The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  “Putin is a nationalist and he’s wildly popular in Russia right now. In fact, his popularity is widespread around the globe, except in Kiev and Washington, of course. And there’s good reason for this. Putin is principled. Everyone knows what his goals are, namely the restoration of the Soviet Union.”

  “I get that,” said Julia. “Standing on your principles is a rare trait these days. Why is this land bridge to Crimea so critical?”

  “Strategic geopolitical decisions are rarely made based on a single factor. Putin is an incredible strategist on the world stage, unlike our present leadership. The United States has been outmaneuvered at every turn, and Putin’s conquest of Crimea and eastern Ukraine is no exception. I believe initially, Putin thought he was losing Ukraine to NATO and the West. Perhaps Crimea, with its huge ethnic Russian population, was an easy and likely target to gain a foothold.

  “Think about it. The actual acquisition was rapid, bloodless and highly effective because Russia already had boots on the ground, and the pro-Russian populace welcomed them with open arms. Geographically, Crimea is easy to defend. At first, Putin may have underestimated the effect of the Western-imposed sanctions, especially the Saudi’s complicity in driving the price of oil way down. But in the end, it’s all about money, and the price of oil returned to one hundred dollars a barrel.”

  “That didn’t take long, did it?” added Julia.

  “No, which brings us back to the original premise,” said Sarge. “The premise that there is a peace accord in Ukraine is a joke. The pause in the conflict allowed Putin to regroup and advance his goals. In this case, he receives a land bridge to Crimea, which was one of his early military strategies. But more importantly, he now has direct access to the Black Sea via the port of Sevastopol, the traditional home of Russia’s Black Sea fleet. Russian naval power in the Mediterranean will grow exponentially.”

  John-Angie politely interrupted to deliver their meals. They were attentive but unobtrusive, like any upscale servers should be. Sarge surveyed his Irish stew. Stephanie’s self-described comfort food was very comfortable indeed. Julia seemed to be pleased as well because she dug into her salad. With food on their minds, they changed the subject, exchanging less serious talk about the world. Sarge melted into his surroundings, wishing with every smile and comment that he could have a real relationship with Julia. Before he realized it, John the server had deftly slipped the check onto their table in the customary American Express leather check presenter. Sarge stuffed it with twenties and sat back in his chair, noticing a group approach their table. He stood up to greet one of his students, Michelle Crepeau.

  “Hi, Professor Sargent,” said Crepeau. “I would like you to meet my parents. This is my daddy, Kenneth Crepeau, and my mom, Lou.”

  “Pleasure to meet you both,” said Sarge, returning Mr. Crepeau’s firm grip with a handshake.

  He introduced Julia, and handshakes were exchanged. “Did you folks enjoy your dinner?”

  “We did,” said Kenneth Crepeau. “My Michelle has spoken very highly of you, Professor. It appears you have a real fan.”

  “Well, let’s see how she feels after finals,” said Sarge to a round of smiles and giggles from Miss Crepeau.

  Sarge noticed Julia studying him.

  “It was very nice to meet you both. I’m sure your daughter will do fine,” said Sarge reassuringly.

  Sarge settled back in his chair as the Crepeau family left, turning his attention back to Julia. Death stare.

  “Is she one of yours?” asked Julia casually.

  “One of my what? Students?” replied Sarge.

  “You know,” pressed Julia. Oh boy.

  “No, I don’t know,” said Sarge. Buy time. Hide the legs.

  “A groupie student chick. I saw how she looked at you—Professor,” said Julia with her best schoolgirl voice.

  Every fiber of his being screamed, Run, Sarge, while you still can, before she breaks your legs.

  “Wait, what? No way. You don’t get your nookie where you get your cookies,” protested Sarge. She isn’t serious, right?

  “I’m just kidding you, Professor. Jeez, touchy. You can put your legs back in front of you now,” said Julia, laughing. It was over, fortunately.

  Pushing his chair back, Sarge helped Julia with her coat, and they walked toward the front door. Stephanie’s had a long wait list at this point. The entry and the bar overflowed with groups waiting to be seated.

