Ghosts of War (30 page)

L
ieutenant Colonel Quinton Straight watched the refueling operation, and wondered if they'd have enough gas to complete the mission. As the battalion commander of the 2nd Tank Battalion, 2nd MARDIV, he'd been told—and had planned accordingly—to be self-sustaining for four days, but then had been ordered to hold up in Kiev, where he'd burned fuel sitting around waiting to move forward.

He understood the political dimensions of his advance, and would follow whatever orders he'd been given, but seriously, didn't the National Command Authority understand how much fuel these beasts used?

The M1A1 Abrams tanks he'd pulled out of stocks burned an enormous amount of JP-8 AVGAS, literally getting a half mile to the gallon, a sum so paltry that fuel usage was determined not by miles, but by hours. The average M1 used about three hundred gallons every eight hours—and he'd computed what he'd need for the mission based on the OPORDER he'd been given. Now he wondered if this two-day stay counted against that. Did he have four
more
days to go? And what if he had to fight at the end of it?

The two tank companies he'd brought with him, comprising thirty steel-clad weapons that were the most deadly armor ever to enter the battlefield, had spent the last two days in a tactical perimeter, the men half on and half off security, all wondering why the holdup had occurred. They'd secured a perimeter, living on their awful field rations and plying their limited skills on the women who came to watch the
show, never thinking the operation they were on had any consequences greater than the training mission they'd left.

Kiev was peaceful, and the population appreciated them coming, showing enough gratitude that it should have penetrated there was something in front of them they should fear, if only because the natives that lived there did.

After twenty-four hours of waiting, the men had become restless. Why should they live in the woods when the town was right next door? They began to surreptitiously slip out, using official business as an excuse.

Quinton let them go, turning a blind eye to the supposed “resupply runs.” A Mustang, he'd been one of them once, and understood that a blanket clampdown would be counterproductive. Let them pretend to sneak out. As long as they had a senior NCO with them, he knew they'd be okay, because he'd fostered a layer of trust in his battalion. The NCOs, like all NCOs from the beginning of time, took that trust to heart. They'd go out, but they'd sure as hell bring everyone back. And because they were professionals, they wouldn't allow any gap in security.

He'd actually begun to think this diversion into Ukraine would be good for the battalion, giving the two companies he'd brought a taste of anticipation without the threat, sharpening their edge. And then he'd received the intelligence reports the night before. The Donetsk airport, held in rebel hands and utterly destroyed, had shown movement on the runway. Someone had begun to prepare the demolished area for reception. Nobody knew why, but it couldn't be good. He was ordered forward, into the rebel-held Luhansk territory, to provide support for the evacuation of the dead from Air Force One.

He'd had one night to prepare, and was now late on the LD time he'd set for the battalion, the refueling taking longer than expected. As Clausewitz once said,
Everything in war is very simple, but the simplest thing is difficult.

Only this wasn't a war. Was it?

The refueling finished, and the tactical assembly area broke down, with all tanks lining up in order of march. He gave the command, and they began rolling east, in radio contact with the Stryker brigade and the 82nd Airborne.

He spent the majority of time while they moved coordinating exactly that—the movement. One would think just driving a caravan of tanks would be easy, but it wasn't. Every ten kilometers there was another call. Another reason to pull over. Another problem to solve.

During the march, he didn't give a lot of thought to deploying for a fight, but it was there in the back of his mind. Always present, hovering just on the outside of the current decision, like a bad hangover that shrouded his brain.

He knew there was a reason he'd been held up in Kiev. He just didn't know what it was. He hadn't been told anything specific, only having been given the order to laager. He'd done so, and then had been given the order to move out literally four hours ago. He'd responded that he couldn't turn on a dime, getting exasperation from the Black Sea Rotational Force commander—someone who clearly had no armor experience. The beasts required a windup. They were called Iron Horses for a reason.

