by Dave Edlund
“Reach out to Mossad and MI6. See what they are willing to share.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stephens replied. “Should I also check with the German and French foreign intelligence?”
Lacey thought for a moment before answering. “Not yet, maybe later. The Germans are still bent out of shape that we spied on them, and the French seldom have anything of value they are willing to share.”
“Yes, ma’am. There is something else.”
“Go on.”
“It’s in the folder, a report from the U.S. Embassy in Minsk. Ethan and Joanna Savage, two American citizens, escaped from the university when the NPA stormed the campus. Their father is Peter Savage.”
Lacey’s eyes widened. “Has the Embassy contacted Peter?”
“That’s impossible. He’s among the hostages, along with his father Professor Ian Savage and a friend, Gary Porter. They were last seen by Ethan and Joanna on the second floor of the chemistry building, captured by armed militia.”
“Does Commander Nicolaou know?”
Stephens shook her head. “I don’t believe so. I just learned myself. The embassy report is time stamped 30 minutes ago.”
Lacey flipped to the second page and read the scant details from the embassy. “It’s likely President Taylor has already been notified that Americans are among the hostages. What do we know about the NPA? Do they have a history of taking foreign hostages?”
“Very little is known about the group. They seem to have sprouted from the pro-Russian militias that were part of the campaign in Latvia. The NSA is working to identify a command structure. It looks like this is the first time they’ve used the NPA name. But, the dominant militia in Latvia—led by Colonel Simenof, second in command was Alexei Gorev, he was a major at the time—is implicated in two massacres involving civilians. The city of Baltinava, near the Russian border, was quickly captured by the pro-Russian militia. Simenof is reputed to have gone door-to-door, his soldiers demanding passports. Any civilian with a Russian passport—very common in most Eastern European countries—was left alone. Those who could not produce a Russian passport were rounded up, taken to a soccer field, and shot. It all happened very fast, during the first day of occupation.”
“How many were killed?” Lacey asked.
“Estimates range from several hundred to as many as 4,000. The local officials aren’t very cooperative. The second massacre took place about a week later near the end of the conflict. Nine foreign journalists—including one American and one Brit—were captured and executed by gunmen wearing the camouflage uniform and black ski mask favored by the militias.”
“Evidence?”
“Since the city is still under control of the militia, very little. It was recorded and posted on YouTube. But the identity of the gunmen is unknown and Simenof is on record denying any involvement. And he may be telling the truth. Major Gorev and Colonel Simenof had a falling out when the Russians turned the tables and started providing heavy armor and weapons to shore up the pro-Russian militias in and around Baltinava. Simenof was satisfied with a limited victory, a small territory effectively under control of the Russian Federation, but Gorev wanted a bloodbath.”
“So Gorev ordered the execution of the journalists? Why?”
“All speculation, ma’am. But maybe he wanted to punish the West. Maybe he wanted to drag Europe into the conflict knowing they did not have the stomach to win a regional war against President Pushkin and the Russian military.”
“So, we have to view the hostages as at-risk prisoners of a terrorist group.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s my conclusion as well.”
“We need to brief Commander Nicolaou and get in front of the curve before Colonel Pierson asks for recommendations and a plan.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll pull together everything we have from NSA, DIA, CIA, and foreign assets. It’ll take an hour, maybe longer.”
“You have 30 minutes. And see if there are any SAT photos of the BSU campus. Pull in Williams and Ross.”
“I’m on it,” Stephens said over her shoulder, already at the door.
Lacey picked up her phone. “Sir, we have a situation developing in Minsk, and you’re gonna want this mission.”
