by F X Holden
Their plan, for what it was worth, was not to try to kill Russians, not directly anyway. They wanted to find fat, soft targets and take them out, making life on the island a real pain for the invaders. So far, they’d identified a few good ones: an electricity generator, the electricity junction that connected the town to the big pumped hydro plant, not to mention the pump itself, up on the bluff above them, and a vehicle park full of jeeps and small trucks. There was also a choice target in the hydrogen fuel tanks down by the harborside catalytic processor, but Perri figured he would need more than his little .300 Winchester to set them off and he knew if he did, the town would really suffer, with winter approaching.
Anyway, he wasn’t looking to blow stuff up. A bullet in the engine block of a generator or the radiator of a jeep would do the job nicely. If they could find one of those missile launch sites, he was pretty sure they would be connected to radar antennas or computers. A few .300 magnum rounds into one of those would probably mess it right up.
But an ammo dump? Maybe he should be thinking about blowing stuff up. He watched the men below at work for a few minutes more.
“Would they cover the roof in sandbags too?” Perri said, thinking out loud.
“Sure,” Dave replied. “What’s the point of protecting the sides if you don’t protect the top? You could drop a bomb right through the roof.”
“I don’t think the sandbags are meant to stop a bomb,” Perri said. “I think the sandbags are just in case there is an accident. So the whole town doesn’t go up if some dumb ass throws a cigarette on top of a crate of explosives.”
“Oh yeah. Then probably you don’t want to sandbag the roof. You got to have somewhere for the explosion to go, so you probably want it to go up, not out the sides.”
“Exactly what I’m thinking man,” Perri said. “And we can get a nice angle on the roof of that carport if we move back up about fifty yards, wouldn’t you say?”
Dave looked behind them to where the bluff rose up dramatically, “For sure.”
Perri rolled onto his back, looking up at the young boy sitting beside him, “That’s enough for today,” he said. “I want to get back to the tank and check that ammo we took from the general store. I’m hoping there’s some steel tips there to get me through the aluminum roof of that carport. And I have to clean the barrel.”
“When are we coming back?” Dave asked.
“Later tonight,” Perri said. “While most of the bad guys are asleep.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Dave said glumly.
TETE A TETE
It was neutral territory. An unprepossessing single-story building at 9 Prechistensky Lane in the Khamovniki District, with a peeling yellow painted facade, white trim around the doors and windows, and a small Danish flag hanging over the doorway.
“This is the place ma’am,” Ambassador McCarthy’s aide announced, as her security detail stepped out of their cars and took position on the deserted street. It was five in the morning, and they had gone to great pains to be sure there were no media or Russian FSB security service goons tailing them. Devlin had been ordered by her Secretary of State to deliver a message to the Kremlin, just in case they hadn’t got the message from the President’s phone call to the Russian President, or the multiple other channels through which the US was screaming in outrage at the Russians.
Devlin looked dubiously out the window at the modest building, “Have I been here before?”
“Yes ma’am,” her senior aide, Brent Harrison said. “Six months ago; dinner with Frederik, King of Denmark and his wife, Princess Mary.” The man had a memory for every engagement, and had memorized just about every street in the city too, so if he said she had been here, she must have.
She gathered up her things, “It seemed bigger at night.”
She was met at the door by her junior aide, Lucy Sellano, who had come out earlier to ensure arrangements were in place. “Foreign Minister Kelnikov is here ma’am. He had a military attaché with him - there was some confusion about who should be present for your discussion.”
“I hope you told them it was a four-eyes meeting,” she said. She wanted to be able to speak frankly to Kelnikov, even though he would assume the conversation was being recorded. They had both agreed on the venue, but that didn’t mean Kelnikov trusted the Danes not to eavesdrop. It was Devlin’s experience that Kelnikov trusted no one.
