There was a very loud bang from somewhere behind the van, as if someone had tossed a firecracker in a metal trash can.
Glinko’s eyes shot to the mirror. Even with the window half-open, the air was very still and the cabin of the U-Haul was full of smoke. He had to squint to see what he thought he saw. He saw pedestrians in front of the U-Haul stop, look, and point. He had to turn and stick his head out the open window to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw.
He had. Smoke was rising from the area of Bionic Hill. Not just smoke but peaks of flame licking through the budding trees along the promenade. The smoke darkened, thickened, over the clearing. He heard sirens not so far away.
There had been no mention of this; perhaps it had nothing to do with him. He was told to wait for a man who would identify himself as “a patriot.”
Police cars sped by. Ambulances raced after them. Glinko drummed the steering wheel with increasing anxiety. It couldn’t be a coincidence. He had just been there, he had come away with military supplies, there was a fire after what sounded like an explosion—
And his employer was a military hero. A patriot.
He didn’t think that Captain Klimovich was coming. And why would a Ukrainian hero attack a complex in Kiev? It made no sense.…
A tallish, slender man walked briskly toward the passenger side of the U-Haul. He was the only pedestrian actually moving now. He carried two shoulder bags and wore a determined look. One bag was for a laptop; the other was like a military grip, stuffed quite full.
He opened the door without hesitation.
“I am a patriot,” he said.
Glinko had no response. He left the cigarette on his lip and started the engine as his companion squirmed from the bags, put them on the floor, pulled the door shut, and settled into the seat. The man stared straight ahead. It wasn’t hot, but he was perspiring.
“There is water in the—”
“I’m fine, thank you,” the new arrival said breathlessly.
“Sandwiches, too, in the glove compartment,” Glinko went on, trying to make at least a superficial connection.
“Thank you, I … I’m fine,” the man repeated unconvincingly after a long, deep breath.
“Okay,” Glinko said.
He had picked up enough fares in his life to know which ones were open to conversation and which weren’t. This man was not. This man was like a bank robber he had once inadvertently picked up, an innocent act that had nearly cost him his license. If it weren’t for Lavro’s being a tank commander, and the police detective being from western Ukraine, it could easily have gone the other way.
Glinko guided the van into the moderate late-afternoon traffic, which was lighter than usual as people pulled over to record the distant flames on their cell phones.
They had a considerable drive ahead of them. All Glinko knew was that he was to take the patriot to Kharkiv, in the Kharkivis’ka district, a distance of about 350 kilometers. He would be instructed where to go when they arrived.
“Would you like music?” he could not help asking his passenger.
“As long as it isn’t Tchaikovsky or Stravinsky,” the patriot replied.
The driver grinned. “No Russian composers here,” he said. “Tiomkin?”
The passenger nodded, and Glinko turned on his cell phone, which was jacked into the dashboard. A lively, folk-inspired fox trot filled the cabin.
“Nice?”
“Very,” the passenger replied.
Like a fever breaking, the mood in the cabin brightened. As they left the golden domes of the capital behind, Glinko looked over the tops of his sunglasses as he drove.
A devout, lifelong member of the Autocephalous Orthodox Church, he had held tight to his faith even when it had been suppressed by the Russian Orthodox Church during the Soviet years. When the church was reestablished in 1990, Glinko had helped raise funds by overcharging on fares to and from Boryspil International Airport and donating the overage to the church.
The sky was hazy, giving the sparse clouds a diffuse, celestial glow. He imagined his boy above, smiling down on him. If not for fate, he would have remained in the military, his lifelong dream, and this mission perhaps would be for him.
It still is, Glinko thought, his eyes returning to the road. This drive is, I suspect, for the ideals you held so dear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
June 3, 8:30 AM
When President Wyatt Midkiff arrived at the Oval Office, Trevor Harward, the national-security adviser was waiting just outside the doorway, along with Deputy Chief of Staff Matt Berry. The president’s chief of staff, Evelyn Graves, was in Beijing planning an upcoming summit with his ceremonial counterpart, the vice premier of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China.
It was Harward who had called Midkiff in the upstairs family quarters to alert him to the explosion in Kiev.
Seeing the president’s two-person Secret Service detail coming down the stairs, Berry quickly terminated his call with Op-Center. Harward was not a fan of the agency, which he considered to be “reckless and potentially rogue,” as he had said when the unit was revived. But Berry knew that Williams and his team were working on a related matter, and he wanted to know whatever they knew. Still, he had made a point of turning away when he placed the call.
Berry followed Harward, who had shouldered first into the sun-splashed office. Seniority trumped politeness, especially when one player felt that his fiefdom and his access to the president were being threatened by the other.
“Who did this?” the president asked as he sat behind his desk. By a slight turn of the head, he had directed his question at Harward.
“The Kiev Department of Internal Affairs says there is indirect surveillance video, but we haven’t seen it yet,” Harward replied.
“What the hell is ‘indirect’?” the president demanded.
