Command Authority jr-10

by Tom Clancy

  The Englishman shook his head.

  “What about Gleb the Scar?”

  “Not till just now.”

  Jack thought for a moment. “Do you know a man named Dmitri Nesterov?”

  He shook his head. “Who might that be?”

  “He’s the crook who ripped off Malcolm Galbraith. He is supposedly FSB.”

  Oxley shrugged and took another drink. The big man looked somewhat tipsy, which was to be expected. Jack was no teetotaler, but he realized he would have passed out long ago if he’d downed so much booze.

  Jack said, “I need to talk to my dad, and I need to talk to my boss. Maybe we can put more pieces of the puzzle together.”

  “What’s dear old Daddy gonna say about you shooting it out with the Russian mafia?”

  Jack had been thinking about little else for the past few hours. It was a problem, but this had gone way past the point of shielding his father from possible scandal. He said, “He’s going to want me to come home to the USA as soon as he hears what’s happened.” Jack thought for a moment. “I’ll wait for now, and call my dad once I know a little more about what’s going on.”

  “He won’t be pleased.”

  Jack just shrugged. He felt bad about continually worrying his parents with the life he led, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to this old Brit about his relationship with his family. He changed the subject: “What are we going to do with your pal Oleg in there?”

  “We’re going to let him go.”

  “Let him go? Are you crazy?”

  “Might be, but when you think about it, what can we do with him? We are the two sods who’ve put four men on ice today, right?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  Oxley said, “Look, we turn him over to the cops, and this gets a lot more complicated for you. We cut him loose, and you don’t have to admit you were there in Corby.”

  “What about your next-door neighbor? She saw me.”

  “Blind as a bloody bat, and half deaf to boot. She couldn’t identify you as white, black, green, or blue, trust me.”

  “But if we let Oleg go, how do we know he won’t just come back and try to kill us again?”

  Ox laughed. “I’d like to see him try it with his two broken arms.”

  Jack slowly put his head down in his hands. “You broke his arms?”

  “I’m not fucking daft, Ryan. He’s a dangerous man. He’s not walking outta here with all his parts in working order.”

  “How the hell is he supposed to drink that beer you gave him?”

  Victor laughed at this, too. “Not my problem, is it?”

  “Okay,” Jack said slowly. “I guess Oleg gets a pass. But if this Gleb the Scar character sent a half-dozen men after us, I imagine he can come up with another half-dozen.”

  Ox nodded. “It’s a safe bet this town is crawling with Seven Strong Men killers.”

  “Why don’t you come with me? You’ll be safe. I’ll talk to Sandy and see if he has any ideas as to who this Gleb the Scar is. Castor, too. It’s possible that they’ve crossed paths in the—”

  Victor Oxley sat up straight on the bed. His eyes were full of intensity again; whatever alcohol-fueled impairment Ryan had detected a moment ago was gone. “What did you say?”

  “I said I have to talk to Sandy. Sandy Lamont. He’s my boss.”

  “The other bloke.”

  “Oh… Castor. Hugh Castor. He runs Castor and Boyle, the consulting firm where I work.”

  Oxley climbed off the bed, stood, and walked over to Ryan. He stood above him, his posture menacing.

  “What is it?”

  “You asked me if I knew a lot of people, you didn’t ask me if I knew Hugh Castor.”

  “Okay. I take it you know Hugh Castor?”

  Oxley squeezed the bottle hard. “Tell me again, lad. How do you know about me?”

  “I told you. Your code name. I showed you where Bedrock was written in the file.”

  “Yeah, you did. But how do I know Castor didn’t send you?”

  “Send me? Why?” The young American could tell that with his mention of Castor’s name, the trust Oxley had slowly begun to give him seemed to be in jeopardy. “Who is Castor to you?”

  “He was my control officer at Five.”

  Ryan’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit.”

  Oxley just stared at Ryan. Jack could see the older man was looking for signs of deception.

  “I didn’t know that.” Jack stood up. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but he never once mentioned your name. I’ve been trying to find a connection between my work at C&B and you, and now I guess I found it.” He rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. “But I don’t know what the hell any of it means.”

