Dusk Before Dawn

By Kyle W. Bell

A Russian invasion of Ukraine upends a US presidential election. Agent Ethan Clark and the CIA investigate a possible coup in Moscow. Monied interests at home pour billions to secure firm control of Washington, threatening American democracy itself.

The sequel to 2012's spy novel "Operation Bald Eagle" promises to thrill readers while posing troubling questions about the fate of self-government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kyle W. Bell
• Release date: Nov 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301623624

Kyle W. Bell

Kyle W. Bell is a Master of Public Affairs graduate student at Indiana University South Bend. He resides in South Bend, Indiana, where he was born and raised. He was the recipient of the Indiana Black Expo's Martin Luther King Jr. Award in 2002. The following year he was awarded the Presidential Award for excellence in education. His research on sports development appeared in Indiana University South Bend's peer-reviewed Undergraduate Research Journal and a piece on gender stereotypes in the university's New Views on Gender publication. His writing interests have more recently taken him into the world of fiction. The 2011 short story "Ozzy" was inspired by real-life events surrounding the life and death of his grandparents. "Operation Bald Eagle" (2012) was his first spy novella, taking readers inside the role of a CIA operative as he embarked on a mission to prevent a Chinese cyber-attack on the United States. Its sequel, "Dusk Before Dawn" (2013), sees a Russian invasion of Ukraine in a plot that weaves international intrigue with the ugly underbelly of American presidential politics. Kyle is an avid reader, enjoys exercise, follows sports, and relishes a good meal whether it is prepared at a family-owned restaurant or in his own kitchen. He is the owner of Game Freaks 365, a video game website founded in 2003 with news and reviews. His personal blog, http://kylebell.com, focuses on both politics and his books. It is meant to generate ideas and debate on policy in a constructive manner.

Book preview

Dusk Before Dawn

Written by Kyle W. Bell

Smashwords Edition - March 2013

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Cover Design by Angel Cortes ([e-mail])

Cover Photo by Dr. Neil R. Liddle (http://flickr.com/photos/neilspicys)

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Sequel to Operation Bald Eagle

http://smashwords.com/books/view/102184

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Copyright © Kyle Bell 2013

License Notes:

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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Legal Disclaimer:

All characters and organizations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real organizations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

It was a sunny day in the outskirts of Washington D.C. with temperatures in the mid-80s. The annual CIA-FBI softball game was underway. The rivalry stretched back many decades with The Bureau currently enjoying a ten year winning streak against their colleagues from Langley. The head of each agency acted as manager and the most athletically-inclined agents played on the field. It was a good way for both sides to let off some steam and enjoy the end of summer.

The score so far was two to zero in favor of the FBI. The Bureau’s pitcher threw a wicked curveball. He struck out the side in the bottom of the eighth, adding to his total of seven K’s for the game so far. The guy was a college pitcher from Cal State Fullerton when they won a College World Series in 2004.

Ethan Clark played baseball in his college days as well but that was a long time ago - much longer than most of the people on the field could remember beyond early childhood memories of birthdays and Christmas mornings. He was hardly a star athlete - just sufficient enough to make the Ohio State team. It was his dad that got him into the sport. The old man made it a point to see every game, including ones on the road in distant towns across the United States. Baseball was the main way the two men bonded.

That’s not to say that Ethan disliked the game. He loved it, actually, but his competitive side had waned over the years. The us versus them tribalism that infected the country in everything from sports to politics was unappealing to a man that cared more about viewing life from the perspective of others. He was empathetic to his own detriment at times.

Agent Martin Frost, Ethan's rookie partner who had recently recovered from gunshot wounds inflicted during their last mission, had gone into relief for The Agency. He took a few warm-up pitches before the umpire called the batter to the plate. The umpire, whose affiliation rotated each year between the two agencies, lifted his dress pants at the legs and bent down ready to make a call. He signaled with a pointed finger to the mound that it was time to resume play.

A wiry man stood at the plate with a weird batting posture. Ethan eyed the hitter eagerly from third base where he stood in on the grass several feet to the right of the foul line. He anticipated a ball down the line as it had happened twice already from the same hitter earlier in the game.

Frost wound up for a fastball, delivering the pitch with mediocre speed. The batter repositioned himself for a bunt. The ball clanked on the metal bat, falling to the grass several feet away along the third base line. Ethan ran in for the ball, his cleats digging into the grass, scooped it up with his left hand and threw it to first base for the out.

Not bad speed for an old man, the Director said from the dugout to one of the players on the bench.

The ball made its way back into Frost’s glove via a short toss from the first baseman. He breathed a little easier knowing that one man was down. The next batter, a short and scrawny pencil neck, didn’t even hold the bat correctly - his knuckles were several inches apart. The man clearly belonged behind a desk.

Frost threw a fastball that hit the dirt in front of the catcher, yet the inexperienced batter swung anyway. It was an assured out. Two more pitches and the guy was back on the bench wishing that his co-workers had not pulled his ass out of the office. The catcher threw the ball around the bases and it made its way back into Frost's mitt. Two down.

