Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone

by George Galdorisi

  There was a solemn quiet as they listened to the arrival of PFC Siegel with the truck and the men loaded up. Williams wished Bankole luck.

  “They’re getting the minister from a meeting,” Dawson informed him.

  Williams nodded. He felt numb. Anne’s look was anything but.

  “This is a very, very fluid situation, Chase,” she said. “Fluid like gasoline. I know you know that, but if—and this is a very real possibility—if our team intercepts and terminates the Ukrainian squad, there may be casualties on both sides. And, more than that, those who survive will be in Russian territory and in Russian hands.”

  “You’re right,” Williams said. “I do know that. And I’d love to have another—”

  What he was about to say was cut off by a shout and the sound of gunfire.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Sumy Airport, Ukraine

  June 4, 4:44 PM

  The clarity of the Ukranian master plan, the brilliant simplicity of the master plan, all became apparent to Paul Bankole as the truck sped onto the H-07—and then immediately slowed in a mass of traffic and ugly black mist.

  Draw away the tanks. Draw away local resources. Make it difficult to approach the border from the west. Draw attention north and south—then slip a team into the east and give Putin a black eye. On his own territory, as he did to Ukraine. And at a time when any tantrum he might throw, however hard, would necessarily be brief because his nation was bankrupt.

  After that skirmish at Labkovicy, those who had been paying attention realized that Captain Taras Klimovich was a formidable tactician. What they didn’t realize was that his disappearance after the battle was also a tactical move, a retreat so that he—and presumably it was he, using his resources and reputation to win secret allies—could plan this operation.

  It was neither necessary nor desirable for the government or the military to have known. All that was required was the participation of key players here and there to help deflect attention from the abandoned tank factory in Kharkiv, the careful leak of a virtual program to see how Russia would—or wouldn’t—deploy its assets. For Klimovich, this was a no-lose scenario. Bankole didn’t believe he would cross the border. There was no need. If Russia attacked Kharkiv, he would end up either victorious or martyred. If the Russians didn’t attack across-border, he showed the bear to be without claws and he emerged the leading patriot of his day, of his era, the most influential man in the region.

  A little farther south, this fire—quite literally a fire wall—to allow an élite team to approach Putin’s proud new base, attack, immolate the enemy using incendiary devices, and fade into the dusk. Putin could rage, but the world would cheer the Ukrainian heroes. Putin could attack, but a move into northern Ukraine, not far from the border with Belarus, would almost certainly drive that increasingly Western-leaning nation away from Moscow and result in a wider regional war—which, again, Putin could not afford to fight.

  There was no way that Klimovich’s overall objectives could be blunted, save one: if the attack at Sudzha failed to come off.

  Perhaps that was the elusive quality that kept us moving forward, Bankole thought, the seasoned warrior’s sixth sense, a sense of destiny even when the objective was neither clear nor present.

  Sitting on the floor in the back of the truck, the flaps drawn shut, Bankole had expressed his thoughts to Major Volner. The officer had been studying his tablet, looking at a 3-D view of the region. He looked up sharply.

  “I have a man taking fire,” Volner said. “I heard him call out. That’s my only interest right now.”

  “We don’t know his situation,” Bankole pointed out. It was an innocent observation with stupidly unanticipated results.

  “We know he’s been offline for five minutes, and I will not lose another man. Siegel!” The major turned toward the cab of the truck, directly overhead. The slot between the compartments was open.

  “Sir?”

  “Status?”

  “Nobody’s moving!”

  “Off road, now!” he yelled. “We can take this incline—looks like bushes and rocks below. Small, erosion protection—go!”

  Flannery was sitting beside Bankole. The international crisis manager felt the ambassador’s hand on his forearm; until then, he hadn’t realized how tense he was. Bankole nodded with understanding.

  Small objectives, big objectives, he thought. Even in the military, he had been a big-picture man. In his new faith, it was the same: his eyes looked away from the world of desire to the realm of the higher deities. But it takes all kinds to make a world, and to make it function.

