Part 8
Atyrau, Kazakhstan
Tuesday, January 27
Early Evening
"Oh come on Sturgis, all the men in her life are dead, or wish they were."
It hangs between us now like an invisible wall. On my part, it’s the kernel of truth that’s tearing me apart on the inside, and turning me into a rigid Ice Queen Bitch on the outside. Intellectually, I know there’s nothing to it; emotionally, if we don’t find Clay, or if we find him dead, I don’t know that I can continue on with my career or my life. For Harm? I can see the shame on his face as he reads an accusation on mine that really isn’t there. The only loathing I feel is self-hatred and fear that something in my makeup has caused yet another lover’s death. Yes, I asked him to bring Clay back to me. However, I can’t blame Harm for not being able to squeeze three men into a cockpit that barely holds two, anymore than I can blame Sergei for taking a bullet to the chest. It was Clay’s job. It was Clay’s dedication to duty. It was Clay’s sacrifice that brought us together in this cold bunker in the middle of the docks of Atyrau, on the Caspian Sea.
We’ve been there for each other for eight years. We have saved each other, comforted each other, and hurt each other deeply. But for now, all we can do is what we really know best: Marine and Sailor; Top Gun and Marksman; officers, if not necessarily gentlemen.
When Harm called JAG ops twenty-two hours ago, he had no way of knowing that I was with the Admiral in his office. Once he heard he was on speakerphone, he’d hemmed and hawed until the Admiral ordered him to report. When we heard what was in the papers Clay had Harm deliver out of Russia, the Admiral got the DCI on the horn, and I began making travel arrangements even as Harm listened in from Turkey.
"Mac?" His voice had actually trembled over the tinny speaker.
"What Harm?" The snap in my voice was just military professionalism – sure it was.
"I… you know I…"
"I know, Harm. I have to go."
"Mac, he said to tell you…" I still wonder why he lied. Perhaps not lied, so much as he left something out. I heard it in his voice. However, he finished with, "He said he wanted a rain check. He said he would make it to Moscow. You know how resourceful he is, Mac." Did Harm not want to tell me that Clay said he loved me? No. Not yet. Too soon, and Clay wouldn’t ask Harm to tell me that unless he was dying in Harm’s arms like they do in the movies. But it was something. I’ll make Harm tell me – later.
The Admiral insisted that he was sending me to keep Harm in line. I thanked him for that, then went to the bathroom and promptly threw up everything I had for breakfast. I wonder if it was nerves or a baby. I haven’t been sick since, but then, I’ve eaten very little. How can two people with so little regard for their personal health and safety think they can bring a child into the world? But I can’t think about that now. We have a mission to complete, and then an errant CIA operative to find, and when I do, I hope I get the chance to hijack his butt somewhere private where we can talk it out. At thirty-eight, I’ve done this too often in my life. I’m not sure I can go on doing it, even if he is safe and smirking somewhere in Moscow.
Harm is sitting across the table, desperate to talk to me. There’s been no time. He arrived here less than an hour before me. And I have to admit, for a maverick loner, he’s managed to acquit himself well as the leader of this little task force. For a ‘shoot from the hip and we’ll sort it out later’ jet jockey, he’s pulled the plan together as tightly as if it were one of his most unwinable cases. He seems to have put aside his distrust of Mark Sokol; he and the former KGB agent have been going over maps and building plans for nearly as long as I’ve been here. I glance over at Captain Volkonov, and smile wanly. All of us are in civilian clothes. However, even in jeans and a cable knit sweater and winning smile, with his bearing, Alex Volkonov could only be Russian military. When he met me in Volgograd, he practically clicked his heels. Together, we boarded an unmarked helicopter, and brought Harm his attack force. Ten crack Russian commandos. I’d feel better if they were Force Recon Marines, but it’s their show. Why they’re allowing us to help is beyond me. I just hope we find the nerve gas in time.
I still can’t believe the original plot, but Harm and General Harris felt that the papers Clay stole were authentic. Mommar Atef wanted to drop his cargo on Tel Aviv, using a stolen F-14. The plan was simple and deadly. Not only would Atef wipe out a significant number of Israelis, but implicate the US as using WMD.
