by Bobby Akart
Lazarev’s feet scraped the riverbed after a momentous fight to keep Kaparov from drowning. Several times during the thirty-foot swim, he considered releasing him to the Kalmius River. Each time he cursed himself for the thought and pulled harder. When his feet found solid purchase under the water, he lurched toward the brown shoreline, dragging Kaparov until he could stand in the river. A quick count of his men confirmed that everyone had made it ashore. Six soldiers, including him. Five swallowed by the river.
On shore, a few of the soldiers gasped for air, shaking uncontrollably from the swim in the icy water.
“Keep moving,” uttered Lazarev. “They can still range us.”
The soldiers, on the verge of hypothermia, hesitated for a few seconds—until bullets started to kick up dirt and water along the shoreline. The disheveled and exhausted group clumsily shuffled into the nearby tree line, lying flat behind thick tree trunks. Lazarev examined the far side of the river, disgusted by what he saw. A Ukrainian armored personnel carrier, trailed by militia fighters, drove up to a squad of Russians huddled near the riverbank—firing point blank into them with its 23mm cannons. Similar atrocities occurred up and down the eastern shore, as the last of the surviving Russians were corralled and murdered while trying to surrender.
Lieutenant Lazarev’s anger grew until he started muttering. He had no idea what he was saying until Kaparov patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Division will turn this whole place into a smoldering ruin by tomorrow.”
“I hope so, Kaparov. I truly hope so,” said Lazarev. “These Ukrainians can’t be trusted. I hope Division destroys the whole place.”
PART TWO
Chapter 10
January 5, 2016
100 Beacon Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Sarge stretched his chest on the way out of the bedroom, leaning into the doorway while grasping the doorframe with both arms. He’d pushed it a little too hard at the gym, but physical conditioning was important to him, and he never felt satisfied without adding more to each workout. He glanced through the spacious windows running the length of his residence, catching a glimpse of the snow-covered Charles River. The sidewalks lining Storrow Drive looked equally blanketed by the latest blizzard’s fury. Running is not an option today. I have enough on my plate anyway.
Satisfied with his assessment of the outside conditions, Sarge visited his favorite coffee shop, the Keurig K-cup machine, for a freshly brewed Gevalia mocha latte. Sipping the frothy goodness, he turned to survey his loft. The apartment measured nearly 4,000 square feet, divided into two bedrooms, two and a half baths, his study and a 2,400-square-foot great room dubbed “The Great Hall Overlooking the River Charles.” Sarge’s residence on the top floor of the prestigious 100 Beacon address was opulent, one of the perks that came with the position of power and leadership bestowed upon him by his benefactors.
As part of his daily routine, Sarge closely monitored the news. Getting a true picture of world events required monitoring several news networks at once. Each mainstream media source had an agenda, delivering tailored news content to those who patronized their advertisers, leaving bits and pieces of the real story to be reassembled. Sarge picked up his tablet and opened the uRule app. Centered in the room was a two-story, fourteen-foot-wide fireplace surrounded by six wall-mounted televisions—a decorator’s nightmare.
One by one, Sarge powered up the fifty-five-inch LG flat-screens, featuring talking heads from CNN, Bloomberg, FoxNews, BBC, CNBC and Al Jazeera. MSNBC used to be included in this group, until its format was changed to all sports following the consistent decline in its news ratings. Sarge was fascinated at what news stories took precedent across the political spectrum of the various networks. FoxNews might spend a considerable amount of time on the latest administration scandal, which was barely mentioned on the other five networks. CNN might cover the latest scandal of a congressman with his hands caught in the cookie jar, but the story was barely given a mention on FoxNews because it involved a Republican. The news Sarge received from BBC and Al Jazeera always piqued his interest, because these networks focused on other parts of the world.
He smiled. In the news business, there was an old saying—if it bleeds, it leads. At least they still had one thing in common, he mused. Images from Ukraine continued to dominate the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Sarge unmuted the BBC television to listen to News at One anchor Matthew Amroliwala report the latest from the war-torn region.
