Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  “Well, yeah, that’s all true,” Brad said. He frowned. “But there’s one big problem left: actually zeroing in on the damned place. With all due respect to Mr. Martindale’s agents in Moscow, nothing they overheard was very specific. Learning that this Perun’s Aerie complex is buried inside a mountain is just fine and dandy. Trouble is, there are one hell of a lot of mountains in Russia.”

  “So we go to Truznyev,” Martindale interjected quietly. “It’s obvious that he’s got a pretty good line on the location of that base.”

  Caught off guard, Brad, Nadia, and Wilk stared at him in surprise.

  Nadia broke the silence first. “Go to Truznyev? How exactly? Do you propose that we simply ask him politely?” she snapped. “Or try to bribe him?”

  “Not quite, Major Rozek,” Martindale said with an impish smile. “Actually, I have something a little more devious in mind.”

  “Devious how?” Brad wondered.

  “Getting Truznyev to spill what he knows won’t be especially easy. Or very safe,” Martindale admitted. “But while there are risks, I think it’s our best shot at obtaining the information we need to formulate a solid attack plan. Here’s what I propose . . .”

  When Scion’s gray-haired chief finished sketching out his concept, the rest of them sat speechless for what seemed an eternity. Then, very slowly, Nadia smiled. Uh-oh, Brad thought. He knew that pleased and predatory look. In training, it usually meant someone else was about to get the crap beaten out of them—either physically or mentally. In combat, it meant a bad guy was going down hard and usually fatally.

  “Your scheme is całkowicie niepoczytalny,” she told Martindale. “It’s totally insane.”

  “Which means you approve,” Martindale guessed.

  “Oh yes,” Nadia confirmed. “I love it.”

  He grinned and turned to Brad and Wilk. “What about you two?”

  “If Major Rozek is in favor, how can I be opposed?” Wilk replied with a wry smile. “After all, her tactical sense and daring just saved my life. If she sees promise in this crazy plan of yours, I’m willing to accept her judgment.”

  Brad nodded. “Count me in.”

  “Good,” Martindale said in satisfaction. He turned back to Nadia. “Can your Special Forces units provide the more, ah, ‘volatile’ gear my people will need?”

  “We should be able to,” Nadia said, pondering the question. Then she shrugged. “But if not, I’m quite sure Major Macomber and Captain Schofield can pull a few pieces of Iron Wolf equipment out of their sleeves that should do the trick.”

  Once their meeting with Wilk and Martindale broke up, Brad and Nadia rode the elevator back downstairs. Neither felt much like speaking. The planning session had been a welcome distraction. But now it was time to face a much sadder duty.

  Still wrapped in silence, they got off on the floor occupied by the hospital’s intensive care unit. There were no guards on this dimly lit floor, only somber doctors and nurses who moved quietly about their rounds—working diligently to save those who might be healed and providing palliative care to those who were dying.

  They joined Whack Macomber in an almost deserted hallway near the rear of the ICU. The big man stood at a bank of windows, looking in on a small private room.

  Patrick McLanahan lay motionless in a hospital bed, hooked up to a bewildering number of IV drips, monitors, and other machines. His eyes were closed. A ventilator whirred rhythmically, steadily pumping air into lungs that no longer functioned on their own.

  Brad swallowed hard. The lump in his throat felt baseball size. He hadn’t seen his father in the flesh for more than two years. That was something he’d yearned for, even dreamed about. But not like this. Not seeing the man who had always been so alive, always so physically and mentally intense, reduced to this skeletal, silent, unmoving husk.

  “It’s a hell of thing,” Macomber said. His voice rasped. “Your dad was always such a tough, contrary son of a bitch, I thought for sure he’d go out riding some crippled bomber down in flames, fighting to regain control right up to the last damned second.”

  “Me too,” Brad agreed sadly. He felt tears welling up and tried not to let them come. He felt Nadia’s arm slide around his waist. “How long has he got?”

  Macomber shook his head. “The doctors won’t make any predictions. Not explicitly, anyway.” He leaned forward, pressing his big hands up against the windows. “But your dad’s in a coma now. They say his body is just slowly shutting down—one system at a time. Without support from the fricking robot, nothing works on its own.”

