Order of battle command.., p.5
Order of Battle (Command and Control Book 3), page 5
“You’re being pulled off the Sentinel Holdings liaison duties,” Blank said. He held up a hand to stop Don from interrupting. “Wilkerson wants a supporter in that role, not someone who doesn’t believe in the use of PMCs.”
“Who?”
Blank shrugged. “I’ll figure it out and let you know.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’m sorry, Don. It’s out of my control.”
Don stepped into the bright spring sunshine a few minutes later. Crushed gravel crunched under his feet as he walked to the waiting black Chevy Suburban.
“Where can I take you, sir?” the driver asked.
I can go anywhere, Don thought. The beach, the Smithsonian, go see a movie…
“Sir?”
Don gave the driver the address for the Emerging Threats Group building in Tysons Corner. Then he relaxed into the soft leather seat and closed his eyes.
The Emerging Threats Group office was mostly empty on a Sunday afternoon, except for Harrison Kohl. Don found the acting Director of ETG in his office hunched behind a computer, reading glasses perched on his nose. While Don had been assigned to Sentinel Holdings as a liaison officer, Harrison had taken over his management duties.
Harrison was a trim man with short gray hair. A twenty-year veteran of the CIA and NSA, he had spent his career avoiding management roles in both organizations. When Don relayed what had happened with the Director, Harrison came around his desk and hugged Don in mock relief.
“I am so glad to hear you shit the bed, boss,” he said. “You have the deck and the conn of this fine organization. Just be glad I didn’t run her aground while you were out saving the world.” He pulled a duffel bag out from under his desk. “I’m going to the gym and I’m coming in late tomorrow.”
In spite of his dark mood, Don smiled as he realized how much he missed this place. Maybe being back at ETG would be good for him after all.
Harrison departed, and Don sat back down, too tired to care where he was.
Maybe I’ll take a nap right here, he thought.
Harrison reappeared in the doorway. “You’ve got a visitor, Don. I put him in your office.”
“Who?” Don said.
“You’re an analyst,” Harrison called from the hallway. “Figure it out.”
Don pulled himself upright. Despite the nap in the car, he was still tired and the sugar in the syrup had turned sour inside his mouth. He walked to his office on the other side of the building. When he turned the corner, he saw his office door was open and the light on. When Don reached the doorway, he paused.
Somehow, his shitty day had just gotten worse. Dylan Mattias sat behind his desk, using Don’s computer.
As usual, Dylan looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. He wore faded blue jeans, loafers without socks, and a dark blue polo shirt that stretched across his bulging pectoral muscles. He looked up and gave Don a smug smile.
“I’m just checking my secure email,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Looking down, Don noticed a spot of syrup on the front of his own shirt.
“Dylan,” Don said in as neutral a tone as he could manage. “You came all this way on a Sunday afternoon just to check your email?”
“I’m the new liaison officer for Sentinel Holdings,” Dylan said. “I’d like you to brief me on the operations over there.”
Don swallowed. That was fast. He wondered if the Director had already selected Dylan before they’d met over breakfast.
“The President’s Chief of Staff called me this morning,” Dylan said. “He suggested I volunteer my services to the Director for the position.” He got up from Don’s desk. “Sorry things didn’t work out, Don.”
Under normal circumstances, Don would have accepted the comment at face value, but not now. Of course his replacement was Dylan. He should’ve figured that out on his own. Dylan was a known quantity at the White House, and the President would want the Sentinel operations in Ukraine spooled up as fast as possible. If there was pushback from anyone at CIA, even from the Director, a political operator like Dylan would know how to neutralize it immediately.
“Well?” Dylan dropped into one of Don’s office chairs and slouched down with his legs extended in front of him. He looked at the piles of papers and reports heaped on Don’s desk and credenza. “This place is a pigsty, man. How do you ever get anything done in here?”
“I manage,” Don replied sharply as he took his own seat behind his desk. His emotions were all over the place. He should be relieved that he was not dealing with Sentinel anymore, but instead, he was pissed off.
Don saw his unclassified web browser was in use, and he clicked on the open tab. Dylan had been shopping for Italian loafers while he waited in Don’s office.
“Don,” Dylan said from his relaxed pose, “if you just talk to me, we can get this done fast. Then we can go enjoy this beautiful day. You could use some sun, dude.”
“What do you want to know, Dylan?”
“Let’s start with their people,” Dylan replied. “Aberdeen Cromwell. What makes her tick?”
Don sighed.
Now that, he thought, was an excellent question.
7
Sterling, Virginia
Abby Cromwell wasn’t sure what to make of the new CIA liaison officer. Although they’d gotten off to a slow start, she’d grown oddly comfortable with Don Riley in the position. He was a steady hand, someone she could rely on as she managed her rapidly growing private military contracting company through a very turbulent time.
Now, with a new mission she wasn’t sure her company was ready for, everything felt unstable around her. The last thing she needed was a change in her relationship with the CIA.
In the close confines of the elevator, she studied Dylan Mattias out of the corner of her eye. He was about her age and height, with the body of a man who knew his way around a gym. He moved with athletic surety, controlled, with no wasted movements.
