Collateral (Tier One #6)

Ember Executive Boeing 787

35,000 Feet

En Route to Odessa, Ukraine

1551 Local Time

Dempsey tuned out the droning voices of the talking heads on the flat-screen TV, tapping away nervous energy with his right thumb on the armrest of the recliner while his left booted foot kept cadence. Munn sat beside him in an oversized recliner of his own, legs up and ankles crossed. While Munn flipped through the channels on the TV, switching news feeds every thirty seconds or so, Dempsey fidgeted in his seat.

“Why the hell do you do that?” Dempsey said, unable to stand it anymore.

“Do what?” Munn grumbled over his shoulder.

“Flip around between all the cable news channels like that. Do you really think CNN is gonna report something that you don’t already know? We’re the recipients of the best, most carefully crafted real-time intelligence assessments on the planet—these bozos don’t know anything.”

“Yeah, well, I want to know what everyone else is thinking about everything that’s going on, okay?” Munn said without looking back at him. “Besides, what else should I be doing? Until someone tells us why we’re going to Odessa, I’m gonna watch the news.”

“New Director, same bullshit,” Dempsey said through a sigh. “Hurry up and wait . . . Nothing ever changes.”

Across from them, on the leather sofa, Martin let out a long snore.

Dempsey and Munn both looked at the kid and busted up laughing.

“Must be nice,” Munn said. “I’d wake up so stiff that I—”

The lounge door burst open, cutting Munn off. Grimes leaned halfway in, her face bright with anticipation, and said, “The Director’s on the line. The brief is now . . .”

Munn beat Dempsey to his feet and gave Martin a gentle kick with his boot as he passed.

“’Bout time,” Munn said, new fire in his voice. “Martin’s getting bed sores.”

Dempsey followed Grimes into the mobile TOC, noticing the fresh, quarter-sized stain of blood on the white Kerlix dressing wrapped around her left arm and shoulder. She seemed to move without much pain, so he decided to keep the concern to himself, though he would ask Munn about the wound later. Despite his eagerness to get back in the fight, the sight of the submarine commander staring at them from the briefing monitor instantly refreshed his grumpiness. He wondered again how in the hell a dolphin-wearing sub geek could possibly be in charge of the most secret and lethal direct-action covert operations team in the world.

“I hope everyone got some rest,” Casey said as Ember’s SAD members all dropped into their chairs.

Dempsey ignored the new director’s question, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke for the group, “What’ve you got for us, boss?”

A picture of a Russian missile transport vehicle filled the left half of the screen, with what looked to be real-time satellite imagery on the right.

“We believe that the Russians intend to conduct an attack on Mariupol using Iskander short-range ballistic missiles,” Casey said.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dempsey said. “In our last brief, you told us that Russian armor and troops moved into the city after that massive IED detonation in the city center killed all those civilians and their peacekeeping contingent.”

“All true,” Casey said, his expression neutral. “But we believe this is just the next phase of a premeditated series of strategic escalations. The transporter has been disguised, repainted with Ukrainian markings. We believe Petrov will pin the attack on Ukraine and use it as a justification for a full-scale invasion.”

“Well, then that’s insane,” Martin chimed in, fully awake now. “They’ll be killing their own troops.”

“Yes,” Casey said, “But not just their own troops. Marines from the 13th MEU in Odessa have been sent to Mariupol. They will be on station by midafternoon, deploying beside the Russians as a peacekeeping force.”

“What?” Dempsey exclaimed, incredulous. “Whose bright fucking idea was that?” He pictured the same Russians who only hours ago had tried to obliterate his team engaging the Marines in bloody combat.

“This move was authorized by the President and will be announced by Vice President Jarvis within the hour,” Casey said. “And while I have not been read in on the details or logic of this plan, knowing the architects, I trust the rationale is sound. That being said, the decision was made before our team here in Tampa pieced together the false flag Iskander missile plot. Which means it is our job to stop this launch before it happens. Not only is the potential loss of American lives tremendous, but I fear the cascade of events that would follow could lead to a global conflict with hundreds of thousands dead.”

