Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  And his career predated the current excitement.

  As head of Delta Team Bravo, some of the highest trained specialists in the world, he had been pretty much everywhere there was a gun and a burning American flag. This simulated urban battlefield at Fort Bragg didn’t bother him in the slightest. Fear never entered it, he simply used it to make sure his brain-finger connection was still in synch, it essential the brain came out on top every time otherwise innocent people could die.

  An AK-47 touting insurgent appeared from around a corner.

  He squeezed, already moving on to the next target.

  Suddenly everything went quiet and a siren sounded. He immediately stopped, ejecting his magazine and clearing his weapon, returning it to its holster as the PA sounded.

  “Sorry, Sergeant Major, but the Colonel wants to see you immediately. There’s a ride waiting for you.”

  Dawson strode from the simulated city block and toward a Humvee sitting nearby, its driver waiting in the idling vehicle. Dawson jumped in the passenger seat and was ferried to the Delta Force’s headquarters, commonly known amongst the men as The Unit. Then again that’s what a lot of soldiers in many forces called their own unit’s building, the call of “Hon, I’m going to The Unit” familiar to military families the world over.

  It was your home away from home, where you worked, trained, socialized and bonded. No matter where you were stationed, everyone hoped to have a unit they called home, where they felt safe and at ease.

  And Dawson’s unit, tucked out of sight on the massive Fort Bragg installation, was his home away from nothing. Sure he had an apartment that was technically home, but he always preferred to be at The Unit with his buddies, his fellow soldiers, the bond forged under fire tighter than anybody outside of the forces could ever understand.

  They studied and trained here, but it was also a central place for the families. Whenever they could they would have barbeques, softball days, car wash days, fake beach days, you name it. There was always something going on here whether it was his team or another; The Unit was the hub of Delta life.

  To say he loved it would trivialize his bond.

  Love came and went, The Unit was forever. At least for him. He could imagine no other life, and dreaded the day he could no longer keep up with the younger guys. He had been at it a while but figured he had quite a few years left in him barring injury or death.

  Death might be better.

  At least then he wouldn’t be driven nuts by not being able to deploy. Permanent injury? He couldn’t imagine what it would be like. There were guys he had served with, and many before his time that had paid the near ultimate sacrifice, now limping around or worse, resigned to a wheelchair for the rest of their days.

  You treated them with the respect they deserved, tried to keep involved in their lives for as long as they would have you, the camaraderie helping through the rehabilitation, but eventually you’d stop seeing them as they withdrew from the world of Active Duty they had once known and loved, some successfully transitioning to civilian life, others not.

  Death would definitely be better.

  He knew he didn’t really mean it, but as a single man with no family and no friends outside of The Unit, he had no clue what he’d do if something were to happen.

  Move in with sis!

  He could imagine how long that would last.

  Longer than the French in World War Two, but not much longer.

  He climbed from the Humvee and entered the building, striding briskly toward the Colonel’s office. Colonel Thomas Clancy was in charge of Delta, and was a man that Dawson trusted implicitly. He knew the Colonel always had their backs, and if there was something they needed to know, he’d make sure they knew it, even if it weren’t through official channels.

  And the entire “deny knowing you if caught” bit was just that. He would, absolutely, but he’d always be working in the background to get you out.

  Colonel Clancy believed in that all important line in the Soldier’s Creed “I will never leave a fallen comrade.” Even if that meant breaking rules made by politicians to save face.

  Clancy’s secretary Maggie beamed a smile at Dawson as he walked in. He gave her a wink as she hit the button on the intercom to let the Colonel know he had arrived.

  “Yes, sir,” she said into the phone, hanging it up. She looked up at Dawson. “He’ll see you now, Sergeant Major. Oh, and Sergeant Major?”

  Dawson paused, his eyebrows questioning her.

  She stood up, rounding her desk, a tissue in hand. She dampened it with a few drops from the water cooler spout and approached him.

