Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 3

  But first Doctor Daniel Dean had to go through the motions of meeting with a group of scientists who knew he wasn’t a real pathologist, but were willing to pretend that he was, even though Russian intelligence were likely to know about the underground facility and its purpose. The charade was worth the effort however since it would protect Dan’s cover, and keep the Russians guessing.

  After two hours of meetings Dean was shown into an elevator. The elevator lacked a control panel and dropped so fast that the CIA officer wondered if he was going to float up off the floor. The lift stopped smoothly and the doors opened to reveal an automated checkpoint.

  Like all SOG (Special Operations Group) officers Dean had been a special forces operator prior to joining the CIA. As such he thought like one. No one is going to shoot their way out of this box, Dean decided. Cameras? Check. Gas nozzles? Check. Gun ports? Check.

  There was no request for a name, or an ID card, both of which could be faked. The voice was soothingly female. “Please step into the cage, and place both hands on the screen.”

  Dean did as he was told knowing that his body was being scanned for weapons, his face was being compared to millions of images on file, and his finger/palm prints were being matched to his features. “Welcome to SHAPE, Officer Dean,” the voice said. “You may proceed.”

  Stainless steel doors parted to reveal a woman wearing a gray business suit and a red scarf. She had prematurely white hair, bright blue eyes, and a brusque manner. She didn’t offer her hand. “My name is Marie De Jong. Your meeting will begin in sixteen minutes. Do you need to visit a restroom? No? Then please follow me.”

  The reception area emptied into a busy corridor. Some people wore uniforms, but many didn’t, which made sense because a great deal of the work was carried out by civilians.

  De Jong took a number of turns which Dean automatically memorized, and stored in reverse order, should it become necessary to escape from the complex. That was ridiculous of course. But the habit had been useful in the past and might be again.

  De Jong stopped in front of a door marked “Conference Room 14,” and knocked. A general pulled it open. He offered his hand. “Hello! I’m Brigadier General Wallace Neely. Welcome to SHAPE.”

  Dean took note of the southern twang, the firm grip, and the direct gaze. All of which were characteristics consistent with what Dean thought of as “the profile.” Meaning the look that senior officers either had or sought to cultivate. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Daniel Dean.”

  Neely winked, as if to say, “Sure it is,” and smiled. “Admiral Colby sends his regards. He claims you’re the best.”

  “The admiral believes that all his sailors are the best,” Dean replied.

  Neely laughed. “A diplomat and a SEAL. Follow me … I’ll make the introductions.”

  United States Assistant Secretary of Defense Nancy Tillis was forty something, attractive in a carefully groomed sort of way, and given to a perpetual frown. If anyone in the room had principal responsibility for getting Operation Red Thunder approved it was likely to be her.

  British Colonel Jack Jackson was a member of the famous Coldstream Guards regiment. He had a round face, a cheerful demeanor, and a carefully trimmed mustache. Dean could imagine Jackson at Waterloo, in the Flanders Fields of WWI, or battling the Japanese during WWII.

  French Defense Attaché Rene Arpin struck Dean as a different kind of man entirely. The Frenchman was what Dean thought of as a techno-dandy, meaning a sleek urban creature. He was wearing a black suit, over a black shirt, with a black tie. The latest iteration of the Apple Watch was visible on one wrist and a green eco bracelet encircled the other.

  Together, the people in the room were going to decide whether they should green light Operation Red Thunder. Dean’s responsibility was to evaluate the mission from a special forces’ perspective. “Don’t let them sell you a pile of shit.” That was the sum total of the instructions Dean’s boss had given him.

  The original concept had been conceived by the Defense Department’s newly created internal think tank. A group generally referred to as the “Bureau of Bullshit,” or BOB, by rank and file operators like Dean.

  “So,” Neely said, once all were seated at the oval table which was equipped with surface mounted monitors and personal power outlets. “Let’s get this show on the road. Secretary Tillis, we’re all ears.”

  A screen occupied most of a wall. Tillis stood and aimed a remote at it. The words “COSMIC TOP SECRET” appeared on the screen. “COSMIC” being a security prefix that was unique to NATO. The next slide read “Operation Red Thunder.”

