Mann Don - Hunt the Dragon

The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isnt 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.

Perfection is a road, not a destination.

Burk Hudson

I t 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 CIAs Special Activities Branch, Fradkovs real name was Sergei Sokolov and he was deputy director of Zaslona special operation (Spetsnaz) unit of Directorate S of Russias 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 Cella 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 goal: impeccable execution, which had become more difficult due to the number of vehicles parked outsidefour, 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 wasnt clear right now.

All Crocker had observed so far were the four stationary vehicles and a lone armed guard wearing blue camouflagewhich made him look like a cartoon charactersitting beside by the front door drinking from a bottle of vodka. So security sucked, which ruled out the likelihood of an important operational meeting.

Whats 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 wasnt 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 hadnt brought microphones and surveillance equipment, which werent the usual tools of their trade anyway. They left those tasks to the Activitythe 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 werent 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 wasnt 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 girlfrienda 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 waythe 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 leaders 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 Crockers back.

Only this morning the Russian rebels had attacked the airport and seized the eastern suburbs. Putins 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 Crockers favorite tunes.