Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  Reilly took a deep breath. He thought long and hard. The 14th Street Bridge across the Potomac, the Lincoln Tunnel, the I-70 interstate span across the Mississippi at St. Louis. Targets all too familiar to him.

  “But there’s more.” Reilly snapped back into the conversation.

  “Where?”

  “Not here. Latvia. The Russians are at the border. Looks real this time.”

  The man had reason to know. Bob Heath worked for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  3

  THE ROCHAMBEAU BRIDGE

  VIRGINIA SIDE

  Panicked commuters fled the 14th Street Bridge in both directions. Sirens blared. Thick smoke blew Reilly’s way. He tore the inside lining of his jacket out to cover his mouth and nose and cupped his hand over the phone to block out ambient noise. Even with everything going on within eye and earshot, Reilly’s thoughts went to Europe.

  “NATO?” he asked.

  “Some chatter,” the CIA Officer replied. “Can’t really say.”

  He couldn’t and wouldn’t; they were on unsecure cells. However, Heath added one consideration:

  “Awfully coincidental.” Reilly turned away from the growing cacophony of sirens and talked louder.

  “You know what Malcolm Nance says?” Reilly asked. He was referring to the counter-intelligence expert, a former US Navy officer specializing in Russian affairs, as well as a bestselling author and go-to cable news source.

  “Coincidences take a lot of planning.”

  “Right. Any discussion on invoking Article 5?” Article 5 is the catchall collective agreement that declares an attack on one NATO nation an attack on all.

  “Nada. But you tell me. What’s going to matter more—infrastructure attacks here or a Russian threat to a country most people couldn’t find on a map?”

  Reilly didn’t need to respond; the answer was obvious. Heath went silent for a moment.

  “Still there?” Reilly asked.

  “Yup. Incoming text. Double whatever I just told you: I just got word that Russia’s doing the same thing to the south. Ukraine.”

  OSTROV, RUSSIA

  THE SAME TIME

  A thousand paratroopers, the third unit of equal size, from the Russian 76th Air Assault Division waited for go orders at the 444th Center for Combat Employment in Ostrov, Russia. Nearby, they were supported by another four thousand ground troops from Russia’s 6th and 20th Guard Armies, along with their tanks and missile brigades, and Russia’s 1st Air Defense Forces Command from Severomorsk. MiG-29 and Su-25/Su-25SM fighters and Tu-22M3/MR bombers were fueled and battle-ready. The objective was to take Riga, Latvia in under 36 hours.

  THE BLACK SEA OFF THE CRIMEAN COAST

  THE SAME TIME

  Captain Yegor Gleba of the Ukrainian frigate Hetman Sahaydachni radioed for orders. Ukraine’s naval command had been through this before.

  “Surrender.”

  The alternative was too great to consider, and if the scenario played out as it had before, the Hetman Sahaydachni and its crew of some 200 would be released within a few days. At least that was the initial thinking when the captain weighed anchor as the Russian crew came aboard in the Kerch Strait, the narrow strip of water separating the Black and Azov Seas. But this time, the Russians’ action appeared more than just grandstanding. They disabled the SAM missile launcher and removed the torpedoes and anti-submarine rocket launchers.

  The seizure of the ship was met by Ukraine’s National Security and Defense Council’s recommendation to the country’s president to deploy 10,000 troops to the border.

  THE ROCHAMBEAU BRIDGE

  “Better to talk inside,” Heath told Reilly. “Come on over.”

  “I’d love to, but cars aren’t being allowed anywhere near here.”

  “I’ll send a car. Where are you exactly?”

  “Just off the bridge. South. Traffic isn’t moving, but I’ll hike up to a place where you can have me picked up.” It ended up being more than a mile away at the Marriott in Crystal City.

  “Mr. Reilly?” the CIA driver asked when he pulled up some thirty-five minutes later.

  “Yes.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, your identification.”