“Yes ma’am,” Sellano said, a wispy brown strand of hair across her forehead bobbing up and down. As they turned a corner they nearly walked into a large, square-shouldered man in his fifties, with thin blonde hair and round-rimmed glasses. He held out his hand. “Ah, Ambassador Vestergaard, ma’am,” Sellano said. “I think you know each other?”
“A pleasure to welcome you to our humble abode again Devlin,” the Danish Ambassador said warmly. “But under less convivial circumstances than last.”
“Yes, sorry about the intrusion Jørgen,” she replied. “I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient.”
He smiled, “I have told the staff there is a security sweep being conducted this morning and they are not to arrive until eight. I myself have a breakfast appointment,” he said, and indicated the empty corridor with a sweep of his hand. “Mit hus er dit hus,” he said. “The place is yours. Your guest awaits.” With that, he bowed slightly and left them alone in the corridor.
“So, their military attaché is…”
“Sitting with the Russian security detachment in the kitchen having coffee,” Sellano said. “We’ll join them…” she stopped and opened the door to another corridor. “When you are ready to come out, just text me; the arrangement is that we will leave first.” She looked at her watch. “We have plenty of time. The Danish embassy staff won’t be here for another two hours at least.”
“Good,” Devlin said, handing the woman her coat. As she did, Harrison handed her a file, and she looked at it. Printed across the top of the folder in letters almost big enough to be visible from space if she stepped outside with it was the title ‘OPERATION LOSOS’. She was going to make sure Kelnikov could see it clearly too. It was an unsubtle message to the Russian Foreign Minister that US Intelligence was not blind to the Russian plan to take over Saint Lawrence as a permanent maritime base. She opened the cover … okay, it was a pretty thin file, but Kelnikov didn’t need to know that.
“You talked to the analyst?” she asked Harrison as they walked. “Williams?”
“Carl Williams, yes,” Harrison said, pointing to the NSA designator on the first page. He smiled, “CIA head of station wasn’t very happy about us going straight to ‘the Ambassador’s new pet’ as they describe him…”
“Then he should try giving me more than open source wire reports I could just as easily get from one of the TV news networks,” Devlin said.
“Right … well, most of what Williams pulled together is signals intel, plus some human source stuff from CIA, but not much. He said he figured due to the situation you wouldn’t give him enough time to task any of our assets for primary intel collection, and you’d want something you could hang over Kelnikov’s head, so he directed his NSA crypto-bots to focus on trying to identify at least the code name for the Russian operation.” Harrison’s finger was resting on what looked like a Russian GRU military intelligence bureau memo, with the code word LOSOS marked clearly across the top. Devlin’s rudimentary Russian wasn’t good enough for her to be able to read it, and she didn’t even know if it was real. “He figured if we had the code name, the Russians might assume we had it all.”
“Smart guy,” Devlin said. “I like how he thinks. At worst, they’ll wonder how much we know, at best, they’ll assume we know it all and might have to modify their plans on that assumption.”
“Good luck ma’am,” Harrison said, stepping aside so her security detail could get past him into the waiting room.
“It’s the red door at the end of the corridor ma’am,” Sellano said, pointing.
Devlin put the file under her arm and straighten
ed her jacket. Except we know virtually zip about why they’re there. All we know is that the Russians are swarming all over Saint Lawrence, they’ve declared they’re acting under the authority of an Arctic treaty we never signed up to, and they’re putting enough firepower on that island to create a no-go zone for US aircraft and ships over the whole of the Bering Strait. Devlin sighed, and wiped her teeth with a fingertip in case there was any lipstick there. And they don’t look like they’re planning to leave anytime soon.
Kelnikov rose and buttoned his jacket over his expansive waistline. He didn’t smile, but gave her a small and almost ironic bow, “Madam Ambassador.”
Without any ceremony, she sat the LOSOS file down on the table between them and sat down opposite, “Minister Kelnikov.”
They looked at each other for a moment or two. There was no protocol to cover this. Devlin saw his eyes flick to the folder, but saw no immediate reaction. Give him time, she thought. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. The challenge now would be for her to reveal a little of what she knew, without giving away just how little.
