Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  Berg replaced the receiver and smiled. This was good news. All of the pieces were falling into place. Within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the operation would be on autopilot until exfiltration. Unfortunately, the final pieces of the “exfil” puzzle couldn’t be snapped into place until the very last moment. All he could do right now was move the pieces closer together. Even then, there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t be left without the last piece.

  Chapter 26

  9:11 PM

  Tverskoy District

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Matvey Penkin turned in his black leather office chair and faced Valery, who was seated at a sleek metal conference desk toward the back of Penkin’s inner sanctum. Deep, rust-colored rays of light from the day’s fading sun streamed through the partially canted vertical blinds that covered the penthouse’s bullet-resistant windows, slicing across the rear wall to dissect his young associate.

  “It’s done. We’ve found Reznikov,” he said.

  “Unbelievable,” Valery said, looking up from his own laptop.

  “Money and leverage works miracles,” Penkin said.

  He’d spent more than a decade carefully collecting intelligence regarding the other brigadiers under his boss, filing the knowledge and evidence away for future use. The brigadier responsible for maintaining the bratva’s network of military contacts made a habit of underreporting the value of the military hardware that passed through his hands. He’d served their boss well, turning out an endless supply of hard-to-acquire weapons from unscrupulous and previously underpaid non-commissioned and commissioned army officers, but by Penkin’s estimation, he didn’t kick back nearly enough to Maksimov. Based on his own personal experience with their boss, there was simply no way the math worked out in his colleague’s favor. The only explanation was a clever system of underreporting.

  This blackmail alone would have been enough to force his cooperation, but strong-arm tactics like that yielded short-term gains and longtime enemies. Penkin didn’t want to start a war, especially around such a controversial operation. He offered the brigadier a quarter of a million dollars, along with a gentle reminder that his cooperation was not optional. He got the message and took the money without asking a single question. Within several hours, he was back, requesting an additional fifty thousand dollars. Redirecting a Sixth Directorate GRU satellite apparently commanded a hefty price. The additional money was well worth the payoff.

  Not only did the Sixth Directorate contact intercept the conversation, but more importantly, they were able to pinpoint the location of Reznikov’s satellite phone. Positioning the Russian SIGINT satellite among the geostationary government communications satellites dedicated to handling traffic out of Vermont and most of upper New England, proprietary software stolen from the Americans and installed aboard the satellite enabled a technological miracle that defied conventional navigation logic.

  The software ordered the satellite to intermittently slow itself below geostationary orbital speed, while frequently altering course during the satellite call. Hundreds of minute adjustments were made throughout the duration of the satellite call, allowing the software to combine several navigational techniques in reverse to locate the L-Band satellite signal. By the end of the thirteen-minute call, they had narrowed his location down to a ten-kilometer by ten-kilometer area in northeastern Vermont.

  The GRU contact even provided them with several high-resolution, multi-angle imagery overlays of the area. It took Penkin less than two minutes to identify the compound, which had been cleverly disguised to attract little attention from the sky. Unfortunately for Reznikov’s hosts, the compound turned out to be the only sizable cluster of buildings inside the search area. In fact, the CIA had done such a good job of isolating the compound from the outside world the nearest small cluster of houses sat more than twenty kilometers away on the outskirts of a tiny village called Lowell. Luck had smiled on them today. Then again, three hundred thousand dollars had a way of forcing anyone to smile.

  “Take a look at this,” he said, beckoning Valery to join him.

  Valery dragged one of the thick metal chairs from the table and placed it next to him. Penkin manipulated the computer mouse to display one of the satellite images on the center screen of his triple, thirty-inch flat-screen array. Sitting less than three feet away, the satellite image took up most of his field of vision, floating crisply in front of him. He magnified the image and quickly navigated to the compound located within the outlined search area. Even without Reznikov’s proposed partnership, knowledge of this location could turn a tidy profit on his investment. He could likely blackmail the CIA for a one-time payment far exceeding his three hundred thousand dollar stake. Of course, the CIA would raze the site and relocate the prisoners to an equally isolated and hidden compound. No. He had bigger plans for the information. More profitable, long-term plans.