  Reilly produced his ID. The driver checked the picture against the man standing outside his Town Car. He also called in his Illinois driver’s license number. Three minutes later, Reilly was on his way to the Langley, Virginia headquarters of the CIA, checking the news on his cellphone.

  En route, Reilly’s phone rang. He had half-expected the call earlier.

  “Hi, Marnie.”

  It was Marnie Babbitt, a Barclays Bank vice president calling from London. He had recently gotten involved with the international executive. Extremely involved.

  “Aren’t you in D.C.?” she asked in a panic.

  “Not exactly. Virginia.”

  “I heard—”

  “You heard right. But I’m fine. Following the reports myself now.” Less information was definitely best.

  “And New York and St. Louis.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Be careful. Stay out of the city.”

  “I don’t think that will be an issue. I can’t get across.”

  “Well don’t even try, mister.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “And meanwhile, trouble here, too.”

  She explained what he already knew. Gorshkov was making NATO spread its assets, perhaps to ultimately reclaim the old Soviet satellite nations.

  She then asked when he was heading to Europe.

  “First Chicago, if I can get a flight out.”

  “Keep me posted. I want to know wherever you go. And I want to see you when you get here.”

  They said goodbye without an I love you. That hadn’t been spoken yet, but was surely to come soon. That was the trajectory they were on.

  His next call was to corporate headquarters, first to have Brenda Sheldon, his assistant, book a flight out. Then a call to activate his company’s crisis team and trigger the highest threat level at all the KR—Kensington Royal—properties throughout Eastern Europe.

  4

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Bob Heath greeted Reilly in the lobby. Security was heightened, even more than normal. Visible weapons out at the ready.

  “You picked a hell of a day to travel,” the CIA officer volunteered. Reilly allowed himself a needed laugh.

  “Seems to be a habit of mine.” Heath gave Reilly a bear hug that made him gasp. He was two years younger, thirty pounds heavier, and solid. A brick. A tall, bald brick.

  The two men had history. They’d met on a mission out of Kabul. Reilly was the CIA man’s regional Army intelligence contact, his eyes and ears, and the reason he was alive today. They were on patrol when their convoy stopped to help a young boy alongside a supply route. It was a diversion that immediately cost the lives of six Americans and the boy, who held a detonator. More servicemen were taken down by Taliban soldiers hiding behind roadside boulders. Total American casualties: 19.

  Reilly made a break for the door. Heath followed, but as soon as he cleared the transport, he took a bullet in his left leg, shattering his femur. Reilly caught him as he fell hard. With all his strength, he dragged the operative to a gulley and away from the line of fire. They settled behind a boulder out of sight. Reilly kept pressure on Heath’s wound, covered his mouth to mute his cries, and waited. They waited for hours. Ultimately a pair of Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters flew over the kill zone and rescued Reilly and Heath, the only survivors. The experience left Heath with a limp and Reilly with a friend for life. It also marked the beginning of the end of Reilly’s military career. Four months later he resigned, after a one-star general covered up the fact that he had knowingly sent Reilly’s convoy into harm’s way.

  Thanks to this connection, after his discharge Reilly had taken a job with the State Department. Upstai
rs, Heath briefed Reilly on the developing crises and the White House response.

  “Taking care of business at home. No comment on Latvia and Ukraine. The White House is leaving that to NATO for now. Meanwhile, major metro arteries are in lockdown. Subways, trains, bridges and tunnels. Flights are still going out, but governors are sending the guard to bolster TSA. Here, it’s the Marines to Dulles and Reagan.”

  “What do we know?” Reilly asked.

  “Next to nothing. The usual suspects are stone silent. The only claims are from groups that couldn’t possibly pull all this off.”

  “So back to my point—a coordinated diversion.”

  “No proof,” Heath offered.

  “If you’re waiting for proof it might come too late.” Heath poured two cups of coffee. Black for both of them.

  “Have a seat, brother.” He pulled a file from a drawer and slid it across the desk.

