Patricia nodded. “There goes my trips to the Mediterranean,” she said as she rolled over in the bed.
The compartment was no more than four feet wide, seven feet long and five feet tall. Inside was one aircraft style seat bolted to the wooden floor, a small cooler with food for the journey and a portable chemical toilet. A small ten watt light provided the only illumination. It was powered by two auto batteries mounted in one corner. Anton Bugayev had been sealed into the compartment twelve hours before and the compartment placed into a shipping container. The container was one of several hundred on a train heading into Poland as a part of a trade package.
Already Bugayev was dead tired. The train was constantly lurching back and forth and what little fresh air he got from the ventilation system was woefully inadequate. At first, he had tried to sleep, but between the movement and the noise of all the additional crates within the container, sleep was impossible.
Bugayev tried to stretch. He couldn’t stand up fully in the compartment, so he dropped the leg support on the aircraft seat. This allowed him to extend to his fully five feet and eleven inch length. The stretch didn’t satisfy him much. Surely, this part of his mission would be over soon.
Beginning on his eighteenth birthday, Bugayev had been spirited away from his family and sent to several special schools. His intelligence and ability to influence his friends had been noticed early in school and had come to the attention of Vladimir Putin, the head of the Foreign Intelligence Service, or SVR. Now he was almost thirty, could speak five languages fluently, and had the documents he could use to freely move around any country in Europe as one of its citizens. He had been assigned to Directorate “S,” which was responsible for preparing and planting "illegal agents" abroad, conducting terror operations and sabotage in foreign countries, "biological espionage," recruitment of foreign citizens on the Russian territory and a few other duties. In just the last four years, he had been part of three strategic operations, most recently in Latvia. In each case, he had been able to achieve the SVR’s objectives which ultimately allowed his country to make political and military moves into these countries with little loss of Russian lives. He was proud of his work, although he already knew he would never be recognized for it.
After another hour, the train slowed. Sitting quietly, Bugayev listened to try to see what was going on. There were a couple brief shouts, then the train began moving again. If it was the border, he would have just one more hour in this wood lined hell hole. At least he hoped his fellow agents would be able to get him out.
Just a little over an hour later, as expected, the train came to a halt. Within a few minutes, he heard the cranes coming down the line, lifting the containers from their cars and placing them on the back of trucks. Very quickly, he heard the sound of men hooking up the cables and felt the container lift off its car and be swung through the air. After another jolt as the container was positioned on a set of wheels, he heard a big truck diesel come to life as the truck, with its container, began moving down the road.
Although the train ride had been rough, the truck ride was agony. It seemed every rut, pothole and bump was hit along the way. Mercifully, after a thirty minute ride, he could hear a change in the sounds around him. In this case, it sounded as if they had entered a large building. The truck stopped and the engine was shut down. In a minute, Bugayev hear the door open on the end of the container. Men began taking out all the rest of the boxes and crates inside. A few minutes more and there was a knock on the side of Bugayev’s wooden crate. The latches were pulled back inside and the crate wall lowered from the top to lay flat in the container. Bugayev blinked as the lights from several flashlights were pointed at him.
“Come, quickly. Your scooter is just outside that door. You have all your papers and instructions?” a man asked in Polish.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then off with you, and good luck,” said the man.
Bugayev didn’t even stop to shake his hand. He quickly grabbed his satchel and walked to the door on the side of the building. Looking back, Bugayev saw the men close the crate and stack it near several others along the far wall. Obviously they planned on using it again.
Exiting the building, as promised, Bugayev found the scooter propped against the wall. He placed his satchel on the back holder and then mounted his new steed. Turning the key, it started right up. He then twisted the throttle and sped around the building and down the darkened road.
Chapter 1
New Responsibilities
Lieutenant Rod Jeffers sat back in his seat and tried to relax. He had been called just the day before and told to pack his bags. Now he was on an early morning flight to Washington, DC, sitting beside his boss, Vice Admiral Roger Hammond. Both had just gotten aboard the plane and had gotten into their assigned seats. It promised to be a smooth flight.
Jeffers sat back a moment and thought of the whirlwind he had been through over the past month. He was surprised when he had gotten the call to the Commander, Naval Surface Force, Pacific. He was even more surprised when he was ushered into Admiral Hammond’s office. He had originally met the Admiral aboard the USS Kings Mountain the day after Hammond’s wife had been kidnapped in Venezuela. He had been one of the officers Hammond had met with to get ideas on where to start looking. Jeffers had been the first to figure it out. He found out later that Hammond had told his commanding officer that Jeffers was a man to watch.
Now, three years later, Jeffers found himself sitting in in front of him again. After some probing questions, Hammond got to the point. “Now to the reason I asked you here today. I need a new Flag Lieutenant, and I think you might be just the man for the job. You impressed me a couple of years ago when you came to the same conclusion I did on who was responsible for that kidnapping mess. Since then, Captain Davis tells me you not only could handle a ship, but displayed the same smarts when it came to getting things done. That’s what I need around me, someone who can hold his own and get the job done, no matter what. I really don’t want one of those guys who just says ‘yes, sir’ and runs errands. I want someone who can add to the equation. You have shown that you’re not afraid of these stars on my collars and will speak your mind when needed. So now’s your chance. What do you think?” Hammond asked as he sat back in his chair.
Jeffers remembered sitting forward in his chair and looking Hammond straight in the eye. “First off, sir, if you think I’m not intimidated by those stars, you’re wrong. I’ve heard of flag officers eating guys like me for lunch. At the same time, I know a little bit about you too. Captain Davis thinks you are the next saint, and he’s told me a little about how you work, so that helps. Second, I am worried about my career. I need to get to Department Head School and keep everything on track. I really don’t want anything to interfere with that. Third, if I take the job, you need to know that I always get my two cents worth in. If I need to be, I can be pretty insistent. So just don’t get steamed if I say something that you don’t agree with. On the other hand, if I take the job I will work night and day to make sure your job is a little easier. The question is, can you be happy with that,” he asked.
Hammond had grinned. “Rod, that’s exactly what I want. Don’t worry about getting your career derailed. You have to go to a shore billet anyway. I’ll make sure your career stays on track. I think I’d really like working with you, so if you’re agreeable, I’ll talk to your detailer,” he said. Hammond stood and offered his hand. Jeffers stood and took it.