Copyright © 2019 by TR Gabriel
All rights reserved.
Cover photo © Oleg Zabyelin
Dogs of Warr logo © 2018 by TR Gabriel
tgabriel@dogsofwarr.com
www.dogsofwarr.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Published by
BookBaby
7905 N. Crescent Blvd.
Pennsauken, NJ 08110
877-961-6878
www.bookbaby.com
Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-993-0
e-book ISBN: 978-1-09830-272-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All product names, logos, and brands are property of their respective owners. All company, product and service names used in this book are for identification purposes only. Use of these names, logos, and brands does not imply endorsement.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright holder except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Now: Intro; a call to arms
Rewind: 2 hours earlier; The Pentagon in “The Vault”
Rewind; 20 days ago; Beginning of the Endgame
Rewind: 19 days ago; a new day for new encounters
Rewind: 2 days ago; thus, begins the journey to carnage
Now; the journey to carnage continues
The clock is ticking; the ball is rolling
Hello, Fallen Angel, welcome to The Kennel
Welcome to the Kennel, pt. II (What have I gotten myself into!?)
Transit to target & conclusion of intros
First call to the Gator
Origin of the Devil’s Ghost
Africa mission: commence
Africa mission; Second team
LHD operations
Debrief: Africa mission
Guest handoff & a subtle introduction
Absence noted
Time Flies
“My Old Kentucky Home”
Meanwhile, down on the infield
It’s getting hot in here
Happenings at Heathrow
On the trail of a Ghost
Beginning of the end
Bringing the heat
Forward from Shangri-La
Cerberus airborne; the end draws near
Chaos reigns
Marking time; the wait grows even longer
Epilogue:
Glossary:
(April 18, 2024) The bead of sweat trickled down from his eyebrow, right into his eye, but the man lying prone in the dirt didn’t flinch, didn’t squint, didn’t react, as if nothing had happened while he peered through the scope mounted on his Heckler & Koch MSG 90 A2 rifle. He was looking for his intended targets, a trio of human silhouettes from the shoulders up. Each one of them had a silver dollar - older coins, not the new quarter-sized ones - affixed to the center of the silhouette’s head. The targets had been set up on a berm pressed firmly into the dirt, so that when the rounds impacted them, they would stay in place for their retrieval. As bright and shiny as the coins were, they were barely visible from the shooting point. Even with the scope, Sandman was having a little trouble locating the targets.
“Where are you, you little bastards?” he mumbled.
His spotter, Maxxum, standing near their truck, was also looking down range at the targets with his binoculars.
It was a little difficult, but Sandman used the trail of his own footprints to lead his sight to where he had placed the targets. The sun was just right, and he caught sight of the silhouettes. “There you are, my pretties. I have you now!” he said in his best Darth Vader imitation, a classic line from a classic movie he loved using over and over again, whether it was an inanimate object or flesh-and-bone target in his sights.
Lying there on his shooting mat, he was thankful there was a slight breeze drifting across the open desert, giving him one more tiny variable for an already tight shooting solution. Target and shooter elevation were about the same, distance was a laser measured one thousand thirty-seven meters, ambient temperature was checking in at a balmy one hundred- and eleven-degrees Fahrenheit, and relative humidity at a moisture-extracting fifteen per cent. It was going to be challenging since he wasn’t using his normal mission computer scope, just a regular high-grade military sniper scope. His mission computer scope was an extremely high-tech piece of gear that electronically shifted the crosshairs in the reticle, so all he had to do was keep the crosshairs on the target; the mission computer took in all the variables, and along with a combination laser ranger/designator built into the scope, gave him the shot. The goal for this particular shooting exercise was to hit all three targets in three seconds. He placed his watch on the small berm next to his left arm so he could watch the second-hand sweep through the top of the “hour” to commence his exercise.
“Big guy,” he said to his very large spotter behind him, “start time will be three-oh-seven. Three shots in three seconds.”
“Roger that,” was the short reply from Maxxum. He knew his buddy was in the zone, about to take the shot, and would want no part in chit-chat or excess talking.
As the second-hand crept up to show three-oh-seven, the self-determined start time, an annoying chirping started. By that distinct ring tone of his phone, handily identifying the caller, he knew exactly who was calling and why. It was a good thing he was already getting ready to wrap things up because that particular sound told him he was now on the clock. Somewhere, someone needed help, or someone needed to go away. A millimeter of a smile escaped from his lips as he said out loud, to no one in particular, “Perfect. Nothing like a little distraction adding to the fog of war. Who knows? It might even increase the degree of difficulty for the shot enough for even the Russian judge to give it a ten.”
At three-oh-seven precisely, he took his first shot, shifting slightly to aim in on his next target, racking the bolt of the rifle, squeezing the trigger, ever so delicately snapping off the second round, and then repeating the process one last time for a sequence of three. A quick glance at the watch told him he was right on target for the time. Three seconds exactly.
