Ghosts of War (35 page)

C
aptain Devon Tatum hung up his cell, aggravated. His master sergeant saw the look on his face and said, “Trouble?”

“It's Amy. She's got a problem with the Polish plumbers and wants me to come home.”

“You still working on the hot water issue?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rubbed his face and said, “I should have listened to you, Fitz, and come over here unaccompanied.”

Master Sergeant Fitzgerald laughed and said, “I tried to warn you. Bringing your wife sounds like a good deal, but without the support infrastructure from big Air Force, it's always a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, not to mention the commute.”

“Head on home. Nothing happening around here, anyway. I can handle the briefing tonight if you need me to.”

Devon put on his cover and said, “No, that's okay. The last thing I need is someone asking why I'm helping my wife instead of attending a squadron update on base security. I'll be back before then. An hour or two max.”

“Okay, sir. But if you need the time, take it. One less briefing you have to attend, and I'll get the pleasure of not listening to you bitch about cold showers.”

Devon smiled and said, “I appreciate it. Call if anything comes up. I'll come straight back.”

He pulled the keys to the duty sedan off the board and said, “This thing fixed now?”

“Yeah. Should be.”

Devon said, “We'll see,” and exited the Sprung temporary shelter, a marshmallow-colored cloth structure that had become synonymous with deployed American forces.

He drove down the flight line, past the hangars full of A-10 aircraft, reaching the US inner perimeter guard. He waved, and the man raised the drop bar, allowing him through. He reached the main outer gate, seeing two civilians at the visitors' center. One was short and black, the other tall, with crew-cut hair and a two-day growth of beard. Both were wearing civilian clothes.

Spooks
.

He recognized the type, having seen them a few weeks ago during a site survey of his perimeter. He exited the main gate, driving to the S8 expressway and dialing his wife on his cell. He told her he was on the way, hating hearing the quaver in her voice.

He hung up and decided he'd fly her home. Not back to Germany, but home to Indiana and her parents. This was simply not working out.

Originally, bringing her had seemed like a great idea. Sure, they wouldn't have a US military base to shop on, and the military wouldn't supplement their income or pay for her to move, but it wasn't like they were going to China.

He'd even gone so far as to compromise on housing, once they'd seen the town of Lask, the closest village to the airbase. It had been industrial and small, so they'd settled on an apartment in Lodz, forty minutes away, finding a place within walking distance of a gigantic mall. An old Soviet manufacturing facility, it had been repurposed into a shopping area that would fit in any city in the United States. But it hadn't been enough.

The language barrier was the primary problem. He hadn't realized how much he had relied on the Air Force while in Germany for services like banking, telephone, cable television, power, and everything else.

Here, it required laborious phone calls until someone could be
found to translate, then more laborious coordination once someone showed up at the apartment. And the strain was taking a toll on their marriage. While he saw his men each day, Amy spent the time holed up in the house by herself, which left him with the sneaking suspicion that Amy had called him home precisely because she was tired of being alone.

And that would only get worse.

Twenty minutes into the trip he saw a red warning light flash on his dash. The car was overheating.

What the hell?
He'd discovered the sedan had a leaky radiator four days ago and had turned it in to the maintenance men, who'd then taken it to some Polish contractors. A jack-of-all trades sort of business that had been hired to repair everything from air conditioners to toilets, they'd worked on his sedan. Fitz had assured him it was repaired, but clearly it wasn't.

They'd probably just dumped in some radiator sealant and charged the US government the price of a new car.

He pulled over at a gas station, letting the engine cool and buying a gallon of distilled water. He called Amy and told her what had happened, and she seemed more upset at his delay than she was about the problem with the hot water. He sharply chastised her and hung up, feeling guilty as soon as he was done.

After forty-five minutes, he was back on the road, his “hour or two” detour home now stretching into at least three.

Twenty minutes more of driving, and he'd perfected his speech. He'd deal with the hot water issue first, then convince Amy to fly home. He knew she'd fight him, as it would be admitting failure, and she was strong willed. He exited the S8 and entered the outer perimeter of Lodz. He threaded down the streets, dodging cable trams and pedestrians until he wound through a traffic circle and snuck into a back parking lot, something he'd found after being frustrated by trying to locate street parking.

He locked the car and walked down a narrow alley to the front of his apartment building, a four-story monolith built in the industrial Soviet style. He'd found it intriguing when they'd first surveyed it—a bit of history they could tell their children about someday—but now saw it for what it was: a dilapidated slab of concrete that hadn't been built correctly to begin with, and was eroding with the passage of time.

He walked by a pile of bricks and realized it was from his own apartment. They'd actually split the wall to get access. He squatted down, seeing a gaping four-foot hole. He could see the light spilling out from the makeshift cover in his bathroom four feet away, the pipes and dust from forty years of communist rule in between him and the light.

It confirmed his decision to get Amy out of here. He could live with the less-than-stellar conditions, but there was no reason she had to.

He walked up to the front door and turned the knob. It was locked.
Another indicator.
If she'd taken to locking the door, she was afraid to even stay in the house. He pulled out his key, unlocked the door, and swung it wide, preparing to call out to his wife.

