Vektor (24 page)

The train had almost left without her in Birobidzhan, where a supposed ten-minute stop turned into a three-minute pause at the platform. This had been her first attempt to buy food from a local vendor outside of the railway platform. Dashing out to buy food and snacks was a common activity for passengers on the train, especially foreigners who hadn’t adjusted to the limited cuisine available in the restaurant car. She’d never eaten mutton before and had no intention of trying it. Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches had started to wear thin on her by that point, and she had only been on the train for a day. She never reached the front of the line to buy anything, having to scramble back to the train with several other travelers. She had been warned by Berg to stay on the train. The next westbound train didn’t run for two days.

Her next attempt brought her closer to salvation, but still left her empty handed. At the Slyudyanka station, on the shores of Lake Baikal, she ventured out to acquire the much-talked-about smoked fish. Once again, she had been assured that she could have the fish in her hands within minutes, leaving plenty of time to return. When the train whistle sounded, she was in the middle of a transaction, forcing her to throw money at the vendor and grab the tinfoil-wrapped fish. Upon returning to her compartment, she discovered that she had absconded with a chunk of meat vaguely resembling the mutton served onboard. That was her last venture off the train.

After four days of ham and cheese sandwiches, accompanied by potatoes, Erin was ready for a four-course meal at Novosibirsk’s finest restaurant. Of course, her cover as a struggling Australian travel blogger didn’t exactly permit such indulgences. If her hotel accommodations in Vladivostok were any indication of what she could expect in Novosibirsk, she’d have to set her sights lower.

The train car remained still long enough for her to be sure that the engineer had finished making any final adjustments at the platform. She grabbed her oversized rucksack and heaved it onto her shoulders, adjusting the straps for a snug fit. Her black nylon, theft-proof travel bag followed, slung over her right shoulder. Pickpocketing and petty theft didn’t top the list of tourist concerns in Novosibirsk, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Her Australian passport and Russian tourist visa were irreplaceable at this point, providing her the only legitimate way to depart Russian soil. If these were stolen, she’d have to take her chances with Farrington’s team or find a way to slip over the border into Kazakhstan. Either choice presented dangers.

Erin wasn’t fooled by the faux optimism back at Sanderson’s camp. The destruction of Vektor’s bioweapons facility would be difficult enough. Successful exfiltration of the team would require a miracle. As much as she yearned to be part of the direct raid on Vektor, she wasn’t suicidal. She’d gladly take a first-class seat on whatever flight would take her as far away from Novosibirsk as possible.

She opened the door and joined a few passengers in the hallway. Most of them had no plans to spend more than the train’s allotted thirty-minute stop in Novosibirsk. A few of them asked her if she had already purchased nonconsecutive trip tickets, worried that she might not be able to secure tickets to continue her trip on a different train. The Trans-Siberian didn’t function like many of Europe’s railways, where passengers could buy passes for unlimited travel. Stops on the Trans-Siberian had to be planned in advance, or a wayward traveler could find themself stranded, unable to negotiate the bureaucracy and language barrier needed to purchase another ticket.

She tipped the first-class car attendant, who acted surprised and distraught by her departure. He had enjoyed her company over the past four days, fawning over her ability to speak flawless Russian and complimenting her “limited” knowledge of Russian history. She neglected to mention her international relations degree, with a concentration in Russo-Soviet history, from Boston University, or her follow-on graduate degree in post-Cold War Russian politics. She played the role of decently informed travel writer, listening to his history lectures while they stood in the hallway sipping tea. All part of her cover, though she wondered what he really thought about her.

Mikhail had been an attendant on the Trans-Siberian for nearly thirty-three years, many of those during the Cold War, when the railway took on a near mystical and legendary reputation for intrigue and espionage. It was inconceivable to imagine that he hadn’t been embroiled in KBG schemes to observe passengers and report suspicious activity. For all she knew, he might have been a former KGB proxy-agent. Hotels, trains, stores, all were plagued with proxy-agents, who were given ranks, job security and additional privileges in return for their additional duties.

