Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (31 page)

Major Giese literally aimed the pack lower and lower. Over Katy, Texas, they leveled at two thousand feet and changed formation. Giese held back, allowing the three other F-15s to fall into position ahead of him. Three minutes later, they approached the target at merely 312 feet above the ground and at an astonishingly slow speed of barely 75 knots, or 86.3 mph. They were spaced precisely twenty seconds apart.

Russia

Ten more steps. One sleepy corporal guarding the door.

D’Angelo considered two options as he approached the private room in the northeast corner of the hospital. Stroll in like he belonged there or help the guard sleep a little more soundly.

“
Spa koy ne nawch ee
,” D’Angelo said in Russian. “Good night.”

The guard lazily opened his eyes and nodded showing no interest. D’Angelo assumed he was used to doctors coming and going and was bored with his duty. He couldn’t care less who came at this late hour.

D’Angelo opened the door.

Over Texas

“Alpha, sixty seconds to target,” Giese reported on a discreet channel. No acknowledgement was necessary from the ground forces. Colonel Steven Slangman’s special ops were ready. They were poised to stage in four tightly orchestrated moves, each in concert with Major Giese’s air show. The advance team would act first, then team two, team three, and four would move up to their “execute” positions.

Estavan’s building

“Next week will be even better, cuz,” Estavan said. Rojas reached for his coffee mug and prepared to propose a toast. He noticed ripples, unusual ripples, creating mini waves in the black liquid. Then the mug itself began to vibrate on the table. He automatically steadied it, curious as to what was happening. At first it was quite mesmerizing. But seconds later the room started shaking violently.

Tequila bottles crashed to the floor. Plates on the table slid off and broke. Dust escaped from unpatched bullet holes in the dry wall. A screen dislodged from the window. The heavy safe door, still unlocked, swung back and forth as the rumble grew. Windows shattered as the poorly constructed frame of the old Standish Arms quaked right to the foundation.

“Earthquake!” Estavan shouted.

Russia

The far corner of the room glowed in green light from Dubroff’s monitors that were turned toward the bed. The low volume from the wall-mounted television set filled in the silence. Other than that, it was dark and quiet.

D’Angelo immediately recognized the movie on the old tube screen—a dubbed edition of Hitchcock’s
The 39 Steps
. He smiled at the irony of the 1935 classic running at this moment. In the movie, actor Robert Donat was attempting to learn the meaning of a code known only by the vaudeville comedian on stage.

The CIA operative approached Dubroff’s hospital bed. The old man appeared to be lying in deep sleep. D’Angelo’s eyes shifted to the heart monitor. The line across the screen was flat. The deep sleep would be long and eternal.

D’Angelo’s senses sharpened to the sound of someone else breathing. His body tensed.

“Nobody lives forever,” a voice said in English from the shadows in the bathroom.

Estavan’s building

Rojas was already moving faster than he had in years with no regard for anything but getting to safety. He crashed into the three hookers watching QVC who were too stoned to walk a straight line before or after the collision.

The rattling increased, but it was the deafening sound, now accompanying the rocking, that unsettled them even more.

The first F-15C had made its run.

Inside, Estavan caught the safe door from swinging shut. He grabbed the cash and ran for the door, too frightened to take another second to grab his pistol and machete.

Flanked by four equally scared MS-13 lieutenants, Estavan scrambled to the front lawn just in time to see
something
bear directly toward his building. At the last possible second it made an unbelievable ninety-degree turn skyward and ignite; virtually turning into a rocket with fire shooting out the engines. Estavan could feel the heat, but it was the ear-piercing roar that sent him to the ground.

Even if he wanted to run, he couldn’t. Primal fear gripped the gang leader, just as Roarke had learned it would.

The F-15 was demonstrating why it deserved its nickname. With the afterburners kicking in, it truly became “The Screaming Eagle.”

At the exact moment, Slangman’s advance Special Forces team hit. Sergeants Recht and Willerth each fired their M26 Series tasers. The darts connected with two of Estavan’s near guards, sending fifty thousand volts across fifteen feet of wire into their central nervous systems. The men flopped to the ground and were hooded and dragged out of sight before anyone knew what hit them.

Estavan lifted his head. “It’s a fucking airplane!” he shouted, though no one could hear him. Not even his cousin who was a foot away. “A goddamned fucking airplane!”

Estavan rose to one knee. But then he saw another jet approach, coming in slower, lower, and louder, with its nose aimed straight at them.

The sound of the two thunderous engines mixed with the noise of the other F-15s, now accelerating and ascending.

“What the fuck?” he yelled. But again no one could hear anything other than the roar that engulfed them. Estavan couldn’t even hear himself.

Slangman’s second squad tasered four more men who had scrambled onto the street. They were hooded and out of commission before the fourth and final F-15, Giese’s plane, came in even lower.

