Sleeping Bear

by Connor Sullivan

  Sokolov hobbled through the smoky room and into the hallway.

  “Take me to Yermakova!”

  * * *

  EMERGENCY STAIRWELL

  Gale had not attempted to resist; he needed to save his energy for what was to come.

  The black-clad figures had swarmed him, dragging him down the rest of the stairs. As soon as they had gotten to him, they’d secured his weapons, ripped the helmet and night-vision goggles from his head, but kept the gas mask on. Then a blackout bag was fitted over his head, and plastic cuffs were fastened to his wrists.

  Gale had expected to be searched extensively and relieved of all his weapons. What he hadn’t expected was the blackout bag.

  It was impossible to note all the direction changes after he had left the staircase.

  He remembered what BLUEMAN had detailed for him all those years ago on those snowy park benches in Moscow. How the scientist described the layout of Post 866. All the horrors that took place inside. The rooms with the experiments so heinous and vile, even BLUEMAN had trouble telling the young CIA operative what he’d witnessed.

  Suddenly, Gale was forced to stop. He heard an electric bleep and the sound of a heavy door opening.

  Boot steps echoed around him and he was forced to sit in a chair.

  The blackout bag and gas mask were whisked from his head and the first thing Gale saw was the plump face of a woman with thick eyebrows and bushy brown hair.

  “Who are you?!” the woman cried in Russian, as four of the helmeted figures dressed in black military fatigues cut the cammies off Gale with surgical scissors.

  The woman rounded on Gale and looked him dead in the eye, then her eyes grew wide in what could only be disbelieving recognition.

  Gale kept eye contact with the woman so everyone stateside could see her clearly.

  The woman stumbled with her words. “How… how did you find this place?”

  “Tell Viktor I’ve come for my daughters,” Gale said in perfect Russian. “Tell him if he wants to settle our score, he can settle it here with me.”

  Chapter 62

  BLACK SEA

  CAPE IDOKOPAS

  THE WIND THAT blew softly through the open French doors smelled of seawater.

  President Putin loved that smell. It reminded him of his childhood vacations when his parents would take him to the beaches of the Black Sea.

  As he grew older and accrued vast amounts of power and wealth, he realized that it was those fond childhood memories that meant the most to him, and the reason why he dumped so much money into re-creating those happy times.

  The Residence at Cape Idokopas, often referred to as Putin’s Palace, or Dacha Putin, was built during his first presidency. The twenty-six-thousand-square-meter Italianate complex located on the coast of the Black Sea near the village of Praskoveevka was built for one simple reason. Nostalgia.

  The president of the Russian Federation yearned for his childhood years. And now, as the richest man in the world, he’d gone to great lengths to tap into those happy times.

  As it was always done in Russia, the construction of the five-hundred-million-dollar compound did not come directly out of his pocket, but from subsidiaries that he threatened, bribed, and cheated to get the palace built.

  Out of the twentysomething such compounds that he owned, Idokopas was his favorite. It was his reprieve from his hectic life in the Kremlin.

  As Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin lay in his bed, his body on top of the silk sheets, he breathed in that salty air and felt a sense of calm that could only be achieved postcoitally.

  Half under the sheets next to him, a lithe figure stirred, exposing a slender back. Young and fit. Not a day over twenty.

  Putin traced her hourglass frame with the back of his hand.

  Like all the women he shared his bed with, the president had specifically chosen her to accompany him to his secluded compound.

  The fashion model had caught his attention the month before. He’d seen her first in a perfume ad and again walking the runways of Moscow’s most famous fashion shows. Her pouty lips and voluptuous figure had awoken something inside the president.

  She’d been easy… Putin thought as he stroked her luscious black hair. He had lavished the young woman with gifts: flowers, chocolates, shopping sprees, and a new apartment in Zamoskvorechye, the up-and-coming neighborhood south of the Moskva River.

  When he was confident the young supermodel was smitten with him, he’d made his move and invited her to Idokopas.

