by J E Higgins
Sergei was subjected to a selection course along with a large group of men ─ mostly conscripts. The courses contained a grueling period of harsh physical tests and exercises followed by a battery of skills tests and psychological exams. Afterward, he and a small portion of the original group graduated into what he found to be the elite naval Spetsnaz.
From that point onward, Tarkov was given extensive training in all types of commando disciplines from specialized scuba training to demolitions focusing on the means of destroying anchored ships, bridges, and docks as well as carrying out on-land attacks. They learned tactics for raiding and destroying coastal installations. They also learned how to neutralize objectives, eliminate sentries, clear beaches, and execute other operations to prepare the ground for impending military advances. He trained to conduct covert reconnaissance along enemy coastlines targeting defenses and high-level installations for strategic intelligence. The training also delved into learning the art of high-level assassinations. Tarkov was surprised to find out that in the event of serious hostilities, the role of the naval Spetsnaz was to act as a behind the lines terror and saboteur force with the task of eliminating senior military figures and other key people.
His next few years were spent on an assortment of covert missions that took him to Turkey, the Soviet Union’s long-time enemy, and other recce missions along the coast of the Scandinavian countries. Like most elements of the Soviet military, the Spetsnaz was largely comprised of conscripts serving their required term of service and then returning to civilian life. Tarkov, a man set on a military career since his childhood, was positive he had found his calling and decided to stay with the force.
He participated in a few brief missions in the long-running war in Afghanistan where he gained experience working with the army Spetsnaz against the Mujahidin guerrillas. However, it was in Africa where he truly gained most of his combat stripes. Angola and other African states, newly freed from their European colonial masters, had developed an infatuation with communism and had, in the previous decades, developed close ties with either China or the Soviet Union. The thought of helping oppressed people fight a war of liberation appealed to Tarkov who saw this as the prime purpose of his military duty.
Volunteering for service on the Dark Continent, he spent most of the 1980s running missions along the Angolan coast. Angola was involved in a bitter three-way civil war. They were staving off a threat from South Africa, then under the control of the racist and capitalist Apartheid regime. At the time, the South Africans were running their own covert war in the country. It was a war he romantically identified with his country’s own Bolshevik revolution and eagerly took to it with great enthusiasm.
During this time, he ran several missions to assassinate key figures of the UNITA and Renamo groups. They were fiercely anti-communists and aligned with the South Africans. Carrying out an assortment of daring commando raids, he worked to hone his skills and experience. This mission allowed him to see a world beyond the borders of his homeland and fight the enemies of the people as his father and grandfather had done in their day.
When the Soviet Union collapsed almost overnight, it left Tarkov in virtual limbo. He had spent his life preparing and fighting for the crusade of the people’s revolution. Now, the revolution was over, the country he had devoted himself to no longer existed. He was left coming home to a place in a state of degradation and chaos. It was a world he no longer recognized.
Tarkov tried to make a fresh start in the service of the now independent Russian government during a time when a new war was erupting and spreading through the Muslim dominated Caucasus. Seeing his new role as bringing order from anarchy, he spent the next few years running cover missions, first in the former Soviet country of Chechnya where he saw the horrors of Islamic terrorism in its worst form. Later he was tasked to carry out clandestine missions in Dagestan against foreign militants coming out of Taliban-controlled Afghanistan and seeking to establish a continued Islamic insurgency from Chechnya.
When the war ended, so did Tarkov’s love for duty. He had seen the bumbling incompetence of the Russian military commanders too steeped in antiquated strategies aimed at fighting the Western powers of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. A war that had never come and now was irrelevant in light of the greater menace threating the country. Such a mindset and the inability to accept and adapt to present circumstances had resulted in the loss of countless lives and too many military disasters that ended in humiliation and a costly defeat of the Russian army to yet another insurgent group from a tiny country.
Fed up and seeing no future he wished to be a part of, Tarkov resigned his commission and set out to find something else to do. With the whole former Soviet Union in a state of depression, he found work non-existent. His education, his skills, all his experience had been aimed toward war. The appetite for fighting and soldiering still lived within him.
Shortly after he ended his military service, he ran into an old friend from his academy days. It was rumored he was working for the Glavnoye razvedyvatel’noye upravieniye or Main Intelligence Directorate better known as the GRU. It was formerly the intelligence organization for the Soviet military and then later for just Russia. Agreeing to meet his old friend for drinks, the two found themselves in a small bar in Moscow discussing old times. When the conversation turned to employment, Tarkov admitted he was without any prospects. His friend then divulged he had a little side business as a broker of military services for private interests. Being a GRU operative provided his friend with all sorts of potential clients looking for services they could not obtain organically in their own countries. With all the experienced, out of work Soviet soldiers and intelligence operatives having nothing to look forward to at home left Russia, it became a buyer’s market for professional military types. And being GRU meant that his friend had access to all sorts of classified dossiers that allowed him to research and seek out the best candidates to recruit.
