Collateral (Tier One #6)

Lead SUV of a Four-Vehicle Convoy

H-08 Highway

Fifty-Five Kilometers Northwest of Mariupol, Ukraine

October 2

0055 Local Time

“So . . . we’re certain that Ukrainian forces are controlling this highway in and out of Mariupol, correct?” Dempsey asked, changing hands on the steering wheel.

“That’s the intel,” Chunk said from the passenger seat. He opened a laptop and shoved a satellite antenna up onto the dash and went to work. As the SEAL officer tapped away on the secure computer, Dempsey assumed he was asking whoever he had running intel for them—probably all the way back aboard the USS Gerald R. Ford—for confirmation on the checkpoint. “Hold on . . .”

Dempsey flipped his NVGs up on his helmet and strained to see what was going on ahead of them. Whoever was clustered in both lanes of the highway wasn’t trying to be covert, as headlights were blazing from at least two large vehicles. He eased off the accelerator and let the SUV drift slowly to a stop without signaling as much with brake lights.

“Home Plate, you got ears on?” Dempsey asked, talking over the Ember microtransmitter in his left ear. He definitely wanted to hear what Chunk’s N2 intel guys had to say, but Wang was Ember. And he had Baldwin and the rest of the team in Tampa backing them up.

“Yeah, I got ya, Yankee One. I show you three miles west of Rozivka. I just hacked the radio comms at the checkpoint—God, these guys love shoving consonants together. Can I buy a vowel already?” Dempsey smiled, relieved to hear the old Wang in his ear. “I got a cluster of vehicles on the H-08, just ahead of you and west of town. We have satellite, but no drone this far out. Let me zoom in and see what’s going on . . .”

“Check.”

“JD, my guys confirm that Ukrainian forces are controlling movement in and out of Mariupol on the west side; for now, they still own the M14 between Odessa and Mariupol,” Chunk said, relaying the intel streaming onto his tablet, “but farther east is a crapshoot. The Russians are already across the border and in the city. They seem to control the H-20 from Mariupol north for a good distance. They’re moving armor south on that highway, though I have no fucking clue how they got armor in place that fast. Must have had it pre-staged in the DPR. More importantly, my guys are equally clueless who the hell these guys are up ahead.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much help, either,” Wang added. “These assholes all look alike and I’m not sure how to tell Ukrainians from Russians, let alone good guy Ukrainians from pro-Russian separatists. And the Ukrainian military doesn’t have the best command and control going on. So here’s what I see—you have a group of nine armed soldiers with a technical, plus two drivers,” Wang reported, referring to the heavy machine gun mounted in the bed of one of the vehicles. “No markings on the truck, but they are those big-ass KrAZ-6322 trucks, the newer ones that the Ukrainian Army uses. I’m trying to find out from our friends in Dnipro if Ukrainian forces set up another checkpoint this far out, but as I said . . .”

“No way to know,” Dempsey said.

“No way to be sure,” Wang confirmed.

The four-vehicle convoy of up-armored Chevy Suburbans that Dempsey and Team Four were cruising in were running blacked out—with no headlights—and all of them on NVGs. So far, there was no indication that anyone at the checkpoint had seen them.

“Russians would be running satellite and probably drone overflight surveillance, right?” Chunk asked, flipping up his NVGs and looking over at Dempsey in the dim red glow from the low-level dashboard lights. “Maybe these guys are militia? We know the Ukrainians conscript local help when needed.”

It made sense, but Dempsey still didn’t like it. Something felt off.

“Let’s roll up, lights on, and see what we get,” he said, fishing out the identification cards General Antonets’s people had provided, along with a letter from the Ukrainian Minister of Defense stating that they were operating in an official capacity in support of the Ukrainian Army. If this was a Ukrainian military checkpoint, or even local militia, then they were sure to be anti-Russia and their paperwork would suffice.

But if this is Russian military or the fake pro-Russian separatists staffed by undercover Spetsnaz operators, then we’re gonna be in some hot shit . . .

“You sure?” Chunk said.

“Maybe we hold back two, just in case.”

“Yeah,” the SEAL said and keyed his mike. “Vehicles Three and Four, drift wide left and right, hold back and give us some sniper overwatch. Lead and Two are going to roll up and see what’s going on.”

