by L. J. Martin
I over-guessed as including the Marine corporal who stepped out for a moment, there's only ten in the room. Pax and I make an even dozen.
He finishes and clears his throat again, so I step in. "I presume you folks didn't get together with us and burn the fuel in that G5 in order to treat us to coffee and a donut?"
5
The dacha was not large, but was two stories. Upstairs were two bedrooms and one bath, from what B.J. could see as they dragged her past and shoved her into one of the bedrooms. The girls followed, if you can call being dragged and jerked ruthlessly, following. One double bed sagged in a corner, a waist high bureau had three drawers with a heavy white, old fashioned, pitcher and eighteen inch bowl on its top, a mirror on the wall behind. One ladder back chair graced a corner and she could see that boards had been equally spaced, nailed across the outside of the single window, widely spaced so some light could enter.
The first thing they did was take the girl's sandals. Barefoot, they'd have lots of trouble in a forest full of sharp rocks and thorns.
Darkness came and went again with their food—a soup they said should have been used to slop hogs, and bread hard as a hockey puck—brought on a tray then picked up in a very few minutes. They had been released from the cable ties once every four hours in order to eat and go to the tiny bathroom, which was a hole in the floor with a pipe below canted to the outside.
They were allowed to wash up using the pitcher and bowl on the bureau. Then again had the cable ties bind their wrists behind their backs.
B.J. had been making mental notes. One of the men on the lower floor had been called "Alexei," and reminded her of Arnold Schwarzenegger, if a younger one. All muscle, blue eyes, a very square head, a weight lifter's neck that angled out from the ears, and a dower look—but a military manner, and she'd grown up with one and knew the style. She expected him to say "I'll be back," in deep baritone, but he had said nothing as they'd been dragged by him and up the stairs. There had been a woman next to him at a dining room table and she had not been addressed by any of them. She was very attractive, if in a hard angular way. One of the others had been called "Zak." And another "Vlad," who looked a little scary, a caricature of an undertaker with sallow cheeks, dark deep set eyes, a protruding Adam's apple, and a hatchet nose. Not a comforting feeling at the moment. But none of them were comforting.
She had gotten one glance out the upstairs window and was sure there was a lake in the distance, and thought she saw a boat and maybe a pier extending out.
She put every detail to memory, including the fact a number of weapons were spread about the lower floor, some she recognized as AK47's, and one leaning in a corner that looked like a rocket launcher of some kind.
That truly frightened her, and now she had begun to wonder why they were kidnapped?
Could it have something to do with who she was…who her father was?
She'd fired an AK47 at her daddy's range on the base back home.
She wished she had one in hand now, but first she had to get the damn plastic cable ties off her wrists.
And there were a lot of very bad looking guys downstairs.
"No, you're right, we didn't bring you here for coffee and donuts," Peabody said, with only a little sarcasm in his voice. "We've got a problem and it's one we can't handle via official channels."
"And Mr. Weatherwax and I and our associates are anything but official."
"That's what we understand. Commander Scroder here has told us about you helping him out with a problem in Afghanistan. Not that we didn't know about it."
The guy introduced as an Undersecretary, Allen Rogers, spoke up. He's a typical stiff-necked bureaucrat with a blue pin stripe suit, white dress shirt with a blue collar, and yellow power tie. His face is blotched, probably from too much booze, and his teeth need whitening. He didn't get a close enough shave this morning, mostly, and he still has a dab of blood stained toilet paper on his neck on a spot where he shaved a little too close. He's a fair sized guy with an ample gut, so it's a bit of a surprise when his voice is an octave above normal.
"We're still analyzing your actions over there, Reardon. You created an international incident and we're in discussions with the Department of Justice—"
"Hold it," I snap, "why don't you hold off on the threats until we find out why you want to offer some poor dumb schmucks up as sacrifices rather than use the infinite resources of the U.S.A. to solve whatever problem you have."
"I wouldn't get smart if I was you," he snaps back in his falsetto.
"Then I guess we should end this meeting and I should wait to continue until I have my attorney present."
"Cool it, Mike," the commander says, then turns to Rogers. "You haven't been totally briefed, Mr. Rogers. If these fellas agree to take this on, then they'll get total immunity for what they are about to undertake, as well as for their actions on my behalf in Afghanistan. That deal is already cut between Peabody and I—"
"You don't have the authority."
"If you'll let me finish. With the approval of the West Wing."
Rogers collapses back in his chair and I can see the wind is knocked out of him. He's still staring at the Commander as Scroder asks, "Good enough for State?"
Rogers nods and clamps his jaw.
The commander turns to Peabody. "Go on, please, General."
The General clears his throat again. "Allenbee's boss at NATO is General Gordon Holland, a four star who's our liaison at NATO. His daughter was traveling with two of her college friends and all three have been kidnapped. The group who did it is trying to compromise Holland and obtain NATO secrets. They have no idea that Holland immediately came forward."
I laugh and shake my head. "And what can we do that the acronyms represented in this room can't?"
