Shadow War

by Sean McFate

  Almost.

  “Blow them up,” he yelled to his Chechens, shooting a line of tracers at Sirko’s two remaining SUVs. Two men shouldered RPGs, followed the tracers, and the SUVs exploded.

  And then the rabbit bolted. It was a single black Mercedes, hiding under the biggest bomber, now tearing down the landing strip at full speed.

  The Wolf leapt back into his vehicle and floored it. He didn’t worry about the gunfire; speed would be his cover. Smoke poured from the dead SUVs, obstructing his view, until he cleared the wreckage and was on the access road to the landing strip, following the black Benz.

  Wolf saw the BTR’s turret turn, tracking its prey.

  “No!” he yelled, but the car never stood a chance. The 14.5-millimeter machine gun tore through the Mercedes’s “bulletproof” skin with such force that the vehicle flipped on its side and rolled end over end at ninety miles per hour. Two hundred meters later, it burst into flame.

  The Wolf lowered his head. The only thing he could do now was hope to find something identifiable as Karpenko, once the car was cool enough to search. He needed DNA proof and pictures of the body to collect his reward.

  Maltov heard explosions and saw the branches rattle above him. A twig fell, hitting him in the face, such a pointless thing. He sat up. A hundred meters away, SUVs were on fire, their gas tanks creating secondary explosions, and in the glare, behind the overturned four-by-fours, he could see the armored personnel carrier, its gun turret turning toward the fleeing Mercedes. He could hear screaming in his ear about the plane and the damn C-4, but it was no use, the Mercedes was flipping now, in slow motion, on fire, and the battle was over. They were pinned down, and they were all going to die here, and was there anything worse, really, than dying for a losing cause?

  Then he saw it. The potato truck, plowing through the gunfire. For a moment, he didn’t understand. Pavlo was supposed to block the exit with this truck bomb. He was supposed to be safe. Of all the men, he was supposed to be safe. He had promised the boy’s mother . . . his sister . . . Pavlo was just a teenager. Maltov had been to his christening and bought him his first beer, it seemed like only yesterday. He had promised his sister he would keep her boy safe. But now Pavlo was racing toward the BTR, in a truck full of C-4 and ammonium nitrate . . .

  “No, Pavlo,” he said, as the truck slammed into the armored troop carrier, it’s back end rising into the air with the force of the collision, then smashing down with a massive explosion that sent a pillar of fire into the night sky.

  Maltov lay in the leaves, not firing, not moving. Watching. In the silence, he could see men scrambling away from the blast. Some were shot as they fled. Some stumbled, their bodies on fire. It was over now, truly over. It was time to go. He couldn’t do anything more. Everyone was dead, including Pavlo, who had given his life for his friends.

  “Firing,” he said into his earpiece.

  He pulled the detonator off his web belt, flipped the safety, and squeezed. He felt the first blast, a shock wave of hot air, and then the deafening bang. Six tall trees fell across the entry road, obstructing the exit. He squeezed a second trigger. The flight tower across the parking lot seemed to lift, then totter, then collapse to the ground, trapping the enemy’s SUVs on the landing strip and buying precious time for his men to escape.

  CHAPTER 16

  I turned away from the radio, the C-4 explosion still ringing in my ears. “It’s done,” I said, pulling off my headset.

  “God be with Maltov,” Karpenko said, as he left the dacha’s security office, where we’d been listening to the firefight. He hadn’t liked the idea of a diversion. I had wondered why, since it was the only plausible plan against overwhelming forces, but I heard the reason in his concern. And it surprised me.

  But then again, why should it? A rich man wasn’t required to have a cavalier attitude about the deaths of those who worked for him.

  I patted Greenlees on the shoulder. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of screaming into the radio. I could hear other explosions in the background, and Maltov ordering his men to fall back. We had twenty-five minutes by my calculations, even if Belenko’s men reacted quickly, but I was hoping to be done in ten.

  “When the plane lands,” I whispered, “recheck the fuses around the house.”

  I grabbed a pair of night-vision goggles and headed out. Sirko was standing guard outside an open door in the family’s private area. He tipped his head as I passed, and I nodded in return. Inside, I caught a glimpse of Karpenko. He was rocking a young girl, maybe three or four years old, on his lap, singing softly to her in Ukrainian.

