by Brian Drake
“How nice of our uncle,” Raven said. He nudged Tracy. “This is another reason I quit.”
“Gee, Sam, I see so much of you lately it’s like you still work for us,” Wilson said.
“Well, next time, I won’t have anything to do with you, watch. You won’t have any fun without me.”
“All right, both of you get out of here,” the CIA man said. “Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long trip.”
Raven and Tracy headed for the door. Raven asked for an update as soon as Wilson heard about the secretary of state’s video conference. Wilson assured him he would.
“I’m not holding my breath, though,” Raven said. “The Russians will want to keep Ukraine out and do everything themselves.”
“Like you said, Sam,” Wilson said, “things never change.”
32
Aaron Osborne groaned as his stomach lurched for the umpteenth time. The ocean wasn’t being kind. The rough sea beat hard on the freighter’s hull, and Aaron seemed to be the only one affected. Or he was the only member of the team showing his discomfort. Draco and the Ukrainian mercenaries were a tough lot.
He moved along the corridor from the head back to his cabin. Draco approached from the other end. He blocked Aaron’s path in the narrow space.
“Never get used to the ocean, do you?”
“At least the oil rigs didn’t move,” Aaron said. “And I always found a way to avoid duty in the patrol boats, remember?”
“One of the others might need some of your seasick pills.”
“For all the good they do me. I thought you all had guts of iron.”
“Arkady is being very tough, but if he keeps turning purple like he has, he’ll soon resemble a radish.”
“He can come by any time, or I’ll slip him a few when nobody’s looking.”
“Very good.”
Draco stepped aside and Aaron continued on. When he reached his cabin, he locked the door and rolled onto an army cot. Their accommodations weren’t five-star worthy, but he didn’t care. Fluorescent lights blazed above. He covered his eyes with his right forearm.
Going to Kerch by sea hadn’t been his idea. Chumachenko controlled the section of the waterfront where they planned to dock. He said it was the most efficient way, and he was also the boss since they were now outside the United States. Aaron’s only reply had been “Yes, sir.” But he didn’t like the down time. Too much could happen; actually, go wrong; in the time it took to complete the voyage.
And any of those problems would be his fault.
Raven and Tracy were still alive. While he should have stuck to the plan to get rid of them, the fact was he couldn’t.
There were consequences to his failure. He knew Raven wouldn’t give up the chase. It wasn’t in his DNA to quit. Aaron had used Raven when he needed him, knowing the risks. The reward had outweighed the risks, or so he thought at the time.
Draco was already displeased. Chumachenko was likely furious too. Aaron knew Draco had updated the boss before their departure.
And what of his father? Raven could testify to Aaron’s involvement. The feds might consider his father a victim. Maybe not. How long could his father hold up under the scrutiny? Had Aaron jeopardized his father’s future business with the government, and thereby the entire scheme, by failing to leave Raven’s body behind?
Too many questions with no answers.
And a long way to go before they reached Kerch.
Aaron began to wonder if he’d survive long enough to see his financial goals to fruition.
He had Raven on his trail.
He knew Chumachenko was not one to tolerate failure.
But there was no turning back now.
Draco left the head but didn’t return to his cabin. He went up top, port side, to watch the choppy ocean. The cold wind felt good.
He gazed at the horizon. Ocean surrounded them on all sides. Not a hint of land anywhere. The water carried with it Draco’s conflicting thoughts.
He had left Ukraine for the mercenary world after the initial cease fire. His militia, near broke, had to scrape for every bullet and bomb they could find. Their harassment of ghost army camps did nothing to chase the invaders from his land. Nor did the fighting bring any solace to Draco. The Russians had taken everything from him; he wanted to make them hurt. Pot shots in the middle of the night didn’t make them hurt enough.
During the heaviest fighting after the annexation, Draco had been a soldier in the 13th Army of Ukraine. They’d fought boldly against the invaders. Both sides soon found themselves stalemated as the diplomats took over. The government investigation into Draco’s alleged war crimes would for sure land him in prison, or worse. He was very guilty, and didn't feel shame. But conviction would take him out of the fight for good. He quit the army and formed his own militia. When his private war reached an impasse of its own, and the government investigation determined his guilt, he took off.
The Russians had killed his family. Wife, two children. Gone in an instant. He killed every Russian he found to avenge them. The blood lust did nothing but send his own government after his neck.
He met Aaron Osborne on an oil rig in the Mediterranean. They forged a connection as only two men on guard duty in the middle of nowhere could. He didn’t consider Aaron a friend. Somebody like Draco had no friends. All Draco lived for was war. Aaron seized on Draco’s desire to return home and beat the Russians for good. What if somebody, an outsider, could supply the arms and munitions required to bring the fighting to an end? Bring victory to Ukraine? Draco liked the idea too.
Aaron’s initial meetings with his father, mostly spent repairing their relationship, didn’t move the project forward at first. But between the two of them, they convinced the Elder Osborne to begin the project. Mark Osborne reached out to other connections around the world, and arranged a meeting with Orest Chumachenko. The Russian businessman already had a side business supplying arms to the ghost armies, but the need for discretion limited his reach. What he needed was an outside supply, and Mark Osborne offered such a supply.
