by D S Kane
Every day the sub moved, submerged under twenty feet of ocean, every night traveling on the surface to recharge its batteries. Day after day, the same. His charts told him he was now leaving the Sea of Japan, entering the harbor, close to where this mission would become a skirmish. Or, if it worked poorly, a battle.
From the periscope Shimmel could see Vladivostok sitting under a toxic haze of pollution. With the sub using its batteries just under the surface, the communications array was active. Avram walked into the ready room. “Captain Rogov, get me status.”
“Da. We are thirty minutes out. I suggest you ready your mercenary force now. We will want to surface as briefly as possible, and you must all exit to life rafts within five minutes or Russian mafiya will know sub is in harbor.”
“Any messages?”
“Nyet.” But as the captain shook his head, the comm beeped. He handed the headset to Shimmel.
“Avram here.”
“Wing. I back traced emails and finally have something solid. First, Tobelov is the Russian president’s brother.”
Shimmel’s mouth formed an “oh.” “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll send you the email texts. Second, there are emails between Mastoff and Tobelov. But they’re encrypted, and I’ll need new keys to crack them before you can read them. So, that’ll take some time.”
Now Shimmel found a bench in the ready room and sat. “Mastoff? Are you certain?”
“Of course I am. And third, I have the location of Tobelov. He’s at the harbor, in a wharfside office about five hundred yards from where you stole the subs a few months ago.”
Shimmel stroked his chin. Then he smiled. This was what he’d hoped. “Thanks, William. Let me know if his location changes, and let me know when you have the message texts decrypted. Oh, and please tell all this to Ainsley.”
“Will do. Good luck. Wing out.”
* * *
Wing supported Sylvia Orley’s shoulder and guided her into a wheelchair. He smiled at her, but she winced as she shifted her gaze to his. He felt a bolt of pain shoot down his arm, but realized it was just a sympathy pain. He gently brushed her arm. “Horst is downstairs with the car. Just a few more minutes.”
She tried to smile back. “Oui. Home is best now.” The attendant pushed the chair into the elevator and the doors closed. William tried to sound casual. “Are you going to remain a merc?”
Orley closed her eyes. “Never been shooted before, Wheelyam. I don’t want to ever be hurt like this again.”
The liquid armor coating the shirt she’d worn had stopped the bullet, but its impact had burst several blood vessels as it shattered her sternum and sent bone fragments close to her heart. Fragments from the same bullet had burst through her skull and caused some brain damage. So lucky they’d gotten her into surgery before she could die. He never wanted her in danger again and nodded. On this they agreed. She’d retire.
“Syl, what will you do?” He faced her, eager to hear what he hoped she’d say.
“I don’t know. I wheel need ze monies. I have no other talents. A mystery to be explored, no?”
“Yes.” Maybe he had an answer. He wondered if she’d agree. But now wasn’t the right time to ask.
* * *
At dusk, Shimmel exited the conning tower and found sixty-three men and women ready in the five rafts with paddles in their hands. He dropped into the last raft and they all paddled away from the sub. Although the rafts were equipped with motors, they were for exit after the mission. Surprise would be a key factor in their arrival. So paddling the two miles to the wharf in silence was the only option.
He waited until darkness descended on the ocean. Then he raised his right hand. “On my mark. Go, go, go!”
As they closed the distance to the wharf, Shimmel reviewed the mission objectives:
Locate building where Tobelov is.
Send the “fly,” configured for silent death.
If Tobelov escapes, capture him. If dead, collect his body.
Exit to sub.
Bring a corpse or Tobelov alive to Ben-Levy.
He thought, on the face of it, an easy mission. But there are so many things that can go wrong, and an undetermined number of mafiya foot soldiers to worry about.
When the rafts arrived under the wharf, the mercenaries tied them to the pylons at the point furthest from shore. The mercs climbed silently atop the pier and hid among the crates awaiting shipment in and out.
Last up, Shimmel found Major McTavish and his team. Something about this mission suddenly made him nervous. He made the decision to go with the easiest alternative. “Ready the fly with a cyanide capsule.”
