Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone

by George Galdorisi

  “Of course,” Dawson said, then flopped back in the seat. “‘It,’” he went on. “Neutral word for a shitty but necessary act. You know what I really hated about it, Major? The fact that there was never any time to think. That, not the deed itself, is what leaves you second-guessing every time you remember it.”

  “I can’t disagree,” Volner admitted. “Killing that reflex to hesitate was the toughest thing I had to overcome. I was always fast. I was always accurate. But I wasn’t always sure.”

  “That there was no other way?” Dawson said. “That guy, every guy we’ve faced, was in a business where they knew that call might one day be made against them. They’d have made it against us. I look at this as you saved a man’s life. I’m not saying you have to smile about it, but one of our guys is alive and one of their guys isn’t. A man, might I remind you, who had already killed two people for breakfast and lunch.”

  “Like I said, I’m not lamenting the kill,” he told Dawson, pointedly avoiding the euphemism. “I just get stuck in that microsecond.” He shrugged. “It comes with the uniform and the oath.”

  Dawson nodded, then frowned as he remembered something he’d half noticed getting into the car. He sat up and looked over his shoulder, out the smoky black rear window. “Who’s in the other car? Those are federal plates.”

  “Ambassador Flannery,” Volner replied without turning.

  Dawson looked at him. “What did I miss?”

  “Chief called last night, didn’t want to leave a message on your phone,” Volner said. “He spoke with his boss and we’re amping up involvement. We’ll need someone who speaks the language.”

  Dawson shook his head. “Guess I’m not the only one who didn’t sleep last night.”

  Volner gave him a look. “I was up, too, taking the calls you didn’t, working out a report.”

  “Mike, I’m not going to apologize for that,” Dawson said. “We earned our pay and a little R and R yesterday. I’ll sleep on the way, be fresh as a newborn when we arrive.” He regarded the major. “There something else?”

  “Camp Lejeune took some bad weather last night, waiting to hear from buddies there.”

  Dawson nodded and kept his mouth shut. He knew that several of the JSOC team hailed from there.

  Dawson greeted a wan-looking Flannery when they got to the airport. The NYPD had taken charge of Volner’s weapon and said that it would be returned to him at Bragg when the investigation had been completed. The major thanked them, and they went inside. He took a separate flight from the others, headed back to his command.

  Dawson had napped at the gate, napped on the flight, and napped in the car-service sedan that took them out to Fort Belvoir. It was a skill he had acquired early in his military career: grab what you can when you could. That philosophy had applied to the night before as well.

  Dawson and Flannery entered the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. After a thumb-scan background check—it matched the one Williams had forwarded—they took the elevator down. Williams and Anne were waiting for them. Flannery walked slowly, favoring his left side, a virtue of broken ribs and tight bandages.

  “Thank you for coming,” Williams said after introducing himself and his deputy. “It’s an honor.”

  Flannery complimented him warmly on the heroic actions of his team—and, by inference, their leadership—after which Anne fell in beside Flannery and led the way. Williams walked beside Dawson.

  “Hello, Brian.”

  “Hello, Chase.”

  The smiles were pursed, but the handshake was sincere. The ensuing silence between them was pregnant but well shy of awkward. As former military, both men understood that the needs of those in combat and the requirements of those in command didn’t always mesh. In a situation like this, where a battle had been exemplary, the war was permitted—though not encouraged—to go briefly on hiatus. That would end in about two minutes.

  Williams offered Flannery coffee, which the ambassador gratefully accepted, along with an everything bagel.

  “One gets spoiled by the meals on international flights,” he said.

  The ambassador’s voice was strong—a diplomat’s voice tended to rise above all challenges—but, in addition to his pallor, the man’s eyes looked beat. He sat erect in the armchair beside the table, a napkin on his lap, but Williams knew that the past twenty-four hours had taken a lot out of him.

  “Other members of the team will join us later,” Williams said as he shut the door and perched on the corner of his desk. “I wanted to have this chance to bring you up to date on what we know, what we think, and what—well, frankly, what we’re worried about.”

