Strike Drone (Chapter 1)

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

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Content

Chapter 1        Ready to Talk

Chapter 2        A Question for You

Chapter 3        Art of Silence

Chapter 4        Fly to Estonia

Chapter 5        Bad Luck

Chapter 6        Physical Evidence

Chapter 7        Yes and No

Chapter 8        Not Portland

Chapter 1 Ready to Talk

The crisp evening air was filled with an orchestra of sounds as people began to converge upon the Bremer Marktplatz on Friday night. The square had cast its spell, drawing a mosaic of souls to this central place where history whispered from cobblestone paths and ancient facades.

Above them all, lights danced like fireflies caught in a timeless waltz, casting their glow over an assembly of small wooden structures. Each one cradled within it the promise of warmth or delight—a patchwork quilt of commerce under starlit skies. The most popular havens were those serving food and beverages; stalls lined up with steaming cauldrons and frosted glasses that seemed to beckon each visitor into a communal feast.

From hidden speakers, melodies wafted through the air, a gentle undercurrent to the symphony of laughter and animated conversations. These tunes were familiar yet ethereal, their origins lost in translation amid the din of human joy. The crowd moved like a living river, slow and meandering, each person an individual note in this nocturnal composition.

Gentle snowflakes began their descent from above, each one a tiny architect of enchantment as it settled softly upon outstretched hands and upturned faces. They transformed the market into a realm suspended between worlds—a tableau vivant where time seemed to pause, allowing warmth to seep through the chill air, cocooning all in an embrace that defied winter’s bite.

Amidst this harmonious scene, the essence of unity was palpable. Here, strangers became neighbors and laughter served as the universal language. The night offered a balm to weary spirits, drawing them into pockets of peace and ephemeral happiness.

In the distance, St. Petri Dom loomed gracefully against the twilight sky. Its majestic silhouette stood sentinel over the festivities below, its spires reaching upward like fingers grasping at the stars. Cloaked in hues of dusk, it was more than just a silent observer; its very presence added a layer of solemn grandeur to the festive atmosphere.

From somewhere within or perhaps from one of its towering belfries, a bell tolled—resonant and clear. The sound rippled through the air like a gentle wave, cascading over the market’s myriad voices, weaving itself into the tapestry of laughter and conversation. It was neither an alarm nor a mournful dirge but rather a call to momentary reflection—a reminder that amidst the ephemeral joys, there lay deeper currents.

The air was rich with aromas: the sweet-spiced scent of mulled wine mingling with cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg; roasted chestnuts crackling their earthy promise to those who passed by; and freshly baked bread that seemed to infuse the atmosphere with a homely embrace. These scents were the invisible threads weaving everyone together in this momentary tapestry.

As the figure navigated the labyrinthine market, they paused momentarily at one stall. The scent of Glühwein was intoxicating—a heady brew of warmth and spice that promised solace against the encroaching cold. Yet their pause was not for indulgence; it was a strategic interlude, an opportunity to blend into the tapestry of sounds, sights, and smells—to become one with this scene that was anything but ordinary.

The bell’s song from St. Petri Dom became a subtle undercurrent to the scene—a harmonious blend with the music from hidden speakers and the chatter of visitors. In this moment, all seemed aligned—past and present, sacred and secular—creating an intricate dance of sounds that underscored the night’s enchantment.

For many around, the sound evoked memories or stirred emotions—some might have felt a nostalgic pull to traditions long held dear, while others found it an anchoring note in the whirl of festive revelry. It was as if St. Petri Dom itself were offering a benediction to the market’s vibrant chaos, blessing the gathering with its enduring presence.

Even as people continued their slow procession through the market, drawn by the allure of warmth and companionship, the sound of St. Petri Dom’s bell lingered in the air. It was a gentle reminder that while this evening might be ephemeral, the threads of history and tradition remained steadfast—woven into the very fabric of Bremer Marktplatz.

The evening at Bremer Marktplatz took a harrowing turn. The festive air was shattered by an ominous roar as a black SUV barreled into the heart of the crowd. Its unexpected intrusion disrupted the harmony, sending shockwaves through the gathered throng.

In a matter of seconds, chaos erupted. People scattered in all directions, their joyous expressions replaced by panic and fear. The impact was devastating—eight lives were lost instantly, leaving thirty-four more injured amidst the turmoil. Among those seriously wounded were twelve individuals who faced critical injuries.

The driver of the SUV quickly found himself detained by an immediate response team consisting of police officers and security personnel. Within moments, he was apprehended and taken away for questioning at the nearby police station. The crowd’s cries of distress echoed through the square as bystanders scrambled to assist those in need.

