The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  “So essentially you are asking me to join you . . . and risk being killed in any number of interesting new ways?” Nadia said.

  “Pretty much,” he admitted.

  Smiling broadly now, she slipped her arm through his and laughed. “Very well, I accept. You really do know the way to a girl’s heart, Brad McLanahan.”

  Three

  Federal Security Service Headquarters, the Lubyanka, Moscow, Russia

  That Same Time

  From the outside, the Lubyanka hid its sordid history of terror and brutality behind the six stories of a beautiful neo-Baroque façade of yellow brick set above two lower levels layered in dark gray stone. For more than a century, the building had served as a headquarters for Russia’s secret police—whether they were known as the Cheka, the GPU, the OGPU, the NKVD, or the KGB. Year after year and decade after decade, terrified political prisoners were hustled through its doors and thrown into the cruel hands of the torturers and executioners who lurked in the Lubyanka’s dank and bloodstained basement.

  Some Russians liked to pretend that had changed with the fall of the Soviet Union, that the excesses of the past were over, never to be repeated. See, they said in hushed voices, the old KGB was gone, replaced by a newer and more professional intelligence and police organization, the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the Federal Security Service. Unlike its forerunners, the FSB was supposedly hedged in by law—answerable to both the Duma—the parliament—and the nation’s elected president.

  Looking up at the Lubyanka through the tinted windows of his black Cortege limousine, Colonel General Mikhail Leonov snorted in sour amusement. Too many of his countrymen preferred living among glittering illusions—of expanding national power and prosperity and reform—even though they still knew the darker truths in their own hearts. For Russia, the past was never another country. The Duma was currently nothing more than a rubber stamp for President Gennadiy Gryzlov’s rule by decree. And while the old means of state terror and repression were now and then papered over with a veneer of civilized legality, they never fully disappeared.

  True, the FSB’s current head, Minister of State Security Viktor Kazyanov, was a weakling, more mouse than man. But Gryzlov was clever. He understood that he didn’t need a stony-eyed killer like Lenin’s Felix Dzerzhinsky or Stalin’s Lavrentiy Beria to keep dissenters and potential rivals in line. So long as Kazyanov slavishly followed orders, the president’s grip on power was secure. Gulags and mass executions were no longer necessary . . . not in an age in which social media could spread fear at the speed of light. All one needed were carefully planted rumors, a few stage-managed public arrests and show trials, and the occasional “mysterious” disappearance.

  His driver pulled into the curb at the Lubyanka’s main entrance.

  Leonov leaned forward. “Find a parking spot around the back once I’m inside, Anatoly. I’ll text you when I’m finished here.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he popped the rear passenger door open and climbed out. A few pedestrians scurrying past the infamous building glanced at him and then as quickly looked away, obviously seeing nothing of any interest. And why should they, after all? Who would waste time staring at yet another dull-looking Russian bureaucrat in a plain dark suit and subdued blue tie? Such men were as thick as fleas on Moscow’s streets this close to the end of the workday.

  Leonov knew he would have made more of a splash in his service uniform, shoulder boards, and high, peaked general’s cap. But FSB officers, though nominally members of the military, preferred wearing civilian clothes while at work. Anonymity was a useful trait for spies and secret policemen. Imitating them suited his own purposes this afternoon.

  Inside the Lubyanka, he was greeted by a younger officer whose own jacket and tie were considerably more stylish and expensive-looking. “My name is Popov, sir. If you will follow me? General Koshkin is waiting for you in his personal office.”

  Leonov raised an eyebrow at the other man’s air of studied elegance. “Tell me you’re not really one of Koshkin’s komp’utershchiks.”

  Smiling, Popov shook his head. “One of the tech geeks? Not me. I bathe more than once a week.” He shrugged his perfectly tailored shoulders. “No, sir, I’m merely an errand boy for the general.”