The abrupt call to move concerned him, not the least because it had happened in the middle of the night, with no warning. He'd asked if it had anything to do with the Donetsk airport, and had been told they didn't know, because this wasn't a Black Sea NATO mission. This had nothing to do with NATO. He was controlled by an organization that actually had no control. He couldn't be NATO. He was the United States, pure and simple. In the hodgepodge creation of his mission, his command in Europe had become nothing more than a radio relay, simply because they had the architecture. That would change once he made linkup with the 82nd Airborne. He'd fall OPCON to them, leaving the rotation force for good.

Quinton was a student of history, as most military officers were. He understood the application of force, but also the deterrent threat that force implied. He was willing to go toe-to-toe with anyone on earth, but understood his true purpose was exactly to prevent that. To keep someone from even wanting to fight. He knew the Russians were watching his advance. In the new world of satellites and drones, he had no doubt about that.

He was rolling forward with more firepower than an armored division in World War II, facing a threat that had more firepower than the entire armies of Patton, Montgomery, and Hitler combined. He understood that he'd been held up in Kiev for political reasons, giving the Russians time to capitulate.

And now he'd been ordered into the Luhansk Oblast.

He was afraid to question why that was.

M
ikhail waited until the men had disappeared into the crowd before crossing the street. He held the door for an old couple, then entered the nave and quickly descended the stairs. He reached the landing, finding one of the overcoat wearers at the base. A man two inches taller, with a thin layer of blond hair cut razor close, stared at Mikhail with piggish, marble eyes.

In Russian, Mikhail said, “Mass has started. You're going to be late.”

The Russian showed a flicker of recognition at the bona fides, and responded, “I'm attending the later one.”

Getting the correct response, Mikhail moved past him into the hallway, saying, “Where is the Colonel?”

“Go to the first intersection, then take a right.”

Not good.
Not his plan. The intersection led to a dead end with an alcove housing skulls cut into the rock. Once in, with the beefy Russian behind him, he'd be trapped, his stairwell exit useless.

He started down the arched tunnel and felt the Russian fall in behind him.
Keep cool. They want the money more than they want you.

He reached a T intersection, the tunnel to the right much more narrow than the one he was in, with barely enough room for a single man to pass. The other pipe-swinger was standing just inside. Beyond him, he saw the fedora-wearing older gentleman, holding a briefcase.

The second pipe-swinger stepped out, leaving one in front of Mikhail and one behind. He held his hand out, as if he were inviting
him down the narrow passage. Mikhail hesitated, and he said, “Don't worry. We'll prevent anyone from interfering.”

Mikhail nodded and entered the tunnel. He walked about forty feet, and the man in the fedora turned, a smile on his face. Speaking in Russian, he said, “Simon, I presume?”

“No, Colonel, I'm his representative.”

The answer made the man's smile falter. Mikhail could swear he saw a flicker of fear, but was unsure why. He said, “I was told Simon would be here.”

“Simon
is
here, for all practical purposes. I'm empowered to transact on his behalf. You are speaking to him when you talk to me. Is that the sample?”

“Yes.” The man bent down and opened the briefcase, exposing a cylindrical tube two inches in diameter with a thick glass window about an inch square, covered with metal mesh. Inside, Simon could see a white powder that appeared to glow. The Colonel said, “It's pure. As promised.”

“We'll need to test it.”

“I know. I brought the necessary equipment.”

From the briefcase, he withdrew what looked like a voltage meter with a rubber cord hanging out. He plugged the cord into a valve in the top of the cylinder, cinching it tight, then twisted a control knob, and the needle spiked into the red zone.

“See?”

Mikhail said, “Colonel, no offense to you, but Simon has stressed that we must test it with our own equipment. We've been burned in the past with the seller providing the testing.”

The Colonel scowled and said, “That's not happening. And Simon must be at the transfer of the rest of the Cesium. Him, and him alone. I'll give you an address to pass to him. It won't be here in Poland.”

The statement crystallized what this was about. The Colonel wasn't trying to sell Cesium. He was selling Simon. Somehow, Putin
had gotten wind of the purchase, and he'd rightly determined that it wasn't for something benign. He might have even put together that Simon was behind the death of the United States's president.