  Reilly looked at the cover. Plain, brown, and not labeled. He opened it and didn’t need to go past the cover page. He knew exactly what it was.

  O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  CHICAGO

  Reilly barely made it to Dulles in time for the United 12:45 p.m. flight to Chicago that his assistant, Brenda, had reserved. As he approached the TSA security check, he received a text from Brenda about a car service pickup at O’Hare and the particularly worried property managers phoning from Eastern Europe. He texted that he would call them before takeoff or email from the air.

  Then another text appeared: she wrote that a man named Vincent Moore urgently wanted to see him. Reilly didn’t know anyone by that name. He responded in all caps:

  WHO???

  She instantly wrote back:

  FBI.

  Reilly took another of those long breaths. Like the one on the bridge.

  While passing through the heightened TSA check he overheard grumblings from passengers, complaining about the delays. Reilly appreciated the added security but wondered if flights had been cancelled given the threats. He imagined the conversations going on in the White House, and landed on the ultimate decision not to create more panic. But… he thought.

  “Reagan’s backed up, but not so much here,” the young woman TSA Officer noted. “However, Homeland Security is not allowing inflight Wi-Fi. Part of a pre-established emergency directive.” That made sense to Reilly, but for two-and-a-half hours he would be out of touch with his office and most of his worried European GMs.

  By making the reservation, his name went into a national database, the Passenger Name Record (PNR), authorized by 49 U.S.C. § 44909(c)(3). The law required airlines operating to, from, and through the United States to report passenger information to the Department of Homeland Security. Reilly’s name worked through the system in the same two-and-a-half hours, enough time for DHS to coordinate with the FBI in Washington, which in turn notified the Chicago bureau. Enough time for FBI agents to meet Reilly at the United Airlines gate at his destination.

  The plane stopped short of the terminal. The pilot got on the PA and gave a friendly update.

  “Sorry folks, we’re just on hold for a bit waiting for a tow in. Shouldn’t be long.”

  But with every passing minute, principally because of the events of the day, passengers showed their impatience to the flight attendants. Reilly just sat back in his seat, suspecting what was to follow. After thirty minutes and a hook up, the plane moved forward and was brought in line with the jet way. Reilly, sitting up front, was among the first to deplane. He immediately heard his name called.

  “Mr. Reilly. Daniel J. Reilly.”

  The voice was deep and with the kind of authority Reilly instantly recognized. Government.

  Two square-jawed men in their thirties wearing dark grey suits, loose enough to hide their standard-issue Glocks, stepped forward, blocking him.

  “You’re Dan Reilly?”

  “Yes,” he replied. But he thought, You know I am. My photo is on your phone.

  “This way, please.”

  The please was not out of kindness. Reilly didn’t move. They produced their FBI identification.

  “Good enough?” the lead agent asked sarcastically.

  “Good enough,” Reilly replied.

  Agent One led. His partner walked behind Reilly. They went through a door away from public view, along a series of narrow corridors into a stark white room with a table and two chairs bolted to the floor. Agent Two pointed to a seat for Reilly to take. It faced a mirror. The mirror wasn’t for reflection.

  “Sit.” This time there was no please attached.

  Reilly complied, as he knew he should.

  THE UKRAINIAN-RUSSIAN BORDER

  The Russian forces were assembling at eight locations: Yelnya, Klintsy, Valuyki, Boguchar, Millerovo, Persianovskiy, and bases identified as Rostov-1 and Rostov-2. All short distances from the border.

  They included two brigades of the Russian First Guards Tank Army, elements of the 20th Army, the 28th Motorized Rifle Brigade, the 49th Army, and 2,500 paratroopers. Everyone was there to fight, to take Ukraine. Fifty-thousand strong, more than twice the number of troops they faced.

  For years NATO had kept trying to build off-ramps to avoid war. But for all the talk, these men and women on the line understood what was in the heart of command—in the soul of their country: to take back what was theirs. This would be a battle of honor. Justified by history, and likely ignored by the West.