  Which translates to bodyguard, Leonov thought dryly, noting the slight bulge of a concealed pistol beneath the younger man’s suit. Major General Arkady Koshkin was evidently a careful man these days. That was wise. Few officers reached the higher echelons of Russia’s spy services. Fewer still could say they had survived Gryzlov’s fury when a crucial operation went sour. Fortunately for Koshkin, it appeared that even the president realized how difficult it would be to replace him. Men with the eclectic mix of arcane technical skills, leadership ability, and cyberwar operations experience needed to manage the FSB’s Q Directorate were a rare breed.

  Originally, the directorate’s skilled programmers had been tasked with organizing and conducting Russia’s covert cyberwar and computer-hacking operations. Now, by direct presidential order, they were also expected to protect critical defense industries and computer systems against foreign intrusion and sabotage. Gryzlov’s decree left no doubt that this new cybersecurity role was their primary mission.

  It was a change in focus Leonov wholeheartedly welcomed.

  He had witnessed the terrible damage an enemy could inflict by hacking into computer programs used to control sophisticated weapons. Three years ago, Scion agents in Polish pay had somehow corrupted software upgrades for Russia’s S-300 and S-400 surface-to-air missiles—causing their target identification and acquisition subroutines to go haywire. The ensuing catastrophe had cost Russia many of its best Su-27, Su-30, and Su-35 fighter jets, shot down by their own air defenses. It had also cost Colonel General Valentin Maksimov, the former commander of the aerospace forces, his job . . . and, in the end, his life.

  As the man who’d stepped into Maksimov’s shoes, Leonov knew only too well how much depended on Q Directorate’s competence. Besides the new Thunderbolt plasma rail gun, the other cutting-edge weapons, compact power-generation systems, and heavy-lift rockets needed to launch the Mars Project were nearing operational status. Gryzlov had invested a substantial portion of the nation’s defense budget—and much of his political prestige—in these advanced technologies. He was convinced they would ensure Russia’s dominion over the world for generations to come. With so much at stake, the president would never forgive even the slightest failure. And nothing short of complete success would satisfy him.

  Leonov pondered these unpleasant truths while he followed Popov deeper into the massive building. Within five minutes, he felt lost in a maze of identical corridors with the same elegant parquet floors, pale green walls, and door after door marked only with cryptic numbers and letters. Obviously, the spies who worked here put a high value on their own secrets and privacy. Without a human guide or a map, a stranger entering the deeper recesses of the Lubyanka wouldn’t have the slightest idea of which directorate was where or whose office was behind any given door.

  Set in the dead center of the complex, Q Directorate was an exception to the sea of sameness.

  Beyond a manned checkpoint, the parquet floors ended, replaced by sound-deadening mats. All the interior walls and ceilings were thicker, with interwoven layers of metal paneling, gypsum wallboard, wire mesh, and acoustic fill. Windows that had once looked out onto inner courtyards were gone—closed off behind new walls. In effect, the directorate’s section had been converted into a highly secure facility that was virtually sealed off from the rest of the FSB headquarters.

  That much at least was reassuring.

  So was his first look at Arkady Koshkin himself. The head of Q Directorate was short and slight, with a high, wrinkled forehead. Eyes bright with intelligence and ambition gleamed behind thick spectacles. On the other hand, those same eyes were also wary, full of caution. They were the eyes of a man who understood that those close to Gennadiy Gryzlov necessaril
y danced along a razor’s edge—poised between power and oblivion.

  Politely, Koshkin ushered him to a chair in front of his desk and then nodded toward a small silver samovar on a sideboard. “Tea?”

  Leonov shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Unfortunately, I find caffeine this late in the day is too hard on my stomach.”

  “Ulcers?”

  “The doctors say no,” Leonov said with a shrug. “Merely stress and worry.”

  Koshkin smiled sympathetically. “An occupational hazard of our respective professions, I fear.” He looked over at Popov. “You may go, Dmitry. Colonel General Leonov and I can look after ourselves.” Silently, the elegant young aide left, firmly closing the door behind him.

  “Now, General,” Koshkin said carefully. “What brings you to the Lubyanka?”

