Alexander V. Ivanov Building
Utrennyazda Island
Costa Mejis
0245 hours, May 3rd, 2014
Pytor Tretyakov sat at his desk, face buried in his hands, staring over a mound of paperwork the size of a small van. Besides him a mound of wasted tissues, wrappers of various gums and paper plates stained with the previous days meals. His brow dripped moisture as the humid air enveloped him.
Damn this fan, damn it straight to hell
Amazingly, intelligence work is not always glamorous. Regardless of his extensive service record, one some would consider “spotless”, Pytor Tretyakov, more properly known to intelligence agents in the east and west alike as Cuban Pete, had to endure the same discomforts as the lowly recruit agent slugging through the jungles of the Amazon at times.
And he would have it no other way.
Pete liked to lead from the front. A veteran agent of more operations than he could count, Pete had lied, cheated, stolen and murdered his way across five continents for over twenty-five years. His actions had not gone unnoticed. Where as most agents would have prefered a nice, soft desk job, a “promotion”, Pytor wanted nothing more than to be closer to the front of his work. Turning down a handful of promotions that would have allowed him to retire in a few years time, a now-aging intelligence officer sat, attending to his work the same as he always had.
He wiped his eyes off, and looked at his watch with a sigh. The desk light insufficient, he contemplated throwing something at his desk at the light switch. As he reached for a cup, the door opened and the lights flashed on.
“Bilyat, what do you want?”
“Nice to see you too, sir. I’ve got those documents you wanted from the Office of Governmental Correspondence. Where do you want them?”
Yevgeny Shvedova stood, back arched slightly over the rather large pile of papers in his hand.
“Just lay them on…”
Pytor stopped and looked at the pile of rubbish sitting to his left. He sighed and pushed it off the table to the floor in frustration.
“Here.”
Yevgeny moved quickly and plopped the papers down loudly, groaning as he did.
“Hows the back?”
“Improving, sir. Should be not more than a few months now before I get back into the thick of it.”
“Thats good. I’ve missed having you on the team...let the younger guys do the heavy lifting, as it were.”
“Yea, well thats how I got in this situation”.
He turned and began to walk out of the room, hand on his lower back.
“Keep the lights on for me, Yevgeny.”
“Aye, sir. Have a good night.”
Pete rolled his eyes. There would be no good nights for some time.
What books, films and TV shows have always failed to convey is the massive amount of paperwork that goes into an operation. Anything and everything is documented, from the direct acquisition of Human Intelligence and making contacts, to the daring operational coffee breaks and the casual car bombings. No government dollar is moved without at least a trees worth pages moved in triplicate. Often, this job falls to the director of the operation or secretarial staff. But with extremely sensitive information, often the operations commander and agents themselves are tasked with the paper work.
This was not that.
Pete had been slaving for weeks over a perceived intelligence gap he had envisioned just over two years ago, shortly after Operation: Mountain Harvest had revealed foreign armed and supplied rebels, and mercenaries, were present in Costa Mejis. He was looking for something, anything, that might interest him, something that might be of suspect.
He stood slowly, for the first time in around twelve hours. His legs numb, he felt his knees buckle and he stumbled. On his way down, his arm slammed into the fresh stack of papers, which shifted abruptly to the right. Rather than falling over in a massive heap, they slid into a rather tity line, albeit one that took his working space.
“Thank god…”
He smiled a bit, any break at this point is a good one.
As he thumbed through the folders, he noticed something odd. Mixed in with the usual blues and tans, was a green folder.
hmm…
Pete opened the window, prompting the cool night air to flow in. He inhaled deeply, allowing the salty air to provide him with a momentary moment of tranquility. He sat, with new found interest. Pen in hand, he pulled the green folder out of the pile.
Comando Estratégico de los Cohetes
“Rockets, eh? Interesting…”
He began to scan up and down the page, looking for anything out of the ordinary immediately apparent. Satisfied, he read the report. At a glance, and at a reading, it seemed to be nothing more than a report to the government of Bosque del Fuego as to the degree of success of the launches of their new Gorizont missiles, albeit one carried out on a relatively secure channel.
Nothing out of the ordinary...but why?
Why, Pete wondered, would Strategic Rocket Forces feel the need to report this to the government of Bosque del Fuego, and on a secure channel none the less?
He read over the document a second time, this time at a slower pace. A scathing 42 page report, the document covered far more than a standard report of this nature should. No report requires such detail as to the thrust ratios of each rocket compared to others, the perceived circular area probability versus the actual circular area probability. One paragraph even was dedicated to an ill-fated armadillo, named “Quesco”, who had found his way onto the testing range and met his end at the hands of the rockets launch phase.