  Oxley turned away. “I don’t know what it means, either.”

  Jack could see the man had become emotional. His face reddened, but Jack couldn’t tell if it was anger or the whiskey.

  “What happened between the two of you, Ox?”

  Oxley just shook his head.

  Ryan could tell now was not the time to press. “Okay. I understand. But listen to me. I want to unravel what’s going on. My dad sent me to find out about you, to see if it could help tie Talanov to the Zenith killings. You’ve got your theories, your memories of a story you heard, but that’s not actionable intelligence. I need to dig deeper in this, and I really need your help.”

  Ox was back on the bed, drinking again. His eyes were distant, but Ryan suspected it was from the memories now, and not the alcohol. Ox asked, “What help?”

  Jack said, “I need to know where you first heard the name Talanov.”

  Oxley blinked. Again, it was obvious to Ryan that there was an incredible amount of pain in his memories.

  He began speaking slowly: “It would have been about 1989, I guess. Time really had no meaning at all. I was in Syktyvkar, a gulag in Komi. No one there knew I was English. Sure as hell, no one knew I was MI5. I was just another zek.”

  “Zek?”

  “A prisoner. Anyway, I’d been inside the system several years already, I was long past solitary. As a matter of fact, I was right popular. I knew enough battlefield medicine to keep some of the other zeks healthy, and I was fit enough, despite all I’d been through, to be the chap you wanted on your work crew. That goes a long way over there.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I was still on the job, as far as I was concerned. I spent every day trying to pull intelligence out of the men around me. I thought someday I would escape, I really fuckin’ believed it, probably because I would have gone mad without havin’ a little hope. Anyway, I worked every other prisoner I could get to like they were a source or an agent. Prisoners know things, Ryan. I’d worked out the names and locations of most every secret military installation in the Soviet Union over the years. None of it made a bit of difference in the end, but as I said, as long as I lived like I was operational, even in the gulag, I had life, I had hope.”

  Ryan nodded thoughtfully. “I understand what you mean.”

  “One day I was eatin’ my supper and listening in on a conversation between a couple of zeks. One bloke starts off with a story about his day. He says he was mopping the floor in the infirmary when a prisoner from another cell block was brought in. The man had classic symptoms of typhoid: bloody nose, fever, delirium. He was a strong chap, still had his strength and fight. There were no tattoos on his body, so he hadn’t been in the gulag for too long.”

  “Go on.”

  “This bloke tells me the guy started ranting about the KGB.”

  “What about the KGB?”

  “He says he was a bloody KGB officer, starts telling the doctor to make a call to confirm it, he gives his name, which didn’t match the name on his chart.”

  “Did they believe him?”

  “Fuck no. I probably told somebody I was in the KGB at one point or another in Syktyvkar. Prisoners lie, Ryan. Once I met a chap in the gulag who said he was Yuri Gagarin. Of course, i
n his case, it wasn’t so much a lie as a fantasy, as I believe he meant it.”

  “Back to the KGB guy, Ox.”

  “Right. So this delirious chap says he’s KGB, and he’s in the gulag on an operation. Everyone just laughed or what have you, then he starts in with how he was a paratrooper who was there when the presidential palace was taken in Kabul on the first day of the Afghanistan war. Claimed he then went into GRU, that’s Russian military intelligence, fighting in Afghanistan.

  “I was eatin’ me soup through all this, listening in to the bloke, of course, but it wasn’t until the guy told the doctor to contact a number in Moscow and report that Zenith needs emergency extraction that I knew I’d stumbled into a piece of me own history.”

  Ryan was transfixed by the story. “What happened to him?”

  “Like I said, no one believed him, but he was persuasive enough that one of the nurses picked up the phone. You’ve got to understand, everyone must have been thinking, ‘It’s probably just the fever talking, but if there’s a one-in-a-thousand chance he’s on the up-and-up, then we might as well make the call,’ because everyone working in that infirmary would have been shot if his story panned out and they had done nothing.”

  “Right.”

