Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone

by George Galdorisi

  “Do you know the man?” Flannery asked.

  Volner shook his head. “But he’s marked A2. The brass at Bragg trust him.”

  “Then why not A1?” Bankole asked.

  “In the event of a conflict with the Republic of Turkey or the Christian population, he would still side with Ankara over any opposition,” Volner said.

  “Member of the Syriac Orthodox Church,” Bankole said, reading his dossier. “‘Syriac,’ as in ‘Syria.’”

  “That’s right,” Flannery said. “But allied with Oriental Orthodoxy and following some of the oldest Christian doctrines. Traditionally, they tend more toward monastic ideals than war.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Bankole said.

  Volner looked over. He knew from the man’s dossier that their new Op-Center liaison was a Buddhist.

  “May I ask, sir—and you’ll forgive my ignorance or tell me if I’m out of line here—but how do you reconcile war and faith?”

  “I’m still working on that,” Bankole said, laughing.

  “One of the big questions of modern times, isn’t it?” Flannery interjected.

  “Like Captain Hamzaçebi, I had a good deal of hospital time—a period when I was angry, despairing, depressed,” Bankole said. “In Buddhism I found a philosophy of personal responsibility that fit my own belief system. There’s a concept called Sarambha, which means that any human who acts on ideas that are considered destructive—dosa, for example, hatred—experiences the resulting violence as a means of self-harm. It prevents you from achieving enlightenment. It’s sort of like a kid who eats too much sugar: that’s going to delay a host of developmental ideals.”

  “Except that there’s no parent to wag a finger at you,” Flannery suggested.

  “Oh, teachers will, and should,” Bankole said. “But, ultimately, your own spiritual growth or lack thereof is on you.” He pointed at the tablet. “I read about a great many religions while I was in the hospital, and I’m willing to bet that this man has the same conflict.”

  Flannery smiled. “Would—” He stopped, winced as the aircraft bounced. “Would that we all had that same level of questioning.”

  Volner felt left out of this conversation and discreetly turned back to the map to look over the Kerch Strait and the Sea of Azov section of the journey. There were still tactics to be considered, decisions to be made. Though they would continue with Hamzaçebi to the Arrow, Anne would be making all the arrangements for their landing. Studying the map, Volner was beginning to wonder if a southern landing in Russian territory might not make more logistical sense than a longer journey south.

  Flannery noticed his attention to a map of the region.

  “You’re thinking of an early anchor?” the ambassador asked.

  “We land in Turkey shortly before dawn,” Volner said thoughtfully. “We reach the strait just before sunset. We arrive in the Azov after dark. I’m not sure we gain anything by traveling farther north and involving locals only to travel south.”

  “The Russians patrol those waters with some frequency,” Flannery said.

  “‘Some frequency’ still leaves us windows,” Volner said, requesting updates from Op-Center. “And those lost hours could matter.” He looked over at the international crisis manager. “Yes?”

  Bankole nodded. The thought of going back into potential action, a riskier landing, awakened some tameless part of him that had been dormant for years. He did not fight it down.

  “Now all I have to do is make it worth Kaan’s while,” Volner smirked, rubbing his fingers together.

  “I was hoping a discourse on religion might sway him,” Bankole half joked. But only half.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Volner went on, “we’ll get satellite data of the Russian naval patrols. Putting that aside for the moment, where is the ideal spot to go ashore in the dark?”

  “A great many Russians, well-to-do Russians, use Solyane as a health destination,” Flannery said.

  “Fishing?”

  “Some pleasure boats,” he said. “Will yours pass?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Solyane is one of the three cities on Arabat Spit—the only one in Russian-held territory.”

  “That is correct, though there is an ongoing dispute about Sevastopol.”

  “I want to avoid suspicions and disputes,” Volner said.

  “Solyane is a very small location with miles of beachfront,” Flannery said. “Though I have another suggestion.” He leaned over and scrolled south on the touch screen. “Arabat Fortress. It was built around the seventeenth century by the Turks, taken over by the Russians in 1737—another reason Putin lays historic claim to the region—and has been a part of virtually every war until now. It serves little strategic value, and at night I cannot imagine there would be tourists.”