  “War,” Flannery said. “That’s the concern. Too many people over there are itching for it.”

  “Explain, sir,” Williams said.

  “These are all old schisms that Moscow and Kiev have inflamed,” he said. “I can put it simply. Citizens in the western and central oblasts—the provinces—are mostly pro-Western. Ukrainians in the southern and eastern oblasts are pro-Russian. Those boundaries used to be pretty clear, geographically speaking, especially when everyone had to pull together to survive economic hardships. Those difficulties were Ukrainian problems. But now, with constant news coverage, social media, bloggers, agitators of all ages, and Putin promising help and prosperity—well, you know the rest. Moscow takes territory in Ukraine, supported by those traditional Soviet-longing oblasts, and the disenchanted on both sides become more entrenched.”

  “Galina Petrenko and Fedir Lytvyn were working for people who apparently want to attack a base inside Russia,” Anne said. “Some of our people have been reviewing dossiers, trying to figure out who in the military, in government, would be part of such a group. Do you have any thoughts on that?”

  “Ms. Sullivan, it is almost impossible to speculate,” Flannery said. “Those motivated by patriotism oppose Moscow. Those who are greedy welcome Russian support. Sometimes people are both. There is very little clarity among the leaders of either side. And I would include NATO in that mix. They don’t want Putin to push them, which is why they’ve been staging these massive joint military exercises in Ukraine, more than two thousand troops in each, war games that simulate attacks from across the border.”

  “Which is one possible flash point,” Williams said, putting an image up on the big screen. “Given the buildup we’ve seen in Sudzha, in particular, we’re expecting Moscow to respond in kind,” he said, changing images. “You can see in these pictures, taken just hours apart, dozens of vehicles and hundreds of personnel have been off-loaded from Antonov An-70s and other cargo vehicles on the airstrip.”

  “The Battle of Camlann,” Flannery said sadly.

  “Sir?” Williams asked.

  “King Arthur’s final battle—right, sir?” Anne said.

  The ambassador nodded. Williams and Dawson were both visibly impressed and simultaneously perplexed.

  “Troops were massed on two sides of a line,” Flannery said. “One army for the king and the other for his rival, Mordred. A knight was bitten by an adder and drew his sword to kill the snake. Others took the drawn sword to mean the battle had been joined. There’s no record of how many warriors were lost—just the two leaders.”

  “Mutual assured destruction,” Williams muttered.

  “And that was an accident,” Dawson said, thinking aloud. “Imagine if something like that was triggered with careful calculation, with a social-media campaign in place and ready to be fired up—#PutinisHitler or #WelcometoBlitzkrieg.”

  Williams closed the pictures, regarded Flannery. “Mr. Ambassador, what I’m about to tell you must remain confidential, of course.”

  The diplomat nodded.

  “First, I am about to issue an order to insert a Special Ops team into the eastern border region of Ukraine,” Williams said.

  Everyone but Anne seemed to jerk to stillness. Extraneous sounds vanished.

  “Their mission will be to collect intelligence on movements and, more importan
t, attitudes and aberrations on both sides,” Williams said. “What’s happening, that’s not business as usual. I’ll need your help establishing mission goals. Second, neither Kiev nor Moscow will be informed.”

  Williams was expecting a protest from the ambassador. He received none.

  “You agree with both propositions?” Anne asked, moderately surprised.

  Flannery’s gangly shoulders sagged slightly. “I agree that HUMINT would be helpful if a conflagration is to be prevented, and I agree that neither government would approve of your plan. What choice is there?”

  “A diplomatic solution?” Dawson suggested. “That’s been your life.”

  “I’m not sure there is such a solution in this case,” Flannery said. “I tried to reason with two of them and failed. And they weren’t the leaders, who are invariably more determined to seize moments in time, acquire power.” The room went quiet, and then Williams resumed the briefing.

  “I spoke with our military liaison, Major Volner, while he was on his way back to Fort Bragg,” Williams said. “He’s working out the details.” Williams stopped when he saw Flannery looking down at the gold carpet. “Sir?”