“Nothing of the attack itself,” Harward said. “Meaning the spot was chosen so only the results could be viewed.”
“Chase Williams and his people were working on that VR training video,” the president said to Berry. “Have you been in touch?”
Harward didn’t react to the mention of Op-Center. He would already have seen the call on the president’s phone log.
“They haven’t called, Mr. President,” Berry answered truthfully.
“We need some context here,” Midkiff said, his tan, leathery seaman’s face shifting from man to man. His eyes had a natural squint, earned on deck in the Navy as a surface combatant. “Get Williams on the line.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Berry replied.
Berry didn’t look at Harward, but he could feel the man’s furnace eyes on him. The DCS didn’t immediately put the call on speaker; he didn’t want Williams to answer and pick up where the conversation had left off.
“Good morning, Chase,” he said. “It’s Matt Berry, with the president and Trevor Harward.”
There was only the slightest hesitation. Williams got it. Berry relaxed.
“Good morning, Matt,” Williams said, Berry thumbing the speaker function so the others could hear. He flipped off the ringer and set the phone on the glass coffee table that separated him from Harward like a DMZ.
“I assume you’ve seen the feed from Kiev?”
“Watching it now,” Williams said.
“Chase,” the president said, taking over, “it’s Wyatt.”
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“What are your thoughts on Kiev?”
“Sir, we’re waiting for the satellites to report in, but our tech team just informed me that the cell-phone video we saw on TV is from a position at the south side of Bionic University, which just opened there—sorry, I’m reading the email—and the explosion looks to have originated at or near the location of a military research station.”
“Accidental?” the president asked. “It is a research facility.”
“Unknown,” Williams said. “The video show
s a lot of people in white coats running toward the camera—most likely from that building, which is the only lab in that area. We’re not seeing mass casualties, just coughing, which suggests that ground zero wasn’t in their midst. That lends support to a rear impact.”
“Trevor Harward here. What’s back there?”
“Before she was murdered yesterday morning, the Ukrainian national Galina Petrenko informed former Ambassador Douglas Flannery that military drills were being conducted in a secret facility, which could be that complex.”
“What leads you to that conclusion?” the president asked.
“The main lab isn’t a secret room, its employees are listed—yes, Aaron?”
There was a muted voice, as though from another speakerphone.
“My tech chief says that the personnel list of TSL Global—Technological Support Laboratory Global—has a Facebook page for members of the scientific community there. So that section isn’t a secret. However, our techies have pulled electrical blueprints from last year that suggest there is an add-on room inside. In the back.”
“So that facility behind the laboratory may have been the target?” the president asked.
“If this was an attack, not an accident, that would be my guess.”
“It could have been an accident,” Harward said.
“Of course,” Williams agreed. “If they were reckless enough to handle dynamite or some other high explosive among twenty-nine civilian employees.”
“A transformer fire?” Harward persisted.
“There is no indication of wiring for a large generator of any kind on these blueprints,” Williams said.
The exchange was a rebuke, though a mild one.
“Is there any indication who was inside—” the president began.
“Hold on, sir,” Williams interrupted. “Sorry, I’m just looking at an overlay of winds my meteorologist pulled from NOAA … I’m reading his analysis: ‘The smoke is being blown east to west and rising at roughly one mile an hour … shadows on the adjoining structure puts the origin at the north end of the facility, the location of the hypothetical secret room.’” Chase paused. “Analysis of the cell-phone video says that there are no sparks evident that would suggest an electrical condition. And—people at the facility are reporting a strong smell of burning plastic behind the building.”
“Computers, wiring melting,” Harward said.
“There is that,” Williams agreed, “but it’s blowing one way—this smell is being detected well back. My demolitions guy says the smoke profile is identical to an exploding mortar. My chemist says that if it is an artillery shell, the description of the smell matches a burning polystyrene or related plastic, or else a butadiene rubber. That’s how the propellants ammonium perchlorate and potassium perchlorate are stored, inside a polymer matrix.”
“So you’re saying, I think, that this looks like an RPG attack?” the president said.
“The evidence seems to be converging in that direction,” Williams said.
Berry’s eyes scrupulously avoided Harward.
The president sat back in his chair. “Trevor, let’s see what satellite overheads the NRO has.”
Harward speed-dialed the head of the National Reconnaissance Office, the government’s eyes-in-the-skies agency.
“Gentlemen, we’ve just received confirmation from Lackland,” Williams said, referring to the Texas base that was the headquarters of Air Force Intelligence. “The X-37B was in position over Crimea and got the shot. Sending now, Mr. President.”
An image from the Air Force’s secretive robot plane appeared on the president’s computer. It showed a remarkably sharp overhead view of the eastern section of Bionic Hill. Though the entire rear of the science center was on fire, the thickest smoke was uncoiling like a black snake from a hole in the back.
“As you can see, there is no debris field on the courtyard back there,” Williams said.