Dempsey switched on his headlights and accelerated into the left lane as vehicle two, carrying Munn and two of Chunk’s SEALs, pulled in behind them. The other two SUVs stayed back, stationary with their lights off, to support sniper coverage.

“They see you now,” Wang said in Dempsey’s ear. “They’re spreading out in cover behind their trucks, and they got someone up on the technical.”

Dempsey looked at his tablet, sitting on the center console. It was streaming Wang’s satellite feed, which zoomed in on the soldiers beside the trucks.

“I hope they’re Ukrainians,” he said, looking over at Chunk.

The SEAL officer grimaced. “Me too.”

They were still two hundred meters away. If these guys didn’t have drones and satellites like Dempsey and his team—and didn’t have sentries watching from the shadows farther up the road—then there was a good chance they didn’t know about the rear two SUVs. Grimes and Saw, their two snipers, wouldn’t have any height advantage, but they could at least take out the heavy gunner if things went to shit.

“Zeus One, in position,” Saw reported.

“Zeus Two is set,” Grimes called in a heartbeat later.

Dempsey took off his helmet and handed it to Trip, who was sitting in the seat behind him. “I’m gonna need that back,” he said with a grin, as Chunk did the same with his helmet.

“Since when did I become the luggage bitch?” Trip said, but tucked the two helmets with NVGs out of view.

Dempsey looked over at Chunk. “All right, here we go. If this is nothing, we’ll just let them know we have two more in trail, and then we cover them as they pass the checkpoint. If this is something evil, we’re offset and have snipers on the heavy gunner at least.”

“Solid.” Chunk nodded. “I like it.”

Dempsey eased his way into the checkpoint, keeping the speed down nice and low. As they closed the last fifty meters, all the checkpoint shooters—along with the DShK 12.7 mm heavy gunner, turned their muzzles on Dempsey’s vehicle. His heart rate ticking up a notch, Dempsey drifted slowly to a stop, turning the Suburban slightly at the last second to open up a line of fire for the SEAL Team Four operator in the middle seat. He rolled down his window, showing his hands. To his right, Chunk did the same.

“Zeus One has the heavy gunner,” Saw’s quiet voice said in his ear.

“Zeus Two is on the two guys approaching Vehicle One,” Grimes said in the calm, singsong manner that meant she was in her sniper zone.

The soldier apparently in charge approached, his rifle slung on his shoulder. A younger man beside him aimed at Dempsey through the windshield over his iron sight.

“AKS assault rifles,” Chunk murmured. “That’s a Ukrainian military weapon. And those look like for-real Ukrainian uniforms . . . I think.”

Dempsey glanced over and gave him a tight grin, keeping his hands out the window.

“The separatists wore them, too, in the war in Donbas,” he said, remembering the confusing mix of good and bad guys they’d been briefed on. “And uniforms are easy to get.” It was estimated that more than half the combatants in Donbas were covert Russian paramilitary posing as Ukrainian separatists. Casey had warned them that this was almost certainly how the Russians would try to confuse the narrative in this conflict as well.

So, who are these guys—Ukrainians, or Russians pretending to be Ukrainians?

The lead soldier shouted a command at Dempsey.

“I believe he’s ordering you to step out of the vehicle,” Baldwin said in Dempsey’s ear, speaking for the first time. “One moment . . . Voice analysis suggests this is native Ukrainian; however, the Ukrainian and Russian vocabularies overlap by sixty percent, so I’ll need to hear more to be certain.”

Awesome. Very helpful, Ian.

“No,” Dempsey said loudly out the window, then used one of the few Ukrainian phrases he had memorized to explain they were Americans with official paperwork.

The lead officer seemed to relax—but only a little. The young soldier beside him didn’t flinch and kept his rifle trained on Dempsey’s face, his finger inside the trigger guard.

“Do you speak English?” Munn asked from the passenger window of Vehicle Two beside them. Dempsey realized that was smart—getting straight to the point and speaking in English. The next ten seconds would answer a lot of questions.

