UKRAINE
A crusty operative from Polish Intelligence met Harvath and Nicholas at Poland’s baroque Przemysl Glowny station. He spirited them, along with Argos, Draco, and three porters, past the passport control line, over to the platform, and onto the overnight train to Kyiv.
They were being given exclusive access to the private car used to ferry dignitaries, heads of state, and other VIPs across the border and on to Kyiv.
In addition to several staterooms, there was a narrow conference room with a long, polished table and a living room area with a suite of leather club chairs.
The wood-paneled interior reminded Harvath of the Compiègne Wagon, where the Germans were forced to sign the armistice ending World War I, and in which Hitler, reveling in the irony, forced the French to sign their surrender in World War II.
After a quick tour, the Polish Intelligence operative ran through the rules of the road. “All of the curtains are to remain fully closed and all passengers are expected to practice strict light discipline. The train isn’t armored; however, the windows in this car have been covered with ballistic film.”
Harvath was familiar with the product. It was used on a lot of government buildings and, while it offered some blast mitigation, it was best known for reducing the amount of flying glass after an explosion.
That said, he was also familiar with what mortar rounds, RPGs, and other assorted munitions were capable of. The train was headed into a war zone. If they took a direct hit, window film was going to be about as helpful as rearranging the deck chairs on the Lusitania.
When the man was done speaking, Harvath thanked him.
“You’re welcome,” the intelligence officer replied as he checked his watch. “If you want something from the catering car, I’d go now. They’ll be letting the other passengers board soon.”
“We’re all set,” Nicholas answered as he tipped the porters, removed a bottle of wine from one of his bags, and pulled out some of the food he had packed.
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” the man said, stepping out of the conference room into the passageway.
As he did, he paused at the door and added, “I’m not supposed to ask why you’re going to Ukraine. But if it involves killing Russians, I hope you kill as many of those motherfuckers as possible.”
Before Harvath or Nicholas could respond, the man had turned and exited the train.
“That’s an interesting way to say good-bye,” Harvath remarked.
“Not if you’re a Pole,” said Nicholas. “These people have long memories. They remember what it was like living under the Soviets. They know all too well that if the Russians win in Ukraine, they could come for Poland next.”
“Which, as a NATO member, would absolutely trigger World War III.”
“Let’s hope we never have to find out,” the little man replied. “Hungry?”
“Sure,” Harvath replied, walking over to the assortment of hard-sided, olive-drab Storm cases Nicholas had brought from the United States. The ones meant for him had been tagged with his call sign—Norseman. He opened the rifle case first.
Inside was an all-black, Gen II, Galil ACE chambered in 7.62. It had been tricked out with a suppressor, a holographic sight, a magnifier, and a side-folding, telescoping stock. Nestled in the gray foam next to it was a sling and a bunch of thirty-round polymer PMAGs.
“Who chose this rifle?” he asked. Picking it up, he cycled the bolt to make sure it was unloaded and then gauged the Galil’s balance. It was lighter than he had expected, which was important, considering how much the ammo weighed.
“Gage,” said Nicholas, identifying the member of Harvath’s team back in the States who had been put in charge of assembling the weapons package. “At a glance, it looks like an AK, so he figured it would help you blend in. It’s also compatible with AK and AKM mags, which are all over the place in Ukraine, so you won’t have trouble finding extras if you need them.”
Harvath set the rifle back in its case and inspected the rest of the gear. Gage made an excellent quartermaster. He had thought of practically everything.
In addition to a Glock pistol, which Harvath knew Ukrainian Special Forces carried and which would stand up to a lot of punishment on the battlefield, there was a helmet, night-vision goggles, a thermal scope, a handheld drone, encrypted radios, a land navigation kit, an individual first aid kit (also known as an IFAK or blowout kit), a SERE—survival, evasion, resistance, and escape—kit, a plate carrier with plates and multiple pouches, a battle belt with a holster for the Glock and additional pouches, tactical gloves, chem lights, an envelope filled with cash, multiple cartons of cigarettes, which in war could be even better than cash, and a host of other smart and very useful items.