“Fighting has intensified today between pro-Russian rebels and Ukrainian government forces in the strategic town of Volnovakha in Donetsk Oblast. This small town of twenty-four thousand is of particular significance because it serves as the capital of the Volnovakha District of Donetsk Oblast, and is a key transportation hub. If the pro-Russian separatists take control of the area, the town of Mariupol to the south will be cut off from Ukrainian reinforcements deploying out of Donetsk. The Russian stronghold in the east of Ukraine will be too much for the Ukrainian government to overcome, and Russian forces will advance unimpeded to their ultimate goal of the Crimean Peninsula.”
Images of elderly Ukrainian civilians wandering through the streets of Volnovakha flashed across the screen, followed by a Reuters-supplied video of pro-Russian rebels launching short-range surface-to-air missiles from their 9K35 vehicle launch system. Jane Hill, Amroliwala’s co-anchor, broke in with a question.
“Matthew, what prompted the flare-up in Ukraine after a negotiated cease-fire had been reached such a short time ago? It appears hostilities have been taken to a new level,” said Hill.
“Jane, eastern Ukraine has returned to a full-scale conflict, and now the façade of Russia’s lack of state-sponsored intervention is completely removed. Ukraine and the separatists agreed upon a cease-fire, the latest of many, but it never held entirely. Both sides used the lull to rebuild and resupply their forces.
“During the weeks following the cease-fire agreement, President Putin worked behind the scenes to secure a land route from Russia to Crimea. NATO and its members seemed to acquiesce to the route, allowing humanitarian aid to the Crimean people,” said Amroliwala.
The BBC then flashed images of the destroyed bridge crossing the Kalmius River and numerous Russian BTR-82 armored personnel carriers smoldering along Highway M14 leading into Mariupol. Hill reported on the imagery.
“Matthew, for the benefit of our viewers, we are providing images of the destruction wrought upon the Russian battalion on December 16 as they entered Mariupol. This attack caught the Russian Army off guard, to be sure,” said Hill.
“It certainly did. The Russian battalion came under an unexpected, seemingly unprovoked attack by Ukrainian ultranationalists, who were clearly well-trained and armed with advanced weaponry. The Russian ambassador to the United Nations immediately cried foul and produced evidence that American-made Javelin missiles were an integral part of the attack. The ambassador further asserted the Ukrainian government conspired with the United States to deceive Russia, allowing for the ambush of their convoy of humanitarian aid to Crimea. As a result of these events in Mariupol, President Putin considers Russia to be formally at war with Ukraine. The question becomes—what will NATO do, if anything?” asked Amroliwala rhetorically.
Indeed. The United States and its NATO allies conceded the land bridge to Putin, as a form of appeasement, obviously under the impression that a permanent cease-fire might result. The surprise attack on the Russian forces in Mariupol made little sense to Sarge. It reeked of CIA—and his “friends”—involvement.
He turned his attention to all of the networks and hit the pause buttons. Al Jazeera proudly displayed another ISIS-related video. BBC conveyed images of the Ukraine war. Bloomberg and CNBC covered the continued sell-offs in the global equity markets—down fifteen percent in the last two weeks. CNN reported on its favorite topic—racial injustice in America and the Black Lives Matter movement. Finally, FoxNews covered, in depth, the trauma suffered by Amer
ican children resulting from the new low-calorie school lunch programs. My fellow Americans, do you realize how fragile our way of life really is? Sarge, staring intently at his six wall-mounted televisions, took another sip of his latte. He pondered this question until the sound of his K-cup machine roaring to life once again snapped him back to reality.
“Good morning, sunshine,” said Sarge, turning to the kitchen.
“Damn straight,” replied Steven.