What he saw caused the shout to die in his throat.

Five rough-looking men staring at him with overt hostility. His wife was in a chair, one of the men standing next to her with a pistol to her head.

He stood in the open doorway in silence, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The man next to his wife said, “Come inside, please.”

He did so, closing the door robotically.

The man standing over his wife said, “My name is Mikhail, and I have a favor to ask of you. It will not be pleasant to you, which is why we are forced to use such drastic tactics.”

Devon remained silent, staring into the eyes of his wife. Seeing the fear. Seeing the tears running down her face. Knowing he'd brought her here.

Mikhail snapped, “
Focus
. Focus on me.”

Devon did.

“We need some information on the American squadron at Lask. You can give us that. We want you to get us into the base. All we want you to do is drive us around the perimeter. We'll film, and you'll drive. When we're done, you get your wife back and can scream to high heaven about what happened.”

Still overwhelmed, Devon said nothing. He glanced around the room, seeing his coffee cup from that morning, his gym shorts on the floor, the magazines he'd promised to get rid of. All the things that caused friction in his marriage above and beyond the move. All now ridiculously small.

Mikhail said, “Hey! Pay attention. We're talking here.”

Devon looked into his wife's eyes, and what he truly cared about came home. He said, “What do you want?”

“I just told you. We want on the base.”

He turned to Mikhail and said, “I can't do that. Surely you understand. My entire purpose is base security.”

Mikhail placed the pistol on a dresser and pulled out a knife. He held it to Amy's neck, causing her tears to flow and her breath to hitch. Devon crumbled.

“Just pictures? That's all?”

Mikhail said, “One lap. You go in, you drive a circuit, and you come home. After that, you can tell anyone you want that we were here. You get your life, and we get the information we need.”

“Why? What do you want out of it?”

Mikhail said, “Don't be naïve. We're about to be at war. We don't want it, but you keep pushing. We have plans in place, and we need intelligence. That's all.”

“But if you let us live, if you let us tell the authorities you were here, what good is it?”

“Can you alter the airbase? Can you alter the hangars and where
they are? No. It's just some pictures. Don't sacrifice your family over this.”

And Devon wanted to believe. Wanted to do whatever it took to save his wife, even as his instincts told him the man was lying.

He hesitated, then said, “Okay.”

Mikhail withdrew the knife and pulled Amy out of the chair, pushing her to another man. He led her into the bathroom in the back and sat her on the toilet. Mikhail said, “Give me the keys to your car.”

Thinking of the problems they would have, inadvertently helping them in their plot, he said, “My car has a radiator leak. If we take it, we're liable to break down on the airfield.”

Mikhail scoffed and said, “Good try. No way are we going into an airbase without a recognized vehicle. Give me the keys.”

Devon complied, saying, “It's the brown Ford. Four-door.” Mikhail tossed the keys to another man, then said something in Russian. Devon said, “I need to call my work. Tell them I'm not coming back. They think I left because of some hot water problems.”

Mikhail said, “No. That's not happening. Get in the bathroom.”

Devon realized that his failure to check in might be a good thing, and Mikhail recognized the same thing. He said, “Hold up.”

Devon paused. Mikhail said, “You call, on your phone, and I'll listen. You tell him whatever you need to, but you don't give any indication of what's happening. You understand?”

Devon nodded. Mikhail said, “If I think you've tipped them off, I'll gut your wife in front of you.”

Whatever thoughts Devon had about alerting his command faded away.

Three minutes later, the phone call was done. Mikhail took Devon's cell phone, then shoved him into the bathroom with his wife, closing the door behind him.

Wiping tears from her eyes, Amy said, “What is this about?”

He hugged her and said, “I don't know. I honestly don't. I have the
ability to get on base, and they want to use it. But they won't harm you. I promise.”

She sniffled and said, “They're using me to get to you. You can't let that happen.”

He looked at her, seeing the strength that had first attracted him to her and said, “Yes, I can.”

K
irill watched Devon being led to the back, and waited until the door had closed before saying, “We need to discuss who's doing this mission.”

Mikhail chuckled and said, “It isn't going to be me, of that you can be assured.”

Kirill's eyes narrowed. He said, “Why not? Why should I risk my life if the Russian command is afraid? You work for President Putin, correct?”

Mikhail backpedaled swiftly, saying, “Don't get me wrong, it's not because I'm unwilling. I have to enable other operations that will leverage yours. In fact, I'm headed to Vienna today to do just that. Get the device out of our car and put it in his, and for God's sake, make sure those idiots don't tamper with the timing mechanism.”

Kirill gave the order, still looking at Mikhail with distrust. When the men had left the room he said, “It will only take one man to accomplish this mission, but he needs to speak English, and we need to leave at least one English speaker here with the woman.”

“And your point?”

“We only have two English speakers. Me and Oleg. I am fluent, but Oleg barely understands. He can order a meal, but he can't speak the language.”

Mikhail nodded, thinking,
No way am I being drawn into this.

