by Ted Bell
“Cool. What is DSS, again?”
“Diplomatic Security. You got room for all these people?”
“Look around you, boss. We got rooms that have rooms. Rooms nobody’s ever even seen. They can stay downstairs in the boathouse. Two bedrooms, one head, and a kitchen upstairs.”
“Perfect. Thank you, Sir Stokely, for your generous hospitality.”
“When can they be here? These protection guys?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Done. What about that nightcap?”
“Yeah,” Hawke said. “Got any Gosling’s rum?”
Stoke smiled. “That question is not worthy of me.”
Hawke laughed. “These bloody Russians must be getting to me.”
“Maybe its high time we should begin getting to them,” Stoke said, dead serious.
“You know what’s most worrisome, Stoke? Putin. Alexei used to be under his protection. Hell, the guy invites Congreve and me aboard his yacht for four days in the south of France. And, somehow, he knows my son is staying at the White House! What the hell? And then this human nightmare, Szell, Jules Szell, appears at Alexei’s White House birthday party? The very same KGB assassin who tried to poison Alexei in London. And when that failed, the bastard follows him to Washington? How does that happen, Stoke?”
“You think Putin’s behind that? After all that’s gone down between you two during these years? Boss, you’re friends with the man, right?”
“If you’d asked me that a month ago, you’d have gotten a different answer. Hell, I don’t know anymore. Szell is a low-life renegade KGB killer. So maybe he’s off Putin’s radar. Working for those retired KGB guys who’re still pissed off at us for taking out their beloved Tsar Korsakov.”
“I’m not sure anything is off that man’s radar anymore, boss. He seems to be calling the shots these worldwide days.”
“You know what, I’m starting to agree with you. He was acting very strangely during that stay aboard Tsar. Ambrose had the same reaction to him in France. Beware the wolf, he told me.”
Hawke took a deep breath and expelled it slowly.
“He wants the old USSR back, Stoke. The glory days he remembers so fondly. And I can tell you that he sincerely believes no one has the guts to stop him. Not France, Germany, Britain, and certainly not the former United States of America.”
“Damn. He’s got that right.”
“He practically admitted his primary objectives to me. Going back to the old borders. Fairly amazing.”
“It’s weird all right. Good move on the White House’s part, right? Taking all those missile defense systems away from the Poles and Czechs. Stoning NATO back to the Stone Age. Those folks in Eastern Europe must be shitting bricks right about now. You heard Russian troops are already moving in that direction, right? War games, the Kremlin says. Ain’t no game about it, way I see it.”
“Worse than that. He sees a new world order. Beginning with a new European Empire with Moscow as the capitol.”
“You’re talking Hitler, now, boss. That’s how he envisioned Berlin. Templehof, you remember, that was going to be Europe’s airport.”
“I honestly think that’s how he sees himself. The new Hitler. It’s that classic sociopathic narcissism run completely amok. He believes someone needs to rule the world, and he has no question but that he’s the only man for the job.”
“Wheels coming off the damn world, you ask me.”
“That’s an understatement. Listen, Stoke. I had another reason for coming to Miami. Brick Kelly at CIA is flying down tonight. He wants an offshore meeting with me first thing in the morning. Aboard a Coast Guard cutter.”
“What’s up with that?”
“He wants to debrief me on my visit with Putin. I’m going to tell him what my gut told me. Vladimir Putin is right on the verge of going to a world war footing and he doesn’t care who knows it. Brick would like you to be there. He’s got an assignment for Tactics that’s apparently urgent. Black ops. You, Brock, and, ultimately, whatever local CIA resources you need. Involves travel. A nighttime insertion into an armed facility. You know the drill.”
“Yeah. Where we drilling this time?”
“No idea. We’ll both find out in the morning. Is Brock in jail yet or is he around these days?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s around all right.”
“Tell him you’re meeting with his boss, Director Kelly, bright and early tomorrow morning at the U.S. Coast Guard HQ. That you thought he might want to be there so you don’t bad-mouth him any more than is absolutely necessary.”
