Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  Logan waited for Santiago to begin. It was his show, at least inside the Tomb, and Logan respected the professional boundaries.

  “Major Fedor Azarov, second in command of an elite Russian VDV Spetsnaz unit that was ordered to provide electronic SIGINT force protection, as well as electronic communications jamming, as part of a mil-to-mil agreement between the Russians and the Venezuelan army,” Santiago said. “They thought it was part of an exercise, but they’d been briefed by their commanding officer, the one you killed, that there could be a real threat by hostile forces unknown, which is why they had live ammunition and protective measures in place.”

  “That’s a convenient cover story,” Cole replied. “No way he thought that, especially as the second in command.”

  “You watched the interrogation,” Santiago responded. “He might be lying about some things, but I believe he’s telling some of the truth as well. He looks shell-shocked and devastated at the knowledge that we just wiped out his entire unit except him. He’s in disbelief.”

  Logan nodded. He could relate. Both he and John had been in that exact emotional hole after their Force Reconnaissance platoon had been ambushed just outside of Fallujah, Iraq, at an insurgent compound. They’d been misled by a CIA officer into believing one of Saddam Hussein’s HVTs had been using it as a bed-down location. There was no HVT, and most of Logan’s platoon had been brutally slaughtered, killed in the initial mortar attack or executed by the insurgent leader as the Marines who’d survived the barrage lay dying. While Logan and John and the remaining Marines had fought their way out of it and killed every last insurgent, that day had led to Logan’s separation from the Marine Corps and a downward spiral into depression and alcoholism. Fortunately, he’d come back from the brink when the Organization had brought their shadow war to his house in Annapolis, Maryland. But he knew how the Russian felt, and he could genuinely commiserate with him.

  “Let me talk to him, while you translate,” Logan said to Santiago. “Once he hears what I have to say, whatever he’s holding back, he’ll tell us. Trust me on this one.”

  Santiago nodded. Logan West was the reason his precious Camila had been given a fighting chance. And he’d already proven himself to be the fierce warrior and leader that Santiago had been led to believe he was. Whatever the American needed or wanted, Santiago would provide. “Let’s give it a try.”

  “You’re not going to go Amira on him, are you?” Cole asked, the subtlest concern in his voice. Amira Cerone had used one of her stilettos to slice off a Chinese prisoner’s finger after they’d been ambushed in Khartoum. Logan and Cole had been kidnapped, and she’d gone straight to the most extreme measures, no small talk or niceties beforehand.

  “No. He’s been through enough, and I don’t need to. Trust me on this, brother,” Logan said.

  Cole nodded. “Good luck.”

  Less than a minute later, Logan and Santiago sat across from Major Fedor Azarov.

  Up close and under the bright white lights, combined with physical exhaustion and stress, the Russian looked ragged, the tolls of the earlier combat worn like a battle mask. No more than thirty-five, the man had short brown hair and a short beard, but like Logan, no matter how hard he tried to blend in with a civilian environment, the military and warrior mind-set shone through. It was always the eyes, alert, inquisitive, and prepared.

  Fedor looked at Logan with a combined expression of hostility, interest, and concern, as if internally assessing whether or not the newcomer was a threat.

  “Do you speak English, Major Azarov?” Logan asked, meeting the man’s gaze.

  “I do,” Fedor replied in a thick Russian accent. “It’s one of the unit requirements, especially for what we were and where we operated.” The past tense was intentional, laced with contempt, but the implication was clear: they had been global.

  “I figured as much,” Logan replied, nodding in confirmation. “Do you know who I am?”

  “The man responsible for killing my brothers, my friends. The devil in the flesh,” Fedor answered, the anger spilling forth from him in a flurry of words.

  Santiago sat quietly, waiting for Logan to respond, to see how he would respond to the verbal assault.

  “That anger you’re feeling, you’re going to hold on to it. You’re going to tell yourself that evil men killed your friends and comrades. At first, it’s going to fuel you, like the world’s worst, most poisonous energy. But you’re going to welcome it, because it will remind you that you survived. You’ll train harder, once your injuries heal, to make sure what happened to you never happens again. And you’ll think that dark rage is your friend, focusing your mind, body, and soul. And you’ll welcome it.” Logan leaned forward, Fedor’s attention fixed solely on the intense man in front of him. “But I know something you don’t, and I would not lie to a fellow warrior, even on the opposite side of the battlefield: it’s going to destroy you, corrupt you from the inside, erode your ability to think professionally, and chip away at the clear lines of your moral compass, until one day, you won’t remember the man you were. And on that day, you will be so distraught that you will become self-destructive, maybe to the point of taking your own life, maybe not. But mark my words, it will happen.”

  “Why do you speak of such things?” Fedor asked after a moment, controlling the rage that seethed beneath.

  “Because what happened to you happened to me in Iraq in 2004, when most of the Marines under my command were slaughtered by an evil butcher motivated by religious extremism and a thirst for blood,” Logan stated bluntly.

  “And how are you different from the man that killed your Marines?” Fedor challenged.

