Vektor (25 page)

He started to reach for the goggles hanging loosely around his neck, but decided to shift his AK-74 from a stowed position across his back to a ready position along his chest. The transition took less than a second, which was one half of a second longer than it took for him to figure out why he had instinctively gone into self-preservation mode. The gust of wind came from the wrong direction, preceded by a deep thumping.

“They’re right on top of us. Fuck!” said one of his team members on the radio circuit.

McFarland turned his body, looking frantically in every direction as artificial gusts of wind buffeted his body, stinging his face with pebbles and dirt. He quickly brought the goggles to his face and continued his search for the helicopters. Through the dust storm, he spotted them hovering fifty feet in the air over the eastern half of the plateau. They had approached the LZ from the leeward side, which he had expected.

Helicopter pilots preferred to land and take off into the wind, though this was not a requirement, especially for skilled pilots. What he hadn’t expected was a mission altitude lower than the plateau, which was why he never spotted their approach. They arrived from a downwind position, below the nearby visible horizon, masking the sounds of the rotors and blocking his line of sight.

Not bad at all
, he thought as he pulled three high-intensity chem sticks from his front right cargo pocket. He cracked all three sticks at once and proceeded to wave them overhead for several moments in a specific order. Red. Green. Blue. Once finished, he raised his night vision goggles and waited for the return signal. Three infrared lasers, one from each helicopter, reached out and intersected at his feet, confirming that his signal had been verified. If he had waved the chem lights in a different order or tried some other method of attracting their attention, the same infrared lasers would have guided hundreds of 7.62mm projectiles into his body.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t be cut to pieces by the miniguns, he started to jog to their encampment, which had likely been turned upside down by the rotor wash. He didn’t need to issue orders to his team. Everyone would return to the tents and let their guests run the show from this point forward. Darryl Jackson had made one aspect of this mission clear. They would have no contact with the helicopter assets upon arrival. Personnel onboard the helicopters would arrange the refueling gear within the LZ and promptly depart, leaving his team to guard the site until Combat Controllers relieved them at a still undecided point in the near future. Easy money he hoped.

Examining the helicopters through his night vision, he could tell that the operation supported by this refueling station would be anything but easy money. Two KCH-53K Dragon Cows followed a MH-53 Pave Low into position over the LZ, spreading out over the center to give plenty of distance between rotors. He’d never seen one of the Dragon Cows in person, but could easily recognize the rare refueling variant of the CH-53K by its refueling probe and extended fuselage. Instead of airlifting bladders of fuel in a sling underneath one of these behemoth helicopters, the Dragon Cows would fill empty bladders with their own internal fuel tanks. This had been another reason he had expected to easily spot the helicopters on their approach. He had anticipated that they would be forced to fly at a higher altitude due to externally slung bladders.

The Dragon Cow gave mission planners more flexibility, putting an incredible amount of mobile fuel in one place. Employing the Marine Corps’ Tactical Bulk Fuel Delivery System, this helicopter variant could add an additional 2400 gallons of fuel as internal cargo to its expansive 3000 gallon built-in capacity. Two Dragon Cows could refuel twenty helicopters on the way in to their objective, with plenty left over to top them off on the way home. Whatever was in the works out here had the potential to be huge.

McFarland sat down near a small outcropping of rocks that served to shield their tents from some of the wind and observed the operation. Less than an hour later, the helicopters departed, leaving one Advanced Aviation Forward Area Refueling Station (AAFARS) behind, configured to receive four helicopters simultaneously. The station was oriented east to west, to best take advantage of the most common prevailing winds, though helicopters could approach the individual stations from the south, avoiding the fuel bladders and pumping equipment. Four bladders stood behind the main pumping equipment, significantly higher than the rest of the equipment. His best guess regarding their capacity was 500 gallons, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the morning, when he could read the nomenclature stamped to the equipment.

