Domination Bid. Don Pendleton
pulse weapons were his specialty and the reason for his transfer to Minsk. Representatives from the FSB’s special operations section were to take charge of Dratshev’s brainchild for practical testing in the unforgiving mountainous terrain of northern Belarus. To this point, the tests had been solely based on computer models. Now the time had come to demonstrate the capabilities of the EMP small-arms applications, code-named ZEMKOV, and prove once and for all the theories that had constituted the past fifteen years of Dratshev’s life.
As would any scientist in his position, Dratshev wondered of the far-reaching implications for the world. The science behind his invention was hardly new, but the practical applications scared him beyond his wildest imaginings.
He wanted to see it work, to see those things that had only existed in the neurons of his brain come to life. He did not relish the actual physical results.
Dratshev wondered if he was experiencing similar emotions to those of his predecessors—perhaps the creators of the atom and hydrogen bombs or space-based missile-defense systems. Only time and the writers of history would tell. It was difficult to imagine that, at barely thirty-five, he might well be judged by revisionists as a monster—a purveyor of death by simple virtue of his ability to conjure a weapon with enormous destructive capabilities.
The whisper-quiet pop, like that of a balloon, intruded on his deeper thoughts. He turned to his right in time to see one of the shadowy forms drop to the damp grass like a stone.
Dratshev felt the panic rise in the form of increased heart rate and a cold lump in his throat. The sound repeated, this time more like twig snapping, and Dratshev saw a second FSB agent fall.
Dratshev ripped the cigarette from his mouth and jumped to his feet. He looked for the other two agents who had been walking a perimeter to his left a minute earlier, but they were no longer visible. Dratshev whirled and ran up the hill at the back side of the bench along the river. He had difficulty finding purchase on the grass, damp from a hard and recent thundershower. His lungs burned with the exertion. He’d never been a physical man and the several bouts of pneumonia he’d battled as a child in the climates of Siberia and other similarly brutal environments made such activity more difficult.
Dratshev heard something behind him and turned long enough to catch a man he recognized as one of his escorts closing the distance. Dratshev slowed some, the sight of Kurig flooding him with hope. Kurig waved at him, shouting for Dratshev to keep running and as he got closer Dratshev spotted the pistol in Kurig’s other hand. A new burden of dread gripped Dratshev’s chest—it felt as if it might squeeze the life from him.
Finally, mercifully, Dratshev reached high and level ground. Directly ahead he spotted the road and the sparse traffic darting along the paved trail that wound through a commercial section of Minsk. Some of the businesses lining the far side of the street were closed, but a few were clubs and bistros open late. Dratshev knew the protocol for this instance, a protocol in which he’d drilled hundreds of times. If separated from his FSB bodyguards and under extreme emergencies, he was to find the most public venue he could and place a call to the special number he’d committed to memory. Someone would always answer that number, his handler and contact had assured him. Always.
Dratshev turned once more to see if Kurig had made progress, most assured he’d find the bodyguard now on his heels. Instead he caught just a glimpse of Kurig as the FSB agent fell. Dratshev saw the muzzle-flashes from Kurig’s pistol a moment later, heard the reports from the weapon as it echoed in the thick air.
Then the shooting stopped and Dratshev heard no more, saw no more movement from Kurig. It could’ve been the distance obscured by the mist but Dratshev knew better. Kurig was dead.
And Oleg Dratshev was now utterly and undeniably on his own.
* * *
MUSIC OF ORIGINS somewhere between punk and electronic dance blared from the speakers inside the club. The bass thumped irregularly in unsynchronized contrast to the regular thudding of Dratshev’s heart. A crowd of partying youths squeezed against him at every turn, making it impossible to discern friend from foe from neutral party. Dratshev willed his mind to remain focused. Logical, coherent thought had been a mainstay of his success for years and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t serve him now.
That’s why his government had protocols for this kind of thing. Not to mention that whoever had taken out the FSB detachment assigned to protect him wouldn’t attempt to kill him where so many witnesses could identify them. Even if his enemies weren’t afraid of the local police, they had very good reason to stay out of the sights of the FSB. That particular organization had a reputation of not only protecting its own but of becoming quite nasty when attacked without provocation.
Dratshev continued to take in his surroundings as he pushed his way through the throng of young men and women dancing, shouting and drinking.
One Emo chick—long dark hair framing a bony face doused heavily with makeup and black eye shadow and lipstick—offered Dratshev a smile as he passed. He returned the smile but pushed through. No time for socializing.
Dratshev liked his women, to be sure, but anyone could pose as much of a threat or hindrance as a good cover. Dratshev couldn’t afford the distractions right now, anyway. Best to keep his mind on business.
When Dratshev finally reached the back of the club, he searched for lighted signs against the wall pointing to the washroom. In places such as this, such hallways leading to them would also have pay telephones and that’s what he needed most right now.
He considered the cell phone in his pocket but wouldn’t risk turning it on until after he made his call. They would need the GPS signal from the phone to locate him, a signal that could be used by his enemies as much as his allies. Sure enough, when Dratshev found the hallway leading to the restrooms he found a bank of payphones.
Dratshev reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. He dropped enough in to buy him initial credit to get an international operator to dial the special number.
Fortunately a door separated the hallway from the main club, so at least he could make out the female voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, go ahead with your traffic.”
Dratshev gave his code name and ten-digit ID number. He answered the challenge question with the correct pass phrase and then waited while the woman routed him to his handler.
After a number of agonizing minutes elapsed the familiar voice of his handler came on the line. “What is it?”
“I’ve been compromised.”
“Where’s your security team?”
“They were neutralized.”
The handler swore. “This isn’t good.”
“I believe under the present circumstances that would probably be an understatement. Can you send me help?”
“Nearest team is at least an hour away. Where are you? Is your phone on?”
“No, I didn’t dare turn it on until I could verify contact with you.”
The handler hesitated in his reply. Dratshev found this odd. The handler finally said, “Of course…per protocol.”
“Yes, per protocol.”
“Okay, turn it on now. I will verify your position and then activate the closest unit. You are to stay exactly where you are until they contact you. Pass phrase will have changed by then, however. Please remember this so they do not kill you on sight.”
Dratshev frowned at this revelation on first hearing it, but then remembered the time difference. Per SOP, the FSB preferred to utilize UTC for all date-time references. By referencing Coordinated Universal Time, challenges and passwords remained consistent irrespective of geographical location anywhere in the world. Providing an incorrect pass phrase or challenge would most likely result in either termination of communications or, in the case of FSB assets, simply termination since it would be assumed an asset was either operating under duress or compromised