“Three for three,” Maxxum said. Through his high-powered binoculars, he could make out holes in each of the coins. He knew the sniper would be pleased to have gotten off the shots, but he would be even more pleased when they confirmed he had hit each silhouette center mass of the head.
Sandman set his rifle on the stand sitting next to him, picking up his own high-powered binoculars. A quick peek through them confirmed what he already knew about the targets. Three newly minted coins complete with some fresh 7.62 mm holes in them. Time was of the essence now. If he wanted to get the souvenirs of his successful practice, he had better double-, or possibly even triple-time it to the far berm and grab his small treasures. Dusting himself off as he stood, he grabbed the expended brass shells and his watch.
This had better be good, he thought to himself, as he didn’t like to be disturbed while he was keeping his edge practicing. He picked up the rifle, stuffing it into the case in the bed of the truck. Maxxum’s cell phone alarm had gone off as well. They knew they were going to have to hurry, but it wasn’t going to stop them from having a bit of fun. The terrain wouldn’t allow them to use their truck to retrieve the targets. They were going to have to go on foot, just like when they had set them up. While packing up his gear, a thought crept through the sniper’s head, the millimeter smile appearing once again.
“Race you!” he yelled to his unsuspecting brother-in-arms as he turned around, taking off at a dead sprint.
“Shit! Cheater!” yelled the big man, tearing off after his teammate.
Sandman’s real name was Kurt Johnson, born and raised in South Dakota. He’d grown up shooting small varmints in the fields and countryside around his boyhood home and discovered he was a natural. At night, his eyes and mind had been turned up toward the stars, dreaming of far-off places. Being an avid reader, he’d longed to travel and see the world. Another driving passion had been Star Wars. The universe created by George Lucas allowed him to dream of other galaxies and worlds. Whenever he showed off his shooting skills to his friends, he said he was a Jedi, using the Force to make seemingly impossible shots. More often than not, people were inclined to believe him.
Kurt had enlisted in the Marine Corps right out of high school. They were his ticket to see the world. His recruiter happened to watch him at a rifle-shooting familiarization session for poolees during a field training exercise and thought the boy was a natural-born sniper, if he could complete the rigorous course when he got to active duty. Kurt had agreed with the recruiter and signed the enlistment contract to be an infantry Marine. He’d established all kinds of recruit shooting records at boot camp and then reported to the school of infantry. His reputation for proficiency in accurate long-distance shooting already preceded him. Completing the infantry course, he immediately began scout/sniper school and learned the other tricks of the trade: camouflage, cover, concealment, position set-up, evasion; everything a sniper needed to know to be successful. He was truly gifted in the art of sniping. Unbeknownst to him, his talents had been noticed by someone only rumored to exist.
Shortly after returning from his first deployment with his active-duty infantry unit, Kurt was personally recruited by this legendary military officer, joining his covert special operations team. That first meeting was still clearly etched in his memory.
It had started with orders to report to his company commander, quite puzzling to him because he knew he wasn’t in trouble and the company CO usually ran things through his Lieutenant or Gunny. He reported to the Captain, not realizing they weren’t the only ones in the office.
“Sergeant Johnson, I’ve heard you can shoot the cigarette out of a man’s mouth at a thousand yards,” came the voice from behind Kurt. It startled him. He was the one who was supposed to sneak up on people.
“Yes, sir, I can,” he replied, still facing forward, standing at attention in front of the captain’s desk.
“I’ve also heard you could be well on your way to breaking Gunnery Sergeant Hathcock’s or possibly even Chris Kyle’s confirmed kills,” a reference to two of the most prolific snipers in U.S. Marine Corps and U.S. Navy S.E.A.L. history.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. But if I was, it would be to keep my brothers safe, out of harm’s way. I’d let others worry about the counting,” Kurt replied, eyes down. On deployment, his unit had been forced into covert action to quell the uprising in some small country that couldn’t be officially discussed. He didn’t enjoy taking someone’s life; it was just a matter of doing his job in a very proficient manner.
“It’s okay, son. I have a higher clearance than everyone else in this office combined, so I know all about the twenty-one confirmed kills on your recent deployment. They’re the reason I’m here. A man of your incredible talents should be using them for the greater good. How would you like that opportunity? Travel the world, see exotic locations, meet new and exciting people - and kill them - all while being paid quite handsomely. The only drawback, Sergeant, is that you will become a shadow. You will live and operate under the darkest of covert blankets.” The man had come around to face the intrigued sniper. A weathered, middle-aged man wearing U.S. Army camouflage battle dress utilities, he looked quite formidable, an impressive scar running down the left side of his face. Kurt had cracked his trademark millimeter of a smile at the officer’s use of an old military recruiting slogan parody about joining the military and traveling the world.
“Where do I sign, sir?” The possibility of using his abilities for the greater good appealed to him. The lure of traveling the world, living a life of excitement and danger while remaining in the shadows, was just what this quiet farm boy had always yearned for.