“All due respect, boss, what do you need us for? I’m talking ‘big picture’ kind of thing.”
“Somebody’s going to have to figure out how to stop the newly combatant Russians before this thing spirals completely out of control. Brick thinks I have as good a chance at doing it as anyone. At least I’ve got an inside track. Maybe so. As long as you’ve got my back. Or standing in front of me or right by my side.”
“You got that right.”
“Call Harry now. Tell him to be at USCG Station Miami at 0530. Come aboard the USCG Sentinel at 0600. I’ll be waiting for you both on board. There’s a big clock in the sky and it’s ticking like a goddamn doomsday bomb right now. Tell him that.”
THE DAY HAD DAWNED TO light rain and drifting patches of fog. Aboard Sentinel, Brick Kelly had welcomed the attendees at a full breakfast served in the officers’ wardroom. A lot of navy brass were down from Washington—some of whom Hawke knew—plus CIA, plus God knows who else. Brick would make sure Alex met whoever he needed to meet before the voyage was over.
Hawke had been trying to follow a conversation he’d been having with an elderly American admiral on his right, but the old fellow was feeling poorly and had excused himself. Hawke turned to Brick Kelly seated to his left at the wardroom table.
“I noticed we’re not just swimming in circles out in the Atlantic this morning,” he said to Brick.
“You noticed? Yeah. We’re bound for Cuban waters. Should arrive on station any moment now.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I got sat intel that a vessel I’m interested in will be departing Havana harbor today. I plan to intercept her. I need you guys to see up close and personal what we’re dealing with now.”
“Which is?”
“Putin has entered into a secret agreement with El Presidente, Raúl Castro, to rebuild the old supersecret Soviet spy base at Isla de Pinos, an island just off the Cuban coast. The compound was built in the 1960s to eavesdrop on U.S. communications from Miami to all points south. The largest espionage installation in the Western Hemisphere. Twenty-eight square miles. Fifteen hundred KGB and GRU military intelligence officers manning an array of antennas and electronic surveillances systems back in the day.”
“Good God,” Hawke said.
“Yeah.”
“But hasn’t that old technology been superseded by spy satellites and NSA-style eavesdropping from space?”
“Yes, precisely why I’m interested in it. Russian freighters and supply ships have been arriving and departing Havana and Isla de Pinos on a very regular basis lately. If they’re not building a new spy station on that island, then what the hell are they building?”
At that moment, a young naval officer appeared at Brick’s side and said, “Director, the captain asks that you and your party adjourn to the bridge. We have the target vessel in radar contact. Visual contact expected in . . . twenty minutes.”
“Tell Captain Wick we’ll be right there. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
CHAPTER 42
At sea, off Havana
Most of the invited brass stood inside the warm, dry bridge where U.S. Coast Guard captain, Mike Wick, was describing the impending operation. When Stokely Jones and Harry Brock had arrived on board, they had been quickly escorted up to the bridge to join Hawke.
A fast-moving storm front up from Jamaica had brought sudden wind gusts and rapidly dropping barometers to this region of t
he Caribbean. Brick Kelly and Alex Hawke, who had donned regulation USCG foul-weather gear, had stepped outside to the exposed bridge wing deck, where they could speak privately.
Both men stood in the driving rain, staring out to sea. Both focused their attention about ten degrees off the port bow, waiting for a ghost ship to appear out of the mists. An old Russian warship descended from a war they’d thought ended fifty years ago. Hawke was peering through the fog, eyes squinted against the slanting rain. Brick had very sophisticated pairs of naval binoculars.
“So. Putin,” Brick said out of the corner of his mouth. “Time to talk Putin.”
“Putin. What about him? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Five words. Any order. Don’t even pause to consider. Go.”
“Terrified.”
“Why?”
“He’s terrified that his big dream is dying, and that means so is he.”
“Next.”
“Delusional.”
“Because?”
