Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone

by George Galdorisi

  “The question on everyone’s mind is why? What is the purpose of this display, which seems to have a very direct goal in mind? Is this a parade or is this something more? Would a man of the stature of the Fox come out of retirement simply to march through the streets of the second-largest city in a nation oppressed by a thuggish, bullying neighbor?”

  The answer, of course, was that no one watching the return of the Fox and his ghost command would ever glean the true purpose of the tank column.

  No one, including the man at whom it was directed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sudzha, Russia

  June 4, 12:11 PM

  General Yershov was peering through field glasses, watching tank maneuvers on the airstrip, when an adjutant came running up to him.

  “General, sir, you must see this!” the young man said breathlessly, thrusting a tablet into the officer’s hands.

  Yershov had to maneuver slightly to recover the signal. The portable, mobile HF whip antenna that he used to communicate securely with the tanks was no help; even their powerful new satellite uplink was spotty due to the high hills of the eastern Russian Plain.

  When the jerky image finally flowed, it was a live feed from Ukraine’s largest TV channel, 1+1. The picture showed tanks moving slowly through the city, followed by an increasing number of civilians … and, in front, a police escort.

  “What is this?” Yershov asked, searching for the volume.

  The adjutant swiped the screen, turning up the sound. It hadn’t been low; the voice of the on-the-scene reporter had simply been drowned out by the crowds and the sound of the helicopter providing an overhead picture.

  “… the war hero the Fox has made no statement, and there is no indication as to his reason for this display,” the woman was saying. “The military has made no public or private comment about this display, and all we know is what we can see: that this tank column is moving east, in the direction of the Russian border.”

  Yershov’s phone chimed. He practically threw the tablet back at the adjutant as he answered. The general’s forehead was flushed, his breathing hard, as he let the words and the image sink in.

  “Yes?” he said without checking the identity of the caller.

  “You saw, no doubt?”

  It was Minister Timoshenko.

  “I saw, I see,” Yershov replied hotly, turning back to the tablet, which the young man cradled before him. “Did you have any idea of this?”

  “We knew nothing,” he said. “The president is not pleased with that fact.”

  Yershov motioned the aide away and walked to where he was out of earshot. “What—?” he was about to ask what Putin wanted him to do. Instead, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “They cannot be thinking of an attack,” Timoshenko said. “That would be suicide.”

  “Suicide is a tactic,” Yershov pointed out. “So is martyrdom.” Reason began to return as his tactical mind engaged. “This man has … he has been in hiding, planning this, waiting. It has to be.”

  “Waiting for us to destroy him?” the minister asked.

  “No,” Yershov said. “Waiting to cow us. Waiting to show that the battle we lost in Labkovicy sapped our courage, our will.”

  “That may be his message, but our desire is to—”

  “It doesn’t matter what we want, what we know,” Yershov interrupted. “You and I know about the crafting of the Dark Zone policy, but the people will see it differently both in Ukraine and in Russia. We will appear to be exactly what he is depicting: afraid to engage. If we don’t go to the border, he will say we are fearful. If we go only to the border, he will say we are fearful. If we cross the border—”

  “Then we will be in open defiance of the president’s orders, unless he issues new ones,” Timoshenko said, a nervous flutter in his normally obsequious voice.

  At that moment, Yershov lost even a mote of respect for the man. In a single, inspired move, Captain Taras Klimovich was paralyzing and shaming the entire Russian military … but only if they let this stand.

  “Minister Timoshenko, I must go to the border,” Yershov said, affirmatively … and defiantly.

  “General, that decision is not yours to make.”

  “The conduct of these maneuvers, ordered by the president, is entirely within my authority,” he replied.

  Timoshenko was dully silent. Yershov was already making his way to the command center when he motioned over the officer who was in charge of the drilling.

  “Colonel Dzhamanov,” he said, “prepare Columns A and B to move out, and bring in the—I will take one of the BTR-82s … number two.”

  “Seconded from sentry duty?” the older officer confirmed.

  “Seconded from sentry duty at once, Colonel!” Yershov replied. It was the most powerful vehicle he had outside the main and secondary battle tanks, and he wanted to be seen as well, standing in an open turret behind a mighty 1 × 14.5-mm., 1 × 7.62-mm. machine gun.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, saluting impressively as he turned to go.

  “General, I heard that—I urge you to be careful. Very careful,” Timoshenko said.

  “There is a difference between careful, which I am, and careless, which I am not,” he replied. “Please inform the president that I am still on maneuvers, expanding the reach and pace of the Dark Zone in accord with his stated goals and my sacred duty to safeguard the interests of the republic.”

  “I will convey that message … if Mr. Putin asks.”

  That last statement was a frank admission that whatever Yershov did was on him. He did not need to hear any more and killed the call. The minister was interested in maintaining his position, not in the honor of Russia. With no record of the call, he could claim responsibility if Yershov caused the Fox to back down … or claim to have advised against this approach if it ended in something other than a bold stalemate.

  As Yershov waited for the low-lying armored personnel carrier, he wrestled with the one demon he did not want to be present, the thirst for vengeance, payback for the dishonor of Colonel General Nikolai Novikov. In his heart, Yershov felt there was no greater prize he could bestow on his predecessor than the pelt of the man who had toppled him.