  The truck nosed toward the south and then charged forward, braking sharply as it rode the slope to a mushy field and shooting over it hard and fast to keep from becoming mired. He heard the shouts of other drivers through the flap, but their voices were lost in the thick cloud of smoke. He heard the slap of squeaky windshield wipers and the oaths of the driver.

  Then they smelled, then tasted, the smoke.

  “Cover up!” Volner yelled, and every man used whatever he had to improvise a breathing filter—handkerchief, collar, cap, socks.

  Bankole kept watch on Flannery, who had a large white handkerchief over his face. He could see it darkening as they rode through the smoke. There were coughs here and there, held breath, shouted updates from Siegel that either “I can’t see shit!” or “I’m seeing a clearing!”

  The passage was bumpy and interminable, as if they were lost in a limbo where even the sounds of sirens were muted. There were helicopters high overhead, from the sound of it; unable to come lower for fear of their engines choking, the occupants were most likely blind to whatever was going on below.

  And then a cheer from the cab, and they were through it.

  At Volner’s command, one of the men peeked through the flap. “Just open field back there, sir.”

  “Siegel, get us through some goddamn woods now!”

  “They’re thick, sir! We can get into R1, but I’m not sure we can get out!”

  Volner swore. “Don’t stop the truck,” he said, then turned to the twelve other men in back. “Hunter, Canter, Bankole, Flannery, you stay here. The rest out now, with me. Double time, safeties off at the sound of gunfire!”

  Like paratroopers, the eight team members went out the back with practiced precision and raced ahead of the bouncing truck.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Sudzha, Russia

  June 4, 5:01 PM

  Lying in a furrow where he’d ditched the Dnepr, Moore had two reasons to kick himself.

  First, he should have realized after the flyover that a flashing red motorcycle would be presumed to have been sent by the ministry. A single bike would have a better chance than a helicopter of getting in and out of Russian territory, unseen, and bringing back intel. Especially if there were no drones in the region, or there were drones but too many trees.

  And an unarmed drone wouldn’t be helpful here in any case, he thought as he hunkered down.

  Second, he shouldn’t have raced ahead and flashed the sons of bitches. His intention had been to cause them to drop, as they had with the helicopter, give Volner time to catch up. But flashing them—

  See reason one, he thought now.

  The good news was the Ukrainian troops couldn’t proceed as long as he was ahead of them. The bad news was the Ukrainian troops couldn’t proceed as long as he was ahead of them. And they had, now, no time to waste.

  Gunfire pinged the earth around him. The shots were coming from slightly different positions. They were moving to encircle him and close in, while he couldn’t move anywhere. Though he had weapons, they were all in his backpack, which was still tied to the bike. His phone was on the other side of the bike. At least the major would be able to pinpoint his location … if the Ukrainians didn’t get there first.

  You’re gonna have to get your semi at some point, he thought. Some point soon. He was looking back, wondering if he could possibly make it to the other side o
f the bike, use it for protection the way cowboys used to do with their horses.

  Coin toss, baby, he thought. Hold out or wait for the cavalry? He was okay dying with his boots on, but he’d hate to run for his backpack and get tagged just as help arrived. His last thought would be a word that used to get his mouth scrubbed clean.

  He listened for the truck and heard nothing. That wasn’t good.

  He jumped as a bullet pinged in the shallow trench he was in. They were gaining height on him. It might be only seconds before they could shoot down.

  He swore. He was going to have to—

  “Stand down!” he heard from somewhere in the distance … and in blessed, blessed English.

  He heard muted chatter in what he assumed was Ukrainian. He knew what they had to be thinking: Who are these assholes, and do we take this other asshole hostage?

  That instant of distraction, when he suspected they had to be reconnoitering their own rear, was when Moore moved. He bolted from the trench and crawled like a bloody gecko on a screen to the bike. Gunfire bit the ground behind him as he flipped over the chassis, slapped a hand on the backpack, and, bending low, felt for the zipper. He pulled it back as bullets banged off the underside of the Dnepr and deflated both tires with a poofing hiss.