Tarkov quickly figured out his previous ‘chance’ encounter with his old academy friend had not been chance at all. This meeting had been carefully crafted to make a recruitment pitch. Miraculously, the friend just happened to have a job that fit Tarkov’s skills perfectly. Details were vague for obvious security reasons ─ some parties from a country in the South Pacific needed someone to run a covert operation against a certain threat.
Only a year ago, the once committed idealist to the Marxist cause would have heard enough, gulped down the last of his drink, and walked away with no more said. Now, without a job and certainly without a cause, ignoring his drink, he found himself staying to hear more. The prospect sounded interesting.
A week later he stood on the streets of Dubai admiring the sights as he made his way toward his rendezvous with his new employers. The meeting was set for 2030 hours at a small upscale bar in one of the city’s finest hotels. It was 1930 hours when he arrived. Tarkov had intentionally come early. His skills in the clandestine world had taught him that a prior recce of a place could mean the difference between life and death. He was dealing with someone who wanted to play a dangerous game, and he wanted to give himself every advantage.
The bar was a cozy establishment hosting all the necessary luxuries that catered to VIP-level customers. Polished mahogany tables were neatly arranged throughout the room, and soft jazz played over a speaker to keep the mood light. All the waiters, waitresses, and bartenders were wearing crisp white collared shirts and black slacks or snug fitting skirts. Leather cushioned seats on wood framed chairs provided a nice place for someone to unwind after a day of business.
It was also the worst place to conduct this sort of business. The outside windows were large and, with the aid of the inside lighting, anyone could be watching the entire establishment and its patrons from outside. Across the street, the lights were hung high to attract attention to the different businesses. This practice left the streets and sidewalks in utter darkness or lit with murky low lights that did nothing to help Tarkov, who was insid
e the bar, spot anyone who might be watching him from across the street. Since the street was lined with eateries, shops, and other bars, it would be easy for someone to justify hanging around for long periods of time.
He grimaced as he thought how much he would have preferred to have this meeting in one of the hotel lounges. He could have been shielded from people outside and the lounging areas adjacent to the bar would have been easier to monitor and conduct counter-surveillance. He was concerned about the type of amateurs who would choose such an exposed location. Then it dawned on him. Maybe that was the intention all along ─ have him where they could watch him and assess who they were dealing with before making contact.
Operating on that theory, he walked across the street. When he got to the other side, he casually looked around at the places that gave him the best view of the bar. It wasn’t long before he sighted a pudgy man smoking a cigarette and leaning against a parked car trying to look like he was reading a newspaper. Somehow the man didn’t fit the location. His features were not Arab, more Asiatic. And though he pretended to read the newspaper, the man’s eyes lifted every few seconds to glance at the bar ─ the bar where he was to meet his contact.
Tarkov spotted another man in a small eatery a few buildings away. He was sitting at a long table with several high chairs around it. Like the man leaning against the car, he was pretending to read a newspaper. Every few seconds he lifted his head to observe what was going on outside. Unlike the man at the car, this one seemed more concerned with what was going on along his side of the road. Both men shared similar ethnic features. It was a safe assumption they were working the same surveillance mission, one watching the bar and the other watching the streets for any possible threats.
They both demonstrated a decent ability as a surveillance team. Their clothes were casual and fit in nicely with the general populace frequenting the area allowing them to go relatively unnoticed. They chose their observation posts well. They both had reasonable views of their target and their own areas while not being conspicuous or unexplainable. Their only problem was they were a little too obvious in the way they conducted their scans. Any halfway decent operative would have noticed them after a short time.
The clothes the two men wore were light, short-sleeved, collared shirts and slacks. It worked for the weather but not for concealing any types of weapons or communication equipment. From this observation, Tarkov concluded neither man was armed. This was a very sensible thing to do considering the types of weapons laws many Arab states had and the paranoid attitude the local authorities had, especially regarding foreigners.
Tarkov was not sure these men were the contacts he was meeting or whether they were with the opposition. He wasn’t hired yet and that made him a tourist, not a combatant. If he was dealing with a halfway decent group with some experience and streets smarts, hostiles wouldn’t make a move on him until they were absolutely sure he was in their enemy’s employ. Black operations to abduct or assassinate someone was never an easy endeavor for a group working in a foreign country. Resources were limited, and a police response could be too hard to handle. It would be a fool’s errand to go to the trouble of such an act against someone who had turned down working for the opposition and was on their way home and would be no more trouble.
Sergei Tarkov made the decision to let the scene play out. Crossing the street he went back to the bar. Slipping in through one of the double glass doors, he stepped over to the bar. Finding a seat, he ordered a vodka from the middle-aged bartender. A small shot glass of clear liquid was soon placed before the Russian. The bottle from which it was poured was alien to him. He didn’t recognize the markings; it was not likely a Russian blend. Taking a small sip, he encountered a strong fruity sensation. It was far different than the vodka made from grain or potatoes that he was used to.