His company commander finally spoke. “It’ll all be taken care of, Sergeant. All you need to do is pack your trash. Leave anything government-issued in your room and someone will pick it up later. I hate to lose you, Sergeant Johnson, but the colonel here has told me what he can about what you’ll be doing. I wish you the best of luck. Sounds like you’re going to need it. You are dismissed, Sergeant Johnson.” They were the only words the captain had spoken since the young NCO had reported to him. He stood up to shake Kurt’s hand.
“Thank you, sir.” Kurt snapped back to attention and executed an about-face to see the colonel standing by the door waiting for him, a smile on his tanned face.
“I’ll be by your quarters in an hour to pick you up, if that’s enough time?”
“That’ll do just fine, sir.” They walked single file out the door, the Colonel leading the way. Sergeant Johnson’s head was spinning.
It was an hour, on the nose, when a black van with tinted windows pulled up in front of the Bachelor Enlisted Quarters building where the still-reeling sniper was standing, sea bags of clothes and other personal items stacked next to him. The driver hopped out and started packing the sea bags in the back of the van, motioning to the young man to take a seat.
“Welcome aboard, Sandman!” Kurt heard as he entered the van, spying the colonel sitting toward the rear of the vehicle.
“Sir? Sandman?” The puzzled expression on Kurt’s face must have been priceless to the older soldier.
With a large, white-toothed grin, the older man explained, “We use code names in the unit you’re joining. I’ve decided that you’re going to be Sandman because you have a penchant for putting your targets to sleep. Permanently.”
Kurt had taken his seat just in front of the colonel, not being quite sure what to make of that at first. As he’d sat there though, digesting the whole idea of it, that millimeter smile of his had crept across his lips again, pleased with his new name for his new life.
(April 18, 2024) A beautiful spring day in the nation’s capital, the temperature a warm mid-fifties. The sky was clear; nary a cloud in it, cherry blossoms blooming everywhere, making the city simply beautiful. Unfortunately, in the Pentagon, there was some ugly business being attended to.
The light from the electronic briefing table cast an eerie glow on the intense-looking gentlemen gathered around it. Their somber look set the tone for the meeting in the infamous Vault, the highest-level security area in the United States behind only the White House and “Area 51”. It was a concrete, lead-lined, cyber-secluded chamber buried five floors deep inside the center of the five rings of the Pentagon. No more than a dozen people at any given time were given clearance to enter the Vault. Perhaps only double that number even knew of its existence. The mere mention of it to an unauthorized person was said to carry with it a severe penalty of years in prison under solitary confinement. No one in the know had ever thought about testing that theory.
It was a room where the course of history had been made or changed. Some decisions had been well publicized in their outcome while others were known only to the few “operatives” who carried out the missions.
Casting their gathered shadows across the table were The Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Commanding General of Special Operations Command (SOCOM), Director of the National Security Agency (NSA), Director of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), and two gentlemen who, for lack of a better term, didn’t exist.
Shadow One concluded his briefing: “… and that, gentlemen, is where it stands today. ‘Operation Who’s on First’ has been compromised. There is positive proof the two high-value personnel have been taken hostage by the group they had been trying to infiltrate. We believe they are being held in this building in this small city in northeastern Sudan.”
The display in the electronic table zoomed from a world map down to a satellite view showing a large building on the edge of a tiny, remote city about forty miles from the Red Sea.
“The sensitive nature of what they could possibly give away during their assumed extensive interrogation could result in irreparable damage to covert operations in that area. Within the week, the main operations officer for the IS master cell, Fazil al Mahakazari, will be on scene for a personal briefing. He will interrogate HVP One and Two and use that information for operations around Europe, with a high degree of probability for attacks on American soil. The location of that city, and its political climate, have forecasted all standard rescue attempts to fail miserably. The models indicate a high probability of mission failure with any and all conventional means: regular forces, airborne forces, a S.E.A.L. team, or even a Delta extract. There is also high risk of major repercussions against the United States, even around the world, but particularly in that region. We believe this calls for something, or someone, that can operate off the books,” Shadow One concluded. He knew what he wanted to come right out and say, but it was not in his purview or authority to say it.
The Joint Chiefs Chairman crossed his arms. “So, let me get this straight. Our mission here is this: first priority is recovering HVP One and Two; second, if they cannot be recovered, it is imperative they are not allowed to be interrogated for any information; third, if al Mahakazari is on the scene, he is to be captured if feasible, eliminated if possible. All of that without that entire shit-hole of a city knowing anyone was ever there. If the city does find out, it’ll have to be someone we, as Americans, have plausible deniability about even knowing. Does that sound about right?”
Wincing, the CIA Director glanced at the two shadow figures. Considering it was his people sitting in that shit-hole of an African city, he replied dejectedly, “Yes, sir, that’s exactly right.”
“Then, gentlemen, I think it’s time for some drastic measures,” The Chairman barked.
The CIA Director looked more optimistic. “You don’t mean…”
“Yes, Mr. White,” the Chairman cut in. “It sounds like it’s time to call them in. General Harris, our number one option belongs to you. Call out the Dogs.”