His brother, Steven, stood shirtless in front of the coffee maker, with his back to Sarge, waiting on a cup of his patented motor oil. Folger’s dark roast, on the strongest setting—times two per cup. Simple, but effective. He couldn’t help notice Steven’s chiseled figure. The two brothers were similar in many ways, both staying in peak physical shape, but his brother took it to the next level. He didn’t really have a choice. His life frequently depended on it. Sarge understood one day his might as well, but there was a difference between understanding and knowing. Steven’s body differed from Sarge’s in more than one way—it had seen battle. Toned, tanned and covered in scars, Steven had skirted death and endured torture time and time again, always emerging victorious. He once bragged his seven quarts of blood had been recycled several times. Sarge worried about his brother, but knew a life of complacency would be the death of him. The world was a dangerous place, and Steven was the guy Sarge always wanted by his side. Apparently, his brother was the guy everyone wanted by his side, which explained his string of “absences.”
“So, I gather you enjoyed your belated Christmas gift?” asked Sarge.
His brother turned his head and smiled.
“Fuckin’ A! Be sure to thank Santa for me,” exclaimed Steven.
On cue, a leggy blonde emerged from the guest room, wearing nothing but one of Steven’s long-sleeve shirts. As she stood on her toes and reached around Steven’s waist to give him a kiss, Sarge caught a glimpse of what she revealed underneath the shirt. Fuckin’ A is right.
“I need coffee,” said another woman, a well-endowed brunette strolling out of Steven’s lair, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Double D Fuckin’ A. The girls giggled as they tried to operate the Keurig.
“Where did you find these two frog hogs?” asked Steven, using the slang terminology for Navy SEAL groupies.
He took a sip of motor oil and admired his conquests.
“They are on retainer by our friends,” replied Sarge, nodding toward the east and downtown Boston. “After your latest vacation, I thought you needed something to get the blood flowin’.”
“No problem there, bro,” said Steven proudly. “The blood and all of the other parts checked out just fine, but thank you very much for your concern.”
Sarge turned his attention back to the girls—although they never really lost his attention. I am such a boy.
“Ladies, Steven and I have a busy day. Would you mind getting your coffee to go?” asked Sarge with a tone of dismissiveness.
Christmas morning was over. The girls whined in protest, offering to hang around quiet as mice, woefully underdressed mice.
“C’mon, Sarge, we’ll be good. Let us hang with you guys today,” said the leggy one. Tempting, but no.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but not today,” said Sarge.
Maybe I should be led into temptation, as they say. I’m not married. But something always held Sarge back from partaking of women. Was it his feelings for Julia?
“Besides, I want to live to my fortieth birthday and somehow I feel you two could put me six feet under,” said Sarge.
As the women returned to Steven’s bedroom, he found his brother staring at the paused images on the television. Sarge waited until Steven’s Christmas gifts had closed the door.
“So, is this your handiwork?” asked Sarge, pointing toward the media wall with his latte glass.
“Which one?” replied Steven.
“Really? Do you think I’m referring to the fat parents and their equally fat kids complaining about eating healthy foods in school?” asked Sarge.
“You know the drill, bro. I can neither admit nor deny my involvement in the blowing up of Russki shit,” said Steven with a grin.
Sarge unpaused the televisions and the talking heads came back to life. He liked the still-life versions better. He often wondered what the world would be like if time stood still or, better yet, returned back a couple of hundred years to the nineteenth century. Would we be better off?
“Here’s the thing,” began Steven. “I follow orders. I’m really good at what I do. A soldier does not question his orders, he executes them. I’ll leave it to smart fuckers like you to determine the best course of action on the political side.”
Steven mussed Sarge’s hair playfully. Sarge was the older brother, but Steven took on the role of protector. They were perfect complements to each other, and the chemistry they enjoyed would prove useful in the coming years. Steven would never question Sarge’s plan, and Sarge would never question Steven’s execution of it. The women returned a few minutes later and said their goodbyes. Steven escorted them to the elevator with a final round of kisses and butt squeezes. Lucky hound dog. He returned to the kitchen and fixed himself another double cup of full-strength coffee upon Sarge’s request. They had more to discuss than the Ukraine.
