Authors: Matthew Dunn
Sentinel (26 page)
B
y midmorning they were in the SUV, traveling to the outskirts of Vladivostok through driving snowfall. Korina spoke quickly and sternly into her cell phone. “There are six of us, three from GRU plus three from a special division. We—” She went silent as she listened to the person at the other end of the phone. Then, “If you want to refuse us entry, call GRU HQ and explain to them why you wish to hinder a major intelligence operation.” She listened again, smiled, and snapped the cell shut. She glanced at Will. “There’s space for us on a transport aircraft. It won’t be the most comfortable ride, but it’s the next flight out of here and leaves in forty-five minutes.”
“Excellent. But how are my men and I going to get through perimeter security?”
Korina shrugged. “Everything will be fine, provided my identity is valid.”
From the front passenger seat, Markov looked over his shoulder at them all. “We’re minutes away. In addition to your own bags, in the back of the SUV are five Bergen rucksacks containing Spetsnaz battle kit, MR-445 Varjag pistols, tactical communications systems, cell phones, and spare ammunition. Strapped to the Bergens are AS Val assault rifles with sound suppressors. Vitali and I grabbed them from our base as soon as Major Tsvetaeva called us. I’ve no idea if the kit is going to be right for what you need, but we didn’t have time to be selective.”
Roger nodded. “I’m sure it will do just fine.”
Vitali called out, “Time to shut up. We’re approaching the base.”
He drove the SUV off the main road onto a wide lane. Signs with crosses told motorists that they were entering a military restricted zone. An armed soldier stood on one side of the lane, waving them onward; soon they passed another doing the same. At the end of the lane they were confronted by a large arch, within which were four soldiers and an electronic barrier. To either side of the entrance was a twelve-foot-high razor-wire fence.
Vitali stopped the vehicle, opened his window, and showed one of the soldiers his Spetsnaz GRU identity card. The soldier looked inside the SUV, examining every occupant. Korina leaned forward, showed her ID, and spoke rapidly to the guard. He returned the document to her, then fixed his attention on Will and his colleagues. He asked them who they were, at which point Markov opened his front passenger door, walked around the front of the SUV until he was right in front of the guard, and grabbed the soldier’s jacket in a bunched fist. Pulling the guard close to his scarred face, Markov muttered something inaudible. The smaller guard looked terrified. He appeared to speak urgently and called out to his colleagues, who immediately raised the barrier. Markov released his grip and shouted at the four soldiers, who all sprang to attention. He nodded slowly at them, his face still furious, then reentered the vehicle. Vitali gunned the SUV. They drove onto the air base.
Markov shook his head. “Fucking idiots. They’d received the order to let us through once they saw Major Tsvetaeva’s ID. But they took it upon themselves to make a more thorough check of our vehicle in order to try to impress their commanders that they had initiative and were doing an excellent job.” He smiled. “I changed their point of view.”
The base was big, dotted with multiple runways and feeder routes, huge hangars and other buildings, and strewn with large and medium-sized military transport aircraft. Although it was daylight, everything was lit up by halogen lamps casting strong light through the leaden gray air and persistent snowfall. Some of the planes were taxiing, some stationary, others landing and taking off. Ground crews and other military personnel were moving on foot and in jeeps along tarmac tracks adjacent to the runways. Snow-clearing vehicles moved up and down the tracks. Vitali was clearly familiar with the layout of the airport as he drove his SUV with confidence, changing routes several times until he brought it to a halt adjacent to a building.
Korina glanced at Will. “Stay here.” She looked forward. “Markov, come with me.”
The two Russians got out and strode into the building. Vitali lit a cigarette, lowered his window a few inches, and looked toward the runways. Will and his CIA colleagues followed his gaze. Approximately a thousand troops were standing in lines, carrying heavy packs and rifles, near to two large troop-carrying aircraft. Other men, presumably their NCOs and officers, were walking up and down the lines. They were probably barking orders at the soldiers, although nothing could be heard beyond the thunderous drone of the aircraft. Across the base, some of the massive hangars opened their doors and more soldiers emerged onto the tarmac until what must have been several thousand troops were visible. All of them were waiting to board planes, patiently standing as thick snow fell over them.