Across the scarred conference table, Harm finally looks up from a communiqué that one of Mark’s men brought in. He sighs, stands and walks to a chalkboard on the wall. Mark leans back, ready to translate for the commandos, none of whom speak English.
"I guess we better get this over with." He points to a crude chalk drawing of the building where the stolen papers say the nerve gas is being held. Our one recon showed that it’s a typical warehouse – open in the middle, with four stories of offices along two of the outer walls overlooking the storage area below. "From what we’ve been able to ascertain, Atef doesn’t know yet of the attack on the general’s dacha outside of Shalqir. Moscow was able to convince Astana to keep it hush-hush. But that won’t last long. From the papers that Webb stole from the dacha, they were to move the canisters by car tonight." He looks at me and sighs. "We have to get in and find them, before they get wind of the attack."
Volkonov, who hasn’t said much since we arrived, clears his throat. "How do we know that they won’t release the gas within the building? We don’t need proof of the lengths these people will go to."
Harm finally looks at me. "Did you bring them?"
I nod and look into Volkonov’s worried blue eyes. His handsome face is contorted with worry. Not for himself, I suspect, but more for his men. "The crate your men unloaded?"
"Yes?"
"It contains ten hazard suits, complete with re-circulating gas masks, body armor and face and hand protection. It’s the best we have. Our men stationed in Iraq took them into battle. Only personnel actually going into the building will wear them."
Harm lays out the plan. Mark and Volkonov supply the weapons. I check my Mosin Nagant 91/30. It’s old, but it’s been well maintained. The ten commandos remind me of young Marines. They have that look of intense concentration tempered by a can-do attitude. I find myself wishing Gunny were here with us now.
"Do you want me to take Sarah on my team?" Mark asks.
For a moment, I think that Harm’s going to agree. I can see the conflict on his face. "Uhm… no… Major. Actually, I think I need Mac with me. She can translate." The trust he has in me is obvious. That he can get past the emotional turmoil he’s in, shows a maturity that’s been hard won for him. But, he has a goal, and lord knows the man has always been goal oriented.
Mark looks at me. He’s as good a judge of character and nuance as Clay. I see the question in his eyes. He’s read the tension between Rabb and me, and he’s offering me his buffer, for my sake and for the sake of the mission. However, no matter how tense it will be for us, I owe Rabb my loyalty. He wants me by his side? I won’t betray him; not now, not ever. "I’ve got your six, Commander." I smile at Mark to soften the rejection, and he sighs and turns away. I can’t tell if Harm’s relieved, or if it even occurred to him that I might take that way out. He turns back to the board and begins to assign teams. Harm and I, with one commando, will make our way up the stairs to the second floor. Volkonov and six of the commandos will search the first floor. The rest will take up positions on the third and fourth. Harm shows the team how to work the helmet mics.
"Just keep in mind that we have no idea how unstable the Sarin nerve gas is. What we do know, is Sarin is a colorless and odorless gas. It’s twenty-six times more deadly than cyanide gas. Just a pinprick-sized droplet will kill a human. The vapor’s slightly heavier than air, so it hovers close to the ground. I don’t want anyone hurt on this mission. Use your gear. Colonel MacKenzie’s well versed in the battle dress, so see her before you get in your transport vehicle. Questions?" He’s done his homework, and even though I expected nothing less, I’m still damn proud of him.
Mark stands, and in Russian advises, "Once we have the canister, or canisters, in our safekeeping, Vostof and Lasi will get the containment crates." Ah, the sticking point. I quickly translate for Harm who gets a hard look on his face.
"Along with the protection suits, Colonel MacKenzie brought the neutralizing agents. She also knows the procedure."
"Commander Rabb." Mark says it formally. "My government has agreed to your participation in this mission. Do not forget that we are on Russian soil…"
"Kazakhstan soil," Harm insists.
Mark glares and continues. "We’ll accept responsibility of neutralization. Perhaps next time, your government will trust us earlier."
"If we thought…"
Volkonov finally snaps, "Perhaps we can have this discussion AFTER we are successful?"