All of this occurred in sixty seconds. There was no place to escape from the shock. And at the precise instant that Giese hit his afterburners seemingly straight above Estavan, there was one more surprise that kept the gang leader and his cronies on the deck. The biggest thing they’d ever seen came lumbering right at them.

The last plane in formation was a C-17 Globemaster, piloted by CPT Susan Mitnick, a beautiful career officer and one of the most respected aviators in the service. The massive airplane under her command was 174 feet long, with nearly an equal length wingspan. It was big enough to ferry tanks, a squadron of paratroopers, and even the president’s limo and security detail with their black SUVs loaded with unique aftermarket extras. She’d done it all. In fact, she was the White House’s first choice when it came to any mission involving a C-17. Like Giese, her work had taken her around the world. But today, Mitnick flew over Gulfton for dramatic impact and to create more racket. Angling low, loud, and threateningly, she piloted her Globemaster into what looked like a sure collision course, though she had complete control.

Estavan was the real target as the Globemaster rumbled overhead, seemingly close enough to touch.

Slangman rushed him at chest height. Recht came from a forty-five-degree angle off the right, aiming for his ankles. The simultaneous impact from two Special Forces officers resulted in a rib-crashing tackle right out of an NFL game minus referees. Estavan went down hard and fast. His money scattered, and yet no one was watching what was going on at ground level. Mitnick’s scary overflight took care of that.

The orders were not to taser the gang leader. The FBI needed a completely, or nearly completely, intact man to interrogate. It was another matter for the accountant. Rojas went down with a hard face-plant courtesy of two other members of the army’s elite squad, never to come up with the same looking nose or all his original teeth.

The arrival of the Globemaster also gave the Special Forces coverage to swarm and secure the apartment building as they would a bunker behind enemy lines.

In all of ninety seconds it was over. The hookers looked around totally surprised that they were surrounded by five uniformed men aiming M-4 carbines at them. They were too traumatized to notice that Manuel Estavan and his minions had vanished.

Russia

“My name is Kleinkorn, Colonel Sergei Kleinkorn. I suspect you go by many names,” he proclaimed.

D’Angelo turned slowly. He was certain Kleinkorn had a gun aimed at him. He was right. D’Angelo even recognized the model: a Serdyukov SPS Gyurza Vector SR-1. The short recoil weapon had been adopted by the FSB in 1996. It was a very visible calling card.

“Ah, you’ve taken notice that you are in a vulnerable position.”

D’Angelo said nothing.

“Pity you’re a day late, but we were expecting you,” the colonel continued. “Oh, and just to keep your ledger sheet up to date, too, you won’t need to make any more payments to your friend Gomenko. What do they say in the movies? He cashed out?”

D’Angelo remained silent.

“The front desk tells me you’re posing as Dr. Max Yurovich. Well, I can assume your Russian is more than passable; very good. But I’m grateful for the chance to practice my English.

Vinnie D’Angelo weighed his immediate options. He ruled out the window for two reasons: bars and height. And undoubtedly the guard at the door had been wide awake and was now joined by others. Time, however, didn’t appear to be an issue. Kleinkorn was in a talking mood.

“I’m sure you’re filled with questions. Perhaps we can have a discussion before you depart.”

The CIA operative did not like the word
depart
. Too precise.

“May I sit?” D’Angelo asked in Russian. He gestured to one of two seats under the television.

“Your command of the language is excellent,” Kleinkorn replied in Russian. “Of course you may.”

D’Angelo angled away from Kleinkorn and slowly took the three steps to the chair.

“But do take care not to act hastily.” He switched to English. “Despite my age, I maintain the highest marks on the shooting range. And I am quite proficient at this distance.”

The American sat and faced the colonel, giving up any advantage he may have had to move quickly when he was standing.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me exactly who you are?”

“No thank you.” D’Angelo finally used English.

Kleinkorn laughed. “I didn’t think so. No matter, we can find out.”

Another comment D’Angelo did not like. But he maintained his poker face.

“You expended a great deal of time and effort trying to find out where our revered Colonel Dubroff was, with the hopes of having a serious chat. I commend you for your own dedication. It harkens back to another era when both our nations stood at the brink of war communicating through a red telephone. At least we won the war on the color of the phone.”

D’Angelo smiled. “Do you know the origin of the hot line?”

“Well, yes. It was utilized during the Cuban Missile Crisis between Premier Khrushchev and your President Kennedy.”

“Actually earlier, sir. It was the recommendation of atomic physicist Leo Szilard in 1957. His discussions led to Khrushchev accepting installation of the hook up between the Kremlin and the White House.”

“Well, I stand corrected. Thank you. I love historical anecdotes, as I see you do, as well.”