  Outside, it was cold and empty, but I didn’t have time for more than a glance at the sky. I jumped into an SUV, drove down the long driveway, and pulled onto Karpenko’s private access road. A kilometer down was a straight section 1,500 meters long and less than ten meters wide, not technically enough room for an An-12, but it was a calculated risk. The company always retained the best flight crews. I trusted them more with a tight landing than I trusted Karpenko’s men.

  A full kilometer from the gate, I pulled off the road and camouflaged the vehicle in a sea of shadows. I checked my watch: 0217. I did one last wind check and scanned the horizon, holding binoculars to my night-vision goggles. The pilots had radioed their approach twenty-four minutes ago. They should be in visual range.

  “This is lima zulu bravo one niner, come in, over.” The voice on the aviation radio in my hand had a thick Romanian accent.

  “Roger, lima zulu, I read you lima Charlie,” I replied. “Wind is twelve knots at two-six-zero. Track is clear.”

  I held up my infrared strobe to the night sky and gave it three bursts. It was invisible to the naked eye, but a beacon to a pilot wearing night-vision goggles. Then I took a small radio transmitter out of my breast pocket and switched on the infrared beacons that lined the dirt road. Through my goggles, the landing strip came alive.

  “Confirm landing strip at three-three-zero.”

  “Confirmed,” I said.

  “On final approach,” the Romanian replied.

  I pulled off my goggles. I could hear the drone of turboprops, but the sound was roaring in my ears before I picked out the dark shape, flying low against the gray night. It looked impossibly large to land on this two-lane road, like a goose trying to land on a fishing line. The wings wobbled as the cargo plane slowed. It veered to the left, far enough to put it over the field, and then corrected and touched down in the road, its propellers churning dirt and rocks out of the fields, its number two engine passing so close over my head that I could feel the engine roar in my chest. The drag chute deployed and the plane pulled against it, slowing gracefully against a backdrop of trees, like a fat ballerina landing a perfect pirouette.

  And then the winch truck tore past me, knocking me to the dirt.

  “Fuckin’ hell!” I said, spitting dust as I leapt to my feet. At least someone had a sense of urgency, even if they drove like shit.

  “The bird is in,” I yelled to Greenlees, as I raced to the SUV. “The bird is in.”

  I fired up the vehicle and raced after the winch truck, the plane still rolling along the road toward a soft curve, the engines powering down. In the distance, red star cluster flares arced above Poltava’s commercial airport, the second distraction of the night. I was reasonably sure all of Belenko’s men had been drawn to the airbase, but it never hurt to provide another false lead. It’s amazing what a lone man with a motorcycle and box of flares can achieve.

  By the time I arrived, the cargo ramp was lowered and four armed men were jumping out of the bay to form a perimeter around the plane. I recognized Boon, then Wildman . . .

  “I thought this was a hot LZ,” someone said.

  I turned. It was Miles, smiling broadly, his face painted with night camouflage and his night-vision goggles perched on top of his head. He was suited up, but in desert camo instead of green. The team must have come straight from Libya.

  “Ten minutes if you
’re lucky,” I said, pointing down the road toward the iron gate just visible in the distance. “A quiet night if you’re not.”

  Miles signaled to Boon and Wildman, who moved down the road. The other two men loosened the cargo netting and prepared to unload, while the flight crew hooked the winch truck’s cables to the rear of the plane and began to pull it backward. The plane couldn’t turn around on the narrow road; it needed to be hauled back to the airstrip’s beginning for take-off. Once there, we unloaded it like a pit crew. Miles’s team formed a human chain and passed rucksacks, weapon cases, communications chest, ammo crates, wooden boxes of explosives, and specialty gear illegal in most countries, cramming it into the fish delivery truck Maltov had sourced from his friend. The pilots looked on, smoking and talking among themselves.

  “What the hell is that,” I yelled, as a flatbed careened past. The truck skidded to a stop and backed up against the airplane’s tail ramp. Beyond, in the darkness, I could hear the chop-chop of the helicopter, flying in blackout, carrying Karpenko’s family from the dacha. It hovered next to the plane and then landed, blowing rock and dirt. One of the pilots ran toward the plane, yelling furiously in Romanian.

