by Tom Clancy
Gathering what his people could from Ragland and Dennison and stealing intel from the Russian Federation regarding their own Ayaks hypersonic program (still in disarray, though, because of budget cuts and the war) were the first crucial steps toward asserting control over the world’s oil reserves and preventing a truce between the Euros, JSF, and Russian governments. War was, at the moment, good business, and the tug-of-war over territory, shipping lanes, and the overall “fight to restore democracy” through conventional weapons kept the Bilderberg Group content.
The second step of Theron’s plan involved Izotov and Dennison. They would help him create the political and military instability that would allow his partners and allies to move in and take advantage of both governments, using battles to make assassinations appear as accidents and destroying careers by framing individuals for security leaks. That was only the beginning—
But he hadn’t planned to cut them loose so soon. He’d wanted to fully secure Ragland and get the Wraith clone project under way first.
Questions born of anger gripped his thoughts. How much did the Snow Maiden really know about him? He’d shielded himself from her former employers, Dr. Merpati Sukarnoputri and Igany Fedorovich, as much as he could, but she was a clever bitch, that one. Had she tapped into their communications with the Bilderberg Group? And what of Osin, the intelligence expert? Were his communications as secure as he’d boasted?
And then there were other possible leaks: Nestes down in Ecuador . . . and his woman Brandenburg up in the Caucasus Mountains . . . She was dead according to her second, but another in their ranks, a man named Aslan, had escaped. How much did he know about Theron’s operations? You could compartmentalize information as much as you wanted, but when you were dealing with human beings, security was too often compromised by simple greed.
Theron pulled away from Dennison, took a seat before one of his flat screens, and brought up the GPS location of the submarine carrying Ragland.
“Is that where she is now?” Dennison asked, pointing to the blip on the map.
“It’s not the route I would have preferred, but the skipper told me sailing under the Arctic ice via the Northwest Passage was too risky for a diesel submarine, which is why he’s chosen the Panama Canal route to Vargas, Venezuela, then all the way up. He’s got about eighteen days till he gets there. The delay is maddening, but I wouldn’t risk this anyplace else. I want Izotov and his assets close to us.”
“So where exactly are they taking her?”
“Don’t trouble yourself with the details. Suffice it to say we can’t perform the delicate chip operation onboard the submarine, and this is another of my remote and secure locations.”
She pouted. “Still keeping secrets? Just for that I’m going to . . . do something to you . . .” She sat on his lap and draped her arms over his shoulders.
“You can punish me,” he said.
“First, can I tell you something?”
He nodded.
“I had a dream about her last night.”
“Who?”
“The Snow Maiden. She was coming for us. Is that weird?”
Theron snickered, and then he leaned forward, snatched up his phone, and speed-dialed the bridge. “Get us out of here.”
“Where to then, sir?” asked the captain.
“I don’t care. South. Just get us moving.”
THIRTY-NINE
USS George H. W. Bush CVN-77
Nimitz-class Supercarrier
Mediterranean Sea
Lex appreciated many of the finer things in life: the delicious ales of the Terrapin Beer Company of Athens, Georgia; his vinyl record collection of AC/DC and Aerosmith albums; and, of course, bacon. Any kind. Any place. Any time.
He’d never had any particular gratitude toward a pilot’s skills, so long as he or she got him there in one piece and on time. However, he would now add to his list of life’s pleasures the piloting skills of one Major Stephanie Halverson.
Despite the snowstorm and the Seahawk being overloaded, she returned them to the carrier in one piece. The flight included both a midair refueling and a detour allowing their fighter escort enough time to take out more T-50s in pursuit. Her voice never once quavered as those enemy fighters had locked on to the chopper, nor did she break into any maneuvers that might leave them retching.
Meanwhile, the pilot who’d gone after Halverson’s ride had also returned, landing the rigged-to-explode F-35B without incident and to curious looks from the flight deck.
Before leaving the chopper, Lex thanked Halverson and once more expressed his regrets for not rescuing her friend. They awkwardly shook hands in case they didn’t see each other again, and then he and Vlad silently carried Slava’s body out of the chopper, while Borya grabbed their packs.
The next few hours were a whirlwind of video debriefings with Lieutenant Colonel Pat Rugg, commanding officer of the Special Raid Teams Group, then with General Mitchell and President Becerra. He went over the team’s every move in excruciating detail, from the drop in, to the trek through the woods, to evading the wolves and infiltrating the base. They grilled him repeatedly. The tablet and smartphone he’d confiscated were being flown back to Langley to be dissected by computer forensics engineers at the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology.
Once the president had left the conference call, Lex spoke privately with Mitchell and said, “I have the data card, sir.”
“Excellent. I’ll collect it from you personally, Captain. Your CO and the president do know about it, but I still appreciate the security.”
“Thank you. And, sir, I found my sister. They’ve got her in a sharashka. I know where it is, sir. You could talk to Colonel Rugg and recommend I lead the team for the S & R.”
