Collateral (Tier One #6)

Ember Executive Boeing 787

Boryspil Airport

Kiev Oblast, Ukraine

1845 Local Time

Dempsey leaned forward, his hands and forehead against the cool wall of the shower, and let the cold water assault his neck and back until he was shivering. It was a popular myth that BUD/S and a career of swim training and ocean operations made Navy SEALs immune to the cold. For Dempsey, it was the complete opposite—he hated being cold. But the cold brought the comfortable familiarity of being on mission, and it helped focus his weary mind and renewed his aching muscles when he needed it most.

When the shivering was no longer bearable, he toweled off and pulled on a black long-sleeve pull over and BDU-style cargo pants. Then he padded on bare feet to the bunkroom, where he grabbed fresh socks from his locker. A printed screen capture image taped on the inside of the locker door drew his eye. In the image, his son Jake—dressed in his high school graduation robes—was standing next to his ex-wife, Kate. They had their arms around each other and they were smiling. Not those fake smile for the camera expressions people had perfected for their curated social media selves, but real, genuine, and loving smiles. Instinctively, Dempsey smiled back.

Then his smile faded and another emotion took its place . . . regret. The picture was six months old.

He shut the locker door, put on his socks and boots, and headed to the conference room, where the after-action debrief on last night’s Ultra snatch-and-grab was already in progress.

Baldwin was talking on the center screen of a bank of monitors, livestreaming from Florida, while Munn stood at the head of the table, tapping away with one finger at a time on a laptop.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Wang said, reaching under Munn’s beefy arms with his own spindly appendages to jam out a flurry of keystrokes in less than a second. “Just let me do it.”

The screen split and a static image of the wrecked SUVs on Naberezhne Road filled the left side of the screen, map coordinates and the date in green at the bottom suggesting the image originated from the drone supporting their mission last night. The right side of the screen showed the face of the man in the sedan—the one they believed to be a Zeta operator. Baldwin’s video stream shifted to the adjacent monitor.

“I wanna send a bottle of hooch to that dead-eye drone operator who saved our asses,” Dempsey said, slipping into the high-backed chair beside Grimes, who had changed into jeans and a 5.11 Tactical half-zip fleece.

“Done, JD,” said Chip, who was serving as Baldwin’s sole mentee while Dale was learning how to breathe without his trach back in Virginia.

Dempsey gave the kid a thumbs-up, which Chip mirrored back over Baldwin’s right shoulder.

“It’s regrettable that we were not able to reacquire what we assume to be our primary target, the man on the right side of the screen—whom we are now designating by the call sign Ipabog—”

“I’m not calling him Ipabog, bro,” Martin said with a chuckle.

“It was my idea,” Chip chimed in enthusiastically. “Ipabog was the Slavic god of the hunt, so I thought it would be—”

“I don’t care if it’s the name on his fucking birth certificate, dude,” Munn interrupted. “We ain’t calling him Ipabog. Call him Oscar, since he’s our primary objective.”

“See? I told you,” Baldwin said, turning to Chip.

Dempsey chuckled and shook his head. Now this . . . this is what normal felt like. They all needed less moping and more of this.

“So,” Baldwin continued, adjusting his glasses. “Oscar remains at large with no discernable trail. Our programs have been scanning real-time imagery and historical data from cameras throughout Kiev for facial matches, but suffice it to say, we have not received any notifications. That suggests he moved through Kiev with practiced and determined countersurveillance efficiency.”

“Hardly surprising,” Munn added. “He’s a Zeta.”

“Are you implying they’re better than we are?” Martin quipped from his corner.

And we were doing so well there for a minute, Dempsey thought, shaking his head. He shot the Marine a let’s not go there look.

“Sorry,” Martin said. “My bad.”

“So . . . as I was saying, Oscar remains at large,” Baldwin continued, as Buz and Allen appeared in frame next to him. “But before all of you start pushing for follow-on resources and tasking to prosecute him, DNI Jarvis asked that once the team was assembled, we set aside a moment for him to share some staffing and tasking changes. Chip, if you could loop Director Jarvis in for us, please?”

The screen flickered and the drone images disappeared, replaced with a shockingly grim-faced Jarvis. Heavy, dark bags hung under the DNI’s eyes, and he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Thanks, Ian, and thanks, team, for your commitment and all the sacrifices you have made and continue to make to serve your country in the capacity you do. I know your ranks are thin and I know you are reeling from your recent battle damage, but the work you’re doing is critical to this administration and to moving the nation forward. We will find and prosecute Spetsgruppa Zeta and Arkady Zhukov, but right now I have more pressing matters to discuss with you. First and foremost, I want to thank Signals Chief Baldwin for rising to the occasion and filling the billet of Acting Ember Director for the past months while we all tried to regain our footing. I know I asked a lot of you, Ian, and you worked tirelessly and without complaint to hold the team together during a very dark and difficult time. We are grateful and we are proud.”