“Meaning nothing was blown out,” the president said.
“No, sir. This looks like an entry wound. Lackland says they’re going back through the imaging to see if anything suspicious shows up.”
“Thank you, Chase,” the president said. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, sir,” Williams said. “I’m putting a recon team on the ground there.”
Midkiff made a face. Technically, he could stop Williams … by firing him. But the president wasn’t convinced it was a bad idea.
“We’ll talk later,” Midkiff replied.
Berry killed the connection. Williams had killed the discussion.
“The NRO is already going through their imaging,” Harward said, somewhat sheepishly.
The president heard without reacting. “Matt, get out to Belvoir now and liaise with Op-Center,” Midkiff said. “I want to know everything they’re planning with the JSOC team. Give Trevor any updates.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Berry said with a soupçon more enthusiasm than the assignment required. He nodded at Harward and redialed Williams as he was leaving the office.
“Mr. President, do we want to talk to Kiev or Moscow?” he asked. “Or NATO,” he added. “If Moscow is organizing attacks—in addition to the murders we know they’ve committed—command may want to raise their alert status to DEFCON 4.”
Harward was careful not to commit himself to any of these suggestions in case they differed from the president’s view.
“Not yet,” Midkiff replied. He pulled over the typed folder containing his daily national-security briefings. “If we see any drift in that direction, or in the Russian maneuvers we expect at Sudzha, we’ll let them know.”
Harward clearly didn’t agree, but he said nothing except that he would keep the president informed.
The NSA hurried to catch up to Berry, who was walking through the west wing to the exit.
“I’m obviously concerned about this Special Ops action,” he said when they met in front of the vice president’s office.
“Chase and his team have a lot of brass between them—and they’ve done it before.”
“They’ve been lucky before.”
Berry stopped. “I wouldn’t describe the death of Hector Rodriquez in Mosul as ‘lucky.’”
“You know what I mean,” Harward snapped. “Williams, McCord, and your friend Dawson are all cowboys.”
“Cowboys tamed the West.”
“And left a lot of ruin in their wake,” Harward said. “I read the report from Major Michael Volner on that action. He urged greater caution in the future. Is sending a U.S. military team into that region ‘greater caution’?”
“Why don’t you go back and ask the president?”
Harward faced Berry unflinchingly. “He was on the fence and you know it. With those Op-Center guys, the line between ‘observe and report’ and ‘shoot to kill’ is written in smoke. Look at New York!”
“They saved the ambassador and took one prisoner.”
“They shot up a building in Lower Manhattan and killed a man attached to the Russian Embassy,” Harward replied.
“Look,” Berry said, “I hear that, and I’ll make sure Williams and Major Volner are very aware of the parameters and of your concerns. Hey, I’ve got them, too, which is why I want to get out there.” Berry waited another moment. “We good?”
“Yeah,” Harward answered. “Perfect.”
Berry smiled broadly. “Then … great!” he said as he continued to the lobby and out the side door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Kiev, Ukraine
June 3, 3:42 PM
Parking his hornet-like LF250-19P motorcycle in the public lot adjoining the old Kyiv-Passazhyrskiy Railway Station, Major Josyp Romanenko joined his team under the awning outside the magnificent central arch. The vehicle was legally purchased under a false name two weeks before, in the event that plates were checked. As he headed toward the front of the station, he looked behind him. The curls of smoke marked a distant event, the sirens faint, none of it causing officials to suspend serv
ice.
The men were all dressed in civilian clothes, and as Romanenko arrived, wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt, he pretended to check an itinerary tucked into a travel envelope as he visually accounted for every man. None of them acknowledged one another; in the days ahead, all surveillance footage of the station, the bus terminals, and the airports would be carefully reviewed to find the perpetrator of today’s actions … and the actions to come. Individuals leaving the city at this time would be scrutinized; that was why they all wore something on their heads, from baseball caps to woollen caps and a wig for bald Marchuk. Zinchenko actually wore a military cap he’d bought at a pawnshop. It featured the red-and-black emblem of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army from World War II. He felt naked in civvies and thought that no one could object to the partisans who had bravely fought the Nazis.
To further conceal their facial features they all looked down—at electronic devices, at newspapers or magazines, at trinkets for sale at an outdoor stand. They all carried backpacks and canvas grips filled with street clothes, toiletries, and train schedules with the wrong routes identified in the event their bags were searched. The only one who carried a weapon was Zinchenko, a Swiss Army knife. That vulnerability had not gone over well, but Romanenko had insisted.
“If stopped, you might be tempted to use it instead of your cover story or your wits,” he had said.
Romanenko had been here to check out surveillance cameras, and the men had all scrupulously avoided them when they returned to buy their tickets in the preceding days—lest the train be sold out—and again, now. Each man had a reason for being on the train headed east. Student returning home at the close of the semester, a job interview, a family visit. Romanenko had papers indicating that he was reporting for duty as a police officer in Semenivka, Poltava Oblast.
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