The lead officer didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled a small tablet—or perhaps a large mobile phone—from his pocket and appeared to snap pictures of them. Next, he cautiously approached the window, where Dempsey slowly and deliberately handed over their ID cards and letter from the Ukrainian Minister of Defense. Beside him, Chunk was squinting to see through the dirty windshield as the man inspected their documents, but Dempsey also noted the SEAL checking his SOPMOD M4 without looking down.

“You set, Bart?” Chunk said over his shoulder to the SEAL behind him.

Dempsey saw it now—the mussed, spikey hair and the round nose. Damn if the young SEAL didn’t look a bit like Bart Simpson . . .

“Set, boss,” the SEAL said. “I got the two guys hanging back on the right.”

“I’ll take the officer at my door,” Dempsey whispered, and brought his own hands in, draping his left hand casually over the steering wheel, and the right gripping the rifle slung on his chest.

“Zeus Two has the ready shooter with the lead,” Grimes said in his ear, not missing a beat.

The ready shooter still had his rifle raised at the windshield but was aiming a bit more vaguely now, his cheek having come off the stock. Dempsey scanned the other shooters—all of whom had weapons raised but seemed more relaxed now. His eyes flicked up to the gunner on the technical in the back of the truck. The man’s right hand was still on one of the twin trigger handles, but his left now held a cigarette to his lips for a long drag.

Dempsey tapped his index finger against the trigger guard as he watched the officer inspect the letter carefully, using the light from the SUV’s headlights. Then he made a cursory inspection of the three ID cards for Dempsey, Chunk, and Bart. The officer said something to his cover man, who nodded and lowered his rifle to a relaxed carry. Then he called back to the men beside the trucks. The right-side truck—the one with the heavy machine gun—backed up ten feet or so, the gunner now pointing the deadly weapon down toward the deck. The officer then waved them through.

Dempsey pulled forward and let their SUV drift to a stop near the officer.

“Dyakuyu,” he said, thanking him and taking back their documents. “There will be others coming behind us, okay? Understand? Rozumlyete?”

The officer nodded and saluted them. Dempsey maneuvered the Suburban between the two trucks, Riker and Munn on his tail.

“Three and Four, give us a half mile or so and then pull up and do as we did.”

A double-click in his ear told him his message had been received.

“Hold overwatch a minute until we’re clear,” he added as an afterthought.

Can’t be too careful . . .

The second SUV, with Riker at the wheel, pulled up beside them, Riker grinning and Munn giving him a thumbs-up. Trip handed Dempsey and Chunk their NVGs back and everything was perfect, until it all changed in an instant.

“Yankee One, it’s Mother. The lead officer is taking an incoming phone call. Something’s wrong—”

“The heavy gunner is back up,” Saw reported, his voice tight. “He’s spinning around and looks like he’s gonna engage . . .”

“They’re all repositioning. Get out of there!” Wang cried.

“Take him, Zeus,” Dempsey barked as he swerved left and accelerated hard. Riker broke right, just as a short burst of heavy machine gun fire exploded aft and flooded the gap between them. Tracers screamed past Dempsey on his right, but before the gunner could correct and drag the deadly fire across their SUV, the fire abruptly stopped.

“Gunner down on the technical,” Saw said.

“Lead officer is down,” Grimes called immediately after.

Dempsey jerked the SUV sideways on the road, donned his helmet, and crawled out the passenger door after Chunk just as bullets began to ping off the Suburban’s body panels and stars appeared on the bulletproof glass. Unlike the 12.7 mm technical, the regular rifle fire posed little risk of penetrating the up-armored vehicle’s cabin. Dempsey pulled down his NVGs, placed his green IR designator on a fighter firing from the back of one of the trucks, and squeezed the trigger, dropping the man. He shifted his aim left, found a second target, and squeezed again.

“North truck driver down,” Grimes said, in her zone, confirming another kill.

“South driver down,” Saw added.

It was over before Dempsey’s heart rate even had a chance to climb. With Saw and Grimes on the roofs of the SUVs behind the blockade, augmented by three more of Chunk’s SEALs plus Martin, the deadly crossfire had finished the enemy in mere seconds.

“Clear,” Dempsey said, rising from behind the bullet-pocked truck. “On me,” he said.

He led the other five men, including Munn, Riker, Chunk, Bart, and another SEAL, up the road, fanning out and scanning over their weapons at the carnage they’d left in their wake.