Mark and Harm glare at each other. So much for trust. It was a concern of the DCI’s and the Admiral’s. What happens to the gas afterwards is almost as important as who has it now. After all, it was a Russian general who orchestrated the theft of the F-14. Harm will have his hands full. The Admiral and the DCI both told me that under no circumstances were the canisters to be allowed out of Atyrau. "There’s too much of it, Colonel," Clay’s boss explained. "And we don’t know just whose pocket Sokol is in this week." On a personal basis, I trust Mark. He was on our side in Moscow, but Sarin is too deadly, just ask the 5,500 people in Tokyo who were injured in ’95. Many of them are still suffering the side effects – the ones who lived. And that was a very diluted dosage. This batch is supposed to be pure and deadly.
Just by standing, I change the dynamics in the room. I look down at Volkonov. "Shall we get your men suited up?" I won’t say it’s calmer, but the attention is drawn away from Mark and Harm’s growing animosity. Is that a look of gratitude on Harm’s face? If it is, it was only there for a moment. I can remember a time when we worked so well together, my Yin to his Yang. I want that. I’ve missed that the most. Perhaps it was my fault to take a perfectly comfortable feeling of friendship and insist it had to be more. Now, I want more than anything to get back to what we had before. Please God, let us all survive this so we can work it out. I know that Harm is as precious to me as Clay. Please let us work this out.
Volkonov and I prepare the men; Harm and Mark go over the vehicles. As we walk outside in the cumbersome uniforms, I see Mark showing Harm the containment crate. There are three trucks, and I make a note of the license plate of the containment vehicle. I also study it closely. Harm’s paranoia with Mark, or perhaps my long association with Clay, is wearing on me, too.
I climb into the lead car with Harm.
"You’re navigator, Mac. Follow the map." He’s all business. "Solider," he says to the man climbing in back, "watch our back." The soldier looks at me, confused, and I turn to translate. "Tell him that if he’s a spy, I’ll rip his nuts off." The man – boy’s – face never changes. I tell him to watch our back and a huge grin lights his face.
"He says not to worry. He has our eight."
"Huh?"
"He doesn’t understand, Harm. Why? You have something to tell me that he shouldn’t hear?"
He sighs and starts the engine. "I just wanted to talk without someone overhearing us."
I don’t answer him. I’m not sure what he wants me to say. But, even if the kid in the back seat doesn’t understand a word, I’m not sure I’m up for this.
"Mac?"
"Harm, please."
"No!" he hisses. "I have to get this out." He turns the ignition key again, grinding the motor. I don’t dare turn to look at the soldier. I can’t let him know that we’re anything but focused on the mission. We pull out onto the snow-covered road, and I stare at the map, even though I’ve studied the route several times now.
"Turn right at the kiosk." I keep my voice soft.
After the turn, he begins. "Mac, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. Sergei says I don’t respect you. Do you believe that?"
I stare at the map on my lap. The tiny dash light reminds me of a bright laser. The tires crunch through the snow. The soldier behind me shifts. I focus on anything but the question. He reaches out and touches me softly, more softly than I can ever remember him doing so. "Sometimes? Sometimes, I get the impression that you don’t trust me."
He’s quiet for a very long time. He doesn’t rush to deny it. "You have to admit, you’ve made some pretty bad choices."
"You’re right. I’m human. The mistakes I’ve made, I’ve learned to live with. What about you?"
"Mac this isn’t a contest. Yes, I’ve made mistakes." But the way he says it, it’s more placating than accepting.
And it begs the question. "But why? Why, if you have so little respect for my judgment, did you wait for me? Why do you want to be with me in a relationship? What makes you think it can work?"
He sighs and drives quietly for a while. I point out two more turns. The harbor is ablaze in activity. It’s one of the most successful ports in Kazakhstan. An accident or the deliberate release of the gas as a last ditch measure on the terrorists part deliberate terrorist attack would be devastating to the fledging economy.
"I do respect you. I’m not going to say I love you again. It sounds rather pathetic, considering the way you’re acting about Webb. But… but… I guess I thought you’d always be there."