"It's a very touchy situation as the kidnapping took place in Estonia, Tallinn to be exact, and we believe there's a good chance the young ladies are being held somewhere on the far southern border with Russia, or even somewhere in Russia. Red Baltic is the group, made up of Latvians, Estonians and some Russians. They threatened Holland and said should he report the abduction to anyone, and if he doesn't immediately comply with their demands, one of the girls will be delivered in pieces. And the same will happen to all of them should he resist."
"That's a little rough," I agree, then add, "and these other two girls, I presume they have families who are about to shout out and insist on three divisions of Delta, SEALs and Marine Recon to invade."
"We've made a tenuous and temporary peace with the families, but God only knows how long we can keep this under wraps."
"So, why aren't you preparing SEAL teams to do a Bin Laden?"
"One, we don't know exactly where they're being held. If you recall it took years to set up that action and a year after we were convinced where he was. And sending a team into Pakistan is one thing, into Russia is another altogether. Estonia is the new shining jewel of the former U.S.S.R. and it jumped into NATO. The Russians hate that fact and the Estonians still fear Russian re-intervention. They share a border with Russia as I'm sure you know and MIGs still intrude into their air space from time to time, just to antagonize them. The Russians would love an excuse to gain back some or all of Estonia as it's blooming success as a new free enterprise economy is a real embarrassment to the Reds."
I shake my head. "And Putin knows a pussy when he sees one."
Rogers can't let that go. "The president has handled Russia perfectly."
"I'm no international expert, Rogers. Just a passing comment from a guy who has only one skill, and that's search and destroy." I turn to Allenbee, "General, we've got some skills, but I can't guarantee that we can recover these ladies from a country none of us are familiar with. Iraq and Afghanistan were one thing, Estonia and Russia another all together. What kind of help can we expect?"
He smiles tightly. "No official help of any kind. Intel, yes, so long as it can' t be traced back to State or the Army or NATO. Weapons...anything you want, so long
as it's available on the black market and again, can't be traced. We have to move quickly on this. We're busily providing General Holland with red herrings that will look to Red Baltic as factual info...in fact some of it is. Betty Jean...that's the daughter...has to be protected at all costs or the reputation of NATO could be damaged beyond repair. If an upstart group can get inside with a little blackmail, then God knows what other groups might try. The bottom line is we think Red Baltic and the stud duck there, Azarin, are trying to get enough out of NATO to get Azarin back in good with his old bosses."
"How many guys do I need?" I ask.
"Five or six at the most. Any more will look like an invasion."
Pax, being the practical one, folds his arms. "High risk, high return, gentlemen. Otherwise, what's in it for the guys who'll likely bleed."
This time Rogers says something constructive. "State has a special fund for rewards and the Secretary has signed off on five million should the ladies get home safe."
I shrug. "I thought it was this administration's policy not to pay ransom?"
"This is different. McAbee is a very important cog in our international relations...besides, we're paying for a service, not like we're paying a ransom to Red Baltic."
I have to laugh. "Okay, so policy is dependent upon whose ox is being gored. Things change and things always remain the same. I want the dough in the commander's account before we leave the country and, commander, get your people drawing up an agreement. The last time I did business with the U.S. government I ended up with a general courts martial. And I want you to have a hold-harmless from State in your hands for Afghanistan and this op. Fair enough, gentlemen?" All that said, I still know the likelihood of us getting screwed is very, very high.
They all seem to be in agreement. I rise. "We'd like an office so we can get to work rounding up a team. Our guys will need a ride from the west coast sometime late tonight."
Rogers turns to his aide, McAbee. "Get them an office." And McAbee turns to his assistant whose name Peabody fumbled, Hodgekins, who's a stubby little gal, thick in the middle, with glasses like Coke bottle bottoms.
"Handle that, Melene," McAbee commands, and she jumps up and heads for the door.
Then he turns back to Pax and me. "We'll meet back here at lunchtime to see what progress we have. In the meantime, Natele," he turns to the CIA blond, "will you follow thru on that idea of getting the team into Estonia as innocuously as possible."
"I've got people working on it now."
He turns back to us. "McAbee is an expert...he knows more about Estonia than most Estonians...and he'll brief you and load you down with material. We have a cultural attaché there who'll be of great help...from a distance. You can't be seen meeting with her or anywhere near the consulate."
"Understood," I say. "And someone in country who understands not only the locals but this kind of op, and who we can actually be seen with?"
The NATO general speaks up. "I have a guy in our office in Belgium who's Estonian by birth and who escaped when the Russians took over. He speaks the language, of course, and even has relatives in country. And he's tough. He did a stint in Africa in counter insurgency and he'll keep up with you boys."
"Name?"
"Fletcher Goings."
"Goings?"
"Goings."
"That's an Estonian name."
"Hell, son, I'm no nameologist. Probably an Englishman in the woodpile."
"Okay, sounds right to me." I turn to Pax. "Let's get to work." Then back to Scroder. “You got a place for us to stay?”
“There’s a suite at the Willard for State dignitaries. We’ve cleared it for you.”
“Great, we’ll head over there and get cleaned up and be back here after lunch for a briefing.”
“The young lady who drove you over is out in the waiting room. She’s at your disposal.”
I can see Pax’s eyes light up, and I poke him on the shoulder a little too hard. “Let’s go, Lothario.”
