“The data would suggest there are multiple areas with good potential for improvement.”
“Good thing you joined the Army, Valerie. You are such a lousy diplomat. How fucked up is it?”
Off Highway 5
Southern Range, Ural Mountains
44 miles northwest of Infernesk
Russian Federation
There were no tracks to show where Wolfe’s two trucks had pulled of the highway and driven two hundred yards into the thick forest; the team had carefully used tree branches to scour away any signs. Beneath the thick firs and under a layer of radar-scattering and infrared, heat-dissipating camouflage netting, the vehicles were invisible from the air. Even a wayward hunter with keen eyesight, or a determined search team with advanced thermal imaging devices, would have to walk within ten feet to find the trucks.
If either made it past Wolfe’s team, which was deployed in a loose defensive perimeter as well hidden as their trucks.
“It’s been over an hour since the Hinds went over,” Sergeant First Class Ted Koston told Wolfe. “We could get back on the road.”
“Too dangerous during daylight. We move only at night.”
“Think they’ll be waiting for us at the border?”
Across the Kazakhstan border lay a clandestine American military airfield, compliments of the Kazak government and designated for use by US Special Forces in their war on terror. It also made a good transshipment and re-supply point for teams like Wolfe’s.
“If I were them I would be. That’s what they’re expecting, so we’re not going to the border. We’ll never make it, even driving at night.”
“We have three nukes in light, temporary storage containers. And we have the body of a US soldier. We’re not going to just bury them and leave.”
“Never said we were.” Wolfe pulled out a map. “We’re going to wait until well after dark. Let the Russians search at night for a few hours. They’ll miss us, figure we’re already gone, and go to bed. Then we’re going to a US facility right here.” Wolfe pointed to a spot in the mountains.
“Infernesk? Never heard of it”
“That’s the idea.”
Office of the President
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russian Federation
The President of the Russian Federation was intrigued.
“The Americans offer a good price.”
His Defense and Interior Ministers were not so sure.
“We would be trading our status as a world power for a fistful of dollars.”
“The State spent billions of rubles, hundreds of lives, and fifty years of effort to build our nuclear arsenal. To simply sell it to the highest bidder is unthinkable.”
“What makes a world power is economic might,” the Russian President said. “From economic might flows political might. Political might is backed by military might. With the money the Americans offer, we could pull oil from Siberia instead of uranium. We could let them have the privilege of paying for guarding and maintaining and deprocessing the nuclear material. We could let them baby-sit these atomic white elephants we can never use. The Americans want these badly, and we have no use for them.”
“And what of the people’s reaction?’
The President said, “The people need not know.”
“It is your intention to accept the offer?”
“I intend to be a better capitalist than the capitalists themselves. When one has a product which another desperately wants, and which one has no use for, there is but one good solution—make the sale, but first raise the price.”
Commander’s Quarters
Infernesk Special Munitions Depot
Fighting a cloud of emotional numbness and dried tears that pasted eyes her shut, Christine blinked herself awake. For a few seconds she lay still, curled on her side in a tight ball, not remembering where she was. Blurred memories flitted back and she grimaced, despair and shame following on the heels of the images. Christine’s throat tightened, but she steeled herself not to cry again. Then slowly, lest the movement be too loud or too disturbing, she craned her neck to look at the clock beside the bed.
Thin red numbers glowed 4:30.
She slid her legs from under the covers and down onto the floor, then eased herself out of bed. In the chill air, goose pimples dotted her naked body and her nipples stiffened. Almost unconsciously she reached up to touch her breasts, then jerked her hand back. They were sore, and although she could not see in the half-lit bedroom, she felt sure there were bruises. Not wanting to remember at all, she remembered he had been rough.
Deep, regular breathing from the still sleeping figure told her that her movements went unnoticed. Christine was glad. The last thing she wanted was to see the look in his eyes.
She felt around the room, finding her clothing. It was a painful process, as much from her aching head as from reliving the previous evening. He’d offered her liquor, and when she finally understood what she was to give to him in exchange for his silence, she drank to dull both her feeling and her conscience.
Christine dressed in the dark, then slipped outside.
Main Gate
Infernesk Special Munitions Depot
The gate guard woke only after Wolfe’s two trucks had pulled in and Wolfe had closed the Depot’s gates behind them. Wolfe shook the semiconscious US soldier until she blinked awake. Sergeant Koston stood by, scowling.
Private First Class Susan Phillips’s sleepy eyes grew wide. Standing in front of her were two huge men in dirty civilian clothes. Both stank of mud and sweat. Both had AK-74 rifles slung over their shoulders. Her Russian assistant, a member of the contract force that provided security for the depot, was still out cold. He stank of cheap Russian cigarettes and too much vodka.