“He thinks he can stave off his own inevitable end through mass murder. And by taking down the world piecemeal through genocide. Hell, maybe he thinks he’s Hitler. I know he thinks he’s Napoleon. No, he’s convinced. They’ve got a couple of words for it in Russia now, as I’m sure you know. They call it ‘Putinism.’ Nearly 90 percent approval rating. And ‘Novorossiya,’ the New Russia. Compare Vlad’s poll numbers with Rosow’s latest numbers when you get a chance. Very enlightening.
“But with the precipitous fall of the ruble, the plummeting price of oil, the world’s starting to close in on him. His people are hurting. And so is he,” Brick said.
Hawke went on. “As long as he keeps feeding the citizens the line that it’s all America’s fault and they’ve been through worse and come out stronger? That their suffering is for the greater good of the motherland? He hangs in there.”
“I agree. But our people see a possible regime change just over the horizon if he’s not careful. And what’s number three?”
“Paranoid. He thinks the wolf is at his door. He doesn’t know the wolf no longer thinks he’s worth eating.”
“Good. Four.”
“Morally bereft.”
“Tell me.”
“He has a new weapon capable of killing millions that is completely undetectable. A tasteless, odorless, colorless liquid explosive. He’s ready to use the stuff without warning at the drop of a hat. Just because he can.”
“Holy crap. And you believe him?”
“I certainly do. He gave me an eyewitness undersea demonstration off the coast of Cannes. He used a thimbleful to vaporize a huge sunken Russian freighter.”
“You think he’ll use this stuff on us?”
“Yes. Now that the U.S. has kowtowed to the Castro brothers and opened up relations with them, Putin’s forging ahead with creating an offensive base ninety miles from Key West, for God’s sake. Tell me, Brick, what’s the difference between what Putin’s doing now and what Khrushchev did to Kennedy with the Cuban missile crisis?”
“No difference. Couldn’t agree more. Last one. Five.”
“Two words. Vicious and merciless.”
“Why?”
“He seeks revenge for what he sees as Russia’s humiliation by the United States. The last thing he said to me before I left for Washington was, ‘You tell your American friends this, Alex. I alone possess the sole nuclear arsenal in the world that can turn all of North America into a radioactive parking lot. Give me a good enough excuse and I will not hesitate to do it.’”
“You are shitting me Alex. Holy crap!”
“Nope. He thinks there’s something far worse than nuclear war, Brick. Soulless surrender of the dreams of Soviet glory. The slow and relentless decay of the Putin myth if he doesn’t fight like hell against it.”
“Jesus,” Brick said, dropping the binoculars to his chest and using his fingertips to massage his temples. He felt like a brick wall had collapsed on him.
“Worse than your guys thought, right, Brick?”
“Somebody shoot me.”
“Yeah. One piece of advice, not that you need any from me. Something my father taught me when I was still in short pants.”
“Yeah?”
“Never corner a rat. He has to bite you to get out.”
“Right. I’m glad I sent you over there to France to take the new tsar’s temperature, Alex. All the goddamn intel in the world doesn’t have one-tenth the juice of what you just told me. Do you know there are still sentient beings inside the Beltway who believe Putin bemoans the fall of Communism? Putin never gave a crap about Communism. He thought it was a joke. What he misses are the power trappings of imperial greatness.”
“You got it, Brick. And—”
Three short horn blasts sounded from a speaker bolted to the underside of the overhead. Now the two men heard the captain speaking via VHF radio to an approaching vessel still hidden in the fog. A few seconds later they saw the ship’s running lights fast approaching in the mist.
CHAPTER 43
The Coast Guard captain’s transmission to the Russian warship went out over the ship’s PA system.
Mike Wick said, “Vessel located position 22 degrees north, 79 degrees west, steering course bearing one-seven-zero, speed seventeen knots, this is the United States Coast Guard vessel Sentinel approximately two nautical miles off your starboard beam, standing by on channel 16, over.”
“We read you loud and clear, Coast Guard. This is the Russian Navy vessel Viktor Leonev, over.”
“Uh, vessel Leonev, this is Coast Guard, request you switch to channel 22, over.”
“We’re going to 22, over.”
“Coast Guard standing by on 22 . . .”
“Go ahead, Coast Guard.”
“Leonev, maintain course and speed. We are sending over a boarding party . . .”