“I believe you have a message from your government,” Kelnikov said. “Perhaps you have reconsidered your position and are willing to enter into negotiations for a new treaty guaranteeing free passage for all nations through the Bering Strait?”
It was all she could do to contain herself from swearing. The Russians had sunk one of their own ships, either themselves, or through a proxy. They had invaded US territory under the guise of a nuclear reactor emergency aboard one of their subs and then they had made wild allegations in the media about a US cyberattack on their sub, before declaring that they were taking control of the sea lanes and airspace over the Bering Strait to ‘guarantee freedom of navigation for all’ in the name of the Barents Euro-Arctic Council of Nations. Williams’ NSA report also stated that they had shot down two US reconnaissance drones. They had warned that any US military ship or aircraft breaking their no-go zone would be considered a threat to international shipping and dealt with ‘accordingly’.
“Minister, we are under no illusions about your real purpose on Saint Lawrence,” Devlin said. She reached down and took up the file, opening it to the first page as though she was referring to a briefing document. “Your Operation LOSOS? Is that how it is pronounced? It is nothing less than an old-fashioned land grab.”
That got a reaction. Kelnikov’s eyes narrowed. “The United States sinks one of our freighters and disables one of our submarines, risking hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives from possible nuclear disaster, and you accuse us of an ‘old-fashioned land grab’?”
“It is only you and I in this room,” Devlin reminded him. “So can we cut the hyperbole and discuss whether there is any way we can resolve this peaceably? Because I can tell you Roman, we are at about one minute to midnight on this one,” she said, referring to the infamous Doomsday Clock. Any student of history would know the last time it had been at one minute to midnight had been during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
“If the US is willing to negotiate a new Arctic treaty, this can be resolved very quickly,” he said equably. “Why could you possibly imagine we have any interest in taking control of a tiny island full of Eskimos and whale bones?” He was fishing now, she could feel it. Trying to see how deep her intel ran.
She pulled aside the first page of her dossier and ran her eyes over the list underneath.
“Let me tell you what I know, not what I imagine,” she said. “You have more than 500 ground troops on the island, four portable anti-aircraft systems capable of shooting down aircraft over US airspace, one submarine with a miraculously repaired reactor…” she paused and raised her eyebrows, “…and five littoral naval vessels, armed with ship to ship and ship to air missiles.” She looked up, seeing a slight smile on the man’s face. “You have a three-ship naval task force én route to the island from Vladivostok, you have activated almost every unit in your Eastern District air army, moved a squadron of Hunter drones to Lavrentiya and are staging continuous patrols up and down the Strait with manned Sukhoi and Mig fighters …”
“All in order to secure the waterway for international shipping…” Kelnikov began again, but she held up her hand.
“And…” she said loudly, interrupting him, “And, you have the entire population of the island in the villages of Gambell and Savoonga under lock and key. They are being held hostage.”
“No,” Kelnikov insisted. “Clearly your intelligence is unreliable. The local inhabitants have been moved to safe locations, so that there will not be any civilian casualties if you are foolish enough to respond militarily to our intervention.” He tapped the table, “They are being given food, shelter and even advanced medical care. Which I understand is more than their own government has given them for decades. When the situation is stable, we will allow the International Red Cross access to the residents to verify they are safe and well.”
“It is not your place to allow anything!” Devlin protested. “These are US citizens, being held against their will by the armed forces of Russia.”
“Protected,” Kelnikov corrected, leaning forward, “Against a rogue nation which has already demonstrated a reckless and violent disregard for the rules of international diplomacy and commerce.”
“You would be wise not to treat us like fools, sir,” Devlin said. “This aggression has one purpose, and that is to achieve Russian control of Saint Lawrence Island, and this we will not abide.”