We’re never going to solve this. He can’t forgive my mistakes, and he’ll never admit his own. "I’m always there, Harm. I’m here now. Why does that have to change between us? Why can’t we just be happy being friends?"
"Men can’t be friends with women." I remember him agreeing with Billy Crystal when we watched When Harry Met Sally once. It had hurt at the time.
"This isn’t a movie, Harm. It’s our life."
"Why couldn’t you just wait?"
"For what? How long?"
We’re almost there, and he falls silent. I don’t want to let this go, but training kicks in, and I begin to scan the surrounding buildings. I turn around to find the young commando also doing what he should. We stop two blocks away, and all thoughts of anything but the deadly nerve gas, and what we must accomplish, fade to where they belong.
Carefully, we creep toward the building. Half the force has gone to the other side, and I hear Mark and Volkonov issuing orders over my headset. There’s nothing that needs translating to Harm.
"Ready?" he hisses.
"Ready." I nod to the commando and repeat the question and he nods.
I spot the first guard, but the commando reaches him first. Harm finds the next one, snapping his neck with an ease that I find rather surprising for Harm. I’m not upset, we have neither the time, nor the resources to take prisoners at this stage of the game. Carefully, we enter the building, stop and listen intently. We can hear the indistinct noises of men unconcerned with discovery. The team of three that followed us into the building begins their sweep. We find the stairs leading up. Harm twists the doorknob just as a man pushes it open from the other side. The commando’s ready for him, and I wonder if the dead man ever really saw us.
The staircase is old and rickety. I have to convince myself that no one’s paying any attention to each creak and moan of the old treads. Finally, we reach the second story. There are offices up here; the outer wall is open to the floor below. However, there’s a maze of shipping crates piled high, providing hiding places not only for our men, but the poison gas. In the headphones we can hear the whispered orders of the other teams. I let Harm know that they’re in position.
Up ahead, we see a guard walking away from us. The walkway is too unstable to sneak up on him. We press against the wall, praying that the light up here is dim enough; praying that he just keeps going; praying for just a little more time.
All hell breaks loose below us. Shots ring out. Men shout. Orders rumble in our ears. "Mark’s found something!" I shout even as the guard turns and leans over the rail. Looking below, I can see two of the commandos right in his line of fire. I don’t hesitate, I kill him; my rifle at my shoulder without me even thinking about it. Above us we hear men run.
"Look out!" our young commando calls in perfect English, even as he pushes me out of the way. From above and across the way, men are firing at us. I don’t know where the commandos who climbed higher are, but we’re sitting ducks here. The kid grunts and collapses next to me. I start to pull him to safety, but the bullet in his head leaves no doubt as to his fate. Harm’s firing the side arm he brought. Without looking, he kicks open an office door and pulls me inside, pushing me to the floor. The grimy window shatters in a hail of bullets, and I roll to the wall, bringing my rifle up to fire. Without aiming, I let off a round, even as I’m yelling our position to the other team members. Damn it, how could it have gone so wrong?
Harm crouches next to me. "Sokol? Do you have the canisters?" he yells into the mic. I’ve been listening to anything being said, but no one has admitted to finding the nerve gas.
"Nothing yet. But we see where they’re guarding them. Can you hold them off up there?"
"We’re pinned down. Send more of the commandos up."
"Everyone but three are down here. There’s no one else."
I touch his arm and pull the mic away from my mouth, covering it with my hand. "We’re going to have to work our way out of here on our own." Our eyes lock and he nods.
"Cover me while I grab the commando’s weapon. This thing is useless." He holds up the service piece that Mark had supplied him.
I pick off one man, and he tumbles off the top floor walkway. Harm picks up the fallen soldier’s rifle, and together we make our way towards the stairs. We have to get down and help Mark get the nerve gas. I’m on point, Harm is behind me, moving backwards, covering our flank. I’ve just reached the steps, when I hear a harsh grunt. I’m propelled forward by the weight of him falling on me. "HARM!" I twist and hold him. He’s gasping for breath, and I realize the body armor has stopped the bullet, but knocked him for a loop. "Harm! Stay with me." I spot the shooter behind us, and awkwardly raise my weapon to defend us. But another bullet strikes the gun with such force that it tears it from my hand. The gun Harm was using is perhaps three feet away.
