Page 27 of Dead Fall

“You will, at all times on the battlefield, distinguish yourself from the civilian population by visibly identifying yourself as a member of the Ukrainian Armed Forces. If you do not, and if you are captured by the enemy, you understand that you run the risk of not enjoying certain protections, including prisoner-of-war status. Do you have any questions?”

Harvath shook his head. Nicholas had fully briefed him on the trip down. The Russians were labeling all foreign fighters assisting Ukraine, particularly those from the West, as mercenaries and “unlawful combatants.” As such, in Russia’s opinion, they could be tried as criminals and immediately sentenced to death. It was not only incorrect, but it was also a blatant war crime. The Russians were beyond the point of caring. No matter how many civilians they killed, no matter how many international laws and conventions they broke, they were committed to victory.

“This contract,” Kozar continued, “shall be in effect for the entirety of the martial law, but you may sever it and leave your voluntary service to the Ukrainian Armed Forces at any time.”

Taking the pen, Harvath signed the document.

Kozar witnessed it with his signature, then passed it back to the man with the briefcase, who inked it with a large, round, official rubber stamp and placed the document back in the folder from whence it came.

“On behalf of the Defense Ministry of Ukraine,” said Kozar, extending his hand, “I want to thank you for volunteering and welcome you to the Ukrainian International Legion, Captain Harvath.”

Harvath shook his hand and watched as the man with the briefcase slid another document across the table.

After reviewing it, Kozar passed it to Harvath. “These are your orders. You have been assigned to the Legionnaires Special Services Group—our Special Forces wing.”

“And what about my team?”

“They’ve been drawn from the regular International Legion.”

“So, not SF soldiers?”

“No,” the intelligence operative admitted, “but they’re battle-tested and have solid experience. These are the best of the men we can spare.”

It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but Harvath knew a decision like this wasn’t being made by Kozar. It was coming from much higher up on the food chain.

The man with the briefcase handed over four folders, each containing a service record. Harvath scanned them.

There were two Americans, a Brit, and a Canadian. They had all done tours in Afghanistan, and everyone, except for the Canadian, who was too young and whose country didn’t “officially” participate in the war, had done at least one tour in Iraq.

To cut down on confusion and streamline communications, call signs were standard across the Ukrainian forces, including the legion. The Americans—a former Army Staff Sergeant and a no-longer-active Marine Lance Corporal—were known respectively asHookahandKrueger. The former British Army Second Lieutenant was referred to asJacksand the former Canadian Army Corporal had the call signBiscuit.

Stapled to the inside of each folder was a photograph.

Hookah had some of the biggest ears Harvath had ever seen and he wondered how the man had avoided getting the call signDumbo. He also had a large, flat boxer’s nose that made him look like he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. Other than these unusual features, he had jet-black hair and dark and narrow eyes that gave off a mean-as-hell vibe. He was forty-two years old.

Krueger looked like he could have been working at an investment bank or running a movie studio. He had short blond hair and a chiseled face with a dent in his chin. Even from his photo, it was obvious that he had taken the Marine Corps maxim of “fitness for life” seriously. He was thirty-four.

Jacks had a thick neck and a big head with receding, messy brown hair. He looked like an assistant high school football coach, not yet carrying a massive paunch, who had just rolled out of bed. It was hard to tell if the scowl in his photo was intentional or if that was how the thirty-eight-year-old always looked. Harvath figured he’d find out soon enough.

Biscuit was a short, skinny kid with a shaved head and dark circles under his eyes. For someone his age, he didn’t appear to possess any of the vitality of youth. He looked like a drug addict who had been given theoption of either going to prison or fighting in Ukraine. It wouldn’t have surprised Harvath at all to be told the twenty-seven-year-old had tracks up and down his arms and was missing a bunch of teeth.

Knowing he wasn’t allowed to keep the folders, Harvath slid them back to the man with the briefcase and asked Kozar, “And what about vehicles, munitions, communications gear, and the rest of what we’ll need?”

“Your team has already been sourcing those supplies. They should have everything assembled by the time you reach them.”

“Which will be when?”

“When we get to Kyiv, you’ll transfer trains. Two of my men will accompany you farther east to Kharkiv. There you’ll be met by a GUR liaison from the legion who will facilitate getting you the rest of the way to your team.”

“And my colleague?” Harvath asked, nodding at Nicholas.

“He and the dogs get off with us in Kyiv,” Kozar replied, conveying that “us” meant him and the man with the briefcase. “The GUR has a special, fortified command facility not far from the station. That’s where we’ll be based.”

“In the meantime,” the man with the briefcase stated, “we need to give you a final briefing on the people you’re going after. Some new intelligence has come to our attention.”

Harvath waited for another folder to be handed to him, but the man with the briefcase seemed reluctant to proceed.

The man looked at his boss. Only when Kozar nodded his permission did he proceed. “First, I need to remind you that, per our agreement, this information must remain classified and none of it may leave this room.”

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