Amidst this tragic scene was Ted Chestwood, a U.S. Army Major on holiday with his wife in Bremen. He had been enjoying the festive market atmosphere when the SUV plowed into the gathering. Initially treated for non-life-threatening injuries at a local hospital, he seemed to be recovering well under medical care.

However, amid the ensuing chaos and confusion within the hospital, Chestwood mysteriously vanished from the patient ward. The frantic search efforts by both hospital staff and security personnel yielded no results. Unable to locate him, the hospital swiftly reported the incident to the Bremen police.

The situation escalated as the police, after conducting their own thorough investigation without any success, reached out to the U.S. Consulate in Bremen. The consulate’s concern deepened upon receiving this alarming news about Major Chestwood, a decorated officer and an essential figure within the U.S. military framework stationed in Germany.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, the U.S. Embassy in Berlin was immediately notified. The urgency of the matter triggered internal alarms at the highest levels, prompting immediate coordination with various authorities to locate Chestwood as swiftly as possible.

Chestwood’s role was significant—he was in charge of a crucial NATO’s air defense radar system in Germany. His expertise and oversight were vital for managing both U.S. and NATO air defense radar operations on German soil—a responsibility that made his sudden disappearance not just alarming but potentially perilous.

As the night progressed, the initial chaos slowly gave way to an intense investigation. Authorities on both sides of the Atlantic worked tirelessly, piecing together any clues they could find about Chestwood’s mysterious disappearance. Meanwhile, the black SUV driver remained under tight scrutiny at the police station, his motives and potential connections becoming a focal point in unraveling this disturbing event.

Under mounting pressure from the U.S. Department of Defense, Germany’s Ministry of Defense found itself navigating a complex diplomatic landscape. To ensure smooth coordination with domestic security measures and local law enforcement, they worked closely with the Federal Ministry of the Interior—the ministry responsible for internal affairs in Germany.

After intense discussions and diplomatic negotiations, the German authorities reluctantly agreed to transfer Dimitrije Kovačević, the SUV driver involved in the tragic market accident, to a U.S. military base under specific conditions.

On the early Saturday morning, four individuals arrived at the Bremen police station. Dressed in nondescript business suits that belied their true roles, they identified themselves as representatives of the U.S. Air Force personnel stationed at Ramstein. Their demeanor was calm and collected, exuding a professionalism that left little room for doubt about their purpose.

With efficient coordination from both the Federal Ministry of the Interior and local authorities, Dimitrije Kovačević was escorted into a white delivery van parked outside. The windows were tinted, obscuring any view inside, adding an extra layer of mystery to the proceedings. As the engine hummed to life and headlights cut through the pre-dawn mist, the van rolled away toward Bremen Airport—a journey shrouded in secrecy.

Before entering the van, Dimitrije was blindfolded, his vision obscured by a cloth that muffled sound as well, leaving him uncertain about what lay ahead. The darkness enveloping him heightened his anxiety, each second stretching into eternity as he anticipated the unknown consequences of this clandestine operation.

The plan had been straightforward: Dimitrije Kovačević would be flown directly from Bremen to Ramstein for further interrogation under U.S. jurisdiction. However, as they neared the airport’s perimeter, a low roar shattered the quiet morning air—an unmistakable sound that signaled an unexpected twist in their itinerary.

A helicopter hovered above the van, its rotors slicing through the cool, brisk air. It was a Sikorsky MH-60 Black Hawk, renowned for its versatility and robustness, capable of performing both military and civilian operations with equal aplomb. The aircraft’s matte black finish rendered it almost invisible against the overcast sky, a ghostly presence that commanded respect.

The van came to an abrupt stop in front of the airport’s helipad. Within moments, the doors swung open, revealing Kovačević who was swiftly escorted onto the helicopter by the U.S. personnel. The blindfold remained securely in place as he was guided into the aircraft. The hatch closed with a metallic thud, sealing him inside as the Black Hawk lifted off, disappearing into the morning light.

The destination was not Ramstein but rather an undisclosed location—far from prying eyes and public scrutiny. After covering several hundred kilometers over land and sea, the helicopter reached its final destination: a semi-submersible oil drilling platform anchored some distance off the North Sea coast.

This facility was anything but ordinary. A marvel of modern engineering, it rose above the water with towering legs and a helipad at the summit—a testament to human ingenuity in the face of nature’s vast expanse. The platform itself was divided into multiple levels; each section dedicated to different operations essential for extracting oil beneath the ocean floor.