Still, Pete saw nothing. There had to be something.
A third read through. Slower, yet again.
This is just stupid...Whoever wrote this report needs to go back to typing school. There's more errors in this…
Pete cracked a smile.
“Treacherous Northerners…”
Pete pulled his Spanish dictionary from his desk and grabbed a notebook. He glanced at his watch.
0342
The sun would be up in less than two hours. Pete decided to have a race against who would rise first: Him, or the sun.
The sun won. Though he worked diligently, it proved to be much more difficult than Pete imagined. Eyes bloodshot, he laid his pen down.
Error codes, as they were sometimes called, were relatively simple to crack and normally were used for one of a number of things: Low risk information, rapidly changing information, or to hide highly sensitive information. The longer the vessel which the error code was transmitted in, the less likely it was to be spotted. Though Pete was, in no way, a cryptologist, he did have experience. A good error code is spread over about thirty times its length, and every error denotes either a corresponding or opposite letter, punctuation, or otherwise. Labor intensive to break and make, they are relatively simple to crack, albeit time consuming.
And Pete had found one, right under the noses of the SVR and GRU.
A big one.
A page and a quarter long, the message details the Rocket Forces determination the the Gorizont missiles was capable of acting as a delivery system for nuclear warheads, belonging to Bosque del Fuego.
A state who is not, officially, armed with WMDs.
An intelligence agent would see brass bars and medals abound with this kind of information in their hands.
But, for some reason, Pete saw only dollar signs.
What the hell am I thinking...Thats..Thats high treason. No...Not just treason...If...If I was ever caught…
He paused for a minute, and read the note over and over. Soon, the note seemed to take the form of a blank check.
..When I’m caught. No...No they would never be able to catch me. Not with the money this is worth.
He sat in his chair and looked around. The Puzak flag hung in his office, off to the right hand side. Photos of him shaking hands with politicians and generals alike, of him as a child, of him as a young man.
Yet the room was devoid of photos of a wife. Or children. Or friends. It was devoid of any personal decorations aside from a badly damaged handgun he had taken off the body of an African warlord in 1993, and a small plaque dedicated to “The Cuban Debacle”, an operation so infamous, yet so classified, that more people have never known so much about so little.
Besides that, he had little to show for his life on a personal level. His work was his life.
This information could make him a hero. But at what cost? Sure, he would get a pay raise, and a medal. But his life? What quality of life would he have, knowing he would be surveyed 24-7 by government agents? That all sense of privacy would be gone. Any hope for a peaceful life after the fact would go down the tubes.
No...money talks. And this note, and these documents...they were screaming.
I need to get out...and I need to get out fast.
Pete knew who to see, though it was unlikely he would be pleased to see him.
Dedal "Dag" Zhivenkov is not a kind man.
A veteran of four wars, and twenty years a combat veteran, there were seldom soldiers like Dag was. A Trope all his own. He stood tall, and he stood wide. Heavy at the shoulders, and heavy-handed, Dag was a twice-recipient of the second highest military honor of the Puzak Federation an individual can achieve, the Order of Saint George. A member of the elite Spetznagruppa Alfa, and a platoon machine gunner, he was a walking, breathing nightmare for the enemy, and very often a nightmare they lived.
It was unfortunate, then, that Dag considered Pete his enemy.
An engagement Dags unit was forced into not but two years ago was overseen, and even thought to have been planned, by Pete and his staff. An operation that resulted in one Marine losing his legs and arm, and another, one of Dags best friends, in a body bag. A short detainment for questioning solidified the twos mutual dislike, when Dag broke free of his poorly-fastened restraints and broke Petes nose with a swift punch.
That said, Dag respected Pete, by nature of being “a cold hearted bastard”.
Utrennyazda is a large base. There are over 40,000 persons at any given time on the island, civilian and military alike. However, its relatively simple to find most special forces stationed on the base, as they rarely leave a few areas of the island in order to protect their own anonymity: The mess hall, the barracks, the firing range, the recreation area, “Jot” beach, and the mission command room.
It took very little time to find Dag. In fact, it was the first place Pete looked.
The recreation yard was, in many ways, like entering a jungle. There was hierarchy, predator and prey, combat, blood, meat, and the occasional mating.
Dag could be found with the other Alfa members in the boxing ring. Typically practicing their hand-to-hand skills, it was not uncommon to see members going three rounds of conventional boxing to solve disagreements. Competition, it was said, fosters cooperation.
Pete watched from distance as two alfa troops took the ring, helmets and gloves on. Their platoon leader, Kirill, stood in the middle and deliberated the rules. He releases their gloves and stepped back, waiting for the two members to enter their corners. As they turned, he rang a bell.
