Collateral (Tier One #6)

Ember Executive Boeing 787

Boryspil Airport

Kiev Oblast, Ukraine

September 29

1345 Local Time

“Damn, it feels good to have the band back together,” Dempsey said with a smile, scanning the faces of the freshly reconstituted Ember SAD team around the conference table.

“Getting Martin out of the spa took some effort, but his vacation is over,” Munn said, raising his coffee mug at the former MARSOC Marine whose discharge paperwork Munn had ramrodded through every administrative barrier possible at Portsmouth Naval Hospital. “Isn’t that right, Luka?”

“Took ya’ll long enough,” Martin said, toasting with his water bottle. “If I’d stayed much longer, I think the PTs would have taken a baseball bat to my knee or something. They said I was demoralizing all the other patients in rehab because I was healing so fast. Guess they’d never treated a Marine before.”

“Is that so?” Baldwin said on the monitor, shaking his head in disapproval. Clearly, the Acting Director was still chafed by the decision to cut Martin’s convalescence short by a full month.

Dempsey ignored the look. If the operator said he was good to go, then that was enough. They played by big-boy rules at Ember, and Martin knew the stakes. In any case, who the hell else was there? Even with Martin and Munn back, they were pretty damn lean. Dempsey had toyed with the idea of requesting Lieutenant Commander Redman and a small, handpicked squad of SEALs from Team Four to augment this mission, but the fuse had proven too short. They’d have to do it with their four shooters plus Wang.

We’ve done more with less, Dempsey thought, but not with everybody in this fucked-up headspace.

He glanced at Wang, expecting to see the kid staring at his hands, but instead their cyber lead was sitting up straight with fire in his eyes.

“Are we going to brief this fucking thing or what?” Wang said, looking from Baldwin to Dempsey and back again.

“Elizabeth,” Baldwin said. “As you’ve taken point interfacing with the Ukrainians and local CIA since your arrival, why don’t you kick things off.”

“Sure,” she said, clicking a few keys on her laptop. A photograph of a powerfully built, square-jawed Ukrainian appeared on the large wall monitor. “Meet Viktor Skorapporsky, the twenty-nine-year-old cofounder and leader of the right-wing ultranationalist Ukrainian terrorist group known as Ultra, which we are now highly confident was involved in the Independence Square missile attack.”

“So this guy, Viktor, is a Russian mole?” Martin asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s definitely Ukrainian. We have his birth records: he served in the Ukrainian Army, and his family all lives in Kiev. The Ukrainian Security Service, or SBU, has been keeping tabs on Viktor since he discharged from the army and formed Ultra. Of all the ultranationalist groups in Ukraine, Ultra has the most formidable paramilitary capabilities. Most of their members have seen combat in the Donbas War, and they pride themselves on being the most outspoken, aggressive, and ultraright voice in Ukraine.”

“Does the SBU think this guy is the mastermind behind the attack?” Munn asked.

“Yes, in fact, it’s been a bitch to get them to back off. If not for DNI Jarvis’s pull, the SBU would have already raided Ultra safe houses and apartments and hauled in as many members as possible. They’ve lost their President and the Ukrainian people are calling for blood. The station chief had to intervene to shut down an SBU operation in progress meant to grab Skorapporsky the day we landed.”

“Viktor must be shitting his pants right now,” Dempsey said.

Grimes flashed him a sly smile. “In the beginning, yes, but not anymore. Since not a single member of Ultra has been arrested, we’ve observed a gradual shift in his movements and communications.”

“He’s starting to think he got away with it,” Dempsey said.

She nodded. “Precisely.”

“Where do things stand now?” Munn pressed.

“I’ve been sitting in on a joint CIA-SBU task force conducting ISR on active Ultra members. About half of them have dissociated—severing all communications and appearing to be going about their daily lives. Probably until they think the risk of getting arrested has blown over. A few members have fled Kiev. The rest, the die-hard members and leadership, are continuing to meet. A small core group, including Skorapporsky, are hunkered down in a commercial building owned by Skorapporsky’s father.”