  “I’m not motivated by religious extremism, greed, power, or influence. I don’t care about any of those things. The only thing I do care about is stopping the chaos that has been spreading across the globe over the past few years, stopping innocent people from getting killed as a result of a shadow war raging between two sides of a secret organization, the same organization that sent your unit here,” Logan finished, allowing his words to sink into the man’s battered psyche.

  Logan sat back, waiting. Santiago was motionless beside him.

  “What are you talking about?” Fedor replied. “The colonel told us this was part of an exercise. I told him that as well,” he said, nodding at Santiago. “That’s the truth.”

  “No,” Logan said. “That’s the truth he wanted you to believe. I’m sorry to tell you, he used your unit, your motto, to control you. He may have been your leader, your comrade, your brother-in-arms, but he still used you. I know this to be true, as do you, even if you won’t admit it.”

  The briefest of cracks appeared momentarily on the Russian’s face, revealing the internal struggle at knowledge he wished he could deny. It’s not going to be that easy, Logan thought. Keep pressing.

  “Let me ask you something,” Logan said, leaning across the table. “Did you talk to anyone in your chain of command, other than your colonel? And if not, was that normal?”

  Fedor paused, but after a moment he said, “Usually we have a brief with our brigade commander, but for this deployment the colonel activated the team, and we left Kubinka the next day.” More silence, before he added, “But that doesn’t prove anything. The colonel told us that it was a last-minute request from the Venezuelan government, channeled through our embassy here. You know who we are, what we’ve done, where we go. While out of the normal, it wasn’t unheard of.”

  Logan considered the response and knew that Fedor either believed the explanation or at least wanted to. Logan needed to hammer home the reality for him, to get him to break through his denial.

  “I’m tired, Fedor,” Logan said honestly, surprising the Russian. “I’ve killed more men than I care to remember. Do you remember the Russian unit operating in Alaska last year? It made international news after being leaked. Our government sucks at keeping secrets, but that’s another matter. More importantly, your government disavowed knowledge of that unit and
actually provided a dossier on every one of the team. They too, like you, had been sent on a mission, but not by your government.”

  “That was you, wasn’t it, who killed them?” Fedor asked, the truth beginning to dawn in the dark crevices of his mind.

  “It was, just like I killed your team tonight, or at least some of them,” Logan added. “I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have a choice. Your comrades ambushed us, and no matter what, like you, I will not fail my mission.” Logan paused intentionally for effect. Come on, Fedor. Take the bait. Ask me.

  “What exactly is your mission?” Fedor asked.

  Bingo. Gotcha. Game over. “To find the vice president of the United States, who has not been captured by a militia, if you’ve been paying attention to the news, but in fact has betrayed his own country, is responsible for the deaths of scores of people, and fled the US like the coward that he is.”

  For the first time, a look of concern washed away some of the hostility, as the real danger and the implications of this story presented themselves. “Why are you telling me this? What does this have to do with me or my unit?”

  “Because whether you know it or not, the vice president is either here or on his way here, and you have been helping make that happen,” Logan said.

  Real anguish broke through the Russian’s features, as the gravity of what he’d been a part of was laid bare for him to behold. He and his unit had been betrayed by their commanding officer and misled to their deaths. The emotional pain was palpable in the room.

  Logan remembered the rage he’d felt toward the deceased CIA officer who’d done the same thing to Logan and his Marines, albeit under much different circumstances. While he empathized with the Russian, he didn’t have the luxury of time. Make him see it all for what it is, and give him the choice.

  “Here’s the brutal truth, Fedor. I didn’t want to kill you or your comrades. In fact, I tried to save your commander before the cable car broke free with him on top of it, sending him to his death. It’s the truth. I have no war with you, but I swear to God as my witness, that I am at war with those that are helping our traitorous vice president, and I will stop at nothing to find him, literally. And you have unfortunately found yourself in my crosshairs, with only one choice left to make—and it’s an easy one. Do you want to live?”

  Fedor realized in that moment that he had no options. The American was a man possessed, and he would not be denied.

  “One of two things is going to happen,” Logan continued. “You are either going to tell me everything I need to know, no matter how small, after which you will be remanded to your embassy here when this is over, or you will spend the remainder of your days here in this hellhole. And trust me—this place will drive you insane. You can feel it, can’t you?” Logan asked. “That’s what it’s intended to do, to break a man’s spirit and will. I personally despise the fact that places like this exist, but like I told you, my mission comes first. So I ask you, one time—do you want to live, Major Fedor Azarov, or do you want to die slowly, quietly, as you sink into madness?”

  Fedor answered in less than five seconds. “Before I answer, I have one question.”

  “Go ahead,” Logan said, more out of curiosity than concern.

  “What happened to the man who killed your men?” Fedor asked, legitimate interest in his voice.

  When Logan answered, he spoke quickly in order to control the pain and anger that still resided just below the surface of those memories. “Myself, my platoon sergeant, and a handful of Marines survived the initial attack. We ambushed the insurgents as they tried to come inside the compound we were pinned down in. We ended up flanking the remaining enemy, killing all of them, including their mortar teams, with fifty-caliber machine guns mounted on their own pickup trucks,” Logan added. There was no doubt Fedor knew what a .50-caliber round did to the human body.

