Collateral (Tier One #6)

Metro Cash and Carry Parking Lot

Outskirts of Mariupol, Ukraine

0315 Local Time

Dempsey studied the grainy photograph from the document packet General Antonets’s people had given him at the airport in Dnipro. Then, he looked at the dude crossing the parking lot to greet him. Unconvinced, he held the picture up, glancing back and forth until the asset was close enough that the resemblance satisfied his inner skeptic.

He hasn’t tried to shoot me yet, so I guess it’s him, he thought, shoving the photo back in his pocket.

“Greetings,” the Ukrainian said. He was tall, dressed in tactical BDUs and boots, but wore a long leather coat instead of a military blouse and kit. He sported a thick black beard and young eyes that—even in the middle of the night—shone with both fire and humor.

“You’re late,” Dempsey growled. “What the hell took you so long?”

“Apologies, my friend,” the man said in heavily accented English. “I regret that we had a few Russians to kill on our way here.” He gestured with a hand toward the south, where gunfire now rang almost constantly. “As you can see, this has become quite a bit more than the protests and looting they talk about on CNN.” As if in agreement, a loud explosion sounded in the distance. “This is war, yes?”

“You’ve seen Russian soldiers here in Mariupol?” Munn asked, stepping up beside Dempsey.

The barrel-chested Ukrainian looked Munn up and down. “You have never fought Russians before, I am assuming.”

Munn grinned and shook his head. “I wish that were true, my friend.”

The man raised an eyebrow and then his arms, grabbing Munn and surprising him with a kiss on the cheek.

“A killer of Russians, yes? So, you are my friend. And you also know that Russians in Ukraine do not wear uniforms. In Donbas, we fought the Russians, only they dressed like civilians and raised a reserve army of idiots from our own country. You can tell the Spetsnaz forces by how they fight. Unfortunately, they are here now.”

Chunk looked over at Dempsey and pursed his lips.

Dempsey nodded.

“Do not look so serious,” the Ukrainian fighter said to Dempsey. “You are the leader, yes? You have leader eyes. Is like a party, and you are all invited. I will tell you what I know and we will lead you to pick up your people. It is relatively quiet there, I think. Much of the fighting now is along the water, but mostly west of the river and south of the M14 highway. There is heavy fighting also around the government complexes, and a battle rages for control of Extreme Park, for some reason. Where we go to find your people is north of the industrial area along Vynohradna Street and east of the river.”

“We’re worried that the Russians may know we’re coming. They may be planning an ambush for us,” Dempsey warned.

“Well, we will see, yes?” the man said with a grin. “If yes, then we will kill more Russians. They will not take us easily like they did Crimea. If they want Mariupol, they will have to stand on our bodies on television and explain why.”

Dempsey nodded. “How many are you?”

“Only three, but we have a Range Rover,” the Ukrainian said, as if that fact somehow compensated for the other. “It’s very nice, leather seats, GPS, top of the line.”

“How long to get to the target?” Chunk asked, growing exasperated with the man’s antics.

“Perhaps an hour or maybe more. We will need to circle to the north around the heavy fighting to get there. We will see.”

Chunk looked over at Dempsey, true concern replacing his usually grinning face. “Gonna be running the hell out of nighttime on the exfil, dude,” the SEAL officer said.

“I know,” Dempsey agreed. They’d waited in this parking lot nearly an hour for this man and his Ukrainian fighters tasked to take them to the X. They should have just pushed on, but they might need them in a pinch, especially to help distinguish between the good and bad guys. “It is what it is.”

They wouldn’t have air exfil once they rescued the CIA team, or if anything went wrong—not in this hot area. No one wanted another Mogadishu, to be sure. They could maybe get CASEVAC if they got shot up once they were well west of town, but even that was an if. Close air support might be available, but probably not in time if they needed it. Russian fighters and attack aircraft were staged in nearby Crimea, while the US Air Force’s Raptors and the Marine’s F-35Bs were operating out of MK in Romania.

No, they were on their own—well, except for their guide, his two friends, and their souped-up Range Rover. Dempsey chuckled. The Ukrainian was starting to remind him of an Eastern European version of Munn, with a leather trench coat standing in for Munn’s red-checked lumberjack coat.

“Well,” he said. “Best we get going, then.”

The bearded man nodded. “You are Navy SEALs, yes? Badass, like Call of Duty.”

Riker laughed at that. “Something like that,” the SEAL said. “But way more badass than Call of Duty.”

There was some general chuckling all around, but then the bearded Ukrainian’s face got deadly serious. “We will see,” he said softly. Then he turned and headed for his truck, the shiny silver Range Rover, which Dempsey now saw was pocked with bullet holes.

“Hey!” Dempsey called after him. “What’s your name?”

“You may call me Boris,” the asset said, then laughed as if he were his own favorite stand-up comedian. “And what shall I call you?”