“Talk about amateur hour,” Martin said, leaning back. Dempsey thought he saw a grimace ripple across his teammate’s face, but it disappeared quickly. “Do they really think they’re not being watched? What a bunch of rubes.”

Wang laughed at the comment, which Dempsey took as a good sign. He hadn’t heard the kid laugh in weeks.

“Indeed,” Baldwin agreed. “Ultra is a grassroots organization . . . a politically motivated street gang, if you will. Or better yet, a paramilitary activist—”

“They’re terrorists, Ian,” Dempsey said, cutting him off. “We’re not writing a thesis paper. Let’s move on. Can you give us an update on the warehouse where they’re lying low?”

The screen refreshed momentarily with a close-up of Baldwin’s left nostril, and then his distorted face was replaced by a static satellite image of an industrial park along a bend in the Dnieper River, the main waterway running through the heart of Kiev. A bridge crossed the river, but instead of handling residential traffic, it appeared to be intended for shuttling material back and forth between the warehouses on the southwest bank and the manufacturing facilities on the north. A red arrow appeared on-screen, pointing to a building just north of the bridge.

“A half-dozen individuals appear to be living in this warehouse building and up to a dozen others come and go.” As Baldwin talked, the satellite image switched from a daytime color to a perfectly matched static thermal image. “As you can see, they are using a rotating security schedule, with two perimeter sentries roving and a pair stationed inside at all times.”

“What about Skorapporsky?” Munn asked.

“We’re tracking his phone,” Baldwin said. “He’s sleeping at the facility and rarely leaves.”

“So, we’re sure Viktor isn’t a Zeta?” Dempsey said.

“Ninety-eight percent confidence interval.”

“Then which one of these guys is? Because there’s no way Ultra pulled a hit like that off by themselves.”

“We don’t know, but we’ve been working overtime to answer that question,” Baldwin said. “And we believe it is this man.”

The screen split and a new photograph appeared—an insanely grainy black-and-white security cam capture of a clean-shaven, dark-haired Caucasian. In the image, the man’s head was turned in profile. Without even asking, Dempsey knew the image quality was too poor for an effective facial recognition database search.

“Greaaaaat picture,” Wang grumbled.

“Yes, I know, Richard,” Baldwin said. “It is not ideal, but it is the only face shot we have. However, the Ukrainian Security Service has been very helpful and given us access to all relevant archive data. Using our body-form algorithm, the system flagged this man dozens of times in the vicinity of Ultra’s previous meetinghouse. With a ninety percent confidence interval, I can say he attended the last all-hands Ultra meeting the day before the attack.”

“But you didn’t get any other face shots?” Munn asked, incredulous.

“No, he seemingly knows the exact location and angle of every camera in the vicinity of the Ultra safe houses.”

“Then that’s Arkady’s guy,” Dempsey said. “Only a pro could pull that off. What about at the industrial park? Have we picked him up on any cameras there since the attack?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“That makes sense,” Dempsey said, a fire growing in his chest. “More confirming evidence. After mission accomplished, there wouldn’t be any reason for this guy to continue associating with Ultra. The best plan would be to cut ties and not leave any direct link between Ultra and Zeta.”

“That’s why grabbing Viktor Skorapporsky is our best play,” Munn said. “He’s just one link removed from this dude.”

“All right, Skora . . . pporsky, or however the fuck you say his name, is the mission. Whatever you do, people, do not kill this guy,” Dempsey said. “Everyone clear?”

“Clear,” the team replied in unison.

“All right, let’s brief it,” he said. “Is Ground Branch good to go as our quick reaction force?”

“Yes,” Baldwin said, and a new red dot appeared on the satellite map. “The CIA safe house they’ll be staging from is located here. You’ll have a four-man team as backup.”

“Are they read in on the op?” Dempsey asked, his tone implying he hoped to hell not.

