So that’s what they mean by ‘so dark you can’t...’
Already-weak security lights sputtered and failed.
Ann Shapiro blinked twice. A second before she could barely make out the spot—fifty or so meters to her front—where the tunnel made a slight turn. Now even the M16 in her grip was invisible in the blackness.
“The lights are out, Sharpie.”
“Very good, Cruiser. I can see that.”
“Like hell. I can’t see anything.”
She held up her hand. “So that’s what they mean by ‘so dark you can’t...’”
“Shhh. If we can’t see them, we have to listen for them. Maybe this will help.” He dug in his pocket for a chemical light, cracked and shook it, then tossed the light stick down the corridor. It landed and rolled. About forty meters away, its dull glow cut a feeble green circle of light out of the gloom. Outside that circle all was inky darkness.
“Then again,” Cruz said, shrugging his shoulders, “maybe not.”
A long moment passed.
“Cruiser?”
“Yeah, Sharpie?”
“I think we’re in really deep shit.”
What readers and reviewers are saying about The Best Defense…
Topical, intelligent, brutal and thrilling. This ain’t no girlie book!
~K.G. McAbee, award-winning author of A Fine Impersonation and Escape the Past
The Best Defense
by
Todd A. Stone
NovelBooks, Inc.
Douglas, Massachusetts
This is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Todd A. Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. For information, address NovelBooks, Inc., P.O. Box 661, Douglas, MA 01516 or email [email protected]
NBI
Published by
NovelBooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 661
Douglas, MA 01516
NovelBooks Inc. publishes books online and in trade paperback. For more information, check our website: www.novelbooksinc.com or email [email protected]
Produced in the United States of America.
Cover illustration by Brent Bowers
Edited by Karen Babcock
ISBN 1-59105-101-0 for electronic version
ISBN 1-59105-126-6 for trade paperback
For Terri,
who kept the faith.
The author wishes to say special thanks for the insight, attention to detail,
tact, and long-suffering patience of Ms. Karen Babcock, editor.
Prologue
West gives Russia $20bn to make nuclear sites safe
June 28, 2002
Wire News Service
Russia emerged as the biggest winner at the G8 summit yesterday when the leading western industrial powers agreed to spend $20bn over the next 10 years on decommissioning weapons of mass destruction in the former Soviet Union.
After Russian President Putin’s success in getting Russia accepted as a full member of the “rich men’s club” on Wednesday, he was given promises of financial aid to help Moscow deal with the thirty thousand nuclear weapons and the stocks of enriched uranium and plutonium it inherited when the Soviet Union broke apart in 1991.
The plan was strongly backed by the Bush administration, which is putting up half the money, and was also supported by Europe and Japan as part of the G8’s attempt to curb global terrorism.
Russians not talking about huge underground facility
January 27, 2003
Internet News Service
U.S. intelligence personnel and some lawmakers are growing increasingly concerned over a massive underground complex some suspect is either a nuclear storage facility or a nuclear survival complex for Russian military and government officials.
According to a report on Tuesday in NewsWorldNetDaily.com, the huge underground facility is located beneath a mountain in the Urals. U.S. intelligence officials estimate that it is at least the size of a small town, able to accommodate several factories and up to ten thousand people.
“U.S. intelligence sources [say] that the Infernesk underground complex is but one of many secret, deep underground nuclear war-fighting sites in Russia, many of which have been significantly upgraded during the Cold War at a cost of billions of dollars,” said the online newspaper’s report.
The complex is located close to one of Russia’s remaining nuclear weapons processing sites, giving rise to speculation it could house a nuclear warhead storage site, a missile base, a secret nuclear weapons production center, a directed energy laboratory, or a buried command post. “Whatever it is, Infernesk was designed to survive a nuclear war,” said the news site on Tuesday.
Chapter One
Master Rick Hu’s Martial Arts Academy
Warrenton, Virginia
Two black-belted combatants wove a violent, beautiful dance back and forth across the Dojo’s matted floor.
Master Rick Hu took measure.
Kick. Low block. Punch. Right block.
White-Gi-clad arms and legs flashed.
Punch. Left block. Jump kick. Back up, spin and dodge.
A sweating Valerie Macintyre retreated, on the defensive. Her opponent was bigger, stronger, and faster.
High kick. High block. Spinning roundhouse kick. Val took the blow on her left side. Her ribs ached.
Counter punch. Blocked. She was off her game. Reverse side-kick. Blocked again.
Front snap-kick. Her opponent’s downward block whacked into her shinbone. The pain shot up Val’s leg and detonated between her eyes.
Jimmy Grimes didn’t even try to hide his grin.
Val punched hard, connecting. Grimes’s big frame absorbed the force without slowing. He pressed in harder.
Round-house kick. Her left thigh took the blow. There would be an ugly bruise soon. Punch.
