by Jack Carr
“Even with the AK ploy, if someone goes down and gets left behind, facial recognition technology will confirm it was us.”
“That will be fully explained to the president.”
“What’s COA 2?”
“The [XXX] commander is an Army general so he wants [XXX] in on the action as well,” Vic said, using one of the nicknames for the Army’s [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X], better known to the public as [Redacted]. “Second COA is to launch [XXX] in MH-X Black Hawks from an amphib. In and out.”
“Riskier COA,” Reece observed, remembering the Army helicopter that went down on his last Afghanistan deployment.
“True. We are pushing for COA 1 but it will take a couple days longer to get that one in motion. We are lucky that SDV was deployed for a [Redacted]. Part of their work-up is the [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X]. National Command Authority will advise the president.”
“Vic, you know if the president tries to go through diplomatic channels, he’s signing Hanna’s death warrant.”
“I promise I’ll do everything I can to ensure that doesn’t happen.”
Reece leaned back in his chair, his mind racing to analyze the possible contingencies.
“I need to be there.”
“Negative, Reece. You’ve never trained for SDV ops,” Vic countered, having anticipated the request.
“All I’d do is get in the back and breathe whatever concoction they breathe. It’s not like I’d be driving the thing.”
“First off, they don’t ‘drive’ it, they ‘pilot’ it. The answer is no.”
“Well, at least put me on the [XXX] op.”
“No.”
“They don’t know this guy.”
“Neither do you.”
“I know him better than you think,” Reece snapped.
Vic interlaced his hands and brought his index fingers to his lips.
“There’s something else,” Reece said.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Vic asked.
“Raife is headed for Medny Island. He signed up for a hunt on the Dark Web. They left a URL with a log-in and password in Hanna’s kitchen in Romania. He’s going to get her.”
“Shit! You didn’t try to talk him out of it?”
“I can see you don’t know Raife very well.”
“Did you get the URL and password?”
“Sure did,” Reece said, passing the CIA executive a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Shit,” Vic said again. “Just what we need: a former SEAL in the hands of Russian intelligence.”
“I can help, Vic. Get me on this op.”
“Again, no.”
“What if I go full-time?”
Vic had been trying to convince Reece to come work as a Ground Branch officer in the Special Activities Division of the CIA since they first met.
“You put me on this mission, and I come in for at least four years.”
Vic tapped his index fingers together in front of his face, contemplating the offer.
“You’re on.”
“You knew I was going to offer that up, didn’t you?” Reece asked.
“Let’s just say I was prepared for your offer. The assaulters are already down at [XXX] [XXX] training on a mock-up of the lodge on Medny Island.”
“You move fast.”
“We’re the CIA,” Vic said, rising to shake hands with his newest recruit. “Nicole Phan and Andy Danreb are already down there. Remember them?”
“I remember,” Reece said, thinking back to Andy’s role in exposing the assassination and chemical weapon threat to Odessa the previous year.
“As gruff and cynical as he is, with the Russia connection, Andy is our foremost expert. Nicole will be the connection back to Langley and the Counterterrorism Center. She plays much better with others than your friend Andy.” Vic looked at his watch. “If you leave now, you can make it in time for tonight’s brief and FTX.”
Reece wondered if Vic knew about Oliver Grey’s connection to his father’s death, or his obsession with taking out the sniper who had killed Freddy. He knew Vic would think those emotions would cloud his judgment and he didn’t want to discuss anything that would threaten his involvement in the mission. If Vic didn’t know that the real reason Reece was coming on board was to settle a personal score, Reece certainly wasn’t going to tell him.
Reece left the executive level and made his way back to the lobby. This time he didn’t stop at the Wall of Honor, though he did pause ever so slightly as he walked across the eagle and compass rose of the Agency seal. Visions of Freddy Strain and Thomas Reece had been replaced with the file photos of Nizar and Grey; the Syrian and the traitor were clearly focused in his crosshairs.