“Then let’s pick up the conversation I was going to have with Dubroff,” D’Angelo brazenly stated.

“The Andropov Institute.”

“Yes. Your Red Banner program to be specific.”

D’Angelo had no reason to withhold the question. Kleinkorn had likely gotten it all from Gomenko.

“Well, that may be a bit too sensitive to share even after all these years. Put yourself in my place. Better yet, your government’s position. The United States has many secrets that it keeps under wraps. If the situation were reversed and you held the Serdyukov, which I’ve noticed you desire, on me at your Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, would you provide me details of the Kennedy Assassination or the Iranian hostage release?”

“Point well taken. But I wasn’t here to talk with you.”

“Timing was not on your side, Mr. ….”

“We’ll keep it at mister, Colonel. Speaking of timing,” D’Angelo looked at his watch and made a mental note.

“Let me rephrase. Timing is
not
on your side,” Kleinkorn said, cavalierly waving his pistol outside the kill zone. “But it is on Russia’s. The past and present have merged. The new Russia is beginning to look much like the old. Putin put the building blocks in place. Now we are rebuilding. Oh, we won’t call it Communism this time. We are far too democratized for that. Business flourishes and multinational corporations make men wealthy beyond the dacha era when a simple vacation house on the Baltic was a sign of great power. Now wealth allows the new International Russian to travel the world, to buy homes in Maui and gamble in Macau’s casinos. And yet, we are becoming a global player again with a checkbook and a real economy.”

“And a nuclear arsenal.”

“Always.”

“But do your young leaders have the experience or judgment?”

Kleinkorn laughed loudly. “Of course not. That’s why those of us from the old days are still needed. We tolerate them because they get the votes. No more old men in the Kremlin. At least not visibly. But those of us with experience still watch, gather information, manipulate, blackmail, and control.

“People don’t disappear like in the old days. They get fired. They’re ruined. But little else unless we find a tweet, a text, or an e-mail not to our liking.”

“Or a conversation,” D’Angelo offered, referring to Gomenko.

“Quite right, or a conversation. And to that point, it’s too bad about your friend. So close to enjoying the next chapter of his life. I hated to surprise him so.”

D’Angelo made a quick promise to himself. “Ah, but without experience,” he continued good naturedly, “those in power can destroy Russia like your comrades did years ago.”

“We have learned from the mistakes of the past.”

“Maybe you have, Colonel, but how much longer will you be around? And your protégés? Twenty-eight-year-olds have minds all their own.”

“I shall make a point to update you on their
education
for as long as you languish in Krasnokamensk. Sadly, I won’t get to see you often. It’s a prison camp in Siberia, oh, roughly five thousand kilometers away.”

In the immediate this meant that Kleinkorn was not inclined to the pull the trigger.

The Russian frowned. “Perhaps years from now someone will want to swap you. Not now. Not like the 10-for-4 in 2010. That was laughable, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

Kleinkorn referred to the ten Russian sleeper spies in New York, Virginia, and Boston. They had lived under the guise of Americans for years, delivering messages about American policy. Ten agents tasked with collecting political gossip that might actually mean something. The Russians termed it the “Illegals Program,” but it was fashioned after the old Red Banner curriculum.

Time, however, changed the way things were done. Decades earlier, great effort was made to eliminate all traces of Russian accents through rigorous phonetics classes. Russian habits were drummed out of the agents’ default responses. Spies were taught to pass as Americans.

Now, with America more of a melting pot than ever, Russians dialects were heard everywhere, from Fairfax Blvd. in Los Angeles to Fairfax, Virginia.

“Not quite old school,” D’Angelo said with a chuckle. “Did you see the
Playboy
photos of Anna Chapman?”

“I did,” Kleinkorn remarked. “Definitely not old school.”

“And leaked by an ex-boyfriend. You probably learned more about her from the photographs than anything she sent back to Russia.”

The Russian enjoyed the comment about the former bank employee who gained the most notoriety of all the spies. They were returned during a very un-Cold War transfer held on the tarmac of Vienna’s international airport rather than the notorious Checkpoint Charlie or the Glienicke Bridge in Berlin.

“Ah, and the pictures in Russia’s
Maxim
? Even more suggestive,” Kleinkorn added. “Like a silly Bond girl with a Beretta in a lace glove. Believe me, she’s a far greater threat at the poker table, though you’ll never have the opportunity to take her on.”

Kleinkorn showed his complete disgust for the new generation of spies. “And what a waste of resources. All she did was post useless pictures on Facebook and send worthless communiqués from Starbucks. We learned more from Google than her communiqués or from anything the others sent. Except for the public relations value, it was an unmitigated disaster. An embarrassment. But, after her return, Anna became Putin’s pal, singing patriotic songs and taking submarine rides with photo ops. Hell, she’ll open a mini-mall if they pay enough.” He laughed, but not because he was making a joke. He was referring to a joke. “The face of the new Russian spy. Mata Hari for Gen Text.”