  Tillis turned to look at her audience. The frown was still in place. “Operation Red Thunder is a bank job,” she told them. “Except that the bank robbers will be members of a multi-national force, and the bank will be the Gorsky Copper Works located in the town of Kyshtym deep inside Russia.”

  A map appeared. Dean saw that Kyshtym was indeed buried deep inside Russia, with the Ural Mountains to the north, the Republic of Bashkortostan to the east, and Kazakhstan to the southwest. Dean couldn’t think of a more inaccessible target.

  “And rather than money,” Tillis added, “our guys are going to steal a large quantity of rhenium.”

  Another slide appeared. A photo in the upper left-hand corner of the page showed a handful of harmless looking metal slugs. Bullet points were ranked below. Tillis read each one out loud. “Rhenium was discovered in 1908, and named after the Rhine River.

  “Nickel-based superalloys of rhenium are used in the combustion chambers, turbine blades, and exhaust nozzles of jet engines.

  “Because of the low availability of rhenium relative to demand, it’s expensive, and recently hit a wartime high of $6,000 per pound.

  “The total prewar world production of rhenium was 40-50 tons per year, most of which came from Chile, Peru, the United States, and Poland.

  “The fact that Poland remains in Allied hands means that Russia has to produce its own. And, since commercial rhenium is extracted from molybdenum roaster-flue gases, obtained from copper-sulfide ores, the Gorsky Copper Works is a natural place to initiate production.

  “Based on human intelligence it’s believed that the Russians have accumulated approximately one-ton of rhenium in Kyshtym, having a value of 12M U.S.”

  Tillis Paused at that point. “But the strategic purpose of Operation Red Thunder has nothing to do with money. The mission objective is to (1.) Deny the rhenium to the Russian war machine, and (2.) Transfer the rhenium to the Allied war effort.

  “That’s why rhenium is important, and that’s why we want to steal it,” Tillis concluded. “Now, let’s talk about the way this bank job is going to work.”

  Much to his surprise Dean was impressed with the rationale behind the mission. But the devil, as the saying goes, would be in the details. He glanced from face-to-face.

  Arpin was looking down at his cell phone, Jackson was twirling a pen, and Neely was eyes-on as a slide labeled “PREPARATION” appeared.

  “Before I dive into logistics,” Tillis began, “a word regarding our basic approach would be appropriate. Due to the unique demands of this mission, we will use a pop-up battalion consisting of two platoons of handpicked U.S. Army soldiers, and one platoon of English-speaking Ukrainian soldiers.”

  Dean knew that pop-up units were all the rage at the moment. The concept was to take full advantage of NATO’s common platforms to create purpose driven companies, battalions and brigades, drawn from member nations without regards to unit integrity. And there were numerous examples in which the pop-up approach had been successful.

  But it was more difficult to maintain unit cohesion within pop-ups, communications problems were common and, although most NATO gear was standardized, there were exceptions. So critics, Dean being one of them, felt that pop-ups were best used for short – duration special missions. Like the one Tillis had in mind.

  Not having received any blowback Tillis continued. “The batta
lion will come together at Fort Ord in California. A facility which is, as General Neely knows, open for business again.

  “The soldiers from both countries will have four weeks to learn the table of organization, come up to speed on the mission, and receive their issue of Russian equipment. More on that later.”

  An animation appeared on the screen. A dotted line connected Travis AFB to the western Ukraine. “The insertion will take place in stages,” Tillis said, as a second animation appeared.

  “The first stage will consist of a flight to Free Ukraine aboard two Lockheed C-5 Galaxies. Then both passengers, vehicles, and supplies will be transferred to a pair of captured Antonov An-124s for stage 2 of the insertion. The transponders on both aircraft will be tweaked to spoof planes in service elsewhere, and will provide positive IFF (Identification, Friend or Foe) responses to Russian air traffic control operators. After passing through Russian airspace the planes will land at the emergency airstrip north of Kyshtym. It employs a small maintenance crew and has no security to speak of.