  He felt the barrel of his XM8 assault rifle and slipped the 5.56-mm. weapon toward him. He suddenly felt very, very whole. He felt protected. He crouched there and waited.

  From this position, he could see the enemy. He could see them down low now … one man gathering together three packages.

  He used his foot to feel for the phone. He found it, dragged it toward him. Bracing the weapon against his shoulder, his right hand trigger ready, he used his left hand to text the major:

  Incendry iminnt

  He wasn’t sure if Volner would get the message, and he wasn’t sure which way the Ukrainians planned to fire them up.

  Just then, everyone fell very quiet as they heard the truck pull up. The Ukrainians had to assume it was backup—though arms were patted and fingers were pointed as they recognized the vehicle.

  Then he heard a voice in Ukrainian coming from the direction of the truck.

  Flannery.

  Whatever he was saying, the men were talking about it. Two of them were growling at the others—one of those was the man with the incendiaries. He shook his head violently and, with the other dissenter, they started crawling deeper into the wood … toward the Russian base.

  Moore sprayed the area several yards ahead of them with gunshots. The men dropped as their comrades returned fire, forcing Moore to abandon his position as the bike was chewed to sharp-edged ruin. That flurry drew reports from Volner’s team, the shots passing overhead—but not by much. Everyone went down. The woods were suddenly silent again.

  Flannery resumed. Now all the men but one thought it best to turn back. That one was still the man with the incendiaries. He pointed ahead. He seemed intent on going there and, unwrapping what Moore now saw was an industrial-size incendiary grenade, he pulled the pin and rose enough to hurl it behind him.

  As he did, his forehead exploded forward, toward Volner and his team. Moore’s eyes shot east.

  “Russian sniper!” he cried.

  That was a concern, though less so than the fact that as the Ukrainian soldier went down the pinless incendiary went with him.

  Everyone ran, including Moore, heedless of the sniper and with the kind of survival panic he had seen only on the Animal Planet. There was no further fire from the Russian; as everyone circled west, the trees erupted into a fireball. A shockwave of heat preceded it, causing the sweat on Moore’s neck to superheat and burn, turning the MAW and the phone both hot as griddles and propelling him to greater speed.

  There were shouts from the American team as Ukrainians appeared.

  “Drop your weapons! Now!” was the main one, which Flannery translated. Though Moore couldn’t imagine that was needed.

  Away from the fire and concealed from the base by a now familiar oily black smoke, he made his way, on surprisingly wobbly legs, in the direction of the voices.

  Moore winced as hot sweat seared his eyes. He could barely see the Ukrainians being rounded up by his teammates.

  “I oughta have your ass!” the major barked when he saw his sergeant.

  “You might wanna hold off on that,” he said. “I thought I was gonna die out there.”

  Volner’s angry expression cracked, and he gave it up altogether. He hugged the sergeant, who held tight.

  “Me, too,” Volner said as he stepped back. “Glad you didn’t. Get in the truck and—you got your phone?”

  Moore wagged it.

  “Update Ops—and one other thing,” Volner said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Figure out how you’re gonna pay the air-traffic controller for the bike.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Valuysky District, Belgorod Oblast, Russia

  June 4, 5:33 PM

  From the head of his armored column, Colonel General Yershov watched the tanks of Captain Taras Klimovich moving east along the T2104. He had stopped following the press reports, turned off the radio in his headset, stopped listening to the cheers of the easily moved and deluded people of Kharkiv, of Petrivs’ke, of Bilyi Kolodyaz’, of every city and town through which the young Ukrainian tank commander passed. Klimovich wasn’t even a smart officer, for Yershov didn’t need to watch the news to know where he was. Like a whale, his position was given away by the gulls circling overhead—in this case, the press helicopters.

  What are they expecting to do? Yershov wondered. Record your march into Russia or capture your retreat from conflict? There was no scenario on earth in which, on an open road, that approaching column could match the strength or firepower of the Russian column.