  “First, how tight is your security?” Leonov asked, with equal care.

  “In this office itself? Airtight,” Koshkin assured him. “Nothing we say can be overheard or recorded in any way by foreign agents.”

  “Or by your colleagues in the FSB’s counterintelligence department?”

  Caught off guard, Koshkin blinked in surprise. Plainly buying time to think, he took off his glasses and swiped distractedly at them with a handkerchief. Then he put them back on and cleared his throat. “Is there some reason you are worried about possible surveillance by loyal forces of the state?”

  Leonov’s thin, answering smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Only because none of your service’s spy hunters hold high-level Mars Project clearances, Arkady,” he said coolly. “So before you panic about being implicated as a possible traitor, get it through your head that my sole focus is safeguarding our Motherland’s most vital secrets.”

  Relieved, Koshkin nodded his understanding. Information about the full scope of Gryzlov’s new plan was restricted to a tight inner circle within the Russian government. Besides the president, Leonov, and Koshkin himself, no more than a tiny handful of others were cleared for full briefings on the project. Otherwise, individual government departments, research labs, and production facilities were told only what they needed to know to complete their own particular assignments.

  “The antibugging measures I employ are effective against all forms of surveillance, whether by foreign spies or our own counterintelligence agents,” he admitted.

  “Good,” Leonov said quietly. “Because we must be able to speak frankly to each other. To share ideas without the slightest constraint or reservation.”

  Koshkin looked on edge again. “Ideas about what?”

  Here we go, Leonov told himself. This was where he found out if the other man understood the difference between sensible caution and crippling passivity. Or if he grasped that taking personal initiative was sometimes necessary—and might even be safer than clinging rigidly to set procedure and regulation. Careful to sound calm, almost bored, he shrugged. “About the possibility of making certain modifications to command and control programs for some of the Mars Project’s components.”

  Koshkin stared back at him for several long seconds. “What kind of modifications?” he asked at last.

  Leonov held up a hand. “First, let me make sure that I have a clear sense of how the system works, eh?” It was important not to rush this. He leaned forward. “As I understand it, your Q Directorate experts aren’t actually writing any of the project’s operational software themselves. Correct?”

  Slowly, Koshkin nodded. “The research and development teams working on different weapons, power generation, maneuvering, and life-support systems are responsible for writing and validating their own code.”

  “And when they’re finished?”

  “My people go through each piece of software line by line—checking for anything suspicious or out of place. Once the programs have been thoroughly scrubbed, we subject them to stringent testing to make sure they work as promised—both on their own and in tandem with other crucial systems.”

  Leonov cocked his head. “And after that, your team embeds every piece of software in layer upon layer of high-grade cybersecurity protocols? So that no further alterations can be made . . . except by your directorate?”

  Koshkin frowned, obviously not quite happy with this crude summary of a complex process. “More or less.”

  “In effect, then, no one else has access to the inner working elements of Mars Project software once your work is finished,” Leonov continued, with a confident smile. “That’s perfect. Exactly what we need.”

  “But I don’t see what—”

  “It’s quite simple,” Leonov explained. “Your directorate’s procedures make it possible for us to do what must be done, without tipping our hand to our enemies—or unnecessarily worrying those here at home who might otherwise misinterpret our actions.”

  Tiny droplets of sweat suddenly beaded the other man’s high forehead. “I will not do anything to compromise the integrity of the computer programs created for the Mars Project,” he stammered.

  “Don’t be a fool, Arkady.” Leonov shook his head impatiently. “That’s the last thing I would expect.” He looked Koshkin straight in the eye, choosing his words with care and precision. “I only want your programmers to create buried subroutines that will strengthen our security . . . and protect the Motherland in a worst-case scenario. Secret programs we can activate, in an emergency, to regain control over critical systems. To stop the enemy from turning our own new weapons against us.”

  “Fail-safe protocols, you mean?” Koshkin wondered.

