Though there were renewed cheers from the street as word of the Russian retreat spread, it was strangely quiet in the factory tower. Koval finally had a chance to wonder what was next for him.
It would be professionally challenging and personally rewarding to continue doing this, he thought. Designing simulations to drill the Ukrainian military, to use surgical strikes and highly specialized teams to blunt the monolithic Russian war machine.
He thought that Klimovich might ask. Koval hoped he would.
The computer scientist leaned back in the creaking office chair and picked up the bowl of schav, the sorrel soup that had been sent up five hours before. It had been hot then, the way he liked it, and was mournfully cool now, but no meal had ever tasted so good.
We have done it, he thought proudly.
He wondered how many people could say that with as much heart as those words came tonight.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Op-Center Headquarters, Fort Belvoir North,
Springfield, Virginia
June 4, 11:00 AM
“They did it!”
The voice of Chase Williams hung in the air of the conference room for only a moment before it was swallowed whole by cheers. There were a few high fives and fewer hugs, but the mood was ebullient.
Voices of congratulations were shouted at the speaker on which Paul Bankole had made the report.
Part of the joy—a large part—was relief. It was the kind of job that Op-Center had been designed to do, but it was a job that had more moving and unknown and makeshift parts than any it had faced since the halcyon days of Paul Hood, General Mike Rodgers, and the bold Striker Special Operations force.
“Paul, can you hang on a moment?” Williams asked.
“I’m at a hospital in Sumy getting checked out for smoke inhalation,” he said. “We all are.”
“We’re gonna make sure you get out okay,” Williams said. “Right, Matt?”
“State is my second call, after Harward,” Berry said as he left the room.
The White House deputy chief of staff was followed by Dawson and everyone, except Anne and Williams. Anne was about to leave when Williams motioned for her to stay. She shut the door and sat back at the table.
“Paul, it’s just Chase and Anne now,” Williams said.
“Hi, Anne. Thanks for everything you did to get us here.”
“To put you in harm’s way? Paul, it’s what your government does best.”
“I can’t answer for the government, but I can answer for this team,” Bankole told her. “I have never seen anything like it. And, honestly, I hope I never see it again.”
He laughed, but underneath it was a thick coat of sincerity.
“Paul, how is the ambassador?” Williams asked.
“He’s being rebandaged and he may have busted his wrist getting out of the truck,” Paul said. “He climbed over me to get to the Ukrainians and try to talk them off the ledge. He was in this up to his chin.”
“But you got everyone out?” Williams said. “Save that one?”
“Save the leader,” Bankole told him. “The Russians took him out. They showed remarkable restraint.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” Anne said. “They didn’t want a flash point with Ukraine any more than Kiev did.”
“Not as long as we were there to take the bullets for them,” Williams added. “Speaking of the Ukrainians—?”
“Gone like they were never here,” Bankole said. “I managed to grab a few pictures in the truck when their masks were off. But once the authorities met us on the field, south of Yunakivka, that was it.”
“I wonder how much they knew,” Williams said.
“Flannery doesn’t think they knew much, given what they were saying in the truck,” Bankole said. “They were surprised when the ambassador told them about Captain Klimovich and the tanks. They refused to use one another’s names, though I’m sure the military will make them public when they put these men on trial.”
“They’ll have to, won’t they?” Anne said. “Moscow will demand it.”
“After the Kremlin demands extradition and a trial in Moscow or Sudzha,” Williams said. “Those kids are never going to see daylight—if they aren’t sentenced for treason.”
“I’d guess prison, not death,” Bankole said. “I don’t think Klimovich will abandon them. I don’t think Ukrainian patriots will, either. It’ll be a delicate balancing act to appease that side and Putin.”
“Once again, the soldiers do the heavy lifting and then the politicians who started it finish it,” Anne said. “Hey, Paul. I can arrange for the return trip as soon as I hear from State that there are no hang-ups with—”
“I’ve been informed—pre-informed—by the major that that will not be necessary,” Bankole told her.
“Oh?”
“The fishing boat,” he said. “If it’s still there, they want to cruise the Black Sea back to Turkey before coming home. I really have been looking forward to meeting the skipper.”
“Why is that?” Williams asked.
“Kaan Hamzaçebi sounds like a very, very interesting man,” Bankole said. “A sea voyage and a chat about religion could do us all a world of good.”
“I’ll make sure it’s there,” Anne said, and looked at Williams.
The director nodded
“Let me know if you need help getting to the Azov,” Anne said.
“Oh, and Sergeant Moore needs about six hundred American to pay for a bike he wrecked,” Bankole said.