“This has Zhukov’s signature all over it,” Dempsey growled, hands balled into fists. “Do you have a location?”

“We do,” Casey said. “The missile transporter is in Odessa. And your instincts about this being a Zeta operation are correct, Mr. Dempsey. We have imagery and facial recognition demonstrating that the Zeta operator who led the attack on your convoy after the Ultra op in Kiev is present, and we believe the launch is imminent.”

“We’re due to touch down in thirty minutes. We need to put a mission package together ASAFP,” Munn said, now in full operator mode.

“Yes, and we’ve been working on that, but first there’s one more thing . . .”

Dempsey tapped his boot against the leg of his chair, impatient for what he could tell was the Ember Director’s big reveal.

“We believe Arkady Zhukov himself is on the ground in Odessa, coordinating this mission in person . . . I’ve already briefed the President. Your kill order is authorized.” Casey paused to let all four operators and the cybergenius Wang let out a whooping cheer before adding, “Our first priority, of course, is to stop the launch . . . but I think this group has demonstrated the ability to walk and chew gum. I’ll leave the mechanics of achieving both objectives to you.”

“In that case, I say drop a fucking smart bomb on the missile transport and let SAD go get Arkady,” Dempsey said, practically punch-drunk with euphoria over the news. The day he’d thought would never come was finally here—Arkady fucking Zhukov in the flesh.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple, John,” Baldwin said, taking this as his cue to begin his brief. The screen filled with a satellite view of what Dempsey assumed to be Odessa. The image zoomed in slowly on an area north of the large international airport. “As you can see, the warehouse with the missile truck is located here . . .” A yellow arrow appeared on the screen beside a long, rectangular building, and Dempsey immediately saw the problem. Not only was the facility in the middle of a busy, crowded business district, but it was only a block away from a residential neighborhood and directly across from a large two-story building, and just down the street from a much larger multistory building with an attached parking deck.

“Let me guess,” Dempsey said. “Hospital?”

“Here,” Baldwin said, and a red arrow appeared on the large building down the street from the target.

“And that,” Munn grumbled, pointing at a different building, “must be an elementary school, because, well, of course it’s a fucking school.”

“Actually, here,” Baldwin agreed, lighting up a blue arrow on a bright green-roofed building a block away. Then he designated the building directly across from the target. “The building you are referring to, Dan, is a retirement center with thirty-five full-time residents. Obviously, an air strike is out of the question due to the unacceptable risk of collateral damage and high civilian casualties. A direct-action mission has the lowest risk and greatest chance of success. This is further enhanced by the fact that we have so far seen only two individuals coming and going from the warehouse—both are present now, by the way—and we detect no obvious QRF presence in the immediate vicinity.”

“That’s what you said about Mariupol,” Grimes chimed in, unconsciously rubbing her bandaged shoulder. “And we all know how that turned out.”

“Not exactly the same scenario, but true nonetheless,” Baldwin said. “I think it is prudent to assume a covert presence of Zeta support and fighters have been tasked to backup an operation as critical as this. Consideration was given to using an element of the 26th Special Operations–capable Marines in the area—”

“No, it has to be us,” Wang barked.

“—but the sensitive nature of the mission,” Baldwin continued, unfazed, “and the need to prosecute Arkady Zhukov, gave the mission entirely to us. That being said, let it be a comfort to you that we have a QRF of Marines only minutes away if you need help.”

“Right,” Dempsey said, drawing out the word, sure that Baldwin did not intend the comment to be as mocking as it sounded. He checked his watch, then turned to his four teammates, who all looked like they’d just been given intravenous caffeine. “All right, people, we have the mission of our lives to prep, and we have twenty-two minutes to do it. Time to kit up!”