Beneath the surface, massive drilling rigs extended deep into the seabed, while above, state-of-the-art technology managed both extraction and safety protocols. The atmosphere was tense, with personnel moving swiftly yet silently through designated corridors—each member of this clandestine operation aware of their roles in maintaining secrecy.

As Dimitrije Kovačević disembarked from the Black Hawk, he found himself standing on a platform that seemed worlds away from the chaotic events back in Bremen. This floating enigma was owned by a shell company, its true purpose obscured behind layers of corporate veils and government oversight. Operated directly under the purview of the U.S. Department of Defense, it served as one of many undisclosed sites facilitating covert operations across the globe.

The air was salty and carried with it the faintest hint of diesel—a reminder that this platform, while sophisticated, operated in an unforgiving environment where both man and machine faced daily challenges against the relentless sea. Here, Kovačević would soon uncover truths far beyond what he had ever imagined, truths that held implications not only for him but potentially for international security.

As he stepped into the shadowed interior of this hidden fortress, his fate—and that of many others—hung in delicate balance, suspended like the platform itself above an ocean teeming with secrets.

Urgency often brings with it unexpected conveniences. As Trinity Cole ended her call with her superior, there came a timely knock at her door and the soft hum of an engine outside—a car already parked beside her home. She had barely closed the phone when she stepped out into the brisk dusk air.

In the fast-paced world she operated in, time was always slipping through her fingers like fine sand. With no opportunity to gather more than essentials from her apartment, she gratefully accepted the promise of a supply package awaiting her at her destination—a small comfort amidst the whirlwind of activity.

Her orders were clear: Andrews Air Base awaited her arrival, where a private jet stood ready on the tarmac’s edge, its sleek form silhouetted against the setting sun. The mission dossier had been transmitted to her personal device as she navigated the corridors of power and bureaucracy—a beacon guiding her through the fog of uncertainty.

The task at hand was straightforward yet daunting: locate, rescue, and escort Major Ted Chestwood back to the Pentagon, by any means necessary. Her first move would be to interrogate Dimitrije Kovačević—the man whose SUV had plunged into chaos, seeking answers about his motives and potential connections. If manipulations were afoot behind the scenes, Trinity was determined to unravel them.

The intelligence on Dimitrije Kovačević was sparse: forty-six years old, Balkan roots, with only seven months of residence in Germany—strictly confined to Bremen—and no criminal record to speak of. To most, this would be an insurmountable hurdle; for Trinity Cole, it was merely another challenge waiting to be conquered.

Her expertise lay in resolving problems—the kind that lurked where others dared not tread, at any time, anywhere. It was a skill honed over countless missions and forged through trials by fire. There was always a brief interlude of calm before the storm—a time for respite, even if fleeting.

As the private jet cruised towards London, Trinity seized this momentary peace. The culinary offerings on board were modest but satisfying; she indulged in each bite with gratitude, relishing the luxury of being served. When her meal ended and the cabin lights dimmed, she surrendered to a restorative sleep—a rare gift in her line of work.

Her biological clock stirred her from slumber as the aircraft began its descent. The land below took shape slowly—blurred outlines that danced across her vision, reminiscent of Monet’s impressionist brushstrokes. As the plane touched down, Trinity was whisked away once more, this time into a helicopter waiting on the airstrip.

Inside the helicopter, she accepted a duffle bag filled with essentials—a lifeline in the unpredictable ocean of espionage. With supplies secured and equipment checked, they ascended into the open sky, where the vast expanse of the North Sea stretched out like an endless blue desert below. From up here, the sea was uniform—a tapestry of grey and green that offered no clues as to their destination.

As the journey unfolded, hours stretching before them, Trinity felt the familiar pull of fatigue. She made herself comfortable in her seat, eyes closing as she surrendered to sleep’s embrace, allowing the rhythmic hum of the helicopter engines to lull her into a brief respite. The energy she conserved now would be vital for what lay ahead.

When consciousness returned, it was with a sense of purpose renewed. The helicopter descended smoothly onto an isolated oil drilling platform—a stark testament to human ingenuity and secrecy that dotted the North Sea’s expanse. This place had become a focal point in her mission: Dimitrije Kovačević was held here, his presence as enigmatic as ever.

Trinity prepared herself for what would surely be a challenging encounter. The platform loomed above them like some otherworldly creature—a leviathan of steel and ambition—its helipad now their landing spot in this clandestine operation. As she disembarked from the helicopter, her determination was unwavering; Trinity Cole had always thrived in the face of adversity. Now, more than ever, it was time to get to work.