Weak block. Punch. Slow block. Combination punches. Her arms flailed against the onslaught. His strikes penetrated, pummeling her right shoulder.
Master Hu rose from his chair.
Val stumbled back, off balance.
Grimes dropped and came in low, a sweeping kick catching Val’s forward leg and jerking it out from under her. She tumbled down in a heap, rolling to get some distance. No luck—Grimes flashed in, one hand grabbing her practice uniform’s lapel, his other arm raised above, knife-hand cocked to strike the deathblow.
“Enough!” barked Master Hu.
~*~
Two Army officers left the Dojo and crossed the parking lot. The big one was a full head taller than his female counterpart, who stood all of five-foot-four in her Army regulation half-inch black pumps. He walked with an easy gait.
Major Val Macintyre hurt with every step.
“That’s the third time this week,” Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Grimes said as he tossed his gym bag into the cab of his pickup. “You’d think you’d stop coming back for more whuppins’.”
“We’ll see about next time,” Val said. She opened her Saab and put the bag with her martial arts uniform in the back.
“Full contact martial combat isn’t a game,” Grimes said. “You could get hurt.”
“That leg sweep was out of bounds. Would have cost you points in a match.”
“Points or no points, you went down.”
“And Master Hu chewed you out.”
Grimes shrugged and slid int
o his driver’s seat. “I won. I’ll take the ass chewing. And face it—I was winning anyway. Not my best win, though. You started with a disadvantage.”
“Which was?”
“You think I’m going to be politically incorrect and say something about men being physically stronger than women? Not me. I didn’t get this far by not knowing how to toe the party line.”
“I thought you were beyond that ‘women don’t belong in the Army’ bullshit.”
“Women absolutely belong in the Army. No quarrel there. Recruited my niece myself.”
“And in combat?”
“I’ll defer to official Department of Defense Policy.”
“Which is self-contradictory and hypocritical.”
“It’s still policy. But lemme ask you three questions.”
“Fire away.”
“First, when it comes down to a one-on-one, head-to-head contest of wills and brute strength, who’s gonna win, the man or the woman? The fight may not always go to the biggest and strongest, but those sure as hell are the folks to bet on.”
“A smart fighter won’t let it come to that. A smart fighter leverages her strengths and neutralizes her opponent’s advantages.”
“Sure she does, but no matter how smart any fighter is, in the end it comes down to who has the most brute force.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“You don’t think so? Second question.”
“Shoot.”
“How’s your shoulder?”
Her muscles rang with pain.
“Three,” Grimes said. “What do you do when there’s no Master Hu to call a time out?”
Val’s cheeks reddened. She checked her watch.
“We’re going to be late. “
Headquarters
Special Security Regiment 23
Master Warrior School
Ditchnesk, Russia
Captain Konstantin Stanev’s personnel dossier was impressive. The officer was a paratrooper and a graduate of both the Russian Special Forces—Spetsnaz—Academy and Ukrainian Commando schools. The platoon he led as a lieutenant won the infantry competition three times. Promoted to captain, he commanded a company of airborne motorized rifle troops, receiving the highest ratings for performance in the field. In staff positions, his initiative and attention to detail earned him the praise of his superiors. His assembled efficiency reports called him “model”. Transcripts from the University testified to his intellect. The official photo showed a tall, blonde-haired young man with strong eyes and a lean muscularity evident even through the dress uniform.
Colonel Viktor Dimonokov, Commandant, Master Warrior Development School, and Commander, Special Security Regiment 23, looked up from the folder. Before him the young Russian captain stood at rigid attention.
“It is not every day that an officer arrives with assignment orders endorsed by the Army Chief of Staff, Central Asian Strategic Zone, himself. Are you a spy?”
Of all the possible questions Stanev anticipated, one questioning his loyalty had never occurred to him.
“No, sir. I am not a spy.”
“Then who are you?”
He stared at Dimonokov. The man had his personnel record, his university transcripts, and the background security investigation and personality evaluation Stanev had undergone as conditions of his duty on the Strategic Zone’s General Staff. Stanev wondered what more needed to be known.
“An officer of infantry. One who has had his fill of staff work and wishes to command good troops.”
“We do not have ‘good troops’ here, Captain. Here we make Russia’s next generation of gladiators. Here we create Master Warriors. And you wish to lead them? The soft life of a general’s aide will be left far behind. The Special Security requires the ultimate in dedication and commitment. There is no turning back.”
“I understand.”
No, you do not, Dimonokov thought, but you shall.
Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, Virginia
The elevator carried White House Chief of Staff Randolph Bretnor and his escort deep into the bowels of the CIA building. Three security checks and ten minutes of traipsing whitewashed corridors brought them to the operations room. A nod from the guide passed Bretnor through a final check. A heavy door slid open. Bretnor waved off his escort and entered the soft darkness of the operations center.