  And what a little minx she’d been, Putin thought as he got out of bed, put on a satin robe, and padded out of the French doors to his balcony.

  He looked up at the stars and breathed in the cool night air.

  “Mr. President,” a familiar voice said behind him.

  “Der’mo!” Putin swore in surprise, turning to face his chief security officer, Sergei Antonov. “What is it?”

  Antonov walked onto the balcony, a tablet in his hand. “Mr. President, there is an urgent matter that needs your immediate attention.”

  Putin sighed, retying his robe, looking through the French doors at the sleeping supermodel. “Can it wait?”

  “Nyet, Mr. President.”

  Putin closed the doors. “What is it?”

  “I’ve received an urgent message from Captain Kryuchkov of the FSB’s Department Fifteen. It’s concerning Post 866. Captain Yermakova has sent word wondering why General Sokolov has been authorized to send his Vympels to the United States. She is wondering why you have authorized him to use the sharashka.”

  “My dyadya is at his dacha in the Khimki.”

  “We thought so, too, Mr. President. I sent a team there as soon as I got the message. The general is not there.”

  Putin tried to channel the breathing exercises his new judo instructor had been coaching him on.

  The bastard had gone after Robert Gaines! The old fool!

  Antonov handed him the tablet. Putin gazed down at a series of American press clippings.

  “Captain Yermakova is claiming that this was caused by General Sokolov and his SVR Vympels.”

  Putin read the clipping in translated Russian and looked at the carnage of the private jet.

  “We believe that plane is one of ours, from the fleet of the oil minister—”

  Putin felt his blood begin to boil.

  His dyadya had betrayed him.

  “What are the Americans saying? Have they identified the dead as SVR operators?”

  “Nyet, not officially. I’ve contacted the SVR chiefs and they’ve combed through our recent foreign intelligence lines. No word yet that the Americans know these were our men.”

  The Americans aren’t dumb. They must know.

  “When was this crash?”

  “Two days ago, Mr. President.”

  “Get me a secure line to Captain Yermakova at once. I want two units of the Forty-Fifth Spetsnaz on choppers to Post 866 immediately!”

  “Da, Mr. President!” Antonov said, and opened the French doors, scurrying away.

  Putin gripped the marble balcony ledge and swore loud and long, his voice carrying out across the calm waters of the Black Sea.

  His uncle would pay for this treachery.

  Chapter 63

  POST 866

  INITIATION ROOM

  CAPTAIN YERMAKOVA STOOD in the middle of the initiation room and glared down at the man in the chair. His face was painted green and black, but Yermakova recognized him almost immediately.

  “Did you hear me?” the man asked. “Tell Viktor I’m here!”

  The blaring alarm muddled Yermakova’s thoughts. How the hell had this man found the facility? How had he gotten past the drones undetected?!

  She glanced around at the dozen guards who circled the man, then whipped around to Lieutenant Klimentiev. “Tell the drone operators I want them scanning the sky in a hundred-kilometer radius. Send guards to block every exit. Everyone else is to remain in their residences.”

  “Da
, Captain!” Klimentiev said and ran out of the room.

  Then she turned to her guards. “Check him for any sort of tracking devices!”

  A guard took a wandlike device from his pocket and scanned it over Gale’s body, head to toe, “On chistyy.” He’s clean.

  “How did you find this place?” Yermakova repeated.

  “My fairy godmother led me here. Where the hell are my daughters!”

  Yermakova took a step back, her fingers instinctively going to the key hanging around her neck.

  “Uydi s moyego puti!” a voice called from the door. General Sokolov and four Vympels appeared, followed by Artur. The general pushed the guards aside and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “How—” an exasperated Sokolov said, his face breaking into a large smile as he took a step forward. “Do you know how long I’ve fantasized about this very moment?”

  “Where are they!” Gale roared.

  “Patience, my old friend. They are waiting for you downstairs. They are a little worse for wear, but they will be excited to see you.”

  “General!” Yermakova barked. “The facility has been compromised. This man did not come here alone. He had help. We need to evacuate immediately!”

