“Not if the West continues to look the other way. We lack the resources to halt the Russians if they wish to take Ukraine. Outside military support would become critical to our survival.” He shook his head. “The European nations are too reluctant to help. Our only hope is with America. We need them to step in with weapons support. Or more.”
“I have come to the same conclusion. The Americans are cautious, but they can be provoked into action. The natural mistrust between the U.S. and Russia presents an opportunity to be exploited.”
“But what can we do?”
“Simply strike a spark between the two. We may in fact draw the Americans in very soon.” Hendriks explained the planned attack on Sevastopol.
A smile crossed the colonel’s face. “That is striking at the heart of the matter. Maintaining their naval port at Sevastopol was certainly a key to the Russian invasion of Crimea.”
“Truth be known, I would prefer a strike at Moscow.”
Markovich nodded, realizing Hendriks’s hatred of the Russians matched his own. “You may incite a dangerous reaction,” he said. “The Russians will have to save face. They might retaliate by sinking an American warship, as they did the nuclear submarine Scorpion.”
Hendriks gave him a long, cold stare. “That is what I am banking on. The Americans will be angered. It will cause them to fight any further attempts at Russian expansionism, beginning with Ukraine. It would not surprise me to see American troops on the ground here within a few weeks. Then, I trust, you will be able to exterminate the separatists once and for all.”
“With delight,” the colonel said. “It is a bold, shrewd plan. You have given us a gift greater than missiles. You have given us hope for victory.”
“That is what I wish.”
“You are a true friend of Ukraine.”
Hendriks stood and put on his overcoat, and Markovich escorted him down the stairs. At the door, the colonel turned and asked, “Are you making a visit to Hrabove?”
“Yes.” Hendriks looked down at the ground.
“Be careful. And don’t drive on the road after dark.”
“I will be back to the airfield at Dnipropetrovsk well before then.”
Hendriks returned to the BMW, where his driver waited with the engine idling. He climbed into the warm interior and stared out the window as the car headed southeast. Leaving the city, they drove across miles of rolling plains. Scattered plots of maize and beans gave way to large fields of wheat and barley.
Thirty miles on, they neared the town of Toretsk, where they were stopped at a makeshift border crossing that divided government lands from separatist-held territory. As an unarmed businessman from the Netherlands, he was quickly allowed to pass. The BMW drove another forty miles across rural lands before approaching the dusty farm town of Hrabove.
Hendriks, who had been dozing, suddenly grew more attentive. Making note of the local landmarks, he guided the driver out of town and down a dirt road. Gazing at a vacant field that looked like all the others, he had him stop. Hendriks climbed out and walked a few yards to a small pile of stacked rocks. Scattered about its base were the remains of some long-dead flowers. He clawed one of the dried stems from the dusty soil and stepped into the adjacent field.
He walked to its center, stopped, and stared up at the sky. He stood for nearly an hour, lost in another place and time. A cold breeze knifed through his clothes, but it didn’t touch his already frozen soul. Standing there in the field, he felt more dead than alive.
After a while, he patted his coat pocket, feeling the familiar metallic object, which gave him a morsel of comfort. He dropped the flower stem, reached down, and grabbed a fistful of the dark, untilled soil. Squeezing it until his hand shook, he released the earth into the sacred confines of his pocket. Words, a curse of some sort, tried to form on his lips but were lost in the wind.
His anguish at last released, the broken man returned to the car, a lone tear dried on his cheek.
25
Summer Pitt shook her head as she approached the Odin’s survey shack. Even with the door closed, a heady blues riff from guitarist Joe Bonamassa could be heard blaring from the small room. Flinging open the door, Summer found her twin brother, Dirk Jr., seated in front of a sonar monitor, stomping his feet to the music.
As she entered, he nonchalantly cranked down the volume on a tabletop speaker.
“Really?” she said. “You’re waking the fish from here to the North Pole.”
He stifled a yawn. “Just needed a little juice to finish my shift.” He glanced at a clock on the bulkhead and saw it was a few minutes to four in the morning.
“I should have known you were headed down an all-consuming path when Dad loaned you his Eric Clapton collection.”
Dirk smiled. “He knows a thing or two about the blues.”
There was no disguising their resemblance to their father, the head of NUMA. Both carried his strong facial features and were tall, lithe, and strong. But while Dirk had the same dark hair, Summer was a redhead. They had followed in his seafaring footsteps, studying marine engineering and oceanography before joining him at the underwater research agency.
“Anything to report on the sonar?” she asked.