Red Winter - White Snow

By Randell Cleveland Bell Jr. and Michael J. Pisani

Red Winter White Snow is a fictional account of an attempt to destroy the United States by hard-line KGB officials in the Russia who have not accepted the outcome of events that led to the dissolving of the USSR following the war in Afghanistan and the end of the cold war. Glasnost and Peristroika were unacceptable to them, and one in particular was driven to this plan when he suffered losses in his family caused by the illegal drug trade that began flourishing during the Afghan war.

When Yuri Chezenckos son was killed in Afghanistan while he was investigating the drug problem, and his relationship to Yuri, the deputy director of the KGB was discovered, a cover-up was initiated which resulted in the

reassignment of Alexi Yanoff, the KGB Lieutenant Colonel who had been in charge of the investigation and later we learn, involved the drug trade as well. Yanoff was sent to Cuba in a lower position, which he resented.

Adding to the plot is Rubio LaRosa, a wealthy South American banker who hungers for something more than money, the accumulation of power, and sees bringing the KGB and Cartels together as his ticket to becoming as powerful as the Cartels.

The central character of the story is John McClure, a Navy SEAL, who loses the members of his team while he is away on a lone assignment to bring Yanoff out of Cuba after he has offered to trade information for asylum. McClures team is killed during one of the joint KGB/Cartel operations designed to defeat the rather strong and effective blockade being carried out by the United States which has been very effective in reducing the flow of drugs which had been creating conditions that were intolerable. The American President authorized the blockade, which employed U.S. military forces and equipment in large quantities.

When the KGB/Cartel combination begins defeating the blockade, the CIA and the President use McClures efforts to find out what happened to his team to help solve the problem of why the blockade has begun to fail. Deep cover KGB agents, one working in the CIA itself, become involved and the CIA agent begins an adversarial relationship with McClure. Karl Gavrilov, or Carl Garvey as the CIA knows him, lets his ego drive him to confront McClure face to face to prove he can better him.

As the events begin to cascade, Garvey loses his nerve and asks for asylum himself, and in a fateful twist, McClure is sent to retrieve him. In the end, McClure has learned that it was Garvey that facilitated the events that killed his team, and exacts his revenge. The KGB/Cartel link is broken but there is a lingering suggestion that the drug problem in the United States will not end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 28, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462812523

Randell Cleveland Bell Jr.

Michael Pisani was born in Syracuse, New York, served in the United States Marine Corps 1961-1981. He Currently employed as the Management Analysis Officer, Marine Corps Air Station, New River, Jacksonville, North Carolina where he lives with his wife Nan. He has one daughter, Mara residing in Glens Falls, New York. Randell Bell resides near Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, home of the world’s largest Marine amphibious base. Mr. Bell has a unique insight into the world of Special Warfare Units, Special Operations and Covert Actions. He has worked with Special Forces units, and the U.S. Navy’s SEAL teams.

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Copyright © 2000 by Randell Cleveland Bell, Jr. and Michael J. Pisani

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Corrine, whose untimely departure from my life plunged me into the dark world of Special Warfare, Special Ops and Covert Actions. Also to the Navy Special Warfare, East and West Coast SEAL’s, and to Nan, Greta, Lois, Carl and Nancy.

CHAPTER ONE

The only difference between the four-story brownstone and the others on its block was a line of expensive cars parked on both sides of the doorway. If you looked closely, there were men standing at strategic points at the entrance, on the roof, and in the alley behind. In addition, the rear doors and windows were all barred against entry. One other fact, not noticeable, was that in the building across the street, two narcotics agents were busy noting the arrival and entrance of everyone and recording the information.

This was a meeting of the local drug lord and his lieutenants, some fourteen in all, usually reserved for policy decisions and new instructions, problem solving and progress reports. The principal himself had not arrived yet, as it was his custom to be the last, a sort of badge of authority, unspoken, yet understood by all present.

At nearly midnight, his chauffeured limo pulled up and stopped in front of the house. Two well-dressed and imposing men stepped out and peered up and down the street. Satisfied, they nodded and the man himself exited the limo and walked up the steps into the building. His two companions trailed behind him and the limo moved slowly down the street and out of sight. It was about to begin.