CHAPTER 57
[Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X]
IT TOOK JUST OVER [Redacted] to drive the Agency Suburban down to the CIA training facility. Situated on a peninsula [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X] is a secluded [Redacted] training site that had gained notoriety as the rehearsal site for the raid that killed Osama bin Laden. A full mock-up of the compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, had been built so the assault force could memorize the layout of the world’s most wanted terrorist’s home. The SEALs tasked with completing the mission had been successfully assaulting compounds of every shape and size, year after year, on virtually a nightly basis since 9/11, but the Abbottabad mission would have worldwide geopolitical repercussions, so nothing was spared to stack the deck in their favor.
The special operations community is a small one and, though he was older than many of them, Reece recognized a few of the Army commandos from various training schools and deployments. Navy Seabees were hard at work building a mock-up of the lodge on Medny Island for full mission profile rehearsals. Nothing was known about the inside layout, as all they had to go on was satellite imagery, which would ensure the outside was almost an exact replica of the target. Forty assaulters from [Redacted] had arrived a day earlier and had been preparing for what they had been told was a hostage rescue mission. They had assumed it was for a target in Somalia or Syria and had not yet been told mission specifics. That was about to change.
When Reece drove in, most of the assaulters were in the chow hall waiting for an upcoming intelligence briefing.
“The Unit,” as it is known by the skilled operators in its ranks, drew heavily from the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment. An entire Ranger element had been killed alongside Reece’s troop in Afghanistan two years earlier. As Reece sat down with his tray of food, a handful of [XXX] assaulters, including their troop sergeant major, approached.
“Mr. Reece,” the large bearded man began in an accent that betrayed a southern upbringing, “I’m Christian Holloway, troop sergeant major. I just wanted to thank you. We all knew the boys killed with your troop in Afghanistan; the Rangers on those birds. You did right by them.”
One by one, the [XXX] operators shook Reece’s hand.
“Also, heard about what you did in Odessa. Sorry to hear about Freddy. I worked with him in ’09 in Iraq. Solid as they come. See you in the briefing,” Holloway said with a respectful nod.
* * *
Reece stood at the back of the stadium-style briefing room and wondered if this was the same room where his friends had first received word that the UBL mission was a go. The assaulters and a few support personnel filled the first four rows of seats, talking and joking among themselves. It was not that long ago that Reece had been in a similar room receiving the mission that would lead to the deaths of his SEAL troop, Army Rangers, and aircrews on a dark Afghan mountain.
The door at the front of the briefing room opened and Reece immediately recognized the looming figure of Andy Danreb. The Chicago native missed nothing and nodded to Reece without breaking stride. His customary blue oxford shirt was rolled up at the
sleeves. He was ready to work. Nicole Phan was almost the polar opposite of the older, disgruntled Cold War relic. She was young, spry, and always chipper. Reece couldn’t remember ever seeing her without a smile. Anyone who mistook her kindness for weakness, though, would soon find themselves on the losing end of an intellectual battle of wits. Born in America to a family who escaped Vietnam in 1975, she was one of the CIA’s most talented targeters. After the fall of Saigon, her grandfather had blended in with the boat people as a refugee to escape the wrath of the NVA. She was not the first in her family with ties to U.S. intelligence. She caught Reece’s eye and waved.
Some might find it intimidating to stand up in a room surrounded by hardened special operators whose lives depend on the information presented. If Nicole felt that way, her demeanor did not betray it.
“Good evening, everyone,” she began. “I’m Nicole Phan. I’m an SSO targeting officer from the CTC. This is Andy Danreb, from the Russian Desk at the Directorate of Analysis, formerly DI for those of you who remember.”
Andy nodded, his haircut and stern look giving the impression that he may once have worn the uniform even if it was thirty years and forty pounds ago.
At the mention of Russia, more than a few operators began to send questioning looks toward the front of the room.
“This operation will be recognized as a Special Access Program, so thank you for signing the NDAs earlier,” Nicole continued. “I know you all have a lot of practice.”