“Yes, sir,” the CG of SOCOM replied. “I’ll get them alerted and briefed immediately.”
(March 28, 2024) Muhammad bin Ali Nadeer hated dealing with these infidels, unclean animals to him. He justified his association with them, realizing they were a means to an end in his jihad against the greater devils of the West, the hated Americans. These Eastern devils were only slightly less despicable than the Americans, but they had what he needed at the price he could afford. The leader was a dirty, greasy-looking man, solid and stocky. He was a former soldier who had turned his eyes toward the capitalistic, black-market opportunities that had arisen when the wall in Germany had literally come down, the wall in the former Soviet Union figuratively crumbling soon after.
They were in what must once have been a small barn. The slight stench of animals still lingered. The place was dusty: unkempt, looking like it might fall apart at any second. It was also unheated mid-spring, so the temperature was much less than he was used to. Gregor had warned him, which he appreciated now more than ever. He’d had the foresight to wear a down parka, Gore-Tex-lined, same as his gloves and boots. He also wore thermal long johns under his pants, but even out of the wind, he was still cold. None of this was making Muhammad’s mood any more pleasant. The sooner they could conclude their business the happier he would be.
The man who had introduced himself as Ivan motioned for Muhammad to come closer to inspect the crate he had next to him. Muhammad was sure Ivan wasn’t his real name, but that was another thing he couldn’t care less about right now, as long as he could deliver the goods.
“Comrade, please, come; take look at package. I can even gift wrap for you should you want.” The man laughed heartily, as did his four companions when he turned to look back at them.
Yes, Muhammad thought, laugh when the boss makes a joke: better to stay employed, or in this case, alive.
They were all rough-looking men just as comfortable putting a bullet through someone as making a business transaction.
Muhammad approached the crate. The three men accompanying him stayed put, keeping one hand inside their jacket pockets on their pistols and their eyes on the locals, looking for any incriminating movements. Black market deals, especially ones that involved items such as this, were rife with double-cross. Inside the crate, Muhammad was pleased to see exactly what he had come for: an encapsulated bundle of metal the size of a soccer ball with Cyrillic letters indicating a small, tactical nuclear warhead. There were newer wires attached to the old warhead, but they were for verification and testing the validity of the device.
“Looks good, da?” Ivan asked.
Removing his right glove, Muhammad reached inside to touch it. The steel casing was ice-cold, but he knew that inside were the fires of a nuclear inferno waiting to be released. Allah willing, he would do just that, he thought, obliterating masses of Westerners, including the head infidel himself, the American President, Billy Ray Buchannan.
“Yes, my friend, it most certainly does. May I ask where you were able to get your hands on an item such as this?” Muhammad asked: curious but wanting to hear if the story would fit.
“Da, Tovarisch. As walls and borders fell, old treaties dissolved, new treaties were signed. Items disappear from inventories. A forward-looking entrepreneur stockpiles what is items of rare quality, yes? So many SCUD missiles throughout Mother Russia. Who knew how many were hidden in bunkers and depots? Who knew how many dismantled, destroyed? Is hard to say. Records can be so… disorganized,” Ivan concluded with a smile.
Muhammad looked up at him, smiling as well. For such a dimwitted-looking man, he actually had the foresight to squirrel away some unique articles of warfare. Muhammad pulled his tablet PC from the small briefcase he had sitting on the ground near where he had been standing. This would be the truth-teller. He took the tablet and connected the cable to the control panel port of the warhead. The contact who had set up the tablet had assured Muhammad that if this was in some way a fake, the software would tell him right away. One of his men also had a hand-held sensor to confirm the legitimacy of Ivan’s claim. Muhammad motioned for his man to come forward with the sensor and looked at the readout. It came up with the correct readings immediately. His man stuck the sensor near another physical port on the warhead, moving the port’s cover to the open position. This spiked the hand-held sensor immediately. They looked at each other, nodding their heads in agreement: a legitimate nuclear device.
“What did you expect, comrade?” Ivan asked, holding up his arms, feigning hurt feelings.
“Greatest apologies, my friend. I have had dealings in the past where someone has not followed through on their promises,” Muhammad confessed to Ivan. “I’ve learned the hard way to be cautious.”
Ivan laughed a deep belly laugh. “Not to worry, my friend. With this item, I can finally retire to small dacha in the country, sip vodka all day, lament and reminisce on glorious exploits of past. Remember better times when Mother Russia was strong, when virus of capitalism had not yet infected her.”
“You will find half your payment deposited by sunset. The other half will be deposited when the crate leaves on a ship from Jeddah Islamic Seaport. Before leaving there, I will have an agent inspect the contents of the crate one more time.”
“Whatever you wish. Who is agent? His name so my people expect him?” Ivan looked warily at Muhammad.
“I believe his name is known to you. You should be looking for former Spetznaz Colonel Gregor Alexi Nikolanovic. I believe he’s better known as The Devil’s Ghost.”
