The Bear

Moscow

It was as cold as any of them had ever been. The winds whipped through the streets of Moscow with ferocity, flurries carried on the winds like darts. The five pulled their parkas around them tightly and began their journey in an unfamiliar homeland.

“It would have been nice if they’d have offered us a ride from the airport.”

“In Russian,” Captain Jenner replied. “From here on out, only Russian. We can’t afford anyone to think we’re not who we say we are. Otherwise, this mission is over.”

“Yes sir,” Lt. Anthony replied.

“And no mention of rank, of any sort,” Major Francis Brown answered in his best street Russian. “As commander of this group, we have to act like we have no formal hierarchy. We can’t stick out. We can’t act military, anywhere.”

“Besides, that cab ride was good enough.”

“I almost tossed my cookies in there,” Commander Jen Lewis replied. “Did you smell that thing? A girl can’t function like that.”

“How far are we away from our destination?”

“Not too much farther,” Brown replied. “Just keep your eyes focused. We need to make sure no one knows anything.”

They wound their way through the next four streets, at last turning into the back alley behind an old theater. A fitting place for a ballet troupe, most thought. Francis Brown pulled on the wooden door. Stuck. He tugged again. Nothing. Then he heard a clunk on the other side, a latch falling away.

“Who’s there?”

“Sasha, from the ballet troupe.” He looked behind him at the others shivering in the cold. Another clunk from behind the door echoed before it creaked open.

“In, in. Hurry,” the raspy voice said.

They scurried in as quickly as they could, like rats escaping a flooding ship. The winds whipped snowflakes into the cool room, fading away as did the troupe from the night, no longer available to prying eyes. They entered a small room, walled with concrete and a single opening. The door closed behind them, the locks turning shut again.

“You are?”

“As I said, I am Sasha. We were left behind by the troupe.” He removed his hood as the remaining flakes began turning to water.

“Major Brown,” he replied as he extended his hand, “I’m Donald Freeze. Welcome.”

“Thank you. Not very secluded for a safe house.”

“You watch too many movies,” he chuckled. “This is not really a safe house, but where better to meet members of a ballet company than in a theater?”

“I see your point.” He turned, presenting the others. “Captain Jenner, Lt. Commander Lewis, Lt. Anthony and Captain Garrison.” He turned back to Donald with his next question. “Now what?”

“Now, we get you ready.”

“How much time do we have?”

“That’s a good question, Major. I wish I had an answer.” Donald extended his arm, directing them out of the room. “We have a training camp set up,” he said as they walked out, “and a few other scenarios we can play through.” They stopped as they moved into the main auditorium. “You’re army, correct?”

“I am.”

“It’s a good thing you’re leading this mission then. If you’re going to start shooting people, you have to have had experience. What’s your background?”

“Went through special forces training. Spent a year in Afghanistan before blowing out my knee.”

“So you’ve got experience in house to house?”

“I do.”

“It might come in handy.”

“Wow. This place was beautiful!” Ruth stepped away from the others and peered over the edge of the balcony. “We’re so high up.”

The others followed and looked into the massive auditorium. It was old, very old, but it still held the ornate style of times long past. The red leather seats were cracked and faded and the gold trim worn and tarnished, left abandoned through the long years of neglect. The semi-circular bowl arced toward a wooden stage, the platform broad and wide.

“This place is grand,” Ruth exclaimed.

“It was indeed.” Donald looked out into the lower half as he rested his hands on the rail, its fabric too, long since eroded to near nothingness. “It’s time we begin using only your Russian names. Even here. It needs to become habit. It is your name from here on out.”

“What is your background, Donald?”

“CIA, of course.” He turned and leaned against the rail. “I’ve been here for a very long time. I suppose you could call me the deepest operative since the Soviet Union fell.”

“So I’m assuming your real name isn’t Donald.”

He did not reply to Captain Jenner’s question. It was simply understood. Theirs was an unusual mission. Few in history have been directly, and personally authorized by the president. It was rare someone with as deep a cover as Donald inside a foreign power was opened up to outsiders, be they from the same country or not. Such was the value of a deep asset. Important missions were left to fail rather than compromise a deep source.

“Well, let’s get this show underway.” Sasha said as he turned to face his unit. “It’s time we get training and earn our keep.”

“It is good to be home again, Andrey.”

“It is, Mr. President.” Andrey sat across from President Novichkov’s desk as the morning light filled the room. They’d had little sleep, but that was the nature of governing. He looked up at the ornate and intricate woodwork that decorated the president’s personal office. It spoke of the long history of his country.

“The American president was nearly confrontational in his accusations. Perhaps it is time we give him something to be confrontational about.”

“What do you have in mind?” Andrey suddenly got very nervous. Though his president was not a military man, he understood it well; understood the military mind.

“We should beef up the border by Ukraine.”

“But we already have many troops there. They have been supplemented with tanks from the 10th division.”

“I know that was already a planned move. The patriots fighting to unite with us need to see our support.” The president leaned back in his chair. “I was thinking of Air Force flyovers.”

“I do not think having them in the fight would garner us any friends on the outside.”

“But if we just use them for show; fighters simply observing what is happening in the Crimea. Yes, yes. That would be a direct answer to their president and a show of solidarity to the freedom fighters.” Yuri leaned forward. “Contact General Brezhnev and make it so, Andrey. But be very specific, they are not to engage.”

“I will be very explicit, Mr. President.”

Andrey nodded as he rose from the chair, taking his leave of the president. ‘A hand in an official mission. A novel thought’, he told himself. He grinned as he pushed through the heavy mahogany door.

Andrey arrived back in his office and took an immediate seat behind his desk. He was tired. Sleeping on a plane was not sleeping. It wasn’t when he commanded in the Air Force, and it certainly wasn’t now, not at his age. He picked up his phone, contacting the operator.

“Place a call to General Anton Brezhnev, please. Thank you.”

He laid the phone back in its cradle, leaving his hand on it for a moment. This wasn’t his choice. This wasn’t his decision. No one could put the burden on his shoulders if something went awry. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. Troops were moving, and it wasn’t his doing. He kept repeating that to himself. It wasn’t his doing. The phone rang back two minutes later and President Novichkov’s plan was relayed. As he hung up, his cell phone vibrated in his suit coat pocket. He looked at the number with disdain.

“Yes?”

“Hello Andrey,” the voice said. It was the same. Always the same. “Welcome back to your homeland. I trust you had a good time in America.”

“What do you want?”

“You have been away, much too long.”

“I cannot control that.”

“We have a request.”

“Your last request resulted in an international incident.” Andrey began to raise his voice. The situation was becoming more difficult to deal with. The stress could give him a heart attack; at least it felt that way. Each time his cell phone rang, he could feel his blood pressure rise.

“I cannot be held responsible for the actions of a reckless American pilot.” The voice went silent for a moment. “Have you checked on your family today? No? Do not be concerned. They are well. So far, you have done what we’ve asked.”

“What more do you want?”

“Not much more.”

“If I am suspected in any of this, it will go badly for me, and who will you use then? Who? You have no one else.”

“Most assuredly, we have an alternative. It would be just so much more, well. This is so much more appealing.”

“What do you want?”