Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone

by George Galdorisi

  He contacted Elena, asked for access to the footage there. Some negotiation was required—an additional two hundred dollars—but he got it. He didn’t bother explaining that this was for the security of her own nation. All he cared about was the Op-Center team.

  The same man showed up, on foot, with a considerable duffel bag, walking through the deserted nighttime streets. McCord had no idea who he was or where he was going. The destination wasn’t as important as the identification.

  Excitement rising, McCord went back to access what Op-Center had earlier, material that had been downloaded and saved: the security footage from Bionic Hill.

  This man was there, too. Driving into the front gate weeks earlier. It wasn’t enough to get an ID, only to confirm that he was most likely part of whatever operation was being hatched there.

  And if the train IDs are this same man, it is an operation that’s already in motion dangerously close to the border.

  He set to work trying to figure out who the hell this was and when he was planning to act. It was Bruce Perry III at the Department of Naval Intelligence—an old friend and colleague—who finally made the ID for him.

  McCord immediately phoned Williams with a suggestion that wasn’t going to sit well with anyone at Op-Center or in the field.

  But there was no way around it that McCord could see. And, worse than the risk it posed for Volner and his team, the danger to the region was even greater.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Kharkiv, Ukraine

  June 4, 3:45 AM

  Havrylo Koval was overwhelmed.

  The road to this event had been longer than the road to this place, though the latter felt interminable. Seated beside Ivan Glinko, all Koval wanted was to communicate with Romanenko or any member of his team. But that was forbidden. In the aftermath of the attack on the Long Barracks, it was impossible to know who would be listening to or triangulating mobile devices. Glinko occasionally shut his iPod to turn on the news, but there was nothing to hear.

  They made their way northeast slowly, circuitously, with Glinko never revealing where they were going. His orders were to tell no one and, as he pointed out, “No one includes my passenger.”

  “Even though I will find out soon enough?” Koval had complained.

  Glinko had shrugged. “Maybe I am being tested for trustworthiness, for other tasks.”

  The man had a point. Koval had no idea what his relationship with the team leadership might be.

  The main road, the side roads, the country roads droned on. Koval half expected to be waylaid somewhere along the way by some outlying members he knew nothing about. All he knew was that there was an operational command center somewhere adjacent to Crimea and that he was being taken there. His job would be to make sure data flowed between personnel on a system that had been put together—as Romanenko had described it—“in the dark by the only tech people we could trust.”

  It was just after two in the morning when they reached their destination, Khariv, the second-largest city in the nation and a modern urban center Koval had visited once, years before, for a computer convention. The city was Ukraine’s center for electronics, aeronautics, and nuclear-power research, and the home of the region’s most successful IT startups. Koval took heart that whoever had assembled the communications network did a reasonable job.

  The U-Haul continued through a Soviet-era industrial park that had managed the transition without missing a step; the journey carried them to a derelict section where tanks had once been manufactured. It sat dark and overgrown behind a high chain-link fence.

  Koval sniffed at the open window. It seemed to come from a fan vent of the factory.

  “I smell—an electronic fire,” he said. “Or something like that.”

  Glinko shrugged, grinned, said nothing. Glinko turned off his headlights as they pulled up to the main gate, which was padlocked. He just sat there, and after a few minutes someone came out to admit them. Even in the dark, Koval could tell that the young man was dressed in the dark-and-light-blue camouflage pattern of the Ukrainian tank corps. The man’s name was embroidered on his right pocket and the traditional patches were on both upper arms, with one addition: a large metal badge on the left lapel, the head of a fox.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Koval said with sudden understanding. He looked back across the rows of abandoned tanks. “Oh, Lord.”

  Glinko laughed in his belly as he drove in.

  The gate was closed behind them, and the driver waited until the soldier directed them to an area between the factory and the dark, ramshackle administration building. Gravel and metal debris crunched under the tires as they proceeded, Glinko wincing with every sound. It took a few slow minutes for them to reach an open garage door below a sentry tower that was built like an old castle turret—with slots for rifles instead of bowmen.

  Glinko pulled in beside an improbably out-of-place police car. He killed the engine and they sat there.

  “Do you know for sure that this is what we’re supposed to do?” Koval asked.

  “It’s what I was told to do,” he replied.

  After several minutes, a door opened at the far end, throwing a trapezoid of white light across several cars and a bare concrete floor. A man motioned them over.

  “Let’s go!” Glinko said as he popped the door and started forward. Considering how long he’d been behind the wheel, the man was remarkably spry.

  Koval joined him, trying to make out the figure silhouetted in the light. It took a moment for him to notice the edges of the famed mustache. Then the man stepped back to admit them, the overhead bulb illuminating his face. Now Koval was sure.

  Three years ago, Captain Taras Klimovich had been on every news site in western Ukraine. He was respected by all, loved by Ukrainians, hated by Russian sympathizers. He had beaten their vaunted tank corps in a rout … but then he had vanished.

  “You know who I am,” the captain said as they turned toward an old concrete staircase painted green.

  “Yes, sir!” Koval said almost jubilantly. “Where—where have you been these past years?”