And we do.
6
I’m not surprised to find our government lives good and I wonder how often the three bedroom suite, complete with a six stool wet bar, fully stocked, and Jacuzzi, is used by some State Department executive for an afternoon delight—in best Bill Clinton style—rather than by a visiting head of state or diplomat.
There is a very good selection of single malts on the back bar, but I don’t imbibe when I’m about to go into something as serious as a possible incursion into Russia, so I pass. I have had the forethought to bring one of my throwaway phones and pull my tiny address book out of my wallet and start with my phone calls. Even though State will provide us with an office this afternoon, I don’t want to make my calls from there. First, I know they’ll be recorded, and second, there’s no reason to get my guys on some government list, particularly if they pass on this gig—not that they probably don’t already adorn a half dozen lists.
Skip Allan, my Viking buddy is first on my list and he picks up on the second ring. As I supposed, he’s packing a duffle bag before we finish the conversation. I can always count on Skip…however, he’s a boozer and has been known to snort damn near anything you can get through a rolled up Franklin. But he assures me he’s clean and sober.
BeBe Gunter, Bobby Bouchard Gunter, a former SEAL, is as hard as an eight ball and as black. I conjure for a moment before making him an offer as I don’t know how much a black guy will stand out in Estonia, then think what-the-hell, black guys are everywhere these days. Besides, all we Marines were green and I know of no one I’d bet my life on more than BeBe. He, too, answers on the second ring and he, too, is probably packing before we finish the call.
As I’m dialing Tobin ‘TooBad’ Michaels, the house phone rings. I pick it up and am talking to Melane Hodgekins, McAbee’s assistant.
“Mr. Reardon, I’ve got your office ready and I’ve arranged for transportation from Edwards Air Force base. Have your people check in at the north gate.”
“Edwards will be a little hard to get to for my people, but I guess it’s as good as any. I’ll call you back with a list of names for the gate.”
“And when will you be back for your briefings?”
“How about one thirty?”
“Done.”
My next call is a redial, as I’ve already called TooBad and had to hang up to take the house phone. He doesn’t answer, which is a bit of a surprise to me. None of my guys are the type to ignore a phone call, even from a number they don’t recognize on caller I.D.
Henry Hausman, Hank, is working a bodyguard job in Santa Barbara for some hotshot Hollywood producer and making good money, or so the rumor goes. I dial him anyway as he was with me in Paraguay and one hell of a stand up guy. He answers on the first ring.
“Yeah,” he says.
“You still got a bank account full of dough or would you enjoy another vacation?” I ask.
“You son of a bitch, you call that last jaunt a vacation?”
“This one may be about as much fun. But it also might pay as well.”
“Where to?” he asks.
“Edwards Air Force Base,” I say as that’s as much as I’m willing to divulge over the phone.
“We gonna take down the U. S. Air Force?”
“Nope, we’re gonna bum a ride.”
“Who else?”
“Tell you when we join up.”
“Where?”
“You’ll know when you get there.”
He laughs. “You’re a whole bucket of information, Reardon.”
“Try to be.”
“I guess you might at least tell me when we leave?”
“As soon as you can get there. Skip and maybe TooBad, if I can reach him, will be there as well.”
“I’ve got to tell this dip shit I’m working for, then I’m off.”
“Your name will be at the north gate, with instructions where to report.”
“If this asshole doesn’t pay up, you may have to bail me out of the Santa Barbara hooseg
ow.”
“I’m sure they’ve seen you before.”
“They have, but I was delivering failure to appears, so I was on the other side of the bars.”
“Save kicking his ass until you get back.” And I hang up.
This time TooBad picks up on the fifth ring.
“What the fuck. Who is this…you hang up motherfucker?”
“You on a stake out or just your normal grumpy self?” I ask.
“Fuck, Reardon. I’m getting laid. Can you call back?”
“My bad. How about a mil or so?”
There’s a pause, then he sounds a lot more friendly, “I’m listening.”
“Where are you now?”
“Laguna Beach.”
“Ah, land of the light in their loafers…or probably go-aheads. Is it a guy or girl you’re diddling?”
“Very funny. What’s the gig?”
“Can’t discuss it. About a two week vacation, I imagine. And about as much fun as the last one.”
“Let’s see, eighty thousand a day I can handle. When and where?”
“Edwards, out in the desert. North gate, they’ll be expecting you.”
“What can I bring?”
“Your normal shitty attitude is about all.”
“No shit, what can I bring? No Homeland Security to deal with?”
“You’re favorite side arm, everything else is provided.”
“Where do we go from Edwards?”
“Hell, odds are. You’ll get a ride from there to me, then we’ll talk.”
“See you when I see you,” he says, and hangs up.
So I’ve got my team, me, Pax, both Marine Recon in days past; Hank Hausman, a civilian who’s not served, but has done enough private work to be up to speed with most weapons systems; Skip Allan, who served Marine Recon with Pax and me; BeBe Gunter, a SEAL with a communications specialty; and TooBad Michaels, former SFOD, Delta Force, E-7. These guys are worth a platoon of normal foot soldiers.