  At the flatbed, two men had jumped out and were throwing boxes into the back of the plane. What was Karpenko thinking? We didn’t have time to load cargo. It was time to go.

  “Leave it,” I yelled, jumping onto the flatbed as one of the men tore off the canvas cover of the biggest load. Underneath was a five-foot-tall cube of euros, shrink-wrapped in heavy plastic. It was wise to move money out of places like Ukraine, especially the illegal kind, especially if your assets were frozen. I had smuggled some serious stacks of cash in my day. But even I had to gawk at this pile.

  “You have to go,” someone said.

  I heard the words in my head, like a voice from some distant part of my brain.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” the voice said again. “You have to go.”

  I looked behind me. It was Karpenko. He was crouching by the airplane’s side door, his daughter clinging to him with one hand and her stuffed rabbit with the other. A Dora the Explorer backpack was slung over her shoulder, and her face was wet. To my surprise, so was Karpenko’s. He didn’t try to hide his crying. Instead, he pushed back her hair, hugged her, then kissed her in the center of her forehead.

  “Daddy loves you,” he said. “I will see you soon.”

  As I watched her mother take her hand, the baby boy in her other arm, I wondered if that was true. I knew this deal wasn’t just extracting the family, and it wasn’t just flying them back to Bucharest, or Berlin, or wherever this plane was headed. It was keeping them somewhere safe, maybe for a week, maybe three, until Winters’s plan was complete.

  Or we failed.

  “We need to go, go, go!” I shouted, tearing myself from the scene. The plane had been on the ground for eight minutes already.

  I pushed the men out of the cargo hold, then leapt to the ground as Miles and the flight crew raised the tail ramp. Sirko appeared out of the darkness, pulling Karpenko away as the ramp sealed. The trucks departed and the helo hopped a few hundred meters to the right, to avoid the plane’s propblast. The An-12 pilots fired up all four engines simultaneously, and the sound, and the dust, and the pebbles beat against our skin, as the plane rolled down the road, raised its nose, began to lift, slowly, too slowly, and brushed a treetop as it cleared. I imagined a little girl inside, waving good-bye, wondering why her daddy wasn’t coming, too.

  “You know the coordinates?” I asked Miles, as he shouldered his ruck.

  He nodded, lifted one of the SA-18 missile launchers we’d bought in Libya over his shoulder, and smiled.

  “See you at the rendezvous,” Miles said, climbing into the back of the fish truck and pulling the cargo doors shut behind him.

  Three minutes later, the helicopter was in the air, carrying Karpenko, Sirko, Greenlees, and me. We swooped west over the fields, the brake lights flaring beneath us as Miles and the last of Karpenko’s men scattered beyond the dacha’s front gate, a few muzzle blasts visible off to the east where Belenko’s men had broken free of Maltov’s trap. There was a risk they would run into Miles’s team on the road, but knowing Miles, he probably had a few antitank missiles ready for the Chechens. Miles despised cheap competition.

  “Blow it,” I said into the headset, as the helicopter peeled off to the north.

  Karpenko didn’t hear me. He was off in his own world, probably thinking of his family, maybe wishing he’d gotten on that plane. I thought of the woman in the window and realized I probably would have, if I’d had Karpenko’s life, and she’d been there for me.

  “Blow it,” I said again, louder this time.

  Karpenko took the detonator and squeezed. The fireball when the dacha exploded turned the night sky orange. There was no coming back. There was never any coming back.

  “Winters was right about you,” Karpenko said, as we watched his burning compound recede into the distance.

  I thought about telling him the same thing, but I didn’t know anything about oligarchs or Eastern European power struggles or even fatherhood. I was only an employee, and Karpenko was only my principal.

  “Don’t celebrate too soon,” I said, Buddha calm, although inside, my adrenaline was pumping. I could never tell Karpenko, or Greenlees, or anyone really, even my closest friends, how proud I was pulling off a mission like this. Even if I could, they wouldn’t understand.