  At least that’s what they were told.

  KIEV, UKRAINE

  Stephan Lazlo had five calls into Chicago, each more urgent than the last. He was general manager of the Kensington Royal Hotel in Kiev. While he waited for Reilly’s instructions, he reviewed the new color-coded corporate threat assessment directives. Blue was normal: no apparent threats. Some training, which the hotel was woefully behind on. Next, Yellow: this was an actual alert level that would be triggered when intelligence returned unspecified threats to US citizens and US businesses in hot spots.

  Lazlo put a check mark next to it. The procedures were to remove any American flags; review evacuation plans; increase security in public areas; require positive ID photos of guests; remove all large containers like waste receptacles; limit roof access; keep meeting rooms locked when not in use; tow any abandoned vehicles; and restrict all engineering and electrical areas. All good ideas, but more applicable to a terrorist threat than an invading army.

  Orange, the third threat level: everything under blue and yellow, plus. Another check. Nothing remains in storage; all arriving packages are to be inspected; no vehicles allowed in any parking lot unless registered and cross-referenced to guests; barricades up to restrict parking close to the building; all suspicious boxes to be removed; and all shift changes checked by department heads.

  Finally, Red. The highest level. Adding to Blue, Yellow, and Orange, Threat Condition Red adds mandatory hotel entrance through metal detectors for all guests.

  “As if that will stop Gorshkov’s troops,” Lazlo muttered.

  He continued to read the directive set forth a few months earlier by Dan Reilly and his advisors. No cars parked unattended within fifty feet; cement bollards deployed to prevent full vehicular access to the hotel; visibly armed security; and dogs. Bomb-sniffing dogs.

  “Der’mo!” Shit! Definitely Red.

  Lazlo paged through the thick spiral-bound procedures until he came to “Evacuation.” As he read the procedure he thought, Where the hell is Reilly?

  NATO HEADQUARTERS

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  The 179th Military Committee, NATO’s highest military command authority, were behind closed doors that were constantly flying open with new reports, all grave.

  Present: the Allied Chief of Defense, General Robert “Rocky” Rockford; Supreme Allied Commander Europe (SACEUR), General Elias B. Turnbull; Supreme Allied Commander Transformation (SACT), NATO Secretary General Carlos Phillipe; and Chairman of the European Military Committee, General Jules Rother. Together the team represented NATO’s comm
and structure, with no shortage of plans and no end to their worries.

  “Risks and results,” General Rockford demanded.

  Pens scribbled on papers, hands rose. But before a strategy could take form, the command assessed the situation. Nothing provable; everything worrisome. Across the board, Canadian, Czech, Polish, Italian, Albanian, and Slovak troops stationed in Latvia were on alert. Limited American forces were also in country; most had been transferred out after training exercises concluded. What remained were merely 750 men and women and only 115 armored units. A first line, hardly defensible.

  American firepower was available, but far from Latvia. The 7th Bomb Wing assigned to the Global Strike Command Eighth Air Force was stationed at Dyess AFB, outside of Abilene, Texas, and the 28th Bomb Wing operated out of Ellsworth Air Force Base, ten miles northeast of Rapid City, South Dakota. At this moment their B-1B Lancers were not in the air. The United States was dealing with its own problems now. First-term President Alexander Crowe was a man without any immediate answers and certainly no solutions. For now it was a game of “watch and wait.”

  “Watch and wait” was propitious, for the moment. But NATO command wondered how long the moment would last. To make matters worse, if Crowe invoked Article 5 now as America had after 9/11, NATO’s resources would be severely divided, which very well might be what Gorshkov intended. Moreover, no one in the NATO situation room really knew what or where to target, short of the Kremlin itself.

  5

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  The Man Gyong Bong, a four-story, 9700-ton cargo/passenger ferry chugged though the night, hugging the coast of the Sea of Japan. It had sailed quietly from the port of Rajin-guyok in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea to Vladivostok, Russia. A normal route—though not a normal night.