He used his earbud to contact Major LeFleur. “Jacques, ensure no one gets past your team. Use poison darts for stealth. If they shoot back, use your Rugers. If they close to less than fifty meters, blow the entrance to the pier and retreat to my position.”
The major said, “Oui, General.”
He watched one of his snipers use a joystick to maneuver the tiny electromechanical fly toward the warehouse. “General, there are no open windows and no chimney. No way to get the fly into the building.”
Shimmel grimaced. “Okay, return the fly. We’ll arm it for explosives and flash-bang.” There were two doors into the warehouse: one garage door and the other a metal door with a small reinforced-glass window. For maximum effect the fly would be positioned to blow the garage door.
“Major McTavish, take a small force of mercs to contain the mafiya soldiers within. Have the rest of your team use C-6 explosive to destroy the metal door.” He figured they’d have less than two minutes to complete the mission before soldiers overran LeFleur’s position sixty feet away.
He told LeFleur and McTavish what he had planned. He could hear their resistance and then begrudging acquiescence. No matter. It was the best plan any of them could think of.
* * *
Nikita Tobelov paced the space in front of the desk in his office on the second floor of the warehouse. He stared at the computer screen, anger tensing his hands. His deal with President Mastoff was two suitcase nukes for the dead body of Cassandra Sashakovich. His lieutenants in the mafiya were eager for the cash he’d told them they’d receive. But now, suddenly the lines of communication from the United States were silent. He should have heard of her death long ago. Had the president failed to find her? Surely they could easily kill her. So what was wrong? If he couldn’t display her corpse, he’d lose face with his subordinates. He sat and keyed another email to the address the president had given him:
Have you taken care of my request? I am ready to supply what I promised, but am now concerned you have failed. Reply soon.
—Tobelov
He was about to press the Send key when the warehouse rocked. He saw a blinding flash through the office window. Tobelov rose, pulled a Glock from the top desk drawer, and grabbed a spare clip.
* * *
The fly, about the size and shape of a horsefly, had landed on the warehouse garage door. The merc operating the joystick pressed a button and the door disappeared in a bright blaze. Two teams of mercs took aim and fired into the bottom floor of the warehouse as visibility cleared. The team on the port side of the pier fired Rugers in full automatic mode. The team on the starboard side engaged mafiya foot soldiers within the garage, using Tango-51 sniper rifles equipped with heat scopes to pick off targets as they moved. The door lay tattered, and the Russians grasped its pieces from the floor to provide cover. McTavish’s two teams took cover behind crates between sixty and ninety feet from the entrance.
On the other side of the warehouse, mercs streamed through the fallen metal door. They split into three groups of eight, going right, left, and center into the warehouse. Russians facing their attackers inside the garage were cut down in seconds by the three teams emerging behind them.
* * *
Tobelov watched from above. He was the only survivor. Too many to fight. He reentered his office and hid behind file cabinet
s. He’d need to hold off his attackers for at least three minutes, until his mafiya foot soldiers could run from barracks on the shore and overrun this position.
* * *
Shimmel heard reports coming in through his earbud. He looked through the night-vision binoculars. A force of several hundred Russians were running from the shore onto the pier. “Jacques, withdraw to our position, now.”
“Oui, General. We’re on our way.”
“Alister, what is your status?”
“We’ve secured the warehouse and are searching for Tobelov.”
“Take him alive if at all possible.”
“We’ll do our best.”
* * *
Tobelov crouched in silence when eight armed men burst through the office door. In seconds they’d searched the room. They must know where he was. He peered out and saw them. He held the gun behind his back. In English he said, “I surrender. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.” He edged away from the file cabinets and moved toward the wall adjacent to the window.
Three of the eight mercs moved toward him. Tobelov turned and fired a shot through the window. As he prepared to jump through the jagged opening he heard the pop of a silenced weapon. He fell to the floor and blacked out.
* * *
“We had to shoot him. His left foot is gone and he’s unconscious. But he’ll live. We need to get them back to the sub’s med room ASAP.”