In fact, Abby thought, his entire manner was one of complete self-confidence. Maybe not arrogant, but she guessed that Dylan Mattias never doubted what he wanted and he always got it.
Was that a good quality in a liaison officer? Don’s manner had been to question everything, including himself, in every situation. While challenging to get used to, he somehow managed to find the right answer every time. Abby had a sneaking suspicion that Dylan Mattias would have a very different style.
The elevator doors opened onto the Sentinel Holdings underground operations bunker. Abby’s heels echoed as she stepped onto the polished floor.
“We call this the Planetarium,” she said.
Dylan’s dark eyes took in the domed ceiling, the Sentinel teams at work, the raised central command cockpit, and he let out a low whistle.
“Now this is an intelligence operations center,” he said in an appreciative tone.
Abby walked slowly as she talked. “Traditional ops centers are set up classroom style, with fixed workstations facing forward to wall screens. We decided to flip the design on its head.”
She pointed at a cluster of four workstations. “Work teams are flexible. We place equipment and team members onto the floor and configure them as needed. Shared data gets projected on the ceiling, where it’s visible to all. During the privateering operation earlier this year, we had over a hundred people on the floor in configurable teams. We’re down to about forty people now, mostly financial types, working on the sale of the seized vessels.”
“Brilliant,” Dylan said.
Abby glowed with pride. They arrived at the command cockpit.
“Hub and spoke,” Dylan said. “Everything is controlled from the central command platform.” He gestured at the three steps up to the cockpit. “May I?”
“Of course,” Abby replied. She watched him mount the steps lightly. Whatever flaws she might yet learn about the new liaison officer, he was easy on the eyes.
Manson Skelly occupied the command chair. He watched Dylan enter the cockpit and said into a slim headset microphone, “All stations, command will be offline for five.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he pushed the attached console aside and stood.
Abby’s late husband and Sentinel co-founder, Joe, used to say that his best friend Manson Skelly was “built like a brick shithouse.” Abby had never seen a brick shithouse, but Skelly was short and powerfully built, with corded muscles rippling under his tight T-shirt that read: “Guns don’t kill people. I do.”
Abby cringed, knowing he’d probably worn the inappropriate shirt just to annoy her.
Skelly had thick dark hair cut short and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. His heavy features twisted into a humorless smile as he stuck out his hand.
“Call me Skelly,” he said to Dylan. “I hope you’re not one of those Washington types who likes to get in the way. We get things done here; no bureaucratic bullshit allowed.” His gruff tone was challenging, and Abby guessed he was probably trying to crush Dylan’s hand in his meaty grip.
What a child, she thought.
Dylan met the other man’s gaze with cool regard. If Skelly’s handshake was causing him pain, Dylan’s face betrayed no discomfort.
“I don’t think you’ll have any difficulties with me, Skelly,” Dylan said. “For this new mission, we have the same goal. Cause as much damage as possible in the shortest amount of time for the least cost. Economy in action, but lethal in all regards.”
Skelly looked at Abby. “We have a new job? Oh my god, tell me it’s fucking Ukraine. Please, tell me it’s Ukraine.” He released Dylan’s hand.
“It’s Ukraine,” Dylan said.
Skelly pumped a scarred fist. “I can’t wait to take it to those Wagner bastards. They got some payback coming.”
Dylan studied Skelly, and Abby wondered what he was thinking. “How soon can you get offensive operations started?” Dylan asked.
Skelly looked like he wanted to hug the CIA officer. “Where did you find this guy?” he said to Abby. “I fucking love him. I’ll be there by tonight,” he said to Dylan. “Weapons free.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Abby said. “I need you running ops from here, Manson, not playing commando in the field.”
“No problem,” Skelly said, “You’re right, boss. I’ll ride a desk here in the office and we’ll let Landersmann handle the field operations.” He turned back to the command chair.
Abby cursed to herself. David Landersmann was not the man she wanted in charge of the mission in Ukraine.
“Wait,” she said.
When he turned back around, Skelly’s grin was more of a leer. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Maybe it would be better if you went into the field to oversee the start—just the start—of operations, Manson,” she said.
Skelly gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get on it right away.” He consulted his wristwatch. “I can use Mama to pull together an initial logistics package and be wheels up by tonight.”
“All right,” Abby said. “We’ll let you get to it. Keep me—us, I mean—posted on your progress.”
Skelly was already back in his command chair issuing rapid-fire orders over his headset. Abby led Dylan back down to the operations floor where technicians were already rolling new workstations into place.
“We’ll have primary ops shifted to the Ukraine theater within the hour,” she said. “The team we have in place in eastern Europe is small but competent.”
“What’s your data stream in theater look like?”
“We have sources in place,” Abby replied. “Sentinel-owned aerial surveillance, HUMINT, as well as whatever we can scrape from local channels, like traffic cams and so on.”
“Efficient operation,” Dylan commented. “You helped Riley with his Ukraine presidential briefing, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Abby replied, “we did. Is that a problem?”
Dylan shook his head. “I couldn’t figure out how he did the analysis that fast.”
Abby laughed. “I gave him access to Mama.”