  “It looks like a mountain retreat. Very clever of them. Who else do you suppose they are hiding there?” he asked.

  “Ha! My thoughts exactly,” Penkin hissed before continuing. “But we’ll have to stay focused on the grand prize. Washed-up dictators, terrorists or genocidal war criminals don’t hold a candle to our scientist. We may have to fly some specialized talent into America for this one. Our brothers in America are hardcore on the streets, but this is more of a military-style operation. Deep penetration, coordinated timing, multiple skill sets.”

  “I know a group suitable for the job,” Valery said. “Semion recently recruited a team of former GRU Spetznaz. All six men served together for a number of years until their unit was subordinated to one of the military districts. Their battalion was slashed by military reforms. One of Semion’s associates put him in touch with the group’s leader. They’ve been working miracles for Semion.”

  Penkin gave this some thought. He’d heard of this group. He encouraged his subordinates to actively pursue the recruitment of GRU Spetznaz. Their unique military-style training better suited the organization’s needs than the elite federal units. KGB and Interior Ministry Spetznaz displaced after the failed coup attempt against Mikhail Gorbachev routinely gave them more hassle than they were worth. Most of the KGB agents worth their salt had found employment in the newly formed Federal Security Service or the Federation Government. The rest plagued the streets already owned and run by the bratva.

  The Russian military intelligence service (GRU) had become a fertile recruiting ground for the Solntsevskaya Bratva over the past decade. Trained for infiltration, sabotage and assassination, GRU Spetznaz brought an entirely new skillset to their group, expanding their range of criminal activity. Simple breakins and extortion were augmented by sophisticated heists and coordinated attacks in remote locations. The presence of former GRU Spetznaz in the bratva had been good for business. Their “business targets” no longer felt completely safe at their secure dachas outside of Moscow or their heavily guarded mansions within the city. Valery’s suggestion would be their best shot at retrieving Reznikov.

  “I’ll call Semion immediately. As for you,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “it is time for you to travel east.”

  Valery nodded once and met his steely gaze. “We need to ensure that the American team destroys this bioweapons laboratory…without leaving any traces of our involvement.”

  “Provide anything they request, as long as it is untraceable. Money is not an issue, but take care not to attract undue attention. Under no circumstances are any of your men to participate in the actual attack on Vektor. The Americans must do the dirty work. If the government suspects our involvement, all hell will break loose. I will trust your judgment on how to proceed. You are my most trusted associate, Valery. The potential reward for our success is immeasurable. I don’t have to remind you about the consequences for our failure. We sink or swim together on this one, my friend,” Penkin said.

  “I won’t fail you, brother,” Valery assured him. “The crew in Novosibirsk is rock solid.”

 
Penkin stood up from his chair, prompting Yuri to do the same out of respect. He placed a hand on Yuri’s left shoulder and pulled him in for a hug, whispering into his ear.

  “Keep a close eye on everyone involved during the operation. Trust nobody. Word of this must not filter back to our Pakhan. Not yet. Make sure to take a few highly trusted soldiers with you, but keep them out of sight,” Penkin said.

  Valery cocked his head in a quizzical manner.

  “I may require a more permanent solution to keep the Novosibirsk crew silent,” Penkin said.

  He could tell that Valery was uncomfortable with the suggestion, and rightly so. Killing their own people to keep this secret left broader implications. Once it started, where did it stop? He was no doubt wondering about his own longevity, which could only be expected.

  “We will strive to avoid this, but the secret must be contained for our plan to work. And this is our plan now,” he said, hoping that this provided a modicum of reassurance.

  He had no intention of eliminating Valery, unless his most trusted boyevik decided to take advantage of the situation. Needless to say, he’d keep a close eye on the young man. Matvey Penkin had risen to the rank of brigadier in the Solntsevskaya Bratva by taking risks and following one simple mantra: Trust nobody.

