Collateral (Tier One #6)

Dnipropetrovsk International Airport

Dnipro, Ukraine

140 Miles Northwest of Mariupol

1845 Local Time

Dempsey stepped out of Ember’s Boeing 787 and onto the landing at the top of the airstair.

This place smells like shit, he thought, expecting fresh air but getting a waft of sewage truck instead.

“Well, isn’t this another lovely fucking place you’ve found for us, John?” Munn gave a tight grin over his shoulder as they descended the rusty rolling airstair that had been pushed up against the Boeing by an ancient-looking pickup truck with one flat tire. Dempsey, a large duffle over one shoulder and a hard Pelican case in the other hand, followed his teammate to the bottom of the creaky stairs and out onto the cracked cement.

“Any place that has an actual runway—much less an airstair—is an improvement over most of the places we’ve fought in over the years, Dan.”

“That’s fair,” Munn said with a chuckle, but Dempsey saw the SEAL-turned-surgeon-turned-spook wink at Grimes, who smiled back, her own gear weighing her down.

Dempsey scanned the area around him while turning in a full circle to get his bearings. Across the runway was a line of corporate jets, a mix of sleek western and boxier Russian designs that, he supposed, embodied the schizophrenic nation of Ukraine—a former Eastern bloc, Soviet Union state trying desperately to transform into a Western capitalist nation. To the north of the runway in the western corner of the airfield was a series of old-school alert hangars with a handful of Su-25 attack jets in front of them, but no vehicles or personnel in sight.

In the center of the field, he noticed the frame of a large uncompleted building—a future terminal they’d learned was being built by the Ukrainian airline Dniproavia, until funds had dried up. Just beyond the trees to his left, he identified the long noses of five MiG-29 fighter jets, each with a generator unit beside it and a modern-looking fuel truck off to the left. There, a jeep sat with its lights on and three heavily armed soldiers paced casually around the line of jets. Beside the main terminal, two Mi-8 armed transport helicopters sat on either side of a row of Mi-24 helicopter gunships. And last but not least, he saw the sewer truck he’d smelled on arrival, rolling in their direction, in preparation to empty their sanitary tanks.

“Not much civilian activity for a supposed international airport,” Martin chuckled as he dropped his gear on the ground. “I didn’t know this was, like, an active fighter base.”

“Ukrainian Air Command East is co-located with the civilian airport,” Grimes said. “And they have helicopters here most of the time—or at least that’s what Casey said in the brief. There’s an antiaircraft missile brigade command out of here, with S-300s and a bunch of support stuff. There aren’t usually fighters at this location, so this must be where the Ukrainian Air Force intends to counter the Russians from.”

A black car—flags fluttering from posts above each headlight—appeared on the tarmac, heading their direction.

“Oh look, here comes the welcome wagon,” Dempsey said.

The car pulled up and a young man in a Ukrainian military uniform—which to Dempsey looked very Russian in style—climbed out of the front passenger seat. He hustled to the rear door, opened it, then snapped to attention and saluted. A tall, solidly built man emerged, dressed in a smartly appointed uniform. The VIP approached them, hand out in greeting. As Dempsey shook it, the senior officer flashed him a broad, infectious smile.

“I am General Valeriy Antonets, commander of Air Command Centre,” the General said in accented English. He shook Dempsey’s hand hard enough to signal he was a fellow warrior. “We are very grateful to have our American allies here with us.” Antonets released his hand and clapped him firmly on the shoulders with both hands. For a moment, Dempsey worried the man might lean in and kiss both of his cheeks, but instead the General let go and gestured in an arc around them. “It is not usually this quiet here, I assure you. This airfield moves nearly a quarter million passengers for Dnipropetrovsk Airline. That is no London or New York, but busy for a city the size of Dnipro. Given recent events, however, we have closed the airport for commercial travel. Russians are not above shooting down civilian airliners, as you are no doubt aware, and even more so if they can make it look like someone else’s fault.”

Dempsey instantly caught the not-so-subtle reference to Malaysia Airlines Flight 17. “I hear you,” he said, watching the General tug at his thick mustache.

Eyes twinkling with a fire Dempsey recognized all too well, Antonets gestured toward the row of MiG-29s. “Soon the skies will be filled with the sound of our fighters flying sorties, and together with our American allies, we will keep our people safe from Petrov’s pigs. I know it might not look like much to you, but what we lack in money and spare parts, we make up for in spirit. Our pilots have hearts of lions. We fight for our homes . . . for our freedom. You understand?”

“We understand,” Munn said, smiling. “Better than most.”

“And how can I support you while you are here? How can I help make your mission a success?”

“We were told you have supporting documentation that might smooth our travel en route to Mariupol?” Dempsey said, hoping that was still the case.

“Of course,” the General said. “When the rest of your team arrives, my plans and operations unit is waiting for you in the office inside the hangar. We will provide photo IDs as well as a letter from the Defense Minister. This will clear the way for you on your travels in Ukrainian-controlled areas but will have little value with any Russians you encounter in Mariupol. Perhaps, it may get you shot.”