  “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” asked Sarge, as politely as he could muster.

  Julia locked her arm in his and leaned against him, reminding Sarge of what he had been missing.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Sarge, as the couple strode out into the cold night air.

  Chapter 8

  December 16, 2015

  Mariupol, Ukraine

  Nomad lay shivering on the rusted steel decking of the northernmost blast furnace tower in the thirteen-hundred-acre Azovstal Iron and Steel Works facility. Rising more than one hundred feet over the industrial site, the multileveled access tower gave him a commanding view of the bridge over the Kalmius River, along with the span of Highway M14 running parallel to the steelworks. He felt exposed and trapped in the tower, but the terrain south of the river didn’t give him many choices for a less conspicuous observation post. He was getting paid a lot of money to ensure this operation met Colonel Biletsky’s expectations, and the view from the furnace stack gave him the situational awareness required to pull off a two-pronged attack.

  “Here they come,” said Nomad, tapping Anton Teresenko, Biletsky’s subcommander, on the arm.

  “Right on time for once,” said Teresenko in broken English, raising his binoculars to examine the approaching armor column.

  The two of them, along with three snipers from Azov Battalion, had climbed the towers in the middle of the night, concealing themselves in various locations among the steel girders before dawn. Nomad and Teresenko occupied the highest platform while the snipers nested one level below—scanning three hundred and sixty degrees for Russian or loyalist patrols. So far, all of the civilian ground activity in and around Mariupol had been restricted to the far side of the bridge, closest to the city’s central square. Few traveled outside of the heavily populated areas, for good reason.

  The loyalist-backed government in Mariupol was still leery of the cease-fire, which resulted in the unconditional withdrawal of Colonel Biletsky’s ultranationalist Azov Battalion. Despite multiple confirmed media reports and sightings of the battalion driving in Odessa, more than three hundred miles away, memories of Biletsky’s brutal siege of the city remained fresh in pro-Russian memories. The smart citizens stayed close to the seat of loyalist power near the city center. The wisest had left long ago. After today, anyone with a speck of common sense would abandon the strategically located city.

  “Can you estimate the lead vehicle’s speed?” asked Nomad.

  “Thirty kilometers per hour—very rough estimate. They’re moving at a normal road speed for armored vehicles,” said Teresenko.

  “Any heavies?”

  “Not yet. I’m seeing a long line of BTR-82s. No tracked vehicles,” said Teresenko.

  “They’d tear these shitty roads to pieces. Tracks and asphalt don’t mix. The T-90s and BMP-3s are probably sitting on railway cars inside Russia, waiting for the green light. This is a publicity run, just like my intelligence sources predicted,” said Nomad.

  “Let’s hope your sources are right. The unexpected arrival of a tank platoon would spell disaster for the battalion,” said Teresenko, lowering his binoculars.

  “Don’t worry, my friend. These sources have never been wrong,” said Nomad, grabbing his encrypted satellite phone. “I’m going to start the sequence. There’s no going back from here.”

  “There was no going back for any of us once the battalion abandoned Mariupol,” said Teresenko, moving one of his hands to activate his headset.

  “Biletsky will get exactly what I promised,
and Mariupol will be back in Ukrainian hands by nightfall,” said Nomad.

  Teresenko stared at him for moment, absorbing his words before issuing several orders through his headset. Nomad pressed one of the saved numbers on his satellite phone, immediately connecting with a drone operator located somewhere in western Ukraine. High above, in the partially cloudy sky, a “company” co-opted MQ-9 Reaper watched over the bridge, ready to execute a highly unconventional mission.

  “Skyfall, this is Nomad. We’re launching the barge. The show is yours,” said the mercenary, nodding enthusiastically at Teresenko.

  “Copy that. Waiting for cast off,” said the voice on his phone.

  Teresenko gave him a thumbs-up and whispered, “The barge is clear of the dock.”

  “The barge is underway, Skyfall. Once your mission is complete, request a five-minute surveillance run east of Mariupol. I’d like to know what the Russians have in reserve,” said Nomad.

