Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  “Does that include my dad?” Brad asked quietly. “Because I notice he’s not here to welcome us back to Poland.”

  “I’ve got the general out running maneuvers with Charlie Turlock and Captain Schofield’s team,” Macomber said quickly. “He was kind of going stir-crazy just sitting around the base. So I figured it would be better to keep him busy doing useful stuff.”

  Stir-crazy or just plain crazy? Brad wondered. At least his dad wouldn’t be charging around with a load of live ammo during a training exercise.

  “Your father is invited to the summit,” Martindale said. He looked pensive. “But I’ve cautioned against bringing him openly into any discussions. Word that he was still alive would almost surely leak out—”

  “Which could push Gryzlov right over the edge,” Brad realized. Over the past several years, the Russian president had conducted a reckless personal vendetta against the McLanahans—a vendetta triggered long ago when an air strike commanded by Patrick McLanahan killed Gryzlov’s own father. Scion psychologists who’d studied the Russian’s behavioral patterns believed he would be willing to go to almost any lengths to make sure the older McLanahan was dead, no matter how much collateral damage he inflicted on innocents or even on his own people.

  Martindale nodded. “Exactly. This underground war we’re locked in is bad enough. There’s no point in setting off an escalation beyond our ability to manage or withstand.”

  “And that works the same way in reverse, doesn’t it?” Brad asked, eyeing the other man narrowly. “I mean, right now my dad would jump at the chance to take a shot at Gryzlov.”

  “That’s true,” Martindale agreed. “Hearing him pushing for an all-out counterattack on the Russians could easily backfire against us with the other alliance leaders. They might begin to wonder if we were only interested in dragging them into a war of revenge that might destroy us all.”

  Brad grimaced. “Yeah, and that’s exactly the propaganda line Moscow’s been pushing . . . that we’re all fanatical warmongers.”

  “President Wilk sees the dangers,” Martindale said. “So you and Major Macomber here will serve as the Iron Wolf Squadron’s official representatives. We’ll keep your father out of the room, but close by for consultation on any . . . tactical questions.”

  “You’d better make sure he isn’t carrying any live ammunition,” Brad said reluctantly.

  Macomber snorted. “Hell, he’s not going to be carrying any weapons. Period. Plus, I’ll have Charlie suited up and along as a backup, just in case your dad decides to crash the meeting. Literally.”

  “Yeah, he does get a kick out of smashing through walls,” Brad said, with a wry, sad grin.

  After Martindale left, Whack Macomber walked Brad and Nadia over to the base living quarters.

  Brad fought down a jaw-cracking yawn. He was just about out on his feet. Man, I’m going to need a few hours of shut-eye and some hot food before I start feeling halfway human again, he thought. Then he felt Nadia’s hand slip into his. Her fingers gently caressed his palm. Suddenly feeling more awake, he caught the playful sparkle in her beautiful blue-gray eyes.

  Okay, he decided with a lazy grin, maybe sleep could wait.

  “There is some good news in this mess,” Macomber told them. “The AFN politicos may be getting antsy, but most of the ordinary civilians are hanging tight. If that son of a bitch Gryzlov was hoping to provoke more riots and looting, he must be pretty goddamned disappointed right now.”

  “Thanks to martial law?” Brad asked.

  Macomber shook his head. “Not really. Sure, a few skinheads and other troublemakers got popped early on, but mostly the troops are busy distributing emergency supplies and making sure the civvies don’t freeze to death.”

  Nadia raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That is surprising.”

  “Because so many Poles panicked when the banking system crashed?” Brad said.

  She nodded. “I thought the chaos would be worse this time. Especially since the damage was so much more widespread.”

  “You can thank the Russians for that,” Macomber said, with a quick, humorless grin. “At first, the banking crash looked like a royal fuckup by the big, bad capitalists that everybody loves to hate on. But when the power grid went down . . . well, then this crap started to look like enemy action. And most folks in this part of the world really do not enjoy being pushed around by Moscow.”

  “Gryzlov overplayed his hand,” Brad realized.