  “Once on the ground a Ural 6x6 utility truck will roll off each plane,” Tillis told them. “One truck will be loaded with troops. The other will transport some troops, but remain partially empty, and be used to bring the rhenium back to the airfield.

  “A GAZ Tigr 4x4 will deplane as well, along with a VPK mobility vehicle, both armed with machine guns. A Bumerang armored personnel carrier will add some 30mm punch.”

  Dean was both impressed and appalled. The good news was that some meticulous planning had been done. The bad news was that the mission involved a lot of moving parts. Too many moving parts. But that’s how it was sometimes. The plan to kill Osama bin Laden had lots of moving parts too, but had been successful, in spite of a damaged helicopter. So Dean remained silent.

  “The Ukrainian troops will be critical at this juncture,” Tillis said. “Each solider will speak English and Russian. All will be drawn from the 8th Special Purpose Regiment, which has been fighting the Russians for years, and is known for its valor. They will drive the vehicles and interact with Russians as needed.

  “The actual theft will take place at the Gorsky Copper Works, where our personnel will have to neutralize a platoon strength contingent of Russian soldiers, before they can load the rhenium and return to the airfield.”

  Tillis made what was almost certainly going to be a vicious firefight sound like a walk in the park. What would she be doing when the shooting began, Dean wondered? Sleeping that’s what.

  “Once the rhenium, the vehicles, and our personnel are aboard the planes, they will take off for the flight back to Free Ukraine,” Tillis added. “Both planes are large enough to extract the entire force plus the rhenium, should one of them be unable to takeoff. Do you have any questions?”

  They did. But, to her credit, Tillis had answers for all of them—including one from Dean. “And who,” he wanted to know, “will be in command of Operation Red Thunder?”

  Tillis smiled for the first time. Dean could tell that she’d been waiting for his question as she clicked the remote. A face appeared on the screen. A face that anyone who liked action adventure-movies would be familiar with.

  In fact, the shot had been lifted from a movie called The Last Train from Benghazi, in which actor Alton Flynn played the part of an ex-Green Beret who rescued hundreds of people from the violence that consumed Benghazi immediately after Muammar Gaddafi’s death. The image showed him leaning out of a boxcar firing a pistol. Dean couldn’t believe it. “You must be shitting me.”

  Tillis was enjoying herself. “It may seem like a strange choice,” she admitted. “But consider the facts. Flynn’s real name is Dimitri Gromov. His family brought him to the United States when he was six years old, which means he speaks fluent Russian.

  “Plus, Flynn is an army colonel, who served in the reserves for nearly 20 years, and completed a tour in Afghanistan. And who better to play a Russian colonel, than an actor who is a colonel, and speaks the language? In order for the mission to succeed all of our personnel will have to wear Russian uniforms and carry Russian weapons.”

  That made sense but Dean wasn’t ready to cave. “That’s fine, so long as the mission goes as planned, but what if the wheels come off? Flynn will find himself deep in enemy territory where he’ll be faced with two choices: Fight, or surrender.

  “And if he chooses to fight, how is that likely to go? Yes, he did a tour, but doing what? Fighting in the field? I doubt it.”

  Tillis nodded. “We have an app for that, and here she is.”

  The photo of Flynn dissolved into a picture of a female army officer. She was wearing a tan beret. And Dean knew what that meant. The woman with the dark brown hair and the big eyes was an Army Ranger. One of just a handful of women who had the right to wear a Ranger tab on her uniform.

  “This is Major Katie Quinn,” Tillis told them. “Also known as the Ice Queen. She has a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. And Quinn will serve as Flynn’s XO. So, if things go wrong, Flynn will have an experienced officer to provide back-up. Any questions or comments?”

  “I can attest to Major Quinn’s competence,” Neely said. “She’s a good choice.”

  “Good,” Tillis replied. “Let’s vote. Operation Red Thunder, yes, or no? Monsieur Arpin?”

  “Oui.”

  “Colonel Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  “General Neely?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Dean?”