  Sokolov didn’t seem to hear her.

  “General, listen to me!”

  Sokolov turned around abruptly and snapped at his Vympels, “Escort Captain Yermakova out of my sight!”

  “Guards!” Yermakova yelled.

  The dozen guards in the room unlatched their nightsticks and Sokolov laughed. “You think your guards with their little cattle prods will be any match for my men?” Sokolov snapped his fingers. “Kill the imbecilic guards.”

  Captain Yermakova barely had time to react; the speed at which the four Vympels moved was astounding. Blades flashed, dispatching her guards one by one. Yermakova let out a squeal as one of the Vympel operators grabbed her and pushed her to the floor. As the screams of the dying guards permeated through the room, Yermakova knew if she stayed, there was a good chance Sokolov would order her killed, too.

  Crawling, she scrambled to the door, pushed Artur aside, and ran down the hallway. She took the first set of stairs that would take her to the control room. In her head she tried to figure out how many Vympels Sokolov had brought with him to the facility. Eight? Nine? A dozen?

  Knowing she now had short of forty guards at her disposal, she wondered if they could stand a chance. She keyed the earpiece that connected her to her guards’ helmets and was about to order every one of her men to descend on the room when the door above her blew open and Lieutenant Klimentiev entered the stairwell, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Captain, thank God!” Klimentiev huffed. “The president is on the FAPSI line. He’s demanding to speak to you!”

  Chapter 64

  WHITE HOUSE

  SITUATION ROOM

  “IS THAT THE general?” White House chief of staff Morgan Fray asked in disbelief, pointing at the large screen in the Situation Room.

  Carter watched intently through Robert’s POV as an old man in a drab green military uniform hobbled into the crowded room flanked by four soldiers and a man in a white lab coat.

  The woman with the bushy hair who had been yelling at Robert turned around abruptly.

  Carter began typing a request to her operations center in Langley, asking for a positive facial recognition. “Getting confirmation.”

  On the main screen, a heated argument broke out between the old man and the bushy-haired woman.

  “What are they saying?” asked the president.

  Carter closed her eyes and focused on the angry diatribe coming over the feed. “The woman wants to evacuate the facility—” Carter’s computer beeped and she looked down. “Operations has confirmed the facial recognition. That is General Sokolov.”

  “Hold on,” Bowman shouted, “something’s happening!”

  Carter turned back to the feed. Robert’s POV became jumpy as chaos erupted in the small room. Four of the soldiers who had entered with the general had unsheathed knives from their belts and were dispatching the guards surrounding Robert as the bushy-haired woman was thrown to the ground.

  “Whoa!” cried Nagle.

  “What’s going on?” asked the president, as the violence waned and a blackout hood was thrown back over Robert’s head.

  “They’re moving him,” Prescott McGavran said. “General Sokolov has just ordered him to be taken downstairs to his daughters.”

  Chapter 65

  POST 866

  RED BLOCK

  EIGHT OF SOKOLOV’S Vympels entered Red Block and marched to the cells. Two Vympels to a prisoner, they grabbed Cassie, Emily, Marko, and Brady and stress-walked them out of the cellblock, blackout hoods over their heads.

  Cassie could hear Marko and Brady struggling behind her. Ahead, Emily whimpered. They entered an elevator and Cassie felt it rise.

  When the elevator opened, they marched for another couple of minutes until another door opened and Cassie felt the familiar coldness and the smell of ammonia hit her nostrils.

  The Vympels made her sit down in a chair and secured her wrists to the armrests and legs.

  Through the hood, she could hear a blade running over a whetstone.

  Sokolov barked an order in Russian.

  Cassie gripped the chair as a hand clamped over the blackout bag and tore it from her head.

  She opened one eye, and then another—her brain not registering the scene that was playing out—a familiar figure hanging from the ceiling.

  “DAD!!!!!”

  * * *

  WHITE HOUSE

  SITUATION ROOM

  “Enough of this,” President McClintock said, pointing to the screen showing Commander Spear. “All operations are approved. Tell the SEALs to do what is necessary.”