“Hold until we clear you through, Zeus Two,” he called to Grimes.

“Check,” she replied.

“Roads are clear, Yankee. I hold no inbound trouble. Repeat, no inbound,” Wang said in his ear. “That includes thermal, by the way. But be aware, someone at the checkpoint sent a message off before the incoming phone call and the firefight.”

“A message to who?”

“No idea—but it was heavily encrypted.”

“More than we would expect from regular Ukrainian Army—which I think we all agree these men were not,” Baldwin added. “And they’re too sophisticated for local militia or separatists. This event would seem to have a Russian signature on it.”

Dempsey thought about the pictures the officer in charge had snapped with his phone.

Fuck . . .

“Well, that means someone knows we’re here.”

“Agreed, Yankee One. Recommend you clear out quickly,” Baldwin said.

They fanned out in a loose perimeter, scanning the checkpoint for survivors. The heavy machine gunner was draped over the truck’s railing like someone’s dirty laundry, the top of his head missing from the eyebrows up, courtesy of Saw’s sharp sniping. The officer in charge was crumpled on his side with a round hole over his left eye and much of the back of his skull missing. God, I love ya, Grimes. The rest of the soldiers were sprawled out dead in various positions where they’d fallen.

“Man, I hope we didn’t just kill a whole bunch of Ukrainians,” Chunk said, shaking his head at the carnage. “Gonna be hard to explain this to General Antonets if we did.”

“Yeah,” Dempsey said absently, while thinking of their secondary mandate—to find and capture the suspected Zeta and GRU troublemaker Maksim Kuznetsov. Was that who the lead officer had sent their photos to? Was it Kuznetsov who’d called and ordered the attack? He used a boot to roll the dead officer onto his back, then fished the large cell phone from the man’s oversized BDU-style breast pocket. He dropped the device into his own thigh cargo pocket. Moments later, SUVs Three and Four arrived at the checkpoint, lights out. Through the windshield, Dempsey saw Grimes riding shotgun, her face lit from below on night vision by the dashboard lights. She gave Dempsey a thumbs-up as they passed, and he nodded in reply.

“Man, that girl is badass,” Chunk said with more than admiration in his voice. “Where do I get me one of those?”

“Not at Hot Tuna or any of the places you hang out, boss,” the SEAL called Bart said with a grin.

“That’s fair,” Chunk said as they hustled back to their Suburbans.

“We need to roll,” Dempsey said, feeling the urgency as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, but the problem is—they know where we’re going,” Munn added. “There’s nothing on the other end of this road other than Mariupol.”

“But they don’t know about the rescue op,” he said.

“And what about the other objective?” Chunk asked as he slid into the passenger seat. “The super-secret squirrel shit you and your team’s got going on?”

Dempsey sighed. Any SEAL team could rescue the CIA officers stranded in Mariupol. Ember’s tasking was to capture Kuznetsov to prove that this entire conflict was a Russian operation to annex southern Ukraine. In his heart, Dempsey was certain that Kuznetsov, if not an active Zeta, at least reported to the Zeta spymaster—because when it came to Russian false flag operations, all roads led to Zhukov.

“Yeah, well.” Dempsey straightened the truck out on the road and continued heading toward Mariupol, lights out. “If this dude is connected with who we think he is, the benefit is worth the extra risk.” He glanced at Chunk, who nodded. Chunk got it. He’d been there at the Ember hangar in the aftermath of the Zeta attack.

“Amen, brother,” the SEAL said and started packing a dip. “You know I always got your back.”

“Hey, Home Plate?” Dempsey said, pinging Wang.

“Go, Yankee One,” Wang answered after a second’s delay.

“It’s probably a good time to let our friends at Mariupol Maritime Logistics know we’re coming. Now that someone knows we’re here, we’re not gonna have time to fuck around.”

“Copy that, Yankee,” Wang said.

“And keep running your voodoo magic, Home Plate. Find me my target in Mariupol.”

“I’m on it.”

“We’re gonna have to be quick about this whole thing,” Chunk said, a polite way of saying what they were both thinking. As usual, Murphy’s Law was intervening to make their already overly ambitious tasking virtually impossible.

The Russian Army was already in Mariupol.

And now, it appeared, that Army knew they were coming.