In the stark sterility of the converted container room, Trinity Cole faced Dimitrije Kovačević—a man whose calm exterior belied the gravity of his recent actions. At 165 cm and visibly gaunt, his tired but composed demeanor suggested a depth of resolve or resignation. Seated opposite him, Trinity regarded him silently; she was acutely aware that extracting information from someone like Kovačević wouldn’t come easily.

“Deutsch?” Trinity paused, her voice echoing slightly in the room. When there was no response—though she wasn’t expecting any—she continued, “English?”

Again, silence reigned, colder than the already chilled air of their surroundings.

Trinity rose from her chair and with a nod to the heavy metal door, initiated the next phase. Two agents dressed as oil workers entered promptly. With efficiency born of experience, they uncuffed Kovačević, stripped him down to his underwear, and re-cuffed him.

“Everything,” she ordered in her characteristic tone, devoid of emotion but firm in expectation. The agents executed her directive without hesitation.

Despite the stark conditions, Kovačević remained stoic—his head lowered, mouth firmly shut, a slight tremble betraying either the cold or his fear, though it was perhaps too early to distinguish between the two.

He was escorted from the room and left standing with his right foot secured to a steel safety rail along the corridor. The North Sea’s December chill enveloped him; while the waves didn’t lash out, the biting wind seemed intent on tearing him apart. Each gust felt like thousands of needles piercing through his bare skin into every bone.

The experience was fleeting—just five minutes—but it left Kovačević trembling uncontrollably when he was brought back inside. The brief exposure to the elements had been enough for any mortal to feel its full wrath.

“Ready to talk?” Trinity inquired, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Kovačević’s response came as an angry whisper that still managed to convey his defiance: “Fuck you!”

Trinity arched an eyebrow. “Is this your wish or your hobby?”

Without warning, she delivered a sharp kick to his right knee—a clear message meant more for effect than harm. Kovačević doubled over, muttering curses under his breath.

“Are you praying or something?” Trinity leaned closer, her voice low and inquisitive.

Silence followed, broken only by the sound of their breathing. Taking advantage of this momentary stillness, Trinity shifted tactics once more. “Do you want to take a bath in the North Sea? I can help facilitate that,” she suggested, feigning casualness but with a sharp edge beneath it. “There’s this thing people do in Finland—cold water immersion. Ever heard of it?”

Kovačević’s body continued its shivering dance, possibly an involuntary response to stay warm or simply to endure the moment.

Trinity paused, watching him closely. “I assume your silence is agreement. We’ll make arrangements for that North Sea bath. Let’s get going!”

“Stop! Please stop! You will kill me!” Kovačević’s words came out in a weak plea, barely audible against the howl of the wind outside.

“I can end you if you wish,” Trinity replied coolly. “But I prefer to do it my way. We can discuss technicalities later. But first, before anything happens, are you ready to talk?”

Kovačević nodded—his agreement unmistakable—even as his body continued its involuntary tremors.

Trinity Cole leaned forward slightly, her eyes intently focused on Dimitrije Kovačević. The man before her had been shaped by hardship and desperation, each thread of his past weaving a complex tapestry that Trinity needed to unravel.

Recognizing the linguistic barrier between them, Trinity switched back to English—a language easier for Kovačević than German. His journey had begun with false hope: not forty-six, but actually fifty-two years old at its start, lured from North Macedonia by human traffickers seeking vulnerable souls like his own.

His first stop in Germany was Passau, where a fellow countryman offered temporary shelter. Without financial resources or lasting connections, this refuge quickly faded away. Kovačević drifted through Munich, Nuremberg, Chemnitz, and Dresden—each city a transient chapter in his restless journey until he found himself stranded in Berlin.

Trapped between the proverbial hard rock and hard place, Kovačević had no means to escape the capital or return home. It was here, amidst Berlin’s vibrant chaos, that fate intervened through Paweł Kowalski—a man who claimed to have come from Poland, offering him a lifeline.

With nothing left to lose, Kovačević accepted Paweł’s assistance and journeyed with him to Bremen. There, seven months prior, Paweł had secured temporary residence for him—offering not just legal status but a semblance of peace in his tumultuous life.

About a week ago, the nature of their partnership took a dark turn. Paweł approached Kovačević with a chilling proposal: to cause chaos at the Christmas Market on Bremer Marktplatz. The plan was clear and terrifying: orchestrate a crash into pedestrians, then feign mental illness in the aftermath. With Paweł’s promised legal support, Kovačević would either end up hospitalized or—without intervention—face far graver consequences.

