Waking Wolfe

by S L Shelton

  “God, this is Arrow,” Marsh called into his mic, hoping to get clearance from the CIA to leave. There was no response.

  “God. This is Arrow,” he called again.

  The CIA liaison in charge—Miller—had been urging them closer to the action throughout the morning. And Marsh still didn’t know why the CIA wanted them in the city in the first place. He needed an update, and Miller was being conspicuously silent.

  “Hey, Skipper,” whispered Petty Officer Egermayer—call sign Owl—who was crouched against the wall next to Arrow. “Remind me again why we’re here.”

  “Because ‘God’ wants us here,” Arrow replied, referring to Miller by his call sign.

  “And why was it again that he wanted us here?” Owl asked, one eye closed and his face screwed up in a tight pucker that could hardly be confused with a smile.

  “He didn’t say,” Arrow replied quietly as a fresh explosion dropped more debris into the street. Arrow turned his head toward the sound of broken glass three houses down.

  “And what’s the target?” Owl pushed.

  “He didn’t say,” Arrow replied again, his attention still down the street.

  “Then how will we know when we are done?” Owl asked, a grin spreading over his face as Arrow turned to look him in the eye.

  “He didn’t say,” Marsh replied, his patience holding strong against the assault of questions that Owl already knew the answers to.

  Owl looked down at a guidebook he had lifted from a gift shop when they entered the town. “It says here that Joseph Stalin was born here, and some guy named Alexander N-A-D-I-R-A-D-Z-E.”

  Arrow looked at him for a beat and then turned his head away, indicating he had no interest in Stalin or Alexander N-A-D-I-R-A-D-Z-E. “I’m impressed, Owl…I wasn’t aware you could read.”

  “This Nodd-ra-daze guy was important,” Owl continued, oblivious to his commanding officer’s body language. “It’s supposed to be some big deal that he worked here until his death.”

  “Until whose death?” came the voice of Petty Officer Cooper—Deadeye—as he appeared in and then climbed through the window above their heads. “Oh. Skipper, the front wall on this building collapsed. No way through.”

  Arrow nodded.

  “Whose death?” Deadeye repeated.

  Owl replied, “Some guy named Nodderize, Nadereyes—”

  “Nadiradze,” Deadeye corrected, rolling the R perfectly.

  “Yeah. That guy,” Owl said, though he shot Deadeye a suspicious glare.

  “He was the father of mobile ballistic missile technology,” Deadeye continued as he squatted down against the same wall. “What about him?”

  All three men turned and glared at Deadeye at the same time, disbelief clear on their faces.

  “What?” he asked incredulously. “You don’t learn a language in a vacuum, you know.”

  “Where’s it say he worked?” Chief Petty Officer Seifert—call-sign Majesty—asked Owl.

  Owl flipped a page back and forth and then looked up at Arrow, a stunned expression on his face.

  “The base on the other side of this blown-out building, apparently,” he replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  Marsh let that thought roll through his brain for a second when it suddenly dawned on him that the bombing had ceased. He clicked his mic open and looked to the rooftop above him. “Nightshade, what’s going on up there?”

  “Arrow, it looks like the bombers are done,” Nightshade responded. “I don’t see anything inbound.”

  “Roger. We’re moving up,” Arrow said. “Cover us.”

  “You’re clear to the east,” came the reply. “I’ve got you.”

  “Come on, boys,” Arrow said as he stood, slapping the masonry dust off his shoulders. “Let’s see what all the excitement was about.”

  “Hey, boss,” Owl said as he stood and adjusted the strap on his M4 assault rifle. “You don’t think there’s still any nukes over there on the base, do you?”

  “Nah,” Arrow replied, trying to ease his team’s fears as they stepped carefully through the rubble. “The Soviets would have pulled them out when they left.”

  “Not necessarily,” Deadeye inserted as he turned to check the street behind them. “The Russians didn’t exactly make an orderly exit.”

  “When did they leave?” Owl asked.

  “It was like, ninety, or thereabouts,” Deadeye replied over his shoulder. “Why are you asking me? You’ve got the guide book.”