  Macomber nodded. “Yeah, that’s the way it looks.” He shrugged. “For now anyway. But the longer this cyberwar crap goes on without us being able to hit back, the more impatient they’re going to get.”

  “So you think my dad’s right?” Brad said. “That we need to punch back twice as hard?”

  “Right in the sense that we should drop into Moscow and start shooting up the place? No,” Macomber said, shaking his head. “But right in the sense that we’re not going to win this thing staying curled up in a defensive crouch? Hell, yes.”

  NINETEEN

  VORANAVA, BELARUS

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Snow fell out of a lead-gray sky, slowly covering the roads, woods, and fields around Voranava, a small town just thirteen kilometers south of the Lithuanian border. Spraying dirty brown slush behind them, a steady stream of trucks roared along the highway just outside the town. European Route 85 ran all the way from Lithuania to Greece.

  A few blocks inside the town, two big semi-trailer trucks with Lithuanian license plates were parked outside a dreary apartment complex. A hand-lettered sign on the locked front door of the complex’s ramshackle community hall read zakryto dlya uborki, Closed for Cleaning.

  Inside, a small group of hard-eyed, tough-looking men in civilian clothes lounged around the dingy interior. Three were playing cards. A fourth sat smoking a cigarette while idly polishing a wickedly sharp combat knife. The fifth man, their commander, Major Pavel Berezin, sat off at a table by himself. His hand rested on a secure cell phone.

  They were members of Vympel, or Pennant, a Spetsnaz unit controlled by Russia’s FSB. Most Spetsnaz troops in Vympel were assigned to counterterrorist and nuclear-security missions. These five men were different. Highly trained and skilled in close-quarters combat, long-range marksmanship, explosives, and foreign languages, they formed a small elite team organized to conduct covert sabotage operations—both at home and abroad.

  Berezin checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time in as many minutes. Were the higher-ups in Moscow getting cold feet? It wouldn’t be the first time that one of his nation’s political leaders, even a man as ruthless as President Gryzlov, aborted a high-risk operation right before it was due to kick off.

  He scowled at the thought. A cancellation now would certainly improve his team’s chances of surviving the next couple of days, but it would also be enormously frustrating. He and his men were proficient at dealing out death and destruction, and they relished any chance to do so. Desk soldiers and rear-area jack-offs didn’t sign up with Vympel. His second in command, Captain Andrei Chirkash, sourly characterized these last-minute mission aborts as “whore farts.” “You’re all up and ready to go, right,” Chirkash would grumble. “But then, just as you start to get into your groove, she cuts a real stinker. And that’s the end of the match. No shot. No goal.”

  The cell phone chirped twice, interrupting his gloomy thoughts. Berezin snatched it up. “Akrobat Odin. Acrobat One.”

  “This is Inspektor Manezha, Ringmaster,” the gruff voice of Major General Kirill Glazkov, commander of the FSB’s V Directorate said. “Execute Mor Variant Six. Confirm.”

  “I confirm Mor Variant Six,” Berezin said crisply.

  “This mission is critical,” Glazkov said. “So make no mistakes, Pavel. Understand?”

  “Da, ya ponimayu! Yes, I understand,” Berezin replied. “We are moving now. Acrobat out.” He powered down the phone and slid it into his rucksack. He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled. The sharp
sound brought the rest of his team to their feet.

  “Listen up!” Berezin told them. “The mission’s on. Everybody grab your gear and board the trucks.”

  While the others slung their packs and moved toward the door, the Spetsnaz major pulled Chirkash aside. “If we get separated in traffic, Andrei, make sure you stick to the schedule, okay? The timing on this one is damned tight. We don’t have a lot of room for error.”

  “So I understand,” his second in command replied. “But I hate relying on a bunch of long-haired komp’yutershchiks, geeks, this much,” he groused. “One little screw-up by those clowns could land us in the shit, buried up to our necks.”

  Berezin grinned back at him. “It could, Andrei. And I don’t like depending on them either. Still, if you’ve seen the news, those techno-twerps are really handing the Poles and their little friends a high-tech ass-kicking.” His smile turned feral. “And pretty soon we’ll get to do the same thing, only the old-fashioned, up-close-and-personal way, eh?”