Cornered by desperation, Kovačević had no choice but to agree.

Trinity listened intently as Kovačević recounted this tale of coercion and manipulation. Each word he spoke painted a clearer picture—a man driven to the brink by circumstance, ensnared in a conspiracy beyond his control yet implicated nonetheless.

“Paweł Kowalski,” Trinity noted internally, aware that this name marked another key player in her investigation—one who had steered Kovačević into a path fraught with danger and deceit.

The interrogation continued, each question meticulously designed to peel back the layers of their connection. For every answer, Trinity gained insights into not only Kovačević’s motives but also the broader web that linked him to Major Ted Chestwood’s disappearance—a mission where uncovering hidden truths was paramount.

With a steady gaze, she leaned forward again. “You mentioned Berlin and then Bremen—tell me about your move there,” she pressed gently, knowing that understanding Kovačević’s journey was crucial in unraveling the conspiracy at hand.

As he hesitated before answering, Trinity knew her task was clear: to navigate this complex network of motives and alliances, seeking justice for those harmed while piecing together a puzzle where every player held significant weight.

Trinity watched as Kovačević recounted his chilling tale with a mixture of resignation and regret. His words were laden with both despair and clarity—an acknowledgment of manipulation that was impossible to overlook.

“Kowalski settled everything in Berlin and Bremen,” Kovačević repeated, the memory still fresh and painful. “I thought it was… a gift from God. But no, I was wrong. No lunch is free of charge.”

Trinity nodded slightly, her focus unbroken as she pursued each thread of his narrative. Her questions were simple, designed to strip away layers of confusion without overwhelming him.

“Why that day? Why that place?” she asked, seeking the rationale behind the sinister plan.

Kovačević’s eyes flickered with a hint of uncertainty before he responded. “Kowalski asked me to do so. The car was from him. I can drive, but I do not have a car or a driving license.”

“Why that time?”

“I had to arrive at four o’clock. He told me to park the car on the street and wait,” Kovačević explained, his voice growing somber as he delved into the memory.

“Wait for what?” Trinity pressed gently, sensing an underlying urgency in his tale.

Kovačević shifted uncomfortably, the weight of guilt evident. “He gave me a small thing, like a phone—a mobile device. I waited for the dot on the screen. When it flashed, I was to drive there—hard. Boom!”

Trinity leaned forward again, her instincts telling her this small device held critical importance. “Where is that device? The small thing?”

Kovačević paused before answering, a flicker of resolve crossing his features. “I threw it out of the car window,” he admitted quietly. “Kowalski told me to do so. Many people, many phones… the police won’t find it.”

Trinity absorbed his words with calculated patience, each detail crucial in her quest for truth and justice. As Kovačević’s story unfolded, she pieced together a clearer image of Kowalski’s sinister orchestration—a plot that had ensnared an unwitting pawn in its deadly scheme.

Her mind raced ahead—every answer was a step closer to unraveling the conspiracy at hand and uncovering the manipulative web that entangled both Kovačević and Major Ted Chestwood. For Trinity, this interrogation was far more than just extracting information; it was about piecing together a puzzle with pieces hidden in shadows, with the intent on bringing light to those obscured corners.

Trinity stood up from her chair, turning to give Kovačević a moment of solitude as he processed the gravity of his situation. His desperation was palpable—a man cornered by circumstances far beyond his control yet bound by their consequences.

“Did Kowalski mention any person or any name to you?” she had asked earlier, probing for more than just names but for connections that might lead her deeper into this conspiracy.

“No,” Kovačević replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Only the dot.” The simplicity of his response belied its significance—a small device directing him toward chaos and destruction.

“I have told you everything,” he continued, his voice tinged with weariness. “I need a lawyer.”

Trinity observed him carefully as he shifted uneasily in his seat, desperation tingeing each word. “You need what?” she asked, deliberately pausing to let her question hang in the air like a verdict.

“Lawyer!” Kovačević raised his voice slightly, a plea for protection echoing within the cold confines of the room.

Trinity considered him for a moment longer before responding with calm resolve. “We are on international waters,” she said slowly, ensuring her words reached every corner of his consciousness. “There’s no such thing as a lawyer here. Even seagulls are scarce—only sharks if you wish.”

With those parting words, Trinity turned and left Kovačević alone in the room. The door closed with a soft click, sealing him within walls that held more than just silence—they contained truths yet to be uncovered.

Step into the shadows—Murphy’s thrillers await.