  “Just the sea patrols,” Volner said.

  Flannery nodded.

  “Looks good to me,” Bankole said. “We could walk to the peninsula from there, probably conceal ourselves before sunup.”

  “It’s where we want to be,” Volner agreed.

  Bankole contacted Op-Center to get current surveillance from the National Reconnaissance Office and to find out how many fishing boats worked the southern Azov.

  Volner went through the cabin informing the team of the change of plans, indicating that they should look at the maps of the reason to familiarize themselves with the coast and also the northern edge of the Crimean Peninsula itself.

  “Chances are good you will need to know that region in the dark.”

  The gregarious quality that often accompanied the onset of a mission evaporated quickly as the team hunkered down to study. The only sound was the slightly muted bellow of the two large and powerful CFM56-7 engines and the rattle of the gear stowed aft.

  Volner could also hear his heart in his ears, only part of which was due to the altitude. Unlike the others, he was aware of the hair-trigger politics of the region and the reality that recon could quickly turn to self-defense, with rules of engagement that were sharply against them.…

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Semenivka, Poltava Oblast, Ukraine

  June 3, 10:00 PM

  It was the confirmation Captain Taras Klimovich had been waiting for … the words he had been hoping for.

  An indispensable operative working in the woods outside Sudzha had reported that an Mi-24PN attack helicopter had landed just a few hours before at the airstrip of the new base. According to intelligence from St. Petersburg, the likely occupant was Colonel General Anatoly Yershov. The report had been pieced together from two separate and discreet sources: the forward observer at Sudzha himself, and a deep-cover welder at the Leningrad shipyard, a soldier who had gone to Russia with forged documents when the first stirrings of war erupted. The two men didn’t know about each other, but Klimovich knew them both.

  The reports confirmed Klimovich’s own suspicions that this was the man Putin would send. A seasoned tank commander and the obvious choice to firmly reestablish the honor lost by his predecessor, General Novikov, whose name and career the Fox had destroyed.

  Or, rather, enabled the general himself to destroy, he thought. Pride goeth before destruction, and Novikov had a medaled chest full of it.

  And Putin—the modern czar also had his simple, predictable ways.

  Putin does nothing that is complicated, the Ukrainian officer thought. He does not have the capacity to think in any direction but a straight line, through something.

  Putin would try and do that via his proxy Yershov. A perfect pair to take the bait that Klimovich had prepared.

  It was late, it was dark and moonless, and it was time to move. The officer smoothed his mustache, then checked his appearance in the full-length mirror in the closet. It wasn’t vanity, not really. But appearances mattered, and he was pleased to see that he still wore the uniform with crisp ease. This would be the first time he had gone out in uniform in months. He had been wary of being spotted by satellite, by unmann
ed drone, by traitors—any of the assets the Kremlin retained in the region. Now there was no longer any reason to hide. At some point—and that time would come very, very soon—he wanted Yershov to know that the Fox was here … and on his doorstep.

  He will bite, the captain thought confidently. A man like him must.

  Klimovich’s part of the plan was simple. He would rejoin his command, a tank corps that did not exist on any listings or charts in Kiev and was known to only a handful of high-ranking loyalists in the Ministry of Defense. It was based in the town of Kharkiv, in the Slobozhanshchyna region of eastern Ukraine—just twenty miles from the Russian border. It was an old factory, an apparent graveyard of more than four hundred tanks, supposedly abandoned. To any Russian surveillance, it had the carefully maintained appearance of a metal graveyard.

  It was anything but that. For well over a year, under the cover of night, shielded by the factory walls and the inordinately high grasses, the vehicles had been scrupulously maintained. Ordnance and supplies had been relocated to the heavily fortified compound, which was monitored 24/7 by unseen patrols and cameras.