  “Just curious. The book said Nodderadaze, Naderoddeyes—”

  “Nadiradze,” Deadeye corrected again as the four men walked east along the street, carefully scanning the scene as they moved.

  “Yeah. Him. The book said he died in eighty-seven.”

  “Okay, guys,” Majesty warned with a hiss. “Cut the chatter.”

  “But do you think they got their nukes out before they left?” Owl added in a whisper from across the street, ignoring Majesty’s warning.

  Arrow shot him a harsh look—his patience had come to an end.

  “Skipper, I just want to know why we are walking freshly bombed streets with no direction from God,” Owl pressed defensively. The talk of nukes clearly had him spooked.

  “Arrow, this is the Lord Almighty. Where’s my SITREP?” The voice of their absentee CIA Operative, God, came across the radio.

  “Speak of the devil and he will appear,” Arrow muttered, pulling his team up short on the corner. He halted their movement behind a row of crushed vehicles before clicking his mic open. “God. This is Arrow. Go ahead.”

  “It’s gotten quiet up there,” God said. “Can I get a SITREP?”

  “Wait one,” Arrow replied as he motioned Owl and Deadeye to take up defensive positions.

  Marsh hated that Miller had chosen “God” as his call sign. Not for religious reasons, though. He could have called himself “Baby Jesus” for all Marsh cared—but it suggested Miller thought too highly of himself. That sort of attitude is dangerous in a combat zone… Especially when your liaison was nowhere near the fighting.

  “Nightshade, we’re coming up on the corner across from the base. Anything new to report?” Arrow called into his mic while looking up at the roof line in front of them.

  “Arrow, a bunch of civilian vehicles are picking their way along the road at the edge of the base,” the sniper replied. “It looks like they’re in loose formation.”

  “Heading out of town?” Marsh asked, assuming they were newly minted refugees taking advantage of the break in the bombing to get out of town.

  “Negative, Arrow,” Nightshade replied. “They’re moving toward the base entrance…two columns.”

  Not refugees, Marsh thought to himself as a tingle worked its way up his spine.

  “How many vehicles?” God asked.

  “There are four coming down the western road and five on the southern road. Trucks and school buses,” the sniper replied.

  There was a long pause while they waited for God’s reply. Deadeye looked over his shoulder at Arrow and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “God. Did you get that?” Arrow asked as he peeked around the corner toward the oncoming caravan of civilian vehicles.

  More silence.

  “God. I say again, four west and five south. Do you copy?” Arrow said.

  “Arrow, they’re more than likely just looters coming in for a little broken window shopping before the Russians get to town…let ’em be,” God replied with an odd inflection that left Marsh biting the inside of his cheek in agitation. “Come on in, those tanks’ll be rolling over the hill in a few minutes.”

  Deadeye and Owl whipped their heads around toward Marsh upon hearing the new order.

  “What the fuck?!” Owl said in a low voice. “He sent us out to stroll Main Street while it was being bombed, and now he wants us to come back in?”

  “That is pretty fucked up, Skipper,” Majesty added.

  “God, this is Arrow. Those vehicles are in formation. Are
you sure you don’t want us to take a closer look?”

  “I’m sorry, Arrow, we must have bad COM. I said to leave them the hell alone and come back to the FOA. The bombing has stopped, and the ground troops will be coming over that hill in a few minutes,” God said, clipped.

  “Acknowledged. Arrow out,” he replied bitterly and then looked at Owl and Majesty, shaking his head. “Looters don’t travel in convoys and they certainly don’t coordinate convergent approaches,” he said quietly. “Something is going on, and I want to know what it is.”

  The rest of the men looked at him hesitantly. “God wants us off the streets, skipper,” Majesty replied as he duck-walked his massive frame a little closer to Marsh.

  “Something stinks about this Miller character,” Marsh said, pausing to think. Then, switching to the team frequency, he leaned out so the sniper could see him before flashing the signal for that channel.

