Overkill Read online

  Dedication

  I should like to dedicate this book to the memory of my maternal grandfather, George Blaine Howell. I owe him all that it means to be, not only a man, but hopefully a gentleman as well. After Dartmouth College, after Captain of the Artillery in France. After Cornell Law School, a brilliant career in banking, after huge success in the world of offshore ocean racing aboard his beloved schooner “Rambler,” George Howell and his dear friend, my godfather and World War I fighter Ace, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker went on to create their first startup, Eastern Airlines. He died too young at sixty-six. He loved his wife, Mary Trice, and he loved life more than any man I ever knew. And, god knows, it loved him back.

  Epigraph

  At least when you’re dead,

  people stop trying to kill you.

  —V. Putin

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: Antebellum Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Part Two: Bellum Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ted Bell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Antebellum

  Preface

  Switzerland is one weird country. In an odd assortment of ways. But most especially when it comes to their military. Most people, including their neighbors to the south, the Italians, would be surprised to learn that Switzerland even has an army. One Italian banker, bragging about the size of the Italian army, was told by his Zurich barber that “Switzerland doesn’t have an army, signore, Switzerland is an army!”

  “No! It cannot be true! We never see them! How big they are, this army?”

  And the Swiss gent says, “One million men under arms, Signore Buttafusco!” The Italian, in shock, came up out of his chair so fast his barber nearly took his right ear off with the straight razor.

  “A million?” he exclaimed. “Non è posibile! It cannot be!”

  But it’s true. At any given moment, there are in excess of one million men under arms in the country. Switzerland has been steadfastly neutral for centuries. But truth be told, it has one of the largest armies in the world on a per capita basis. All Swiss militia soldiers take their rifles home and keep them loaded under the bed for the rest of their lives!

  One could say, quite rationally, that Switzerland has a national paranoia about defense. Where does this come from? Historically, it stems from the fact that Switzerland is at the very heart of Europe. The crossroads of all the important routes through the Alps—directly in the crosshairs of any invading emperor, Nazi despot, or, just possibly, a deposed Russian president desperate for Swiss gold.

  The Swiss Theory of War: “Know all about how to fight a war . . . so that you never have to, you know, fight one.”

  Little-known facts: In case of nuclear war, they’ve got it covered. The Swiss have underground bunkers capable of fitting a hundred percent of their population inside. Think of it! A national building code requires every single home to either have an underground bunker or pay into a fund to maintain community bunkers—so every Swiss citizen has quick access to a shelter.

  Only the Swiss could be paranoid enough to even think of doing that! Let’s begin with the Swiss air force. These flyboys are out there. Above and beyond. Check this out. First of all, there are no air force bases inside the country. Nada, zero, not one! So where do they hide all the planes? Inside mountains, of course, all over the country. And what about the runways, so fighter jets and bombers can take off and land? Well, for that they use the international highways system, of course. Hmm, why didn’t we think of that?

  That wide four-lane highway down there, snaking along through the Alps beside that sparkling river? That ramrod-straight country lane through heavy forest? Late at night and into the wee hours of the morning, all these roads and highways actually convert to Swiss air force runways! And it happens in no time. Military Police halt all traffic in both directions and then quickly remove the grade separations between the lanes.

  And the Swiss air force has office hours—you heard that right, office hours. So despite all the “heavy iron” they’ve got lying around within the mountains, squadrons of F/A-18s, F-5E Tigers—should you ever decide to invade the country during the nighttime, you’ll find all the Swiss air force pilots are tucked in bed! Zzzzz. And get this: due to the noise levels, which could harm the all-important Alpine tourist regions, Swiss pilots have to go abroad to fly supersonic training missions.

  During the Cold War, the Swiss built a giant militia-based national defense system that rivals that of any country in the world. If any country sh
ould be foolish enough to invade Switzerland, they would find an entire nation armed to the teeth and ready to fight to the death . . .

  Always keep your guard up in this picture-postcard-perfect land! That charming little chocolate-box mountain chalet you are hiking toward? On closer inspection, you’ll probably notice it has machine-gun slits beneath every window. That lovely old hotel across the river? The one with red geraniums filling every window box? The press of a button and the entire front wall retracts to reveal a Howitzer cannon and a nest of machine guns.