And now he was fighting back.

Carefully, Mikhail said, “Okay. I'll talk to him. But I need to take the specimen. He'll be here for the transfer, but obviously, he can't be here now. And he's not going to arrange a meeting for the rest if this doesn't prove worth it.”

“No. The specimen stays here. I've showed you the worth of it.”

Mikhail realized he was losing the race, and decided to back out completely. “Okay, okay. Where do you want to meet for the transfer?”

The Colonel's demeanor shifted, and Mikhail knew he'd capitulated too early. The man didn't believe him. He said, “We're done here.”

He snapped his fingers, and the crew-cut beast closed in, now showing a suppressed pistol. The Colonel said, “I don't know who you are, but there are powerful men who would like to talk to Simon, and you will lead us to him.”

Mikhail saw the pistol and realized he'd been mistaken. The stakes at play far outweighed any fear of being a Russian security man in Poland.

He held his hands up and said, “Wait, this is supposed to just be an exchange.”

The second thug searched him, finding the Browning Hi-Power against the small of his back. The Colonel said, “You can call it that. You're exchanging your life for Simon's. You will tell us where he is, or you will suffer the consequences. Let's go.”

They exited the crypt in the middle of mass, nobody paying them a bit of attention.

—

After being loaded into a sedan, sandwiched between the two bricks of muscle, Mikhail kept track of their location as they left the old
town, driving through the steel of the city. When they stopped, he couldn't help but feel the irony.

They forced him out in front of a dilapidated tenement house, with makeshift clotheslines dangling out of windows, the concrete blocking all light.

Outside the tenement was a plaque delineating the buffer zone for the Jewish Ghetto that had seen a valiant uprising in World War II. They were taking him into a location where the Jews had fought to the death against Nazi Germany. He hoped that was a good sign, even as he realized they had no idea he was of the same faith.

The pipe-swinger to his left said, “No talking. No quick movements.”

They left the sedan on the street and walked through an entranceway into a center courtyard. Built by the communist regime after the war, the structure was falling into ruin. The courtyard was designed to provide light for the people in the building, but whatever had been bright and happy here had long since departed. The concrete was grimy and soiled, and trash littered the ground. On the left side were the skeletons of four bicycles, still chained to a rail, all missing their seats and wheels. They were an apt analogy for those who lived here.

Shells of life.

A woman on the fourth floor looked out a window, the glass long since gone, her body backlit by the illumination of candles behind her. She saw them and scurried back into the room.

The man to Mikhail's right nudged him, pointing to a darkened doorway lacking an actual door. They went up dilapidated stairs, the wood so old he thought it would give way, stopping on the third floor. One of the men opened a door, and they entered a small den with a threadbare rug. In a kitchen off to the left, the vintage appliances sat rusting, telling him it had been a long time since anyone had lived here.

He was led through the kitchen into a back room smelling of urine,
then searched more thoroughly. His cell phone, wallet, and passport were placed on the table, then his right hand was handcuffed to an old iron bed frame, the mattress long gone.

The goons faded back, and Mikhail finally said, “Colonel, we had a deal.”

The Colonel said, “We never had a deal. Simon had a deal, and he's pissed off too many people to complete it. Some men will be here soon. They will question you, and they'll get the answers they want.”

Fighting for leverage, Mikhail lied, saying, “I'm willing to pay you right now. Give you the money. And you can keep the Cesium.”

Setting the briefcase on the ground next to the dresser, the Colonel said, “This is about more than money. It's about the future of Russia.”

Mikhail saw the conviction on the Colonel's face and knew he was done. No amount of pleading or negotiation would help. When the interrogators showed up, they would pry him open like a can of beans, learning Simon's location. It wasn't that he wanted to protect Simon out of goodwill. If he thought giving Simon up would allow him to walk away, he'd do it in a heartbeat, but he'd been on the other side of the knife, and he knew as soon as they located Simon, he was useless to them. Meaning dead.

In the old days, with the Mossad, he could at least hope a rescue force was on the way. But there was no such hope here.