by JT Brannan
It was fully dark now, the area lit only by the lamps of the Russian vehicles and their powerful searchlights; it made the whole scene seem surreal, a winter wonderland gone terrifyingly wrong.
She saw how her teammates were picking their shots more carefully now, and knew they were running desperately short of ammunition. But she knew there was nothing she could do to help them.
‘Now?’ Drake asked her, and she took one more look at her comrades, Mike, Daw and the CIA officers, and looked back at the doctor, nodding her head.
He pulled Hejms up onto his back, across his shoulders, and Barrington pulled Navarone up, resting his arm across her back, supporting him with her own arm.
With her other, she bent down to touch the fuse, watched as the cord ignited, running fast across the ground, into the bus, toward the explosives she had packed around the fuel tank.
She hoped the others would be able to use the distraction as well, but she couldn’t think for them, could only hope that they would use the opportunity to run.
The explosion came as a shock, even though she had been expecting it – a sudden, gut-churning, knee-trembling blast that shot flame thirty feet into the dark evening skies above.
‘Go!’ she said, and she started racing away across the snow into the trees, dragging Navarone with her, Drake keeping Hejms gripped tight to his back, the girls’ little legs struggling in the deep snow beside them but just managing to keep up.
She knew the explosion and the flames would blind the Russians, would make everything beyond the fire completely invisible, and she prayed the effect would last long enough for them to make it into the trees.
She ran as fast as she could, not caring about the tracks they were leaving, confident that the snow – falling heavily once again – would soon cover them.
She expected to hear sounds of rounds whizzing past her with every step she took, every meter of ground she covered, expected at any moment to feel the heavy sting of a bullet entering her body.
But the rounds never came, and they made the tree-line, throwing themselves into the cover of the dark foliage.
She turned to see if the others were coming, was horrified to see that they had stayed where they were, obviously covering the retreat of their team leader, the injured, the children.
Their weapons clicking empty, they started to run, but it was too late; the shock of the blast had gone, the cover of the flames was lessening with every passing second, and Barrington could only watch in horror as the fleeing bodies were cut down one after another – first Devlin, then a CIA officer, then another officer, black blood flying in the light of the flames, and then Daw was hit, and tears came into Barrington’s eyes as her friend went to her knees in the snow, moments before her upper body was blown apart by concentrated rifle fire, the shattered remains falling to the cold ground.
But Barrington was already up and moving, taking the others and racing through the undergrowth, pushing as hard and as fast as they could into the trees.
The rest of her team was down and out, but she was going to do everything in her power to make sure that they survived.
No matter what.
7
‘Why are you giving us this information?’ asked Mohammed Nabavi, President of the Islamic Republic of Iran. ‘You have betrayed us in the worst way, and now you extend the hand of friendship?’
Mikhail Emelienenko stubbed out his cigar into the ashtray on his desk, once more back home in the comfort of Novo-Ogaryovo after his brief trip to the United States.
‘My friend,’ he began, ‘you must let me explain . . .’
‘There is nothing you can say. Did you not tell me to resist the American demands? Did you not tell us to have faith, that you would veto the decision at the Security Council?’
‘Mohammed,’ Emelienenko said easily, ‘that is politics, my friend. It was my intention to do exactly as I promised, and yet feelings at the UN were running so high that it would have been political suicide to oppose this resolution, you must understand that.’
‘I understand nothing, and –’
‘You need to listen. Whether you believe that I had a choice or not is entirely up to you. What is done is done. But my information about Turkmenistan is accurate, I promise you. The Americans will feint to your flanks, but the main bulk of the attack will come from Turkmenistan. If you concentrate your forces there, you may have a chance. And don’t worry,’ he continued, ‘we are still more than happy to continue supplying you with arms and other –’
‘I have nothing more to say to you.’
Emelienenko pulled the phone away from his ear as Nabavi’s handset was smashed back onto its cradle, the noise ringing in his ears.
It didn’t matter unduly whether Nabavi acted on his information, not really; although, Emelienenko had to admit, it would make life easier for his own forces. It mattered little who won this new war in the Middle East; all he wanted was for it to be drawn out and long-lasting. If it went on for years, the US and her allies stuck in a bloody quagmire, so much the better.
And what better place for that to happen than Iran? It had been one of the reasons that Dementyev had chosen that geographically impenetrable country to be their unwitting proxy in the terrorist attacks in the first place.
The colonel was a genius, that much was clear. To plan something like this was sick, twisted and brilliant, in the best of ways. Not only had he had the foresight to see that the attack on the London school would result in a huge memorial event, he also understood that the US president would have to attend, if only to avoid the bad press than Obama got when he failed to attend a similar event in Paris several years before. He also knew that Clark Mason would then become the president, playing into Russian hands perfectly.
Dementyev’s psychological assessment of the man had been absolutely perfect. The colonel had known that – given the man’s greed, vanity, and ignorance of military matters – he would want to declare war on Iran as a matter of urgency.