  “The nurse calls, the guy on the other end of the line says he doesn’t have a fucking clue what she’s on about, and he hangs up. Everyone figures that’s that. They decide the bloke on the gurney covered in his own puke and blood and shit has a coin toss of a chance to survive, and they roll him into a corner, just like they’d do to any other zek.”

  Ryan realized there was more. His heart was pounding while he waited for Oxley to tell the rest.

  “Five minutes later, I was in the kitchen pouring salt into hot water. I drank it down fast, and within a few seconds I was pukin’ across the chow hall. They wheeled me into the infirmary.”

  Ryan was impressed. “What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see Zenith, unfortunately, I was shackled to my bed. But I did hear what was going on. The trucks came around midnight. It was a regular prisoner transfer, wasn’t KGB, it was the Ministry of Prisons. They had the papers to take the other zek away. I heard the commotion as they wheeled him out.

  “Later that night a bloke with a mop came by my bed. I offered him all the food I’d managed to save up in me cell to tell me what he’d seen and heard that day.

  “He told me the zek sick with typhoid had called himself Talanov.”

  “Oh my God,” Ryan muttered.

  “The prisoner-transfer truck showed up with doctors in the back of the vehicle ready to tend to him. Didn’t sound like any prisoner transfer I’d ever heard of.” Ox shrugged. “By the time this chap told me the story, the zek named Talanov who’d said he was a KGB officer called Zenith was gone from Syktyvkar.”

  Ryan believed the story, or he at least believed that Ox believed it.

  Oxley kept his eyes on Jack now. There was a lack of trust there still, but Jack also got the impression Oxley didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t go home. After a moment, he said, “I’ll stick around for a wee bit, Ryan. But I’m watching you. You got it?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “What’s our next move, then?”

  “We untie that asshole in the bathroom, leave him here, get back in the car and go someplace else. Don’t know where, but we’ll wing it. Once we get there I’ll call a friend who can tell me everything I’d ever want to know about every phone number on Oleg’s phone. That should help.”

  “Sounds like a bloody handy friend.”

  “He has his moments.”

  69

  Eric Conway and Andre Page headed out to their helicopter at five a.m. They’d been up for more than an hour already, drinking coffee and going over weather reports in the flight operations center. Conway had spent a little longer than usual at the weather desk in Flight Ops, because a thick fog had settled over Cherkasy, and storms were brewing to the north. It was something they would have to monitor, but this was combat; it would not affect their planned six a.m. departure.

  Even though there was a war going on out there somewhere, it seemed quiet and peaceful here. Most of the Ukrainian ground forces at the base had rolled out for the front lines as soon as the fighting broke out, leaving behind the company of American multipurpose scout helos, the Ranger security force, and Midas’s Joint Operations Center.

  Four of Bravo Company’s eight matte-black Kiowas were already up in the air to support Ukrainian Mi-24 attack helicopters fighting against ground units near Chuhuiv Air Base, a half-hour flying time to the east.

  Those OH-58s would be used to fire lasers at targets in locations where the Special Forces and Delta teams were not available. Their work would be no more or less dangerous than today’s flight by Conway and Page, except for the fact Eric and Dre would be flying into battle without any air defense missiles.

  Black Wolf Two Six wore four Hellfire missiles on its pylons, and that was all. They had considered operating with a pair of Stingers on one pylon and a pair of Hellfires on the other, but Conway decided to trust in the advanced countermeasures of his helicopter as well as its radar, and to give up air-to-air capability to buy himself double the air-to-ground capability.

  They finished their preflight workup outside the helo and each man walked to his side of the OH-58. Here, they stood at the crew station doors, put on their helmets, attached their commo sets, and unhooked their M4 rifles from the slings around their necks. It was impossible for them to fly with rifles hanging off their chests, so they stored the weapons on the dashboard above the instrument panels, keeping them within reach at all times so they could grab them and fire out the open sides of the little helicopter if necessary. They kept a few frag grenades and smoke markers Velcroed into position here as well.