  Dean looked into Major Quinn’s brown eyes. What did he see there? The answer was absolute, unflinching certainty. “I vote yes.”

  The meeting ended shortly thereafter, the principals went their separate ways, and the bureaucratic wheels began to turn. Operation Red Thunder had been approved.

  ***

  Washington State

  Major Katie Quinn caught a glimpse of snow-capped Mount Rainier as the plane passed to the north and began to lose altitude prior to landing at the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. The better part of two weeks had elapsed since the attempt to take and hold the Russian ponton.

  New orders found Quinn shortly after she and what remained of her tiny command had returned to France. The effort to take the bridge had failed. And judging from Quinn’s orders, it appeared that General Neely, or someone else, was displeased.

  Why else would the army send her to something called 152nd Training Command, at Fort Ord in California? Yes, training was important, but the last thing Quinn wanted was a desk job. And training slots were normally reserved for older officers who’d been reactivated.

  There was one bright spot however, and that was the opportunity to spend a couple of days visiting her mother on the Key Peninsula, a long finger of land that jutted south into Puget Sound. Rather than call her mother, Quinn decided to surprise her.

  Sea-Tac had always been busy and it still was. Prior to the war active duty personnel had been instructed to wear civilian clothing while traveling. Now, as part of the effort to bolster civilian morale, soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines had to wear their uniforms—and the airport was teeming with them.

  Many were headed for some R&R. Others were returning to duty. And a smaller group had been sent home to convalesce. They used canes, crutches, or wheelchairs to get around.

  Most of the men and women Quinn saw would eventually recover from their physical wounds. But she knew that some had suffered mental and emotional trauma that couldn’t be addressed in an operating room. Sights they couldn’t unsee. Feelings they couldn’t repress and memories that haunted their dreams. Quinn could feel their pain because she was one of them.

  After retrieving her duffle bag and pack from a luggage carousel, it was necessary to board a shuttle for the ride to Avis. Her reservation was in order. Quinn had to fork over a government rationing card so Avis could buy more gas, and fill out a needlessly complex form, before receiving the car keys.

  Once behind the wheel of a subcompact car, Quinn was able to leave the airport, make her way onto
I-5, and head south. People were limiting their driving because of gas rationing. So traffic was lighter than Quinn remembered, and she was able to reach what the locals referred to as “The Key” in an hour.

  Then began the long trip down the peninsula to the tiny community of Longbranch where Quinn had grown up. The two-bedroom wood frame house looked just the way she remembered. It had a peaked roof, big windows looking out onto Filucy Bay, and a covered porch large enough for summertime chairs and a hammock.

  But summer was a long way off, and it was raining as Quinn got out of the car. A red KIA was parked in the drive which meant Cathy Quinn was home.

  Quinn had a box of her mother’s favorite chocolates tucked under her left arm as she climbed the wooden stairs, crossed the deck, and rang the bell.

  She heard the sound of footsteps followed by the sound of the doorknob turning. Cathy pulled the door open, saw her daughter, and burst into the tears. “You’re alive!”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “The last letter was more than a month ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn said lamely.

  Cathy opened her arms and they hugged. Quinn was nearly 6 feet tall, while her mother was 5’4’’ and skinny. They broke contact and Cathy wiped the tears away. “How long can you stay?”

  “Two days. Then I’m off again.”

  Cathy looked worried. “Where are you going? Can you tell me?”

  Quinn smiled. “You’ll like this, Mom … I have orders for a training facility in California.”

  Cathy’s expression brightened. “California! I could fly down and see you.”

  “And vice versa,” Quinn said.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee and something to eat?”

  “Yes,” Quinn replied. “I’m starving.”

  “You know where everything is,” Cathy said. “Nothing has changed.” Then she left for the kitchen.

  Home. Her second home. The first was located in Tacoma, near Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Then, in 1990, during the lead up to Christmas, two soldiers arrived at the door.

  Quinn remembered how her mother had burst into tears when she saw them, because two officers at the door could only mean one thing to a military spouse, and Quinn watched wide-eyed as her mother received the news. Her husband, Mack Quinn had been killed in Iraq.