“Yankee One,” Dempsey said, then jerked a thumb at Chunk and said, “And he’s Yankee Two.”

“Yankee One, Yankee Two . . . I love it,” Boris chortled. “Death and comedy. This is our life, yes?”

“We’ll follow you,” Dempsey said, in no mood for joking. “Let’s get moving.”

Dempsey, the rest of the Ember team, and Chunk’s Team Four SEALs loaded up into their SUVs.

“Dude, no way we have time to go after Kuznetsov. We’re barely going to have time to exfil our primaries,” Chunk said from the passenger seat as Dempsey pulled the gear lever into drive and accelerated after the Range Rover.

Dempsey shook his head. “Time won’t be an issue.”

“How’s that?”

“Because if I’m right,” he said, looking at his friend and one of the finest SEALs he had fought beside, “Kuznetsov will find us.”

“Awesome,” Chunk said, shaking his head. “Fucking awesome.”

The drive to the industrial complex and rail yard where Mariupol Maritime Logistics was located took less time than expected. Even with the stops for Grimes and Saw, who were set up in a twin sniper overwatch configuration, the team was in position across the yard from the target building in an hour. But that didn’t change the fact that when dawn came, the sun would illuminate all things depending on the dark—including Dempsey and his night hunters.

“I don’t see anything going on,” Munn said, handing the night vision binoculars to Chunk, who was standing between him and Dempsey on the running board of the Suburban as they peered over the roof. “Sure we got the right place?”

“This is the only Mariupol Maritime Logistics building in the city,” Boris said from where he paced by the hood of the vehicle, seemingly oblivious to the easy target he would make for an enemy sniper. Or maybe the war-torn Ukrainian was a resigned fatalist, like Dempsey and most of the Team guys he knew.

“I didn’t mean you, Boris,” Munn said, his comment meant for those far away and in his ear. “You did great. It’s just that I don’t see any activity at all—not even any lights on.”

“They’re just using good light discipline,” Dempsey said, wanting to believe it. “Home Plate, do you have contact with the target? Any comms at all?”

“Negative, Yankee One,” Wang said, his voice a bit defensive. “You told me to wait on contact until you were in position.”

“And that was the right call,” Baldwin chimed in. “We simply have no idea how robust the Russian signals intelligence apparatus in the area might be. Best to avoid contact until you are ready to exfil.”

Baldwin was correct about the danger, he thought. Jonah Knight and his people better be ready, because he didn’t have time for handholding. Dempsey took the glasses and scanned the area around the target building in both directions and saw nothing of concern. No personnel. No suspicious vehicles. But he knew better than to trust the calm before the storm. Safety is an illusion.

Bad guys could be everywhere.

“Zeus One and Two—SITREP,” he called.

“Zeus One in position,” Saw said. “All quiet. I have a line on the north side and most of Hazova Street. I got nothing. No movement at the target either, but I can’t see inside. Looks like the windows are boarded up from the inside, and I have no light streams.”

“Zeus Two,” Grimes called in. “East of the target building with lines on the south side of the building. No tangoes. No movement. Quiet. Multiple vehicles in the rear lot, but no one inside I can see.”

“Check,” Dempsey said.

Time to go. We’ll know if it was a mistake in a minute.

“Home Plate, Yankee One—contact Liberty,” he said, using the call sign for the CIA team. “And loop us in.”

“Roger that, Yankee,” Wang said.

Dempsey waited, watching the target building through the night vision binoculars. Moments later, Wang came back in his ear, the transmission less crystal clear than usual. “Okay, MML chief,” he said to someone. “You’re designated Liberty. Go for Yankee.”

“Okay—so I’m putting my security chief on with you,” said an unfamiliar voice that Dempsey assumed belonged to Jonah Knight.

After a short pause and a mumble of other voices in the background, a new voice—this one confident and comms savvy—said, “Yankee, go for Liberty.”

Dempsey grinned. They were talking to the GRS lead now—a former operator, undoubtedly.

You can just tell . . .

“Liberty, Yankee—SITREP,” Dempsey said.

“Yankee, we have eight souls and all are five by. Two pros, one midlevel shooter, and five pieces of luggage, though three went through the short course, like, years ago. You?”

“All pros,” he said, and left it at that.

“Roger that,” the GRS lead replied. “Anyone wearing a bone frog?”

“Yes, most,” Dempsey said, glancing at Chunk and the other SEALs. The question told as much as it asked. Apparently, Liberty One was a former frogman. “How ’bout you guys?”

“Both of the pros.”

“Roger that,” Dempsey said with a smile.

“Yankee, we have wheels at the rear if needed,” Liberty said.

“Yankee—Zeus Two,” Grimes chimed in. “They have a panel van backed up tight at the back door, ass end toward the building with the rear cargo doors open. Looks like they have it staged for a quick-load getaway. Probably could pile everyone in the cargo hold in seconds and drive away. But be advised, it doesn’t look heavy,” she said, implying the van wasn’t up-armored.