Dempsey glanced away from Jarvis and saw that Baldwin’s eyes had gone wet with emotion. He looked like he was about to say something, but instead he just swallowed hard to keep his composure and nodded. Chip reached up and gave Baldwin a squeeze on the shoulder. The poignant moment took Dempsey by surprise and tugged on his own heartstrings. Until hearing Jarvis say it, he’d not fully appreciated the burden their Signals Chief had been expected to carry. The man was not an operator, not a SEAL. He was an academic who had shown the mettle and commitment of a SEAL under pressure.

“And I’d like to thank Munn for stepping in as Operations Officer,” Jarvis continued. “Bravo Zulu, Dan, for all your hard work and for wearing two hats when we needed you most.”

Wang gave Munn a fist bump, and then everyone—on both sides of the Atlantic—raised their fists in solidarity and gratitude to Baldwin and Munn.

“And with that, effective immediately, Buz Wilson will be taking over duties permanently as Ember Operations Officer.”

On-screen, Buz nodded. “Thank you, Director Jarvis for this opportunity. I won’t let you or my Ember teammates down.”

“I know you won’t,” Jarvis said with a knowing smile. “Next up, I’d like to introduce everyone to the new permanent Director of Ember, Commander Mike Casey. Mike . . .”

Dempsey looked around the room at his colleagues’ faces that appeared just as stunned as he felt.

Who in the holy fuck is Commander Mike Casey?

Jarvis shifted to the left side of the frame to make room for a man dressed in a navy blue suit. “Thank you, sir,” said the man, who appeared to be in his early forties. “I’m honored you and the President have entrusted me with the opportunity to lead and serve with the brave men and women of Ember.”

Dempsey leaned forward and strained his eyes to see the miniature gold warfare insignia on the man’s suit lapel.

Are those dolphins? Is this guy a fucking submariner? He screwed up his face and looked at Munn. Is this some sort of joke or have we died and gone to hell?

Munn just shrugged.

“As some of you may or may not know,” Casey said, “for the past two months I’ve been serving as Director Jarvis’s Deputy Chief of Staff—where I worked closely with Petra Felsk. Prior to that, I was the liaison between General McMillan’s staff and the Pentagon’s Strategic Capabilities Office. Before my Pentagon tour, I did a stint at the War College and before that served as CO of the USS Tucson (SSN-770), a fast boat nuclear submarine out of Pearl . . .” He paused and took the time to look at all of them. “I wish we had time for a proper indoc so we could get to know each other, but as you are no doubt aware, the crisis in the Ukraine is reaching critical velocity. I’ll be flying to Tampa tomorrow morning to relieve Director Baldwin. In the meantime, I’m going to brief you on what is going on in Mariupol, then discuss new tasking that the President and DNI Jarvis have for us. Any questions before I dive in?”

It was as if he were daring Dempsey to ask how in the holy hell a submariner was qualified to lead the most lethal, covert direct-action team in the world. But Dempsey was too smart to take a bite at that apple.

“Very well,” Casey said and briefed the team on the chaos unfolding in the Black Sea and Mariupol.

Dempsey listened intently as Ember’s new Director spoke with a quiet confidence that made it hard for him not to feel his knee-jerk cynicism at having a submarine brainiac at the helm of Ember begin to dissolve. After several minutes, the Hollywood-handsome Naval Officer’s face disappeared and was replaced by a video clearly captured on a mobile phone. The footage showed several armed paramilitary thugs with no discernable insignia, standing around a kneeling man pleading desperately in Ukrainian. As the kneeling man spoke, a different man in a dark-blue Nike zip-up sweat jacket walked up from behind and executed him with a headshot. The crowd around him raised rifles in celebration as the shooter turned casually on a heel, slipped the pistol into the waistband of his jeans, and brought a cigarette to his lips. The frame froze.

“What you just saw was the execution of Mariupol Mayor Bohdan Volovshyn.” The frozen video was replaced by a black-and-white photo of a man with close-cropped hair, wearing the uniform of Russian Infantry. “This is Maksim Kuznetsov, former Spetsnaz who was later recruited by GRU. He disappeared from known GRU activities about four years ago. Facial recognition confirms this is our shooter in the tracksuit. Apparently, he’s been living in Mariupol, existing and operating under a pro-Russian, anti-Zinovenko NOC for the past several years.”

“So Russia has covert agitators stirring shit up in Ukraine just like they did in Crimea and Donetsk?” Munn said.

“And executing Ukrainian government officials?” Grimes added, her expression incredulous.

“Yes on both counts,” Casey said. “Over the past twenty-four hours, the situation in Mariupol has deteriorated into a war zone. Petrov announced that Russia is sending ‘peacekeeping’ troops into Mariupol to protect native Russians and quell the violence. Russian troop carriers are moving in from the east and Russian armor is rolling south toward the city as we speak. Which brings us to our short-fuse mission.”

The screen image refreshed to show a building with a sign that read: mariupol maritime logistics.