D’Angelo was encouraged that Kleinkorn was in a talking mood.
A little more, Colonel
, he thought.

“The illegals did demonstrate we can still compete with America,” the Russian continued, “even if they were failures from an intelligence point of view. Shame though that we had to give up four double agents for them.” His tone changed. “You won’t be so lucky
.”

“I bet you’ve run far better operations.”

“Quite so. Fewer rules in the KGB, more autonomy.”

“Better talent?”

“Oh, yes. But how do you know so much?”

“I’ve read the reports of Major General Oleg Kalugin.”

Kleinkorn narrowed his eyes.

“Surely you know Kalugin, Colonel. He ran several agents in Washington in the ‘60s. Back in the day.”

D’Angelo read the silence as important.
Of course Kleinkorn knew him.

“Remember some of his assignments. Classic Cold War. Didn’t he control an agent whose job was to blow the power grid in Washington if we were close to a military conflict?”

“The thing that fiction is made of,” Kleinkorn said.

“Like Congressman Lodge?” D’Angelo bravely asked.

Kleinkorn’s body stiffened. He was not hiding his feelings well; not playing chess like a Russian master.

“If I’m not mistaken, Kalugin ran another spy who, under the same circumstances, would poison the water supplies in the Washington area. Am I right?”

Kleinkorn’s hand tightened on the handle of his gun.

His comment hit a real nerve.
Something more in the present than historic?

“This is not the time for my confessions. You are in my country and you are not a guest.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve probably worn out my welcome,” D’Angelo said as he casually checked his Vostok-Europe 8215 Diver Watch.

“You’re not in any rush, are you?” the Russian said sharply.

“No, no, but back to old school for another moment,” D’Angelo continued, “since I missed my opportunity to speak with Colonel Dubroff about Mr. Lodge, perhaps you can shed some light on the community you’re still running in the United States.”

Kleinkorn laughed hard. “Now that you’ve found your voice, I see you’re not shy.”

“Never been accused of that, Colonel.”

“Ah, but what if there are other ears listening to your voice. How do I know you’re not wired directly to Langley?”

“Langley?” D’Angelo asked, hoping to push the FSB agent a little further.

“Langley! Your CIA bosses. The ones who are sending you to prison because of this ridiculous assignment! The ones who don’t care about you. Maybe we won’t wait until a swap. I can just shoot the mystery spy here and now. Wouldn’t you if you discovered that a judge or yet another member of Congress, perhaps one of your popular Tea Party members, was actually a long-time sleeper? I think you would. Bury the news. Destroy the evidence so it doesn’t contribute to your country falling apart to an even greater degree. It is, you know. You’re on the brink of martial law. Martial law in the United States of America.” He laughed again. It was a proud laugh. “Now what could possibly lead to such chaos on your streets? Does it happen by accident? By short-term planning? By religious fanatics and ideologues? By twenty-eight-year-olds, as you so rightly noted? No, my friend. It takes exhaustive preparation, an immense amount of money, and a man with the patience—and the hatred of America—to see it through.”

Kleinkorn suddenly stopped. “Oh, you are good.” He suddenly realized he’d been baited by an expert. He quickly returned to the friendly, but supercilious, tone he’d been using. “But I merely raise questions…nothing more. And we shall have a great deal of time for more of these intellectual exercises.”

“Indulge me for a final question, Colonel.”

“Final question?”

D’Angelo ignored the retort. “Your goal can’t possibly be to bring down the United States like in a melodramatic Cold War movie. I suspect we have more mutual enemies, and in a global economy you need us.”

“True. We do need you for business and growth. Your survival is important to us. But your dominance is another thing. Europe with its failed Euros. America with its politicized Congress and every position fought out on your so-called news channels. You have lost your bearings. Your laws are subject to TV ratings more than the ballot box. And you, like Russia, lie about your votes.

“In the next decade, we will rise to greatness as the United States’ stature diminishes. And we can, in the end, thank our dearly departed friend who so expertly ran a training program years ago. His dream will continue. It will provide us with dividends into the future. Sadly, Dubroff shall never get the credit. Perhaps that’s why he sought to come to America. The historical recognition, quite deserved, will go to a Syrian businessman on his own mad quest. But enough talk. Your time as a free man and your nation’s time as a superpower is over.”

D’Angelo smiled. “I don’t think so.” He glanced at his Lithuanian watch again.

“Why not?” Kleinkorn said waving his gun again.

“Because it is fifteen minutes past the hour.”

At that moment the building shook with an explosion three floors below them, and the hospital plunged into darkness.