All the blood rushed from Ivan’s face when he heard that name. His men also looked much paler than they already were. Cold as it was, Muhammad swore he noticed Ivan start sweating as he fidgeted, looking back at his obviously rattled men.
“M-m-m-my friend, you know who that man is?” Ivan whispered quietly, as if afraid to speak of that person aloud. He looked like he was about to pass out.
“Yes, Ivan. He is the man ensuring I receive exactly what I paid for, on time in perfect working order. If I do not, I will turn over all your information to him, letting him take care of any - renegotiating that might be necessary.”
Muhammad knew Colonel Nikolanovic’s reputation. It was the reason for contracting him. Normally he wouldn’t soil his fight with infidel involvement, but again, special exceptions needed to be made for the progress of the jihad. Seeing these men’s reactions to the name alone reassured Muhammad that he had made the right choice.
Ivan felt cold sweat running down his back. Motivation for this deal going smoothly has just amplified a hundred, nyet, a thousand-fold, he brooded.
There weren’t many things that could actually scare Ivan. He’d worked with nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons that would snuff a life out in an instant, handled improperly. He’d been shot at more times than he could count, been hit at least a half-dozen times in various dealings with thugs, terrorists, and criminals, but nobody, nothing had ever come close to scaring him like the man known as the Devil’s Ghost. Ivan had seen the aftermath of his handiwork, more than once losing his lunch upon seeing it first-hand: cold, calculating, brutal, sadistic; just plain, flat-out scary. When Ivan was young, he’d seen Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator. He imagined the former Spetznaz Colonel to be that: a pure killing machine, no conscience whatsoever.
Ivan was looking forward to retirement after this last sale of inventory he had hidden away. Things were becoming too risky, he was getting too old to be constantly looking over his shoulder, and this was a prime example of that reasoning.
He composed himself, not wanting to show more weakness than he already had to this madman in front of him. He was mad for wanting to actually use a device like this, Ivan thought, and even more insane being involved with the Devil’s Ghost.
“My friend, please, rest assured. Package will be delivered as promised, on time. All preparations are made, trust me.” Ivan extended his arms in an open, inviting gesture.
“I believe you, my friend. Especially considering who will be handling matters if the specifics of the contract are breached.” Muhammad boasted, with more than a hint of arrogance.
“Let us shake on it and conclude business. Is cold in here; I am less tolerant of it as I get older,” Ivan said, offering his gloved hand to Muhammad.
Muhammad gripped it with his own gloved hand. The two men smiled at each other. He signaled to his men they were leaving, eager to get back into their SUV to get the heater going on maximum heat, as soon as possible.
“Do svidaniya, Ivan. I look forward to hearing the crate has been inspected and is on its way to its final destination.” Muhammad chuckled, knowing full well he had Ivan’s full attention. He could positively expect things to stay on schedule now.
Ivan waved, once again belting out a deep belly laugh. “Do svidaniya, Tovarisch!” he called out after Muhammad as the door closed.
He waited inside for a few minutes until Muhammad and his men left then, turning to his crew, Ivan didn’t mince his words.
“This better be arranged tighter than seal’s ass!” He pointed his finger at each of them, shaking it vigorously. “I am escorting crate personally now, so no fuck-ups! I have no desire to meet the Ghost in person, but I make sure none of you fuck this up. Last thing I want is that evil son of bitch comes knocking on Ivan’s door to - renegotiate. No fucking way!” Ivan wiped sweat and spittle from around his mouth.
His men silently echoed Ivan’s sentiments; they all wanted to live long enough to be able to retire. Crossing the Ghost, or his business associates, was not a good way to set up for a long, prosperous life. They knew full well what was meant by “renegotiations.” There was no hiding from the Ghost’s “renegotiations.” He could appear from thin air, disappearing just as quickly once he had wreaked havoc.
Ivan hadn’t had plans to go with the crate as it was delivered to the refinery at the BP Azerbaijan Logistics/Operations Base, just outside the city of Baku. The Devil’s Ghost’s involvement had changed all of that. Ivan would be escorting the crate all the way to the turnover point at the seaport in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.
At the refinery, his contacts were to generate legitimate paperwork for shipping the crate as an oil pump. The pump would be going from the BP facility in Azerbaijan to a BP subsidiary facility in Mexico. At least that’s what the shipping documents were going to say. There were still three countries with their customs officials and inspectors to go through.
Ivan’s men loaded the crate right after Muhammad and his crew left. More than ever, he was anxious to conclude this deal. He bumped one of his men from the travelling escort to Jeddah, where it was to be loaded on a ship for Mexico. He just wanted to see the device get to the seaport so he could be rid of it. He wanted to get paid so he could start his life as a retired black marketeer. Not many got to enjoy that position. He was determined to be one of the lucky few.
