Page 48 of Dead Fall

“Then we compromise. Give me the gear my men requisitioned, and a vehicle, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

The harried Sergeant was growing frustrated as well. “Captain, there is no gear other than what I have offered you. If there was, it would have had to go through me. I apologize. I don’t know what you were told.”

Typical SNAFU, Harvath thought to himself.Situation normal, all fucked up. It wasn’t, however, this particular soldier’s fault. “How about just a vehicle, then?”

“The only vehicle leaving this base for the front departs in less than thirty minutes. If you want to get to your men today, you need to be on it.”

Zira, whose cell phone was sitting with her ID back at her apartment in Kharkiv, had already driven off the base. There was no way of letting her know that he needed her to return so that he could “borrow” her Land Cruiser.

Even if he had the Sergeant radio the soldiers at the earlier checkpoint, it would take her more than a half hour to get there. And what if she took a different route? By the time they had figured out that Zira couldn’t be recalled, the transport to the front would have already left. Harvath needed to make a decision.

“One final question,” he said. “How am I supposed to get my team from the front to Kolodyazne?”

The Supply Sergeant smiled and replied wryly, “As you pointed out, you’re with Special Services Group. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

CHAPTER 15

Of all the forward operating bases Harvath could have launched from, he ended up at one that housed some of the oldest armored personnel carriers, or APCs for short, he had ever seen.

The M113 waiting to take him, along with a group of infantrymen and supplies, up to the front looked like it had rolled on its treads straight out of the Vietnam War. It was equipped with a .50-caliber Browning M2 heavy machine gun known as a “Ma Deuce,” which wasn’t as desirable as an autocannon, but was a fine enough weapon.

For some reason, though, the gun shields—meant to protect the operator of the .50-cal—had been removed. Maybe they had been cannibalized for use on another vehicle. Maybe they had been stripped on a prior operation where every ounce of weight had been critical. There was no telling, although he would have been willing to bet that, somewhere, it involved more bureaucracy.

All Harvath knew was that whoever was standing in that hatch, running that gun, was going to be doing so with more exposure to enemy fire than should have been necessary. But as a former U.S. Secretary of Defense once said, “You go to war with the Army you have, not the Army you might want or wish you had at a later time.” That included equipment. Some armor was better than none.

He waited for the supplies to be loaded and then walked up the rear ramp into the belly of the vehicle and took a seat. He was joined by a group of eight soldiers and their party was rounded out by two crew members—a driver and the commander, who also served as the gunner—who would be transporting them.

Within seconds, the hydraulic ramp had been raised, the turbocharged Detroit Diesel engine had roared to life, and they were moving.

The vehicle had a range of three hundred miles thanks to its twin armored fuel tanks, and could reach a top speed of forty miles per hour. It had been a long time since Harvath had ridden in one of these and he didn’t miss it. Even though this APC was probably from the 1980s or early 1990s, the U.S. military had developed a lot of other vehicles that were safer and much more comfortable.

One of the biggest things he disliked about the M113 was the lack of exterior visibility. He would have much preferred to be traveling in an MRAP or an armored Humvee. At least then he’d be able to see what was going on outside.

But since there was nothing he could do about it, he leaned back and tried to enjoy the ride.

Everything began to slow down—his thoughts, his breathing, his heart rate, even his perception of time itself. It was an enforced calm before the storm.

A lot of energy, as well as a lot of adrenaline, could be used up in anticipation of arriving at a battle. A little bit of fear was natural, even healthy, helping to sharpen your edge. If, however, you allowed it to eat you up and deplete your reserves, it was like showing up to combat with only half your ammunition.

Looking at the soldiers who were traveling with him, he saw a range of ages—from teenagers all the way to men in their fifties. None of them looked like this was their first trip to the front. They weren’t engaged in nervous chatter or cracking crude jokes. Each of them was every inch the professional soldier. Even the youngest among them had a seasoned, competent air. That said, they also looked tired.Reallytired.

Ukraine had stunned the world with its ability to combat Russia’s invasion and push Moscow’s forces back. But as determined as the Ukrainians were to defend their homeland, war exacted a steep and heavy toll. You could see it on the faces of every man in the APC.

They had experienced the horrors of combat firsthand and were returning to the front, not because they wanted to—no sane person, given the choice, wanted war—but because it was a necessary requirement forthem to secure freedom for themselves, their families, and the future generations of their country.

Yet again, Harvath couldn’t help but wonder how different things would have been had the West simply stood up to Peshkov when he had first sliced off a piece of Ukraine just under a decade ago. But it hadn’t.

There was nothing as provocative as weakness. Inactionwasaction. Autocrats, strongmen, and dictators could all smell weakness from miles away. It was an aphrodisiac to them; an open invitation to come and take what they wanted, a promise that there would be no consequences for their actions. Only when civilized nations drew a bright line and followed through with heavy consequences for crossing that line could those dictators, autocrats, and strongmen be kept in check.

The opportunity to administer an ounce of prevention in Ukraine had been ignored. Now the inevitable, bloody, costly cure was being delivered.

Harvath hoped that the world would pay attention this time, and lock the suffering and the carnage into their memory banks, but he had his doubts. He was constantly astounded by how many people either forgot history or chose to willfully ignore it.

Pay now or pay later. It was one of life’s most frequent propositions. Far too many chose to kick the can and pay later. Perhaps they were hoping someone else would pick up the bill and pay for them. But regardless of who paid, doing so later always came at a greater cost. The butchery happening across Ukraine was a perfect example.

Harvath worked on pushing the thought from his mind. He had a job to do. That needed to remain his focus.

He held little hope that Anna Royko was still alive. By all accounts, the men who had attacked the orphanage were evil personified. Had Nicholas not had photos to back up what had happened there, it would have been incredibly difficult to believe.

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