Draco did not like the idea of working with Chumachenko. The man was a Russian, and one of the worst. A two-faced snake with his own agenda. But Draco was also pragmatic. If conspiring with a Russian enabled him to kill more Russians, then it would be easy, in the midst of the fighting, to pop Chumachenko between the eyes. Draco could tolerate the man as long as he knew, in the back of his mind, he’d soon bring the big shot to his end.
With the freighter loaded with the equipment they’d “stolen” from Osborne, his dream was closer to reality than it had been less than 24 hours earlier. He had only victory and vengeance in mind. The Osbornes and Chumachenko focused on profits. The Russians would pay large sums to equip their ghost armies. Elements in Ukraine would pay large sums to equip the militias. The Ukrainian government, on the sly, would pay large sums to arm the regular army. Everybody would get what they wanted, but the money didn’t concern Draco.
But there was Aaron to deal with. His lack of commitment put everything at risk. The only way to achieve victory going forward meant Aaron had to be dealt with, too. Before his sensitivities brought more difficulty, and exposure.
Draco watched the waves. He knew what he had to do. But he had to wait until they reached Kerch. Once the ship docked, and the arms reached the Ukrainian units they planned to arm, all bets were off. They’d blow up a section of the Crimean Bridge so precious to Moscow, and watch the war begin anew. Then the Russians would see Draco’s fury as they’d never seen it before.
33
Orest Chumachenko stood at the wide window of his penthouse office and surveyed his domain.
He felt like he owned Kerch. The biggest city in Crimea boasted plenty of industry and tourist opportunities, mostly thanks to him. Chumachenko had earned his fortune catering to the holiday needs of his fellow Russians.
Now, he was expanding into Crimea with very ambitious plans. But it was hard to thrive with the Nationalists carrying out t
heir acts of aggression. The people of Crimea had voted to join Russia. The crazy “Yooks”, as he called Ukrainians, held to the opinion such a vote didn’t matter, had in fact been fixed. Nonsense.
Chumachenko wasn’t much taller than five-foot-five, but he carried plenty of weight. Not the fleshy kind, either. At 50, he was well-muscled and trim thanks to hard work and dedication to his daily gym visits. His power came from his wealth, his Kremlin connections (forged by his father, a loyal party member in the old days), and his forceful personality. Chumachenko did not believe in the word “No”.
When friends said he was nuts to build resorts in Kerch before the Kremlin fully resolved the Nationalist problem, he said, “You’re wrong.” Chumachenko had a vision of Kerch becoming a greater tourist destination than any other. His vision began with a twin-tower resort on the coast of the Azov Sea where so many loyal comrades spent their holidays over the years.
The hot summers all but guaranteed visitors from the Motherland. They would want to experience all Kerch had to offer. He wouldn’t only need to depend on the oligarchs for his income. But, yes, it would be ideal if Crimea was free of the “Yooks” who sought only to spoil and destroy.
For such a “cleansing of Crimea” he’d hatched, with his allies, another vision sure to bring about his primary goal.
Enter Father and Son Osborne.
But Osborne the Younger had left him very disappointed.
Chumachenko watched the city from his window. He could not see the construction near the Azov; what he saw instead was a city full of activity and bright lights. Yes, there were troops at almost every intersection. The population did not mind. The mostly Russian citizenry and loyal Ukrainians wanted no part of Nationalist nonsense. They looked at the soldiers and their vehicles and tanks as protection.
He wasn’t worried about a war harming Kerch in general or Crimea in particular. Once the Crimean Bridge crumbled, the Russian Army would secure the peninsula. A blockage of Russian Navy ships would cut off all aid to Ukraine.
The Russian military would then bring retaliation to the Ukraine mainland. Kerch would see very little trouble as the Nationalists would run to join the fight over the border.
A blockade of Ukraine meant the government would need other sources of arms and supplies. Chumachenko and Osborne, and their proxies, would be there to save the day.
And Russia, with its continued reliance on mercenaries and contract soldiers in the region, would spend money to equip those units too.
Chumachenko couldn't lose.
Somebody knocked on the door.
“Da,” he called out.
He turned as the door opened and Vikka Malina entered.
The 46-year-old divorced mother of two had recently hitched her wagon to Chumachenko. They’d met at the gym. She might have been nearing 50 and produced two children, but she had the shape of a fit 20-year-old.
Vikka (short for Victoria) held a tablet computer. She said, “I have a report about the American.”
“Bring it to my desk, my dear.” He crossed ahead of her to where his large desk sat. He eased into his chair while Vikka took the one beside the desk and crossed her legs. She handed him the tablet.
Chumachenko donned a pair of reading glasses and read the screen. He scrolled with his thumb to advance each page.
“Dreadful,” he said.
“Does this mean—”
He held up a hand and she paused her question. He finished reading, set the tablet on the desk, and removed his glasses. He stared ahead and said nothing for a long time, but his thoughts weren’t as jumbled as one might expect. He knew what he had to do to preserve the plan.
