Authors: Steven Konkoly
Eager hands pulled Seva’s body into the troop compartment, grabbing him just as quickly. The ground lifted away from his feet before he had fully entered the helicopter.
“Sorry about that, sir, but we really need to get moving,” the Delta operator said, gripping Farrington’s combat vest.
The helicopter banked left, giving Farrington a sweeping view of the Siberian steppe. The dark blue eastern horizon had started to show a faint, blood-red hue under the thinning clouds. The helicopter’s crew chief reached out and pulled the sliding door shut. Dark red lighting bathed the compartment, exposing the urgent effort to stabilize Misha. Toward the rear of the helicopter, one of the Delta soldiers methodically stripped away his body armor and outer garments, while another prepared several IV drip bags. On the bench in front of him, a third operator pressed a medical compress to Gosha’s leg. Sasha’s stretcher lay at his feet, jammed into the compartment. The helicopter’s hasty departure hadn’t allowed for an orderly loading process.
“They’re in good hands, sir. This is one of our combat trauma teams,” said the Delta operator next to him.
He noted that the compartment resembled a stripped-down version of a Black Hawk, configured with eight troop seats and a sophisticated medical station equipped to handle two casualties. An additional station behind the copilot’s seat resembled something he’d seen inside a command-and-control Stryker vehicle.
“What is this thing?” Farrington said.
“Highly classified. That’s about all I know. They didn’t want to send these in after you,” the lead Delta operator said.
“I’m glad they changed their minds,” Farrington said.
“They didn’t. Our task force commander made the call. They’re probably choking on the hors d’oeuvres back in Washington.”
“I hope so. Saves me from having to choke them,” Farrington said.
Chapter 70
6:44 PM
The President’s Study
Washington, D.C.
The president closed the door and took a seat on the leather couch, ready to jump down Jacob Remy’s throat if the man said another word about the helicopters. Yes, they had all watched Black Magic violate the established rules of engagement to the fullest extent possible, by not only crossing into Russian airspace but also destroying one of the Russian helicopters. And yes, this could have ended badly, with the wreckage of a prototype stealth helicopter and the bodies of a dozen or more American servicemen strewn across the Siberian countryside. But none of that mattered because it didn’t happen. None of it had
ever
happened, and Jacob Remy needed to get that clear. The operation succeeded, leaving no physical evidence behind, and the Russians were in no position to press the matter.
“Well?” he said, shrugging his shoulders at Remy.
“We’ve got a bigger problem than two Russian helicopters,” Remy said.
“I don’t really care at this point,” the president said.
“You have to care, sir. The CIA has gone rogue. Manning has lost control of the National Clandestine Service. I want to show you something.”
“Go ahead.”
Remy activated one of the large flat-screen monitors, which displayed satellite imagery. He sat behind a small computer station in the corner of the study and zoomed in on one of the images.
“This was taken over Slavgorod right after the mysterious blackout. Thermal imaging confirms the wreckage of seven armored vehicles. All six vehicles situated along the approach road to Slavgorod were destroyed. There’s no way that Blackjack could have done this. I was willing to believe that they had somehow slipped away, but this is clearly the work of something else. Either a drone or stealth bomber,” Remy said.
“General Gordon decided against the use of surveillance drones over Kazakhstan,” the president said.
“Right, and I don’t think anyone stole a stealth bomber. The Pentagon tends to notice when things like that go missing. Do you know what this means?”
The president shook his head apathetically.
“The CIA put an armed drone over Russia without your permission and attacked Russian army units en masse. Renegade special operations pilots destroyed two Russian helicopters,” Remy said. “We’re looking at fifty plus Russian casualties, easily. This thing spiraled way out of control. We should have taken action earlier to limit this.”