  And then the general was on board the rumbling, roaring vehicle as its eight great tires turned toward the command that awaited in the dusty haze at the end of the airstrip.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Samsun Airport, Turkey

  June 4, 7:00 AM

  The arrangements for the plane had been easy. The arrangements for clearance were not.

  Anne understood that Sumy was a private airstrip and, absent standard security or a customs accommodations, clearance for any foreign plane had to be secured from the local government that managed the field. She had anticipated that this would require a document to be filled out and filed, with a passenger manifest, any cargo, and a purpose for the visit.

  She had half expected that it would have to be filled out in Ukrainian. She was reticent to contact the embassy in Kiev, lest they start asking questions and began working their own agenda, such as currying favor with Kiev by slipping them classified intelligence. It was done all the time, and most of the time lives weren’t on the line.

  Anne had translators at her disposal, but finding them and securing their services in the small hours of the night took time. The group profile had shifted to all geologists, searching for untapped areas of groundwater, and the cargo was scientific equipment. That was in one of the bags Volner carried. If the others were checked, Moore carried thousands of dollars in American currency to help them make it through; he also carried a loaded Colt Close Quarters Battle Pistol to ensure that they did.

  When the document had been completed, it had to go to a civil servant, who would call the airfield with a landing code and a time of expiration. In this case, they had a civil servant who chose not to answer his phone. In a public emergency, a police officer would have been dispatched. That couldn’t be done f
or a group of geologists.

  So she waited, which was something she didn’t do well. When Williams arrived, he tried to convince her that there was nothing she could be doing differently.

  She understood that, but the pressure was finally beginning to lean hard on her. Like Williams, she got very quiet under pressure … as if any movement would cause a bunch of rubberbands to snap and take out eyes here and there.

  While Op-Center waited, the team also waited; energy boiled off like the morning mist. Fearing that jet lag would take hold and the men would lose their edge, Volner told everyone to review maps or walk outside the terminal in order to stay sharp and focused. Bankole sat on a bench and meditated. Flannery slept beside him, waking whenever he accidentally pulled his side.

  Volner tried not to think of all the warning signs that were screaming “abort.” Instead, he sat on the floor of the large terminal building strategizing with McCord and cartographer Allison Weill. With Anne tied up with the unexpected, he had to deal with plans that hadn’t yet been settled.

  “Roger, the airport is pretty far south of where you think the target is or was staying,” the major said.

  “But you’re near the H-07, the main automotive artery,” Weill told him. “If you can secure transport, you’ll cover that distance in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Eduardo is trying to secure a bus like the one that was waiting for you there,” McCord told him. “Wrong hour of the day to be doing that. He’s obtaining home numbers, trying to wake someone.”

  Eduardo was Anne’s executive—and only—assistant, who held a master’s in Logistics and Supply Chain Management. As efficient as Anne was, the young man was unstoppable.

  “I’m wondering if there’s another way,” Volner said. “I see there’s a river, the Strika—”

  “Too shallow in spots, even if we could arrange transport,” Weill told him.

  “Crap.” He shook his head. “Twenty miles on foot, with our gear, across city streets and then uneven terrain in the dark to avoid a checkpoint—that’s a good twelve, thirteen hours—longer if you have to factor in waiting for dark,” Volner said. “We can do that, but Flannery and Bankole can’t.”

  “We’ll find a vehicle,” McCord promised. “There are dairy farms, private shipping centers, moving companies—you throw money at a problem, it gets solved.”

  Once again, Mike Volner had a stronger than uneasy feeling about sending his people on a mission that had logistical issues to settle before they could even address the prime objective.

  “It’s Hector and it’s that deadly-force judgment you had to make in New York,” he told himself. The corrosive nature of doubt was worse than the reality of “shit happens.”

  Alerted by Op-Center, McCord also watched the events unfolding in Kharkiv. He knew, with certainty now, that the two eastward military adventures were related and most likely off the books. He saw the secure alert that Russian maneuvers had been “expanded” in the direction of the Ukrainian tank columns. There was, as yet, no comment from Kiev.

  If it’s a rogue operation, the military must be seeing the grassroots enthusiasm on the ground, wondering if they should join in. They have to decide whether to embrace or reject.

  The reality of being caught in a reckless, hair-trigger crossfire had been a concern. The prospect of being in the middle of an all-out shooting war merited careful monitoring. Volner went over to Bankole and folded him in. Williams obviously had the same thought and, with Dawson and McCord, was on the next call.

  “We’re going to watch for any additional troop movements,” McCord said. “So far, we aren’t picking up any change in DEFCON status on any other Russian or Ukrainian base.”

  “They probably don’t know about the team on the plains,” Dawson noted, “and I’m guessing they’ll let the tank commanders chest-thump for now.”

  “Most likely,” Bankole agreed. “Until they do find out about the boys headed for Sudzha. Then hell comes to the border from north to south.”

  “In any case, Major, I will back whatever call you make,” Williams told him.