The American, as Vikka called him, was Mark Osborne.
The report detailed his meetings with the FBI. The report did not indicate if the FBI suspected his role in the robbery. He had retained a lawyer, but was so far cooperating and answering questions.
They had planned for this to a certain point, but they were quickly traveling beyond the expected boundary into uncharted territory. The problems created by Aaron made Chumachenko doubt the original plan could work without adjustments. He’d wanted to use outsiders as a way to shield him from connection to the plot. At the rate events were going, if Mark Osborne found himself in a tight spot, exposure was certain.
“Orest?”
He turned to her. He smiled again. She made him happy. Vikka filled a void in his life, one caused by his dedication to work. He was lonely. Or had been, until he met Vikka. He had no children from prior relationships; had never married. At his age, he figured he would never accomplish either. But Vikka had two beautiful daughters. While they had their father in their lives, he took great joy in sharing his good fortune with them.
“You were going to ask me a question, my dear?”
“Does this report mean your plan is in jeopardy?”
She knew everything. He’d hidden nothing from her. She wanted the Nationalists out, too. They posed a danger to her kids.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am certain.”
“I believe you.”
“Good. Won’t be long now.”
He rose. She followed him to the door. He promised to be home after he made an important call. He kissed her on the cheek and gave her rear end a pat as she left.
Chumachenko returned to his desk with his jaw clenched. He didn’t like lying to Vikka, so he had to make sure the plan continued. Despite the hiccup. He picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. A male voice answered.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Yes, sir. What do you require?”
“We have a problem in the United States and I’d like your best man to resolve the issue.”
“I’m listening.”
The conversation took ten minutes, and Chumachenko set in motion the solution to the problem.
Unfortunately, he could not reach Draco on the freighter. His other problem would have to wait.
34
US Secretary of State Peter Berry sat at his desk facing two large screen monitors.
One of his assistants fussed with connecting wires and cables. Berry paid him no mind as he thought about what he’d say to the Ukraine and Russian representatives. The president’s order had been clear. Obtain cooperation to deal with the “Osborne threat”. Berry hoped his experience would help him achieve the goal.
Nearing 68, Berry had built his reputation as a negotiator over his 40 years in the Senate. He was well-respected in DC circles, and now, as secretary of state, around the globe.
But none of it went to his head. Even the best had bad days. He needed to make sure this wasn’t one of them. It would be much better if the Ukrainians and Russians solved the problem. If they refused to work together, he knew the CIA assets on the way had a better than even chance. He’d rather keep Americans out, but to prevent a war he understood the necessity of getting involved.
His assistant gave him a thumbs up, then established the connections. Two men appeared on screens. Berry flashed his trademark smile.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
The two men on the monitors mumbled greetings. Then Vashkov, the Russian, took the meeting immediately off the rails.
“What is the meaning of this call, Mr. Secretary? I trust the United States isn’t going to waste time telling us how wrong we are.”
“Mr. Vashkov, the three of us have a mutual interest in the case of Mr. Osborne. I’m sure you’ve been informed?”
“We know of this latest Ukrainian trick, yes.”
The Ukrainian representative muted the anger flashing across his face. But it came through in his words.
“This is not a trick! Ukraine has no knowledge of his plot, and we do not want any further bloodshed.”
“You can’t afford it,” the Russian snapped.
Before he had a major argument on his hands, Berry appealed for calm.
“Please, gentleme
n, a fight gets us nowhere. The US only learned of this situation 24 hours ago. What I’m hoping we can agree to is a joint task force effort to prevent a tragedy.”
“Ukraine pledges all resources necessary to resolve the situation,” the Ukrainian, Kolbochev, said.
“Russia will not agree to this,” Vashkov replied. “I speak for my superiors when I tell you we will answer any act of aggression from Ukraine against Russian interests or its citizens with immediate retaliation. Up to and including full-scale invasion.”
“Outrageous!” Kolbochev shouted. “We are not responsible for this problem. You know very well my government has ruled out military force at this time.”
“At this time, Mr. Kolbochev. The Kremlin is well aware you are turning a blind eye to Nationalist forces in Crimea. Until you disavow all hostile activity, a joint arrangement is out of the question.”
Berry sighed. So much for respect and experience. He said, “Mr. Vashkov, I can assure you—”
“Empty words, Mr. Secretary! Your nation’s sanctions on my country have caused irreparable harm to our economy. We are not interested in your assurances.”
“The US cannot do this alone.”
“The great American heroes have never hesitated to gallop in to save the day. Why hesitate now? We do not need you, Mr. Secretary. Russia will handle this problem. Good day.”
The Russian blinked out.
“Mr. Secretary.”
“Yes, Mr. Kolbochev.”
“Crimea is a sensitive—”
“I’m aware your hands are tied. We won’t hold it against you.”
“Good luck, Mr. Secretary.”
Berry signaled for his assistant to end the call. He folded his hands in front of his face. He’d never had a chance. The conflict was too intense to get either side to think clearly.
He’d have to report to the president that some days the dragon wins.
It was up to the CIA now, and Berry hoped they moved fast enough to prevent a world tragedy.