The two men came out swinging. A hurricane of fists, the two pounded one another about the head and body mercilessly, grunting and growling as they traded blows. Every hit was announced with an audible thud.
Blood was in the air. The surrounding soldiers cheered and whistled. Most had blood dripping from their brows or lips, all were bruised, scarred and sweating.
Salvages, Pete thought, watching from afar.
After a few minutes of fighting, the fighter dressed in blue landed a blow to the side of the red fighters head, sending him to the floor. Though he instantly returned to his feet, the fight was over.
“That does it!” Kirill yelled, shouting to be heard over the cheers and jeers of the pack of soldiers.
“You know the rules, boys. Winner of the fight wins the argument. That means The Lord of the Rings was a better film series than The Hobbit.”
The crowd seemed to care less about the argument. They climbed all over the winner, and loser, slapping their heads and backs. The two fighters embraced, and shoved their foreheads together.
From the heap, Dag emerged, walking out of the room, water bottle and towel in hand.
In the back, the Platoon leader announced the next fight, something about who shot who first or somesuch nonsense.
As Dag staggered out of the room, he looked at Pete. His eyes lit up in aggression, and the previously semi-content face turned to one of anger.
"I knew I felt slime on the floor. What do you want, Pytor?”
“Dedal. So nice to see your head hasn't reached critical mass yet. How are you?”
“Its Dag there, Petey. What do you want? Here to kill my dog? Maybe eat a baby? Its around lunch time, isn't it?”
“Lunch: Something you should skip, big boy.”
Dag smiled. Not a happy smile, but a pleased smile. Like a shark after a meal.
“Now...You know I would never come to you asking for help, Dag, but for the first time, I think I need it.”
“Oh? What have you done for me recently? Besides killed my friend and given me a series of wounds?”
“This is serious, Dag. I actually need your help. This is sensitive information.
“Right. You know what else is sensitive?”
In a surprising burst of rage, Pytor slammed his forearm into Dags rather massive frame and pushed him into the access hall, just outside of the gym. This was met with a grab of the throat, and a new-found ability of temporary flight.
“You ever touch me like that again, I will end you!”
“Listen to me, god damn it!”
For the first time in his life, Pytor actually had Dags full attention...and a fraction of his etiquette.
“I..I found somthing. Something big. Something I don't think…”
He paused, and looked around quickly for cameras or personnel. Satisfied, he continued
“Something I don't think the government can handle. Something I don't think they can know...Something they clearly do not know.”
“Why are you telling me this, then?”
“Because...you aren't the government. You’ve always been more of a self interested man. I’ve read your files, including the parts that have been redacted.”
“Did you read the one about Ahal in 1999? I always liked that part.”
“This is serious. Dag...You’re a self motivated man. You follow orders not because they are orders, but because you want to. You have had more insubordination charges against you than any Alfa soldier should, and you’ve beaten most of them by intimidating your commanding officer to recalling the file. And...This is something I need your help with. I know you have connections, and I know you are owed favors. If..If you help me, You will receive a large reward.”
“I know intel pays well, but it doesn't pay that well. What is it, hidden stash of money? Gold?”
He chuckled and shook his head.
“Defection?”
Pete swallowed a knot in his throat. Hearing it out loud was much harder than hearing it in his own head. Unable to answer vocally, he nodded.
“W..wait. You’re serious? Y...you’re going to defect?”
Pete stood still, looking up into Dags face.
“Im going to do whats best for me...and it’s going to be good for you too, if you help me.”
Dag squinted at Pete, looking him over for a moment. He smiled, once again, a smile of a shark.
“Fuck off.”
Fist raised, he laid a blow onto Pete’s face, sending him to the floor. He walked away, shaking his head in disbelief.
Pete rose to his feet, and walked out of the rec room, wiping blood off his face as he removed his cellphone from his pocket. He pressed a few times on the screen and held it to his ear.
“Brillobrillante cleaners, 24 hour cleaning service, how can I help you?”
“Yea hi...This is Havana Hustler..calling about my account, 04117-Jot. Thats Jot, J-O-T.”
“Sure, how can we help, Mr. Havana?”
“I have a tablecloth that needs to be cleaned...Its got a nasty red stain in it. Wine.”
“Sure, we can fix that right up for you, Mr. Havana. What kind of wine is it?”
“Its a Merlot, Wine name is Dog And Gun?”
“I see...Is it a deep stain?”
“Very deep. You’ll need a lot of bleach I assume.”
“I understand, Mr. Havana. Do you care if the tablecloth is returned in a faded shape?”
“I’ll be honest with you…” He paused, and stifled a chuckle. “I dont care if it ever returns at all.”