  PART TWO

  BET IT ALL ON BLACK

  Chapter 27

  8:01 AM

  Brown River Security Corporation

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  Darryl Jackson stared at his BlackBerry screen for several moments, listening to the artificial sound of crickets chirping. He seriously debated whether to take the call. Reluctantly, he pressed the green receive button.

  “No,” he said into the phone.

  “Is that any way to treat a good friend?” the familiar voice asked.

  “The answer to whatever you are about to ask is no. Actually, it’s more like hell no,” Jackson said.

  “What makes you think this isn’t a social call? I’m not allowed to call a longtime friend anymore?”

  “Karl, including today, I can count the number of times you’ve called my office at eight in the morning on my middle finger, which is currently extended facing north toward your office. You can redirect one of your surveillance satellites to confirm this, unless you need my help with that too,” Jackson said.

  “I’ve called you at the office before,” Berg said.

  “That’s right. I remember a late afternoon just a few years ago when you called asking for a favor. That didn’t work out very well for me. Then it happened again a few months ago. Same result. Less than a month ago, another call comes through and suddenly I’m sitting on an airplane headed to bum fuck Pennsylvania with a cache of illegal weapons, which was returned to me dirty,” he whispered. “So the answer is fuck no, to whatever you are asking.”

  “I need help with something overseas. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Berg said.

  “Does your agency have any organic assets at its disposal? Why the fuck am I still paying taxes to the government?”

  “Here’s the situation,” Berg started.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to hear about it,” Jackson cut in.

  “Of course you do. I’m running a critical national security operation out of Kazakhst—”

  “Sorry. Can’t help you. I’m not exactly on good terms with our office in Astana after the unfortunate loss of several assault rifles. That was your fault by the way. Just wanted to remind you in case your memory doesn’t extend more than two months into the past. Look. I’m due in a meeting here shortly and—”

  “I need six men at the minimum. They can split four hundred thousand dollars. I just need them to babysit some important equipment in southeastern Kazakhstan. This is a middle-of-fucking-nowhere camping trip,” Berg said.

  “Six contractors won’t be easy to swing,” Jackson said, suddenly interested in the proposal. “The office isn’t that big.”

  “Four hundred and fifty thousand. All you have to do is find six guys willing to give up a week of vacation to sit in the middle of nowhere and make half of their annual salary. Tax-free. I know these guys pull this kind of shit all the time. Seventy-five grand for sitting on their asses, cradling AK-74s. I’d be willing to bet that the entire office would close down for thirty thousand apiece.”

  Jackson sighed. “No funny bullshit on this one?”

  “Not for them. They’ll keep an eye on some refueling gear and about 2000 gallons of aviation fuel. No smoking.”

  “What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  “We’re closing the loop on this whole Zulu virus thing,” Berg said.

  “I thought you took care of that in Kazakhstan.”

  “We did, but it wasn’t the original source of the virus,” Berg said.

  “Shit,” Jackson muttered.

  “Shit might be an understatement when this is finished. I’ll pass you the coordinates when available. I expect them soon. We’ll do our best to make the site accessible by vehicle. No promises.”

  “Timeline?” Jackson asked.

  “Your people on site within forty-eight hours. We have a limited window for the use of some very specialized helicopters, which is why your people might have to spend some time out in the desert. I have to put this gear out there before that window closes. I don’t have a solid execution time for the rest of my operation, but I’m told no more than five to seven days from now. Combat controllers will relieve your men roughly twenty-four hours prior to the raid.”

  “I thought you were close to retirement age, Karl.”

  “Oh, I’ll probably be forced into retirement after this one,” Berg said.

  “Or into hiding.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind. Now that your kids are out of the house, how do you feel about house guests?”

  “Let me run that by Cheryl.” Jackson chuckled. “I’ll get back to you next year.”

