The Loyal Nine Read online

  “It doesn’t matter,” said the President. “He will be in an unfortunate location when it happens. Where will you be?”

  “Initially in Boston with my daughter, then we will evacuate together to Prescott Peninsula.”

  “I am glad the acquisition worked out for you,” said the President. “We can offer your daughter a position in the new government when things settle down. What about her patriot friends?”

  “Their lineage dates back to the founding of America. They will see the big picture, as will my daughter. All of them realize this country needs a reset. They just don’t know what that entails.” As for you, Mr. President, your entire career is based upon planned obsolescence.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  December 15, 2015

  Shirokino, Ukraine

  No warning preceded the artillery barrage. A sharp detonation shook the BTR-7 “Defender,” knocking the American halfway off the troop compartment bench, as fragments thunked against the armored personnel carrier’s thin protective plate. Personal equipment and gear attached to the inside of the starboard-side hull popped loose, tumbling into the tight aisle.

  He traded knowing looks with the Ukrainian Special Operations team assigned to escort him. There was nothing they could do to improve the situation. Combat was defined by probability and statistics, and they all knew what to expect next. The second round in the barrage would either land closer or farther from the vehicle, deciding their fate—and there was no way to hide from it.

  The next explosion straddled the road, violently rocking the vehicle on its eight-wheel chassis. Fragments punctured the port-side hull, hissing and ricocheting through the armored coffin. The soldier seated to his right snapped backward against the vehicle’s hard interior and slid motionlessly off the bench. Screams of pain pierced the compartment, quickly muted by successive high-explosive blasts. He tucked his knees into the metal bench, making room for the team’s medic, who sprang into action from the back of the vehicle.

  “This one is gone,” the American said in broken Russian, lifting the dead soldier’s black watch cap.

  A jagged, charred hole appeared above his left eyebrow, evidence that a small red-hot fragment had passed through the wool hat and penetrated his skull. The Special Operations medic directed a flashlight beam at the grisly sight and nodded, pushing through the cramped compartment to reach the source of the screaming near the vehicle’s turret. By the sound of the soldier’s cries, the wound had to be severe. Special Operations soldiers had a predilection for suffering in silence, and this one was kicking and screaming.

  The barrage lifted as quickly as it arrived, leaving them alone for the rest of the short ride to the Shirokino front. A few minutes later, after they had calmed the wounded soldier, the vehicle commander’s voice echoed through the vehicle, spurring the soldiers into action. A pair of soldiers lifted the hatches above the troop compartment, squeezing their equipment-laden torsos through the openings. Shirokino was a fluid battlefront against pro-Russian separatist forces, and the vehicle commander wanted three hundred and sixty degree situational awareness as they approached their destination. Freezing rain sprayed through the hatches, driven by a brutal wind that had accompanied a rare Crimean weather front.

  The vehicle slowed, and his escort team slid toward the starboard-side exit hatch. When the vehicle stopped, the soldiers opened the two-piece door, disappearing through the hull. The mercenary followed them into the driving rain, sprinting toward a series of drab, pockmarked Soviet-era buildings surrounded by barren trees. He stole a glance at the BTR-7 behind them, seeing two shredded tires. He’d always thought four tires on each side was overkill, but maybe the Soviets had been onto something with their original BTR design.

  He kept pace with the commandos, stopping at a low-profile, earthen bunker just inside the tree line. Two serious-looking, heavily armed men wearing dark green camouflage uniforms and ballistic helmets greeted them at the sunken, heavy-wooden-beam-framed entrance to a reinforced defensive checkpoint. Splintered tree trunks and mangled branches gave him reason to believe the area was frequently targeted by separatist artillery. The cold rain was bad enough.

  The gruff-looking soldiers fired a string of questions at the Ukrainian commandos, who rapidly answered and stepped aside. All he understood from the exchange was the word Amerykans’kyy. The Ukrainian and Russian languages didn’t share enough in common to assure mutual intelligibility.