Vitali muttered in English, “They belong to the Fifth Army. Their commander, Lieutenant General Viktor Fursenko, has ordered them to mobilize to Western Operational Strategic Command.”
Will asked, “Why?”
“It’s all presentational—show the West that we’re big boys and need to be taken seriously at the negotiating tables.”
“The soldiers out there won’t have been told that.” Laith’s tone was solemn. “I expect that their commanding officers have told them that this is for real.”
Vitali nodded slowly, puffing on his cigarette while keeping his gaze on the troops. “Of course. They have to be ready in case there really is a fight.” He sighed, flicked his cigarette outside, and closed his window. “My younger brother will be one of the soldiers standing out there. He joined the 60th Independent Motor Rifle Brigade two years ago. I tried to persuade him not to because he was never cut out for the army way of life and had far better options.”
Markov reappeared and leaned into the vehicle. “Time to move. Grab your kit. If spoken to, say nothing.”
Vitali immediately jumped out and strode to the back of the vehicle. Will, Roger, and Laith joined him.
Markov had the trunk open and began throwing the heavy Bergens at each man. “It’s good that we’re all dressed in suits and overcoats. The fact that we look different from everyone else here means we look special. We’re less likely to be confronted.”
Will slung one strap of his Bergen over a shoulder, grabbed his other bag, and watched the rest of the team do the same. Korina emerged from the building, picked up her own travel bag, and nodded at Markov, who led them all across the air base to a large Il-76M transport aircraft that was positioned away from the mass of troops. An airman was waiting, holding a clipboard. Korina spoke to him, nodded at the team, and then beckoned for them to come forward.
As Will climbed into the airplane, he expected the craft to be nearly empty given that the brigades he had seen a moment before had been assembled on the other side of the base. But the plane was filled with soldiers, sitting on their packs and with their assault rifles cradled over their legs. They all wore distinctive sky blue paratrooper berets. Will followed Korina down the center of the plane, walking between the soldiers, who eyed them with looks of confusion, until he and his team were at the back of the aircraft. There were no seats. Will put his rucksack down and sat on it, leaving a space between him and the rearmost paratrooper. Roger took that space.
The airplane immediately started moving and then accelerated hard for takeoff. The noise within the craft, deafening at first, receded to a low drone as it leveled out. Will looked to his left at Laith. The SOG officer was either asleep or pretending to be so. Opposite him, Korina was trying to make herself as comfortable as possible. Markov and Vitali were next to her, talking to each other. Will glanced at Roger. He was frowning. He followed his gaze and saw that one of the paratroopers opposite Roger was trying to strip down, clean, and reassemble his AKS-74 assault rifle. The soldier looked to be barely eighteen years old; he was sweating, and his hands shook as he clumsily tried to put the weapon back together. Two of the soldiers next to the paratrooper were also watching him, chuckling. Roger leaned quickly forward, grabbed the parts of the rifle, expertly stripped it down again, looked at the inside of the barrel to ensure it was clean, checked the other working parts, rapidly reassembled the weapon until it was fully functional, and held it out to him. The paratrooper took his weapon, smiled with a look of relief, and gripped the rifle tight enough to whiten his knuckles. As Roger leaned back, Will saw that Markov and Vitali had stopped their conversation and were looking at Roger with their mouths slightly open.
Roger cupped a hand around Will’s ear and said quietly, “Russian or otherwise, no soldier deserves to have a faulty weapon.”
Will looked around at all of the soldiers in the airplane. Some of them were laughing and joking with one another in an exaggerated manner. Others were busying themselves with unnecessary tasks. But most of them were quiet, looking apprehensive and lost in their own thoughts. Will knew all of this behavior very well. He too had sat as a young paratrooper in military airplanes, waiting to go to war. And the smell in the airplanes then had been the same smell that enveloped him now. It was the smell of fear.
I
t was midevening. Will, Korina, and Markov walked quickly down a long, winding driveway illuminated by lamps and surrounded by trees. Ahead of them was the dacha. The villa was quite large, and the lights were on. Two stationary vehicles were by the front entrance. The place was isolated in the forest and looked beautiful and homely, with gentle snow falling through the dim yellow glow of the lamps. They were forty miles outside Moscow and were here to interview the American traitor.