  “Understood. Skyfall will proceed accordingly before returning to base. Preliminary electronic intercepts and predawn thermals support original intelligence estimates. First Battalion, 35th Separate Motorized Rifle Brigade is travelling ahead of the brigade to secure Mariupol. The closest ground response will come from 2nd battalion—fifty plus kilometers away at the Ukrainian-Russian border,” said the drone operator.

  “Air assets?” asked Nomad.

  “Nothing detected. The land bridge deal didn’t include airspace concessions, but the Russians are free to operate in the Black Sea. We’ll let you know if the situation changes.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll let you concentrate on driving the barge. Looks like she’s responding,” said Nomad.

  “We have positive control of the barge. You’ll get your fireworks,” said the operator, disconnecting the call.

  “Everything is on track,” said Nomad, pointing toward the two lane concrete span.

  Teresenko crawled behind him to get a better view.

  “Keep an eye on the Russians for me.”

  “There’s nowhere to go on that road,” said Nomad.

  “Until there’s somewhere else to go,” said Teresenko.

  “Point taken,” replied Nomad, shifting his binoculars to the approaching vehicles.

  Russian soldiers protruded from the top and side hatches of the BTR-82s lining the M14 highway, preparing for a warm reception from the pro-loyalist factions lining the downtown streets on the other side of the Kalmius River. Instead of AK-74s, they carried short poles featuring the white, blue and red striped Russian Federation flag, ready to wave in celebration of the historic event. Ukraine’s withdrawal from the areas surrounding Mariupol tacitly approved the formation of a “land bridge” between the Russian-Ukrainian border and the pro-Russian Crimean Peninsula.

  “How are we doing over there?” asked Nomad.

  “The barge is moving swiftly upriver. Are you sure it can fit under the smaller bridge?” asked Teresenko.

  “People a lot smarter than either of us did the math. The flat-deck barge will clear the smaller bridge by three feet at high tide. They should have five feet of clearance right now,” said Nomad.

  “I’m more concerned with side-to-side clearance. The bridge supports are tightly spaced,” said Teresenko.

  “The drone will be directly overhead for this. They have it under control,” said Nomad.

  “I hope so,” said Teresenko.

  Nomad mentally added for your sake to Teresenko’s comment. He held no illusions about the price of failure on this mission. Teresenko and the three snipers stood one radio command away from trying to kill him. For all Nomad knew, the order had already been issued. He was ready at a moment’s notice to fight his way out of here. Separate transportation had been arranged in the event of a double cross, and Skyfall carried two Hellfire missiles as an insurance policy.

  His satellite radio LED screen displayed a text message. 30 seconds TOT.

  “Thirty seconds until the lead Russian vehicle reaches the bridge. Get your people set,” said Nomad.

  Teresenko warned the various commanders scattered among the buildings lining the northern and eastern edges of the Azovstal facility. From their concealed positions in the structures, they would launch a coordinated attack against the Russians travelling the M14 highway. Most importantly, a small team of Azov Battalion commandos would detonate an explosives-packed train car positioned underneath the M14 overpass at the very northeast corner of the industrial compound. The destruction of the overpass would effectively trap the vehicles traversing the three-kilometer stretch of highway running parallel to the steelworks factory and prevent reinforcements from directly supporting their beleaguered comrades.

  “Fifteen seconds,” said Nomad, watching the lead vehicle pass due north of their tower.

  The sound of automatic small-arms fire broke Nomad’s concentration on the barge passing under the smaller of the two side-by-side bridges crossing the Kalmius River. On the far side of the bridge, men dressed in loyalist paramilitary garb fired at the barge as it vanished under the bridge. They quickly scrambled to the other side, emptying their magazines into the metal beast lumbering through the water. The bullets had no effect on the steel contraption, sparking and ricocheting into the water and concrete bridge struts. A nearby rifle report competed with the automatic fire, one of the snipers attempting a fifteen-hundred-foot shot from the platform below him. Nomad focused on the group of loyalists, catching the bullet’s impact. One of the militia dropped into the river, disappearing behind the unmovable barge. Nomad held his breath as the rest of the barge emerged, headed straight for the second bridge less than a hundred feet upriver.

