by L. J. Martin
I find Pax lounging in the oversize tub, bubbles up to his chin.
“Hey, Dingus, I’m going to shower then we’ll have lunch on the State Department, and go get briefed. You good to go?”
“I could get used to this,” he says, flashing me a smile and blowing bubbles. “I guess I could face a medium rare filet. Can we invite Corporal?”
“Since you couldn’t get her out of the lobby downstairs to join you in the tub, maybe she’ll settle for lunch.”
As soon as I shower and dress, I text the names of my team to Hodgekins so she can follow up with the Air Force and Edwards.
But even as the corporal joins us for lunch, she only gives us her last name. She’s Corporal Conner. She refuses a drink, but eats the biggest steak on the menu.
7
Both McAbee and his assistant, Melane Hodgekins are waiting for us in the same conference room, this time the coffee mugs are already at our places.
They hand each of us the C.I.A. handbook on Estonia and Russia and have another half dozen at hand for the rest of our guys. McAbee does all the talking and Hodgekins sits attentively awaiting his instructions.
“Okay,” he begins, and reaches into one of those fat lawyer type briefcases on the floor beside his chair and comes up with a half dozen iPhones and hands one to each of us. “All the members of your team will have an iPhone and an iPad. You’ll see there’s a game on each of them, Monaco Racing. Yes, it’s a game, but when you activate the app there’s a password that will take you into a program that has extensive info about Estonia and the Pskov Oblast, the Russian region south and east of Estonia. An Oblast, in case you don’t know, is something like a state in the U.S. Your C.I.A. handbooks will tell you more. Some Estonians speak Russian, all speak Estonian, a Finn dialect of the Uralic languages—“
I interrupt. “Mr. McAbee, I don’t mean to be rude or seem impatient, but we don’t need nor have time for the history and ethnology of the peoples of Estonia. I plan for us to go in fat, dumb, and happy, as tourists.”
“That’s fine, Reardon, but you need some background.”
“I know these C.I.A. handbooks and have used them before. We’ll get plenty out of them, and I presume the ‘game’ program on the ‘i’ gizmos will give us lots more.”
“Lots more, including an Estonian to English and English to Estonian verbal program and dictionary. You speak into it and it’ll give you an audible translation. And you’ll see a secure phone to both me and General Holland at his NATO office. By the way, disguised into the phone is a satellite feed so you’re good to go from anywhere except the bottom of a coal mine. There's also a find your buddy feature, when you poke in the phone number it gives you the location of that iPhone.“
That impresses even me, and I can’t help but come out with a “cool!”
“Very cool, actually,” Melane speaks for the first time. She continues, “And, Mr. McAbee hasn’t mentioned yet, the iPad has an app that will send any pic you take directly to our email address along with it’s longitude, latitude, and elevation.”
“Also cool,” I say.
And she adds, “Double cool.”
“So, let’s get down to the nitty gritty. Who are we up against and how do we get to where they are?”
Again he goes to the briefcase and comes up with a folder, this one rimmed in red and marked Top Secret in red letters.
He hands it over and I flop it open as he continues. “Red Baltic is a fairly new terrorist organization. Alexei Azarin is former KGB, and when they converted to their current manifestations of Federal Security Service and the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, he was discovered to have helped himself to some funds destined for some dissident Ukrainian operatives, and he ran for his life ending up in Poland, where he tied up with others of the same ilk; their pictures and dossiers are in that folder.”
I smile at that one. “So, you’re telling me that he’s no favorite of the Russians and they won’t give a damn if he’s terminated in the process?”
“You’d likely get the Hero of the Soviet Union medal, if there still were a Soviet Union.”
