Order of battle command.., p.1
Order of Battle (Command and Control Book 3), page 1
ORDER OF BATTLE
DAVID BRUNS
J.R. OLSON
ORDER OF BATTLE
Copyright © 2022 by David Bruns and J.R. Olson.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverBooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-285-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-286-5 (Hardcover)
CONTENTS
Also by Bruns and Olson
Special Audible Deal
A Note to Our Readers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
THREAT AXIS
Also by Bruns and Olson
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
ALSO BY BRUNS AND OLSON
The Command and Control Series
Command and Control
Counter Strike
Order of Battle
Threat Axis
Never miss a new release! Sign up to receive exclusive updates from authors Bruns and Olson.
severnriverbooks.com/series/command-and-control
Click HERE to add Audible Narration of Order of Battle
To Sydney
A NOTE TO OUR READERS
In the novel which you are about to read, you will notice two different spellings for the capital of Ukraine: Kiev and Kyiv. It’s not a typo; there’s an important reason for this detail.
When we began work on this manuscript in the summer of 2021, long before the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the first draft used the name “Kiev” to describe the capital of Ukraine.
That was a mistake.
Until the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, “the Ukraine” was part of Russia and her capital was “Kiev.” Today, Ukraine is a sovereign country and the name of her capital in her native tongue is Kyiv (rhymes with Steve).
Like many Americans of our vintage, we were familiar with the old spelling and didn’t really give it much thought. As you might imagine, this story took on renewed importance after the real-life Russian invasion of Ukraine. In subsequent drafts, we educated ourselves. In the following pages, the Russian characters will use the “Kiev” spelling and everybody else will use the correct name “Kyiv” for the capital of Ukraine.
A small detail? Maybe, but we figure if the Ukrainian people are willing to risk their lives for their freedom, the absolute least we can do is call their capital by the correct name.
We’ll end with this thought: the bravery, ingenuity, and resilience of the Ukrainian people is beyond anything we could have imagined—and we write fiction for a living.
David Bruns & J.R. Olson
March 30, 2022
1
Kiev, Ukraine
The bar of the Ukraine Hotel was from another time, the peak of the Soviet era, and had not been updated since. High ceilings, marble floors, dark wood, dim lighting. A faded royal red carpet with gold trim, worn thin by time and too many feet, covered the steps leading down into the bar proper.
Attaché case in hand, Pavel Kozlov descended into the crowded room and slipped through the clusters of drinkers to the far side of the bar. It was thirty minutes to midnight on a Friday. The space was crowded, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the buzzing of multiple languages as one might expect in a place frequented by foreign correspondents.
He paused when he reached the narrow bar that ran along the length of the windows. The view was really the only thing this place had to offer, and it was spectacular.
Twenty floors below lay the Maidan Nezalezhnosti, the historic Independence Square of Kiev. Even at this hour the Maidan teemed with people, and more were arriving every minute from the metro that ran underneath the square. He could pick out policemen in their neon yellow jackets.
It was perfect.
“First time?” a voice said in Russian.
She was a platinum blonde on the far side of forty but with the physique of someone who spent time outdoors. She wore faded blue jeans and a man’s white shirt. The woman put out her hand. “Ekaterina Nillson.”
Pavel shook her hand. Solid grip, fingernails of a sensible length and coated with clear polish.
“How did you know I spoke Russian?” Pavel said. He parked the attaché case on the floor and kicked it flat against the radiator. That was as good a place as any for it.
Her eyes—they were wintry blue, he saw—traveled over his upper body. They took in his leather jacket, his pumped-up biceps and chest, his twice-broken nose, and the scar along his jawline that was not quite hidden by the salt-and-pepper of his three-day beard.
She cocked an eyebrow as if to say, Really? Then turned back to study the activity in the square. In the soft light, with her blond hair catching illumination from the window, she looked like royalty.
“What are you drinking, Ekaterina?” Pavel said.
“Johnnie Walker Blue,” she replied without turning her head. “Make it a double.”
An expensive drink, Pavel thought. Too bad he was working tonight.
