Sleeping Bear

by Connor Sullivan

  “This is all speculation,” Brady said.

  “You Americans,” Marko spat. “You don’t understand Russians like I do. I fight Russians my whole life.” Marko paused for a moment. Then his tone got serious. “I was captured a long time ago, after my helicopter crashed in Avdiivka. I’ve seen many people occupy these cells. I was captured while fighting pro-Russian separatists in Donbass. Growing up, I’d heard the rumors of the secret medical sharashkas where the Soviets put their prisoners. Whispers of secret posts where captured fighters—Westerners, Ukrainians, Zionists—were sent and used like lab rats. This place isn’t just a medical sharashka. It is worse. They poke us and prod us—but it is also Yermakova’s game.”

  “A game?”

  “Yermakova make us fight in her trials. You want to live, you fight. They record it. Cameras in trees. Cameras in sky—their drones. It is sport for them.”

  “Sport for who?”

  “Ah, that is the billion-dollar question, GI Jane. Who watches us?”

  The loud grating noise Cassie heard when she was first escorted into the block reverberated through the darkness.

  Marko suddenly went white. He backed into the cell as if the bars were on fire. Cassie looked to Brady and noticed all the blood had drained from his face as well. He started pacing. Murmuring under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “It’s too soon.”

  “What’s too soon?” Cassie said.

  Loud footfalls started coming toward them out of the darkness.

  Captain Yermakova came into the light followed by a dozen guards. She had a nasty smile on her face.

  “Regaling them with stories, Marko?”

  Marko shrank into his cell. Yermakova walked up to Cassie’s cell.

  “Congratulations, Subject 8831,” she said. “We are going to have a little welcoming party.” She motioned to the guards. “Take the Americans.”

  Cassie saw the other guards descend on Billy’s and Brady’s cells. Brady got down on his knees and put his hands on his head. Billy followed suit.

  Four guards entered Cassie’s cell. She watched as Brady and Billy were blindfolded and taken away. Cassie backed away from her guards, searching for a chink in their armor—some way to take advantage of the situation. But the guards were covered entirely by body armor. They grabbed her, forced her down, and a blackout bag was thrown over her head.

  Yermakova’s voice was near her ear. “Let’s see how the little celebrity does in her first real trial.”

  Head yanked down, arms wrenched up behind her, Cassie was marched out of her cell.

  She could hear Marko, whooping and hollering behind her. His maniacal voice echoing in the massive cell block:

  “WHO IS WATCHING YOU, GI JANE! WHO IS WATCHING YOU!”

  Chapter 22

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  GENERAL VIKTOR ALEKSANDROVICH Sokolov, chief of SVR Line S—the Illegals Directorate in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service—gazed at the flurry of white snowflakes dotting the illuminated x-ray image on the wall opposite him. The oncologist, a lieutenant in the GRU’s Office of Medical Services, sat under the image of Sokolov’s chest, his mouth moving slowly, words pouring out, but Sokolov couldn’t hear—his eyes were glued to the image. A sense of serenity coursed through Sokolov’s veins, a sense of relief, a sense of completion. The small, cold office on the fifteenth floor of the Moscow State University Medical Center somehow began to feel warm, welcoming.

  “General?” the oncologist said. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  The burning in his lungs, the morning coughing fits, the specks of blood in the countless handkerchiefs—the eighty-one-year-old Sokolov snapped back to reality.

  “Of course, Doctor—I understand.”

  The oncologist, a heavyset man in his midfifties, rested his hands on his knees, fingertips nervously caressing his pants—contemplating his next words. But Sokolov waved the man off, he didn’t need to hear it, the x-ray showed all he needed to see. It was cancer. Inoperable, untreatable cancer, plain and simple. Lungs, throat, lymph nodes, it didn’t matter.

  It was a relief.

  The oncologist glanced nervously to his nurse as Sokolov grabbed his cane and got to his feet and walked to the door.

  “General—there are treatments, aggressive treatments, especially in this day and age.”