“We’ll send a team. Just not yours. You guys are exhausted. We’ll get her for you.”
“Sir, you understand that getting that information . . . well . . . it cost me a lot.”
“I know, Captain.”
“I can’t reconcile with that unless I know it wasn’t for nothing. They need to get my sister.”
“And they will. Two weeks R & R for you and your men. You sure as hell earned it.”
“For accidentally bringing in the Snow Maiden?”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Captain. Go home and get some rest.”
Lex opened his mouth, but Mitchell’s expression said he wasn’t budging. “Thank you, sir.”
After tapping out of the link, Lex pillowed his head in his hands and stared at the blank screen.
Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Maybe he should have gone AWOL, gone after her himself.
But hadn’t he bent the rules enough already? He needed time to clear his head—so he could write that letter to Slava’s parents. Ironic, yes, that he’d just captured one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, but all he wanted to do now was sleep.
* * *
The chief master-at-arms had placed the Snow Maiden in a “special quarters” padded cell within the carrier’s brig. She was allowed to roam without cuffs but was being observed via security cameras. She’d assured the chief that she’d make no trouble and asked again that she speak to the president. He’d politely indicated that he had no power to grant such a request but that he’d pass along her wishes. She wondered if Lex and the chief were just paying her lip service.
After making her request to use the bathroom and being escorted while she did her business, she was taken back to the cell to find a tablet computer lying on her bunk. The chief told her the president was now on the line, waiting for her.
She rushed to the bunk, seized the tablet, and touched the open comm button.
President Becerra was seated in a small conference room with towering bookcases behind him, probably part of the White House Situation Room. His eyes were gray, his face more gaunt than she’d seen in the media. He wore a coll
ared shirt but no tie, and his hair was slipping down into one eye.
“Hello, Colonel.” There was no warmth in his tone, just a hint of warning and, maybe, trepidation.
“Mr. President. I seek asylum in the United States, and I’m willing to earn it.”
“You’re a war criminal and a terrorist. You’re a traitor to your country, and you’d like our endorsement.”
“I have information that’ll help protect your government. This concerns Major Alice Dennison and General Sergei Izotov. It also concerns an organization that used to employ me. They’re called the Ganjin . . .”
The president leaned forward and widened his eyes. “All right, Colonel. You have my full attention.”
Just then another man appeared beside Becerra and whispered something in his ear, and the president’s expression soured. He faced her and said, “I’m sorry, Colonel, we’ll pick this up later. I need to go now . . .”
The link suddenly broke.
She burst from the bed and stormed across the room, then began pacing along the wall.
Was it too late? Had Dennison and Izotov already opened the gates of hell?
FORTY
Ivanovskaya Square
Near the Kremlin Armory
Moscow
General Sergei Izotov stared up at the Tsar Cannon, barely visible in the cold morning fog. He was waiting for his contact to meet him. He checked his watch: 0640. He was right on time. Where was the man?
A silhouette appeared in the fog and materialized into a gray-bearded figure wearing a black woolen coat and manipulating a gnarled wooden cane. He looked like an old wizard who’d wandered out of a medieval fantasy novel. The man nodded and grunted, “Confirmation?”
“Yes,” said Izotov.
The old man continued on, driving the end of his cane into the stone.
Izotov stared after him, growing warm despite the bitter morning breeze. Dennison had been right. The chip had changed his life. He finally felt good about himself, no longer torn between hubris and self-loathing, between envy and thoughts of quitting the government. He loved his wife again. His children. He wanted to be a good man. Obedient. When he complied with an order, he felt such extreme pleasure that he couldn’t help himself but smile. He was a boy, fishing in the mountains, playing catch with his father.
The previous evening, Theron had asked him to commence with the operation of sharing some specific information with the Americans. He’d explained that secrets on both sides would be divulged to each other, disrupting intelligence communities and sending a bolt of panic through both governments.
Along with a list of the names and current whereabouts of Russian Federation operatives within the United States and abroad, and a map of every thermobaric mobile missile launcher within Russian territory, Izotov had just supplied the JSF with the communication signal sequence to permanently disable the Kobalt-M satellite film reentry pods that ejected surveillance film back to Earth.
Unlike U.S. satellites with digital processing, Russia’s eight 6.7-ton Kobalt-M satellites still used film that in many situations (and contrary to popular belief) provided superior resolutions to any digital images they could capture. The film was routinely returned to Earth via one of three reentry pods on each satellite for developing and processing.
The consequences of a security breach like this were dire. Preventing access to timely tactical and strategic updates would leave the Federation blind and allow the JSF and Euros to exploit this window and move their weapons and personnel with impunity until such time that the Federation could reroute cameras to secondary satellites and get more birds in the air.
Stage two of Izotov’s plan, and the part he’d spent hours preparing, was to provide the minister of defense with intelligence indicating that a Spetsnaz strike team was in place to bring down the European missile defense shield (aka the SLAMS—Space-Land-Air-Missile-Shield network) at the Rovaniemi air base in Finland. This was a difficult scenario to present because the network had been brought down once before by Spetsnaz posing as terrorists in order to escalate tension between the Euros and Americans. Security at the air base had been increased, their computer firewalls and other network protection software updated and strengthened. Taking out the SLAMS needed to be an inside job with the assistance of senior officers issued the highest security clearances.