At the bar, Pavel edged next to a thirty-something guy who seemed intent on impressing a young woman in a too-short, glittery dress who might have been twenty. Pavel caught a snippet of conversation as he ordered the drinks.
“Syria,” the guy said, “now that was a shit show if ever I saw one. The fall of Idlib province was a tragedy.”
You can say that again, Pavel thought. I lost three guys in that campaign.
“You were there?” the girl asked breathlessly.
The guy shook his head. “Too dangerous. I had to cover it from Turkey.”
Another damned reporter trying to get laid. Pavel checked the urge to knock the guy off the bar stool and beat the shit out of him.
No, he thought, that was the old Pavel. The boss had been on him to think more strategically about his actions, so maybe this was a good test.
The drinks arrived, and Pavel paid with cash. He motioned the bartender close and indicated the man next to him with a jerk of his head.
“See this guy?” The bartender nodded, and Pavel placed a wad of cash in his hand. “Buy him whatever he wants. On me, but don’t tell him who it’s from.” He placed more cash on the pile. “If you keep him here for two hours, you get to keep that. If not, I’ll be back for my change. Got it?”
The stack of cash disappeared into the bartender’s pocket. Pavel carried the drinks back to Ekaterina.
“I thought you got lost,” she said, still studying the view out the window.
In the corner of his vision, Pavel saw the bartender place fresh drinks in front of the Richard Engel wannabe and his date. They smiled when they found out the drinks were free, looked around the room, then toasted each other.
Ekaterina followed his gaze to the glittery dress. “You see something more interesting at the bar?” she said. “I’m used to drinking alone if you want to move on.”
Strange, Pavel thought. He didn’t want to move on. In fact, although definitely not his type, he thought Ekaterina was beautiful. Maybe this was the new Pavel, the strategic Pavel that the boss kept bashing on about.
When he gave his full attention to Ekaterina, she finally turned toward him. He felt like her eyes were looking through him.
“Sorry,” Pavel said. “I thought I knew that guy at the bar.”
“You do know him,” she replied. “Do you watch TV?”
“Not much.”
Ekaterina moved closer. Pavel caught a whiff of perfume, a hint of musky flowers.
“It’s William
Sommers,” she said.
Pavel shrugged.
Ekaterina deepened her voice and puffed out her chest. “I’m foreign correspondent William Sommers, reporting from Bumfuckistan.” She studied his face. “Nothing?”
Pavel shook his head. To his surprise, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You just made my night.” She lowered her voice. “He’s an asshole, by the way, but he gets the ratings, so he can do whatever he wants. Including dating girls that are far too young for him.”
Pavel sipped his drink. Although he preferred vodka, this scotch seemed to fit the mood.
“You’re a reporter, too?” he asked.
“Yes.” Ekaterina turned back to the window, her face pensive. “Everyone thinks the story’s out there, including my editors. But the real story is in a Russian basement somewhere.”
“I don’t understand,” Pavel replied. The square, full of people, looked like rough water from this height. Flickers of light popped and faded as people took pictures and livestreamed their presence to the world.
The police had converted Khreshchatyk Street, the thoroughfare that ran through the Maidan, to pedestrian traffic only. They’d given up trying to control the crowd.
So far, this demonstration certainly exceeded his expectations. The boss was going to be very happy.
Ekaterina drank deeply. “Those people out there are puppets. Nobody pays for news anymore, they just believe what they’re being fed on social media.”
Pavel signaled the bartender for two more drinks. “That’s a pretty cynical view.”
“Thousands of people die every year in Ukraine.” Ekaterina accepted the fresh drink. “And no one cares. Hell, the people of Ukraine don’t even seem to care anymore. They’re numb. The threat of Russian soldiers on their doorstep is so common that they’ve just given up.”
She toasted the window. “And now this. The March for Freedom. What does that even mean?”
Pavel’s mobile buzzed with an incoming text. Alpha – check, it read.
She pointed to the Independence Monument, a victory column rising two hundred feet above the Maidan, topped by the statue of a woman with flowing robes holding a leafy branch over her head. Spotlights illuminated the female figure, making it look like the golden angel floated over the square.