She hit a button on the remote in her hand and a picture of a young woman filled the center screen.
“This is Hanna Hastings. American citizen. She was kidnapped in Romania by what is suspected to be a rogue element of Russian intelligence. We believe she was moved overland through Moldova and into Ukraine, where her captors crossed into Russian-held territory. An unscheduled flight of an An-26 transport departed Zavodska airfield in Crimea less than twenty-four hours later. The flight made two brief stops for fuel and terminated at Sharomy Naval Air Station, a remote base in Kamchatka, Russia.”
A map detailing the flight appeared on the screen along with satellite imagery of the isolated but paved three-thousand-meter runway.
“This is Aleksandr Zharkov,” Nicole continued, advancing the slide to a file photo of the alleged perpetrator. “He is the deputy director of Directorate S in Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. In layman’s terms, he manages their illegals program, running agents without cover status; sometimes deep penetration programs and other times simply sleeper agents. His father is this man, Ivan Zharkov.” A black-and-white photo of the mafia boss replaced that of his son.
Andy nodded curtly and pointed to the screen. “Ivan Zharkov. He’s the Pakhan, or head, of the Tambov Gang in the bratva, also known as the Russian mafia. When the Iron Curtain fell in 1991 it was chaos, but a select few saw opportunity, hence the rise of Russian organized crime. Ivan was more adept than most. He thought ahead and pushed one of his sons, Aleksandr, into the Foreign Intelligence Service. He wanted his own mole. We believe it was information from Aleksandr that allowed Ivan to crush his competition and consolidate power under the St. Petersburg Tambov Gang. He used his son to orchestrate the arrest of rival gangs through INTERPOL. You may remember, the arrests made headlines in Spain back in 2008. Dismantling a criminal network made Russia look strong in the eyes of the international community. They elevated Ivan Zharkov to the undisputed position of Vor v Zakon, a top authority for the bratva, eliminating his rivals, and making him the second-richest man in Russia behind their president. Point being, Ivan is a long-term thinker and not someone to be trifled with. There are uncorroborated reports of a rift growing between Ivan and his son. Aleksandr was recalled from a posting in Belarus after he was tied to the murder of a prostitute. It was covered up, presumably through hush money from the elder, possibly by intimidation of the investigators by bratva thugs. With newly acquired intelligence”—Andy’s eyes moved to Reece—“I correlated the information we have on Aleksandr’s postings with unsolved murders and, although the information is incomplete, the timing certainly suggests that Aleksandr Zharkov may be responsible for a series of murders around the globe.”
A series of crime scene photos moved across the screen, each one showing a young female.
“Why not just turn all this over to INTERPOL?” an operator built like a tank asked through a thick southern drawl.
“INTERPOL has a surprisingly strong presence in Russia but all that would do is tip Aleksandr off. If, and I say if, this mission gets the green light, you are her only chance.”
“Thank you, Andy,” Nicole said. “Aleksandr Zharkov left Moscow thirty-six hours ago on an An-26 and landed at Sharomy air station earlier today. An hour later, an Mi-8 took off for Medny Island, just east of the Kamchatka Peninsula. Medny is the smaller of two islands known as the Commander Islands and was all but abandoned in 2001. It’s small, only about seventy-one square miles, but over the past two years we have seen increased signs of military activity there.”
Satellite imagery was projected of the island.
“There is a bunkerlike structure in addition to a larger metal building that houses vehicles. This summer, an array of structures was erected on various points of the island. Our theory, based on its proximity to Alaska, is that it is some type of radar or early warning site, but we can’t be sure. We believe that Ms. Hastings was taken to the island and that she’s still there. For how long, we don’t know. We also believe that Aleksandr Zharkov is on the island with her.”
A three-dimensional terrain model image of the island showed up on the screens.
“To the best of our knowledge, this is the target structure. The Seabees are almost finished with a mock-up for rehearsals but remember, we have no intel on the interior layout.”