The pitcher palmed the white cowhide with its red stitching and prepared for the next batter. A pudgy man wearing a New York Yankees uniform settled into the batter’s box. The man stretched his bat with his bulky arms and aimed for the fences as if he were the legendary slugger Babe Ruth.

It didn't intimidate Frost one bit. He did the usual pitching rituals during his delivery and sent a fifty mile per hour changeup over the center of the plate. The over-sized batter swung early with the ball landing squarely in the catcher’s mitt. The batter had anticipated a fastball out of the gate. Repeating the same motions, the next pitch that Frost delivered missed wildly, sailing over the catcher’s head. The count was now one and one.

The batter dug his cleats into the dirt, ready to go to battle with the pitcher. The bulky man squinted his eyes at the mound while waiting for the next pitch. He spit out ground up bits and pieces of sunflower seeds that he had been chewing at the back of his mouth.

Frost finally felt the pressure build as sweat beaded down his forehead. Taking the ball from his glove, he twisted it around until finding a two-seam fastball. He wound up and delivered the pitch on the inside corner of the plate. The pudgy man took a half-committed swing. The umpire turned to his right, motioning with his index finger as if he were pointing to an imaginary person, letting out a loud stee-rike!

I have him now.

The count was one and two, a pitcher’s count. The batter stepped out of the box to slow down the pace of the showdown. Baseball was always a cat-and-mouse game between the pitcher and the batter. Sometimes the mouse would evade capture and get on base, but usually the cat won. It was a matter of statistics which tended to go against the man at the plate. It always amused Ethan that baseball was one of the few professions where you could succeed thirty percent of the time and be considered a super star.

The batter came back into the box, tapped the bat against the plate and got into his hitting stance. Frost stepped off the mound, walking a half circle around it. He was not about to allow the batter to dictate the pace of the game. After several seconds and an adjustment of his hat, Frost put both feet back on the white rubber slab where the pitcher had to deliver his pitch, stepped back with his left leg while moving his right foot parallel to the rubber. His left leg lifted up above his waistline and finally extended out towards home plate, all while swinging around his right arm in a smooth motion that generated a seventy-five mile per hour fastball down the center of the plate.

This time the pudgy man cracked the ball with a fierce swing, sending it flying astronomical heights. It was an in-field fly ball destined for the glove of the short stop. The force of gravity brought the ball back down seven seconds later into the second baseman’s glove. The good guys - as Team Langley liked to call themselves - left the field ready for their final at-bat.

Chapter 2

The guard stood patrol at the shoddily built border crossing station. It was nearly midnight. There were only three men on duty tonight: one of them working incoming travelers, another working outgoing drivers and the third, a supervisor of the other two men, taking a cigarette break inside of a tiny blue-colored shed that passed as an office in-between the two checkpoints.

The one-lane asphalt road that led into the crossing had about five cars and a number of semi-trucks waiting for their papers to get stamped by the border guards. Most of the passengers had their passports stamped without a search. On a busy day, there would be approximately two thousand people coming and going from Ukraine at this single location - a little over a car per minute. Tonight was particularly slow and uneventful.

A wire fence about four feet tall was all that ran along the length of the border. Anyone could easily hop over it if they wanted to badly enough. Vladimir, a man in his mid-40s with a wife and two children to feed, could care less about illegal border crossings, smuggling or anything else that he might encounter with his job. He just wanted a paycheck… and to stay alive.

A station being played on the small radio in the office took a break from music to give a news bulletin. The broadcaster talked about Ukraine’s defiant president, Igor Yarkevich, who promised a closer relationship with the West. Full integration with the European Union, including adoption of the Euro and NATO membership, were on the table. Unsurprisingly, the plan was strongly opposed by Russia, whose president threatened to cut off oil and gas exports to Europe if the integrations were put into effect.

The guard working the traffic coming in from Russia noticed that the cars had thinned to a trickle. The only car left, a black Lada Kalina four door sedan, stopped at the red and white striped gate blocking the traffic from continuing past the border crossing. The car was an affordable super-mini vehicle developed by AvtoVAZ. It was a Russian manufactured vehicle quite popular among the growing middle class in the region.

The driver rolled down his window and handed his papers over to the guard. The man was a college professor from Moscow, age forty-eight, six foot tall, one-hundred and seventy pounds. The guard noticed that he had sneakers on even though the man was wearing a suit.

Traveling alone? the guard asked in Russian.

The man had a grim look on his face as if he saw impending doom.

Yes, the professor responded quickly. The man scratched the top of his head nervously.

You seem in quite the hurry, the guard observed. What’s the rush?

No, no rush. Just been a long day, that’s all, the man responded impatiently.

The guard nodded, unconvinced by his response. Please pop the trunk.

Is that really necessary? the professor asked hesitantly.

Open the trunk, the guard ordered with a stern voice.

The professor complied the second time, pulling the trunk lever underneath his seat. The guard whistled his way towards the back of the vehicle and looked inside with a flashlight that he pulled out of his breast pocket. There was a suitcase in the small rear storage bin of the Lada, a rolling luggage bag, a spare tire and a pair of dress shoes. Nothing unusual.

The