“I’ll have the U.S. embassy in Kiev send someone with the money,” Williams said. “Op-Center’s got an alumnus there—legal attaché named Lowell Coffey II.”
“Talent rises from hereabouts,” Anne said.
Williams thanked Bankole again, and told him to thank and congratulate every member of the team. He ended the call and sat back. He looked at his watch.
“Is that AM or PM?” he asked.
Anne smiled. “Y’know, I’m not even sure.”
“Well, I better figure it out,” he said. “I want to know if it’s breakfast or dinner we need to be catching up on.” He frowned. “Hey, didn’t you have—?”
“A doctor’s appointment? That was yesterday. Moved it to next week,” she said. “So. You buying?”
“Op-Center’s buying,” he replied, rising unsteadily and stretching. “We earned this one.”
With Anne leading the way, Williams followed into the sunless light that was the subterranean home of Op-Center.
“There’s just one thing,” he said as they left. “Something I want McCord to check on.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York
June 6, 12:03 PM
Georgi Glazkov was sorry to leave Hong Kong, but at least he left with a successful mission against the family of that wet-behind-the ears college student Chingis Altankhuyag. A lovely psy-ops move, no bloodshed.
And he was excited at his new post. He left the Air China 747 and, with the patience of his trade, the assassin made his way through customs. With the smiles of his trade, he went past the agent without incident. With the relaxed anonymity of his expression and dress, he looked every inch the avuncular figure he wished people to see, someone’s uncle looking for family—though in this case the family was someone who had been described to him in a coded text while he was still in Hong Kong, a portly young diplomat who was supposed to look like his favorite nephew. He would be here to help Georgi get established in his new city, a replacement for his friend Andrei Cherkassov.
With a single carry-on tossed over his shoulder and one large suitcase on wheels, he looked for the man—and saw something that he was not expecting, a quality that was not good in his profession.
Standing near the exit of the airport was a uniformed driver holding a placard with his full name on it. His real name, not the name under which he was traveling.
Looking around, he saw an area where he could break silence and call the
embassy. He did not know if the man he sought was here—but he had to know why the embassy had shattered protocol like this. His fury was difficult to tamp down as he stood in a corner beside a closed rental-car counter.
With angry, trembling fingers he punched in the number of the Russian Consulate.
An older couple dragging luggage walked by, and Georgi turned slightly from them as the phone beeped at the other end. He didn’t want anyone to hear. Airports, he knew, were crawling with intelligence officers.
The assassin desperately wanted a cigarette, but that would attract attention and then law enforcement in this ridiculous city. He waited impatiently.
“Welcome to New York,” he heard the woman say.
Georgi looked into the lean, pale face of NYPD bureau chief Irene Young. He nodded his thanks warily. The woman remained standing there, the man watching them both from a few feet away.
“Olga gave you up,” the woman said. “Set foot in my street and you’re a dead man.”
Then, stepping away, and with Brian Dawson smiling at her side, the two continued to the exit and the line of squad cars waiting outside.
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER NOVELS
WRITTEN BY JEFF ROVIN
Op-Center
Mirror Image
Games of State
Acts of War
Balance of Power
State of Siege
Divide and Conquer
Line of Control
Mission of Honor
Sea of Fire
Call to Treason
War of Eagles
WRITTEN BY GEORGE GALDORISI
Out of the Ashes (with Dick Couch)
Into the Fire (with Dick Couch)
Scorched Earth
ALSO BY JEFF ROVIN
Vespers
Stealth War
Fatalis
Dead Rising
Tempest Down
Rogue Angel
Conversations with the Devil
Zero-G (with William Shatner)
ALSO BY GEORGE GALDORISI
FICTION
Coronado Conspiracy
For Duty and Honor
Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor (with Dick Couch)
NONFICTION
The United States and the 1982 Law of the Sea Convention
Beyond the Law of the Sea
Leave No Man Behind
The Kissing Sailor
Networking the Global Maritime Partnership
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JEFF ROVIN is the author of more than one hundred books, fiction and nonfiction, under his own name, various pseudonyms, or as a ghostwriter, including numerous New York Times bestsellers and more than a dozen of the original Tom Clancy’s Op-Center novels. You can sign up for email updates here.
GEORGE GLADORISI is a career naval aviator. He has written several books, including (with Dick Couch) the New York Times bestseller Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor and Tom Clancy’s Op-Center: Scorched Earth. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Tom Clancy’s Op-Center Novels
About the Authors
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DARK ZONE. Copyright © 2017 by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S&R Literary, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: tank © Stocktrek Images/Shutterstock.com; target © Konstantin Ustinov/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-02689-7 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-02688-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250026880
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First Edition: May 2017
Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone Page 26