Chapter 10
Sacramento, California
COMMANDER JAMES NICOLAOU sat at the head of the conference table considering the ramifications of the briefing. He was surrounded by his team of senior analysts—Ellen Lacey, Mona Stephens, Mark Williams, and Beth Ross—as well as his field operatives from Alpha Team—Bull, Ghost, Magnum, Homer, and the newest member of the team, Iceberg—so-named for his mop of snow-white curly hair. Tall and lanky, Iceberg, whose given name was Jerry Balvanz, played basketball in college for two seasons before joining the Army. He quickly worked his way into Special Forces and was a member of Delta when he was tapped to join SGIT.
In less than 24 hours, Minsk had turned from a city at peace to the epicenter of a full-blown crisis, possibly the initial wave of an invasion by pro-Russian militia and, potentially, Russian regular army and air forces. There was no denying that the map of Eastern Europe was being unilaterally redrawn by Vladimir Pushkin, and it was looking more and more like the former Soviet Union.
Stephens was just concluding her briefing. “Although only three Americans are confirmed to be held by the NPA, it’s likely the total will rise as we get more information. Real-time intelligence is beginning to trickle in; I’ve received three updates in the past hour. In addition to the BSU campus and buildings, the NPA holds the main train station, called Minsk Pass—short for Passazhirsky—and the Government House, which is the seat of local and national government. The parliament is located there but was not in session when the building was taken. The international airport is also under control of the militia; all flights have been cancelled. And they occupy the KGB Headquarters, plus a few less important government buildings. That’s what we know as of this moment. But I caution everyone, the intelligence is sketchy, incomplete.”
All eyes were scrutinizing a detailed satellite image of Minsk projected on a 100-inch flat screen monitor. Key landmarks were labeled in red font. The BSU campus and main railway station adjoined Independence Square, the location of the Government House. The KGB Headquarters was two blocks northwest of the square.
“Are there any reports of an actual attack on the KGB Headquarters?” Bull asked.
Sergeant Mark Williams was quick to reply. “No, sir, nothing through our channels and no mention on Twitter or Facebook.”
“Significance?” Jim said
Lieutenant Lacey took the lead again. “Too early to say, sir. However, the State Security Agency—like that of South Ossetia and Transnistria—has significant ties to Russia. It’s possible they are allied with the NPA. With the KGB providing support in the form of intelligence and manpower, it could explain how the militia was so successful in executing this action.”
Jim absorbed this information for a moment, his eyes sequentially moving amongst the faces of his intelligence analysts and field agents. It only took a few seconds for him to recognize the pattern. “South Ossetia, with significant Russian military assistance, won independence from Georgia in 2008. The conflict lasted only about a week. Once the conflict ended, Russia signed a defense agreement with South Ossetia.
“Likewise, Transnistria, a small strip of land between Moldova and Ukraine, declared its independence from Moldova. A civil war ensued. The pro-Russian separatists would have been soundly defeated if the Russian Federation had not intervened, committing the Soviet 14th Guard Army to the conflict. Without external help, Moldova couldn’t win. A negotiated settlement called the Primakov Memorandum was signed in 1997, I believe. Following Russia’s annexation of the Crimean Peninsula from Ukraine, Transnistria has officially sought admission to the Russian Federation.”
For the first time since the meeting began, Sergeant Beth Ross spoke up. “President Vladimir Pushkin is a nationalist fanatic. Since he came into power, he’s exerted cont
inuous pressure on the former Soviet Bloc countries of Eastern Europe, and slowly but surely, he’s pulling them back into the Russian sphere of influence. Seems that no one is willing to stand up to his aggression.”
“Stay on topic, Sergeant,” Lacey commanded, while Jim raised an eyebrow at the ad-lib commentary. It was well known, ever since the terrorist action on Chernabura Island in the Aleutian chain, an action that many of the men sitting around the table participated in, that Beth Ross distrusted President Pushkin and his government.
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
Jim pulled the briefing back to the subject matter. “Alright, for the moment we’ll assume the Belarusian State Security Agency is, at the least, sympathetic to the NPA. What is the U.S. Embassy doing?”