  “God,” Brad whispered.

  “Yeah,” Macomber said grimly. “So who knows? Two days? Three? No more than four at the outside.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  Ivan Ulanov, Gryzlov’s private secretary, politely ushered Major General Arkady Koshkin into the president’s inner office. The head of Q Directorate fought hard to conceal his apprehension about the likely outcome of this cyberwar conference.

  After the spectacular success of its opening salvos, Operatsiya Mor was beginning to bog down. The Poles and their allies must have found and neutralized the pieces of malicious code Russia’s hackers had embedded in their railroad and air-traffic control networks. Instead of the expected spate of train crashes and air accidents caused by their viruses, Koshkin and his hackers saw nothing. Over the same period, several efforts to reinfect the Polish banking system had been intercepted by new cybersecurity protocols. The efforts the AFN and its mercenary technology specialists were making to tighten their security were paying off. And while Q Directorate’s hackers had played their parts in the recent airliner hijacking and assassination attempt to perfection, there was no doubt that Variant Six as a whole had failed to achieve its intended objective.

  A patient leader might accept these less-than-stellar results as the inevitable friction involved in the first use of any cutting-edge weapons technology. Unfortunately, no one could say that patience was one of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s virtues.

  To Koshkin’s astonishment, Gryzlov jumped up from behind his desk and came around to greet him with a firm grip and a friendly smile. “Arkady! It’s good to see you looking so well,” the president said.

  Still wary, the Q Directorate chief allowed himself to be led over to a group of comfortable chairs surrounding a small coffee table. Viktor Kazyanov and Gregor Sokolov were already seated. He could tell that the ministers of state security and defense were equally puzzled by the president’s evident good mood. Failures of any kind usually sent the younger man into towering rages that were hard on his subordinates and office furniture.

  When Gryzlov took his own chair, Kazyanov cleared his throat nervously. From the gloomy look on his broad face, the intelligence chief knew he was treading into deeper, shark-filled water, but he couldn’t think of any safer alternative. “Mr. President, I deeply regret the inability of Major Berezin and his team to complete their mission, but—”

  Gryzlov cut him off in midsentence with an offhand gesture. “Save the abject bowing and scraping for another time, Viktor,” he said. He shrugged. “Variant Six was always a high-risk enterprise. True, I would have been delighted to see that fascist piece of shit Piotr Wilk dead, but I guess some of life’s pleasures must be deferred to another day.” His expression turned frostier. “At least Berezin and the rest of his direct-action team had the decency to get themselves killed, rather than be taken prisoner.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kazyanov agreed. “Only the lookout man, Sergeant Savichev, escaped. He is exfiltrating now, through Germany.”

  “You think he will succeed?” Gryzlov asked.

  Kazyanov nodded. “I do, Mr. President. Savichev is a highly experienced operative. I expect him back in Moscow within forty-eight hours.”

  “Very good,” Gryzlov said. “You’ll have your people thoroughly debrief him, I presume? To get some sense of how Berezin and the others muffed their assignment?”<
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  “Yes, sir.”

  Gryzlov nodded casually, apparently satisfied. “Excellent. But once you’ve squeezed every last bit of information out of Sergeant Savichev, I want him disappeared. So thoroughly removed that it will be as though he never existed. There must be no slipups. No loose ends. Do you understand me, Viktor?”

  Plainly rattled, Kazyanov hurriedly agreed. “Yes, Mr. President. Absolutely.”

  Despite himself, Koshkin shivered. It was one thing to know intellectually that Gryzlov was callous and coldhearted. It was quite another to hear him so dispassionately order the death of a brave and loyal soldier, a veteran whose only real fault was to have survived when all his comrades were killed. He risked a furtive glance at the ministers of defense and state security. They showed the same sense of scarcely concealed foreboding. How safe were any of them around Gennadiy Gryzlov?