There was redundancy built into the plan, of course – with so many world leaders killed, at least one of them would have instigated proceedings against Iran, and a coalition of forces would certainly have come together anyway. But as it happened, it had all played out exactly as Dementyev had predicted, yet more testament to the man’s genius.
He would be rewarded for his work, Emelienenko would see to that. Money, property, anything he wanted. He would certainly receive the title of Hero of the Russian Federation, especially in view of the fact that he had been shot in the line of duty.
Emelienenko regretted terribly that his friend and ally had been wounded. He would go and visit him this evening at the hospital, cheer him up with the good news about those American agents.
He had been given details about their identities, their movements, and Russian forces were dealing with them even as he sat there at his desk.
Maybe, he thought with a smile, they could even watch the television together in the hospital room.
If he timed his visit right, the results of Irina Makarova’s mission would be all over the evening news.
It was still morning in Washington, DC, and yet Clark Mason had a glass of brandy in his hand, half empty.
He couldn’t understand why he felt so uncomfortable. By rights, he should have been ecstatic – his resolution had been accepted across the board by the Security Council, and his war was about to begin. He’d heard all the arguments about giving the troops their Christmas vacation, but in the end he’d decided to go with his gut, and strike while the iron was hot.
Emelienenko had also hinted that – if he was going to withhold the use of his veto – he would also like the invasion to start earlier rather than later. Mason had wondered why, but the man had been loath to discuss his reasons.
Anyway, the bottom line was that Mason had pressed Olsen and the rest of his military chiefs, and brought D-Day forward to the very next day – Thursday, December 24th, 2020. The ground invasion was to start in earnest on
Christmas Eve, his own little gift to the Islamic Republic of Iran.
Happy Christmas, President Nabavi, you son of a bitch!
He knew the suddenness of the operation would catch the Iranians off-guard; war had been declared, but nobody would expect it to happen before Christmas. Surprise would be their ally, and – yes – perhaps save some American lives in the process.
But despite his recent successes, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that plagued the back of his mind.
He knew he was kidding himself if he pretended he didn’t understand where this feeling came from though; the simple fact was that he knew only too well.
It was selling those kids out to Emelienenko, in return for his support.
Force One, along with their CIA contacts – Mason had sold them all down the river.
He found it easy to justify what he had done, of course; Emelienenko had told him that if he didn’t give up the information, American activities in Russia would be spotlighted in the world media, including footage of the man on Tverskaya Street that had been previously withheld. There could be a big international incident made of it, and it didn’t matter one way or another what the Russians could prove; in this day and age, accusations were all that mattered. On the other hand, if details of these agents were made available, then Emelienenko would deal with the matter in his own way and – whatever happened – he gave Mason his word that the presence of American forces on Russian soil would never be made public.
There was also the argument that Mason’s dealings with the Russian president had contributed directly to the availability of Turkmenistan as a base for the invasion, a key strategic point that would undoubtedly save the lives of coalition forces in the future.
The way Mason saw it, it was simple math. He had discussed the presence of a small group of people with his Russian counterpart – he didn’t like to use the term ‘betrayed’ – in exchange for concessions that would save the lives of many more.
Wouldn’t any politician have done the same?
And yet he couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling in his stomach.
For the first time in his life, he felt . . . ashamed.
It was not a feeling he enjoyed, and so he picked up the glass, observed the amber liquid inside for a moment, and finished it off in one gulp.
He felt a momentary reprieve, and quickly poured himself another.
After all, he didn’t want the feeling to come back.
8
‘It is a shame,’ Boris Manturov noted as they walked through the grand entrance of Mégaro Maxímou, the Maximos Mansion which was the home and workplace of the Greek prime minister, ‘that we are forced to hide like scared rabbits, is it not?’
Alexis Thrakos took the glass of champagne as it was offered to him by a waiter, gestured for Manturov to take one. ‘You get used to it, I am afraid,’ he said to his Russian counterpart, sipping from the tall glass as they strolled through the ornate entrance hall.
‘I suppose so,’ Manturov said, drinking from his own glass. He was grateful for the drink, but would have preferred neat vodka. Still, he reflected, you couldn’t have everything.
They had had a busy day. From the airport, Manturov had met Thrakos here at his mansion to thrash out the basics of their deal. There hadn’t been much negotiation, Manturov was pleased to see; Thrakos was as good as his word, and agreed to the Russian proposals, just as he had promised during their many phone calls. Manturov knew that – now that Thrakos had got what he’d wanted, and become prime minister – there was the chance that he would refuse to live up to his end of the bargain. But things hadn’t worked out that way, he was pleased to see; Thrakos obviously welcomed the assistance of the Russians, and from his short visit here, Manturov could already see why. The city – and maybe the whole country – was in utter chaos. He knew that Directorate S had had a hand in increasing tensions, but he thought that a lot of the anger he saw on the streets was quite genuine.