  One of the soldiers asked another round of questions, clearly frustrating the Ukrainian commandos. The second soldier stared at him intensely, almost pathologically, as the rain streamed down his helmet.

  “Is there a problem?” he said in Russian, hoping to break this little stalemate.

  “Big problem. Our commander doesn’t want to meet with you today,” said the psychotic-looking soldier.

  “That’s not what I was told an hour ago,” he replied. “Good men have died bringing me here.”

  The man scoffed at the statement, causing a visible scowl from one of the Ukrainian commandos.

  “You got a problem?” asked the soldier, nodding at the commando.

  The Ukrainian Special Operations officer shook his head and muttered in Russian, loud enough for them to hear, “Militia scum.” Instead of the lethal knife fight or point-blank gun battle he expected, the unstable-looking soldier took a step back and laughed.

  “Well, this militia scum has liberated more territory in a month than the Ukrainian military has recaptured in a year,” he said, motioning for him to step forward. “We’ll return this guy after the meeting. Go on—before the separatists drop more shells on your head.”

  He nodded at the commando leader, who had been assigned to deliver him, unarmed and unharmed, to the infamous Azov Battalion’s forward headquarters in Shirokino. Andriy Biletsky, the ultranationalist founder and leader of the Azov Battalion, promised to meet with him during an inspection of the battalion’s front-line positions. He would have much preferred to catch up with Biletsky in a quiet bar or swank restaurant in Kyiv, but the enigmatic leader had proven elusive and especially distrustful of foreign interests. His benefactors’ research indicated that Biletsky’s battalion was bankrolled exclusively by Ukrainian oligarchs, a sign of his ultranationalist loyalty.

  His mission was to change that. The former Navy SEAL officer turned mercenary had been sent to make an offer his benefactors hoped Biletsky wouldn’t refuse. It wouldn’t be an easy sell. Azov Battalion had fought hard to recapture Mariupol from the pro-Russian rebels, pushing the separatists to the outskirts of Shirokino, where the battle had stalemated for months. His benefactors’ offer of guaranteed, continued arms shipments and financial support came with a high price tag. A price tag he was afraid to mention.

  “Follow me,” said the soldier, motioning toward the building directly ahead of them. “He has a bunker beneath the building. You speak Russian, huh? Amerykans’kyy still study Russian?”

  “Some enemies never change,” said Nomad.

  The man laughed, slapping him on the shoulder before heading toward the abandoned apartment block. As the two men drew closer to the structure, he could tell that the buildings had been subjected to sustained bombardment. The sturdy, four-story concrete testaments to Soviet construction stood unfazed despite extensive superficial damage to an otherwise featureless façade. Sturdy construction was about all these buildings had going for them, and in the end, it was all they needed. He seriously doubted any similarly sized building designed in the United States could have withstood this kind of high-explosive facelift.

  He detected a sniper on the third floor, four windows from the corner; the faintest glare from the shooter’s scope contrasted with the darkness of the room beyond the missing window pane. He guessed the sniper was relatively inexperienced, possibly assuming that the rain and overcast skies would be enough to conceal him. Maybe to the untrained eye, but certainly not his. He’d started scanning for possible sniper hides as soon as his feet
hit the frozen mud next to the armored vehicle.

  “Inside that door,” said the soldier, pointing to the blasted frame of a double-sized doorway in the middle of the ground floor. “Another group will escort you to the colonel. They’re watching us.”

  He nodded and jogged toward the opening, detecting movement inside the darkened entryway. He hated gigs like this. Multiple handoffs, different personalities—the perpetual feeling that you’re one twitchy finger away from being shot in the face. Staring into the shadowy entrance, he had no doubt that more than one set of stone-cold killer eyes had already lined him up through the iron sights of an AK-74.

  “Hello?” he yelled, cautiously approaching the abyss.

  The distinctive whistle of a passing artillery shell replaced the silence, spurring one of the hidden militiamen to lurch out of the darkness and grab him by the jacket.

  “Get the fuck inside, you idiot,” the man grumbled, tossing him through the opening as he yelled, “Incoming!”