Some two hours later, while the meeting was in full progress on the second floor, there was a pair of muffled thumps in the alley behind the building and the two men standing watch there crumpled to the pavement, each with a 9MM slug having neatly entered his head just in front of his ear.

Seconds later, a similar fate befell the two men on top of the building and they too slid to the gravel roof with only the slightest of disturbance. Then, a slightly louder thump and a five-pointed locking blade buried itself in the wall of the wooden air conditioning enclosure atop the roof. Attached to this blade, a monofilament line looped through a ring in the shaft pulled a half inch nylon line through the ring and passed around a water drainage pipe disappearing into the dark of the alley.

Presently, the nylon was pulled tight and began to jump and sway as a man, clad totally in black pulled himself across the alley. Once on the brownstone roof, he made sure the line was secure and within five minutes, nine other men joined him all dressed alike and carrying jet black equipment bags not unlike those used for gymnasium equipment.

One of the men crouched low and slipped around to the entrance door of the enclosure and gingerly cracked it open. Seeing no light, he whispered Go! and the ten disappeared into the building. Things began to happen at unbelievable speed.

The meeting was held in a large room on the second floor. On the floor above and below, security was posted at each of two stairways leading to the other floors in the form of two armed guards at the top and bottom of each. The ten men worked from the top down, silently eliminating each pair in a concerted rush and two well placed silenced shots from Beretta automatic pistols.

When they reached the second floor, they posted two at each stairway entrance and the remaining six moved to the door leading to the meeting room. Uzi automatics with silencers attached replaced the automatic pistols. The team leader slowly turned the handle and the latch clicked open.

The men in the room barely had time to notice the six sweep through the door before a hail of 9MM slugs chopped them into bloody bundles of tattered rags. Great care was taken to keep the fire low and deadly so as not to break any windows which were closed and shaded from the outside.

The six turned and made their way back to the roof and in five minutes were safely back on the other side of the alley. The nylon line slid through the locking blade ring and disappeared as an eerie silence settled over the building. On the first floor, the four men posted at the bottom of the stairwells continued their mindless boring vigil, as did the men outside the entrance and those at each end of the street. One of the two at the outside entrance looked at his companion and said, Damn fools are gonna be for Goddamned ever in there tonight.

At about five A.M., the limo returned and stopped at the front of the building. The driver waited for fifteen minutes or so before asking one of the men at the entrance to go in and check on his passenger, to see if he wanted him to wait. The two narcotics agents were astonished to see the guard run back into the street screaming at the top of his lungs.

In ten minutes, uniformed policemen and numerous plain- clothes officers surrounded the building. A red faced Lieutenant had the surveillance team in his car and was angrily pointing and shouting at the same time. Two of you. Not one, two; sitting right here watching the whole Goddamn place all Goddamn night and you don’t even Goddamn notice when sixteen people get greased right in front of your Goddamn faces. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, what the Hell were you two doing .sleepin’? … That’s what the Hell you were … , asleep!

No Sir Lieutenant … we were not sleepin’. Didn’t so much as close an eye. We just didn’t hear or see anything at all! As the trio in the car argued back and forth, an older man came out of the building and approached the car.

Excuse me, Lieutenant, we found this up there along with a bunch of 9MM empties, must be over two hundred of ‘em, all with the same headstamp, military. The man held out a oval metal ring about three inches across with a one-way latch on one side. Prominently stamped in the metal which was olive drab in color were the initials U.S. The Lieutenant took the ring and turned it over and over in his hand. What the hell have we got here? Something the Philadelphia Police Department will have one Hell of a time explaining. Then again, who gives a damn?

The next day, at nearly three EM. in a seedier neighborhood in Newark, another limousine prowled along the streets. This time it was occupied by two Latinos and their driver. They too, were prominent in the illegal drug world, but unlike their Philadelphia counterparts, were still unused to the sudden wealth thrust upon them, and reveled in it and all it’s gaudy and beguiling aspects. The Barrio instinct was still strong and the limo was really a tank in disguise, armor-plated and sporting lexan windows guaranteed to stop a .44 Magnum or a .30 Caliber rifle bullet at point blank range.