  When Klimovich arrived, when his old tank crews made their way there—some on leave, some retired, a handful forced to go AWOL from current assignments—this dead army would spring to life. And, alive, it would move toward the unsuspecting Russian border like ghosts from a war gone by.

  It would be a shock to Moscow to see half of those tanks alive and on the move. The word would go out, by morning, that the Fox was taking his command on maneuvers in Ukrainian territory.

  Then it would be up to Yershov. If he moved, Klimovich would slow. If he didn’t move, Klimovich would begin to assert indomitable control over the western fringes of Ukrainian territory. Then, when Putin felt the teeth of the Fox near his throat, he would have three choices: do nothing, which was unthinkable; commit airpower, which would be restricted from crossing the border—a provocative ploy he had tried against Bulgaria in 2016 and which drew wide international censure—or, if they did, risk being fired upon; or send his tank corps to form a barricade on the other side.

  Putin would have to commit his tanks.

  And when Yershov moved out, Klimovich’s other team would move in. A seven-man team that Yershov, Putin, and Sudzha would never see coming … and, if everything went as planned, would never see leaving, either.

  Klimovich went downstairs to a waiting police car—driven by one of his old lieutenants—and, after an embrace, they set out on a mission the Fox had designed to inflame a population that had been kept down for far too many decades.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sumy, Ukraine

  June 4, 12:35 AM

  The train station in this northeastern Ukrainian city presented a sharp contrast to the architectural splendor of the Kyiv-Passazhyrskiy Railway Station. It is a long rectangular structure, three stories high, that looks as if cinder blocks had been piled on a foundation of sandstone. The saving grace is the big windows, which—when it is sunny—blanket the interior with light.

  The train was typically but not inconveniently late. Major Romanenko and his team emerged on a seasonably chilly night and, separating, took different routes on the short, southward walk to the Yubileinaia, a high-end hotel. The six men had four separate rooms there, all on the ground floor, and each arrived with different cover stories; however, none of the staff inquired. Since landing near the front line of war, the hotel had been busy and turned an unseeing eye to whoever came and went.

  “It’s like my grandfather used to say about hotels in Morocco and other neutral states during World War Two,” Tkach told Romanenko when they entered the suite they shared. “Always changing hands, ready to move whichever way the new conqueror decreed.”

  The team members showered and ordered room service over the course of two hours. During that time, Romanenko and Tkach had the additional task of checking the backpacks and duffel bags that had been delivered to their room earlier in the day. These were marked “Crimea Geological Survey.” The bags and the logo were scuffed to make them look field-worn.

  In a duffel bag, each man would find a Fort-14TP handgun; a compact Fort-221 assault rifle; a half-dozen RGD-5 hand grenades that had been found in a small arms cache left behind by Russian forces; and a Kevlar vest. The backpacks contained extra ammunition. One grip, larger than the rest, contained a UAG-40 grenade launcher, the latest production model. It was a sleek, compact work of military art. Setting it on its collapsible stand, Romanenko stepped back and took in the charcoal-black barrel. It was the first time he’d smiled since destroying the Long Barracks.

  The man who had delivered the bags showed up at 3:45. All of the men had been told to make their way to Romanenko’s room before then, when the halls were quiet and empty. All six team members were drinking coffee when he arrived.

  The man was an imposing figure, normally standing six feet three; his work boots gave him another inch. He was broad-shouldered and dressed like a laborer except for the distinctive black beret—a sign of allegiance to Captain Taras Klimovich.

  Two years and two months before, in an act of stunning self-sacrifice, Admiral Volodymyr Berezovsky, the fifty-seven-year-old chief of the general staff of the Ukrainian military, had publicly sworn his allegiance to the pro-Moscow movement in Crimea. The Ukrainian president, Viktor Yanukovych, dismissed him at once. Only the president and select members of the government knew that the defection was a sham and that Berezovsky had resigned in order to gather whatever intelligence he could for Kiev.