  “Wait!” Director Carter pleaded. In the last five minutes, the team in the Situation Room had watched as Robert was moved into a white-tiled room, his wrists cuffed behind him and a leather gag forced into his mouth. A chain with a hook was placed through his cuffs and a winch cranked him into the air. “We need confirmation on the daughters!”

  As if on cue, the door to the room flew open. Four hooded figures were escorted inside by eight soldiers. The soldiers sat the figures down into chairs placed before Robert.

  On the left side of the screen, General Sokolov was sharpening a long knife on a whetstone. The man in the white lab coat stood next to him, his hands shaking as he opened a box full of syringes.

  Suddenly, the hoods were thrown from the figures and Robert’s POV became even more erratic.

  Two men and two women sat bolted to the wooden chairs.

  “Do we have a positive match?” asked SecDef Macy.

  Carter’s computer dinged twice and she looked down. “Positive identification on Cassandra and Emily Gale.” The computer dinged again. “Another positive match on Paul Brady.”

  President McClintock stood up from his seat. “Commander Spear, tell the SEALs they are cleared to use all rules of engagement needed to rescue those hostages. They are a go.”

  “Copy that, Mr. President,” Spear said through the screen. “Blue Squadron is a go. I repeat, Operation SLEEPING BEAR is a go, hostage-rescue ROEs are in effect; good luck, gents.”

  * * *

  POST 866

  TORTURE ROOM

  Gale thought his veins were going to pop out of his throat as he screamed through his gag.

  Emily’s and Cassie’s faces had turned from surprise, to shock, to desperation.

  Cassie’s body was filthy, her face covered in bruises; a white bandage covered her left arm. She looked like she’d lost nearly twenty pounds since the time Gale hugged her good-bye in Montana more than two weeks before.

  Tears rolled down Emily’s face as she gazed up at her father. Gale was so overcome with emotion that he almost didn’t feel the vibration in his stomach—alerting him that the SEALs had just left the navy carrier.

  Thirty-eight m
inutes.

  He just hoped he would make it that long.

  Sokolov marched in front of him, the newly sharpened knife in his hand.

  Chapter 66

  POST 866

  CONTROL ROOM

  CAPTAIN YERMAKOVA HAD only heard stories of Vladimir Putin’s temper but now she was witnessing it firsthand as the president berated her over the FAPSI line.

  “You will do everything in your power to detain Viktor, do you understand me, Captain?” Putin roared after Yermakova had detailed for him the events since Sokolov arrived at the sharashka.

  “Da, Mr. President. I will try, but he has his Vympels with him.”

  “You will do more than try, Captain. I want Viktor stopped and alive, is that clear?” Putin then told her he ordered two squadrons of the Forty-Fifth Spetsnaz Brigade from Vladivostok to the sharashka. They would be at the post in two hours. “I want Viktor secured before they get there!”

  Yermakova saw her career flash before her eyes.

  “Do I have any reason to doubt you, Captain Yermakova?”

  “Nyet, Mr. President, you can count on me, but—” Yermakova caught herself, wondering if it was an appropriate time to alert the president of James Gale’s arrival at the sharashka. It was only a matter of time before he found out. If she didn’t tell Putin now, it would be her in the cellars of Butyrka—she just had to frame it correctly.

  “But?”

  “Something serious has just occurred, Mr. President.” She took a deep breath and looked around the control room. Lieutenant Klimentiev and all the technicians hung on her every word. “It has just been brought to my immediate attention that the post has been compromised, sir. An American, led here by General Sokolov and his men. General Sokolov is calling him Robert Gaines. Currently, the general has Gaines and his daughters prisoner in the basement cells. We’ve been infiltrated, sir.”

  The silence on the other end of the line lasted nearly ten seconds.

  Captain Yermakova could hear the sharp breathing coming over the phone, then, calmly, Putin said, “Captain Yermakova, I hereby order you to detain Viktor and bring him to Vladivostok and initiate EL-5 on Post 866 immediately.”