He was still organizing everything when the train, like some giant beast, shuddered angrily awake and began lumbering forward, crawling out of the station into the darkness.
As they crept out of Przemysl, Nicholas uncorked the wine and invited Harvath to join him for a toast. “A farewell to civilization,” he offered.
Standing at the window, they clinked glasses and, with all the lights in the carriage extinguished, pulled back the curtains enough to see outside.
It didn’t take long to put the city of less than sixty thousand behind them. Twenty-five minutes more and they’d be at the border crossing. Then, after the bogies had been adjusted to accommodate the wider, Russian-gauge tracks, they’d be in Ukraine and “unofficially” at war.
There was something odd about heading into battle via train. It had an antiquated, kind of time-warp feeling to it, like arriving via steamship or on horseback. It was definitely worlds away from parachuting out of a C-130 or being flown in via helicopter. But no matter how you got there, war was still war—and that was very much at the forefront of Harvath’s mind.
There had only been so much that he could tell Sølvi. While she was disappointed that he needed to cancel their weekend, she understood. He wouldn’t have done it unless something critical had popped up. And critical things did often pop up. Such was the nature of their business.
At the same time, she had an uncanny ability to read Harvath and often picked up on what he wasn’t saying. It was one of the many attributes that made her so good at her job.
She knew that he was going into harm’s way and that this assignment was going to be particularly dangerous. She could feel in her bones that it had something to do with Ukraine. “Get in. Do what you have to do. And then get out—as quickly as you can.”
They told each other “I love you” and then ended their encrypted video call. It didn’t make any sense to draw things out. It would have only made it harder for each of them.
Harvath had been concerned about canceling their plans. Just as she could read him, he could also read her. Her job had been weighing on her.
In the wake of Finland’s formal application to join NATO, that country had recently begun the construction of a barrier wall along their border with Russia.
If Moscow decided to get scrappy with the Finns, the Norwegians would be the closest NATO ally called to action. A significant portion of that work would flow through Sølvi’s office. It would be enough to keep anyone on edge, even someone as icy cool as she was.
He had hoped to talk it all out while they were in Warsaw, to make some solid, long-term plans. He wanted them to have something concrete to look forward to. They couldn’t be a couple yet apart from each other forever. Where should they aim to be in one year? Two? What would things look like for them five years from now?
On his last visit to Norway, he had met an ex-CIA operative—an American—who still did contract work for the Agency. He had married a beautiful Norwegian woman and had set up house in northern Norway.
By all outward appearances, the man was retired. Langley, however, gave him enough to keep him busy—especially with Russia’s northern fleet in his backyard along with an enormous state-of-the-art American/Norwegian radar installation.
Harvath could see himself getting used to something like that, provided there was enough action going on. He wasn’t about to toddle off into the sunset and begin bird-watching. Not now. In fact, not ever.
However, if dialing down his op tempo—just a smidge—meant that he might be able to live in the same place with Sølvi, he was willing to consider it.
Right now, though, he had to compartmentalize all of that. Thoughts of Sølvi and their future had to be locked in that steel box he kept in the attic of his mind and shoved into its farthest corner. From this moment forward, his entire focus needed to be on the mission. Thinking of anything else would only end up getting him killed.
Stepping away from the window, he turned his attention back to the gear while Nicholas assembled something for them to eat.
As the train neared Lviv, the first major Ukrainian city since crossing the border, the PA system crackled to life. Passengers were warned to keep their window curtains drawn and to continue practicing light discipline. They were further notified that the train would be making a brief stop in Lviv to pick up Ukrainian Border Control officers and that under no circumstances should anyone attempt to disembark.
“I once knew a woman from Lviv,” Nicholas said, after the announcement had ended. “She had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Like glaciers. Absolutely remarkable.”
No doubt there was a story behind this woman, and, to be honest, considering the little man’s past, Harvath probably didn’t want to hear it. So instead of taking the bait, he changed the subject. “Is this where we meet our escort?”
Nicholas nodded. “It’s not too late to turn back.”