“Negative, Coast Guard, we are a military vessel sailing under flag in international waters. We are proceeding.”
“Captain, this is Captain Michael Wick, U.S. Coast Guard. I have in my hand a signed international search-and-seizure warrant for your vessel. You have two choices. We believe you are in violation of certain long-standing U.S. maritime treaties and rules of international law. Now, you can allow my men to board and search peacefully. If you are not in violation, you may proceed without delay. If you refuse my boarding order, your vessel will automatically be seized and escorted to the nearest U.S. port at Guantanamo Bay. You’ve got five minutes to contact Russian naval command and verify my legal right to board.”
“You think he’ll buy that crock of shit?” Hawke asked Kelly.
“You think he wants to start World War III all by himself?”
“I thought it already started,” Hawke replied, studying the Russian warship through the binocs from stem to stern.
A moment later: “Coast Guard, this is Leonev. We are maintaining course and speed. We are preparing to receive your boarding party. Standing by on channel 22.”
In less than a minute, an orange-and-white CG chopper rose rapidly into the air from the stern helipad, dipped its nose, and headed straight for the Russians.
Stoke’s guys called themselves “Stokeland Raiders.” Hardened combat veterans especially chosen for this mission by Stoke, Hawke, and Director Kelly. Mostly ex–U.S. Navy, snipers and frogmen, who’d deployed all over the Gulf region and wherever else they were needed. Many of this proud new squad were well into their late thirties or early forties; men who had remained steadfast friends with the CIA director and Stoke long after they’d all retired from the military.
Kelly and Stokely now kept every one of the Raiders’ cell numbers in a pair of encrypted iPhone 6s they called the Batphones. This was the first time these men had gone into action as a unit. But something told Brick it would not be the last. Now, Brick Kelly looked at Hawke. “Stokely Jones is aboard that chopper, Alex. My guy Agent Brock is with him, too. An honorary Raider.”
“I was wondering why you wanted them out h
ere all of a sudden. What’s going on, Brick?”
“Cuba, of course. Ever since we were ordered to ‘normalize’ relations with the Castros, I’ve had a lot of young Cuban CIA undercovers working construction at the spy base site. From what I hear, the Castro brothers’ desire for normalcy includes them working with the Russians on a way to take down their brand-new Yankee allies without launching a missile.”
“Jesus, Brick. Who the hell is running your ship? Sounds like Washington has gone down the rabbit hole.”
“Who said anybody was running it?”
The Coasties’ big orange H-65 helo was now hovering just above the Russian warship’s stacks. The Stokeland Raiders would now commence fast-roping down to the Leonev’s rainswept decks.
The first man out the door? Fast-roping down to the pitching decks of the Russian missile-cruiser?
Stokely Jones Jr.
“Stoke’s still got it, hasn’t he?” the director said.
“The man is a speed-burner, Brick. What else can I say?”
CHAPTER 44
Siberia
The colonel knocked back a slug of vodka from his canteen, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It would be dark in a few hours. The only thing separating the black sky in the west from the black earth below was a narrow ribbon of pink where the horizon should be. Standing at the side of a muddy road, he looked out across the rolling tundra, south, as far as he could see, across the last few hundred miles he had to cover.
Godforsaken hell-on-earth of a place, he thought, thoroughly sick of this endless, mindless journey to nowhere. He hadn’t seen a tree in over a week. Just mile after mile of muddy dirt and skimpy patches of sedge grass frosted with ice. And the wind! Constant, always blowing, sometimes gusting to sixty miles an hour. He pulled up the hood of his bearskin parka, just at the thought of it.
For, make no mistake about it. Siberia is, literally, nowhere in any language. And nowhere is fucking cold.
He parked his butt against the front fender of the crap Russian-made jeep. It ran okay and it had a brand-new .50-cal. machine gun mounted where the rear bench seat would be. Might come in handy someday. Beauregard jammed an unfiltered Russian cigarette in his mouth, fired up his old Zippo, and lit it. He stood there smoking and watching the chaotic scene unfolding below him with disgust.