Markov knocked on the front door and stepped back. A voice called out. Markov responded, “Major Tsvetaeva. GRU.”
Bolts were unfastened; the door swung open. A tall, dark-haired man wearing a suit and a holster containing a Serdyukov SPS self-loading pistol stood in the entrance. Korina stepped forward and showed her ID, speaking quietly. The SVR officer scrutinized her identity card and, glancing over his shoulder, called out a name. He was joined by someone wearing similar attire. Markov pulled out a packet of cigarettes and said something to the men, then laughed. They smiled and stepped out of the doorway, joining Markov for a cigarette. Korina and Will stepped into the house.
The dacha was thick with tobacco smoke. As they walked along the hallway, they could hear a TV. Passing a kitchen, a cloakroom, and two bedrooms, Will saw that nothing inside was as homely as the villa’s exterior suggested. Instead, the interior was minimalist and functional. They turned into a large lounge and saw the bright screen of the television. The light from the set was the only illumination, and it flickered over the surroundings to produce snapshot images of a man sitting on a sofa.
Will said loudly, “Turn the lights on and the television off.”
The man seemed startled. He scrambled for a controller, switched off the TV, and simultaneously switched on a table lamp. “I thought you guys were coming tomorrow.” The American looked hesitant as he slowly lowered himself back onto the sofa. He was slight, in his midtwenties, hair shaven at the sides and back, barefoot, and wearing tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt that had
U.S. NAVY BASE KITSAP, NOT SELF BUT COUNTRY
emblazoned on its front. He picked up a bottle of beer and took a swig. “I’m an important person now. I don’t need fucking surprises.”
Will stepped forward. “There’s a lady present. I won’t tolerate foul language.”
The American seemed to relax. “Well, fuck me.” He took another slug of beer.
Will moved closer, but Korina put a hand on his forearm and said to the American sailor, “You’re clearly a stupid man. If you don’t change your attitude, I’ll make sure you stay here forever.”
The American grinned broadly. “Good, because things have never been better for me. Twenty-four/seven protection, free food, booze, and cigarettes.” He lit a cigarette, sucked on it, and then tapped ash into an overflowing ashtray. “Plus the SVR has given me American cable TV.” His smile vanished and was replaced by a look of contempt. Directing his gaze at Korina he muttered, “The only thing the Russkies haven’t given me yet is any Eastern pussy. Is that why you’re here, lady?”
Korina looked urgently at Will and said, “No, William—”
But Will ignored her, took two steps toward the sailor, and slapped him hard.
“God damn it!” The sailor put a hand to his red face.
Will stepped back. “Next time it’ll be worse.”
The American spat angrily. “How come a Russian speaks perfect English with no accent?”
“Because that’s how it has to be.” Will threw himself down into one of the other armchairs.
Korina said, “We’re here to ask you about the intelligence you supplied to Taras Khmelnytsky. We want to know if you were aware that the intelligence is no longer true.”
The sailor sniggered. “I only answer to Khmelnytsky and”—he looked around—“my new SVR hosts.”
Korina snapped, “You’ll answer to whoever has authority over naval intelligence matters. And right now that person is me.”
Korina was about to speak again, but Will interrupted. “How did Taras recruit you?”
The sailor glugged beer. “He told me, ‘You don’t need to live like scum anymore. If you give me what I want, I’ll make sure you live a life that would be the envy of your arrogant officers.’ ”
“So that’s it?” Korina leaned forward. “You spied on America because Khmelnytsky could deliver to you your vision of domestic bliss and maybe even”—she smiled, though her look was venomous—“Eastern pussy.”
The American said nothing, his face defiant.
Korina pointed at him. “We’ve learned that the three
Ohio
submarines will be entering Russian waters on a different date, but that’s all we know. I’m here to find out if you know anything about this.”
The sailor shook his head. “The dates of deployment were specific. I never heard anyone say that the subs might sail on another date.”
Will asked, “Were there any protocols in place in case the deployment was delayed for whatever reason?”