  “Arrow, you wanted a private conversation?” Nightshade said over the team channel after a second, his tone dripping amusement.

  “What do you see up there?” Marsh asked.

  There was a pause. “Arrow. Three trucks and a bus just turned onto the base. The rest are still outside of the city, but moving fast toward the main gate…as fast as you can through popcorn anyway,” he replied, referring to the unexploded cluster bomblets that littered the street.

  “Nightshade. Acknowledged,” Arrow said. He hung his head, running his fingers through the stubble on the back of his neck. After a moment of reflection, he decided it was time for a minor mutiny. He looked up with determination etched across his brow. “Let’s see if we can get some Georgian attention over here. We wouldn’t be interfering if they happened across a column of looters and took them into custody…and if it ends up being more than that, we’ll report back to ‘God’ on the Langley channel so the NCS has the heads up,” he said, referring to the National Clandestine Service at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  He looked from face to face, seeing approval. They rose to move across the street. There, a Georgian military command car was abandoned near the entrance of the base. Majesty and Owl took up guard positions as Arrow climbed in and then, after powering on the radio, he clicked the mic a couple of times. The needle on the broadcast dial jumped, bringing a smile to his face. He handed it to Deadeye, who spoke Georgian like a native.

  Arrow nodded, and Deadeye squeezed the button on the hand mic.

  “Ch’ven mimdinareobs daeskhnen! Dakhmareba! Dakhmareba! Avtori bazaze!” Deadeye pleaded into the Georgian radio. “Isini mkvlelobashi ch’vent’vis,” saying, essentially, that armed men were attacking them, shots were being fired, there were casualties, and that they needed help.

  As soon as a voice responded, Deadeye turned the radio off. The team looked at each other, smiling, pleased with their deception, before moving back across the street and into a three-story apartment building facing the base. There, they sat patiently in the window and watched to see the result of their charade.

  After a few moments, two armored troop carriers zoomed down the edge of town toward the entrance to the base.

  “Here come the cops,” Majesty said, calling attention to the Georgian military presence.

  “They look pissed,” Owl added. “I wonder what got them all riled up?”

  The SEALs watched as the second convoy of civilian trucks and busses broke formation, turned in the street, and then sped back down the road they had come in on.

  Their retreat was abruptly cut off by another Georgian armored vehicle.

  The two units of carriers converged on the convoy before the Georgian soldiers opened fire. Shots were returned from the civilian vehicles, but several men were caught in an explosion when the Georgians fired a rocket. That knocked the wind out of the fighters from the convoy. The survivors quickly dropped their arms and the Georgian soldiers overran them, throwing their new captives to the ground. After zip cuffing the looters, the soldiers rapidly herded them into the backs of the armored transports.

  “Should we let them know about the ones on base?” Majesty asked, but an explosion on the parade field had all eyes looking north, cutting Arrow’s answer off. Gunships appeared in the sky over the ridge north of town, followed by the unmistakable rumble of an armored column rolling hard and fast across the hill, down Gorijvari Street. Their turrets turned toward the base before shells began to rain down.

  The Russians had arrived.

  “Nope,” Arrow replied as he pulled back away from the window. “It’s too late. The Russians will get ’em now if they don’t vacate.”

  The Georgian soldiers rapidly mounted their vehicles and left, shoving the now-empty civilian convoy vehicles to the side with their heavy metal bumpers. They quickly disappeared into the city, heading toward the river crossing.

  As soon as the Georgians were out of sight, the remaining looter convoy rolled out of the base amidst the shelling.

  “Here comes the other column,” Deadeye said, shifting their attention back to the base.

  One at a time, the three trucks made the tight turn onto the Gorijvari Street, but the bus swung wide. A Russian tank shell exploded nearby, flipping the bus on its side before sending it sliding through a storefront on the opposite side of the street.

  “Whoa!” Deadeye and Majesty exclaimed simultaneously.

  “Three points from outside,” Majesty sniped, grinning, before leaning out of the window to look down at the wreckage.