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  THAT SAME TIME

  The conference room adjoining President Gennadiy Gryzlov’s office was crowded. His most senior national security advisers were there, including Sergei Tarzarov, his foreign minister; his occasional mistress Daria Titeneva; Viktor Kazyanov, the minister of state security; and Gregor Sokolov, his defense chief. They sat tensely in chairs arrayed around a large table while their most trusted aides lined the walls.

  Gryzlov himself prowled back and forth, too full of energy to sit idly while waiting for the news from Belarus. A small part of him also enjoyed observing the worried faces of Titeneva, Sokolov, and the others as they swiveled back and forth, following his every move. Good God, he thought in cold contempt, they were like frightened sheep watching a lean and hungry wolf circling closer and closer.

  A soft chime sounded from somewhere among his uneasy cabinet ministers. Gryzlov stopped pacing.

  Viktor Kazyanov gulped and grabbed at the desktop computer set on the table in front of him. For a moment, he stared down at the message it displayed. Then, clumsily, he typed in an acknowledgment.

  “Well?” Gryzlov demanded.

  “That was Glazkov,” Kazyanov stammered. “He confirms that Operatsiya Mor Variant Six is under way. His Spetsnaz team is on the move.”

  Gryzlov nodded calmly. “Very good, Viktor.” His gaze sharpened. “Are Koshkin’s people ready?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the other man confirmed.

  Satisfied, Gryzlov dropped into his own chair. He looked down the length of the conference table, studying the sea of nervous faces for a moment longer. Then he laughed. “For God’s sake, cheer up. You all look as though I’d just signed your death warrants.”

  There was a moment of pained silence.

  At last, Daria Titeneva spoke up. “We are worried, Mr. President, because this sudden escalation of Operatsiya Mor could easily jeopardize Russia’s interests and international reputation.”

  “How so?” Gryzlov asked easily, still smiling.

  She frowned. “Up to now, the cyberwar attacks Koshkin’s experts are conducting have been indirect and deniable. While others may suspect our involvement in these attacks on banking systems and electricity-supply networks across Eastern and central Europe, no one can prove it. But this Variant Six of yours is far more direct. If it goes wrong in any way—”

  “Why assume that Berezin and his men will fail?” Gryzlov interrupted. “Why be so defeatist?” Titeneva flushed angrily.

  “The foreign minister is merely pointing out the serious risks this gambit entails, Gennadiy,” Sergei Tarzarov said quietly. He leaned forward. “She is right to do so. So far, Koshkin’s viruses and malware infections have inflicted significant political and economic pain on our enemies. Best of all, they have done so without real cost to us. It is not defeatist to advocate continuing a successful strategy.”

  Gryzlov waved the older man’s warning away. “Bah!” he scoffed, staring around the table. “You all make the same mistake. As usual, you confuse tactics and strategy.”

  Tarzarov’s lips thinned, a sure sign of irritation.

  Gryzlov smiled. So there is still a man alive in there, after all, he thought in amusement. Sergei may present that withered mask and dry pedant’s voice to the world at large . . . but prick him, and he bleeds.

  Seeing the confusion on their faces, he sighed. Sometimes it was maddening to realize how dense and unimaginative even those closest to him could be. “Koshkin’s viruses are a tactic,” Gryzlov explained, with mock patience. “They are only one means to an end. Nothing more. Already it is clear that the damage they do is only temporary. Besides, as the Poles and other nations increase their Internet and computer security—with the help of these Scion mercenary specialists—the effectiveness of our hacking attacks will rapidly diminish.” He pointed at Tarzarov. “Tell me, Sergei . . . what are we trying to achieve with this cyberwar campaign?”

  “The destruction of this Polish-led alliance,” the older man replied tonelessly.