He said, “You go with the device. Leave Oleg here with the woman. All he'll have to do is answer her calls for water. Leave her in the bathroom for the duration.”

Kirill didn't look convinced. Mikhail said, “Hey, they're both going to die. If she gives Oleg any problems, he can kill her anytime after you leave. And once you're inside the perimeter, you can kill the American. Remember, all we need is for the bomb to go off. It doesn't even need to harm anyone. There's no reason to turn this into something greater.”

Kirill said, “And yet you flee as if it is.”

“You've seen what's happened. It's working perfectly. You're giving Putin exactly what he wants—the chance to devour NATO without being accused as the aggressor.”

“Where is Simon? President Putin's supposed ally?”

“He's close. And watching. As is President Putin. Are you now second-guessing your commitment to Mother Russia?”

Kirill snapped, “No. Of course not, but I'm second-guessing
your
commitment.”

Mikhail's trials of the last twenty-four hours flashed in his mind, the absurdity of what he was doing and the sacrifices he'd made to ensure the mission continued to a successful conclusion. Shoshana's visage bubbled up, and he felt a wave of unaccustomed fear slam into him.

He snapped out quickly, snatching Kirill's tattooed neck. To the right, Oleg jumped back, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at Mikhail's head. Bending Kirill over backward, Mikhail said, “You pull that trigger, you better not miss. Because I'll kill everyone in here.”

Kirill gargled, and Oleg hesitated. Mikhail dug his fingers in and said, “Don't
ever
question my commitment. Make. This. Happen. Do you understand?”

Kirill nodded, and Mikhail dropped him on the floor. He looked at Oleg and said, “Save your energy for the enemy.”

He backed toward the door, keeping his eyes on Oleg, then left, slamming it behind him.

—

Getting into the front gate of a foreign airbase proved a hell of a lot easier than I would have thought. But then again, I had the might of the CIA behind me.

I'd left the rest of my team on the cutout where we'd met Blood, and the two of us drove down the road leading to the base. Along the way, I'd had the enjoyment of listening to him bitch about being pulled off his primary assignment.

He'd said, “You know that the Russians have built a land bridge into the Kaliningrad Oblast? They've actually taken over NATO terrain? And you've got me here on some wild-goose chase?”

“Yeah. I know. But it's not a wild-goose chase.”

He'd snorted, then remained silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with a conviction that belied his usual happy-go-lucky demeanor.

“Polish nationals have started firing mortars into Russian positions. They think they're defending their land, but they don't know what they're dealing with. It's small potatoes now, but it's growing. Russia has held off for the moment, but that won't last.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. Everyone's looking for a spark, and I'm trying to prevent it.”

He swung into the road leading to the front gate and said, “Pike, you know I'd follow you into hell and back, but you've just pulled me from the one thing that
may
prevent it. I can't provide the National Command Authority intelligence if I'm out here half stepping for you. I was on the border—in the fight. I've developed contacts in the breakaway Polish gangs trying to start the war.”

I said, “There's a gang in play here that trumps anyone shooting a mortar.”

And I told him what I knew. By the time we reached the gate, he'd become a believer.

He'd shown his badges, and after a brief phone conversation and a handwritten base-access pass, we'd gone through the gate, then had
driven down the flight line, reaching the second circle of protection, guarded by Americans. He'd shown his badges again and said, “We need to speak to Captain Devon Tatum about force protection measures.”

The guard radioed someone, then let us through, giving us directions to a temporary shelter.

We parked outside of a Sprung, one that looked the same as the ones used in Iraq or Afghanistan, and Brett had said, “What's your play here? If you think he's bad?”

I said, “Honestly, I don't know. Get him separated from his men, and then apply some pressure.”

He opened the door with a grin, saying, “Glad to see your planning ability hasn't diminished.”

We went inside, seeing a master sergeant named Fitzgerald behind a computer. He glanced up at our entrance, and I said, “Hey, we're with OGA, and we need to talk base security for a potential deployment of UAVs. Is Captain Tatum here?”

He squeezed his eyes shut like he didn't want the question, wondering what problems we were bringing, then said, “You just missed him. His wife called and he went home for some plumbing issues.”

“Wife? Why is his wife here?”

Appearing wary, he said, “He's asking the same question, trust me. He just called and said he wouldn't be back on base tonight. Makes my life miserable because I've got to take the update brief tonight.”

Trying for rapport, I said, “He's thrown you to the wolves because of some personal problem?”

He appraised both of us and said, “Yeah. You guys ex-military?”

I smiled and said, “Yep, and I've been involved in enough death-by-PowerPoint meetings to steer me clear of ever going back.”

He laughed, relaxing, and said, “What can I help you with?”

We gave him our cover story, and he said, “Well, he'll be back
tomorrow. Best I can do. If he was living with us, I'd say just drive on over, but he's forty minutes away, in Lodz.”

He pronounced the town “Woodge,” indicating he'd been here awhile.

Brett asked, “What time does he show up in the morning?”

I felt my phone vibrate, and saw it was Kurt. To Brett, I said, “Figure out a linkup. I have to take this.”

I left him in the office and went outside.