Shimmel saw the advancing Russians, now less than a hundred yards away and closing fast. He took a bullhorn from his pack. In Russian, he said, “We have Nikita Tobelov. Back away or we’ll kill your leader.”
They stopped in midstep and took cover. Shimmel could see movement indicating they were reorganizing. He’d bought some time, that’s all.
He spoke though his earbud. “Get to the life rafts and paddle to the sub. Move swiftly. Cover your sixes as you move.” He retreated along with fifty-six mercenaries, McTavish, LeFleur, and four mercs carrying Tobelov on a stretcher.
In two minutes they were all on the rafts, paddling away. As the last raft moved from the cover of the pier, bright lights blinked on, exposing them. Bullets rained on them, but no direct hits. “Snipers, shoot out the lights. Turn the engines on. Take evasive maneuvers.” Before the snipers could extinguish the lights, one raft was hit and began to sink. The mercs from the raft went over its side and swam toward the one nearest and behind as it neared. They grabbed on and hung to the raft’s guide ropes as it pulled from the pier.
Shimmel said a silent prayer as they sped away. When they were a hundred yards out, he said, “Blow the pier.” The C-6 LeFleur’s men had placed under the pylons exploded. The wharf, along with the Russians on it, disappeared from sight.
The rafts scooted toward the sub, Shimmel was unsure whether there would be more trouble before they left Vlad for good. But they were now out of tricks. If they encountered resistance once in the fragile sub, they’d all die.
He hated Vlad. Once again, he swore he’d never return.
CHAPTER 16
January 8, 4:11 p.m.
Joyousweddings.com,
628 Kean Street, Arlington, Virginia
Lynne, the wedding planner from Joyousweddings.com, touched the pristine white fabric of the dress. Cassie held it tight against her torso. “So, the dress looks magnificent, Ms. Sashakovich.” Lynne peeked for a label and found none. She asked, “Is this a family heirloom? Or did you have it made from scratch?”
Cassie folded the garment and carefully placed it back in the box. “From scratch. Uh, by the way, we now have a location and a date.”
Lynne clasped her hands and smiled. “Oh. Good. Tell me.”
Cassie swallowed. “Listen, it’s pretty far away, and I don’t want anyone to know except for those I’m inviting.”
Lynne said nothing. She nodded. And waited. And waited. Almost thirty seconds passed in silence.
Cassie spoke through the pain in her mouth. It was less and less every day, but hadn’t yet gone. The words came slowly. “I used to live in northern California. Near Half Moon Bay. There’s a lighthouse in a town called Devil’s Slide. We want it scheduled for next month, on February 2. Can you do it?”
Lynne was silent a few seconds “But of course. Give me the details. How many?
“Eighty-eight. Sixty-eight from my business. Ann, Lee, me. My parents and my uncle. The remaining fourteen are from Lee’s family.”
Lynne entered the details into her tablet. “How big is the property and what amenities does it have?”
Cassie remembered her visit to see her parents not long ago. “There’s a hostel at the Point Montara lighthouse, with a commercial kitchen. Also, a pair of cheap hotels, both north and south. And while not luxurious, they’ll do. The lighthouse is on a bluff sixty feet above the Pacific Ocean, and the invitees will face it, with the ceremony at land’s edge.”
Lynne was tapping furiously now. “I have some ideas. Listen. How about…”
* * *
The submarine purred like a contented cat as it glided east through the Pacific. Shimmel stood in its tiny infirmary, with Dr. Gorman in surgical scrubs next to him.
Gorman took off the latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard trash. “He’ll live. The leg will heal. I assume you intend to make a gift of him to Mossad.”
Shimmel nodded. “Yah. Our most important customer.”
Gorman faced him, concern framing his face. “What will they do with him?”
Shimmel shook his head. “You already know if you’re asking the question. They will interrogate him using drugs. Then a public trial to make known the facts they want the world acquainted with. Very carefully controlled. And then, either execution or leverage with those he worked for, and those who worked for him.”