“Negative,” Baldwin replied. “I will parlay your instructions after we conclude here, but DNI feels, and obviously I agree, that the less the world knows about Viktor Skorapporsky’s fate, the better. We want to keep the circle tight and control the narrative.”

“Good,” Dempsey said and got to his feet. He paced toward the big screen and Munn handed him a laser pointer. Dempsey lit up the cargo bridge leading over the river.

“I think a waterside infil here is best,” he said, the SEAL inside taking over. “We’ll insert upriver here . . .” He lit up a point a quarter mile north of the bend in the river, trying to keep the swim short for Martin, who had still not fully recovered. “Munn and Martin will exit the water here, while I continue south another hundred yards to move from the other corner.”

“What about me?” Grimes asked.

“You’ll set up as overwatch here,” Dempsey said, pointing at a six-story apartment building across Naberezhno-Khreshchatytska Street, a good two hundred and fifty yards east.

Grimes shook her head. “I’m of no use to you there, John. Maybe I get a line on the roadside sentry, but after that I just sit and wait, with no line on anything inside, nor on the best exfil, which is waterside.”

“Here, then,” Dempsey said, pointing at a taller building southeast of the X and past the bridge. “No obstruction, line on the waterside, and still some angles streetside.”

“But nothing gives me a line inside, where all the shitheads will be.” Grimes held his eyes.

Dempsey knew what she was going to say. He also knew she was right, but he made her ask anyway. Sure, it was immature, but since when had that ever stopped him? He folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow.

“You need me inside, John,” she pressed. “You know that. Hitting a building with only two outside sentries and a half-dozen or more shooters inside calls for another assaulter rather than an overwatch.”

“Yeah, well, have you ever done a maritime infil?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“No,” she said. “But I’ve trained for it. I’m good on scuba.” She mimicked him by crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “And you’ve seen me swim a three-K in the pool. Besides, this body is beach ready, remember?”

With that comment, he broke. “Okay, so Grimes is with me,” he said through a laugh. “That means Baldwin’s overwatch. Any chance you can have an armed drone in orbit, just in case?”

“For tonight?” Baldwin said, making a show of checking his watch. “Unlikely, but miracles have been known to happen.”

“Tell me we’re good on the exfil; if not, we’ll have to push it back,” Dempsey said.

“As luck would have it, Ground Branch has an experienced boat driver in theater. Both he and his boat are standing by. You just need to finalize details with him.”

“Excellent,” he said, then doing his best George Peppard, added, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

Only Munn chuckled.

“C’mon, really? Hannibal from The A-Team . . . Nobody?” Dempsey said, then waved a hand, dismissing all of them. “Ahhh, you guys suck.”

“Med ops?” Grimes asked, looking past him to Munn, keeping them on task.

“We’re tiny, so it’s just me for now. CASEVAC is back here to the Boeing unless it’s urgent surgical. If that’s needed, we fall in on a civilian hospital—the Cardiac Hospital on Melnikova Street, which I’ve already loaded as a waypoint on everyone’s GPS app. DNI will deconflict this for us if needed, but it’ll raise a big-ass flag nonetheless, so best to avoid it if we can. Don’t get shot,” Munn said and looked at Martin. “That means you, dude.”

“Roger that,” Martin said with a chuckle. “Don’t get shot.”

“But if you feel you must,” Dempsey said, “then get shot somewhere relatively unimportant.”

This finally got a laugh from the group, and Dempsey felt more like himself than he had in a while. Now this was an operation worthy of a frogman—not some assassination in a park dressed like a hobo who’d shit his pants. Finally, they were back to doing the Team-level operations he did best.

He looked at his watch. “All right everybody, we’ve got seven hours to prep and get set. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go . . .”

As the world’s most elite operators cleared the room, Munn clapped Dempsey on the back and smiled. They locked eyes but no words were needed between them. Ember SAD was back, and God have mercy on anyone who tried to get in their way.