Erin shook the attendant’s hand and accepted a hug, presenting him with an overly generous tip for his four days of service. Glancing quickly at the money, he nodded and gave her a knowing look, which told her everything she needed to know. Any suspicions he might harbor had been instantly erased. She smiled and turned toward the station, shielding her eyes from the glare reflected off the massive two-story window arch that formed the center of the building’s facade.

The Vokzal-Gravny station loomed directly across the tracks, all of its windows showing traces of the deep orange sun low on the western horizon. The sun’s deep color darkened the building’s eggshell blue exterior, giving it more of a green appearance. She had been told that the station would be the most colorful building in Novosibirsk, which she could confirm by what she witnessed through her compartment window. The station stood out in a sea of drab gray buildings, featuring an incredibly incongruous blue paint job and white trim, which conjured a Scandinavian impression. Erin took in the view for a moment before turning toward the elevated walkway that would take her over a few tracks and deposit her in the building. As she cleared the train’s diesel engine, the sun struck her face, warming her slightly.

The temperature had been predicted to be in the low sixties throughout the week, leaving her grateful that the operation’s timing coincided with early summer. She couldn’t imagine a deep winter operation on the outskirts of Siberia. Sweden had been cold enough for her, but nothing compared to the average temperatures experienced here. The high temperatures in Novosibirsk for January peaked in the low single digits. Combined with the constant winds blowing in from either the Kazakhstan steppes to the west, or the Western Siberian Plain to the east, the wind chill factor rarely rose above negative ten degrees Fahrenheit during winter months.

Several minutes later, Erin found herself standing in the shadow of the building, waiting for a taxi to take her to her hotel. She’d clean up and seek massive quantities of decently prepared food, careful not to draw undue attention. She had to remember that she was an underpaid travel writer on a modest stipend to cover the Trans-Siberian Railway for an upstart travel blog. She even had business cards that linked to a real website, where several of Katie Reynolds’ previous articles were prominently featured, along with other writers, whom she suspected were real. Her picture appeared on the website, with a gracious biography chronicling her travels and accolades. Overall, the CIA had done a decent job with a fairly simple cover. The only real weakness to the cover was her spotty Australian accent, which Berg had assured her would not be an issue in Novosibirsk. Tourists were still a rarity in the city, and as long as she steered clear of the obvious “expat” haunts, her accent wouldn’t become an issue.

She reached the front of the queue and opened the door to the next taxi, placing her hiking backpack next to her in the back seat.

“Tsentralnaya Hotel, please,” she requested in passable Russian.

The driver nodded and drove her less than a kilometer to the hotel. She could have walked, but hadn’t felt like navigating the streets with the backpack. As the taxi approached the featureless gray building, she started to question her cover as a struggling writer who specialized in travelling on a budget. The hotel didn’t look promising. She should have vetoed the budget travel aspect of her cover and booked herself at one of several chain hotels in the city. It was too late to make the change at this point. Her tourist visa was connected to an “invitation” issued by the Tsentralnaya Hotel, which was a requirement to travel in the Russian Federation.

She paid the driver and hauled her backpack onto the curb. Nobody rushed out of the hotel entrance to help her with her bags. All she required was a clean room, bug-free bed and her own bathroom. That had been non-negotiable, regardless of her supposed “budget-minded nature.” As long as she didn’t have to share a bathroom, she’d be fine. She picked up her backpack and travel bag and proceeded to check into her base of operations for the next few days. She’d notify Farrington that she had arrived, and wait for him to arrange her first meeting with the Solntsevskaya Bratva. Until then, she’d do a little sightseeing and a lot of eating. She had four days’ worth of cheese sandwiches and vodka to clean out of her system.