“Any other locations they may have taken her?” asked a man with the physique of a triathlete.
“Ivan Zharkov has a dacha on the Black Sea where he doesn’t spend much time. He also has a compound in central Siberia,” she said, bringing up a map of Russia and zooming in on an area in the middle. “It’s located at the epicenter of the Tunguska Event, of all places. He frequents it in the spring and fall but we do not have any reports of Aleksandr accompanying his father there in quite some time.”
“Enemy situation?” asked a laid-back looking operator chewing gum in the second row.
“Aleksandr is an odd one,” Andy chimed in. “He doesn’t trust his own military or intelligence services and instead has contracted security from the Wagner Group.”
Heads nodded in recognition.
“As a refresher,” Andy continued, “Wagner is a private military company; think the Russian version of Blackwater.”
“Didn’t they get tied to the killing of those journalists in the Central African Republic last year?” the same operator asked.
“Yes, along with disappearances and ‘suicides’ of more than a few in opposition to Putin’s policies. They’ve been very active in Africa, specifically in CAR, Madagascar, Sudan, and Libya. They continue to grow in power and influence, propping up Russian-backed dictatorships in Venezuela, Syria, and elsewhere. We estimate that Aleksandr has eight to ten Wagner contractors on the island and possibly a personal bodyguard, but we can’t be sure.”
“How well trained are they?”
“The Wagner rank and file are mostly filled with regular Russian Army personnel who are trained up at a Wagner compound in the North Caucasus region of southern Russia. They do have a small special operations component for special activities who handle operations like targeting those journalists in Africa.”
The inquisitive assaulter nodded like these were normal everyday occurrences in the life of being a commando, which, in fact, they were.
“The big question here is, why?” asked Sergeant Major Holloway, verbalizing what they were all thinking.
“I’ll take that one,” interjected Reece from the back of the room, making his way to the front. Nicole and Andy stepped to the si
de to give him the floor.
“I’m James Reece. I met most of you tonight. I’m a former SEAL currently working for Ground Branch, though I think we are supposed to call it something else these days.”
The comment elicited a chuckle from a room full of people accustomed to senior ranking officers renaming programs as a way to fill evaluations, insinuating that a highly successful established entity was entirely their idea before moving up the ladder in the chain of command.
“Some of you may know Raife Hastings,” the former frogman continued.
Heads nodded again.
“Hanna is his sister. She was abducted in retaliation for events last year in which Raife and I were involved. Raife has gone dark. Our last communication was from his sister’s residence in Romania. I think he’s on his way to Medny alone.”
“Shit,” Holloway said, leaning forward in his chair. “So, what you are telling us is that we have two potential hostages in Russian territory?”
“And that’s not all.” Reece hesitated. “Recent intel suggests that Aleksandr has moved on from his serial killing of prostitutes and is hunting humans on Medny Island. He’s going to hunt Hanna, but her real purpose is bait. What he really wants is to hunt me and Raife.”
“What?” Holloway asked in disbelief. “How reliable is this intel?”
Reece thought of Dimitry in Thorn’s cabin, the capsaicin flowing through his veins cooking him from the inside out.
“Very,” concluded Reece, not bothering to use the military terminology associated with source verification.
Holloway shook his head. “This is a new one. Though it’s not usually my place to ask, how will this be handled diplomatically?”
Nicole stepped forward to take the question.
“If approved, President Grimes would call the Russian president only if things went south. Insert and extract via MH-X Black Hawks,” she said, referring to the “stealth” helicopters made famous by the raid in Abbottabad. “We have AKs and Russian ammo sourced in Russia to make the actions on the objective look like a rival gang hit. This needs to be nonattributable to U.S. forces. Fallout could be a house cleaning inside the bratva. Off the record, I think the president will do little to downplay any rumors of U.S. involvement. He will be eager to show the world that he is not a puppet of Russia after all the accusations of Russian meddling in the last elections, when he was the ticket VP.”