Chapter 11
January 5, 2016
Antrim Street
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Professor Andrew Lau navigated his Subaru Forester into a cramped parking space on Antrim Street. As was his custom, he made a point to avoid parking near the house. In America, the residents of quiet neighborhoods seemed to hustle into their garages or front doors, with the sole intent of avoiding eye contact with their neighbors. The discreet community of Mid-Cambridge was no different. Lau had rented the house several months earlier, furnishing it with rudimentary, professorial decor. The house itself was unobtrusive—beige with scalloped lap siding, two story, white trim and a chain-link fence—perfectly suiting Professor Lau’s needs.
The neighbors would have described him as quiet, introverted and somewhat of a recluse. They also knew him as a professor at MIT, but Cambridge was full of professors, so the title drew little attention. He drove a Subaru, but what good liberal didn’t. Lau even dressed down, frequently seen in jeans, a Red Sox cap and his Koji Uehara Red Sox jersey. Uehara was Japanese and Lau was Korean, but his neighbors didn’t know the difference, and that was exactly what Lau wanted.
Lau was a professor of computer science and engineering, and the associate director of the Microsystems Technology Laboratory at MIT. One of 750 students and staff who performed all types of research in electronic circuits and photonic devices, his team effectively created the technology that made corporate giants Xerox and IBM extremely wealthy. Lau was paid a salary commensurate with his position as a professor, but he was not paid for the results of his research, which was “generously” shared with some of the university’s wealthiest benefactors—behemoth technology companies.
Pretending to check for mail that was never there, Lau unlocked the chain-link fence gate and nonchalantly strolled up the front steps of the house to the front door. Out of habit, he glanced quickly over his shoulder to scan for nosey neighbors that never appeared. Satisfied, he entered the cramped foyer. Hi, honey, I’m home.
The 1,800-square-foot home was typical for the neighborhood. Built in 1905, it was solidly constructed with twelve-inch walls, featuring hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings. To a visitor, the foyer looked like any other home on Antrim Street, as did the sitting room immediately to the left. A beautiful oak staircase wound its way upstairs to a second level, also concealing a cellar door. Nothing to see here, typical home on a typical street, in a typical neighborhood, in the good old U.S. of A—land of opportunity.
But if one listened carefully, blocking out all distractions, they might hear the sounds emanating from above—click, click, click. Professor Lau of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was a professional hacker and this wa
s his “hack house”—home of the Zero Day Gamers.
Chapter 12
January 5, 2016
100 Beacon Street
Boston, Massachusetts
“So what’s the plan for today?” asked Steven. “Are we gonna work out? Go to the range? Chill here?”
“The plan is…I have a full schedule in class today, and you are on your own,” replied Sarge.
He’s such a man-child. Sarge explained today was the first day of classes, and he had after-class interviews with the students new to his lectures. It would be a full day at the school.
“Okay, that’s cool. I’ll drop you off at Harvard Kennedy, then I want to run up to Marblehead to check on the Miss Behavin’,” said Steven. “She’s been winterized, but I really want to check on her and grab a few things.”
Sarge sensed he really wanted to drive his new G-Wagen around.
“Don’t wreck my new car,” scolded Sarge.
“Why would I do that?” asked Steven with faux innocence.
“You have a history of wrecking my cars. This is a company car. Don’t bust it up. Do you wanna take the FJ instead?” asked Sarge, hoping Steven would take him up on the offer.
“It doesn’t have heated seats. The G-Wagen will keep my ass warm,” said Steven.
“Listen, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of hostility out there,” said Sarge, gesturing toward the windows. “I’ve advised everyone to carry—including you, soldier.”
In recent months, racial tensions had exploded across the country. The shooting of an unarmed black man in Ferguson, Missouri, in 2014, ignited protests and riots throughout the country. Almost a year ago, tensions escalated to new levels when two police officers were shot by a black gunman during a Ferguson protest. The undeclared war on law enforcement officers fueled the racial divide. America was on edge. The thin veneer of civilization was being threatened by political agendas and the corresponding frenzy associated with biased media reporting.