The crate secured in the bed of the truck; the small group began the seven-hour drive to the BP refinery on the southern edge of Baku. There they would deliver the pump, only to turn right around, bringing it up to Heydar Aliyev International Airport, where it would be flown via a privately chartered cargo flight to King Abdul-aziz International Airport in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. They would truck it to a staging warehouse on a pier where it would be loaded onto a container ship at the Jeddah Islamic Seaport.
The trip to the refinery was uneventful with only two stops along the way for fuel and restroom breaks. The sub-par suspension of the old cargo truck bounced them all around. Ivan was grateful for the stops; his aging body could only take so much.
Traffic was almost nonexistent, due to the late hour, as they approached the refinery. The facility was lit up as they approached the security guard at the delivery gate. The inbound shipment documents were scrutinized heavily by the guard as they stopped to check in. After a few tense moments, the sentry made the appropriate entries on his tablet, scanned the forged bar code on the side of the box, then gave them directions to where they would be dropping the crate off.
Ivan’s stomach flip-flopped when they got to the bay door to meet their contact, a distant cousin who was on the payroll for Ivan as well as the refinery. This was not the man that greeted them though as they backed up to the bay door. This was an older man, looking like he had seen the prime years of his life vanish quite a while ago.
“Greetings, Tovarisch! I was expecting Sergei this evening, looking forward to giving him hard time about his Lokomotivs losing last game in playoffs.” Ivan was referring to the team in the Kontinental Hockey League championship playoffs. In reality, he was hoping for Sergei so the shipping documents could be handed over smoothly. This old man, whose name he found out was Kirill, didn’t look like he was going to be very cooperative.
“I talked to Sergei yesterday. He asked me to cover his shift for him. He had to take the night off to take his wife to the ballet or something,” Kirill said. “He said there would be a special shipment arriving this evening and instructed me to give the man in charge these documents. Am I to assume that is the special shipment, you being the man in charge?” he asked, squinting his right eye as he pointed to the crate strapped down in the back of the truck.
“Yes, it most certainly is. Yes, I most certainly am,” replied Ivan, wondering what this doddering old fool was up to.
“Seems to me that this is a pretty special oil pump. Especially considering it’s listed as a BFOP 07-111-5, which as long as I’ve been here, I have never heard of before. It makes me think that the shipping documents for such a special pump might be worth a little special payment.” The old man stroked his chin in a calculating way.
Ivan was smiling, but in disbelief. The stress of this deal was already wearing his patience thin.
“You treacherous old fuck! Extorting me for the documents? I should have you killed where you stand!” The words blurted out before Ivan realized he had spoken. “Old timer, you have some balls, I’ll give you that. This is a very special pump, but it does not come with a very special price for its documents. I’ll tell you why. The documents will be turned over to me or I will relay to the Devil’s Ghost who it was delayed the shipment or got it denied to cross the borders. Are we clear?”
Kirill’s face turned ashen white almost instantaneously. His hand started shaking as if the papers had suddenly become white hot.
“Here!” he shouted, practically throwing the papers at Ivan. “My apologies, sir. I had no idea. Everything you’ll need is in there. I swear, by Lenin’s ghost I swear! Take them and go, please!”
Ivan grabbed the papers from Kirill, giving them the once-over. The Devil’s Ghost’s reputation was a dark legend in this country as well as around the world, a real-life boogeyman that could spook even the bravest of souls.
Ivan and his men jumped back into the truck They would load the crate onto the cargo jet chartered to Jeddah through one of Ivan’s shell corporations hired by a fictitious oil company to ship a critical part to one of its fictitious subsidiaries in North America.
Ivan was still sweating a little wondering what else could go wrong today. First, he’d found out that his last deal as a black-market merchant was going to involve one of the most evil men in the world so he ended up having to babysit the package all the way to Saudi Arabia. Second, his cousin was a no-show at the refinery. Fortunately, dropping the name of the Devil’s Ghost had been enough to take care of any complications with the old man, but it could have just as easily gone to shit in a heartbeat. So now, Ivan was waiting for the third strike that would take him out of this whole deal.
When the customs representative appeared at the airport dock, it caused Ivan to smile just a little. The official was a man Ivan had done business with before when certain packages needed to not have such a close eye inspecting them. Ivan climbed out of the truck and embraced the man like a dear, old friend.
“You old bear, you; I thought you were dead or retired!” the official said to Ivan.
Ivan chuckled heartily and responded, “Ah, Mishka, I wish was true, as far as retirement aspect. This is last job, then I am heading to the hills. I try and enjoy last few days on this earth. Hoping it will actually be more than few.”
“I see you have cargo here for inspection. Will it be needing ‘special treatment’?” Mishka looked at the bed of the truck.
“Da, Mishka. Equipment is to be expedited. I’d like to have cleared soon as possible, so it can be on the cargo ramp ready to go. I will be escorting and will need my papers stamped as well. “
“YOU will be escorting this?!” Mishka asked in disbelief. The official had done enough business with Ivan to know he was not a fan of flying, always leaving that to others in his organization.