Dempsey sighed. Pre-positioning the van was a good idea, but if Liberty got caught in a firefight trying to exfil the rail yard, rifle rounds would slice through the van’s thin sheet metal skin like a hot knife through butter. They could load up and then swap vehicles at the standoff location, but then the cat was out of the bag for anyone watching. On the other hand, the cat would be instantly out of the bag if Dempsey’s convoy suddenly rolled up to the front of the building for a rapid loadout. And he couldn’t fit eight people in a single SUV; it would take two. And sequential loading would eat up a lot of time . . . and it would be hard for his shooters to engage the enemy with CIA evacuees sprawled across their laps.

And, and, and . . .

Then an idea popped into his head.

“Liberty, does your panel van have slider doors on both sides or just the passenger side?” Dempsey asked.

“Both sides, Yankee,” Liberty came back.

“Okay, Liberty. I think I got a plan. Stand by.”

“Roger,” the GRS shooter said, his voice calm and measured.

Dempsey looked over at Munn and Chunk.

“I know what you’re thinking. Feint a pick-up at the front door, while we run ’em through the van and out both sides into two Suburbans at the back,” Munn said.

Dempsey nodded.

“Thing is, we gotta hold one truck back to pick up Zeus One and Two,” Munn said. “And if we park one out front as a decoy, we have fewer guns to provide covering fire if the bad guys are dug in and waiting to hit us.”

“All true,” Dempsey said. “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Munn shook his head. They both looked at Chunk.

The SEAL officer blew air through his teeth. “Having them come to us in that van would be a mistake. We brought these up-armored bad boys for a reason. We need to use them . . . I’ve just got a funny feeling we’re missing something.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dempsey said. “Home Plate, Yankee—area threat update?”

“Well,” Wang began. “You have Russian armor just north of the city at Novosibirska, where they seem to be staging for a push in. You are only about three and half miles as the crow flies—or in this case, the tank shell flies—so well within range, especially if they have spotters nearby who can light targets for them. They have Su-30s and the new Su-25SMs patrolling along the border, so that’s some serious shit there. In other words, they’ve got close air support in the region. Best to make this sneaky.”

“What about local thermal signatures?”

“We do see personnel working the rail yard, but we’ve been watching all the signatures and they seem to be legitimate night shift workers. None appear to be carrying rifles. And we don’t hold any stationary signatures in qualifying sniper locations—other than Zeus One and Two.”

Dempsey nodded. “Okay, that’s good . . . if Russian heavy guns roll in on us, do we have any fire support we can call on?”

“As providence would have it, after what happened at the checkpoint, Director Casey made some calls. We now have two Marine F-35Bs conducting touch-and-gos at Dnipro Airport, if you know what I mean.”

“No shit?” Dempsey said, smiling.

“No shit, indeed,” Baldwin interjected.

Well, maybe Director Bubblehead knows a little more about Spec Ops than I thought.

Dempsey suddenly wished he had a JTAC—a professional air controller embedded in the team to coordinate air strikes—like he had in the old days. To drop weapons in this urban environment without risking collateral, they would need precision.

“Time to get the F-35Bs on target?” he asked.

“Minutes from when they get the heads-up,” Baldwin said. “Also of note, there’s an F-22 Raptor CAP turning donuts over the Black Sea supporting two Navy warships. In an emergency, they could divert to assist.”

Dempsey scratched at his beard. “Alert the F-35s, Mother. We’re making our move in five mikes.”

“Roger,” Baldwin said.

“Liberty, Yankee One,” Dempsey said, his mind scrambling for a way to make his fellow frogman understand the plan without spelling it out on the comms. Despite the advanced encryption Ember was using, it was prudent to assume the Russians were listening.

“Go for Liberty,” came the reply.

“Stand by for relocation. We’re coming in hot to the front, but remember Talladega Nights. If you ain’t first—you’re last. And brother, you ain’t no Ricky Bobby.”

A long pause hung on the line.

“Seriously?” Munn quipped, rolling his eyes at Dempsey.

“Dude, there’s no frogman on earth who hasn’t seen Talladega Nights like twenty times,” Dempsey said.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna understand your dumbass secret code,” Munn fired back.

“Dude, I got the reference,” Chunk said.

“Yeah, but you heard the plan,” Munn fired back.

“Yankee, Liberty One—we gotcha. Liberty is standing by at the front door—shake and bake, baby.”

Dempsey briefed the plan to the rest of the team and gave each driver his assignment, with Vehicles One, Two, and Three working the exfil, while Vehicle Four kept a standoff to pick up Zeus One and Two after the evacuees were safely loaded. When he finished, he looked at Chunk.

“All right,” Chunk said, scraping a wad of stale tobacco from his lower lip with a finger and flinging it to the ground with a splat. “Let’s mount up and do this bitch.”