  It was Berezovsky who, upon the death of agents Petrenko and Lytvyn, had been forced to get close enough to the newly operational base in Sudzha to send reports to Captain Klimovich. And to leave a package in the woods outside Yunakivka, in Ukrainian territory. One that Russia would never forget.

  Romanenko and his team saluted the former officer. The steady gray eyes glistened at the tribute. It had been an extremely challenging twenty-six months, a time when his family in Ukraine had been subjected to ridicule and shame. But those days, that psychological prison sentence, was about to come to an end.

  “Captain Taras Klimovich sends compliments to Major Romanenko and his team,” Berezovsky said, returning the salute.

  “We are deeply honored,” Romanenko replied.

  The admiral peered through the half-open bedroom door, saw that the gear he’d brought to the room had been divided among the men and was stacked crisply on the bright-red bedspread. All that was missing was the materiel he had left in the field over a period of weekend leaves lasting several months—weapons that would have made travel through the forests awkward for the team.

  “I am happy to report that the captain has arrived safely and without incident in Kharkiv,” Berezovsky told them. “He has been to the factory, preparations have been completed, and twenty-one hours from now the entire command will move east.” He paused for a moment to look into the eyes of every man present. “There has never been a moment like this in our nation—or in the history of any nation. An army will rise and, with it, the spirit of a people. And yet you six are the heart of this mission. Whatever happens, while the Russians are distracted and confused in the northeast, it is your strike against Sudzha that will be a knife in their heart.

  “I am also pleased to tell you—and I have just returned from that location—that since the arrival of the new commander there appear to be no perimeter changes,” Berezovsky went on. “If the armored columns are drawn away, and you follow the training video—or whatever you call that creation—you should have no difficulty getting inside.”

  The men were silent. They had drilled for this—the maneuvers were in their muscle memory. Even surprises, holes left by the failure of Galina Petrenko and Fedir Lytvyn to acquire information—even that would be overcome, they were determined, by darkness, by teamwork, by the blunt surprise of their audacious plan.

  Now the import of the moment, of the approach of H-hour, made its way into their souls. When they struck, the
Russians would know at once that they had fallen for a feint designed to leave the base vulnerable. When they struck, Moscow would realize that the entire attack plan had been announced beforehand, laid out in the leaked virtual film—but they had been unable to make that simple connection. Both the military and the intelligence network would suffer a global humiliation and personnel changes that rocked the Kremlin.

  Then, with luck, anti-Russian members of the government would have the public support to act, and to act decisively. The time would be right to take Kiev from the moderates and retake Crimea from Moscow.

  Romanenko was shown a map of the location of the two heavily wooded locations with ordnance the admiral had left for the men. When Romanenko had memorized the locations, the map was burned. Then Berezovsky broke out the bottle of vodka he had packed for a toast.

  “To the cause,” he said simply, as the men raised two glasses and a bottle cap while the others passed the bottle itself.

  There was a round of embraces, after which the admiral said his leave ended at ten and he had to hurry to rejoin his command on the Azov. However, he paused at the door and looked back at a clock on a lamp stand.

  “In less than twenty-four hours from now, you will make history,” he said. “I am proud to have met you all.”

  And then he was gone and the door clicked behind him, and six men stood with the vodka and their thoughts—but only for a moment. Romanenko turned and regarded the clock.

  “It’s four oh one,” he announced. “The countdown has begun.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Washington, D.C.

  June 3, 7:07 PM

  “How the hell do you do it, Matt?”

  Brian Dawson’s question to Matt Berry was rhetorical, but Berry answered anyway.

  “Because I love it.”

  The men sat across from each other in a small booth at the Nookery on Connecticut Avenue NW. For a metropolis keenly sensitive to political correctness, the near–double entendre of the name of the singles bar was refreshing. It had received a lot of attention before it opened—“It’s a place to plug in your tablet and read,” Heather Jacks, the proprietor, had insisted—and it had grabbed an overflow of hip young clientele from day one. Dawson and Berry were not that, but the owner was Berry’s cousin and they always managed to get a table.