Overall, it represented less fuel than he had estimated, given the presence of two Dragon Cows in the refuel task force. It did give him a good idea of what might be headed through the refueling station en route to some nasty business. If he had to guess, he’d say some variation of the Sikorsky H-60 frame. The army and navy versions of the venerable airframe sported a two hundred gallon fuel tank, giving them roughly a 350 mile round trip fully loaded. The smaller fuel bladders made sense when considering the smaller H-60 tanks. Average tank size for the H-53 frame measured over 1300 gallons. The refueling station in its current configuration could easily support a round trip for up to four UH-60 Blackhawks. That was his bet, but unfortunately, he would never know. His team would be long gone when the helicopter strike force came through.

Chapter 30

9:48 AM

Dzerzhinsky City District

Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

Katie Reynolds felt less secure the further they travelled from the center of Novosibirsk. She had no weapons and no backup, which was compounded by the fact that she had lost track of any recognizable landmarks. She knew they had started off in an easterly direction based on her knowledge of the city streets within central Novosibirsk, but as they drove deeper into the outskirts of the bleak city, she couldn’t be sure they were still headed east. An overcast sky kept her from making the most basic calculations.

As city streets transformed into a rundown business-residential district, most vestiges of her personal safety net, real or perceived, slipped away. Trust was all that remained. Trust in operatives she barely knew, and reliance on mafiya thugs who would cut a businessman’s throat on the off chance that the Rolex he sported was real. At least she wasn’t squeezed between two
bratva
soldiers. She had her own seat, which gave her some confidence in the situation cooked up by Berg and Sanderson’s crew.

She had been instructed by Farrington to meet their Solntsevskaya contact in a modest café near her hotel, where she would be given further instructions. Farrington told her that she would likely be put into action tonight. The
bratva
had identified a unique opportunity that fit the overall mission profile, but the window was transient, requiring her to meet her new friends sooner than expected.

Viktor arrived promptly at 9:30, joining her at the small table with an espresso and a grim face. Without saying a word, he downed the small cup and stood, waiting impatiently for her to finish. She took a deep swig of her strong coffee and joined him for a short walk around the block. Minutes later she sat firmly pressed into the worn leather seat of a black vintage E30 class BMW, heading east out of the city. Fifteen minutes into the drive and nobody had said a word to her. She sat silently next to a murderous-looking man, whose emotionless face displayed a crisscross of several short scars. Deep blue tattoo work crept up his neck, peeking over the collar of his black leather jacket. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Hard men that chain-smoked shitty cigarettes and bathed in strong cologne. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car.

A few minutes later, after she had completely abandoned the idea of jumping out of the car into this completely unfamiliar and markedly rougher neighborhood, Viktor snubbed his cigarette into the car’s overflowing ashtray and turned to her.

“I need you to put this over your head,” he said, extending a hand between the front seats.

He gripped a thick black piece of cloth, which she assumed was some kind of hood or bag.

“I’ll cover my eyes,” she replied in Russian, meeting his serious glare.

The man next to her took another drag on his cigarette, not appearing to tense for action. She kept staring at him until he spoke again.

“It’s a security precaution. Standard procedure. Two minutes,” he said.

“I’m not putting a bag over my head,” she said.

“Then we’re not going any further,” he said, and the vehicle pulled over to the side of the road.

The BMW nestled under a thick tree next to a tall, rusted fence. The unmarked street resembled more of an alley, bordered by persistent, untrimmed bushes and trees that scraped the right side of the car at times. Half of the asphalt had crumbled, leaving wide, washed-out portions containing potholes that required the driver to constantly maneuver the vehicle from side to side. A weathered brick building with a corrugated tin roof sat across the street from the car, separated from the road by a six-foot, gated cinderblock wall. The residence stood next to a collapsed wooden structure that had fallen victim to fire long ago.

She figured the fire had destroyed the brick building’s roof, explaining the new tin roof. Measuring the cinderblock wall mentally, she calculated an easy jump and lift to get over in one swift movement. She could probably be over the wall before they could level their weapons for a shot. Glancing up and down the street, this appeared to be her only option if she was forced to fight her way out of here. What she would do once she landed on the other side was another story.

“They told me you wouldn’t be a problem,” Viktor said.