  The Swiss army maintains vast defense networks of huge fortified cannon placements—mainly howitzer cannons, some of them well positioned enough to attack an approaching enemy well beyond Swiss borders. These cannon placements are extremely well hidden, completely enclosed within fake rock formations, and you can imagine it would be a nasty surprise for an invader to find himself within firing range of one of those cannons.

  The Swiss army builds countless fake rocks to hide things besides cannons inside. Rocks conceal machine gun nests and light artillery. Also, thousands of Swiss tunnels and bridges, highways and railroads are built with tank traps and wired with demolition charges. Bridges are blown instantly at the approach of hostile forces. And, well, you get the idea . . . attack Switzerland and all you will get is your hat handed to you!

  Late at night, when all those secret highways are closed down so the fighter jets and bombers can land and take off, you can hear the roar, the thunderous rumble down through the sleepy Alpine valleys . . .

  Welcome to sunny Switzerland!

  Hope you enjoy the show.

  Prologue

  In the skies over France

  Vladimir Putin closed his eyes, smiled, and zipped up his trousers.

  “Spasibo, Kat,” he whispered, thanking Ekaterina for her services. He had distrusted the woman at first. Far too familiar right from the beginning. But over time she had worked her magic on him. To the point that by now he felt he could not live without her. “What would I do without you?” he would find himself whispering into the perfect shell of her ear in the heat of passion. And in fact he meant it.

  The former Miss Ukraine looked up at him from beneath long black lashes and smiled. “No, thank you, Excellency,” she said, playfully snatching the white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit. With a coy little smile, she delicately patted at her full red lips.

  Her confidence was not ill-founded. She’d long ago realized that not only did she have the president of Russia hooked, she had him in the boat. She had him fileted. She had him on ice.

  She had him sautéed.

  The president of Russia reclined his seat, put his head back, and closed his eyes. A few moments later, feeling suddenly tired, he motioned for Ekaterina to get to her feet and return to the galley.

  “Cup of tea, please, my dear,” he whispered, cracking one eye, “the Lapsang Souchong.”

  “My pleasure, Excellency,” she said with a small bow before heading aft to brew his tea.

  “Sorry, Kat?”

  She paused, turned, and said, “Yes?”

  “I suddenly feel so tired,” the president of Russia said. It was true. Lack of energy was never his problem. Could he possibly be getting sick? No. Not now. Not possible.

  “No, Volodya, I think you just feel a little bit more relaxed, yes?”

  He laughed at her little giggle and the way she wiggled her hips and broad fanny while walking away. What was it about pleated skirts? Was it a Russian thing? Probably not . . . he and the American president, Donald Trump, had once addressed the pleated skirt issue at Davos. Trump had said he fully shared Putin’s views on the subject of pleats when it came to skirts.

  In fact, the two men privately shared a great number of views. They didn’t need any plastic reset button. They instinctively saw each other as equals. Both strong and proud men, two willful leaders who put their own countries first. And, rightly so. Putin knew he would never like many of the American president’s actions, but he would understand the man’s motivation. And vice-versa.

  He willed himself to do as she said and relax.

  It was difficult. The explosive sounds of screeching brakes, high speed collisions, and cacophony of heavy gunfire was still ringing in his ears. Less than an hour ago, en route to a hastily arranged secret rendezvous with Andrei, his pilot, his convoy had been ambushed by successive carfuls of paid assassins, firing heavy machine guns. And not once, mind you, but twice on the deserted country road to his private airfield just north of Moscow.

  His tank-like state limousine, a cocoon of lead and steel, had roared through the field of fire each time, the limo’s structural integrity intact despite the hail of bullets. He’d been well-defended by the men in his convoy, of course, but still, it had been a very close thing.

  The oligarchs had made it clear he had a target on his back and time was running out. That’s why he was getting the hell out of town. But, with any luck at all, he’d be back in the ring shortly.

  His once unthinkable decision to vacate the Kremlin had been a long time coming. But, after repeated assassination attempts by his enemies both within and without the Kremlin walls (read the traitorous oligarchs) he’d finally opted for this midnight getaway. He planned to disappear, soon after planting rumors of a terminal cancer diagnosis. Fake his death. The good thing about being dead, he’d told Kat one night on his yacht, Tsar, was that no one was trying to kill you.