The General laughed at this, and Dempsey found the laugh contagious, though the message unsettling.

“Our government believes your fate and ours are linked, General,” Munn said. “And we completely agree. It is an honor to serve with you against a fellow enemy.”

Dempsey turned at the sound of four turboprop engines beating the skies into submission to the southwest. The incoming Super Hercules landed on the main runway and taxied over to the wide ramp beside the administration building.

“It appears the rest of our team is here, General,” Dempsey said, and this time, he clapped the General’s shoulders, making sure to convey his own strength. “We appreciate the safety our aircraft and crew will enjoy with your jets and missiles protecting the skies and this airfield.”

As soon as the C-130J parked, the rear ramp dropped. A moment later, up-armored SUVs drove out and parked in an arc behind the tactical airlifter.

“Whatever your mission is, I hope it is a success,” the General said, perhaps believing if he hinted enough, they might read him into their op.

“I hope so, too, General. If it is, perhaps we can help keep this conflict short. If not, I look forward to fighting beside you and your men.”

The General let out a big belly laugh and turned to walk beside Dempsey toward the eight-man SEAL team climbing out to greet them.

“Then I hope you have wings, my friend,” the General said, clapping him on the back one last time before peeling off and heading to his car. “I only rain down death from the sky! You call me if you need me . . .”

“We’ll do that, General,” Dempsey said, smiling as he watched the man slip back into his long black car.

“That ain’t their whole Air Force, I hope,” Martin quipped once Antonets had departed. He looked back over his shoulder at the short row of jets behind them on the alert ramp. The former MARSOC Marine tightened the sling on the suppressed MCX on his chest and unconsciously ran his hands over his ammo pouches. “’Cause we may actually need some close-in air support on this one.”

Dempsey nodded, but his attention was on the SEALs as he squinted to make out the man he was looking for. When a stout, powerfully built operator came strolling down the ramp, fully kitted up for battle, a grin spread across Dempsey’s face. He raised his hand, but instead of waving back, Lieutenant Commander Keith “Chunk” Redman stopped on the ramp, put his hands on his hips, and shook his head. The SEAL waited like that until Dempsey was standing toe to toe in front of him.

“You . . . son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch . . .” Redman said. Behind the officer, three of the gathered SEALs were smiling, while the others exchanged worried looks. “I thought this would be just another easy-day rescue op—eight Americans caught in the crossfire between indistinguishable Slavic forces, in the middle of a Russian invasion backed up by advanced fire power, cruise missiles, and nukes. But now that you’re here, I know with absolute certainty that the shit will really hit the fan.”

“It’s good to see you too, Chunk,” Dempsey said, extending his hand to the SEAL officer who was close to ten years his junior.

Chunk broke, bursting into a laugh as he ignored the hand and instead wrapped Dempsey up in a bear hug—practically lifting him off the ground. As he crushed Dempsey in the embrace, he quietly said, “Bro, I’m so sorry about how everything went down. I haven’t been able to get Newport News out of my head.”

Dempsey returned the hug, then gave Chunk’s back a slap. “We’re still putting the pieces back together, but thank you.”

With the somber business concluded, Chunk’s trademark tobacco-stained grin reappeared. “Damn. it’s good to see you.”

“You too, bro.” Dempsey looked past him at the other SEALs, some of whom he recognized from their last op together. “What’s up, Saw? Riker . . . Trip . . .” He nodded to the three men he’d fought and very nearly died beside the last time they took on Russian special forces.

“Mr. Dempsey,” Saw said, with a nod.

“What’s up, dude?” Riker asked with a smile.

Trip grinned and gave a mocking two-finger salute.

“It’s great to see you guys,” Dempsey said. “For real, man.”

“Lady Grimes,” Chunk said with a ridiculous bow. Grimes swatted him on the top of the head in response.

“Chunk,” she said and smiled. “Guys.”

“Doc, how are you?” Chunk said, turning to Munn. “Still regretting your decision to work with this death-cheating, terrorist-hunting, spooky-ass son of a bitch?”

“Every damn day,” Munn said, and shook Chunk’s hand.

“Well,” Chunk said, taking a step back as if to survey the lot of them. “I assume that since you guys are the ‘special task force’ that we were to meet up with—and I secretly hoped it was you, I promise—there must certainly be something else going on in Mariupol besides what the Head Shed briefed us on. I’m guessing that the rescue we came to execute is only the tip of some shit-covered iceberg, right?”

Dempsey shrugged but couldn’t suppress a wry chuckle.

“Then why don’t you step into my office and give me the skinny on whatever James-Bond-save-the-world bullshit you’re piling onto our OPORD?”

“I’d be delighted,” Dempsey said, leading the way up the ramp into the Super Hercules.

“Make sure we have all the ammo we can possibly carry, guys,” Chunk called over his shoulder. “John Dempsey and his team are coming along, so we’re definitely gonna need it.”

Then he joined Dempsey in the helicopter, leaving his boys to get to know Grimes, Munn, and Martin—all that was left of the Ember SAD.