The Mingrelian
Page 1
The Mingrelian
Ed Baldwin
Brasfield Books
Hot Springs, Arkansas
Copyright © 2014 by Ed Baldwin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Brasfield Books
Hot Springs, Arkansas 71909
www.edbaldwin.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
The Mingrelian/Ed Baldwin . 1st ed
ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0
Dedicated to Becky
“The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.”
―Friedrich Nietzsche
Contents
Author’s Note
CHARACTERS
Chapter 1: Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia
Chapter 2: Six Months Earlier
Chapter 3: Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia
Chapter 4: Kartvelian National Bank, Tbilisi, Georgia
Chapter 5: CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Chapter 6: Kennett, Missouri
Chapter 7: Little Rock Air Force Base
Chapter 8: 15,000 ft. over Cotton Plant, Arkansas
Chapter 9: Lankaran, Azerbaijan
Chapter 10: Little Rock Air Force Base
Chapter 11: The Mission
Chapter 12: The President George W. Bush Memorial Bust
Chapter 13: The Rug Run
Chapter 14: A Dangerous Game
Chapter 15: The Rug Shop
Chapter 16: Tehran, Iran
Chapter 17: A Change of Plans
Chapter 18: The Embassy of the United States of America
Chapter 19: A Good Russian Car
Chapter 20: Another Grand Ayatollah
Chapter 21: Illusions
Chapter 22: PAF Base Mushaf, Sargodha, Pakistan
Chapter 23: The Secretary of Defense
Chapter 24: Black Sea Storm
Chapter 25: Imam Khomeini International Airport
Chapter 26: Courtship
Chapter 27: Betrayal
Chapter 28: American Embassy
Chapter 29: Joint Command for Global Strike
Chapter 30: Kartvelian National Bank
Chapter 31: The Persian Gulf
Chapter 32: The U.S. Attacks Iran!
Chapter 33: Jaba, Syria
Chapter 34: Tehran
Chapter 35: Damascus, Syria
Chapter 36: The White House
Chapter 37: American Embassy, Paris, France
Chapter 38: Persian Gulf
Chapter 39: Reinforcements
Chapter 40: Sheraton Metechi Palace Hotel, Tbilisi
Chapter 41: Mount Damavand
Chapter 42: Ratface
Chapter 42: Evin Prison
Chapter 43: New York
Chapter 44: Mount Damavand
Chapter 45: Niavaran Palace
Chapter 46: Mount Damavand
Chapter 47: The Thunderbolt
Chapter 48: The White House Situation Room
Chapter 49: Marivan, Iran
Chapter 50: Mount Damavand
Chapter 51: Penjwin,Iraq
Chapter 52: Mount Damavand
Chapter 53: The White House
Chapter 54: Mount Damavand
Chapter 55: Two Months Later
Chapter 56: The Kremlin
Chapter 57: Six Months After the Crash
Author’s Note
This is a big complex story. The maps show landmarks important to the story. Characters in this story are from Georgia, Azerbaijan, Iran, Saudi Arabia and Russia as well as the United States and the list of characters mentions only those appearing in more than one chapter.
Steve Meosky of Austin, Texas, is the cover artist. Once again, he’s produced a beautiful, interesting cover. Virginia and Barry Gilbert copy edited my story. Virginia has copy edited all my books, and her encouragement and guidance were critical to the birth of my first book, twenty five years ago.
Many of my Air Force friends will enjoy my reverential treatment of their favorite aircraft: the handsome, high performance, Lockheed C-130 Hercules. Col (ret) Dave Mason, an old friend and C-130 pilot guided the creation of the “Herc” action sequences. For those readers unfamiliar with this workhorse of America’s tactical military operations, close the book; it’s on the cover.
I first traveled to the Republic of Georgia in 1998 as part of a military exchange program. The country was stuck trying to decide whether it was to be socialist or capitalist. I revisited in 2013 and saw a vibrant prosperity resulting from an oil boom in the Caspian Sea and trade with Georgia’s neighbors, including Iran.
CHARACTERS
RUSSIAN PRESIDENT – himself
CAPTAIN BOYD CHAILLAND – Air Force pilot
EIGHT BALL – Boyd’s dog
DABNEY ST. CLAIR – CIA agent
NARVEL AND BETSY RHOADES – Boyd’s friends
DOC BRIDGES – Air Force flight surgeon
CAPTAIN BUD WEIDMAN-Air Force pilot
LADO CHIKOVANI – The Mingrelian
ESKANDER KHORASANI – President of the Tbilisi branch of Petroleum Bank of Iran
MAJOR GENERAL BOB FERGUSON – Director, Counter Proliferation Task Force, Strategic Command
FARHAD SHIRAZI – Deputy Ambassador, Embassy of Iran
RAT FACED MAN – Deputy Director, Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of Iran
EKATERINA DADIANI – Lado Chikovani’s daughter, a widow
MAJOR RICK SHANDS – Military Attaché American Embassy
GRAND AYATOLLAH SAYYID ALI MOHAMMED MASHADI – Imprisoned Iranian cleric
MARIAMI CHIKOVANI – Lado Chikovani’s wife
NIKO DADIANI – Ekaterina Dadiani’s son
CAPTAIN DAVID DADIANI – Ekaterina’s late husband
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES – himself
BEHROOZ ZANDI – Iranian nuclear engineer
PRINCE COLONEL TURKI BIN MUQRIN AL SAUD – Saudi Arabian Air Force pilot
RAYBON CLIVE – C-130 pilot
DAVANN GOODMAN – C-130 pilot
EMMET BOYLE – C-130 navigator
Chapter 1: Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia
T
he Russian president did not want to be in Georgia. The trip was to Sochi, site of the 2014 Winter Olympics. He had a comfortable and completely secure dacha there. But one of his political officers had come up with the idea for a quick state visit to Georgia to mend some fences, show the Georgians that Mother Russia still loved them and to re-establish diplomatic relations after that misunderstanding in Abkhazia. So, here he was in Freedom Square not 50 feet from where someone had thrown a hand grenade at George W. Bush and Eduard Shevardnadze a dozen years before.