  “Planning for this day,” he replied. He stopped and regarded Glinko. “Ivan, would you mind going ahead—make yourself a meal in the kitchen?”

  “Of course, Captain!”

  “Thank you, old friend,” Klimovich said as the driver hurried ahead. “A good man,” the captain remarked. “His late son served under me.”

  “I see,” Koval said.

  “Where have I been?” he said, continuing up the stairs. “I was in Semenivka, running this operation by courier.” He grinned beneath the woolly mustache. “That, and refurbishing tanks at night, with a skeleton crew, takes time and patience. Your work came relatively late to the process—it was the last yet most essential piece in this ambitious mosaic.”

  “I assume, based on what you’ve said, that you—we—are undertaking a two-pronged assault against Russian forces over the border.”

  “Not quite so,” the captain said, pausing on the landing. He regarded Koval. “I am planning a parade, one that will march right to the border, but not across, hoping to draw the Russian armored columns away from the base.”

  “No tanks,” Koval reflected.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “When we were drilling with the virtual program, the major told me to pull the tanks from the last exercises,” Koval said.

  “We hope that they will not be a factor in Sudzha,” Klimovich said. “It is our belief that the Defense Ministry has sent Colonel General Anatoly Yershov to command that post. He is a tank officer. He will want to engage, or at least come out and see what the ‘legendary’ Fox is up to, the man who defeated his beloved corps.”

  Klimovich had put a wry flourish on the word, indicating that he did not believe the legend … though he was perfectly willing to use it as bait.

  “Without tanks,” Koval said, “the major’s team can get in and do considerable damage to the base.”

  “Considerable and hum
iliating damage,” Klimovich said, focusing on the goal. “We want to inflict a global embarrassment on Putin. If he chooses to reignite the war, he will bankrupt his nation. If he chooses to negotiate, we will recover our nation.”

  Koval realized that his chest had tightened, his heart racing. “What if this officer, Yershov, attacks?”

  Klimovich put an arm around the computer scientist’s shoulder. “I am a tank commander, too, with several columns of tanks. We will strike him very, very hard.”

  “You intend … to just march out?” Koval asked. “Roll out?”

  “A parade, like the Kremlin mounts every May Day,” the captain replied, an almost mystical quality to his voice. “Hereafter, the fourth of June, at eight AM, will be our day. The day this mythical figure, the Fox, inspires a new patriotism. It will be a day of pride and liberation. And, to the east, each May Day that comes for Moscow will be a time of shame, of empty bluster.” He shook his head. “Conquest cannot be sustained. Tyrants will always fail.”

  The men moved through the swinging door to an old-fashioned series of glass-walled offices overlooking the old storage facility below. There were pyramids of fresh munitions that were in the process of being shuttled by cart to the dark field outside.

  “We have been warehousing these as well, aided by members of the military,” Klimovich said. “I assure you, we will be ready just as Major Romanenko is ready. The rest will be up to you.”

  Koval’s heart was beating even faster now—though he couldn’t tell if it was fear, pride, or anticipation. He was a scientist, and the logical core of the man felt that this was an enormous risk on every front. Which is why, he thought, you did not conceive a project like this. He did.

  The men continued toward the railing that ran along the perimeter of the building.

  “There is an uplink in the former guard tower,” Klimovich said, pointing to the southern side of the building. “You will sit in the office there, at the base.” He pointed to metal door. “Please make sure, won’t you, that everything works. When we leave before dawn tomorrow, and it becomes necessary to communicate, I will not speak with Major Romanenko and his team directly. The few essential details will be relayed through you. His team will maintain radio silence, of course, in case the Russians are listening through one of their new signal-acquisition balloons. But, for the sake of timing, you will communicate our progress to them so they will know when it is safe to move.”

  Koval was overwhelmed but—he decided—excited beyond evaluation for the chance to be a part of this. The plan began to coalesce in his mind, along with a sudden concern.

  “Captain,” Koval asked, “what—what are the chances of Romanenko and his team returning?”

  The officer looked at him, his eyes alive above the high bridge of his nose. “There is a part of the mission of which you were unaware because it involves a deep undercover source,” Klimovich said. “But I would say that their chances of returning are much better than you might think.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Samsun, Turkey

  June 4, 4:55 AM

  “That is one very big if, Roger,” Mike Volner said into the phone. Though his voice was even, as always, he was not a happy commander.

  “Understood, and I completely agree,” McCord replied.

  Major Volner stood on the tarmac, his gear slung over one shoulder as he talked to Roger McCord. Dressed in civilian clothes, the other team members had already boarded the charter bus that Anne had arranged to meet them at the front of the terminal. No one curbside at Amasya Merzifon Airport would have seen the men emerge from an American aircraft. That kind of information might prove valuable to terrorists who had no dog in this particular fight. Volner wanted to finish this conversation before he joined them.

  “But I’ve spoken with Chase at home, and we think it’s the best course of action,” McCord replied.

  “That’s an entirely new mission,” Volner said.

  “It isn’t,” McCord insisted.