  “You have a little something on your cheek,” she said as she reached up and pulled his head down slightly, wiping his cheek clean with the other hand. She patted it when she was done, letting go of his neck. “Now you’re presentable,” she said with a smile, immediately spinning and returning to her desk, Dawson noticing her figure for the first time.

  And it was damned fine.

  He had never considered Maggie eligible before since she was the Colonel’s secretary, and had never noticed any vibes from her in the past, but unless his sights were way off, he had just been hit on.

  He smiled at her, slightly awkwardly, then, wiping the smile off his face, he entered the Colonel’s inner office. Clancy was informal when alone, only putting on the show when the brass or Washington was in town. He waved at a chair in front of his desk while reading something on his computer.

  Dawson sat down and waited quietly. A few seconds later Clancy shoved his keyboard away and turned his attention to Dawson.

  “Sergeant Major, how’s your Russian?”

  “A little rusty, but good,” he replied in Russian.

  Clancy, who Dawson knew didn’t speak Russian, simply stared back, his expression hardened. Dawson had known Clancy for years, and knew him to be a man with a wicked sense of humor, quite often jovial, especially when playing Santa at the kids’ Christmas party, but when he was serious like this, Dawson knew there was a mission involved, and there was something he wasn’t going to like.

  “I’ll take that to mean ‘it’s goddamned fantastic, Colonel’ and move on.” He pushed a file toward Dawson, but kept his finger on it. “The White House called and they need your help.”

  “Mine?”

  This piqued Dawson’s interest. He was Delta, so he could understand Washington needed an operator, but could see no reason why they would want him specifically.

  Unless it’s related to an old mission.

  “Yes, yours. They need you to reach out to Colonel Chernov of the Russian Spetsnaz. We need someone, quietly, to pick up retired Major General Levkin of the Soviet Red Army. He was at one time responsible for their entire nuclear arsenal.”

  Dawson’s eyebrows had been crawling up his forehead the entire time Clancy spoke. Are they kidding? He had heard some whoppers come out of Washington, but this had to take the cake.

  “Why?”

  And as Clancy explained, Dawson’s eyebrows were forgotten as his chest tightened with the implications of what Crimson Rush could mean.

  Clancy paused, looking at Dawson.

  “We need to know what this man sold. Convince this Colonel to help us, outside of the chain-of-command if possible, and if they’ll agree, take a man of your choice to meet them and interrogate him. Have the rest of the team ready to deploy. This is going to get ugly.”

  Very ugly.

  He pushed the folder the final few inches toward Dawson. Dawson took it, not opening it.

  “Good hunting, Sergeant Major. Dismissed.”

  Dawson came to attention for a split second and left the office, closing the door behind him. Maggie smiled and he nodded, the events of earlier already forgotten as the details of the briefing sank in. He grabbed a room with a secure line and called his second-in-command, Sergeant Major Mike ‘Red’ Belme.

  “Go for Red.”

  “It’s BD. I need you to put the team on standby. And send Niner to
The Unit, ready to deploy ASAP.”

  “Will do. What’s up?”

  “I’ll explain if I’m still here when you get here. If not, see the Colonel. He’ll bring you up to speed.”

  “I’ll start making the calls.”

  Dawson hung up then opened the file Clancy had given him. It was pretty thin. A dossier on the ex-General, little of it since 1990, an equally thin one on Colonel Chernov, a few pages on Dylan Kane’s mission, and a single page on Crimson Rush, which proved to be a mere mention of it and the dismissal of it being a threat by intelligence resources over three decades ago.

  And now it’s about to bite us on the ass.

  He called the number listed for Colonel Chernov and after several transfers, he was told to wait for a return call. During this wait, where Dawson had decided to reread the file carefully, Niner entered the room.

  “Wassup, BD?”

  Dawson motioned to a chair on the other side of the table. Carl “Niner” Sung was a Korean-American and one of the funniest men Dawson knew. Even under fire, no matter what the situation, the man would crack a joke to relieve the tension. They weren’t all gems, many of them groan worthy, but it helped take the men’s minds off how far up shit’s creek they might actually be.