  But then it really didn’t matter to the general what was on Klimovich’s mind. What mattered was that Russian honor be maintained and in one case restored. Vladimir Putin would not lose face in a brash assault on Russian sovereignty, and the reputation of Colonel General Nikolai Novikov would regain some of its luster with the defeat of the Fox. One tread, one gun, one foot passing over the border would result in a decisive and overwhelming defense of the homeland.

  Yershov thought, in passing, of the obvious futility of the captain’s position and wondered if he had lost his perspective or embraced his infallibility, or both, during his three years in hiding.

  There was a voice in his headset. It was the driver signaling Yershov on the inter-vehicle information system.

  “Minister Timoshenko for you, highest priority,” the young man said.

  “Thank you,” Yershov replied, switching to the secure channel. He believed—he prayed—that this was an order from the president himself to do whatever was necessary to stop the Ukrainian column. Yershov could not imagine Timoshenko himself assuming such a responsibility.

  “General, you are to return to Sudzha at once,” the minister said without inflection or preamble.

  Yershov was surprised—and confused. “Minister, the tank column from Kharkiv—”

  “Is a distraction to which you have submitted,” the minister replied. “Your base was the target. The attempted siege has been averted while you were in the field.”

  Yershov felt his body empty of soul, his mind lose its capacity to think. He saw the puffs of smoke from the approaching tanks, heard the distant treads … could swear they were voices, laughing at him.

  “The president has demanded that upon your return you submit your resignation,” the minister went on. “Colonel Dzhamanov has already been appointed acting commander.”

  “Already,” Yershov said dumbly. He was not even to be allowed the dignity of a handover.

  “General, turn your tanks around at once!” Timoshenko barked.

  “Yes,” Yershov replied. Numb, dull fingers changed the digital setting to give the command.

  There was a lurch as the armored personnel carrier swung to the south to pivot, lea
ding the tanks the way a caterpillar pulls its own body.

  Ahead, in the slanting sun, lay the breadth of all of great Mother Russia, with its myriad people and time zones, climates and ethnicities, history and future.

  A future in which he would have no part.

  He had lost a nation, he had lost his president—Putin had abandoned him—he had lost his standing and his work. He would also lose his dacha, which was only for the wealthy or the privileged. He was, now, neither.

  He stood in the open hatch, because if he descended into the darkness now he would never get up. Instead, through tears, he looked at his country and he thought of his wife, and he told himself that he must be strong for her. Not because she needed it, but she would need him not to come apart. It would not be fair to ask her to carry them both.

  We will have no more than we began with, he thought, a small flat in a large city where I am anonymous.

  He could do that if they were together. He could survive that if he held on to one thing more: that somewhere, someday, a tank commander would look into this story and understand. A colonel or general who would do for him what he had attempted to do for Novikov.…

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Kharkiv, Ukraine

  June 4, 5:59 PM

  The advance toward Russia ended as planned, in proud Prykolotne, a railroad center that Captain Klimovich intended to become the new forward post for his tank corps. Given all that Havrylo Koval had seen today, he did not doubt at all that it would come to pass.

  There had been no word from Major Romanenko’s team, and no news about an attack on Sudzha. But there had been news reports about a second fire burning inside Russia, and that personnel from the base were in the process of extinguishing it. It sounded very much as if an incendiary device had gone off—and, for whatever reason, it marked the ultimate forward advance of the team.

  Koval felt sadness for them, but not surprise. From the beginning of the virtual drilling, he had sensed that Major Romanenko was operating on tenuous hope and an abundance of military swagger. Not that he couldn’t have pulled it off: he and his team appeared to believe they could. And they came close. But close was not victory. Koval wondered now if Captain Klimovich had ever truly expected them to succeed in damaging the base. This had been about shaming Russia, and the turn-back of the enemy column seemed to indicate that it had worked. The only reason to leave was if something had happened near or to their home base.