“Everything they can, sir,” Stephens said. “A couple years ago the Belarusian government ordered a reduction in staff and the ambassador was recalled. They only have a half dozen staff, and they’re trying to locate the Americans residing in, or visiting, the city.”
“It’s going to take some time,” Lacey added. “And not all Americans have registered with the embassy.”
“What is the Belarusian government saying?” Jim asked.
Ross was ready for this question. “Not much that we know of. President Alexander Yatchenko has officially notified NATO Command in Brussels. Most of what we know is coming from citizens who were in the area of Independence Square and the BSU campus. There are a lot of photos and videos uploaded onto social media, including from travelers at Minsk Pass and the airport. Plus the Belarusian military is deploying some special forces—spotters and snipers—on rooftops of buildings that have not been taken yet by the NPA. Those special forces are providing periodic reports to NATO.”
Jim knew that it would take time for intel to filter through NATO and make its way to Lacey’s team. “Get a hold of Colonel Pierson and explain that we need to cut through the bureaucracy and get those NATO intel updates without the usual delay.”
Ross made a notation on her tablet. “Yes, sir.”
“Lacey, what’s the hostage situation? There must have been hundreds, maybe thousands of civilians at the train station and airport.”
“According to eyewitness reports, no hostages were taken at either location.”
Jim scrunched his face. “Why? We have an unknown number of hostages, presumably being held at the chemistry building of the BSU campus, but none were taken at other locations?”
“We’re assuming they are still held at the chemistry building,” Lacey corrected. “But that information is rather stale.”
Jim nodded, leaving his question unanswered, and then turned his gaze to his senior analyst. “Okay. Given the intel we have, what’s the objective? And do we expect the hostages to be released?”
Lacey cleared her throat, but before she could answer, the speaker in the middle of the conference table buzzed. The voice was easily recognized as that of Sergeant Wells, the receptionist—and gatekeeper—of SGIT. “Colonel Pierson is on the line sir. I told him you were in a meeting, but he insisted it couldn’t wait.”
“That’s fine. Put him through.”
A crisp voice emanated from the speakerphone. “Commander, who’s in the room with you?” Colonel Pierson never wasted time with greetings.
“Most of my team, sir. I have Lacey and three junior analysts, plus Bull, Magnum, Homer, Ghost, and Iceberg. We’re in secure conference room A.”
“Good. It’s best that everyone hear what I have to say. This mess in Minsk has President Taylor’s full attention. He’s demanding answers from the intelligence community. He wants to know exactly where the Americans are being held. He said, and I quote, ‘No more American hostages are going to be murdered on my watch!’ There should be no doubt about his position.”
“We’ve been following the intelligence reports on this, sir.”
“I assumed you would. President Taylor has already authorized Operation Bright Star to forcibly win the release of the hostages. To expedite the timetable, assets already in Europe will be used. Intelligence is coming in, but we must know the exact location of the American hostages. Make this your number one priority.”
“Already on it, sir,” Jim said.
“Good. You have one hour.” Before anyone could reply, a buzz indicating an open line emanated from the speaker. The Colonel had ended the call.
Chapter 11
Sacramento, California
IT HAD BEEN MORE THAN four hours since the NPA had taken over the BSU campus, plenty of time for social media sites around the world to receive postings of photos and videos. This was a rich source of real-time intelligence, and the focus of much of the effort of the SGIT analysts.
“The picture is pretty clear,” Stephens said. She was updating Lieutenant Lacey with support from Ross and Williams.
Ross elaborated. “The Minsk police and Belarusian Army have spotters and snipers posted on all the tall buildings within 1,000 yards of the BSU campus. Their reports are confirmed by postings across all major social media sites. The hostages have not been moved. They must still be in the chemistry building.”
“Mark, please pull up the building layout,” Stephens said. The analysts were meeting in one of SGIT’s secure conference rooms, all equipped with access to MOTHER, state-of-the-art encrypted teleconferencing, and flat-screen monitors.