  “How’s your Russian.”

  “Splendinski.”

  Dawson cocked an eyebrow.

  Niner apparently sensed the seriousness of the situation.

  “Sorry, Sergeant Major, I’ve been told it’s perfect. I learned it young in case the Russians decided to pay a visit to my parents’ homeland. I kept it up since I figure we’re going to war with them at some point during my career.”

  “Good. We just might be heading there in the next few hours.”

  Dawson brought Niner up to speed, the severity of the situation leaving all wisecracks unvoiced.

  The phone rang.

  “Mr. White here.”

  “Do svidaniya, Sergeant Major. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Dawson couldn’t help but smile. He was quite certain Colonel Chernov was an asshole, but he was his kind of asshole, which made him, at this moment in time, okay in his books.

  “I need a favor.”

  “You? So not your government?”

  “I need a favor. Let me explain, and I think you’ll understand why I’m asking.”

  Dawson spent the next five minutes briefing the Colonel, who remained silent almost the entire time, interjecting with an occasional question.

  “And you have his current location?”

  “Yes.” Dawson read off the coordinates only thirty minutes old. “We will feed you updated coordinates as you need them.”

  Dawson heard fingers pecking at a keyboard.

  “Crimea? You’ve tasked a satellite?”

  “Yes.”

  “Expensive. You must really want him. And should I do this for you, what is in it for me?”

  Dawson smiled.

  “My gratitude.”

  There was a pause then the Russian began to laugh.

  “Sergeant Major, your gratitude I think could be quite valuable, should I need to call on it in the future.” He paused. “I will see what I can do. I suggest you get to Turkey, then we will make arrangements to meet should we be successful.”

  “Very well. I will contact you shortly with our arrival time.”

  Dawson ended the call and looked at Niner.

  “How’s your Turkish?”

  “Splendinski.”

  Berlin Hotel (Formerly Savoy), Moscow, USSR

  February 7, 1982

  West had another drag of his ice water, swishing it around his mouth then swallowing, the eggs over-salted as usual. It never failed, breakfast at the Berlin Hotel was always a risk. The less fresh their eggs, the more salt the chefs used. Ditto with pretty much everything being served.

  It made for a thirsty day.

  West sat by the window, looking out at the bright, frigid day as he “enjoyed” his breakfast, included with his stay. He usually skipped it, the quality just not worth it, but today he was starving from last night’s adventures, and he knew what lay ahead would be taxing. The sky was a crisp blue, only wisps of clouds spoiling the perfect canvas; the streets were covered in snow, but the odd plow and an army of citizens equipped with shovels were already clearing the roads and walkways with an efficiency born from necessity, relying on the government to actually get the job done foolhardy at best.

  A reflection in the window caught his attention and he followed the figure until they sat down at a table to his right, in the far corner of the room. He looked back at his plate, finishing the last bit of over-hard eggs, anything with a runny yoke to be avoided in the Soviet Union. He glanced at the woman who had just sat down, making eye contact with her for a second.

  Adelle Bertrand.

  Eye contact made and broken with no one else in the room noticing, he returned to finishing his coffee and watching the work outside. He had known Adelle for almost twenty years. She was a French agent for their CIA equivalent, the DGSE—Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, or General Directorate for External Security. They had met on one of his first assignments, and he had always had a thing for her, and she for him if their romps were any indication.

  It was pure sex, as unabashed as everything was in this business. There was no time for romance, no time for planning futures. There was time for fast, vigorous, primal sex, two people alone in the world looking for a temporary release from the loneliness of the job, and the stress of their daily lives.

  He had several women around the world that, when possible, he would meet with. He cared for them enough to treat them well when he was with them, but not enough for them to be used against him.

  He hadn’t seen Adelle in a few years. They were about the same age, so she would be nearing the end of her career as well, but she had kept her figure, her fantastic looks, and if things hadn’t changed in the past few years, she was a dynamo in bed that he could barely keep up with.

