Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo
Hunt the Dragon
The sixth book in the SEAL Team Six series, 2016
“The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn’t angry enough.”
– Father Bede Jarrett
In tribute, honor, and with great respect to those who serve and have served our country. Let us never forget the sacrifices they make in securing our freedom.
Chapter One
Perfection is a road, not a destination.
– Burk Hudson
It was supposed to be a quick snatch-and-grab. Raid the old farmhouse ten klicks east of the Donetsk airport, take Igor Fradkov, leader of the Russian rebels, and turn him over to Ukrainian authorities. According to Jim Anders of CIA’s Special Activities Branch, Fradkov’s real name was Sergei Sokolov and he was deputy director of Zaslon-a special operation (Spetsnaz) unit of Directorate S of Russia’s foreign intelligence service, SVR. Anders claimed the Russians were currently more active in opposing and infiltrating the West than they were during the Cold War.
That seemed obvious to Crocker, leader of Black Cell-a special deep-cover unit attached to SEAL Team Six/DEVGRU. The Russians under President Putin had already bitten a chunk out of independent Ukraine, seizing Crimea after the ouster of Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych. Several months ago pro-Russian “insurgents” shot down a Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777-200ER, killing all 283 passengers and fifteen crew members, using a Russian-built Buk missile system. Now they were launching attacks on cities in eastern Ukraine.
Recent developments had brought him here, kneeling on the ground behind a clump of bushes, the half-moon glowing beyond his right shoulder, clutching the stock of his specially modified AK-47. His goaclass="underline" impeccable execution, which had become more difficult due to the number of vehicles parked outside-four, to be exact, two UAZ-452 jeeps, a newer GAZ Tigr, and a UAZ Hunter (a Russian-made version of a Land Rover) that supposedly belonged to Fradkov. Anders had told them to expect two, max.
They were told this would be a weekend getaway with Fradkov and his exotic-dancer girlfriend. He might have a personal bodyguard with him. But this was something else. What it was wasn’t clear right now.
All Crocker had observed so far were the four stationary vehicles and a lone armed guard wearing blue camouflage-which made him look like a cartoon character-sitting beside by the front door drinking from a bottle of vodka. So security sucked, which ruled out the likelihood of an important operational meeting.
What’s going on?
Crocker in his many deployments in the past ten years had asked that question many times. Realities on the ground were often different than those described in intelligence briefs. Part of what made him successful was his ability to take unexpected contingencies in stride. Simple might be better, but it wasn’t the norm in his line of work.
His right-hand man Mancini (alias Big Wolf) had deployed behind a stone well fifty feet left and close to the gravel path that formed an S leading to the farmhouse. The third member of the four-man team, Akil (Romeo), was out of view, having just slipped around the right corner of the rectangular structure. Suarez (Padre) hid behind a tree on the rear right, covering Akil with his AK.
They hadn’t brought microphones and surveillance equipment, which weren’t the usual tools of their trade anyway. They left those tasks to the Activity-the surveillance arm of U.S. Special Operations also known as the Intelligence Support Activity. They were tip-of-the-spear surveillance operatives who had helped track down drug kingpin Pablo Escobar in Colombia in 1993 and locate Bin Laden in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The Activity guys weren’t going to help them this time.
Through his head mike Crocker asked, “Romeo, you read me?”
“Deadwood, loud and clear. Over.”
“What have you got in terms of visuals?”
“A half-naked chick dancing on a table. Out of her mind on coke and vodka, probably.”
Interesting, and typical Akil, distracted by a pretty girl. Correction: any female between the ages of seventeen and eighty. Interesting for another reason, too. It confirmed that this wasn’t an operational meeting. It appeared that Fradkov, their target, was “entertaining,” if he was there at all.
“Romeo, Fradkov, our target. Have you located him? Over.”
“Negative.”
Is he even inside?
Some guys liked to spend their downtime with their feet up, drinking a beer and watching a football game on TV. Others preferred naked girls and orgies.
“Padre, Deadwood. You read me? What do you see?”
“Roger what Romeo said. Over.”
“Our target has close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Burly. Five-foot-ten. Deep-set blue eyes. Stop staring at her tits, and focus. Is he in the house or not?”
They had been told to expect Fradkov and his Ukrainian girlfriend-a tall ash-blonde named Katrina, like the hurricane. Maybe she was the one dancing on the table.
Something always went whack on every op. Crocker secretly liked it that way-the chaos, the rush of the unexpected challenge. The only easy day was yesterday. Haha, boom. Bring it on! Plans always changed the second the first round was fired.
Like a coiled snake ready to spring, he waited. Checked his watch. Five-point-five MOTs (minutes on target). Their PLO (patrol leader’s order) had allotted ten.
In his head he was trying to figure out how to create a diversion, snatch Fradkov, if he was there, without engaging the other soldiers and women inside, and get back to their vehicles, a 2002 Chinese-made ZAZ Forza sedan, and two Royal Enfield Bullet Electra motorcycles parked on the main road, three hundred feet past the ridge at Crocker’s back.
Only this morning the Russian “rebels” had attacked the airport and seized the eastern suburbs. Putin’s PR people put out a press release that described them as Ukrainian separatists, which was complete BS. These guys were Zaslon operatives dressed in hunting gear, armed with tanks, surface-to-air missiles, and automatic weapons. Cheeky bastards were now celebrating in the house.
The opening chords of “Start Me Up” ripped across the landscape and hit his ears. It was one of Crocker’s favorite tunes.
“Deadwood, Wolf. Sounds like someone invited the Stones.”
“Very funny. Has anyone established visuals on Fradkov?”
He and his estranged wife, Holly, had danced to it at their wedding. He pictured her for a second throwing her head back, her eyes filled with joy and even ecstasy. What was she doing now? He couldn’t be distracted into thinking of Holly but couldn’t help scratching that itch. All the mental discipline he had acquired frayed when it came to her.
She’d left two months ago and was living with a female friend in DC, Lana was her name-an athletic blonde beauty who had sworn off men after a series of bad relationships. What her sexual ambivalence meant in terms of Holly, he didn’t know. Tried not to speculate.
Some wise guy on Team 2 had made a remark shortly after the Leap Frogs-the Navy SEAL jump team-landed before the Ravens’ season opener about Holly turning lesbian. Crocker kept his cool until he left the stadium and followed the big dude into the parking lot. Pulled him out of his pickup and kicked his ass in front of fans with cell phones. Bad move.
He was called on the carpet. Agreed to pay medical expenses, damage to the vehicle, attend anger management sessions with the team shrink, and make a personal apology.
His CO, Captain Sutter, remarked, “I know you’ve got some issues with your personal life, but you’ve got to stay in control.”
“Yes, sir.”
Less than a year ago he’d broken into the apartment of a young woman who had been taking money from his father, and in the process assaulted a Fairfax County policeman who he’d caught smoking meth with her. Charges were still pending. He tended to take matters into his own hands, single-minded as he was, driven by a wild primitive energy. At least he knew that about himself.