  “It’s an insane world, isn’t it? I, who have always worked for peace, have just endorsed a military action and—I tell you this, I will never forget Major Volner’s face yesterday evening after he killed that Russian agent.” Flannery’s eyes were moist as they rose to meet those of the others. “Nothing in diplomacy is so resolute as what I saw in his expression. ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’ Excuse me, but—”

  “It’s all right,” Anne said with a smile.

  The ambassador smiled back at her. “‘I came, I saw, I conquered,’” he said, picking up his last thought. “I am alive because he had a touch of Caesar in him—God bless that quality which I have fought my entire career. I would never have thought that a man with eyes of steel, with a pistol firing in my direction, with a stance as fixed as some ancient Celtic statue could look so beautiful. But he did.” He turned to Dawson. “I couldn’t see you, Mr. Dawson, but I could see him. I have to thank you again for what you did.”

  Dawson had to clear his throat to find his voice. “You should tell him that,” the operations director remarked. “I know it would mean a lot.”

  “I will be sure to do that,” Flannery said.

  There was nothing uncomfortable about the ensuing silence. On the contrary, it brought everyone in the room closer together.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Williams continued carefully, “while we make plans for the team, there is one thing we don’t have. I assume you have been to the border region in Ukraine?”

  “I vacationed in the Kharkivs’ka and Luhans’ka administrative divisions,” Flannery said. “It is lovely there, mostly mountains, with wooded foothills and expansive coastal plains.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Roger McCord. Williams told him to come in and introduced the ambassador before continuing.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Williams said, “would you consider going to that region again—virtually?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If you would consider staying at Op-Center, we would like to link you via body cameras when our people go into the field,” Williams said. “It would also, frankly, keep you safe while we make sure there are no other Russian agents out there.”

  “There very well may be,” McCord said. “We picked up an alert from the General Intelligence Agency of Mongolia that a tax attorney under wiretap in an ongoing corruption investigation was interrogated by a home invader about—of all things—our virtual-reality program.”

  “How freakin’ global is this thing?” Dawson asked.

  “Apparently, the program was created by the lawyer’s son,” McCord said.

  “Was the intruder Russian?” Williams asked.

  “That’s what the GIA is trying to find out,” McCord said. “But the kid gave up a name and location: Havrylo Koval, a computer scientist who works at Bionic Hill.”

  “Kiev’s Silicon Valley,” Flannery said.

  Anne had already brought up Koval’s biography on her tablet. “Ukrainian, no known political affiliations,” she said. “He taught at Stanford—which is where Chingis Altankhuyag, the job seeker who attached the computer graphic to his reel, just graduated from. Koval was recruited to work for the Technological Support Laboratory Global, which we”— she switched screens—“believe is a research front for the Ukrainian military, though it receives its funding from an American group, International Scientific Solutions. ISS was founded by—”

  “My predecessor as ambassador to Ukraine,” Flannery said. “He reportedly made a great deal of money in the deal, which he set up during his last year in the diplomatic corps. Very shady stuff.”

  “What does ISS get out of spending a fortune in Kiev?” Dawson asked.

  “A seat at the table,” Flannery said. “Access to some of the twenty billion dollars the IMF has already loaned Kiev, and the more than two billion dollars we’ve loaned them, a great deal of which goes to energy industry subsidies—”

  “Which forms the backbone of the ISS subdivision ClimateKind,” Anne said, reading their latest security filings.

  “Sounds like a detergent,” Dawson said.

  “Before we go rooting in all that, back to this voice on the wiretap,” Williams said. “Roger, is the GIA tracking the guy?”

  “Lost him,” McCord said. “He apparently left by a basement door, no security cameras. A custodian saw someone in a black ski mask. We don’t know if he’s Russian, Mongolian, or Other, only that he’s interested in this and he’s off the radar.”

  Williams looked at Flannery. “All the more reason to watch your back, sir. He could be sent to any of the consulates in the U.S.”

  The phone on Williams’s desk performed its naval anthem. It was Matt Berry.