  A couple of carbines and some frags wasn’t much when compared with the four antiarmor missiles on the outboard stores, but the battle rifles had come in handy for the two men before. Two years earlier, in Afghanistan, they’d been on a close air-support mission over a group of Dutch coalition infantry in danger of being overrun by Taliban on a hillside. They launched all of the Kiowa’s Hydra seventy-millimeter rockets at an enemy position, wiping out the threat there, but almost immediately after this an RPG streaked past the windscreen of the OH-58. Conway saw the origin of the launch, called out the location to his copilot, then turned the helo ninety degrees. He flew sideways at the threat while Dre aimed his M4 and emptied a full magazine at the RPG crew, killing both men before they’d been able to fire another rocket at either the helicopter or the Dutch troops in the valley.

  The two young warrant officers flew back to Jalalabad celebrating with high fives, but Page had been nearly despondent upon returning to the ready room after the fact when it became clear the Kiowa’s gun camera hadn’t recorded the shooting for posterity because it had been positioned forward, not facing out the side of the helicopter.

  Both men knew that the campaign here in Ukraine would bear little resemblance to what they had experienced around J-bad. The Russian military, with its Air Force and long-range missiles, along with its sophisticated attack helos and T-90 tanks, made the Taliban look like amateurs.

  While they prepped for takeoff this foggy morning, each of the men worked from a checklist, going through the various systems on the helicopter; Conway focused on testing his Sperry Flight Control System and his avionics, while Page spooled through his cameras, targeting computer, and mast-mounted sight laser designation and backup systems.

  Both men tested their comms, and both men felt over their bodies for all SERE equipment.

  Shortly before six a.m. their crew chief gave them a thumbs-up on the pad and Conway started the Rolls-Royce engine. There was a ten-second-long high-pitched whine before the main rotor even began to spin, and it took more than a minute for the Allison engine to transfer enough power to the main and tail rotors for takeoff. Another round of checklists was tackled; by now Page was talking
on a channel to the crew chief, discussing the possibility of a quick return to the pad to get more Hellfires in the case of heavy action.

  The crew chief insisted he’d be ready for them when they came back, whether it was in four hours or four minutes.

  At six a.m. Eric Conway keyed his microphone. “Black Wolf Two Six, Cherkasy Ground, over?”

  “Cherkasy Ground, Black Wolf Two Six.”

  “Black Wolf Two Six, ready for takeoff.”

  The flight control officer cleared the OH-58 for takeoff and a southerly departure out of the base, and the black bird rose slowly into the foggy morning.

  They were just a few hundred feet in the air when a transmission came through their headsets from the JOC, which was different from Bravo Company Flight Ops.

  “Black Wolf Two Six, Warlock Zero One. How copy?”

  Both Conway and Page knew this was Midas transmitting on the net. He ran the JOC, but in typical Army obfuscation his radio call sign was different from his Delta call sign.

  “Warlock Zero One, copy. We are outbound to waypoint Alpha. ETA is one-nine mikes, over.”

  “Roger, Two Six. Proceed to waypoint Golf and advise. At this point I do not have any targets for you, so I’ll need you to loiter on station, how copy?”

  “Black Wolf Two Six copies all.”

  Conway pushed the cyclic forward and pulled up the collective; the aircraft climbed up through the fog as it raced toward the Crimea.

  “You don’t feel like skimming the trees in this soup?” Page asked jokingly.

  “You know what they say. ‘Speed is life, but altitude is life insurance.’”

  Their mission today was flexible. Their primary task was to collect battlefield intelligence for the force commander, but Conway knew at any moment Midas, or Warlock Zero One, or whatever the hell his name was, might order them to support one of the dozen or so U.S. and British special operations teams active in Operation Red Coal Carpet.

  As they climbed out of the fog, seeing nothing but blue sky and green pastureland in the distance, a series of crackling transmissions came over their radios. Two of the Kiowas near the Chuhuiv Air Base had located targets moving through a paved road linking two small towns. The Warriors were in the process of lasing targets for a squadron of Mi-24 Hinds, and their transmissions made the two men in Black Wolf Two Six wish they were part of the action.