  And all this crap, courtesy of the fucking oligarchy! The very men he’d made rich beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, men who had tens of billions upon tens of billions in gold. Gold, he knew from his private sources in international banking, that was now hidden away deep inside vast caverns in the Swiss Alps. And these bastards who’d turned on him in these last few years? They’d been methodically stealing the few gold reserves that he, Putin himself, still had left!

  This had been an extraordinarily rough year, even by his standards. The oligarchy, it finally became apparent to everyone in the Politburo, in the Federation government, was now wealthy enough and thus powerful enough to seize the reins of the Kremlin. Then, through powerful paid stooges loyal only to them, they could rule Russia in a way that suited only their interests. That’s the future he was abdicating. A kleptocracy. He was leaving his people in the hands of a government of thieves!

  Plots conceived and executed by bands of roving criminal thugs, men now working for his betrayers. He’d endured poisonings, threats of a coup d’état, many assassination attempts (one that left him severely wounded), and hellish riots outside the Kremlin walls. Food riots that seemingly went on for weeks, the ruble dropping to historic lows, oil prices in the toilet, U.S. sanctions over the annexation of Crimea and his recent actions in Syria. And very little money for food in the stores. Hell, very little even for vodka, for Christ’s sake! And that really was an economic crisis. “Little water,” as the alcoholic staple was called in Russia, was no luxury. It was simply indispensable in Russian society.

  Even his state media was openly daring to question his fitness to be president, saying perhaps if Putin was gone, Russian citizens would fare better under the oligarchy leaders in the Kremlin . . . Christ.

  Well, it would be good to get away. Disappear off the face of the earth. Possibly fake his own death if the opportunity presented itself. As he’d joked on the phone with Andrei that day, “At least when you’re dead, people stop trying to kill you!”

  He’d have time to do some serious thinking about his political future. And whether or not he had one. It was debatable, whichever way he chose to look at it. Now that his beloved motherland was almost flat broke, his once loyal base was turning on him in droves. Sooner or later, unless he was able to come up with a massive injection of capital into the system, Russia would go the way of Venezuela. Like the chaos now, at the hands of that idiot bus driver, Maduro.

  He glanced at his new Patek Philippe watch. Nearly noon. They’d be touching down at Aéroport de Nice in one ho
ur. Then a quick hop in his chopper over to Cap d’Antibes where his beloved yacht Tsar was moored. His wife was with her mother in Vladivostock for a month. So a brief respite of bliss lay ahead.

  He and Ekaterina would have the world, his safe, private world, all to themselves without interruption. Tonight, at dinner aboard the yacht, he would give her the emerald and diamond necklace, the one he’d pocketed during a midnight visit to the Hermitage Museum last week. The necklace Catherine the Great had worn to the palace the night she . . .

  He must have dozed off!

  He opened his eyes and looked around. Everything was fuzzy. It was like waking up in the morning in a room you don’t recognize.

  He was barely able to lift his arm—what the hell? Heart attack? He called out for Ekaterina. No response. When he swiveled his seat to see where she was, he saw both she and Irina slumped forward in their seats. And the oxygen masks dangling over their heads! Were they incapacitated? Or dead? He looked up in horror at his own mask. Did he even have the strength to get the damn thing on?

  He reached up and yanked at the mask.

  Yes. Okay. Calm yourself, Volodya, breathe! Breathe!

  A wave of panic swept over him when he finally got the mask in place.

  There was no fucking oxygen flowing to suck down into his lungs. No. Of course not. It was just one more betrayal! Andrei, his trusted friend and pilot, had initiated a gradual depressurization of the cabin and was now withholding the oxygen supply. Enraged, he calmed himself and gathered his wits about him. He would need them, those pilots.

  He was dying of hypoxia.

  The president always traveled with his “end of days” backpack. That, and an emergency parachute. The large black backpack was filled with cash, jewels, weapons and drugs, survival clothing and a little dried food, Imperial vodka, a few books, and everything else. He keyed in the code for the lock, trying to shake off the dizziness that threatened to disable him. Clouds were forming at the perimeters of his vision and he knew he was rapidly running out of time.

  He grabbed his old KGB Makarov 9mm because it was loaded and its weight was reassuring in his hand. He staggered to his feet. For once in his life he wished his Ilyushin II presidential aircraft wasn’t so fucking huge. From his private resting area amidships, the cockpit looked a million miles away.