“I was down there when they dedicated the monument in 2001,” she said. “I reported on life in Ukraine ten years after she had gained her independence.”
Bravo – check, his phone read. Charlie – check. The screen showed it was ten minutes to midnight.
Ekaterina hadn’t noticed his divided attention. “In 2008, for the Paul McCartney concert, there were a million people in the square. It was magic.”
“Why aren’t you out there now?” Pavel asked. “Reporting, I mean.”
The woman scowled. “I told you: that’s not the story anymore.”
In the square below, there was a backup of people trying to exit the doors of the metro. The police directed foot traffic away from the congestion.
“What is the story?” Pavel asked.
Delta – check, his phone read. One more update and he was done with this conversation. He felt the familiar rush of tension that electrified his muscles just before an operation began, like a compressed spring waiting for a release.
“This is the story,” Ekaterina said, holding her mobile phone. “How the internet has turned information into weapons of mass destruction.”
“That’s a little extreme,” Pavel said.
“It’s that fucking Luchnik,” she hissed. “He thrives on chaos. Him and his cronies, Wagner Group, the whole lot of them will burn in hell someday.”
True, Pavel thought. President Luchnik knew how to spin shit into gold. He was kind of a genius, actually.
Ekaterina touched the screen of her phone. “Do you have a signal?”
Echo – check, the face of Pavel’s phone read.
“No,” he lied. “But that reminds me. I need to make a call.” He stood. “Will you be here when I get back?”
Ekaterina looked at him. There was no playing coy with this woman. “I’ll stay until half past midnight. Will that be enough time?”
“That’s perfect.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Until we meet again.”
Ekaterina kept his hand. “What line of work are you in? I’m curious.”
Pavel grinned at her. “Customer service.”
The elevators in the Ukraine Hotel looked like the original Soviet model. Pavel thought how ironic it would be if he died in a freak Russian elevator accident on his way to starting a revolution.
The creaky box arrived at the lobby, and the doors wheezed open. As Pavel strode through the lobby, he removed an earpiece from his jacket pocket and inserted it into his left ear. His watch read one minute to midnight.
“All stations, this is team leader. Stand by for go signal on my mark.”
“Alpha team has target in sight. Ready to launch,” came the crisp reply.
Pavel reached the doors and pushed through onto the steps of the Ukraine Hotel. He stayed on the periphery of the crowd, bulling his way past people until he was away from the hotel.
The late spring night was mild. It had rained earlier in the evening, and the churning feet and body heat of so many people created a mist in the air. The noise of hundreds of thousands of voices sounded like the ocean.
He took a covering position in the lee of a heavy stone column. He looked up at the top of the Independence Monument where the golden statue floated in the dark sky like an angel descending from heaven.
“Alpha team, you are cleared for launch,” Pavel said.
A pinpoint of light sparked in the sky, then flared. A streak of fire crossed the heavens, and the golden statue exploded.
For a split second, the world paused in silence. Then chaos erupted in the square. Screams, waves of people trying to get away from the explosion.
On the far side of the Maidan, gunfire broke out and the crowd contracted again like a riptide in this ocean of humanity. Lights began to go out as the power outages struck, provoking more panic.
Pavel flattened against the column, allowing hordes of people to flow past him. He extracted a satellite phone from his pocket and thumbed to a preset number.
Ekaterina, he thought with no small measure of regret, I won’t be able to make our date. Something came up.
He depressed the send key. He imagined the phone in the attaché case he’d left in the hotel bar receiving the call.
One ring…two…
The top of the Ukraine Hotel exploded in a ball of fire.
2
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
The sun had not yet risen when Russian President Vitaly Luchnik strode into the emergency cabinet meeting. Konstantin Kulukov, head of the Russian National Guard, known as the Rosgvardiya, met him at the door.
“He’s here, sir,” Kulukov reported in a low voice. Kulukov was a wiry man, slight of frame with a shaved head and a grim set to his lips. Luchnik admired the younger man’s intensity. As the man responsible for the President’s personal security as well as managing public dissent inside the vast Russian state, intensity was a necessary quality.
“Very well,” Luchnik murmured. “I’ll tell you when to send him in.”