After his initial meeting with Thrakos, they had gone just across the street to the even larger mansion house on the other side, where they had visited Andreas Andreou, the Greek President. Although a largely ceremonial figure, Andreou was still the titular head of Greek’s armed forces, and therefore needed to be included in any discussion of Russian collaboration. He would do whatever Thrakos told him to do, of course, but it was important for him to be officially consulted, if only for the sake of propriety.
They had then traveled together to the Greek Parliament, walking under armed guard on a secure path through the National Gardens that took them to a little-known rear entrance. Using the grand entrance on Syntagma Square had been out of the question due to the crazed hordes that gathered there daily. Some of them even camped there overnight, Manturov had been told, much to his surprise. That sort of behavior would never be allowed in Moscow, and he was not surprised that Thrakos was eager to accept Russian help.
Manturov had spoken to parliament, and Thrakos had put forward the Russian proposals, not only to send military advisers to Athens, but to permanently station forces here, including a naval presence at Salamis Naval Base.
There had been debate and argument and even some shouting – but in the end, all proposals had been accepted, and Manturov’s business here was done.
All that remained now was relaxation and entertainment, before his flight back to Moscow in the morning.
There was to be a state dinner this evening, with big names from politics, the military, business and entertainment in attendance. There was even a live band, and a singer who was supposed to be quite good. Manturov expected the affair to go on into the early hours of the morning, and to travel back to Moscow with a bad hangover. He already had the painkillers waiting for him in his room.
Thrakos led him through the airy, marble-clad entrance hall toward the state dining room, where liveried doormen opened the ornate double doors for them. Both men strolled through together, and Manturov saw the stage at the end of the room, the band already there and waiting.
The giant table was already mostly full, and he was led to the place of honor, where someone pulled out his chair for him, while someone else topped up his champagne glass.
Manturov took a sip, satisfied as he looked around the table.
Yes, he thought, it was going to be a good night.
There’d been another man outside the apartment block, waiting in a van with the engine running. Cole had kept to the blind spot, come around from the far side, placed the barrel of a silenced pistol through the open window, and shot the man in the head.
Cole had pulled him through the seats, into the rear of the van, and then set off from the Kallithea neighborhood, headed for central Athens.
He’d called Forest Hills, told them what had happened, asked them to run their facial recognition programs through the city’s security and traffic camera systems to see if they could reacquire Irina Makarova.
He drove fast along Andrea Syndrou Avenue, headed for Maximos Mansion; that was where Manturov and Thrakos were having dinner together, and where his gut told him Makarova was headed.
They were inside now, and nothing had happened so far; no protestors had been killed, no riots had been incited. So what was her plan?
The dinner was apparently going to involve all sorts of people. Was Makarova’s target a businessman? A military commander?
And how the hell was she expecting to get inside, anyway?
He called Michiko as he drove. ‘The state dinner,’ he shouted over the noise of the engine, ‘find out exactly who’s going to be there, see if any of them could be a potential target for Makarova.’
‘You think that’s where she’s headed?’
‘I’m not sure, but we’ve got nothing else to go on, and it’s as good a place as any,’ Cole told her. ‘Has Keegan alerted the cops? The president’s bodyguard?’
‘Bruce has been talking to him just now, it seems he’s reluctant to report the incident, CIA isn’t really welcome here since Thr
akos started taking Russian money.’
‘But he has warned them, right?’ Cole said, not believing what he was hearing.
‘Yes,’ Michiko said, ‘but apparently almost everyone in the Greek government has been receiving death threats on a pretty much daily basis recently. It’s not that they’re ignoring it, but this warning, it’s just one of many, you know?’
Cole sighed; they should have just arrested Makarova at the airport when she stepped off her flight, brought her in for questioning. But he’d wanted to see what she was doing, who she was meeting; he’d tried to be too clever, and now . . .
‘Mark,’ his daughter said softly.
‘Yeah?’ he responded, hearing something in her tone that he didn’t like the sound of.
‘We . . . we lost contact with our team in Russia,’ she said uneasily.
‘What do you mean?’ Cole asked as he weaved in and out of the evening traffic, his blood running cold.
‘The CIA chase cars sent a panic transmission, from the E105 halfway to St. Petersburg. We intercepted other transmissions, communications from police and FSB units, looks like they were involved in some sort of protracted firefight. Satellite pass over the area shows several vehicles on the road, lots of security personnel, one large vehicle – we think the tour bus – on its side, on fire. A . . . a lot of dead bodies,’ she finished quickly, not wanting to say the words.
‘Identification?’ Cole asked immediately.
How had this happened?
‘This is ongoing,’ Michiko said, ‘we literally don’t know any more at the moment, but we’re working on it.’
Cole wanted to scream, to shout, to smash his fists on the steering wheel.
How had this happened?
But he knew how it had happened; it was the same way that the Athens safe house had been compromised.