“Skelly said that, too. Who is Mama?”
“Our resident AI,” Abby said. “She handles housekeeping, logistics, operational planning, data analysis. You name it, she does it for us.”
“You rely on an AI that much?”
“Without Mama, Sentinel would not exist,” Abby said. “She’s the secret sauce behind this company. She never takes a day off, never asks for a raise, never tells her girlfriend classified information that might compromise a mission. She’s the perfect employee.”
Dylan studied her as she spoke, and Abby found her cheeks growing warm. “What?” she asked.
“Tell me about Landersmann.” Dylan broke eye contact, changed the subject.
“Not much to tell,” Abby said. “He’s head of eastern Europe operations. Speaks fluent Russian and a bunch of other languages. Can get us access to anyone we want in that part of the world.”
And I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, Abby thought.
“He and Skelly have history,” she concluded.
“Hmm,” Dylan said. “I thought I noticed some tension between you and Skelly back there. Anything I need to worry about?”
“Nothing,” Abby replied. “Normal business partner stuff.”
Dylan fixed his eyes on hers. His eyes were dark brown, like warm chocolate.
“I might be able to help,” Dylan said. “I’m good with people.”
I bet you are, Abby thought.
“I’m from the government.” Dylan winked. “I’m here to help.”
Abby turned away, stabbed at the elevator call button, angry with herself that her cheeks were flushed pink.
Dylan Mattias was an attractive man and he knew it. Still, she thought, he did seem to hit it off with Manson. Maybe he could help repair that relationship.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
8
Oleksandriya, Ukraine
The Sentinel Holdings forward operating base occupied an empty warehouse two kilometers south of the E50 highway that ran east-west through the central Ukrainian city of Oleksandriya. Manson Skelly nodded his approval. David Landersmann, his number two in the Ukraine theater of operations, had chosen the site well.
The exterior was red brick, probably pre–World War Two. Judging by the pile of broken toilets they found behind the building, the site was once used as a ceramics factory, a fact that prompted endless potty humor among the Sentinel operators.
The interior of the cavernous building was mostly dry, and a fleet of propane heaters made the space comfortable enough to wear a T-shirt inside. At the far end of the building, next to the double doors, there were five black Land Rovers and four sleek surveillance drones covered in dull radar-absorbent material. Landersmann had cleared a makeshift runway alongside the building that was long enough to launch and recover the drones—at night, of course.
The other end of the warehouse had been turned into an operations center and temporary living quarters for the Sentinel crew. Skelly stood in front of the dozen operators who lounged in a collection of camp chairs or on packing crates. The warm air smelled of gun oil and body odor.
Damn, he thought, it felt good to be back in the field again.
He held up a single sheet of paper and cleared his throat.
“May I have your attention please, gentlemen.” He threw an exaggerated glance at the three women seated together. “And ladies.” One of the women gave him the finger, and he waited for the obligatory laughter to die down.
The three women on the team were some of his best operators, but that joke never got old.
“I am required by our fearless leader, Ms. Aberdeen Cromwell, to brief you on the rules of engagement for operations in Ukraine.” He pretended to move the paper back and forth as if trying to focus. The gesture was only half-joking. Lately he’d noticed his near vision was not as crisp as it once had been. He cleared his throat dramatically.
“The mission of Sentinel Holdings in Ukraine is to harass, degrade, and destroy Wagner Group operations in the region. We are directed to interdict Wagner lines of communications, disrupt operations, and destroy Wagner-owned equipment and bases. Furthermore, any intelligence on Wagner personnel and operations should be reported to the US intelligence community as quicky as possible.”
He ran his gaze over the assembled crew. All eyes were on him. The normal joking and easygoing banter were gone.
“Deadly force is authorized against known Wagner personnel. However, Sentinel will avoid direct engagement with Russian regular forces unless fired upon first by said forces.”
Skelly looked up and grinned. “So ends the reading of the corporate directive.”
He tore the sheet of paper in half, matched the two halves together, then tore it again and again until he had a handful of shredded squares. He threw them in the air like confetti.
“I’ve done my duty as a corporate officer,” he said. “Now it’s time for the real briefing. This is a fucking war zone, people. You keep your head on a swivel and your weapons loose. Shoot first, ask questions later. Most of you did time in the Sandbox and you know how Wagner operates. If you give them the drop, you’re a dead man.” He looked at the women. “Excuse me, dead person.”
“Bite me, Skelly,” one of the women shot back.
Skelly ignored her. “These assholes invaded the wrong country this time. The gloves are off. This time, they get what they deserve—and we’re the ones to give it to them.”
The room of mercenaries stirred. The ooh-rah had long since left this crowd, but there was an undeniable sense of electricity in the air.
Point the weapon, Skelly thought. These men and women killed for a living, and they were good at their job. All he needed to do was to give them a target. He adopted a businesslike tone.
“Tonight is our coming-out party with Wagner. Landersmann has a Ukrainian intel officer on the take who will provide the exact coordinates of a Wagner FOB on the other side of the river.” Skelly shot a look at Landersmann. “This guy is good, Landie? We can rely on him?”