This time, however, the gambit was much different. There were no Spetsnaz. The missile shield would not be brought down. He only needed the minister of defense to believe those operations were in place, so the full-scale invasion of London could commence—at the order of the president himself, an order manufactured of course by Izotov. The Brits had remained neutral in the war thus far, but they were flirting with the idea of joining the European Federation, a move that would allow them to draw some of their oil from the Euros and weaken the Federation’s grip on them. The Russians had attacked them several times before, skirmishes that still left their government in place, but the time was now to seize full control, along with destroying their mining operations off the coast of Scotland.
Once the Russians invaded, the Euros and Americans would pounce on them, perhaps even launch their missiles at the motherland.
Of course, Kapalkin would never go along with any of this. Thus removing him from power was stage three of Izotov’s plan. The key was getting to the vice president first. There was no time now to have him fitted with a chip like Izotov, so an enormous bribe had been presented, along with a formidable threat against his family. He’d remained undecided—
Until he’d watched the news coverage of President Kapalkin’s Russian-built ZiL limousine exploding from the inside out as he arrived in Moscow.
He and Izotov had shaken hands, as behind him, the limo burned violently on the TV screen.
Yes, everything was in place. Izotov raised his gaze to the Tsar and smiled.
The cannon had been fired.
FORTY-ONE
MacDill Air Force Base
U.S. Special Operations Command
Joint Strike Force Command Headquarters
General Scott Mitchell was seated at his computer command suite, surrounded by his staff as he sifted through the incoming intelligence with virtual-reality gloves and VR glasses, his fingers flicking as he zoomed in on satellite imagery of Russian T-50 stealth fighters, Tu-160 bombers, and dozens of choppers, including Ka-50s and Mi-8s, all bound for London.
The Snow Maiden did know something. The world was turning upside down before his eyes: the Russian president murdered, a full-scale invasion of London in progress, Russian missile launchers and satellite reentry pod codes compromised, names and locations of their spies handed over.
It was as though several senior officers of the Federation’s military had gotten together for coffee, written all of their secrets down on napkins, then had them delivered via waiter to an American spy sitting behind them. A breach like this was unprecedented . . . and unnerving . . . because if Izotov was responsible for this, then what were Dennison’s plans?
Mitchell groaned in disgust and longed for his youth, for his days as a Ghost Lead, taking his team all over the world, putting boots on the ground and getting muddy, worrying only about the tactical situation, about achieving the objective and getting back home. He was just a kid from Youngstown who liked to make projects out of wood, not a complicated old man wrestling with monumental decisions involving the most powerful military on the face of the planet.
Major Charles Baxter, the officer who’d replaced Alice Dennison, lifted his voice: “Sir, we’ve just maneuvered the X9-C to evade a missile attack.”
“Say again, Major?”
“The Russians just tried to take out our Argus orbital recon drone.”
A three-dimensional image of the ORD, which resembled one of NASA’s old space shuttles sans windows and with a prominent V-tail, appeared in one of Mitchell’s displays.
“That’s a first. It’s got to be Dennison.”
“Concur, sir.”
Six months prior the unmanned Argus X9-C was launched from Cape Canaveral aboard an Atlas rocket to become the ultimate USAF reconnaissance asset with its three-kilometers-per-second delta-V potential—meaning the shuttlelike craft could change its orbital inclination to cross-range twelve thousand miles in ninety minutes. Simply put, it could put its camera payload over any point on the Earth in sixty to ninety minutes without being enslaved to the predictable orbit of a traditional spy satellite. One of two limitations to the earlier twenty-nine-foot X9-B was its restricted fuel storage capacity so vital to the maneuvering thrusters. Only a select group of people were aware of the existence of the now-orbiting, second-generation X9-C, a nuclear-powered solution to that fuel problem.
“Get me Colorado. And stay alert for repeat attacks,” Mitchell grunted.
“Yes, sir.”
Dennison could have divulged many secrets about orders of battle and numbers and composition of forces around the globe. There were many pieces of classified information she could share regarding weapons systems capabilities and friendly nations who possessed such ordnance unbeknownst to the Russians.
But telling the Russians about the Argus . . . that was just unimaginable. And if she had given up the drone, then Mitchell had to assume she’d included what limited information she had on the X-2A Wraith—because those projects were related to each other with the ultimate goal of creating the JSF’s most far-reaching and swift Quick Reaction Force. This force would be used, in part, to defend the country’s oil-mining drones (now being tested in the Mojave Desert) and soon to be placed in the Middle East. Armed X-9Cs on the front line would buy the JSF the first sixty minutes of battle, backed up by Wraith strike forces that could be on the scene from anywhere in the world at the conclusion of those priceless sixty minutes.