  “Let’s move on to pleasanter topics, shall we?” Russia’s president said easily. He looked around the circle of anxious faces with a wry smile. “Oh, cheer up, gentlemen. I’m not going to order your heads chopped off.” Koshkin and the others responded to his quip with dry, dutiful laughs. “At least not yet,” Gryzlov said reflectively.

  They stopped laughing.

  His smile grew broader. “By now you must have realized that Operatsiya Mor is only the preliminary phase of a much larger plan.” He raised an eyebrow at their evident confusion. “No?” He shrugged. “You surprise me. I thought it was obvious that so large an expenditure of our resources for so little potential gain made no real sense.”

  This cavalier declaration staggered Koshkin. Was the president really serious? How could he so easily dismiss destroying the Polish-led Alliance of Free Nations and destabilizing Warsaw’s government as minor objectives?

  Gryzlov read his bewildered expression and laughed. “Come now, Arkady! Apply that fine mind of yours more fully to the question. In the broader strategic sense, was it wise to have revealed the existence of your directorate’s revolutionary new cyberweapons this way, by employing them against the Poles and their allies—instead of saving them as a surprise for more dangerous and powerful opponents? Especially when we could have achieved many of the same results through more conventional military and political means?”

  Koshkin thought about that. What Gryzlov said was accurate, he realized. By now, every country with any advanced technological capability was racing to develop defenses against Russia’s cyberweapons—along with computer viruses and pieces of malicious code of their own. And, if nothing else, Operatsiya Mor so far had shown that these weapons, while incredibly destructive when used intelligently, were not invincible. He had been so caught up in the excitement of seeing his brainchildren put to work that he had never stopped to question the president’s first choice of targets. He frowned. But if Gryzlov knew all this going in, why had he pushed so hard for the cyberwar attacks on Poland and its allies in the first place?

  Again, Gryzlov must have read his mind. “Now you begin to ask the right questions! Well, better late than never, eh?”

  Koshkin felt his face redden in embarrassment. Over the course of a long career in Russia’s intelligence services, he had grown used to believing himself to be the smartest man in any room. It was humiliating to realize the president had manipulated him so easily—simply by playing on his own eagerness to prove the foolishness of those who had scoffed at his cyberwar theories.

  Gryzlov shook his head. “Don’t let it distress you, Arkady. Your weapons have proved their worth beyond doubt. More important, their successes have set the stage perfectly for the rest of my broader plan.”

  At that, Gregor Sokolov sat forward. So far, the minister of defense had been conspicuous by his silence. It was no secret that he was one of those who had mocked the idea that computer viruses and other cyberweapons would ever play a significant role in war. “And what exactly is your plan, Mr. President?” he asked carefully.

  “First, understand that what you hear today is to go no further than the walls of this office,” Gryzlov said in reply. “Nothing will be committed to paper or to any electronic form of communication. No memos. No reports. No analyses. No e-mails. No texts. Nothing. Is that clear?” Koskhin and the others nodded. “Nor will you discuss any aspect of this plan with any of your subordinates or colleagues. Or even among yourselves outside my presence,” Gryzlov went on. His voice was implacably cold and utterly precise. “The punishment for violating my orders on this subject is death. Vy ponimayete? Understand?”

  Again, they nodded, though somewhat more slowly this time. What the president proposed was completely unprecedented, even when one took his deep-rooted paranoia about spies—especially those controlled by the American mercenary Martindale—into account. This level of classification was also dangerous. If there were hidden flaws in Gryzlov’s scheme, restricting any knowledge of its very existence, let alone the details, to such a small circle made it far less likely they would be found before it was too late.

  Satisfied that he had their acquiescence, if not their full comprehension, Gryzlov laid out more of the details of what he intended. He spoke persuasively and forcefully, and the scope of his ambition was, quite literally, breathtaking. It was also, Koskhin admitted to himself in silence, the logical—though almost insanely daring—response to the humiliating defeats periodically inflicted on Russia by enemies armed with superior technology. It also explained much about the Perun’s Aerie complex that he had never completely understood.

  When Gryzlov finished, they each sat quietly, inwardly considering the implications of his proposed high-stakes, winner-take-all gamble.