“How? By sending our own drones in to take out Blackjack on the Ob River? Or maybe passing along Blackjack’s exfiltration route to the Russians? After they successfully destroyed Vektor, of course,” the president said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Really? Because I’m beginning to wonder. Jacob, I learned a valuable lesson tonight. Something I’ve lost sight of. Politics has no place in an operation like that. We either check our politics in at the door, or we don’t walk into the room, because the men and women carrying out these missions don’t care about any of that crap. They execute the mission. End of story. If we can’t support them one hundred percent, then we have no business asking them to do our dirty work in the first place.”
“We didn’t come up with the idea to take out Vektor,” Remy reminded him.
“Once we put our stamp of approval on it, we owned it. Thomas Manning, the helicopter pilots, and whoever made the decision to put an armed drone over Slavgorod? We owe them a debt of gratitude for correcting our mistake. Don’t ever forget that, Jacob.”
Jacob Remy remained silent for several seconds. By not offering an immediate contradictory statement, his chief of staff indicated that he understood the president’s point and would abide by it.
“We should meet with the secretary of state and White House counsel within the hour. They’re going to need most of the night to prepare for tomorrow’s fun,” Remy said, closing the link to the satellite picture.
“Let’s call them in, though I’d be surprised if tomorrow held much drama for us. I predict that the Russians will quietly sweep this under the rug. Bioweapons are an ugly business.”
“So is invading another country,” Remy said.
“Agreed, which is why we’re going to politely hold the rug up for them. The sooner this goes away, the better,” the president said.
Chapter 71
8:22 PM
CIA Headquarters
McLean, Virginia
Karl Berg shut down his computer and locked his KSV-21 Crypto Card in his desk. He stood up and removed the sport coat draped over the back of his chair, eyeing the small carry-on bag next to his open office door. He needed to be on a non-stop flight to Burlington, Vermont, that left Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport at 10:10 PM. He’d rent a car and check into the closest hotel, hopefully settling in by one in the morning. He’d wake up early and drive to the Mountain Glen Retirement Facility, where he would personally put an end to the last twisted legacy of the Russian bioweapons program.
Thomas Manning appeared in the doorway before he could turn off the brass-finished banker’s light on his desk. Shit. He had really hoped to avoid Manning tonight. Based on the NCS director’s last transmission to the CIA operations center, Berg got the sense that Manning’s career had just suffered a severe setback. The fact that Director Copley handled all communications from that point forward further reinforced the hypothesis. Whatever happened between Manning and the president triggered a series of events that brought the surviving members of Farrington’s team home. If Manning was willing to torpedo his own career to do the right thing, Berg had no intention of making excuses for the drone stunt. Shit rolled downhill, and Audra had made it clear that she would no longer protect him from the avalanches of shit he called down on himself. He’d take whatever Manning came here to deliver, standing up like a man.
“Karl, do you have a minute?” Manning asked.
“Of course, Thomas. I have a 10:10 flight to Burlington, but I can’t envision the drive taking me more than thirty minutes on a Sunday night. Interesting day, huh?”
Manning stepped into the office and gently closed the door. “That’s one way of describing it. We did some good today.”
“We certainly did. It’s been a long few months since I received the first tip that the Russians were looking for Reznikov. I’ll be glad to put this whole thing to rest tomorrow,” Berg said.
“You did an unbelievable job with this, Karl, which is why I’m willing to overlook the fact that you hijacked a twenty-million-dollar drone from Afghanistan and declared war on Russia’s 21
st
Motor Rifle Division.”
“And one helicopter,” Berg added.
“I was wondering. Why not both helicopters?”
“We used one of the Hellfires to create a diversionary explosion in Slavgorod. If we’d saved that missile, the end wouldn’t have been so dramatic,” Berg said.
“Sanderson’s men are in stable condition at the FARP,” Manning said. “SOCOM will fly the whole package back to Manas after nightfall.”
“He seemed pleased with the outcome. I think he expected to lose more of the team.”
“I think he expected to lose all of them,” Manning said. “This was always a one-way trip in my mind, which is why I didn’t hold back when they broke through Slavgorod. I knew what was going on as soon as the satellite feed died, and I wasn’t about to let the president and his weasel-faced chief break their promise to those men.”