He gives me a moment as I thumb through the inch thick folder, with Pax looking over my shoulder. A rough looking bunch: Azarin himself reminds me a bit of Arnold Schwarzenegger; Vadim Blinov, who looks a little like a bulldog, a shorter Arnold version; Vlad Golikov, sallow cheeked, deep set eyes, who I think Dracula might have sired; Zakhar Dziba, who’s built like a barrel of oil but still has definition in his arms and neck which is all the flesh—rather than his snarling face—I can see; Yegor Frumkin, who’s tall and thin, but solid enough that he still weighs seventeen stones, which I think is almost two hundred forty pounds, and is the best looking of the bunch with a tight cropped black beard and blazing blue eyes; and last, but certainly not least, is Alena Misin, and she’s not missing much in the female designation. Her face is angled with high cheek bones, distinctive enough to be on a Vogue cover. The lady could be a Victoria’s Secret model, and the guy who put the file together—and I guarantee it was a guy—has pics of her both dressed in style and in the raw. She's nicely shaved, with a heart shape in what's obviously natural blond as who would bleach that particular location?
I can hear Pax catch a breath. He may be ready to switch sides.
I look up to see both McAbee and Hodgekins smiling, then McAbee speaks up, “Don’t be fooled by her looks, she may just be the most deadly of the bunch.”
“What else?” I ask, casually, as if I didn't notice her obvious charms.
“If you don’t want more background on the country, then I’m turning you over to Ms. Jordovnik and Mr. Micklavich, he’s on our Russian desk and if you recall, she’s C.I.A. And she has some more toys for you.”
I can’t help but smile. Working for the good ol’ U.S.A., in this instance the C.I.A., might be fun, even though I’m sure they’ll drop us in the grease in a heartbeat if need be.
But he's got me curious. Nobody has more toys than the C.I.A. That is, if you can call a death-dealing implement a toy.
Bring em' on.
8
Both of them are standing behind their chairs when we arrive, looking as if they hope this meeting will be short and sweet and they’ll be able to quickly slink back into their innocuous bureaucratic existence.
Howard Micklavich, Russian desk, State Department, is as frumpy as Natele Jordovnik, CIA, blond, short-hair, ducktail, tall, is svelte. He's about five foot seven and she's probably two inches taller before the high heels, so with even modest three-inch working-heel-height she towers over him. Her green eyes would make an emerald envious, with eyelashes to shame a Maybelline ad. Her tan belies a woman who works inside at a desk—and the current style sans nylons is no problem for long, long and very smooth legs. High cheekbones speak of ancestors who swept down from the Steppes to copulate with Nordic types. Her brown suit is businesslike, with the skirt cut just above the knee. Her jacket, with its deep vee neck, has no blouse beneath, however the vee is adorned with a yellow scarf just translucent enough to be sexy. I'll bet the scarf comes off at cocktail time and half the men in the bar will offer to buy her one, or a half dozen. No jewelry, other than small pearl earrings. I'm sure in deference to her job, her high heels are a mere three inches, not five.
She's a flat out fox, a nine point nine because there are no tens, and even Pax is a little tongue-tied. A rare occasion for him in the presence of a beautiful woman.
And I can't help but lick my lips, which elicits a tight smile and a flash from the deep greens.
She’s not as sweet as her appearance.
She doesn’t bother with hello.
“Alright, you two should understand that the C.I.A. disavows anything to do with this so-called operation. Given time we would have handled this—“
So I cut her short. “It’s my understanding, agent, or operative, or whatever I should call you, that these young ladies don’t have time.”
She’s silent for a moment,
then Micklavich jumps in. “State feels exactly the same, just for the record.”
I have to laugh a little. “I’m sure all the acronyms and cabinets within a ten mile radius will be happy to announce the fact we’re disavowed, and probably hope we’ll be disemboweled, and I’m sure we’ll show up as dissidents in every press release from every bunch of D.C. hotshots, including you two, plus all the disavowing dip shits in your respective departments. Now, can we get on with this so we can get on with trying to save these young women?”
She has very nice teeth and very expensive dental work, as I can see to her dangling uvula as her mouth drops open.
“Shall we sit?” I ask. “I can’t sit before a lady does.”
