Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

The base was big, dotted with multiple runways and feeder routes, huge hangars and other buildings, and strewn with large and medium-sized military transport aircraft. Although it was daylight, everything was lit up by halogen lamps casting strong light through the leaden gray air and persistent snowfall. Some of the planes were taxiing, some stationary, others landing and taking off. Ground crews and other military personnel were moving on foot and in jeeps along tarmac tracks adjacent to the runways. Snow-clearing vehicles moved up and down the tracks. Vitali was clearly familiar with the layout of the airport as he drove his SUV with confidence, changing routes several times until he brought it to a halt adjacent to a building.

Korina glanced at Will. “Stay here.” She looked forward. “Markov, come with me.”

The two Russians got out and strode into the building. Vitali lit a cigarette, lowered his window a few inches, and looked toward the runways. Will and his CIA colleagues followed his gaze. Approximately a thousand troops were standing in lines, carrying heavy packs and rifles, near to two large troop-carrying aircraft. Other men, presumably their NCOs and officers, were walking up and down the lines. They were probably barking orders at the soldiers, although nothing could be heard beyond the thunderous drone of the aircraft. Across the base, some of the massive hangars opened their doors and more soldiers emerged onto the tarmac until what must have been several thousand troops were visible. All of them were waiting to board planes, patiently standing as thick snow fell over them.

Vitali muttered in English, “They belong to the Fifth Army. Their commander, Lieutenant General Viktor Fursenko, has ordered them to mobilize to Western Operational Strategic Command.”

Will asked, “Why?”

“It’s all presentational-show the West that we’re big boys and need to be taken seriously at the negotiating tables.”

“The soldiers out there won’t have been told that.” Laith’s tone was solemn. “I expect that their commanding officers have told them that this is for real.”

Vitali nodded slowly, puffing on his cigarette while keeping his gaze on the troops. “Of course. They have to be ready in case there really is a fight.” He sighed, flicked his cigarette outside, and closed his window. “My younger brother will be one of the soldiers standing out there. He joined the 60th Independent Motor Rifle Brigade two years ago. I tried to persuade him not to because he was never cut out for the army way of life and had far better options.”

Markov reappeared and leaned into the vehicle. “Time to move. Grab your kit. If spoken to, say nothing.”

Vitali immediately jumped out and strode to the back of the vehicle. Will, Roger, and Laith joined him.

Markov had the trunk open and began throwing the heavy Bergens at each man. “It’s good that we’re all dressed in suits and overcoats. The fact that we look different from everyone else here means we look special. We’re less likely to be confronted.”

Will slung one strap of his Bergen over a shoulder, grabbed his other bag, and watched the rest of the team do the same. Korina emerged from the building, picked up her own travel bag, and nodded at Markov, who led them all across the air base to a large Il-76M transport aircraft that was positioned away from the mass of troops. An airman was waiting, holding a clipboard. Korina spoke to him, nodded at the team, and then beckoned for them to come forward.

As Will climbed into the airplane, he expected the craft to be nearly empty given that the brigades he had seen a moment before had been assembled on the other side of the base. But the plane was filled with soldiers, sitting on their packs and with their assault rifles cradled over their legs. They all wore distinctive sky blue paratrooper berets. Will followed Korina down the center of the plane, walking between the soldiers, who eyed them with looks of confusion, until he and his team were at the back of the aircraft. There were no seats. Will put his rucksack down and sat on it, leaving a space between him and the rearmost paratrooper. Roger took that space.

The airplane immediately started moving and then accelerated hard for takeoff. The noise within the craft, deafening at first, receded to a low drone as it leveled out. Will looked to his left at Laith. The SOG officer was either asleep or pretending to be so. Opposite him, Korina was trying to make herself as comfortable as possible. Markov and Vitali were next to her, talking to each other. Will glanced at Roger. He was frowning. He followed his gaze and saw that one of the paratroopers opposite Roger was trying to strip down, clean, and reassemble his AKS-74 assault rifle. The soldier looked to be barely eighteen years old; he was sweating, and his hands shook as he clumsily tried to put the weapon back together. Two of the soldiers next to the paratrooper were also watching him, chuckling. Roger leaned quickly forward, grabbed the parts of the rifle, expertly stripped it down again, looked at the inside of the barrel to ensure it was clean, checked the other working parts, rapidly reassembled the weapon until it was fully functional, and held it out to him. The paratrooper took his weapon, smiled with a look of relief, and gripped the rifle tight enough to whiten his knuckles. As Roger leaned back, Will saw that Markov and Vitali had stopped their conversation and were looking at Roger with their mouths slightly open.

Roger cupped a hand around Will’s ear and said quietly, “Russian or otherwise, no soldier deserves to have a faulty weapon.”

Will looked around at all of the soldiers in the airplane. Some of them were laughing and joking with one another in an exaggerated manner. Others were busying themselves with unnecessary tasks. But most of them were quiet, looking apprehensive and lost in their own thoughts. Will knew all of this behavior very well. He too had sat as a young paratrooper in military airplanes, waiting to go to war. And the smell in the airplanes then had been the same smell that enveloped him now. It was the smell of fear.

It was midevening. Will, Korina, and Markov walked quickly down a long, winding driveway illuminated by lamps and surrounded by trees. Ahead of them was the dacha. The villa was quite large, and the lights were on. Two stationary vehicles were by the front entrance. The place was isolated in the forest and looked beautiful and homely, with gentle snow falling through the dim yellow glow of the lamps. They were forty miles outside Moscow and were here to interview the American traitor.

Markov knocked on the front door and stepped back. A voice called out. Markov responded, “Major Tsvetaeva. GRU.”

Bolts were unfastened; the door swung open. A tall, dark-haired man wearing a suit and a holster containing a Serdyukov SPS self-loading pistol stood in the entrance. Korina stepped forward and showed her ID, speaking quietly. The SVR officer scrutinized her identity card and, glancing over his shoulder, called out a name. He was joined by someone wearing similar attire. Markov pulled out a packet of cigarettes and said something to the men, then laughed. They smiled and stepped out of the doorway, joining Markov for a cigarette. Korina and Will stepped into the house.

The dacha was thick with tobacco smoke. As they walked along the hallway, they could hear a TV. Passing a kitchen, a cloakroom, and two bedrooms, Will saw that nothing inside was as homely as the villa’s exterior suggested. Instead, the interior was minimalist and functional. They turned into a large lounge and saw the bright screen of the television. The light from the set was the only illumination, and it flickered over the surroundings to produce snapshot images of a man sitting on a sofa.