  “I do not care for treatments, Doctor. I have seen the treatments you pump into the veins of your patients. If I am going to die, I am going to die on my own accord, with my dignity intact.” Sokolov stepped out of the office and into the sterile marble-floored hallway. His four-man security detail stood at attention and followed the general out of the hospital and to the armored Mercedes waiting in the motorcade in front of the hospital’s emergency entrance.

  Sokolov gazed up at the gray, gunmetal Moscow skyline as the sun threatened to break through the thick overlaying clouds. It was going to rain. Sokolov could smell it.

  He loved the rain. Loved how it cleansed the city. How perfect a day it was for rain. After all, it was a special day, a day to mourn, a day of remembrance.

  How fitting to learn of his own demise on this very day.

  The same day.

  “To the home residence, sir?” Dmitry, his special assistant, asked.

  Sokolov kept his gaze on the skyline, his mind dancing with the concept of having a relaxing afternoon in his home library with a chai or a vodka—or even back to Yasenevo to catch up on highly secretive work on the fourth floor. Sokolov breathed in heavily, feeling the weight of the destructive cells in his lungs. No, today was not a day to spend in private, nor was it a day to ruminate in the suffocating offices of Yasenevo—today should be a day of carefree indulgence.

  Of entertainment.

  He was dying, after all.

  What better way to celebrate?

  “I wish to visit Lubyanka. I wish to be taken to the Peshchera.” Sokolov said, climbing into the Mercedes. I wish to be taken to the Cave.

  * * *

  The motorcade, comprising four armored black Land Rovers, two in front, two in back, led Sokolov’s black Mercedes through Moscow’s crowded streets. Sokolov drank from a glass of vodka and gazed at the gray city that he loved. Moscow—the Rodina’s crown jewel—the city that stood impenetrable through the centuries—an industrious monster that stood the trials of time.

  In the distance he could see the looming nine-story concrete edifice that once served as the headquarters of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the KGB. The Lubyanka Building, as it is called, now housed the men and women of the president’s new KGB, the Federal’naya Sluzbha Bezopasnosti, the FSB—Russia’s Federal Security Service.

  The motorcade took the familiar underground entrance, passing half a dozen security checkpoints along the way. Government officials waved them through at the very sight of the Mercedes with the diplomatic state flags and the flashing blue lights. The underground entrance spiraled deeper and deeper under the building until it came to a stop in front of an elevator protected by high-ranking FSB guards. Sokolov stepped out of the Mercedes, handed his glass of vodka to Dmitry, and hobbled to the elevator, placing his right hand outward. One of the FSB guards stepped forward, procured a tablet. Sokolov pressed his palm on the tablet’s screen until it vibrated and chimed.

  Satisfied, the other FSB guard opened the elevator, Sokolov entered, and the elevator descended. He eyed his aging features in the elevator’s mirrored door: his hunched shoulders, his sagging skin drooping under his eyes and cheekbones. His pale complexion made him look like he belonged in an infirmary, but his black eyes—like smoldering coals—still had life in them.

  The elevator descended and then the doors whooshed open and Sokolov was met with the familiar, brilliantly lit corridor of black marble that led to a vibrant red door. Two more guards with light machine guns stood before the entrance, both indicating the iris scanner centered in the red door.

  The old general eased his right eye to the scanner. A green
beam of light flashed over his iris and the door swung open.

  It was warm inside. Decadently lit and richly adorned.

  Sokolov stood at the elevated entrance to the Russian Federation’s most exclusive club.

  The Peshchera.

  The Cave.

  The dozen or so men at the various tables, all fingering tumblers of vodka, stopped midconversation to gaze at the old general—the infamous chief of SVR’s Line S.

  Sokolov paid them no mind. He was used to people staring. Used to powerful men cowering in his presence. It came with his history. Power has a way of making those of lesser stature wilt and shrivel. Even these men, the most powerful men in Russia—the ones staring at him—were all handpicked by the president. Sokolov gazed lazily at the various directors of the government agencies, the ministers, the oligarchs, the fellow generals, the secretaries of the Security Council.

  The siloviki. The president’s inner circle. The old boys’ club.

  As they stared, Sokolov’s gaze went to the familiar screen covering the entirety of the far wall of the lounge. It showed an aerial shot of green forested mountains. Statistics flew down the left side of the screen. The odds. The wagers. The bets.