Harvath smiled. “And let somebody else have all the fun? Not a chance.”
They rode the last few kilometers in silence, each man attending to his own thoughts. With the arrival of the GUR team, things were about to get very real, right down to Harvath swearing an oath to Ukraine’s International Legion—something he had been instructed was integral to his assignment.
Once the train had pulled into the Lviv station and come to a stop, Border Control officers entered the first public compartment up near the locomotive, while two more entered the dining car.
As this was happening, four men from Ukrainian Intelligence quietly slipped aboard the private carriage and knocked on the conference room door. Nicholas brought his dogs to obedience at his side while Harvath opened it.
The leader of the team, a man named Kozar, introduced himself and then had his teammates step forward and shake hands.
All in their thirties, the men were wearing dark jeans, leather jackets, and hiking boots. It looked as if it had been several days since any of them had shaved. Despite the stubble, the men were clean and professional.
“May I?” Kozar asked, pointing at Argos and Draco as the train began moving again. “I haven’t seen my dogs since the war started.”
“What kind of dogs?” Nicholas asked, having Kozar stand still as he brought Draco over first and then Argos to familiarize themselves with him.
“Anatolian shepherds.”
“Those are beautiful animals. Independent, yet very loyal. Large as well.”
Kozar scratched Nicholas’s dogs under their chins and replied, “Mine are not nearly as large as yours. Ovcharkas, correct?”
“You know your breeds.”
“We’re fielding a special K9 unit that will employ them.”
“Out of Ukrainian Intelligence?” the little man asked. “For what purpose?”
“The Soviets used Ovcharkas for years and they still have a fearsome reputation across the Russian military. Bottom line, they scare the shit out of the Russians. We believe they will be useful in certain interrogation settings.”
Nicholas liked the way the Ukrainians thought. “I agree. My dogs have been fantastic. I cannot say enough good things about the breed. My friend Scot has one as well.”
“Had,” Harvath corrected him.
“Oh, that’s right,” the little man stated. “I forgot. I gave you one as a puppy and you gave it away.”
Kozar looked at Harvath. “How could you give a dog like that away?”
“He knows damn well why,” Harvath responded, pointing at his friend. “He also knows that the dog is living a much better life up in the wilds of Maine than at my house with me gone all the time.”
“The dog also has a much better owner now, too,” Nicholas conceded. “Calmer. Much gentler and considerably more relaxed.”
Harvath rubbed his nose with his middle finger.
“She’s also much more attractive, which is important, as many pets end up looking like their owners.”
“Where are yours?” Harvath asked Kozar, ignoring the additional jibe.
“My wife and children went to stay with her parents, who live outside of Ukraine. They took the dogs with them.”
“It must be tough to be without them,” said Nicholas.
“My teenagers,” Kozar responded wryly, “or my dogs?”
“No, your in-laws.”
The intelligence operative laughed. “Very funny,” he said. Turning to his men he added, “I like this guy.”
“Trust me,” Harvath offered. “It’ll fade.”
This time it was Nicholas who subtly gave his friend the finger.
“Okay,” said Kozar, doling out a final pat to the dogs and directing everyone to the conference table. “Let’s get down to business.”
One of the men placed a small LED lamp on the table and activated its red-light feature. Another man produced a stack of folders from a briefcase he was carrying. Removing a document from the stack, he flipped to the signature page and slid it across the table to Harvath.
Kozar handed him a pen and said, “This is your contract. It states that you are joining Ukraine’s International Legion of your own free will, that in volunteering, you understand the inherent risks, that you are combat-qualified, and that you will abide by all the terms and conditions hereto—including all relevant international laws governing warfare, including both the Geneva and Hague Conventions.
“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 as Hookah and Krueger. The former British Army Second Lieutenant was referred to as Jacks and the former Canadian Army Corporal had the call sign Biscuit.
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 sign Dumbo. 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 the option 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.”
That was the deal the United States had agreed to and so Harvath nodded his assent.
“Good,” the man replied. “Second, I need to warn you. What I am about to show you is quite inhuman. Even by Russian standards.”