“Da. Only reason I am even thinking about doing this is because of the customer’s representative waiting on the other end. No way I am letting package for Colonel Nikolanovic be delayed or have delivery fucked up in any way.”
Mishka’s eyes got as wide as dinner plates. In a hushed voice, he said, “Colonel Nikolanovic?! The Devil’s Ghost!? Are you fucking mad, Ivan? Have you lost your mind in your old age? Why, on Lenin’s Tomb, would you do business with this man who would as soon skin you alive as look at you?!” The look on his face was one of utter disbelief.
“Believe me, if I could avoid, I would, but is job gets me to retirement. I had no idea he was involved, or I seriously consider finding another customer. I was in too deep before I knew.” Ivan shrugged. “Now I am just wanting to get out of this with skin intact.”
“Good luck, Tovarisch. Here everything is in order. You have no problem moving cargo.”
“Thank you, Mishka. Usual amount will be deposited into your account tomorrow morning. I’ll get it in quick, there just in case things don’t go so well on other side of flight which, by the way, I am looking forward to not at all.”
“Why don’t you guys go wait in the lounge over there.” Mishka pointed to a lit corner room of the hangar. “Your plane is here soon. I let you know.”
“Spasibo, my friend.” Ivan grabbed the man to hug him again. “Your hospitality is appreciated and will be rewarded.” He intended to add a little more to Mishka’s usual fee for services.
“No problem, Ivan. I don’t envy your position on the other end of plane ride.”
Ivan walked away toward the lounge, nodding in agreement, then shaking his head.
The loading went smoothly. Ivan scoped out his seat on the medium-sized airplane while the rest of his men were assisting the aircrew to load the cargo. They were all strapped in as the plane took off forty-five minutes after midnight. It had been a long day for Ivan and the plane ride extended that feeling even further. The flight was only a couple of hours, but to poor Ivan, it seemed they were up in the air all night. There just happened to be plenty of turbulence that evening. The seats were not very comfortable; it was a cargo plane after all. Paired with the tumultuous ride, it denied Ivan the ability to sleep. He also managed to fill not just one, but three airsickness bags. Mishka had given Ivan some Dramamine before he left the terminal, but the medicine had very little effect.
The three men he had with him were all seasoned travelers, having done errands for him all over Europe and Asia. They stifled their laughter the best they could. They weren’t used to seeing their boss, a man who did business with an iron hand, throwing up and looking like a whipped dog. They waited until he closed his eyes to try and get some sleep before they made hand gestures, poking fun at him. Here was this larger-than-life figure huddled in a corner, whimpering like a baby. To his men, this was a priceless moment they would treasure forever!
The pilots managed to put the exclamation point on the flight to Jeddah with a bone jarring landing that threatened to shake everyone’s fillings loose. It was late at night when they touched down, even later still when they finished taxiing to the cargo hangar, went through customs at this airport, and finally were able to settle in for the night. The forged documents were in impeccable order, allowing them to breeze through customs.
By the time Ivan was walking away from customs, one of the men had pulled up to the doorway in a rental car. Ivan hopped in the back of the sedan, sprawling over the back seat, getting as comfortable as he could for the short drive to the hotel, where his men had already checked him into his room. He could hardly wait to get off his feet.
(March 29, 2024) Ivan vaguely remembered his head hitting the pillow when he had stumbled into his room the night prior, simply exhausted. The alarm on his phone went off and he couldn’t help feeling he hadn’t slept at all. There was no reason for him to bother taking a shower because he knew he would just end up sweating through his clothes again that day. Instead he splashed some water on his face, brushed his teeth with the courtesy toothbrush, and ran a comb through his matted hair.
Halfheartedly smiling at the prospect, Ivan was thinking he had come so far, but now he could end up dead on his last transaction. If things went sour, at least he knew he had done everything he could to make this all go as smoothly as possible.
His man was waiting for him with the car in front of the hotel. He wasted no time, wanting to conclude the day’s business and fly home. That thought made him queasy all over again.
They arrived back at the terminal. Ivan was dropped off at the truck while his man returned the rental car and caught a shuttle back.
In suffered silence, Ivan made the warm, ninety-minute drive with the crate in the large cargo truck from the airport to the Jeddah Islamic Seaport. Traffic was horrible and the airport was about as far away from the pier as it could be while still being considered part of the same city. Ivan disliked this part of the world. He wanted to get home, to be done with this last transaction, done with black market deals to simply be basking in the glow of his retirement. He hoped someone else would be there, that it wouldn’t be the infamous Devil’s Ghost. The climate was already making him perspire heavily. The thought of having to meet the nefarious man in person caused the sweat to roll from his brow so much that he soaked through his handkerchief before they even left the airport.
The length of the drive only made Ivan’s stomach more upset. They pulled up to the loading warehouse at the pier. A guard at the entrance gave them directions to where they were to unload their cargo for final inspection and loading.
The warehouse was huge, seemingly no end in sight. Eventually Ivan and his comrades made it to the designated spot, a small opening between two huge stacks of pallets covered in plastic.