“We estimate that between twenty and 45 hostages are being held, including Peter Savage, Ian Savage, and Gary Porter. Most likely closer to the high end of the estimate,” Stephens said. “We have no reports, at this time, of other Americans being held captive.”
“Confidence in that total?” Lacey asked. She knew this to be critical to the rescue planning.
Mark Williams answered. “Good. We factored in the number of full-time research assistants, subtracting faculty on vacation. Since it is the summer break, nearly all the support staff and students are away.”
Lacey nodded. “Continue.”
Stephens cleared her throat. They had covered the facts—as best they were known—and now she was venturing into speculation. “The building is constructed of concrete blocks and steel. It primarily houses offices and laboratories, as you can see in the layout.” She used a laser pointer to identify the rooms on the plan projected on the large monitor.
“We believe it’s most likely all the hostages are grouped together in one room. It would be much easier to guard them and would require fewer men. Although the laboratories are large rooms, we do not think they would be held there.”
“Why not?” Lacey asked.
“The laboratories are in the basement. During an assault, the NPA guards would be trapped, the only exit being up to the ground floor.”
“There is also the danger of chemicals being released during an engagement,” added Ross. “That could result in a fire, or poisoning. It’s just too risky from a defensive point of view.”
“I agree,” Lacey replied. She was studying the building plan carefully. “So, you think they are being held on the ground floor in the main conference room?” Lacey was pointing at the flat-panel monitor.
Stephens paused before answering. Ross and Williams were staring at her, waiting for the response. Stephens quickly reconsidered the facts and logical reasoning—it was sound.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s where they’re being held. The main conference room.”
Stephens had just finished when the door opened and Commander Nicolaou entered, followed closely by Bull and Ghost. Jim stood at the front of the room, arms folded, while Bull, his second in command, and Ghost took seats with the analysts.
Bull, known publicly as First Sergeant Mark Beaumont, was a Marine Corp (Force Recon) veteran, following the family tradition laid down by his father and uncle. Having grown up on the streets of Oakland, on the east side of San Francisco Bay, Bull found wrestling as an escape from gang life that seemed to lure so many other young men from his neighborhood into a life of crime. An expert at hand-to-hand combat, Bull f
ollowed a daily regimen to maintain his immense strength.
Although not a small man, Ghost—Staff Sergeant Ryan Moore—appeared thin next to Bull’s bulk. Just topping six feet in height and weighing every bit of 200 pounds, Ghost moved with fluid grace, a skill he honed to perfection after years of hunting in the remote evergreen forests of northeastern Oregon and Western Idaho.
Jim addressed his assembled team. “Status?”
Lacey took the question. “We were just reviewing the most current updates from Minsk. Based on civilian and official reports, we are confident the hostages are still held in the chemistry building on the BSU campus.”
“Do you have a specific location?” Jim asked.
“We believe they are held in the main conference room on the ground floor.” Lacey aimed the laser pointer at the floor plan still displayed on the monitor and indicated the location of the conference room. It was a spacious room, just to the left of the foyer at the front entrance to the building.
“You believe?” Jim said. “I assume you attempted to reach Peter on his cell phone? I know it’s a long shot.”
Stephens replied before Lacey could get her first word out. “Yes, sir, no answer. Presumably, his cell phone was confiscated. Our analysis is solid, and we stand by it.”
Jim’s dark brown eyes met Stephens as he measured her confidence. He knew that lives were at stake, not only the hostages but the rescue team as well. Yet he also knew that intelligence work was a mix of fact, logical speculation, and sound reasoning. Everyone on his team was better than good, and he trusted them. Slowly he nodded, and then turned to Bull.
“Get Colonel Pierson on the line,” Jim said.
Bull reached out to the speakerphone and punched in a series of numbers. Following one audible ring, a hard voice answered. “Pierson.”
“Colonel, Commander Nicolaou here. I’m with my team; communication is secure. I have you on the speaker.”