He tried the libation a few more times then ordered another drink requesting a specific brand. Thankfully, he had learned passable Arabic from his time in Syria when helping to train Force 17, a unit of Palestinian guerrillas. The PLO was trying to build their own elite commando unit to rival the Israeli Seyret Matkal and Sheyetet 13. To his dismay, he discovered Russian brands were unknown in the capitalist world. After some negotiation, the bartender was able to entice the Russian customer with a Polish brand the establishment sold. Tarkov found this brand more to his liking.
At 2030 hours, a woman entered the premises right on schedule. She looked like she was in her early thirties. She carried herself as one who was used to the life of the upper class of whatever society she came from and accustomed to being in a position of authority. She wore an expensive, tailor-made, dark grey pantsuit. In the Middle-East she may have been out of place for not wearing more modest attire or a hijab. In the more cosmopolitan world of the United Arab Emirates, the style was a common sight. She moved across the room with a confident, powerful stride and took a seat at one of the tables in the corner.
What caught Tarkov’s attention was less her beauty or assertive demeanor, but the fact she was not an Arab. Her physical appearance closely resembled the two men he had seen outside. She had a clear, East-Asian ethnicity. She also caught his attention because the instructions he had been given in Moscow stated he was to meet a woman, not of Arabic extraction, wearing business attire, who would signal him by taking a seat at a table, and he was to take a seat at the bar.
He remained seated and focusing on his drink while waiting to make a move. What he did do was turn in his chair so he could scan the room from end to end in a disinterested manner. He assessed the few other patrons sitting at the different tables. None of them appeared to have the slightest interest in anything but their drinks or their own company. Satisfied that there were no other interested parties, he returned his attention to the foreign woman in the corner. She presented the appearance of someone just looking for a quiet place to have a drink. However, he could not help noticing she had angled herself in such a way that she had a full view of the bar.
From a leather carrying case, she pulled out some magazines and placed them on the table. They appeared to be business periodicals written in Arabic abjad. He kept his head facing the wall while shifting his eyes in the direction of the woman. She began scrutinizing one of her magazines acting completely indifferent. He thought he had made a mistake when he caught her looking in his direction.
She was subtle, raising her magazine to justify lifting her eyes in his direction ─ she was looking at him though. After determining she was his contact, Tarkov proceeded as he had been instructed. Waving the bartender to him, he purchased a bottle of Dewar’s Blended Scotch Whiskey. It was expensive, but luckily he had been given plenty of expense money for the journey.
The door opened and in walked a man wearing a business suit and a dark trench coat. Though small in stature, he had a burly, muscular frame and looked like the type of man who could handle himself in a fight. He made his way to the bar and took a seat at the far end. His features were rough, so he looked out of place in the suit he wore. His neatly groomed hair was filled with gel to give him a professional appearance, but he looked like he was wearing a cheap toupee. The Russian knew he was looking at another experienced soldier. Not only that, the man was of the same Asian lineage as the woman and the men across the street.
The bottle arrived with an unbroken seal. He turned it around so the label was visible to all. Following protocol, he cracked the bottle and poured some of its contents into the fresh shot glass given to him. Taking a sip of his new drink, he extended his arm and tapped the glass three times on the counter in a nonchalant way. Several minutes passed when the woman summoned a young waitress to her. The waitress departed and returned carrying a tray with a bottle containing a reddish-brown liquid and a small glass. Setting it on the woman’s table, the girl gave her a respectful bow as she cracked the seal and poured some of the liquid into the glass. The girl then scurried off to attend another customer.
The woman repeated Tarkov’s motions and rotated the bott
le until the label was visible to him. It was an expensive Burgundy, the type of drink he was expecting. The woman sipped her drink then slid the glass gently across the table a few times while keeping her attention on her magazine. It was the signal he had been waiting for.
Grabbing both the bottle and his glass, Tarkov moved toward the woman’s table. His movements were slow and casual. If he joined her or was dismissed no one at the bar would have cared. Reaching her, he placed the bottle on the table. “Might I join you?” he asked in English. It was the language he was told to use for conducting business.
The woman put down her magazine and looked up at him. She eyed the tall, lean figure before her. Even under his black leather coat and white collared shirt, she could see the muscular frame of an athlete. His thickly lined face hosted some facial growth and a crop of salt and pepper hair cut in a military fashion that added to his rugged appearance. “Please do. It looks like it would be interesting to talk to you.” Her English was excellent, but she had a highly noticeable accent that told him it was not her primary language.
Sinking into the chair across from her he took a deep breath. “I hope this brings these little games to an end.”
The woman pressed her index finger to her temple as she gave him a sly grin. “Please forgive us for taking these precautions. We can’t afford to be wrong, nor can we be too indiscrete about what we’re trying to do. Though I am surprised. I would think a man of your occupation and experience would be quite used to such meetings.”