Dag shook his hand off. Though he might look soft, Petes skull was relatively hard.
As he walked into the locker room, he looked up to see a ghost.
“Bogdan!”
Bogdan Voronin looked up from tying his shoe, a smile on his face.
“Dag. Lord, its good to see you. How the hell are you?”
“Excellent. Remember that intel freak, Pytor Tet-something?”
“Yea, that one who...uhh..set up Operation: Mountain Harvest?”
“Thats the one. I just got to punch him in the nose a second time!”
The two paused for a moment, and bursted into furious laughter. Like Dag, Bogdan was a fan of violence, and somewhat of a trope all his own as well. Not as seasoned as Dag, Bogdan had just under 15 years of service tucked under his belt. Standing just short of five centimeters shorter, he was also of a much smaller build, and had a much cooler head. Like Dag, his service record was exhaustive and, were one to see his file, would be just as thick. Unfortunately, much of that file would be blacked out by a marker.
“So, what have you been up to? Overthrowing governments? Dispatching warlords and political dissidents via sniper rifle? Protecting the motherland one shot at a time?”
“Negative..I took some personal time off. Went home for the holidays, got held up with a family issue. Ready to get back into shape and get back out there with you guys.”
“Damn glad to hear it, Bogdan. Kirill will be like a kid at christmas seeing you again.”
“Yea, I’d hope so. You just coming from a workout?”
“Boxing match. The platoons throwing some blows, im sure they’d be willing to give you a welcome back beatdown.”
“I look forward to it. Say, why did you pop the spook in the face?”
“Ah, he probably just tried to get me arrested. Came to me acting all serious, talking about some big discovery, wanting my help. Said he might defect.”
“He expect you to believe that?”
“Dunno. Maybe he was just acting. Those intel freaks gotta be good at that shit I hear.”
“Yep. Maybe he was practicing?”
“Practicing or not, I feel like he was setting me up. Trying to get me to agree to help him defect, then bam! I’m thrown in a blacksite somewhere.”
“Right. He probably deserved it.”
“Damn right he did! But listen, I gotta go to the motor pool to give some input as to how Roman managed to blow the track of a T-84 with a hand grenade.”
“How did he?”
“No idea. But I gotta be there twenty minutes ago. Good seeing you though, we’ll catch up tonight, alright?”
“Sure. Stay sharp.”
Pete sat on an outdoor bench, pouring over files as he was before.
Momentarily, at least, he had to cut his mind away from the tumultuous pool of thoughts that was his mind. He had to keep appearances. So here he sat, in a covered outdoor bench, scooing the remains of lunch into his mouth as he read files, covered by a fake book.
The files were, happily, genuinely interesting. Reports of the first flights and tests of the new Mejian/PLU 5th generation fighter, the CASA L-X, had begun to enter to defense analysis officers, which meant that Pete had a front row seat to the mind of some of the greatest military minds.
The reports were straightforward: Armament, stealth records, cost analysis, impact of future aviation projects, and more mumbo-jumbo that Pete had some difficulty understanding.
Turning the page, he saw something that interested him.
Unusual for most reports, this file contained pages on each of the crew members, the Weapons Systems Officer and the pilot. Personnel files, photos, the makings of a real information dossier.
But something else caught Petes eye.
The pilot, Enrique Celio, might have been an excellent pilot, and by all indications, was. Confident, a spotless flight record and over 10,000 hours behind the stick of fighters and strike aircraft alike, Pytor recognized his name from the list of applicant pilots to fly the PaK-FA fighters that the Federation had gifted Costa Mejis. Pytor had run checks on each pilot, and seemed to remember suggesting him to be one of the six pilots they would need to fly the PaK-FAs.
“Hm...well thats something I missed”
Pete stood up, papers in tow, and adjourned quickly to his office. He felt as if he had missed something, and was hellbent on finding what.
After a few short minutes of picking his previous intelligence operation files, he had found exactly what he needed: A report on the pilot written by the Puzak VVS on Celio several years ago.
This report was rather in-depth, and made a rather shocking revelation about Celio
Enrique Celio had been born in The Independent Nation of the Republic of Lanos, who, in addition to having one of the most redundant names in history, had been the sworn enemy of the PLU for quite some time.
Though his official Costa Mejian papers said he was born in Cuspín, Costa Mejis, the Puzak file listed these papers as being probable forgeries.
Thats quite the mistake…I don’t know how their intelligence people miss this, but...well, fortune favors the bold
It seemed that Pete, with the makings of a personal intelligence file in his hand, and from the Costa Mejian government no less, had just been given the golden goose.
His plan took shape quickly, and lo, it was time to execute.