  The rest of the looters paused as they passed the overturned bus but then hurried on their way out of town as the Russian tanks began to rain shells down on their location more intensely.

  Majesty pulled his head in quickly as exploded debris whizzed past his head. “That was close,” he muttered.

  Arrow stood up. “Okay, boys! Our work is done. Let’s di di mau the fuck outta here,” he yelled over the shelling, borrowing a phrase from another generation of fighters. He clicked his mic open. “Nightshade, we’re moving out.”

  “Roger, Arrow, on my way down.”

  They exited the building out the rear and began a fast-paced jog, winding their way through the narrow streets toward the bridge on the other side of town. There, the team waited for Nightshade’s arrival before continuing across the bridge.

  “That armored column went right for the base,” Nightshade said as he jogged up to his teammates while carrying his Barrett M107 sniper rifle in front of him like an assault weapon.

  “Let’s hope they stop there,” Deadeye replied as the team began carefully walking across the bridge, being careful not to accidentally step on unexploded bomblets. “This is pretty far from the Russian border. All we need is another Cold War.”

  “Medvedev isn’t that dumb,” Majesty replied. “He’s just flexing his muscles to show everyone he’s as tough as Putin was…not that Putin isn’t pulling the strings.”

  “Well, at least we wouldn’t have to worry about being ‘downsized,’” Owl muttered with a grin.

  “Unless you step on some popcorn,” Majesty snapped, pointing at the ground at Owl’s feet. “Watch your step… If you blow your legs off, I might carry you, but there’s no way in hell I’m carrying your bloody stumps.”

  Owl grinned as he looked back the way they had come. “You lying bitch,” Owl said sharply. “You know you love my legs.”

  “Good point, sexy,” Majesty muttered. “I’ll carry your legs and leave you behind.”

  The five men laughed as they scurried down the embankment on the other side and then watched the tanks maneuver down the streets toward the bridge they had just crossed—the Russian tanks were starting to set up positions on the edges of the town.

  **

  August 21st—Ten days later

  CIA OPERATIVE DWIGHT MILLER—call sign God—had just received bad news.

  The memo read:

  The looters the Georgian Army captured in Gori before the Russians moved in were Bosnian Serb Nationals. They belong to Goran Jovanovich. State wants the
m. They’ve arranged for NATO transfer. If we can get info on Jovanovich from them, it would be a big feather in our caps. We need a win after all the black eyes over Iraq and UBL. We should have someone there to babysit during the handover. Interrogations should start ASAP.

  “Oh, shit,” Miller muttered to himself as he read the message. “Those fucking SEALs… They couldn’t just leave that convoy alone.”

  Miller was quite familiar with Goran Jovanovich—a man wanted for war crimes and for selling illegal arms to terrorists. And Miller had known very well who was in the convoy at the time… he had set up the raid by the looters in Gori. He had been paid handsomely to do it—paid by Heinrich Braun, the head of security for one of the richest men on Earth.

  The sudden realization that some of the looters had been captured sent a chill down his back.

  Why didn’t Jovanovich tell me some of his people were captured? Miller wondered, clenching his jaw. This complicates things.

  He sat in an empty house near the Armenian and Georgian border, awaiting the appointed hour for the handover of the four Soviet-Era warheads that the Serbs had taken from Gori. Somehow he had to get the warheads, clean up the mess with the captured Serbs, and make it back to the CIA station in Berlin without revealing his part in the scheme.

  If he screwed up any part of this plan, he could be imprisoned by the US on charges of treason, killed by the Serbs or, more likely, Heinrich Braun would—quite literally—have his head on a spike.

  Miller copied his CIA station chief in his reply.

  I wish I could be on the escort team since I was on site when the arrests were made, but I’ve been detained in Turkey. If it’s okay with everyone, I’ll meet up with the interrogators after the hand-off.

  Only a few moments after sending the message, his phone rang.

  “Miller,” he said into the secure satellite phone, bracing himself for the fiction he was about to weave.

  “Why are you in Turkey?” It was the voice of his boss.

  “I was following up on a lead with the Serbs myself,” he lied.