Chapter 29

1:30 AM

17 Miles southwest of Ayagoz

Southeastern Kazakhstan

Mike McFarland scanned the southern horizon with a powerful night vision spotting scope, fighting against the stiff wind blowing in from west. The sky was clear, providing his scope with ample ambient starlight to illuminate the horizon, which yielded nothing but a bright green image of the Kazakhstan steppes. He had his doubts about the helicopters arriving tonight. Heavy gusts accompanied the warmer European air, playing havoc with their encampment. He couldn’t imagine how the wind would affect the aircraft. The landscape was flat, which was ideal for a makeshift helicopter landing zone, but the proposed refueling site was exposed to the elements on all four sides. The pilots could expect no mercy on their approach.

Despite the open terrain immediately surrounding the landing zone, the team could expect full privacy during their babysitting gig. The twisted, rugged drive to the site from Highway A345 had tested the limits of their 70 Series Land Cruisers, flattening two tires and most certainly damaging the alignment of both vehicles. Mission planners for the operation had done their research. Not only would the drive from the highway disable most vehicles, the landing zone sat in the middle of a small raised plateau, forcing the team to hide their vehicles and hike three miles to arrive at the given GPS coordinates.

The hike had been expected based on his terrain assessment, along with the flat tires. They had brought six full-size spare tires, since he had no intention of losing one of his trucks out here. They were a long way from Astana, and the only help they could count on was a salvage contract, which would require him to pay nearly seventy percent of the vehicle’s value to have it towed to the nearest repair garage. Of course, repairs would eat up the remaining value of the vehicle, so in many cases, you were better off leaving the vehicle where it died. Abandoning one of the trucks wasn’t an option on this mission. He’d greased enough palms to keep this little side venture off the books, but the unwritten rules were clear. If he lost company gear, it came out of his own pocket, which meant he’d have to take some unsavory side jobs to compensate for the lost income.

McFarland checked his watch again. 0132. The birds were late. He lowered the scope and peered through the impenetrable darkness at the rest of his team scattered around the LZ. He could barely distinguish their darkened forms against the unlit background, spread in an oval along the periphery of the proposed site. They had been instructed to sweep their sectors with night vision, searching for any possible witnesses to the landing. Prior to dispersing to take position around the LZ, they had formed a line to conduct a FOD (Foreign Object Detection) walk.

Unlike the FOD walks conducted on pristine aircraft carrier decks or concrete flight lines, his men wouldn’t clear rocks, chewing gum wrappers or discarded cigarette lighters from the ground. Instead, they would use heavy duty spray canisters to paint large rocks with an infrared paint visible to each helicopter’s Forward Looking Infrared Pods (FLIR). Anything larger than a watermelon was marked, so the pilots could pick the best locations for the initial landing.

“Sector reports,” he said, speaking into a small handheld radio clipped high on his field vest.

One by one, his team reported “all clear,” confirming what his senses detected. No lights were visible from any of the surrounding villages due to the distances involved. The largest town in the area, Ayogoz, was just below the visible horizon to the northeast, once again giving McFarland the distinct impression that the mission planners involved in this operation knew what they were doing. Settlements along the highway to the west were blocked by a range of low mountains running parallel to the highway, and the local road they used to travel through the mountains showed no signs of permanent inhabitants. Even at its closest point of approach, this washed-out road never came closer than twelve miles from the plateau, and traffic between Ayagoz and the southern town had been minimal. All in all, they were nicely tucked away in the middle of nowhere.

Satisfied that they were alone for the moment, he leaned his head back and took in the vast, brilliant array of stars. McFarland had served in the army at remote outposts around the world, finding little comfort in the harsh, inhospitable locations during the day. He took his solace at night, when night vision and sophisticated listening devices provided a distinct advantage over their enemies, tipping the odds overwhelmingly in their favor. The insurgents rarely bothered them at night, which afforded him the opportunity to enjoy the tranquility and raw beauty of an unspoiled sky, something he could never enjoy living amidst pervasive fields of artificial lighting back home or at a major Forward Operating Base. His reverie was cut short by a growing gust of wind, which he had learned to predict during their twenty-two-hour stay on the exposed plateau.