  He was in luck. A trial was about to begin.

  Sokolov descended the carpeted steps, choosing his favorite table in the back, where he could observe and watch all.

  The siloviki returned to their drinks and banter as the bartender arrived at the general’s side. Sokolov ordered his usual. A glass of Russo-Baltique. Expense was of no issue down here.

  Before the bartender left to fill the order, he deposited the leather-bound dossier in front of the old general.

  Sokolov crossed his legs, procured a cigarette, a Black Sobranie—the very tube of tobacco he’d smoked for decades and that had inevitably led him to his current, cancerous situation.

  It had been months since Sokolov graced the Cave with his presence. Reluctant to imbibe and consort with the infamous siloviki, Sokolov usually preferred the more hands-on approach of unwinding—of detuning after a stressful week at work. Though the Cave was macabre in its viewing nature, gambling was never Sokolov’s forte. He much preferred his other vices: his drink, his smokes, and his time in the brightly lit cellars of Butyrka or the scarred rooms of Lefortovo, where he could bask in the ecstasy of his favorite pastime.

  Pytki. Torture.

  Even in Novorossiya, the new Russia, a man of Sokolov’s stature could indulge in the dark vices of the former Soviet Union without repercussions. But not today.

  Participating in pytki was physically taxing on the aging, sick general. No, today he would enjoy the morbid viewing in the Cave, relax with a glass or two of Russo-Baltique, and if he was feeling like it, he might even place a rare bet.

  Sokolov flipped through the dossier and found the ledger to this evening’s trial. It would take place on a mountain slope, heavily forested. He looked over the fractional odds; the trial would consist of three subjects versus six prisoners.

  The prisoners were six of the most sadistic men to walk the earth—handpicked from the Federal Governmental Institution—Penal Colony No. 6 in the Orenburg region—the notorious Black Dolphin Prison. Child molesters, murderers, terrorists, cannibals, maniacal serial killers, all facing life sentences—pitted against captured foreigners. These were usually soldiers ripped from some armpit, some hellhole of the world. Syrians, Iraqis, Afghanis—a few Zionists, men with special forces training. The rarest, the most fun, though, for both the viewing pleasure of Sokolov and the siloviki, were the captured Westerners.

  Sokolov flipped through the pages listing the descriptions of the Black Dolphin prisoners, wondering who the three unfortunate souls pitted against them would be, when he raised an eyebrow.

  They were Americans. All three of them.

  One was a civilian, a kid. The other, a former Navy SEAL, and the other…

  A woman.

  The bartender deposited a glass of the Russo-Baltique before Sokolov.

  “Would you like me to place a bet for you this morning, General?”

  Sokolov raised a finger to silence the bartender and read the woman’s biography:

  Subject 8831: Name: Cassandra Ann Gale, citizen USA Born 27/1/1986 in Washington, DC, U.S.A. Current Residence, Lincoln, Montana. Widowed. Army Communications Specialist from 2006 to 2015. Resided in Fort Benning from 2015 during which the subject became the THIRD WOMAN to graduate from the United States Army Ranger School. The subject retired from duty in 2017. Subject’s husband is DECEASED. Subject 8831 was extracted from Eagle, Alaska, by extraction team KODIAK.

  The third woman to graduate from Ranger School, Sokolov thought, impressed.

  Surely, Captain Yermakova of the Glavnoje Razvedyvatel’noje Upravlenije, the GRU—Russia’s Military Intelligence agency—had outdone herself with this Cassandra Ann Gale.

  Captain Yermakova, the doughy-faced ogre of the GRU’s Science Directorate. A sniveling, Moscow State University–trained pseudo-psychologist, who yearned desperately for the ear of the president. Who would do anything to climb the ranks to get the president’s attention, to be the first woman let into the president’s inner circle, all because of her macabre medical malpractice.

  Sokolov snorted at the preposterousness of Captain Yermakova’s unorthodox climb to the top. In the eighties she had been lucky in the USSR’s western rezidenturas, the Soviet embassies. A seasoned manipulator, one of the GRU’s best, she had excelled where others had failed. And she had come up with the outlandish idea to entertain the siloviki—to reinstate Post 866—the infamous medical sharashka—for scientific advancement.