Gorman shrugged. “It won’t be pretty.”
Shimmel nodded.
* * *
Greenfield nodded although the conversation was taking place over the phone. What they were planning would be very dicey. “Sir, we know how to do this with a small safety buffer. But only if we do it after you leave office. No way to get all the parts in place any sooner.”
“Gil, that sucks. Sucks the big one. I’ll have men coming here to arrest me within a week of the day that ‘Southern Cross’ Mastoff takes office. He wants my entire party twistin’ in the wind. Can’t we do this while I’m still President? There’s still a few days left.”
Greenfield wanted to shout into the phone at his idiot of a friend. Took a deep breath. “Afraid not. But there is some irony you might appreciate. You see, we bugged her wedding planner’s phone under a FISA warrant, claiming she’s working with terrorists, since Ainsley could technically be one, having spent a few days in Guantanamo. We found out when and where she’s getting married. We can do the entire family all at one time. Everyone. Her and Ainsley. The parents. The daughter. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
He waited for a response. Almost a minute went by. “It’ll have to do. But make sure you leave her dead. Have them all dead before I go to prison. Or should I say, before we go to prison.”
Greenfield said “Yes, sir.” He heard the Encryption-Lok whining off.
Then he made another call, this one on his cellphone. “It’s Mockingbird. Pack your things and get your team to the training center. I’ll transmit your orders over a secure link as soon as you reply.”
From the other end of the line he heard someone say, “Done.” The call terminated.
* * *
The rented Lear circled the compact Santa Barbara Airport. Ann watched the ocean as the plane descended. She braced herself as the wheels screeched against the runway. And smiled. She still didn’t trust aircraft. Couldn’t understand how something that big could fly. But she wasn’t afraid.
The portable stairs bumped into place and someone outside tapped on the entrance. Lester Dushov opened the door and in seconds the five bodyguards were on the tarmac at the private air terminal, spread out in a circle and waiting for Cassie, Lee,
and Ann to walk down the steps.
It was sunny and warm here, almost seventy degrees Fahrenheit, forty-five warmer than Washington. A dry wind blew softly through Ann’s hair. The bodyguards shepherded them into a waiting limousine and closed the doors after taking their own seats.
Ann noticed that Cassie had stopped complaining about being protected so completely. Ann’s sense of danger had grown and now mirrored her mom’s. Too much had happened for her to believe she was safe. Something all her school friends took for granted. She sighed as the limo drove from the airport.
The drive on Highway 1 along the shoreline took twenty minutes. The car turned east and headed up into the foothills as it approached Montecito. The homes here were richer than anything Ann had ever seen. Much more expensive than Cassie’s parents’ home in northern California. Ann wondered what her grandparents-to-be were like. Then she put the thought aside. She’d meet them in a few minutes.
But when the limo pulled into a compound behind a brick wall, she gasped. The property was enormous. Within the brick walls were rolling hills. She turned her head and could see the blue Pacific sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Facing forward in the vehicle, she saw the mansion. Dad’s family was obviously very rich. She wondered what they were like.
The car stopped and the bodyguards opened the doors. They seemed as awestruck as she was. JD smiled and opened his shirt collar. “A vacation for us, I think.”
Lester shook his head. “Don’t take too much for granted. Stay alert. Remember Maui.”
The front door of the house popped open and a small procession of people emerged. First an older woman, possibly fifty years of age. Gorgeous, blonde hair, and a self-contained smile. Next, an older man, also blond, very thin and walking with a cane. He was probably sixty, but his face had no wrinkles. These must be Lee’s parents. Ann smoothed out her dress. She hated wearing dresses, but Cassie had laid out the clothes for this trip. She watched as two more people emerged, one man a bit younger than Lee, thin and blond, and the other a young woman, ash-colored hair, and not quite as thin. His brother and sister, she assumed. They formed a line parallel to Cassie and her family. It looked like a football scrimmage. Charles had taught her enough of the game so she recognized it as the line a team would form before commencing play.