra T-11 tractor had been parked behind one of the buildings. And that, Quinn figured, would be useful when it came to creating a landing strip.
The Chetra was driven onto a trailer, which was hooked to a Kam
az cargo truck. The back of the truck was crammed full of tools and spares that Segal had “liberated” from Shagol’s motor pool. But the crown jewel in the convoy was a tanker truck loaded with fuel. Enough fuel to get the 152nd to the City of Stones and feed the bulldozer.
The rhenium and gold had been transferred to Eeny by that time. And a wealth of weapons, ammo and other supplies were split equally between Mini and Mo, along with Doctor Gulin and her patients.
The Tigr was the only vehicle that mounted a weapon. But the soldiers were heavily armed. And, if all went well, the convoy would be allowed to cross the southern border without interference. The convoy consisted of Russian vehicles after all … And the Allied soldiers had Russian uniforms. Failing that, the152nd would fight its way through.
Quinn was riding in the Tigr’s back seat as the truck led the rest of the vehicles out of Shagol, along a secondary road, and onto the southbound M-36. It was only a matter of minutes before flashing lights and a police roadblock appeared up ahead. And that made sense.
Local authorities knew about the explosions but had no clue as to what caused them. So, they’d done their best to cordon the area off while awaiting instructions.
The Tigr came to a stop and Captain Andruko got out and went over to speak with the cops. Meanwhile, McKenzie and his response team were ready to pour out of Mini, and take the police down if necessary.
But there was no need. The police were willing to believe that Allied missiles had fallen on the base. Especially in the wake of the recent B2 attack, which had caused widespread damage in Chelyabinsk.
As for the convoy, well, according to the way Andruko explained it, radical elements were making trouble in the south—and his troops had been ordered to reinforce the border. A story that would appeal to the local Islamaphobes.
And sure enough, after a round of handshakes, a police truck backed out of the way. “We go,” Andruko said, as he reentered the Tigr. “We haul butt.”
Quinn eyed her map. The route would take them through the west end of Chelyabinsk, and south on E123, to the border crossing near Troitsk. An eight-hour journey which, given the need for bio breaks along the way, would actually take something like ten.
Quinn feared that trouble would be waiting in Troitsk. Even if the Russians bought it, Andruko’s story wouldn’t mean jack shit to the Kazakh border guards. So, the Ukrainian was prepared to tell them a tale about a joint military exercise with Kazakh forces.
The story was theoretically possible, since the Kazakh government was chock full of Russian sympathizers, not to mention people who were taking money from the FSB.
But if the local officer-in-charge was suspicious for some reason, and managed to contact a high-ranking official who wasn’t working for the Russians, the fiction would come apart like wet toilet paper. So, there was reason to worry as night fell, and the convoy passed through a succession of small towns.
Quinn slept in fits and starts, and when Andruko gave orders for the convoy to pull over, she made a point of visiting each truck—and paused to chat with Doctor Gulin’s patients. Mahowski was doing well physically, but worried about whether the army would discharge him, and what his future might hold.
“There’s a good chance that you can not only stay in, but return to active duty, and a line unit,” Quinn told him. “Rehab sucks, or so I’ve heard. But, if anyone can get through it, you can. Oh, and if I have anything to say about it, you’re going to get a bump to E-7.” That put a momentary smile on Mahowski’s face which was the best Quinn could do.
The journey continued. Quinn went back to sleep. And when she awoke it was to the sound of Dean’s voice. “This is Delta-Six. You will arrive at the crossing in approximately ten minutes. All of the personnel there are friendlies. Over.”
Quinn sat up straight. “This is Six. Roger that. Do not fire on border personnel. I repeat, do not fire on border personnel. Over.”
“He right,” Andruko said from the front seat. “We just passed a sign advising all motorists to slow down and prepare to stop. How Dan know our location?”
That, Quinn thought, is a very good question. And the most likely answer is Sin Jol. Their agents have been tracking our progress.
The Tigr slowed and lights appeared ahead. Dean left the shadows as the vehicle came to a stop. Quinn felt like a school girl with a crush as she opened the door to get out.
They met under the harsh glare of an overhead light. “It’s good to see you,” Quinn said honestly. “What happened to the border guards?”
“They went off duty,” Dean replied. “Permanently. The barrier is about to go up. Once it does, you’ll see a truck. Follow it. How’s your fuel?”
“Good. We have a tanker.”
Dean grinned. “Of course, you do. The goal is to reach the City of Stones before sunup. It’s going to be a push. This would be a good time to have your drivers switch off.”