  And sport.

  The bartender shifted nervously as Sokolov finished skimming through the research the GRU intelligentsia had done on Cassandra Gale.

  Sokolov picked a standard money line bet.

  “A million rubles on the American girl.”

  The bartender bowed and walked away.

  More of the siloviki were entering the Cave—undoubtedly aware of the rarity of having not only a woman in the upcoming trial, but a woman with special forces training.

  Word traveled fast in the inner circle.

  Sokolov scanned the American press clippings attached to the Cassandra Gale file in the dossier, the political scandals—the bigwigs in Washington arguing over whether women should be able to fight in active combat roles—when he flipped to the colored pictures of Cassandra Gale’s personal belongings found during her extraction. He viewed her state-issued identification, examining the cowhide wallet, her military identification, passport, social security card, and then a photocopied, wallet-size picture of her in green army fatigues, arm wrapped around a young man, a large German shepherd at their side, held on a leash by a tall, older man wearing a blue shirt—

  Sokolov held the glass of Russo-Baltique at the edge of his lips as his arthritic fingers began to shake.

  Hundreds of thousands of rubles’ worth of premium Russian vodka smashed over the table and landed on the rich red carpeting. The neighboring siloviki all turned—watching as a trembling Sokolov nearly fell from his seat. His eyes bore down on the photograph, on the face of the man holding the German shepherd by the leash. The man’s square jaw, those piercing blue eyes.

  It couldn’t be.

  It was impossible.

  Sokolov felt a burning in his chest, as if his cancer had metastasized tenfold in the last few seconds. Trembling fingers grasped at the page with the photocopied picture. Someone was speaking to him. A voice broke through his own panic and astonishment.

  “General? General, are you okay?”

  Sokolov looked up at the bartender, trying to find the words, his eyes darting from the bartender, to the siloviki, to the screen that was beginning to show the countdown to the trial. Cassandra Gale’s picture was plastered on the screen, wagers streaming under her profile.

  Memories, dark memories flooded Sokolov’s mind—he gazed intently at Cassandra Gale’s face and saw the resem
blance. It was so obvious. She looked so much like, him.

  “The trial!” Sokolov gasped. “Stop the damn trial!”

  The bartender took a nervous step back, his eyes darting around for help. The siloviki sat stock-still in their seats, wondering what had come over the chief of SVR’s Line S.

  “S-s-stop?” the bartender stammered.

  Sokolov had gotten to his feet, one hand on his cane, the other holding the leather-bound dossier. “Get ahold of Captain Yermakova, have her stop the trial at once! It must not begin!”

  “Sir, we don’t have a direct line to the sharashka, that would be—”

  “Kryuchkov!” Sokolov pointed his cane to a rotund, balding man in an FSB dress uniform sitting among the siloviki who had turned a deep shade of scarlet at the utterance of his name.

  Captain Ivan Mikhailovich Kryuchkov, head of the FSB’s Department Fifteen—the FSB liaison to the secret GRU sharashkas, made a gurgling noise and unsteadily found his feet.

  “You have the direct line to Captain Yermakova, do you not?” Sokolov snapped. “Your department controls the secure FAPSI line to the Post 866, does it not?”

  “I… we do. But we can’t just—”

  “Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Sokolov roared, moving to the stairs. His cane pointed again at Kryuchkov. “Where is it? Where is the line to the sharashka!”

  “It’s upstairs, on the fifth floor.”

  “Take me to it.”

  As Kryuchkov weaved his way through the lounge, Sokolov caught sight of the screen on the far wall. He saw the three subjects: Cassandra Ann Gale, the SEAL, and the kid. They were being flown by an Mi-24 helicopter to the wooded hillside. The trial would begin in minutes.

  Sokolov needed to hurry.

  Chapter 23

  THEY HAD BEEN escorted out of Red Block and into what Cassie had determined was some sort of prep room.

  Each of the Americans had been stripped naked and re-dressed in green combat fatigues by the guards.