Our attacker slowly approaches us, rifle raised. He has an almost gleeful look on his face as he fingers the trigger for the killing shot. The helmets on our heads will never protect us from a shot this close. I wrap my arms around Harm, and he manages to get enough breath to grip my arms. We’re going to die together. Oh, Clay. At least I won’t have to know that you died somewhere in Russia, too.
A surprised look widens the man’s eyes as he jerks forward. His weapon falls into Harm’s lap, and I grab it up. Harm, still gasping for breath, is struggling to sit up. It’s my turn to have the breath knocked out of me.
"What the hell’s the matter with you?" Clay growls, and he comes forward. He stretches out his hand, and Harm has no choice but to grab it to finish standing up. I’m on my feet immediately, staring at my lover, who has a furious look on his face. "I told you to tell her to not come looking for me."
Fury rips through me. I can see the concern in his eyes, and I didn’t expect a welcome worthy of screen time, but damn it. Is this the best he can do? "Don’t flatter yourself," I snap. "We’re here to finish the mission you started – as per usual." I turn away, refusing to allow him to see the tears forming in my eyes.
"Webb! How did you get here?" Harm rasps out. "How did you know to come here?"
"Not now." He lowers his voice and says, "You in position?"
I turn to see him talking into a small walkie-talkie. "Yes, boss." The voice is tinny, but I would recognize it anywhere.
"Alexi?" My anger momentarily forgotten, I’m elated that there’s backup.
"Let’s get down there. I only brought three men. It never occurred to me that you’d bring the entire Russian Army." This is the Webb that we’ve known for eight years: cocky and annoyed to see us. A snide mask hides all traces of the man I’m falling in love with.
"How did you know to come here?" Rabb repeats.
This time Clay answers. "Dosivitch decided to play ball."
"How did you convince him to do that? Promise him asylum?"
"No, promised to rescue his daughter in Moscow." We’re making our way down the steps slowly. Webb in the lead, Harm behind, finally regaining his breath. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, or as soon as the adrenaline subsides, but that won’t be for a while.
I’m sandwiched between them; I’ve never felt safer. No matter what’s going on between us, we are professionals. Perhaps that’s all we can really excel at. We reach the bottom floor in time to see two more rebel bodies thud to the ground. I hear commandos begin to give the all clear. Finally, we see a knot of men. Volkonov is gesturing and giving orders. There are two rebel captives, bound and kneeling before the Russian captain. Webb strides forward, and if Volkonov is surprised to see him, he hides it well. "I heard you were traveling, my friend."
"Where’s the nerve gas?"
"We have it in the containment crates. Major Sokol is assuming respon…"
"NO!" Harm and Clay shout together.
"Are you insane!?" Clay runs his fingers through his hair. Finally, I take a moment to study him. He’s dressed in what can only be described as Russian grunge. Dark pants, baggy sweater, with combat boots protecting his feet. He hasn’t shaved in several days. He’s as ratty as I can ever remember seeing him. As angry as I am at him at this moment, my heart still does a silly little flip-flop.
"Major Sokol…" Volkonov begins again, but Clay cuts him off harshly.
"Sokol’s part of it. He’s in the pocket of the Russian mob." Clay looks around frantically. "Where is he?" He runs outside, Harm, Volkonov and me on his heels.
"You see!" Volkonov says, pointing to a truck. "There it is. You see the containment crates are there."
I look around. "Where’s Mark?"
A commando comes forward. He doesn’t even blush at his use of halting but understandable English. "Captain! Major Sokol left in one of cars. He said he needed to report. He took Corporal Vostof with him."
"You see? The canisters are safe, and your accusation of Major Sokol is insulting."
I grab Clay’s arm. If he’s still upset that I followed him to Russia, he’s hidden it well. He waits for me to speak. "That’s the truck. There was a tear in the side of the canvas."
Harm and Clay exchange a long look. Clay strides forward, pushing a commando out of his way. I have to hand it to him, in full CIA mode, he is a force to be reckoned with. So different than when he was in Colombia, when he tried to convince me he couldn’t use a gun. He yanks down the tailgate and hops up into the truck. Before anyone can stop him, he grabs a crow bar and pops open the containment crate.