“I told Sanderson what you did. He owes you one.”
“No. Once again, we owe him. Keep your eyes and ears open, Karl. Not that you have any friends in the White House. Jacob Remy will throw Sanderson to the wolves if the opportunity arises. The least we can do is run interference.”
“You’d be surprised who I know and who Sanderson knows,” Berg said.
“Good. Between you, me and Audra, we should be able to make good on that debt.”
“I don’t think Audra and I are on speaking terms any longer.”
“She’ll get over it. I’m transferring you to the Special Activities Division’s Special Operations Group as the new acting deputy director. Jeffrey McConnell is slated to take over the entire division by the first of next year, which should give you more than enough time to familiarize yourself with his job.”
“His job as director of SOG?”
“I could really use someone with your planning ability and instincts over there,” Manning said.
“Isn’t this technically a demotion?” he said jokingly.
“Considering the fact that I basically created your current position under Bauer out of thin air? No. This is a promotion. Actually, it was Bauer’s idea,” Manning said.
“Wow. She really
is
pissed at me,” Berg said.
“I don’t think that had anything to do with her recommendation. She submitted your name two weeks ago,” he said, pausing for a moment. “I’ll let you get going. Good luck tomorrow.”
“I shouldn’t need any luck,” Berg said, “hopefully.”
“There’s nothing easy about killing someone. That’s why we usually have other people do it for us. They can take care of Reznikov’s ‘retirement’ you know.”
“I know,” Berg said, turning off his desk lamp.
Chapter 72
7:45 AM
Mountain Glen “Retirement” Facility
Green Mountains, Vermont
The SUV slowed to a stop, and Berg heard the vehicle’s front doors slam shut. They had arrived at the compound. Moments later, the right passenger door opened, exposing him to the same drizzly, overcast day he had experienced on the entire drive from Burlington. Berg gripped his black nylon briefcase and nodded to the serious-looking man holding his door. The security agent escorted him to the colonial-style structure, where Gary Sheffield waited.
“You’re turning into a regular up here,” Sheffield said, shaking his hand.
“This should be my last trip for quite some time. Running across someone like Reznikov is pretty rare in my experience,” Berg said, stepping inside the hallway foyer.
“I’m glad to hear that because he’s by far the creepiest inmate we’ve ever had the displeasure of housing. I don’t particularly care for any of the guests, but I’ll be extremely glad to see him go. Something about him is really off.”
“That’s truly an understatement in his case. I can think of a lot of people that share your sentiment, which is why I’m back so soon.”
“Can I get you some coffee or breakfast?” Sheffield said.
“Maybe after I’m done.”
“I’ll put something together. Shall we?” Sheffield said, motioning toward the end of the hardwood hallway.
The compound’s quaint façade ended several steps into the house. Through the door leading left out of the front hallway, he saw wall-to-wall flat-screen monitors organized around a half-dozen workstations. Security personnel monitored the sensors and cameras installed in the residences and public buildings from here. The doorway to the right was closed, but he knew from previous visits that Sheffield’s people kept an eye on the external sensors and communications from that room. Sheffield walked past these rooms and approached a metal door flanked by a biometric fingerprint scanner. He pressed his thumb down first, then his ring finger, holding it there until the door clicked and opened a few inches.
“What do you do if there’s a power failure?” Berg said.
“We have generators to keep that from happening, but the door automatically opens if the house loses power for more than ten seconds,” Sheffield said.
He pushed the heavy door open to expose a walk-in-closet-sized room lined with racks of military-grade weaponry.
“Expecting an invasion?” Berg said.
“Some of our guests commanded private armies in their previous lives,” Sheffield said.
He reached to the right, just out of sight and withdrew a semi-automatic pistol fitted with a short suppressor. He pulled back on the slide, locking it in the open position before handing it to Berg.
“This should do the trick. Sig Sauer P250 compact. Magazine holds fifteen rounds, not that you’ll need that many…I hope.”