“Give us five,” Quinn said. “And Dan …”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Dean smiled and disappeared into the night.
Drivers switched, Quinn returned to the Tigr, and the barricade rose. Quinn saw a pair of boots protruding from the open guard station as they passed.
Kyshtym, Ozersk, Hill 152, the tunnel, Shagol Air Base, and now this. The Russians had to be pissed. Really, really pissed. So, pissed that they would pressure the Kazakh government, and the poop would hit the fan at the City of Stones. It seemed like the ordeal would never end.
Quinn dozed on and off as the column followed the Sin Jol truck in a southeasterly direction before turning west to avoid the government-controlled city of Karabalyk.
The snow had stopped, and the sky was clear, as the sun broke company with the eastern horizon. The City of Stones loomed in the distance.
Quinn was reminded of the mesas she’d seen in the American west, although this one sat all alone, and stood like a lordly presence on the snowy plain. No wonder people used it as a fortress and were about to do so again.
As sunlight fell on the plain Quinn realized that the ground was not only perfect for an airstrip, it was perfect for enemy tanks, and fighting vehicles.
On the other hand, there was no cover to speak of, which meant the enemy would be forced to advance in the open. Not an enviable task. The whole thing was shaping up to be a bloody business.
As the Tigr followed the truck through the ruins that surrounded the mesa, Quinn gave thanks for the broken columns, stones, and rubble. We’ll use them for cover, she thought.
Then the sunlight disappeared as the column entered the mesa and was directed into the cavern where other vehicles were parked including, Quinn noticed, a bulldozer. Good, Quinn thought. Two tractors are better than one.
In response to a request from Dean a section of the fort’s residential caves had been emptied to make way for the Allied army unit. Quinn told Andruko to assign quarters, set watches, and make sure the troops got something to eat. Then it was time to meet Caliph Jumah. “I know you’re tired,” Dean told her. “But work won’t begin until Jumah gives the word. So, the sooner you meet him the better. He speaks English by the way.”
After taking 15 minutes to clean up Quinn accompanied Dean and a man named Amir Abdulov through a maze of passageways to the Caliph’s quarters. But before they could enter, all the visitors had to be searched. A woman in a nondescript uniform gestured for Quinn to enter a curtained booth. Once inside the security guard said, “You naked.”
Quinn had little choice but to comply. Once Quinn was nude, the woman ordered her to bend over, and Quinn thought she was about to be subjected to a cavity search—when the guard said, “Good. You dress.”
The men were waiting for Quinn when she emerged from the booth. “Sorry about that,” Dean said. “But a lot of people would like to kill Caliph Jumah.”
They entered the waiting room to find that a single man was standing by for them. “Major Quinn,” Dean said formally, “I would like to introduce Mr. Aybek Karimov,
who serves as an advisor to Caliph Jumah, and holds a position analogous to Secretary of State. Mr. Karimov, this is Major Quinn.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Karimov said, as he extended his hand. “Mr. Dean speaks highly of you.”
Quinn took note of the fact that he had a firm grip unlike so many of the soft handshakes in the Middle East. And Karimov was willing to look her in the eye. “It’s an honor,” Quinn said. “Thank you for taking my unit in.”
“We have, as Mr. Dean likes to say, ‘a common enemy,’” Karimov responded. “So, we are allies. For the moment at least.”
Quinn heard the warning in the last sentence and smiled. “Then we’ll do our best to make the moment last.”
Karimov turned to Dean. “I like her. She’s a soldier and a diplomat. Come, the Caliph is waiting.”
Karimov led the visitors into a large room with hangings on three of the four walls, overlapping rugs on the floor, and a dozen ornate chairs. A man with bright eyes and a bushy beard came forward to meet them. “Major Quinn,” Karimov said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce Caliph Jumah.”
Quinn took note of the fact that there was what might have been a moment of doubt in Jumah’s eyes. And his handshake was limp. That was the norm, but Quinn didn’t like it. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Quinn said.
“You’re female,” Jumah said, as he released Quinn’s hand.
“That’s true,” Quinn replied.
“I know American women fight,” Jumah said. “but I find it strange.”
“I understand,” Quinn said. “However Muslim women fight too, as I’m sure you know. The Women’s Protection Units in Syria come to mind.”
“You are correct,” Jumah replied. “Please have a seat. Aybek says I’m old fashioned.”
Quinn sat down next to Jumah. “Think of it this way, sir … A country, or a religion that bars women from serving in the military, is taking 50% of its potential fighters offline.
“And, if that entity is attacked by an enemy that allows women to serve, which group is more likely to win?”
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 25