“And nobody said anything about putting a bag over my head.”

“Would you prefer to ride in the trunk?” he countered.

She slowly shook her head, sensing a shift from the seat next to her. The man rolled down his window and tossed the cigarette. She moved her hand slowly for the door handle, just in case the situation spiraled out of control.

“Then we have a problem,” he said, eyes drifting to her hand.

“Feel free to step out, Ms. Reynolds. Nobody will stop you, but I’m not kidding when I say that this car will not drive any further toward our destination unless you wear this hood…or ride in the trunk. Nobody else is in the trunk, right?” Viktor asked, addressing the driver.

They all started laughing, which caught her off guard. They had been deadly serious up until this point. The sudden shift heightened her tension.

“See? We’re not so bad. We make jokes, just like the Sopranos. Right?” Viktor said.

She eased her shoulders and caught herself smiling vaguely, unsure what to make of the sudden change in behavior.

“Look, Ms. Reynolds. If you can’t trust me for two minutes, we’ll have to hire a prostitute like I suggested and hope for the best. I don’t think Yuri will be happy with that scenario. We’ve come up with a solution to one of your group’s hurdles. You’re infinitely more qualified to pull this off than one of our drugged-up hookers. We need to get you some new clothes for the job. We have a wide selection at one of our warehouses,” he said.

Now she was intrigued. Farrington, aka “Yuri,” hadn’t provided any of the details for tonight’s mission. She didn’t like the implications for her role in whatever they had planned, but she’d play by their rules for now. She couldn’t possibly let them trust any aspect of the overall mission to a prostitute.

“I saw some nice clothing boutiques near the hotel. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Don’t you think shopping in clothing boutiques might attract unwanted attention?”

Viktor had a point, though she wondered how careful they had been with her pickup. Shopping for designer clothes in a Novosibirsk boutique had to rank lower on the list of suspicious actions than getting in a car with three gangsters. It all came down to a little trust. She took the black hood from Viktor and placed it over her head, waiting for someone to start choking her. Nothing happened beyond the car lurching back onto the broken street, moving toward what she envisioned to be the
bratva’s
version of the Bat Cave.

Chapter 31

9:15 AM

Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) Headquarters

Yasanevo Suburb, Moscow, Russian Federation

Dmitry Ardankin hung up the phone and immediately dialed Director Pushnoy’s direct line. The secure telephone system prompted him for a passcode, which he entered. The passcode enabled his call to bypass Pushnoy’s secretary and ring directly at his desk, or whatever phone the director had designated to receive calls. Only a few of the Foreign Intelligence Service’s deputy directors had been given this number, and none of them abused it. Ardankin reserved the use of Pushnoy’s direct line for emergencies. He wasn’t sure if this qualified as an emergency—yet, but it was without a doubt headed in that direction.

He waited tensely as the phone rang, hoping that it would go to the director’s voicemail. He hated answering Pushnoy’s one-word questions, often fired in rapid succession like a machine gun.

“Speak quickly, Dmitry. I’m in the middle of something,” the director said as a greeting.

“One of General Sanderson’s operatives walked off a flight in Kiev on Tuesday and disappeared,” Ardankin said.

Several seconds passed in utter silence, which was unusual for the director. Just as Ardankin considered the possibility that their connection had been severed, Pushnoy spoke.

“Three days ago?” Pushnoy asked, his tone clearly implying that the time delay was unforgiveable.

Ardankin chose his words carefully. The Federal Customs Service had reluctantly agreed to add “sanitized” profile photos to their computerized watch list, which was directly linked to Ukrainian Customs. These requests were normally relayed by the Federation Security Service’s counterintelligence branch, but Ardankin wanted to bypass the FSB in this case. He had spent the better part of an hour negotiating a truce with Arkady Baranov, director of the Center for Special Operations (CSN), which included assurances that the Foreign Intelligence Service had closed the case regarding the leak at CSN. He had been instructed not to share information regarding the discovery of a new American covert intelligence group, so it was in his best interest to contact Customs directly to add suspected members of this group to their database.