Her mouth snaps shut and all of us take a seat.
It’s silent, so I begin. “I have the C.I.A. handbook, so is there anything else we should know?”
She clears her throat before beginning. “I have a complete dossier on Alexei Azarin.”
“Give me the short form,” I suggest.
“He’s a former colonel in the VDV, the Vozdushno-desantnye voyska, or Russian paramilitary. He qualified as a sniper and was dropped deep into Afghanistan during that conflict. He was a major at the time. In fact he was thought lost and made his way out, alone, six months after the Russians pulled out.”
“A true badass,” I say, almost under my breath. “And his people?”
“Most from the same branch of the service. He was recruited by the KGB, now, since the dissolution of the USSR, the Federal Security Service and the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation. Almost three years ago he was discovered to have absconded with a suitcase full of rubles, which only means he refused to share with his superiors. There are six primary players in Red Baltic, all male except for an East German, Alena Misin. She met Blinov in Germany, and they became a thing, until Alexei came along, then she switched like a bitch in heat."
“And that didn’t cause a little friction?”
“Who knows. They’re all still in the same bag of tomcats.”
“I presume all of this is in some kind of report for us?”
She smiles. “It’s in the game program on your iPhone. There’s all we know on each and every one of them. By the way, should you lose your phone or should it be captured we can destruct it via satellite. Should your captors remove the battery so it can’t be traced, they’ll get a little surprise…the case itself is a battery and it will continue to operate the GPS function and can be traced, although all other functions will appear dead. The long life hidden battery will power the phone, beyond the normal day or so, for at least five days from the last charge.”
“Cool.” I turn to Micklavich. “And what does State have to add?”
“Just that you are on your own and are non-entities so far as the State Department is concerned.”
“Why am I not surprised,” I say, and both of them smile.
Pax has been strangely silent, and finally speaks up. “So, if we find ourselves seeking refuge in an American embassy or consulate, what then.”
“That’s mine,” Miklavich stops her from answering with an outstretched palm. “I guess if you’re not chased in, you can expect some help…just like any American citizen. However, if you cross into Russia, you’ll be a million miles from nowhere, to coin a phrase. If the Estonian police or military is hot on your tail, and if they present the proper paperwork, you could be turned over to them.”
Pax just stares at him, so I offer my humble opinion, “And you can expect whoever would try to offer us up as fodder to have their nuts ripped out by the root.”
He merely shrugs.
“I have some things for you and your group. How many are you?”
“An even half-dozen,” I say.
She rises. “There’s a shooting range in the basement. Howard, would you show us the way?”
“I will, then I’ve got to get back to my desk.”
“Oh, golly,” Pax says, “that’s too bad.” And I get a wink.
9
As we descend in the elevator, I ask Natele, “So, is there a company plan to get us in the country, unnoticed?”
“Of course,” she says, and glances at Micklavich and gives me a high-sign with a finger to her lips, that he cannot see. And I nod and don’t press it.
The range has ten pistol bays, up to forty yards, and a rifle bay that extends to a hundred.
Micklavich leads us to the range master, who in turn takes us to the last two pistol bays which are next to the rifle bay, where two guys in shooter’s vests await. He hands us ear protection as there are two State Department officers on the firing line.
Behind the range master is a folding table, and it’s fairly well covered with accouterments. Only when I approach do I notice they are both wearing State visitor badges, as are Pax and I, and in addition they have C.I.A. I.D.’s clipped to the breast pocket of the vests.
The larger of the two, Paul somebody, nods and shakes hands, then says, “I’d ask who the hell you guys are, as no one out of the company has even seen these new playthings. However, I was told not to ask.”
“We both like to play,” Pax says, with a grin.
Natele is first to the table and picks up an implement resembling a common ball point pen. “Push like a conventional pen and it’s a ball point. Aim it and turn the back half to the left, counterclockwise, and it’s a short shot of mace. Turn it clockwise, and it’s a knockout solution in gaseous form that will put your attacker out for hours. Don’t step up into the area sprayed for at least twenty minutes, or you could go down as well.”