I don’t have to translate the swear words coming from Volkonov. Harm joins Clay in the back of the truck. "It’s empty. Where are they?" There’s real panic and anger in his voice. This is his op – his watch. "I never trusted that son-of-a-bitch."
"Yeah, well, let’s just say loyalties in Russia are rather fluid." Clay looks down at me. He’s seeing the Marine Colonel, not his lover. I can tell he’s assessing his assets. I’m proud that he considers me one. Our conversation back at the restaurant returns to me. He won’t try to protect me, he won’t ask me to do something to keep me out of the way. "We have to find it."
"Why?" Volkonov insists. "You really have no jurisdiction here. Sokol will protect it."
Clay ignores him. He points to one of the commandos and demands in Russian, "Where did he go?"
The commando looks like he’s going to balk, but Volkonov, after a long consideration of the two men in the truck, sighs and mutters, "Tell him if you know."
The kid stamps his feet in the snow, and exhales a cloud of steam. "He said he was heading to Rudnyy." If I remember correctly, Rudnyy is way to the east in Kazakhstan and would make sense for Mark to take the material there. The kid confirms my supposition. "They had the facilities to neutralize the gas there."
"I had the means to neutralize it in the other truck!" I’m so frustrated. For years I’ve held a soft spot in my heart for Mark. I can’t believe that he could be part of the rebel cause. Or worse, just in it for the money. "Why would he do this?"
Clay jumps down from the truck. "I don’t know, Sarah." His tone softens. "It’s hard over here now. The Russian mob is gaining more power everyday. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we find the nerve gas." He looks up at Harm, who, after a moment’s consideration, jumps back down and comes to stand with us. A flash of pain skitters across his face. His hand starts to rub his chest where the bullet embedded in the flack jacket, but he jerks it away, refusing to admit to the pain. Clay lowers his voice. "We have to find it. There was a backup plan not mentioned in the papers. Dosivitch only heard of it by accident."
"You said Dosivitch only turned traitor because they kidnapped his daughter?" Harm says.
"Not kidnapped. She married Dmitri Lazarenko, the second in command of the Moscow contingent. Seems Dosivitch really hates his son-in-law. I told him that we would take care of him, if he helped us."
"What are you going to do?" I demand, already knowing his answer. At his look, I turn away. "I don’t want to know." This is part of his job that I don’t know that I can come to terms with. I accept that assassination is a part of the world we live in. Hell, had I known in 2000 what Bin Laden would accomplish, I’d have pulled the trigger on the bastard myself. But if this Lazarenko character is that bad, why haven’t we taken him out before? Lives shouldn’t be bartered this way.
The tension between us is rising to the point where even Harm’s embarrassed by it. I’m not sure where he stands on the whole issue. Right now, I’m sure all he really cares about is finding the nerve gas. "So what’s the plan?"
I turn back in time to see Clay speak into his radio. "Alexi?"
"Yeah, boss?" Only now, the voice is in stereo, and I turn again to see my friend, the taxi driver who drove me all the way to Chechnya. "Pretty Colonel." He grins at me. "One day, you must come to my country when things are not quite so desperate."
I fight the urge to hug him. He looks as tired and unkempt as Clay. On Alexi, it looks more normal, though. "Hello. What are you doing here?"
Clay interrupts. "Later. You have the transportation?"
"Yes, boss." Alexi sighs and gives me a rueful smile. "Someday, pretty Colonel." He hands Clay the keys. "Malosh says that a car left heading north, toward the route to Russia."
"He can’t be serious," Harm says.
"Sure he can. Lazarenko will pay him big bucks for the canisters."
"I still can’t believe that Mark would do such a thing," I say.
"Lazarenko will convince Sokol that he won’t use the gas on Russians. Sokol knows that the mob will sell it to the highest bidder." Clay turns away from me, and starts for the car Alexi points out. He’s halfway there before he turns and looks from Harm to me. "You coming, or are you staying here with our Russian hosts?"