  “I’m still waiting for that dinner invitation,” Berg said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m still trying to explain why Cheryl could hear a jet taking off in the background of one of my phone calls…when I was supposed to be watching over my daughter in Princeton. There’s no fucking airport in Princeton, Karl.”

  “You called her from the airport in Pennsylvania?”

  “Unlike you, I can’t disappear for days on end without answering questions,” Jackson said.

  “That whole diversion took less than eight hours.”

  “What can I say? I’m on a tight leash.”

  “That’s not a bad thing. I’ll be in touch shortly. Thank you again, my friend. You always come through for me. I owe you big time,” Berg said.

  “No worries. Friends help out friends, even if they are a pain in the ass. I’ll get the ball rolling in Kazakhstan. I have to get going here,” Jackson said.

  “I’ll get you the coordinates. Talk to you soon.”

  Darryl Jackson placed his phone on the desk and drummed his fingers. On a micro scale, he owned Berg’s ass for all of these risky favors, but Darryl was never one to forget the bigger picture. Without Berg’s intervention years ago, he would have died a miserable death at the hands of the Taliban outside of Kabul. Karl Berg had stepped in and done the right thing on his behalf, before they were friends. He’d never forget that, which is why he’d always help out, even if it meant trouble for him at home or with Brown River. Berg would do the same for him if the tables were turned.

  He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts list, quickly finding the number he needed. His relationship with the detachment chief in Astana was a little strained after Berg’s crew ditched several government-registered and easily traceable AK-74s, but nothing came of the screwup.

  Fortunately for Brown River Security’s Kazakhstan detachment, the site was strewn with nearly three dozen additional AK-74s belonging to the Russian Spetznaz platoon that mysteriously ended up massacred on Kazakh soil. Apparently, the presence of a few extra wea
pons never climbed high enough on the government’s list of “shit that doesn’t make sense here” to warrant further investigation. They had bigger questions to contend with, and most of these questions were directed at the Russian government. Specifically, they focused on uncovering a reasonable explanation why a small Kazakh village located over 400 miles from the Russian border had been subjected to a small-scale invasion, which included 30mm cannon fire from a Russian attack helicopter.

  With the heat off Brown River, Darryl funded new weapons, in addition to some expensive gear previously denied to the detachment. This cleared the air enough that he felt comfortable asking for the chief’s help with this. With $450,000 to spread around, he felt certain that the chief would have no trouble mustering volunteers, most likely to include himself. Berg had tossed around a half-million dollars like pocket change. With money like that flying around, Jackson shuddered to think about the implications. Something big was going down.

  Chapter 28

  7:45 PM

  Vokzal-Gravny Railway Station

  Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

  “Katie Reynolds”, aka Erin Foley, felt the train slow to a crawl, eventually jolting to a stop several minutes later at her destination. She glanced at her watch, impressed that the train had arrived only five minutes late after a four-day journey across Siberia. Despite historical grumblings about Soviet inefficiencies, she got the distinct feeling during her trip that the Trans-Siberian Railway had always run on time. She looked around at her first-class compartment, making sure that she didn’t leave anything behind. Novosibirsk was one of the biggest stops “1 Rossiya” would make on its westbound journey to Moscow, so she would have plenty of time to debark, but a few close calls at smaller stations along the way had made her paranoid.

  The train had almost left without her in Birobidzhan, where a supposed ten-minute stop turned into a three-minute pause at the platform. This had been her first attempt to buy food from a local vendor outside of the railway platform. Dashing out to buy food and snacks was a common activity for passengers on the train, especially foreigners who hadn’t adjusted to the limited cuisine available in the restaurant car. She’d never eaten mutton before and had no intention of trying it. Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches had started to wear thin on her by that point, and she had only been on the train for a day. She never reached the front of the line to buy anything, having to scramble back to the train with several other travelers. She had been warned by Berg to stay on the train. The next westbound train didn’t run for two days.