  They needed the smaller, local-traffic bridge to remain intact for Biletsky’s triumphant return to Mariupol. Reports of the battalion’s withdrawal to Odessa had been accurate in all aspects but one. Soon after the battalion’s arrival in the port city, a dozen Ukrainian-built BTR-94 armored vehicles had been secretly loaded onto a merchant vessel destined to return to Mariupol. Offloaded under the cover of darkness at the Azovstal Iron and Steel Works shipping terminal, they joined Billetsky’s recently arrived shock troops.

  Four hundred ultranationalist militia soldiers, backed by armored personnel carriers, stood poised to retake Mariupol. Only one thing stood in their way—an unsuspecting Russian battalion. Another militia soldier dropped from sniper fire as the top of the lead Russian vehicle came into view at the bottom of his binoculars’ field of vision.

  “Lead vehicle has crossed the eastern edge of the bridge,” said Nomad, squinting in anticipation of the blast.

  The first BTR-82, a long, eight-wheeled armored vehicle, continued one-third of the way across a flat bridge before stopping, the vehicle commander’s attention obviously drawn to the loyalist militia running toward his column from the western side. The barge passed under the center span as a military-style jeep screeched to a stop along the riverbank between the two bridges, its gunner firing a roof-mounted heavy machine gun toward the water.

  “Blow the fucking bridge already,” whispered Nomad, watching the vehicle commander duck into the vehicle and close the hatch next to the driver’s station.

  “What’s happening?” asked Teresenko, his voice rising. “Why isn’t that bridge fucking gone?”

  Before he could answer, the view through his binoculars disappeared, followed by a shockwave that rattled the platform.

  “Stay down,” said Nomad, pressing his body flat against the grated steel under him.

  A few seconds later, projectiles peppered the tower, sounding a cacophony of dissimilar metallic impacts. When the last of the zinging sounds whipped past them, Nomad risked a look at the bridge. Large pieces of metal and concrete rained down on both banks of the river, shredding trees and light fixtures lining the roads connected to the bridge. A geyser of water came down with it, obscuring most of his view of the span, but there was little doubt that the bridge was gone—along with four BTR-82s. A quick glance confirmed that the second bridge re
mained intact, though he had no intention of testing its structural integrity himself.

  A series of smaller explosions drew his attention north, toward the rest of the Russian armor column. Without the help of binoculars, he saw at least three vehicles tumbling through the air, victims of powerful improvised explosive devices (IEDs) planted last night by Biletsky’s soldiers. To the distant north, a rising column of smoke signified the likely destruction of the railway overpass. The bulk of 1st Battalion, 35th Separate Motorized Rifle Brigade was trapped on an exposed section of the M14 highway, sandwiched between Biletsky’s forces and the Kalmius River.

  A fierce gun battle erupted on the near side of the destroyed bridge as Azov Battalion vehicles engaged the confused Russians with their BTR-94s’ twin 23mm cannons, ripping through the thin turret and hull armor. A volley of smoke trails left the buildings below, thrusting rocket-propelled grenades toward the surviving BTR-80s, punching holes through the scrambling vehicles. Another series of explosions rocked the main stretch of highway beyond them, catapulting more vehicles into the air.

  “The ground attack is underway,” said Teresenko.

  No shit. Now for the moment of truth.

  “Time for me to say goodbye,” said Nomad. “I have a plane to catch out of Volgograd International.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have any luck crossing the Russian border, my friend. Not after this,” said Teresenko.

  “Who said anything about a road?” asked Nomad, nodding at the wide channel next to the mouth of the Kalmius River.

  The white plume of a fast-moving boat entered the channel, which abutted a series of massive piers used to supply the blast furnaces with raw materials directly from shipping vessels.

  “Sneaky devil. Good luck to you, Amerykans’kyy,” said Teresenko.