Secure in their rolling fortress, the two dealers made their way along in their territory, completely oblivious to the world around them. They shared a bottle of champagne, an affectation that neither really enjoyed but rather indulged in because it was what the reech Gringos do man.

As the limo neared an intersection, a white, 1984 Ford van passed them and pulled ahead about fifty yards. The van slowed and matched the limo’s speed. The rear doors of the van opened and a long heavy barrel edged about a foot out of the rear doors, just enough to let the muzzle blast clear. A flash and a deafening report roared above the street noise and the lexan windshield exploded as a four inch hole appeared just to the right of the driver, whose face and upper body were shredded by shards of the fragmenting material. Two more flashes and reports, followed instantly by two small explosions in the rear of the limo as the rear window shattered into hundreds of splinters and sprayed across the trunk lid along with bits and pieces of flesh, cloth and a mist of blood and bone fragments.

There was a final flash and report and the barrel disappeared as the doors of the van slammed shut as it sped off and the limo slewed to the right and jumped the curb, finally stopping after crashing into a light pole.

When the police arrived on the scene, they opened the rear doors of the limo and were greeted by the obscene vision of two torsos still strapped by their seat belts in what looked like a slaughterhouse. From the midsection up, each body looked as if a grenade had exploded while the man was looking at it in front of him. The interior of the limo was soaked with the blood and bits of flesh and bone of its occupants, which also trailed out the rear window. Portions of the remains were charred and burned and the sickening odor of explosives and blood mingled.

Approximately one hundred yards directly behind the grisly scene, an uniformed officer stared at a wooden utility pole. It had been hit by a projectile that had passed through the limousine without striking anything prior to impacting the pole which was now held together by an inch or so of wood on either side of a six- inch hole blown through the seasoned, treated wood.

Goddam if that don’t look just like the holes them fifty caliber explosives made in them trees in the ‘Nam.

That night, about two miles off the coast of North Carolina, a vintage thirty-foot Chris Craft idled through three foot swells as the four men aboard searched the waters for floating packages. In the bottom of the boat were twenty or so of the brown wrapped blocks of cocaine and they were expecting to pull in about twenty more which had been dropped off earlier by a larger boat.

Packed in styrofoam and wrapped in brown waterproof paper, each block had a strip of reflective tape wrapped around it to reflect the beam of the flashlights being used by the men in the boat. From the beach, the lights were hidden by the swells, but from the air they were visible for miles. Most would have thought that the boat was full of fisherman.

You sure you got the right Loran readings Jimmy? one of the men called out.

Yeah, yeah, we’re right where we’re s’posed to be. Trouble is the damn dark. They don’t want us doin’ this in moonlight so we gotta play hide and seek with this stuff. He grunted and reached out with the boathook and snagged another package and flopped it into the boat.

Nineteen more to go boys, look sharp.

Over the stuttering and bubbling of the exhaust as the Chris Craft crept through the warm Atlantic water, a louder, more regular sound grew. One of the men in the stern of the boat looked back and saw a line of white foaming water moving toward them and heard the high pitched whine he didn’t immediately identify. He was about to shout a warning when the white water rushed up and past the stern of the boat.

Immediately, a 120 mile an hour wind, blowing straight down, hit the cruiser. Packages, cushions, papers; everything not physically fastened to the hull of the boat was swept up and hurled overboard, including the four men. The maelstrom swirled around the boat and churned the water in a hundred-foot circle into a foaming whirlpool.

One of the men was not a swimmer and was already drowning, the three others struggled in vain to get clear of the tornado of wind which kept pushing them under the surface, splashing and flailing their arms while they kicked and pumped with their legs. Fatigue was quickly setting in and they realized that it was get clear or die. As they continued to struggle and tire, they could not imagine what Hell was on them or why it was there.

Above the floundering men, the pilot of the CH-53E Super Stallion watched his instruments as his crew chief, wearing Night Vision Goggles gave corrections to position the huge helicopter directly over the doomed boat and its foundering crew.

Right ten… . steady … back five … steady… . hold it right there Skipper, I’m dropping the bricks now.

The bricks were 55-gallon drums filled with concrete, lying on their sides on the open ramp of the chopper. The pilot gently pulled the cyclic stick back half an inch and the nose of the aircraft lifted slightly. The Crew Chief pulled a lanyard and the straps holding the bricks snapped free and they rolled off the end of the ramp.