“Mariupol Maritime Logistics is a CIA front company. The staff includes four CIA clandestine service officers, two analysts, and two GSR contractors for security.”

“Did you say only two?” Munn said.

Commander Casey’s face was on the screen again and his slow blink suggested he found the constant interruptions irritating.

Welcome to Ember, bro. You ain’t briefing bubbleheads anymore. This is how we operate. We question other people’s stupid-ass decisions, which is why we’re so damn good . . .

“Correct. It caught me off guard as well, but keep in mind that up until forty-eight hours ago, this operation was not considered a high-risk outpost. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Regardless, we don’t have time to worry about why, and instead need to focus on how to get these guys out of there before the Russians pierce their NOCs and hold them hostage, or worse.”

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Dempsey said, with a tone that, he was fully aware, suggested he wasn’t the least bit sorry and might even be enjoying it. “But we’re a little light here in SAD, as you may know. It’s really just four of us at present—”

“Five,” Wang interrupted. “Five of us.”

“Yeah, sorry, Dick,” Dempsey said with a smirk, before turning back to Casey. “As I was saying, it’s just the five of us in SAD, so I’m not sure how we got tasked for a rescue operation that pits us against the entire Russian army.”

Another tic of the man’s mouth suggested that, while he had no doubt been briefed on the very different style of management required at Ember, he wasn’t enjoying this first engagement so much.

Didn’t learn how to run a band of covert killers when you were at the War College, eh, Commander?

“From the after-actions I’ve been made privy to—most notably your superhero antics in Tehran—I would have thought that you in particular, Mr. Dempsey, would be chomping at the bit for a chance like this,” Casey said.

“Sick burn,” Munn whispered, half covering his mouth with his hand.

Dempsey shot his best friend a look.

“In all seriousness,” Casey continued, “you’re absolutely right. The DNI does not expect Ember SAD to go it alone. We’re going to augment for the operation.” A map of southern Ukraine filled the screen, and a red arrow appeared, pointing at a dot labeled Dnipro. “This is the city of Dnipro, located approximately one hundred fifty miles northwest of Mariupol. Ember’s SAD will head there immediately, under a war correspondent journalist team NOC, where you will join up with a platoon from SEAL Team Four.”

Munn looked over at Dempsey and smiled broadly.

Please, god of covert warriors, let it be Chunk and his boys.

“From what I understand, you have a history of working closely with these particular gentlemen . . .”

“Chunk, Chunk, Chunk,” Martin chanted and offered a high five to Grimes, but she crinkled her nose at the Marine and left him hanging.

“Oh c’mon, Lizzie, you know you love Chunk and his guys,” Munn said.

“Sure, just like I love how they can’t stop undressing me with their eyes every five minutes. You’d think those guys had never seen someone with tits before,” she said, shaking her head.

Sharing a brain, Munn, Wang, and Dempsey collectively turned and stared at her chest.

“You guys are such assholes,” she said, but the corners of her lips lifted, nonetheless.

“As I was saying, Lieutenant Commander Select Keith Redman is the OIC,” Casey said, appearing unfazed by their antics.

As a fast boat captain, maybe Casey has been around Team guys before, Dempsey thought. And I bet he hated it.

“Redman and his team will meet up with you at Dnipro, where you will together plan an operation to exfil the CIA contingent from Mariupol and, if possible, snatch Kuznetsov. If the opportunity to take him isn’t there, then kill him.”

The words were soft but unemotional, and Dempsey wondered if he had perhaps misjudged the submariner as not up to the bloody task of leading a task force such as theirs.

“Kuznetsov is the primary reason Ember’s joining this mission. We know Kuznetsov is GRU. And despite not having hard proof, the President, like us, is convinced that Zeta is playing an active role in Petrov’s Ukrainian campaign. It didn’t work out with Viktor Skorapporsky. So, we take our next shot. Amanda Allen is going to be spending some quality time with Sylvie Bessonov to try to confirm our suspicions and get the names of as many Zeta personnel operating in Ukraine as possible. In the meantime, I look forward to meeting you all in person in the coming weeks, and I’m honored to be part of Ember. I wish I had more time, but Baldwin needs to brief you on hard data points regarding the mission, and I . . . well, I need to pack.”

Without ceremony, Casey smiled, turned to shake Jarvis’s hand, then stepped out of frame.

“All right, folks,” Jarvis said. “That’s it for me. Godspeed and good luck.”

The feed went black, and Dempsey looked at Grimes, then Munn. “No bullshit, did either of you know about Casey?”

They both shook their heads.

“Seriously, because with the exception of Martin, I’m always the last to know shit around this place . . . What are you guys smiling about? You did fucking know, didn’t you?”

“I swear, dude,” Munn said, “I didn’t know.”

Dempsey narrowed his eyes at Munn, then turned to Grimes. “What about you, Freckles?”

She popped out of her chair and went after him. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that.”

“Uncle, uncle, uncle,” he said, ducking his head under his arms as she pummeled his shoulders while Wang and Munn looked on and laughed.