Putin's Gambit

39

Sitting on the cupola of his tank, staring to the horizon, Anton Severov realized there was no secrecy left and the Russian military presence in Estonia was now worldwide news. That fact was reinforced by several squadrons of Russian-made MiG fighters roaring ahead of them to clear out any NATO air threat. The earlier strike had taken out four tanks and two supply trucks. When they rolled the burning remains of the vehicles off the road, Severov caught the unmistakable stench of burned flesh. There were three bodies near the truck, but no other human remains were obvious. He could tell by the demeanor of the men in the truck ahead of him that it had a severe effect on morale. He could fight toe-to-toe with tanks, but they were woefully unprepared to handle air strikes without the assistance of the Russian air force.

Severov still viewed the field from the top of his tank, confident that the NATO forces had not put snipers in the field yet. It also gave him a chance to keep an eye on Amir, who was still sitting in the rear of the truck directly in front of him. He leaned on the Kord heavy machine gun, making sure the belt-fed 12.7 mm ammo was seated properly in the receiver. If something did happen, he could bring the Russian-made gun on target in a matter of seconds.

Far in the distance ahead of them, he saw flashes in the sky and realized it meant the Russian jets were engaging NATO jets in air-to-air combat. This was quickly escalating more than any of his comrades had thought it would.

Was Estonia really worth another war?

Major Bill Shepherd checked his watch and then the gear strapped to his back and sides. It was midafternoon when the Black Hawks set down outside Mustvee, Estonia, on the banks of Lake Peipus. Shepherd looked over the tiny town of fewer than two thousand residents, who were not prepared to see U.S. Marines spreading out near the highway that passed through it. He hoped the quaint town would be spared any damage, but experience told him that wouldn’t be the case. Reports had the bulk of the Russian force on this highway, with the lake on their left.

His force of about eighty marines had taken on twenty-two Estonian soldiers, who carried shoulder-fired rocket launchers and some C-4. They split into ten groups, each armed with a variety of portable weapons designed to slow down the tanks. Without a screening force of infantry in front of them, the tanks were vulnerable to small arms and rocket fire. Despite what he’d been told by the colonel, Shepherd decided to go with one of the teams. He didn’t want to say he missed the opening shots of World War III. He also felt the younger men would benefit from the presence of a senior, battle-tested officer. At least that’s what he intended to tell his superiors if anyone got their panties in a bunch that he was out here.

Behind them, Shepherd heard the engines of an F-16 as it struck at another target. He figured the F-16 was part of a small detachment in Estonia meant as a deterrent to a Russian incursion. Apparently the Russians didn’t believe the U.S. would use force to protect the small country. Shepherd couldn’t blame them. Even as he heard the jets attacking and his team prepared to fire a rocket-propelled grenade, he was surprised the U.S. leaders had committed to action so quickly. Perhaps they realized that if a few soldiers were killed immediately by Russian arms, the public sentiment would swing dramatically in favor of fighting for Estonia. That was not an idea most Americans considered. Some people understood that it was the right thing to do to try to straighten out some of the regimes in the Middle East and that a side benefit included a flow of oil. But the idea of defending a small country like Estonia—with no natural resources that the West needed—would confuse the average American.

Derek Walsh tried not to fidget as he stood in the lobby of Thomas Brothers Financial. It had only taken a moment to retrieve his security plug from under the bench in the courtyard. Agent Stratford shuddered when she realized he had used chewed-up gum to hold the plug in place.

It was almost eight thirty in the morning, and the building was starting to get busy. Tonya Stratford stood right next to him with her FBI badge on a chain around her neck. He wasn’t sure if she was advertising that he was in her custody even if he wasn’t in handcuffs or if she didn’t want anyone to bother them. Either way he stood there and noticed the suspicious look from the security guards who last week had greeted him warmly every time he walked through the doors. Now they regarded him as a thief and possible traitor. Everyone in the building knew the story by now. He had been on the news as a “person of interest.” That was as good as being convicted in most people’s minds.

Whatever happened with the investigation, he knew he didn’t want to come back here. Not only did the unwelcome feeling push him toward the door, but now he knew he needed to contribute. Once he realized he was a small cog in a big plan and someone was trying to undermine the U.S. government, he felt that old spirit well up inside of him. He had to fight back.

They slipped onto an elevator and jumped off at the 31st floor. Agent Stratford, who had one hand wrapped around his right arm, said, “You wait here for a minute. I’ll run through the office to make sure none of our people are there. If they are, we’re going to avoid them long enough for you to stick in the security plug and pull off the photos you want. We’ll decide our next move after that.”

Walsh just nodded his head. It was a good plan and what he’d wanted to do all along. He watched as she pushed through the double glass doors that led to his former offices. He could picture Ted Marshall or Cheryl Kravitz already in the office and directing their small army of traders. They would be back up to speed by now as long as the entire financial community hadn’t lost faith in the company.

He stepped over to the giant window that looked over the courtyard and along the street. There were still a few signs of damage from the protests. A statue at the end of the courtyard lay on the ground. Some of the low hedges had been trampled and not replaced. For the most part the city had done a decent job cleaning up the broken glass and all the trash the protesters had discarded. It wasn’t quite on the scale of the mess the Occupy Wall Street people had made, even though the protest had been more violent. The sheer amount of garbage the Occupy people had produced was mind-boggling. This was just annoying.

He noticed more policemen, several of them wearing body armor and MP-5 submachine guns strapped around their chests. The city was still tense after the bombing of the subway in lower Manhattan and several other attacks. The few news reports he had caught were speculating that the explosion and shootout in Brooklyn where the Russians had kept him captive were part of the terror plot.

Unable to stand still, he reached into his pockets, then absently cracked his knuckles. He wanted to get this over quickly.

Then he heard a male’s raspy voice say, “Hello, smart guy, remember me?” As he turned around, strong hands clasped around his upper arms and shoved him to the floor. The violent action stunned him, but as his head cleared he realized he was looking straight up into the face of Tonya Stratford’s angry partner, Frank Martin.

Joseph Katazin took a moment to lean against the park bench at the far end of the courtyard in front of Thomas Brothers Financial. His ankle throbbed, his ribs were still sore, he had a headache, and now his back was starting to cramp up. This was not how he envisioned his career as a spy. He needed some sleep, two Advil, and a decent meal.

The one thing that sustained him was the success of the operation. The Russian military was on the move, and he had helped buy time and distract the U.S. as well as its NATO partners. His meeting with his contact had been short but did wonders for his morale.

His new assistant, Jerry, made it clear he didn’t like any show of weakness, but he kept his mouth shut. Lucky for him, because in his current mood, Katazin wanted to shoot him. They were both armed with handguns, and that should be all they needed. His biggest concern was that Walsh could now recognize him. Before, he was just a vague face; now he had spent time with the marine, and he doubted he would be overlooked.

Katazin turned and said, “Let’s wait closer to the door.”

Jerry spoke English with a thicker accent. “What if he doesn’t show?”

“Then you still get paid and you might have a job working with me over the weekend. Is that so bad?”

Jerry held up both of his hands and said, “Just asking.”

“But we can’t fool around. If we see this guy, we need to cap him and get moving quickly. Understood?”

Jerry nodded.

They slowly made their way along the outer edge of the courtyard until they were almost in front of the entrance. He would be able to see anyone coming from quite a distance away, and just in case Walsh was moving quicker than he thought, he would easily catch anyone coming outside from this exit.