Four bricks smashed the thirty-foot boat into kindling and what was left slowly sank beneath the swirling foam in which the remaining crewman was slowly slipping under the surface. His last sight was that of the navigation lights of the chopper blinking on as it swung back toward the coast, his mind registering faintly through the searing pain in his lungs as he lost consciousness and joined his comrades beneath the now gently rolling Atlantic.

In San Diego two days later, at precisely 3:30 E M., two well- dressed men carrying attaché cases entered a financial investment brokerage which was said to be a laundering organization for a large part of the local drug trafficking operations profits. As was the custom, the two men gave the security guard at the main entrance the code for that day, and were permitted to pass through the gates into the room beyond.

This routine was a weekly event, always different men, neatly dressed, always the correct code, and always with two cases with large sums of money that was invested in a room behind the main business area of the firm. The two men would pass through a anteroom and into an office where three other men would produce keys to match the ones carried by the couriers. The special locks would be opened and the cash counted and verified. Today however, the locks were opened, the two couriers reached into the cases and instead of money, brought out .45 automatics with brush silencers and loaded with subsonic ammunition. A look of confusion passed over the faces of the three men seated behind the table an instant before the 240 grain slugs slammed into their heads. The two couriers placed the pistols in the small of their backs under their jackets and exited the room as usual. It was after 5:00 P.M. before the three bodies were found and three blocks away, in an alley behind a liquor store, the two real couriers came to, wondering what had happened and what all the sirens were about.

CHAPTER TWO

It had been a very long time in coming, but the people of the United States had finally had enough. The inexorable increase of the drug problem had brought it to epic proportions. No person was safe, no neighborhood immune. Policemen, politicians, teachers, all walks and classes were discovered users.

In some areas, law enforcement as worse than powerless, it was an accomplice to the burgeoning traffic and heavy profits. Blind eyes were becoming the rule instead of the exception. The victims were getting younger and younger, the traders richer and richer, and the violence sparked by rival factions was tearing at the very fabric of society.

So it was that the Nation united and the President, with his Congress, enacted a series of sweeping resolutions to combat what had generally come to be perceived by many as the beginning of the end. The civilian agencies were thoroughly screened and purged of as many involved individuals as possible, new and tougher penalties were imposed and levied on offenders. A ‘no leniency’ policy was nationalized and enforced, and new facilities were built to house the resulting horde of dealers, pushers and unsalvageable users. Public programs to aid those addicted and who wanted help were instituted, funded by many of the dollars formerly used as Foreign Aid.

To add to this growing tide of resistance, the military was given the assignment of closing the borders on the United States to as much drug traffic as possible. The Army and National Guard were assigned to patrol the U.S. and Mexican border as well as the Canadian boundary to strangle the flow of illegal substances. The Navy and Coast Guard stepped up their activities to a wartime blockade level in all coastal waters, Atlantic, Pacific and Gulf all saw U.S. warships on a regular and purposeful basis. All sea-borne traffic was subject to stoppage and search. Any vessel found carrying drugs was impounded, the crew removed and interned. Protests from other nations fell on sympathetic but unyielding ears.

Special transponders were designed, manufactured and installed in all civil and private aircraft operating in U.S. airspace and Air Force AWACS monitored anything and everything that flew. Not having one of these transponders meant a sure and swift visit from any one of a number of aircraft. Perhaps an OV-10 from an East Coast Marine Corps Air Station, an F-15 from a Gulf Coast Air Station, even a Navy A-6 Intruder from a carrier in the Pacific. Unidentified aircraft were closed upon and investigated. Normally, they would be ordered to the nearest airfield where they would be asked to land and be inspected. Those not responding to this request were followed, and they eventually arrived at their destination, were met by a very unsympathetic group of military or law enforcement officials and subsequently searched.

More often than not, the aircraft would obey the investigating aircraft and many were found to be carrying illegal substances. There were the rare few with malfunctioning transponders, which usually resulted in tirades of anger from businessmen or pleasure seekers, but by and large, quantities of drugs were interdicted.

U. S. Marine Corps units patrolled much of the eastern and western coasts of the country to render the myriad of inlets and estuaries useless to the