  Which suited him fine.

  With her it was more accurately described as “Wham, bam, thank you, man”.

  He felt a twinge and tried to push their last encounter out of his mind, it brief but intense in the back seat of a car in Prague.

  But in Moscow, the chances of an encounter were slim to none.

  That was one of the things he enjoyed about the Berlin Hotel. At any given time there were probably one or more foreign intelligence operatives staying there from any number of countries. Those on deep-cover assignments of course wouldn’t be at a place like this, they’d be holed up in some basement or farmhouse out of sight, the KGB not supposed to know they were even in-country. These were the agents smuggled across the border, not flown in on Aeroflot with a fake passport.

  His cover was good and the KGB definitely knew who and what he was, which if you were smart made you nervous, but as long as the dance continued, where they would try to catch him in the act, he’d be safe. With the KGB, CIA, MI6 et al, sometimes it was more important to try to figure out what someone was after rather than catch and release them. If they knew he was looking for information on Crimson Rush, then they would know they had a leak in that organization and move to plug it. But if they just picked him up, they’d never know. Catch him in the act, gathering the intel, then they not only stopped their leak, they had a bargaining chip.

  He waved the waiter over, signed his bill and slipped a tenner in the bill folder, American dollars like gold in the Soviet Union allowing the bearer to purchase black market goods that could actually make a difference in someone’s life. With a casual glance at Adelle, he left the restaurant and ordered a cab from the concierge. Returning to his room he bundled up for the journey as the phone rang to let him know his ride had arrived.

  Minutes later he was inside a frozen cab. He slipped the driver ten bucks.

  “Crank the heat.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the man, quickly sliding the selector all the way to the r
ight as he hid the bill closer to his package than West cared to picture, possession of foreign currency illegal. “Where would you like to go?” asked the cabby, his voice much more jovial than the gruff greeting West had received upon entering the cab.

  “As close to Red Square as you can get me. I want to do some sightseeing before my meetings.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the man, his accent heavy but his English good. “I will take you to the Resurrection Gates. You’ll be so close you can see it. Only a couple of minutes walk.”

  “That’s perfect,” said West as they turned on to Teatralnyy Street. West knew the city like the back of his hand, but didn’t mind playing tourist from time-to-time if he wasn’t in a hurry. Which is why he didn’t say anything when the cabby took a more circuitous route to Red Square than was necessary. Then again, it could have been that he knew the massive circular route that ringed the area of the city containing Red Square would be cleared of snow before the other routes.

  As they continued to make decent time, West began to wonder if he’d have a chance to feel the heat his ten bucks had paid for, the rate his driver was going assuring arrival at the Gates in minutes. They completed the loop with a turn to the right, the Resurrection Gates in front of them, Red Square beyond that.

  “Just let me out anywhere along here,” said West, the driver cranking the wheel to the right before the words had finished coming out of West’s mouth. West paid the man, slipping him another ten, the man grinning a rotting smile, Moscow’s fluorination program obviously still a distant glimmer. “Loop around then wait for me here and I’ll give you another of those.”

  The grin grew.

  The cab pulled away as West looked about, taking in the sights as he waited for his escort to make their presence obvious. The black Volga pulled up and stopped not fifty feet away.

  Let the games begin.

  He strode toward Red Square, around the Resurrection Gates, the cobblestone covered in a dusting of snow, a grid of tiny ridges of the white powder crisscrossing the vast square marking where the hand-pushed shovels had been. He had to admit he loved this place. There was no place in the world, except perhaps the Kremlin, that caused American hearts to leap with a touch of fear when mentioned in the news. Every year during the May Day parades intelligence analysts worldwide would be glued to their screens, analyzing every vehicle that made an appearance, quite often the first glimpse of new equipment the Soviets had managed to cook up under the West’s noses, and more often than not, faked equipment simply there to cause analysts at Langley to scratch their heads and wonder why an ICBM had an extra fin.