  “Precisely!” Gryzlov snapped. Suddenly he slammed his fist down on the table, rattling water glasses. Sokolov and Kazyanov turned pale. Titeneva and Tarzarov were made of sterner stuff . . . they barely flinched. “This war is not about screwing around with Polish bank accounts or turning off the lights in Warsaw, Budapest, and Riga. Our strategic aim is to smash the so-called AFN to pieces. And then, with Piotr Wilk and his fascist cliques tossed on the ash heap of history, we will be free to reclaim our traditional dominance over Eastern and central Europe.”

  Tarzarov frowned. “We do not question your objectives, Gennadiy. Only the hazards you seem willing to run in pursuit of those ends.”

  “All war involves danger,” Gryzlov retorted. “And in the end, those who are too afraid to act boldly still die—only without any lasting accomplishment or reward.” He glared around the table. “This is the time to strike harder. For this brief instant, the Poles and their allies are teetering on the brink of panic and political collapse. Which means this is the moment to push them off the cliff.”

  Slowly, halfheartedly, Tarzarov and the others nodded.

  Even their reluctant consent would suffice, Gryzlov decided. But for now it would probably be best to keep the rest of his plans to himself. The revelation that Operatsiya Mor was only the first step in an even more complicated, daring, and dangerous scheme would undoubtedly terrify them.

  ŠALČININKŲ BORDER-CONTROL STATION, LITHUANIA

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  Snug in his heated kiosk, state border guard Sergeant Edvardas Noreika looked up at the dark, overcast sky. Snow flurries swirled down and danced across the highway and surrounding woods, sent spinning by a bitterly cold east wind. The weather was turning ugly fast, he thought. Thank God, the powers that be in Vilnius had put restoring electricity to Lithuania’s border checkpoints at the top of their priority list. But the local villagers, including his own family, were in for a long, brutal cold stretch.

  A chime sounded, signaling the arrival of the next two vehicles in his queue. He looked up. Both were long semi-trailer trucks with Lithuanian plates. The camera set up outside his kiosk flashed twice, capturing a digital image of each truck’s license plate. Using his computer, Noreika checked the numbers against his booking list. They matched.

  To cut down on the traffic congestion that plagued Lithuania’s border checkpoints, especially those with Belarus, the government had instituted a system that allowed truckers and other drivers to book a scheduled crossing time. The automated system even allowed certain vehicles, those registered to precleared Lithuanian businesses and corporations, to avoid the usual customs inspections and paperwork.

  Sergeant Edvardas Noreika loved the system since it cut back on much of the dull, routine paperwork that used to bog down every shift. Preclearances also allowed the station’s border guards, along with their customs-department colleagues, to focus more closely on foreign-owned cars and trucks and those that they s
uspected might belong to smugglers and other criminals.

  A large green checkmark appeared next to each license-plate image on his computer display. Both trucks had passed the preclearance process. He tapped a key, sending the captured imagery to the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of the Interior in Vilnius. Then he slid open the window of his kiosk, shivering in the sudden blast of cold air, and waved the semitrailers on through.

  As the first truck rolled slowly past, Noreika greeted the driver with a grin. “Sveiki namo, vaikinai. Welcome home, guys. How was Greece?”

  The trucker, a tough-looking man in a leather jacket, laughed. “Too sunny for my taste.” He gestured at the snow now falling more heavily. “Who could resist our glorious winters?”

  “Me, for one!” Noreika joked. Then, with a final wave, he slid his window shut and turned back to check the next vehicles waiting up in his queue.

  A couple of minutes later, his computer crashed—freezing in midscreen as it exchanged data with the central government network in Vilnius. “Šūdas. Crap,” he muttered. He switched the signal light outside his kiosk to red and got on the phone.

  “The whole system is down, Sergeant,” his superior told him, sounding harried. “Vilnius says a huge denial-of-service attack just knocked out most of our servers. What’s worse is there’s also some kind of computer virus loose in the database. It’s already erased all the information we collected today.”

  Noreika whistled. What a mess. “How long will it take to get the system back up?”

  “God only knows,” the other man said. “Not anytime today, that’s for sure.”

  “Sweet Christ,” Noreika muttered. “What do I do in the meantime? I’ve got one mother of a lot of trucks stacking up along the highway.”