  Koshkin broke the silence first. “When can we expect this next phase of your plan to go into effect?”

  Gryzlov shrugged. “That depends entirely on the Poles and their Iron Wolf mercenaries. In the meantime, we will press ahead with Operatsiya Mor as previously agreed, inflicting as much damage as possible even in the face of their strengthened cyber defenses.”

  “We could leak the information you want them to have,” Viktor Kazyanov suggested tentatively.

  Gryzlov shook his head. “No. That would be the worst thing we could do. For all their many faults, Piotr Wilk and this American troublemaker, Martindale, are not simpletons. Knowledge too easily obtained would only make them suspicious.” He smiled. “But our enemies are resourceful. I am confident they will solve the riddle I’ve set before them—in one way or another.”

  UNDERGROUND PARKING GARAGE, DOMINION TOWER, MOSCOW

  LATER THAT NIGHT

  Deep in thought, Igor Truznyev stepped out of his private elevator and into the first floor of the Dominion Tower’s two-level underground parking garage. A blast of cold air greeted him.

  Absentmindedly, he buttoned up his thick winter coat. His conversation yesterday with Sergei Tarzarov had not gone according to plan. For all his native cynicism and hard-won experience, the old man had proved unexpectedly loyal to that shallow, impetuous fool, Gennadiy Gryzlov. Instead of acknowledging the validity of Truznyev’s criticisms, he had steadfastly focused on the security breach Truznyev and his paid spies had ripped open. A breach Tarzarov stubbornly characterized as potentially treasonous. In the end, they had parted on bad terms, each persuaded of the other’s folly.

  Truznyev scowled. Losing Tarzarov’s trust permanently would be bad on many levels.

  First, it would be bad for business. Unofficial commissions from the old man represented a significant fraction of Zatmeniye’s net profits. More significantly, it would make the task of ousting Gennadiy Gryzlov and reclaiming power in the Kremlin far more difficult. It was no secret that the assorted and sordid group of politicians, generals, and business oligarchs who backed the younger man did so largely because they believed Tarzarov could keep his wilder impulses under control. Without his backing, Gryzlov would be vulnerable. With it, he was probably safe. Worst of all, if Tarzarov began seriously investigating the events of the past year or so, it was possible he could dig up damning
evidence against Truznyev—evidence Gryzlov would gladly use to rid himself of a potential rival.

  The former Russian president shook his head in frustration. Much as it galled him, he was probably going to have to go hat in hand to the old man and apologize. To sweeten the deal, it might even be necessary to toss him a bone—the name and methods used by one of the agents who’d cracked Gryzlov’s security, either Yuri Akulov or Taras Ivchenko. Breaking faith with his own people like that would be unfortunate, but it was better that one of them should suffer than Truznyev himself face unwelcome and possibly lethal scrutiny.

  Well, he thought, tomorrow would be soon enough to decide if he needed to go that far to win back Tarzarov’s favor. Perhaps he could dream up a less humiliating and less costly plan overnight.

  “Your car is waiting, Gospodin Prezident,” his senior bodyguard said deferentially. Like most of the ex-FSB and KGB agents he employed, Leonid Perov always addressed him as “Mr. President.”

  Drawn out of his dark thoughts, Truznyev looked up. Sure enough, his Mercedes S-class limousine sat idling a few meters away. The other two guards assigned to his inner security detail were already in position on the other side of the car, ready to intervene against any perceived threat. “Thank you, Leonid,” he said.

  The sudden sound of a car door opening echoed through the garage.

  Startled, Truznyev swung his head toward the sudden noise. At this late hour, the parking garage was usually deserted. Perov and the other bodyguards went on alert. Their hands darted inside their coats, reaching for the miniature PP-2000 submachine guns each carried in a concealed shoulder holster.

  A slender woman with short blond hair climbed out of the back of a black sedan parked near the garage exit ramp. She wore a long gray winter uniform coat. Her shoulder boards bore the single star of a major. Though her features were attractive, her expression was dour. Settling her peaked officer’s cap firmly on her head, she strode briskly toward Truznyev.