CHAPTER 10
The road to the Russian nuclear power plant
We parked our CSTC SUVs a safe distance away from the Army’s Humvees. This won’t be so bad, I thought as we approached the command group, Meg Fuller walking beside me. The soldiers understand.
I quickly realized they weren’t at all happy to see me—but they were very happy to see Meg.
For a variety of reasons, we had done well in hiring her—not least of which was that as an attractive woman, her mere presence could sometimes help defuse testosterone-laden situations. Sexist? Maybe. But still true.
I found the captain in charge of the convoy and reintroduced myself.
He was a good guy, and I could sense the stress he was carrying under his ninety pounds of gear.
He gave me a quick update, careful not to roll his eyes with contempt.
As usual, the powers that be had decided a mission of such high visibility would be better led by an officer more senior than this paltry captain.
A major from HQ would assume the role of commander for this trip.
The captain had been relegated to passenger status.
Shit happens, was all I could muster.
I found the major walking to his vehicle in his way-too-clean uniform, looking pleased with himself and his new status as convoy commander.
He was less pleased with the responsibility of lugging my team along as I half-trotted to his side and put on my best facade of You’re in charge and I’m here to follow.
We did a quick plan rundown from A to Z. I handed him one of our CSTC encrypted mobile radios so that he and I could stay in contact over our own frequency as a backup. Then he begrudgingly asked if I needed anything.
“We’re all good here, sir,” I replied. “See you at the power plant. Keep it under ninety—and don’t walk off with my radio, okay?”
The look the major gave me as he headed to his Humvee telegraphed You’re an asshole.
As I walked back toward my SUV, Rhino 2, I gave Team Rhino the hand signal to mount up and get ready to depart.
I could see Meg, Oliver Smith, and John Paul Kennedy laughing at me for playing Mr. Nice Guy.
They knew exactly what had transpired with the new commander.
I shook my head and smiled as I made my way to where my VIPs were waiting for their ride.
I beckoned the two congressional staffers, William McKay and Travis Hunter, over to the hood of Rhino 2, where I unfolded my map and began my brief. Neither one had the slightest idea where we were heading, but both bravely attempted to look like they did.
“Bottom line,” I said, “is that, unless I tell you otherwise, you touch nothing and you do nothing. Put on your helmets and enjoy the ride.”
With that, I donned my Kevlar helmet and sat down in the front passenger seat.
With a simple touch of a button, I could talk to all the members of our team internally or communicate with the major in his vehicle, as well as with our command center.
I made checks with all of our vehicles. So far, so good.
Even the major was kind enough to answer my radio call.
Wolfgang “Wolf” Kerr was my driver. Whether it was regional pride or a love of Mozart, his German mother had never explained naming her firstborn son Wolfgang. But for as long as he’d been alive, his American father had called him Wolf.
The nickname fit perfectly. Wolf served ten years as a Green Beret before leaving the US Army.
He enjoyed some time in the reserves, but found it somewhat unfulfilling.
After finishing his bachelor’s degree in Colorado, he floated between federal jobs with the FBI and the Secret Service.
He knew Oliver and JP via Special Forces, and when he heard that Tristan Dent had opened the door to CSTC, Wolf came running.
“Rhino Base, this is Rhino 2, preparing to depart for Russian power plant, two PC for delivery, eighteen total. Over.”
“Roger, Rhino 2, good copy. Break. We’re tracking through GPS and monitoring command frequency from this location. Over.”
I watched as the wheels of Rhino 1 started to roll forward. We were on our way. The excitement, fear, and challenge of the mission hit me all at once, as usual. I said a quick prayer for safe travels and gave the command to move out.
I would have felt better knowing that CSTC’s Team Eagle was on standby.
We had a fleet of armed helicopters for convoy protection, each one equipped with six-barreled mini-guns capable of neutralizing just about any armed threat we could face on the ground.
But we wouldn’t have access to the helicopters today.
Moving a convoy of twelve vehicles out of a base with fifteen mile-per-hour speed limits is a clumsy endeavor.
The goal is to get everyone spaced evenly, moving at the same rate of speed, and functioning as one large element.
Of course, it takes some time to get synchronized.
Inevitably, a young driver throws off all the vehicles behind him by driving too fast or too slow.
Those at the tail end of the convoy—as Team Rhino was today—feel every mistake made by those in front. Profanity becomes an art form in the community of arms. My drivers immediately began cursing into my earpiece.
“Okay, children,” I answered as nicely as possible. “Everyone calm down, pay attention—and shut the fuck up.”