“… and the people of Russia salute you, our Georgian brothers.” He finished his brief remarks and laid a wreath at a plaque commemorating the Russian poet Pushkin, and shook hands again with the president of Georgia. A hastily gathered crowd mustered lukewarm applause. A dozen photographers snapped pictures, three news cameras rolled. He smiled and waved, making a mental note to can that political officer.
The black Mercedes inched through the crowd, which was more curious than hostile or enthusiastic. A hundred people leaned in to snap pictures with cellphones. His armored Zil-410441 was already
in Sochi, so he’d borrowed this armored Mercedes from the Georgians. He waved again as he ducked into the back seat.
“Let’s go,” he said impatiently as he closed the door. His personal driver was already speaking into his cellphone's headset. The president's other bodyguard scanned the crowd to the side and rear. A dozen plainclothes security men surrounded his car, attention focused out into the crowd, visually checking each curious onlooker for that one face taut with purpose. Motorcycle police turned on their sirens, and the crowd parted. Behind them three police cars, also with sirens blaring, pulled out of Pushkin Park into the traffic circle around Freedom Square, spreading out abreast to fill the street. A large van filled with his heavily armed Russian SWAT team pulled in front of the Mercedes, with two more behind. They were followed by more police cars and motorcycles. The show was over, time to get out of town.
The Mercedes was quiet as it smoothly accelerated and merged onto the divided boulevard of Baratashvili Street, with the bridge of the same name across the Kura River just ahead, and the Presidential Palace not yet visible on the other side. At the bridge, the motorcade made a right exit onto Gorgasali Street, running along the right bank of the river.
“The Ilyushin is warmed up and waiting at the end of the runway,” the driver said. “They estimate 40 minutes to Sochi.”
This was an unexpected detour. The usual official route was to cross the river, skirt the Presidential Palace and take the new controlled access highway out to the airport. Because of heavy traffic, his director of security had suggested an alternative. Gorgasali was longer but led quickly out of the city into the countryside.
As the motorcade swept into the right lane of the boulevard, an old blue Lada coming from the other direction on Gorgasali slammed on its brakes creating a cloud of blue smoke. It slid into a U-turn and headed back against the traffic.
The Russian president watched through the trees as the Lada accelerated, paralleling them on the other side of the boulevard. He saw no weapons, and the car was too far away to threaten his heavily armed vehicle, even if it were packed with explosives. He glanced ahead; the road was clear. His car accelerated to 80 mph, leaving behind the motorcycles and police cars and the blue Lada. Woods flashed by on both sides.
The van in front exploded and spun in the roadway, partially blocking it. The president had seen the preceding flash from the hillside to his right – rocket propelled grenade. This was an assassination attempt. He thought about the route change. Whose idea had that been? He was set up. All this in an instant; this president had been in the clandestine service to his country his whole life. He knew assassinations.
The driver slammed the accelerator down, and the Mercedes, already going 80, swerved to avoid the spinning van. The president was glad they’d not been in the Zil; it would not have had the agility or the speed.
The launcher of another RPG flashed to their left just as the driver came around the exploding van. It hit the Mercedes on the left side of the engine compartment. The explosion breached the armor and sent shrapnel into the interior, killing the driver and the bodyguard. The shock decelerated the Mercedes and thrust it toward the right side of the road. The airbags deployed, and the Russian president was pushed back into his seat. In his dying moment, the driver yanked the wheel to his left to avoid crashing into the woods on the right. The Mercedes, now a fireball, lost traction and spun in circles, forward momentum carrying it down the road.
More RPGs were fired from the hill to their right and hit the two trailing vans, one spinning into the median and the other crashing into the leading van. Automatic-weapons fire from the hill and the median began to cut down surviving SWAT team members as they jumped out of their burning vehicles. Some took cover and returned fire.
Two hundred yards down the road, carried well out of the intended kill zone by its speed, the smoking shattered Mercedes spun to a stop at the foot of a statue in a traffic circle. The Russian president, stunned but unhurt, deflated the airbag and looked back up Gorgasali Street. His SWAT team was losing the gun battle, and some of the black clad assassins were moving in his direction. He drew his PSM semi-automatic pistol, a trusted companion since his KGB days, and determined to fight it out from the armored Mercedes. He had eight rounds in the magazine.