  “How do you figure that?” Volner asked. “We planned for recon to assess the situation. Now we’re abandoning that, and our transportation, to hunt a man who might be part of a team that may be heading toward the Russian border.”

  “I didn’t say ‘hunt,’” McCord replied. “I said ‘find.’ This is still recon.”

  “You’ll forgive me, but that’s cover-your-ass talk, sir,” Volner replied. “You are giving us an actionable target who, if they were the men drilling and headed to mission execution, are most likely armed.”

  “All of what you just described is possible,” McCord agreed.

  “Likely,” Volner shot back.

  “But there is no reason you cannot fulfill the original mission parameters while you’re looking for whatever location this man is headed to. Observe and report. No need to engage.”

  Volner was silent. He brought up a map of the region.

  “Major, we have to adjust here,” McCord went on. “This team may be at or near a place where you can quite literally walk to Sudzha. We don’t think he’ll go in the daylight, and he doesn’t appear to have left yet, according to surveillance. So you have a little time to prepare, to let us do more digging.”

  “What are the rules here, Roger?”

  “Same as before.”

  “The rules of engagement,” Volner stressed. “If this individual or team is in operational mode, if this is the attack they were training for in the virtual world, then are we supposed to report back and just let that assault transpire?”

  McCord was silent.

  “Roger?”

  “This is your mission,” the intelligence director said carefully. “You know what’s at stake, you make the calls.”

  “Goddammit, no!” Volner snapped, finally losing it. “You are not going to cover your ass with mine. If I’m in the field and I make a call to shoot Ukrainians—allies—I’m the one who will get thrown to the wolves here.”

  “We are preparing to communicate with both Kiev and Russia should that transpire,” McCord said. “There is no evidence to suggest that his is an officially sanctioned operation.”

  “Which makes us murderers, if there’s a firefight. And that assumes the Russians don’t kill us laying down a massive retaliation.”

  “Major, if you want to abort now that’s your call, too,” McCord told him.

  “I do want you to know that Chase has spoken with Defense Minister Timoshenko before and we will initiate communication, without being specific, when you make contact with any Ukrainian forces that may be in Russian territory.”

  “‘Make contact,’” Volner said. “What am I supposed to do, ask politely that they stand down? Christ,” he realized suddenly. “I’m going to have to have Flannery there. I’ll need him to translate. How will he keep up?”

  “Since we don’t know the terrain well—the information is coming—I can’t answer that yet,” McCord said.

  “You’re shooting way too many blanks here,” Volner complained.

  “Understood, and I apologize,” McCord told him. “Look, I’ve been working up a new route for you that puts you outside Sumy. Chase is informing the airfield now.”

  “The—we’re going back up?” Volner said.

  “Hopefully, in thirty to forty minutes, according to Anne. Private hire direct to Sumy. Has the team—?”

  “They’re already on the bus,” Volner said.

  “You’ll have to get them back.”

  “No shit!”

  “Again, I’m sorry,” McCord said. “Anne has already informed the bus company and is also arranging to have the boat go to and remain at the original location,” McCord told him. “That will be your emergency evac if needed.”

  Volner had been at this long enough to know that plans changed. But they hadn’t even prepped for Sumy.

  “Hopefully,” McCord said, “I can find these ops guys by satellite or thermal sig and give you additional info and assistance.”

  “Yeah, hopefully,” Vol
ner said. He allowed himself a moment to breathe and relax. “All right. I’m going to the bus. Get that data to me, local maps, too, and I’ll arrange it with our fishing captain.”

  “Coming,” McCord said. “Along with your flight info when I have it. Thank you, Major. Honestly, I’d rather be there than here.”

  “I do know that,” Volner replied, his voice softer. “Out.”

  The JSOC commander knew that McCord was telling the truth. The former marine didn’t want for courage, nor did he love the bureaucracy into which he’d been parachuted. He himself once said, “I still feel like I’m caught in shroud lines.” But that didn’t alter the fact that a mission that was so broadly defined and sketchy to begin with had just acquired several new ways it could go dangerously wrong.

  Shrugging his backpack onto both shoulders, tugging down his Redskins baseball cap, and jogging toward the terminal, Volner remembered something else his Grandfather Albert used to say. It was a line from a cartoon show that the older man liked to watch, and he applied it to every new challenge the boy took on himself: “You knew the job was dangerous when you took it!”

  Smacked by the cool air off the Black Sea, Volner savored the sea smell just before he climbed onto the bus.

  “I’m told you’re not to stay?” the driver said, looking down at him.

  “Change of plans, but you’re being paid,” Volner said.

  “I have been so informed,” the driver said courteously.

  “If you’ll just sit tight, I want to talk with our people and the tour organizer a moment.”

  The man extended an arm into the bus and, following it, Volner addressed the team. “New schedule,” he said. “Our hosts have decided to fly us over.”

  His expression told the men nothing, though they knew that whatever was going on had just heated up. As they began to quietly gather their gear, Volner motioned for Bankole and Flannery to remain seated. As the men filed out, he walked over and flopped beside the intelligence director. He networked their tablets as the map from Op-Center arrived.