  He stumbled over broken glass, striking a cinderblock wall several feet into the building. A pair of hands seized his shoulders from behind, steering him through a maze of dark hallways to a set of stairs lit by a hanging kerosene lantern. A soldier appeared inside the door leading into the hidden bunker, partially illuminated by the soft glow of the lantern.

  “Amerykans’kyy,” said his unseen escort.

  “Spasybi, Vika, I’ll take him from here,” said the soldier, instantly switching to classroom-taught English. “You’re late. He’s been waiting.”

  “We had to take a detour outside of Mariupol. The roads don’t appear to be secure in this sector,” said Nomad, sensing that he was finally talking to someone in charge.

  “No shit. We’re anticipating a Russian-backed assault on Mariupol any day now. Russian Spetsnaz are roaming the countryside, creating havoc. The front line here is more or less a sham at this point. Whatever you have to say to the colonel better be quick. We’re pulling the battalion back within the hour. Anton Teresenko, Colonel Biletsky’s deputy subcommander,” said the soldier, extending a hand.

  “Nomad. I’ll keep my proposal short and to the point,” he said, accepting the man’s solid grip.

  “Good. He doesn’t like foreigners, just in case you hadn’t heard,” said Teresenko.

  “I don’t blame him. They tend to get in the way of a nation’s affairs,” said Nomad.

  “Follow me, and don’t speak unless spoken to. The colonel’s not in a good mood,” he said, rapidly descending the stairs.

  The corridor extending beyond the bottom of the stairwell was lit by randomly hung kerosene lamps, leaving shadowy gaps in the long, sterile hallway.

  “Fallout shelter?” asked Nomad.

  “A relic from the Cold War. The central building in every housing block was equipped with one of these. Local Communist Party officials received preferential placement in these coveted buildings. Even the adjacent buildings were considered upgrades. Can you imagine? The Soviets were geniuses in that respect. How the hell else could they fill these cement shitholes?” asked Teresenko.

  A soldier in full-body-armor kit stepped out of a doorway several feet away, his rifle held in the low-ready position. He snapped to attention at the sight of Teresenko.

  “At ease,” said the deputy commander, releasing the soldier to his hiding spot.

  “The colonel is fanatical about security. He’s been attacked more times than any of us care to count,” said Teresenko.

  “I was a bit surprised to be X-rayed in Mariupol. Seemed a bit excessive,” said Nomad.

  “I would have thought the same thing four weeks ago, but Russian SVR agents in Donetsk forced a plastic surgeon to swap Semtex for silicon in an unsuspecting stripper’s breast implants. The surgeon tipped off local authorities after somehow ducking SVR surveillance. The sick fucks blew her up in her apartment, with the police right outside the door. We’re not taking any chances,” he said, pointing to the next doorway on the left. “That’s our door.”

  He led Nomad inside a well-lit room occupied by several men in camouflage uniforms. He immediately recognized Biletsky standing in front of a large, wall-mounted map. Standing average height, he wore a black ball cap pulled tightly over his head. A scruffy, half-grown beard extended from the sides of his cap, ending in a goatee. He looked more like a millennial in a camouflage jacket than the leader of the Ukraine’s fiercest, pro-nationalist militia group. The man’s icy blue eyes portrayed a different story. As Teresenko suggested, he waited to be addressed.

  “This better be good. I have more important things to do than play CIA games,” said Biletsky, turning his attention back to the map.

  “I’m not with the CIA,” said Nomad.

  “Everyone is working for the CIA, or the SVR, in one capacity or another,” said Biletsky.

  “I assume you received the money?” asked Nomad.

  “You wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t. You can thank the CIA for their kind donation to our cause,” said Biletsky.

  Kind donation? Two million dollars in an untraceable account was considered “kind” by Biletsky. This might be harder than he originally thought. What if his benefactors had been wrong in their assessment? The oligarchs had made generous donations to the Azov Battalion, but two million was supposed to be in line with current levels of private-sector support. If money didn’t get Biletsky’s attention, he’d have to change tactics.