There were two very serious-looking gentlemen standing near the spot. They wore obviously European suits made for summer; the bulge of their pistols not so cleverly concealed. The weapons would be inconspicuous to the casual observer, but Ivan was no casual observer. The two waiting men were like mirrors to some of his own men: men not to be trifled with; men that meant serious business. He had only heard what Colonel Gregor looked like and thought neither one of these men looked like the Ghost. He felt a small pang of relief with the thought that maybe the Ghost had not been able to make it. He would not be disappointed at all if that was the case.
“Khoroshego dnya, gospoda. Good day, gentlemen” Ivan roared as he got out of the truck. He flung his arms up in an over-exaggerated gesture of welcome.
Neither of the two men flinched, looking not even remotely friendly or reciprocating.
“Assuming you are here to take possession of oil pump?” Ivan posed the question to the large man closest to him.
His only response was a nod of the head toward the open space on the floor.
“Yes, yes, we get unloaded now,” Ivan responded eagerly, trying to keep things flowing.
He motioned to his three men. They hopped up into the bed of the truck, getting ready to slide the crate to the end of the bed, and then lift it down to place it on the spot.
“Please be very careful with that pump, comrades. If I’m not mistaken, it is a most delicate instrument.” The voice came from a man who magically appeared from the shadows of the stacked pallets.
Ivan had never heard the voice before, but the tone of it, coupled with the scarred face, chilled him to the bone, even in the sweltering heat of the warehouse. It has to be him, the fucking Devil’s Ghost himself, he thought. It was all Ivan could do to control his bladder.
The man wasn’t an imposing figure: tallish, but not towering; muscular, but not hulking like a bodybuilder. He did have the look and moves of a man who definitely knew how to handle himself. The scar on his face gave evidence he had seen up-close and personal action. The man had the coldest, steely eyes, the kind of eyes that saw deep inside you, looking at your very soul.
“Dobryy den’, sir. You must be our mutual friend’s representative. Is honor and privilege to meet you,” Ivan said, holding out his hand and praying the sweating would stop long enough for him to give a handshake. The stoic figure looked Ivan up and down, keeping his arms behind his back.
“Yes. As you have undoubtedly heard, I am Colonel Gregor Nikolanovic, the man they call the Devil’s Ghost. I am representing my client in this transaction. Thank you for being on time. I know how things can sometimes get delayed in matters like these.”
Ivan wished he was lifting the crate off the truck instead of trying to make chit-chat with one of the most ruthless men in the world. He motioned to his men to hurry up, but to also be careful. His men had no desire to spend any more time than necessary around The Ghost. Too often people ended up dead or just flat out disappeared when that happened.
“I’m going to assume that everything is as according to the terms you struck with my client.” Gregor stood looking straight ahead at the men unloading the device rather than making eye contact with the sweaty, stumbling buffoon.
“Of course, sir. I personally accompany here for you to ensure all went according to plan.” Ivan said.
“Wonderful, Piotr Rasputin Gavrilenkov.”
The use of his real name startled Ivan, rattling him to the bone. This man, considered evil incarnate, knew his real name. If he knew his real name, then he probably knew other details about him too. Ivan’s second shock in the same instant was the sudden appearance of the scar-faced man, inches from his face, piercing him with his gaze.
“That is good. I appreciate that. Also, that ensures there won’t be any need for renegotiations, da?”
The nervous arms dealer had no idea how The Ghost had covered even that short distance in the blink of an eye. Fear and anxiety overcame Ivan, who just then, did wet himself a little bit.
“N-n-no, definitely not, tovarisch!!” Ivan stammered out, not as fast as he would have liked. The former Spetsnaz soldier stood there, close up to Ivan’s face, staring with those ice-cold, steely eyes right into what Ivan felt was the center of his brain, capturing his entire being with that gaze, like he would know if Ivan was lying or not.
“Wonderful! Let’s get this wrapped up so we can all get out of this sweatbox they call a warehouse.” Gregor stepped away from Ivan, whose sweating had a very foul odor, turned a soldierly about-face on his heel and looked down at the crate on the floor. He motioned to his two men who produced a crowbar from behind the stack of pallets. As they started prying open the crate, Gregor spun back around, giving Ivan a look that seemed to ask why are you still here?
Ivan was in no way going to make any sudden moves or assumptions. He was too close to the end, valuing his life now more than he ever had.
Gregor turned back to the crate, watching with keen interest as his men once again opened the box for inspection.
“We are all set here then, da?” Ivan managed to blurt out, doing his damnedest to keep his voice from shaking or cracking.
Much to Ivan’s relief, Gregor smiled just a fraction as he looked back over his shoulder, saying, “Of course, my friend. I believe we won’t have any problems with the package when we inspect it. If there are any, we know where to find you. Yes, we know where to find you, Piotr. Now run along so you can start enjoying your dacha in the countryside near Rybinsk. Enjoy your retirement.”