He took a step to the right and surveyed the large room. The operations center had an odd, six-sided layout, with floor-to-ceiling video display screens covering the three walls directly in front of him. The floor tiered downward, and computer operators and intelligence analysts manned banks of computers, satellite terminal controls, and telecommunications software. Soft light came from small lamps on each operator’s station and from dimmed wall fixtures. The video screens glowed a dull gray. All seemed calm, yet the low hum of conversation and the scurrying of technicians and computer operators revealed the tension.
Expensive toys, Bretnor thought. Pricey technology that had flat missed Al-Qaeda’s planning for 9/11.
CIA Director Paul Cachoris touched Bretnor’s arm.
“Morning, Randy. Your boss and the rest of the audience have already rubbed shoulders and are settled in.”
“Sorry I’m late. The Boss issues orders and then runs off,” Bretnor said. “Somebody’s got to tend to the Devil.”
“That’s as clear as your latest domestic policy statement. Like mud.”
Bretnor chuckled.
“Damn eloquent mud, though,” Bretnor said. “The President waves his hand and says ‘I want.’ Then I have to work out the details, which is where that guy with the long tail and pitchfork is…you know, ‘the devil is in the details’?”
“It’s the burden of all those who sit close to the throne. No problem. You’re not the only one who’s late. Ambrose’s two officers dashed in here just a couple of minutes ago, and our target also got a late start.”
“Accommodating, aren’t they?”
“The Russians are our friends—allies even, now that we’re all hunting Al-Qaeda together.”
“With friends like those, who needs Osama bin Laden?”
“Just quoting policy.” Cachoris paused. “It cost big bucks to re-task the satellite to do this show and tell.”
“The Boss has to see for himself what we’re up against. So do the people from the Hill.”
“Coming up in ten seconds, sir,” an operator said. “We’ll have about five minutes on station.”
The three screens glowed brighter, then filled with jagged lines of visual static as the satellite and the computers established communications.
“Pipe it into the theater,” Cachoris said. “I’ll adjust the resolution from in there.”
The flat relief of the Russian steppes appeared in shades of gray, with a tiny white dot near the center of the picture.
“Projectors on…they can see it in there now, sir.”
“Showtime,” said Cachoris. He and Bretnor slipped through a side door.
~*~
The Ops Center’s briefing theater held forty well-padded theater-style chairs facing three screens worthy of any small cinema. Cachoris often thought that only things missing were drink holders and popcorn, although the words “Operation Contain Hydra—Top Secret—No Notes” superimposed in large red block letters and centered on the screens also lent a more sober tone. The ushers were different than in most movie houses, too. Suburban mall cinemas normally did not have armed CIA Operations Security Specialists with metal detectors posted at each door. Movie ushers were concerned with who came in. Cachoris’s unsmiling guards made sure nothing went out.
The President sat front and center, the best seat in the house and one reserved for him. State, Energy, Homeland Security, and Defense had either Secretaries or Senior Assistants present. The Joint Chiefs were in the second row. Members of the House Armed Services and Senate Select Committees were in their appropriate pecking order positions. In the back, Cachoris recognize
d General Jack Ambrose and his two almost-late staff officers, along with a slew of congressional aides and miscellaneous assistant bureaucrats.
Bretnor nodded and headed to take his place by his Chief. Cachoris sidestepped to a control podium. He pressed a button, allowing a technician in the control room to hear his commands. A discreet a wireless speaker went into his left ear.
“Split screen and magnify, please, “he ordered quietly. “Put the one over fifty thousand on screen two. Bring the center screen down to tactical level. Keep strategic on three.”
A disembodied voice acknowledged and an unseen hand in the next room did his bidding. The left-hand projection remained unchanged as the center and right screens zoomed in to closer views. On the right Bretnor saw a 1:50,000 map view come up. The red dot of the mission’s target blinked its way along a road, rapidly closing on the blue dot that marked the ambush team’s location. The center projection zoomed in again and again, until Bretnor could see the white, man-shaped body heat signatures of the deployed ambush team.
“Magnify target on two,” Cachoris said. The right screen’s map dissolved as the operator changed the scale. An overhead view of three trucks bouncing along a well-worn highway came up. The computer superimposed three hollow red rectangles on the cargo area of the center truck.
“To review the briefing you received earlier,” Cachoris said, addressing his audience, “the vehicles on the screen to your right contain three one-megaton tactical nuclear warheads. The warheads were originally deployed with Soviet Union ground forces in the Ukraine. They were returned to Russia as part of the Threat Reduction Program several administrations ago. They have been in storage at Seversk, Russia, a town formerly known as Tomsk-7, one of over two hundred Russian nuclear weapon and atomic fuel storage facilities. These facilities were closed or secret cities—their existence was not acknowledged by the Soviet Union.”
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