  “Exactly. I want a series of fail-safe protocols inserted into the project’s operating software,” Leonov agreed.

  “On whose authority? Yours?”

  Leonov nodded. “Yes.”

  “Not the president’s?” Koshkin asked softly.

  Leonov shrugged. “Gennadiy always expects his plans to unfold perfectly, without a hitch or snag.”

  “But you are afraid that the Mars Project will fail?”

  “On the contrary, I think the president’s confidence is fully justified,” Leonov said flatly. “If we proceed wisely, our powerful new weapons and other technologies should give us an overwhelming advantage against the Americans and their allies. Once our space platforms are in orbit and operational, we will be free to attack targets in orbit or even on the ground without fear of serious retaliation.” Then, coolly, he met Koshkin’s troubled gaze. “But you and I also know—and only too well—that even the best-laid plans don’t always survive contact with the enemy. Victory is never assured. Defeat is always possible. And sometimes it carries terrible consequences. Both for Russia itself . . . and for those who can be blamed for any failure.”

  Koshkin swallowed hard, clearly remembering the dreary procession of fellow officers, scientists, and other government officials who’d suffered the consequences of Gryzlov’s wrath over the past several years. “You want an insurance policy,” he realized.

  “It is our duty to strive for complete success. But it is also our duty to prepare for the worst,” Leonov said pointedly. “We’ve just spent considerably more than a trillion rubles developing some of the world’s most advanced weapons and space hardware. So tell me, Arkady, are you willing to take even the slightest chance of letting the Americans waltz in and snatch them away from under our noses?”

  “My God, no,” Koshkin murmured, turning pale at the thought of what Gennadiy Gryzlov would do to anyone he held responsible for such a catastrophe. Tight-lipped now, he looked back across his desk at Leonov. “Very well, General. My programmers will do as you request. We’ll create the fail-safe protocols you require.”

  Four

  Hangar Three, McLanahan Industrial Airport, Sky Masters Aerospace, Inc., Battle Mountain, Nevada

  Early Summer 2021

  Brad McLanahan let the security door swing shut behind him. Then he slid his sunglasses into the pocket of his Sky Masters flight suit and stood still for a few seconds, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After the brilliant sunshine and typical scorc
hing high-desert summer temperatures outside, something about entering the enormous hangar reminded him of the time Nadia had showed him Kraków’s beautiful, centuries-old Gothic cathedral. Standing here in this equally vast, cool, and dimly lit space, he felt a touch of the same awe that had overwhelmed him then.

  No surprise there, I guess, he thought. In its own way, Hangar Three was also a sacred space—though one dedicated to space-age aviation rather than to the deity. Come to think of it, he realized, maybe that impression wasn’t as sacrilegious as it first sounded. To the despair of his English teachers in school, he’d never been much of a poetry fan, but some of “High Flight,” written by a pilot who’d been killed during the Second World War, had stuck with him . . . especially the last couple of lines, where the poem talked about putting out your hand in space and touching the face of God.

  Now that he could see more clearly, Brad focused on the big, black, blended-wing craft parked in the middle of the hangar. To a layman’s untutored eye, it would look a lot like a larger version of the SR-71 Blackbird, only with four massive engines mounted under its highly swept delta wing instead of two. But to someone like him, who’d flown this model before, the distinctive shape was instantly recognizable.

  That was a Sky Masters S-19 Midnight spaceplane—equipped with revolutionary LPDRS (Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System) triple-hybrid engines. Those “leopard” engines, able to transform from air-breathing supersonic turbofans to hypersonic scramjets to pure, reusable rockets, were powerful enough to propel the spaceplane into Earth orbit. At the same time, the spaceplane, like its smaller counterpart, the S-9 Black Stallion, and its larger cousin, the S-29 Shadow, could take off and land on ordinary runways built for commercial airliners.

  “Hey, kid, you planning to do any real work this afternoon?” a tall, lanky man called from the foot of a high rolling ladder pushed up against the S-19’s open twin cockpit canopies. “Or are you just here sightseeing?”