  I picked up my sat phone and punched in the code. Winters would understand. Maybe. He’d respect it, at least. But after this call, we’d never talk about it again. Never even mention that it happened. This was, in the end, a private victory in a private profession. The job was lonely that way.

  But what did I care? Fuck the world. I knew what I’d done.

  CHAPTER 17

  A half hour after Tom Locke’s call, Brad Winters pulled up to the security checkpoint. It was the third he had passed through already, each one a step up in prestige. The main purpose of this last one, Winters knew, was to keep out the lower-millionaire riff-raff from the first two rungs.

  “Hartley,” he said to the guard, showing his identification. “Seven six three.”

  The guard looked at his notes, then went into his booth and made a call. “Enjoy your visit, Mr. Winters,” he said, handing back the driver’s license and waving him through.

  Inside the third gate, the lots were noticeably larger, with straight rows of trees and large stretches of green lawn. Riding mower territory, even for the full-time lawn crews. It was early evening—the golden hour, photographers called it—but there was nobody out. Hartley’s house, number 763, had another gate at the entrance to the driveway, but it opened as soon as Winters pulled up. The mansion was Mediterranean meets Gone with the Wind, with white columns, a Spanish tile roof, and poplar trees. He parked in the circular drive beside the fountain. Glenn Hartley was waiting for him in Italian loafers and a bathrobe. Eight o’clock on a Wednesday night, and the man was in a bathrobe.

  “Come in, Brad,” he said, extending his hand.

  They passed through a portico, past a double winding staircase, into a room with six couches. Texas wildcatters like Hartley made and lost more millions than a Vegas casino, so when they were up, they spent.

  “Care to sit outside?” Hartley asked. The pool was visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, with a waterfall at the far end. “The wife and kids are in Dallas for a lacrosse tournament. Saint John’s School, they’re a powerhouse this year. The boy plays defense and the girl’s a cheerleader, if you can believe that.”

  Winters didn’t know what was so hard to believe.

  They took seats on the shaded porch overlooking the pool. There was a porch for sunbathing, too. Winters noticed the white sunglasses by the lounge chair and wondered whose they were. There was lipstick on an empty glass.

  “Karpenko’s in?” Hartley asked, as soon as they sat down. Winters noticed a bar, but Hartley didn’t offer hi
m a drink, not even iced tea. He had flown three hours from Washington to Houston for this meeting. He had raced to this godforsaken suburb as soon as he’d gotten the call from Locke, who was conveniently eight hours ahead. All Hartley had done was walk to his door. But the man still seemed inconvenienced.

  “Karpenko’s a rock,” Winters said.

  Hartley pursed his lips like he wasn’t so sure.

  “I’ve known him for ten years, Glenn. We meet at the Travellers Club in London. He has a Georgian rowhouse in Kensington. A ski chalet in Vale,” though of course he didn’t ski, that was for the horse riding, bear shooting, jet-ski-flipping Russians. Ukrainians were still in the acquiring stage. “Sir Gillingham goes way back with him. They own a brewery together.”

  “It’s called a distillery, Brad. They make artisanal gin.”

  God, he hated this about the Houston boys. The way they chewed on words like artisanal with disgust. The never-ending kicking of tires. They were all self-made men who distrusted self-made men.

  “Do you want to meet with him?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “If it’s a moral issue, I assure you, we’ve dealt with worse.”

  “It’s not a moral issue.”

  “Believe me, Glenn. The man is solid. And we have leverage. There’s no amount of pressure Putin can apply—”

  “It’s not about pressure, Brad. It’s about rights. International support for basic human rights. I mean, we were neck deep in Venezuela. Neck deep. We’d been working on that project for twenty years. We’d invested billions, Brad. Billions. Chavez took it away in a day. And what did our government do?”

  Tried to assassinate him. Funded a rebellion. Undermined his government.

  “Nothing,” Hartley said.

  Venezuela, it was always about Venezuela with these oil boys. What about Ghana? South Sudan? Nigeria? Hadn’t Apollo proven itself there? They were pumping pure unadulterated profit by the barrel load, and all it cost was a few million a year and a bit of bad press whenever the starving locals tried to bunker some oil and incinerated their village in the process.