The blue Lada slid into the traffic circle, and two men got out and ran to the Russian president’s car.
He chambered a round and pointed it at the first man, who stopped, raised both hands and said:
“Captain Boyd Chailland, United States Air Force, sir; I am unarmed.”
Chapter 2: Six Months Earlier
“T
here’s the prostate,” the flight surgeon said triumphantly, as if he’d just discovered a gold nugget.
A jolt shot from deep in Boyd Chailland’s fundament, yanked something in his genitalia and took his breath. He was bent over an examination table at the Aeromedical Consultation Service at Brooks City Air Force Base in San Antonio. During the past week, he’d been questioned, examined, poked, prodded, X-rayed and ultra-violated, and it took all his resolve to restrain him from taking this officious prick doctor’s head off.
“That concludes your evaluation, Captain Chailland. When I get all the lab results back, and we have a chance to look over the MRIs of your brain, chest and back, I’ll write up the aeromedical summary and we can submit a waiver request. Air Combat Command usually takes about a month to make a decision. You’ve had a fractured skull, three collapsed vertebrae, two broken ribs, a gunshot through the right lung, and you’re missing part of your scapula and a rib on the right side. You’re in great physical condition, but all of those injuries are disqualifying for flying duty, so I wouldn’t get my hopes up. I’ll do what I can.”
Boyd stood there nude, still bent over the exam table with lubricating jelly smeared over his butt.
“Oh, and you can wipe off with this and get dressed,” the doctor said as he handed Boyd a paper towel and turned toward the door.
Boyd was just zipping up his flight suit when the doctor knocked politely and re-entered, demeanor totally changed.
“Uh, your waiver’s already been approved, uh … by the Air Force Chief of Staff.”
*****
Boyd’s flight home was delayed three hours by a thunderstorm over Atlanta, which caught up with him just after his flight arrived in Columbia, S.C. He drove home in a downpour. It was well after midnight when he splashed down the last mile of a dirt road to his rented farmhouse 12 miles from Shaw Air Force Base. He’d been ecstatic over the news he’d gotten his flying waiver, but that faded when he got a cellphone call from his wing commander’s secretary that the boss wanted to see him first thing in the morning.
Eight Ball, his black Lab, burst from beneath the porch as his truck came down the road.
“Hey big boy, how you been?” The Lab jumped gleefully, feet landing on Boyd’s chest as he opened the door. “Down!” Boyd rubbed Eight Ball's ears and sides, pushing him away but enjoying the greeting. His spirits improved dramatically. He grabbed his bag and fumbled for his keys as the two of them climbed the steps to the wooden porch.
******
“You’ve got orders,” Brigadier Gen. Charles “Dunk” Wells said as Boyd entered his office the next morning.
Boyd was stunned.
“Have a seat,” Wells said, indicating the couch to the side of his desk. Wells rose and sat in a chair next to it. Ass-chewings are done from behind the desk, advice and counseling is done seated in the informal furniture beside it. Boyd was a journeyman F-16 pilot and flight leader, one of Wells’ top jocks. He’d been out of the cockpit for a year – six months to complete a mission so secret Wells was not read into it, and six months to recover from the gunshot wound he received completing that mission. Wells had welcomed a sick, busted-up pilot back to the base and watched his determined recovery, even jogged the perimeter road with him a couple of times as part of the mandatory fitness program. Now he had some bad news
to deliver.
“You’re done in the F-16,” the general said, sympathetic but straight to the point. “Your orders are to Little Rock. Your waiver to fly doesn’t include ejection seat aircraft. You’ll transition to the C-130.”
Chapter 3: Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia
D
abney St. Clair drained the shot of vodka in one gulp, following the example of the Georgian defense secretary, a retired Russian general, who was seated beside her. The toast had been in her honor as the new deputy chief of mission at the U.S. Embassy. A traditional “Georgian Table” feast was being hosted by the Georgian government at a local restaurant to honor new personnel arriving during the summer rotation at several embassies.
All embassy personnel are spies. The whole purpose of diplomatic missions is to have eyes and ears on the ground in other countries, to gather rumor and nuance and mix with the locals and the other diplomats, then report back home.
The Georgians and their guests, about 30 people, were seated at one long table in a medieval wine cellar converted into a banquet venue specializing in traditional cuisine and entertainment. They’d seen a traditional dance by a handsome young man in a chokha, a long military-style tunic with a short dagger at his waist, and a beautiful girl in a long dress and white head covering. They acted out scenes of encounter, courtship, passion and conflict. Accompanied by stringed instruments and drums, it went from sedate to frenetic, and there was much leaping and swirling about, and finally that Cossack-style dance where the man kicks his legs out while in a squat. It all ended with a finale of other dancers and stirring music.
The guests took turns going to the front to snap pictures of the young dancers in their costumes. Central Asian tribal rugs covered the stone floor and were hung as tapestries on the walls, the dark reds and blacks adding heaviness to the already massive stones that made up the cellar. Then the toasts had begun, a necessary part of Georgian hospitality.