  “Can you hold Mariupol?” Nomad asked, deciding to take a more direct approach.

  “Excuse me?” asked Biletsky, turning to face him.

  “It’s no secret that the Russians have stepped up activity around Mariupol. Can you hold the city?” he asked.

  “I liberated that city from the separatists. I have no intention of losing it again,” said Biletsky. “Is that all you have?”

  “No. I have a dozen T-80 main battle tanks to donate to the Azov Battalion,” said Nomad.

  Biletsky cocked his head and walked around the map-strewn table, approaching him with a cold stare.

  “Tanks?” he said.

  “And a comprehensive training package, along with the necessary support vehicles to keep them running,” said Nomad.

  “I’m listening,” said Biletsky, stopping a few feet in front of him.

  “You’re not going to like what I say next,” said Nomad.

  “No?”

  “No. In order to get the tanks, you have to abandon Mariupol—”

  Biletsky’s eyes bored through him; the man’s previously uncommitted gaze suddenly turned murderous.

  “Temporarily,” added Nomad. “And there’s far more to this deal than tanks.”

  “Like what?” asked Azov Battalion’s commander.

  “The opportunity to destroy a Russian motorized infantry battalion, en masse, on Ukrainian soil, in front of the world,” said Nomad.

  “Now I’m really listening,” said Biletsky.

  Chapter 2

  December 15, 2015

  Harvard Kennedy School of Government

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  His students shuffled into their seats and unpacked the tools of their trade—computer tablets, voice recorders, various and sundry electronic gadgets—all designed to let them pay attention to their professor without fear of distraction or falling behind on the lecture.

  “So we find ourselves at the end. Last class of the semester,” said the professor to a chorus of uplifting murmurs. “And finals will be on Tuesday.” His patented kill shot transformed the positive mood as students throated their distaste for the reminder.

  “Oh, I see how it is. Happy to see the last of me, but the thought of finals is the end of the world as we know it.”

  Laughter filled the classroom as the moods lifted. Professor Henry Winthrop Sargent IV, affectionately known as Sarge, once again wondered if the students’ collective response meant they truly enjoyed his lectures—or the pleasure of his academic company paled in comparison to the terror of his fina
l exam. He’d probably never know for sure, he thought, as the title of his final lecture appeared on the screen.

  CYBER WARFARE

  IS IT AN ACT OF WAR?

  The words had a sobering effect on the muffled conversations in the room. While they absorbed the question of the day, Sarge looked at the faces and placards containing their names. Some of these people would be rich and powerful someday. The Harvard Kennedy School—John F. Kennedy School of Government—deserved the respect that its prestigious name implied. The school’s history dated back to the late 1930s, but its rise to prominence came in 1966 when it was renamed for the late president John F. Kennedy.

  The school’s alumni list was a who’s who collection of government leaders, journalism headliners and business aristocracy. Names like Ban Ki-moon, United Nations Secretary General; Paul Volcker, former chairman of the Federal Reserve; and outspoken talk show host Bill O’Reilly of Fox News fame. Even the president of Harvard, Lawrence Summers, a former professor at the Kennedy School, had been an economic advisor to the World Bank and United States presidents.

  When Sarge was offered an academic position at the school, he had big shoes to fill—not exactly a problem for a direct descendant of Daniel Sargent, a wealthy merchant during the time of the Revolutionary War and a notable member of the infamous Sons of Liberty. This historical and financial lineage provided Sarge the necessary status to be considered for Harvard, where he received a bachelor of arts, combined with master’s and doctorate degrees in public policy and government. It also didn’t hurt that Sarge had important “friends,” most of whom he had never met. From an early age, Sarge understood that he had been groomed for his position as professor, on top of “other duties.”

  “The world has come a long way since the Minutemen fired the first shots at the Battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775. Today, cyber warfare is used by the military to attack less traditional battlefield prizes—command and control technology, critical national infrastructure systems and air defense networks, each of which require computer automation to operate,” said Sarge.