  “Hi, Matt, I’m here with Brian—”

  “Chase,” Berry cut him off, “turn on Fox News.”

  Williams grabbed the remote from his desk, punched the monitor back on, and changed channels.

  “My dear God,” Flannery said as he gazed up at the screen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Kiev, Ukraine

  June 3, 3:00 PM

  The large U-Haul International van was parked on Akademika Vernadskoho Boulevard, not far from the main artery of Peremohy Avenue. The vehicle sat heavy on its tires and the driver seemed to have the weight of the sky on his back.

  Ivan Glinko rolled a thick cigarette and poked it between his lips. He flicked a match with his thumb, lit it, and tried to relax. It had been a long night without sleep, a long drive with no breaks except to fill the tank, and he was exhausted. Yet, even sitting back, the older man’s watery eyes could not help but be active behind his prescription sunglasses, shifting restlessly from the rearview mirrors to the side-view mirrors—waiting and watching. There would be time enough for sleep later, when the assignment had been completed.

  A tall, relatively new residential complex was set back from the curb; it was a place where a moving van would not raise suspicion. It was also a place where he could see a particular swath of sky along the wide road.

  You won’t be here much longer, the driver thought, looking at the digital clock on the dashboard.

  He hadn’t been there long as it was, only fifteen minutes, though the gravity of the operation made it seem interminable. Everything had been loaded a half hour before. Everyone—he did not know about them. He did not know where they were going or who, exactly, they were. All he was told, by his former tank commander, was to be there at two-thirty to collect military gear—but to remain in the cab while it was loaded—and then to be here at three. He was told what to watch for, and who.

  Glinko could certainly use the forty 500 hryvnia notes, there was no doubt of that. The conflict with Russia, the chaos in the European Union, the enduringly weak global economy—none of these had worked in favor of a cab driver with a stubbornly aging taxi. Before settin
g out to deliver a crate to Bionic Hill the night before, he had been instructed not to deposit so large a sum in the bank at once, and he was just as happy to put the currency safely in a box containing his son’s military honors, including the gold-and-blue Hero of Ukraine medal.

  But there was also the matter of the man he honored, the officer his late son had served: Captain Taras Klimovich. When Lavro was killed in the heroic skirmish at Labkovicy, Klimovich came to Kiev to attend the memorial and the funeral. A patriot and a widower, Glinko had nonetheless struggled terribly with the loss of his only child. With proud, smiling eyes perched on that distinctive mustache, Klimovich not only spoke at the interment but remained behind to sit with the inconsolable father and a grieving aunt to explain the importance of the young man’s sacrifice.

  “A nation does not always remember the individual lives lost in combat, for the carnage of war is invariably vast,” the captain had said. “But this sacrifice in this battle will never be forgotten. It was a blow to the enemy, a blow to his pride, a blow to his leader. It will never be forgotten by me, nor by those who were there, and not by the foe crippled by this loss. I promise you—his family, his friends, his fellow corpsmen—the demon Putin will remember Lavro.”

  The captain had then pulled the cloth from a framed photograph standing on the podium. It showed a tank—Klimovich’s own—with the boy’s name painted on its side. It was a theatrical gesture but no less heartfelt, and practically every one of the three dozen or so attendees had wept openly.

  Three days before, when Klimovich had called, Glinko had agreed to rent this moving van and be at the two places he was told. He was instructed not to write anything down and to tell no one. Glinko had not pressed for details. A plainclothes courier had arrived with the banknotes before two hours had passed.

  The cab driver pulled on the cigarette as if it were oxygen. He had been fine until now. He had taken fares to and from Bionic Hill—he knew the roads—but this was the first time he had been to the unofficial military quarter. The animated figures and the chatter on the sidewalks of the other blocks died there, as if he’d entered a library. Heads leaned toward heads to whisper. Hands clasped tablets or laptops. There was a noticeable uptick of smokers. And no one sat on benches eating lunch. Even the sun was dimmer there, though that was an effect of the trees that had been planted when that section was completed early in the construction of the complex.