The minute she spoke, Devlin saw her assertion was somehow wide of the mark. Kelnikov smiled and sat back in his chair, relaxing visibly. His eyes, which had been flicking between her file labeled LOSOS, and her face, settled now on the sleeve of his jacket as he picked lint from it, as though he had suddenly lost interest in the meeting. Struggling to maintain her outrage, Devlin continued, “Our demand is simple,” she said. “All Russian military forces and any other Russian nationals will depart Saint Lawrence within 48 hours, that is, by 1800 hours Tuesday, Alaskan Standard Time...”
“Please,” Kelnikov interrupted her. “Don’t tell me. You were about to say … ‘or there will be grave consequences’.”
“No,” Devlin replied. “That is what our President is saying to the world press and to your President. The message I have for you is a little more direct.” Now she had his attention again. Good.
“Go on.”
“I have been authorized to tell you that if you do not withdraw by this deadline, Russian forces on Saint Lawrence will be wiped from the face of that island with a fire and fury unlike any seen this century.” She drew a breath, “And the United States will hold Russia entirely responsible for any and all civilian casualties that result from your refusal to comply.”
As she walked to her car, Devlin glowered. She had delivered her message, but there was no victory in that. Kelnikov would pass the message to his President, of that she was sure. But the State Department’s theory that this entire affair was about creating a conflict over Saint Lawrence to test US willingness to defend its interests in the Bering Strait waterway had fallen flat on the floor. Kelnikov had smirked, as though by accusing them of it, she was just showing how ignorant she was. Dammit.
Her aide Harrison knew her well enough not to hit her with a barrage of questions as they climbed into her car. As it pulled away from the curb, he let her gather her thoughts. Finally, she spoke.
“This NSA Russia analyst, Carl Williams.” she asked, patting the file on her knees. “Tell me he’s on station here in Moscow, not in some bunker in Virginia.”
“Yes ma’am,” Harrison said. “NSA secondment. He’s attached to IT Support in the Environment, Science, Technology and Health Section.”
“But he’s a spook?”
“Yes ma’am, undeclared. Just arrived in country I believe,” Harrison said. In fact, he knew exactly how long Williams had been in Russia. Forty-two days.
“Get him on the phone,” she said, holding out her hand. “Encrypt.”
Harrison
pulled out his phone, and then tapped on the app that gave him an encrypted connection via a US Embassy VPN to other Embassy staff. He looked up and dialed Williams, then handed it to Devlin. “I asked him to stand by his phone, just in case,” Harrison said.
“That’s why I love you,” Devlin smiled and heard the ringtone stop to be replaced by a deep bass voice.
“Hello? Williams speaking.”
“Mr. Williams, this is Devlin McCarthy, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said.
“No ma’am,” he replied. No fumbling, fawning chit-chat. She liked that.
“When I get back to Spaso House I’d like to see you there, I need your thoughts on something,” she said.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied. “But can you come to me instead?”
She blinked, “I beg your pardon?”
“Ma’am, there’s someone you should meet,” he said. “But I can’t bring him to Spaso House. You have to come to my office in the New Annex. Or, under it, actually.”
She put her hand over the telephone and turned to Harrison, “What do you know about this guy?”
Harrison shrugged, “Crack analyst, earned his stripes in China before being sent here, an expert in neural networks…”
“Neural what?”
“Artificial Intelligence,” Harrison explained.
She put the phone back to her ear. “OK Mr. Williams, your office it is. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
“You’d better allow a bit more time ma’am,” Williams said.
She smiled, “Are you going to tell me your computer is showing heavy traffic on the ring road Mr. Williams?”
“No ma’am,” he replied. “For the paperwork. I’m pretty sure you don’t have the code word clearances for what I want to share with you.”
Roman Kelnikov was also finishing a phone call from his car, but it was a much more straightforward one. His call was to the Defense Minister, Andrei Burkhin. They discussed the American threat, and whether it was possible that the words ‘fire and fury’ were meant to convey a willingness to use tactical nuclear weapons.