  “What about the insurgent leader?” Fedor asked.

  “I killed him myself,” Logan said, an edge to his voice, remembering the moment he’d pulled the trigger of his Kimber Tactical II .45-caliber pistol. The insurgent leader had been lying on his back, hit multiple times from Logan’s M4, but he’d executed the dying man for the evil he’d wrought. And I’d do it again. “Now, for the last time—and I won’t ask again, just so we’re clear—do you want to live?”

  “Yes. I do,” Fedor said, resigned to his fate and praying to himself that these men would honor their word. He thought they would, but regardless, it was now out of his hands.

  Logan nodded, as if it’d been the easiest decision in the world. “Good. Then let’s talk.”

  CHAPTER 17

  SEBIN Headquarters

  Wednesday, 0145 Venezuelan Standard Time

  “What now?” Cole said, weariness in his voice. “All we have is a time.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, but the only thing I can do is call Jake and have him talk to Director Toomey,” Logan said, referring to the director of the CIA. “If anyone can shift national intelligence real-time resources, he can. Maybe we get a break; maybe not.”

  Fedor had told them about a force protection operation scheduled for 0900 the next morning. In addition to the communications equipment on top of the hotel, they had several SUVs with tactical SIGINT gear, which included equipment for SIGINT terminal guidance, electronic jamming to prevent the detonation of remote-controlled IEDs, and capturing data from nearby cellular devices. The plan was to rally at the Russian safe house in the Capital District and provide communications overwatch while a convoy transported its cargo.

  Unfortunately, the only person who’d known the location was Colonel Grigori Sokolov, whom Logan had been unable to save. Only two more seconds and he would’ve lived, and we’d know where the vice president would be in the morning. Come on, God. Throw us a bone.

  “Santiago, get him in a cell and ask them to turn the lights off. He’s been through hell. He deserves some sleep,” Logan said.

  “We’ll take care of him until this is over,” Santiago said.

  “Good,” Logan replied. “I want to keep my word. I don’t want anything to happen to the major. There’s no need for it, and he doesn’t deserve it. He was doing his job, just like all of us.”

  “Understood. No harm will come to him,” Santiago said. “I assure you. Even we can be men of honor,” he finished, and left the room.

  Logan’s encrypted iPhone, which sat on top of the table, suddenly vibrated, startling him. Cole and Hector exchanged glances and looked back apprehensively at the phone.

  “God, I really hate it when your phone rings, brother,” Cole said. “It’s either really great news, like you won the lottery, or something horrific and awful.”

  Logan ignored him, staring at the flashing “Unknown” on the Retina display. “Well, I guess there’s nothing left to do but find out.”

  Logan picked up the phone, hit the accept button, pressed the speaker button, and placed it back on the table, ready for the full spectrum of news.

  “Hey, Logan,” retired General Jack Longstreet and former commandant of the Marine Corps said. “How’s Venezuela treating you so far?”

  Logan briefly squeezed his eyes shut, both relieved and pensive at the voice of his onetime commanding officer, a warrior and mentor he’d fought alongside with in Iraq in 2004 after their convoy had been ambushed on the way from the government center in Ramadi. More recently, after the events of three weeks ago at Constantine Kallas’s house and after learning about the role Jack Longstreet had played for the Organization upon retirement from the Marine Corps, the pedestal upon which he’d once placed the man had eroded significantly. He was still a man of purpose, a Marine, and one of the alleged good guys, trying to right several wrongs he and his former employer had wrought upon the world. But Logan no longer considered him a modern-day Chesty Puller. Now, he was a convenient ally in the struggle against chaos and instability. Logan still considered him a brother-in-arms, but the luster in the relationship had dulled with every revelation about
Jack’s involvement. Yet here he was, calling Logan once again.

  “I thought you were off the grid, gone hunting for rogue Organization elements and all that,” Logan said.

  “I have been, but as you know, I go where the work takes me,” Jack said.

  “Let me guess,” Logan replied. “Could you be in South America, say in a special socialist country in the midst of civil strife and turmoil? A country that begins with the letter V?”

  Jack let out a short laugh and said, “I always said you were smarter than most.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Logan said, “but please get to the point. It’s been a long night, and I’ve got places to be, people to shoot.”

  Hector, who’d been watching Logan throughout the conversation, glanced at Cole, who looked up at the white ceiling and shook his head in mock exasperation.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Jack said.

  “And?” Logan asked.

  “I know exactly where you need to be, as well as why,” Jack said, a note of confidence and satisfaction in his voice.

  “I’m telling you, Jack,” Logan said, “one of these days, you’re going to make a promise you can’t keep.”

  “Trust me. I can keep this one,” Jack said. “And you want to know why?”

  “Do I have to?” Logan said in a tired voice.

  “Only if you want to capture that sonofabitch traitor and onetime vice president,” Jack said.

  And there it is, the carrot dangling before the stick, Logan thought, and listened as the thirty-sixth commandant of the Marine Corps told him where the vice president would be in a little more than seven hours. No rest for the weary.

  CHAPTER 18

  Northwest of Caracas, Venezuela