“Good toy,” Pax says.
She next picks up a stubby rifle, but with a muzzle as large as a grenade launcher. “This, boys, is the XM25 Counter Defilade Target Engagement System, a high-tech rifle that can be programmed so that its 25-mm. ammunition detonates either in front of or behind a target, meaning it can be fired just above a wall before it explodes and kills the enemy. You will stay here this afternoon and get a lesson. I’m deploying two of these for your use, and two dozen rounds of explosive ammunition, and a half dozen of the latest …it, too, is loaded with the same gaseous compound as the pen. Nonlethal, so you can use it if there are friendlies standing next to the bad guys. Do not lose it, we don’t want the technology to fall into the wrong hands.”
“A great tool,” Pax says, shaking his head in some wonderment, “perfect for a hostage situation.”
“A more than merely perfect tool,” I add, and for the first time, we get a real sincere smile from Natele.
“There are four backpacks, each which are lined with five pounds of EPX-1 in one pound packages…they’re sewed into the sides and bottoms. Elsewhere in a pencil box are timed detonators, appearing like pencils. Turn the eraser and you can set from thirty seconds to thirty minutes. I’ll demo one for you.”
“EPX-1?” Pax asks.
“The latest in plastic explosive, much better acceleration rate than others.”
“And transportation once we’re in country?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to talk in front of that dingus from State, but you’re going in as a touring motorcycle club. Each of you with be riding…you do all ride, don’t you?”
“Harley.”
“Well a Harley would look a little too American. You’ll each have a Husqvarna 701, a hot little potato that’ll outrun almost everything but a MIG.”
“Dibs on the red one,” Pax says, smiling like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
“There’re all red,” Natele says, and laughs.
“That might be a little tough to pile a bunch of ladies on, particularly if we’ve just knocked them and the bad guys out with your XM25.”
“You’ll have a Mercedes van somewhere near, with a driver…me.”
“You?” I say, a little surprised.
“I’m a field agent, gentlemen. If you like we’ll have a shoot off right now.”
“I believe you, it’s just….”
“It’s j
ust that I’m a woman?”
“It’s just your too damn beautiful to not attract a hell of a lot of notice.”
“Thanks, but I’ll frump up for the mission.”
It’s Pax’s turn to guffaw. “Hell, lady, it would take a meat grinder to make you frumpy.”
“Thanks, I think. Paul and Al,” she says, “will walk you through the rest of the standard stuff, which I’m sure you’re already familiar with. You’ll have six M5’s and six Ingram M10’s .45ACP with a dozen sixteen round clips for each and detachable flash suppressors which also serve as silencers.”
“And side arms?” I ask.
“Glock 17 Gen 4, with adjustable frame width’s and both ten and seventeen round clips, easily hidden. I’ve got to get back to the office.”
“So,” I say, just a little suggestively, “shouldn’t we get to know each other a little better?”
“I’ve got to say goodbye to my hubby and four kids,” she says, and I can hear Pax moan.
“The rest of the guys should be at the Willard in time for a late supper. Bring your old man…we’re buying, with State Department funds, of course.”
“If I’m out of the office by eight, I’ll be there,” she says and both Pax and I enjoy watching her walk away.
Paul walks over. “I think she’s a dyke,” he says, and laughs. “Let’s go to work,” he adds.
“Dyke?” I mumble. “With an old man and four kids?”
“That’s bullshit. She’s not married.”
And again I can hear Pax, only it’s a sigh, not a moan this time.
Paul asks, “Are you guys current with the M5, Glock, and Ingram?”
“I could use a lesson with the Ingram,” Pax says, and I agree.
“Good,” Paul says, “then we can spend most of our time with the XM25.”
"Let's get it done, what little I've seen of the assholes who have these girls, we probably don't have much time."