  “Thank you, sir,” Volner said, though he knew that would hold very little sway if things went south and he was ever court-martialed. Williams was a civilian, and Volner was the ranking military officer. Williams also had as many enemies in the armed services as he did allies. Still, it was good to hear.

  After five endless hours, and a brief but heartfelt apology for the process, Anne had secured permission for them to land. But by that time the private Gulfstream she had engaged had run out of time to make the six-hundred-mile trip before having to fly to Ankara. She always had a backup, in this case a Bombardier Learjet 45XR that was hangared in Bingöl, Turkey. She hired the jet, after Eduardo had made certain that it would have no trouble setting down on Sumy’s 8,202-foot runway.

  Before the jet had finally been fueled and the team was on board, nearly seven hours had been spent on the ground. It was a perfect contrast between bureaucracy and action: the flight itself, the heartbeat of the mission, was just under two hours. The team wished it had been longer: the Bombardier was a corporate jet, with seductively cool air circulation and deep leather seats. Everyone slept, even Volner, though he was awakened by a ping on his tablet.

  “Mike, we have something,” McCord told him.

  The major was instantly alert as a satellite image appeared on his screen. He took it in at once, surmising that the road on the left was a part of the H-07 and that the open field to the right was the southwestern fringe of the Russian Plain.

  “Theirs?” Volner asked.

  In response, McCord sent over an NSA image of the field with seven late-afternoon shadows thrown toward the east. The time stamp was two hours earlier—ten minutes after the picture of the truck had been taken. The intelligence director sent over an image taken a few minutes later. The seven shadows had moved farther east.

  “We have to assume it’s the squad that drilled with the video,” McCord said.

  “How far to the truck?” Volner asked.

  “A little over twelve miles,” he said. He sent another image. “It was ditched before the Russian checkpoint, which you can see here.”

  Volner studied the image. It indicated what McCord had said, but nothing more.

  “What are you thinking?” McCord asked.

  “We’ve got about four hours of sunlight when we land,” Volner said. “I can’t imagine these men moving across the border in daylight.”

  “We also can’t rule it out,” McCord replied.

  Volner wanted to hit something. He needed actionable intelligence, not what-ifs. They could be farmers, for all he knew. “Ask Anne if we can get—I don’t know, a bike, an ATV, something to reach that truck, assuming it hasn’t been found and towed. Then—”

  “Brilliant,” McCord said. “You put the bike in back, return and collect the team.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about theft guards on the vehicle?” Allison asked.

  It was a question McCord expected from a Millennial who had never seen a vehicle older than his driver’s license. Volner had been raised by grandparents who owned a farm.

  “That thing is about twenty, twenty-five years old,” Volner said. “Moore can hotwire it in his sleep.”

  “I’ll let Anne know what you need,” he said.

  “And I’ll let Sergeant Moore know he’s got lone-wolf action,” Volner said. “I do believe he will remember you in his prayers.”

  “Back at Bragg,” McCord said.

  “Back at Bragg,” Volner said, solemnly repeating a phrase that was as much a prayer as a declaration.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Yunakivka, Ukraine

  June 4, 3:08 PM

  The world was born in fire. His nation would be reborn, starting with fire.

  Romanenko had left the truck parked off-road, in a small parking lot, with a sign in Russian and Ukrainian that said DO NOT REMOVE—P.O. They would need the truck to get away from the storm
they would unleash. Given the deep history of anti-gay sentiment in both nations, the major was certain no one would be inclined to remove the truck. Given the violence of Putin’s cross-border thugs, no one would dare.

  The region was technically outside the limits of the Yunakivka, but the small Ukrainian city was a jumping-off point for people visiting the border regions, which were studded with woodlands, open fields, and nature preserves. A few people were walking and, behind the men, a young family was having melon at one of ten picnic tables. There were fresh springtime buds and plantings, and Admiral Volodymyr Berezovsky had disturbed none of them. He had buried the six items behind a boulder—recognizable by an “X” chipped in the rock side facing them—in ground that melting winter ice had made especially soft. Walking over and squatting behind it, unseen by the picnickers, Tkach and Zinchenko were able to remove the items using just the latter’s knife.

  They were individually wrapped in waterproof oilcloth. Tkach handed one to Romanenko, who carefully undid the string and removed the weapon inside. It was a high-powered incendiary grenade, pin-activated, and about the size and shape of a thermos bottle. The major wrapped it and set it back with the others, kicked the dirt back in place with his foot, just enough to conceal them in the event a police helicopter or a military aircraft passed overhead. He checked his watch.

  “Find the spots that will work best,” he told his team as he looked around. “I would say the trees about twenty meters away—the one with two dead oak trunks in the center.” He looked back toward the north. “Those picnic tables. We go in ninety minutes.”

  “If people are present?” asked Marchuk.

  “We must hope there are not,” Romanenko said. He looked at his watch. They had eighty-eight minutes. This was going to be the slowest, most frustrating period in his life; anticipation couldn’t overcome the anxiety of the operation’s failing to come off as planned. Romanenko had no precedent for this. Battles were won or lost; that was the nature of war. But he had never been in command of fully half the battles in a war, as he was now. He wanted nothing less than to overachieve, to impress the Fox.