Susan blurted, “Who the hell are you?”
Wolfe shoved his ID card under her nose.
“Where’s the commander’s office?”
“Straight ahead down the main road, about a hundred meters. But he’s not there.”
“I suppose he’s sleeping too, like everyone else. Where’s his billet?”
“The officers’ quarters are down that way,” Susan pointed. “But Major McRyen left strict orders he was not to be disturbed tonight.”
“Seems to be a common desire.” He turned to Koston. “Post two men here. We’ll take the rest of the team and the cargo to their headquarters building. Then you and I are going to find the man in charge and make him very, very unhappy.”
~*~
“How in hell,” Koston asked Wolfe as they searched for the Depot’s commander’s quarters, “do these people see around here?”
“Beats me. Half the security lights are out, the security force is asleep, and the commander doesn’t give a shit.”
They heard footsteps. Out of habit, they melted into a shadow alongside a building.
A female soldier, uniform disheveled and her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, walked by unaware.
Single Officers’ Quarters
Infernesk Special Munitions Depot
Christine stepped inside her two-room quarters and carefully locked the door behind her, as if locking the previous night outside. She took two deep breaths, carefully hung up her jacket, then walked to her bedroom. Her favorite stuffed animals waited for her on her bed. She flipped on the bathroom light, downed four aspirin, and turned on the shower. Her clothes went into the hamper, and only then did she notice that she’d left her brassiere behind. There was nothing to do about it now, she told herself. She certainly wasn’t going to ask him for it back.
Let it go, it’s over, Christine told herself, it doesn’t matter. She stepped into the shower and let the warm water course down her body.
Christine rubbed soap into her washcloth until it was full. Then, despite her bruises, she scrubbed herself again and again, harder each time, trying to wash away the dirty feeling inside by scouring the skin outside. The shower turned cold, but still she washed.
The sound of running water drowned out her so
bs.
Commander’s Office
Headquarters
Infernesk Special Munitions Depot
If this phone line is as secure as the rest of the facility, Wolfe thought, the whole world is listening in.
“We need to talk, sir. Face to face and ASAP.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Jack Ambrose said. “There were some things I asked you to pick up at the PX for me.”
“I have those, but we lost…”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make those arrangements, too. Leave the other items there. Find me when you get in and we’ll have lunch.”
Two minutes’ worth of details later, Wolfe hung up the phone.
“I’m going back to the states to give General Ambrose a full report,” Wolfe told Koston. “Where in hell is McRyen?”
“Moving very slowly,” Koston said. “He’s dragging a major hangover with him.”
“He can drag it through his out-processing,” Wolfe said. “If I have my way, he’ll be a civilian and somebody else will be in charge of this place within seventy-two hours; a week at the outside.”
“Got anybody in mind, boss?” Koston grinned.
“She’s a good woman and a fine officer, and I wouldn’t wish this dump on my worst enemy.”
Officers’ Quarters
Special Security Master Warrior School
Ditchnesk, Russia
Angry shouts woke Stanev from where he had fallen asleep at his Spartan room’s tiny desk. A thick paste lined his mouth, his eyes felt glued shut, and his stack of paperwork was less than a third finished. He heard doors slamming and the sound of many pairs of boots clumping madly down the hallway.
From outside his window he heard the growls of the Special Security Training Sergeants.
“Move with a purpose, comrade officers, if you wish to become leaders in the Special Security. A little morning exercise is in order to keep your heads clear and your souls clean.”
Stanev grabbed his boots from beneath the sagging springs and thin mattress that passed for a bed—not that he’d had more than a couple of hours each night to feel its discomfort. He tugged them on his swollen feet and staggered his way out of his cubicle of a room. He was one of the last ones out, and the training sergeants were waiting for him.
“So, Stanev, you almost chose not to join us, eh? And with all this for you. Most inconsiderate.”
It was too dark to for him to see the sergeant snarl, but the menace was plain enough in his voice. “Take your place, sir, at the back of the formation.”
But Stanev hesitated. He saw no formation. Then he looked down. The other officer trainees were on their bellies, doing push-ups.
“They have already assumed the position. Now get to the rear.”
He started to run, but the faceless NCO threw an arm in front of him, then with a sweep of one leg caught Stanev’s ankles. Stanev fell hard, the fist-size gravel that lined the area cutting his hands.
“No, Captain. The Special Security is always tactical. Crawl. On the double. Move!”
He scooted as fast as he could through the rocks, the sergeant standing over him, cursing him for not being there already. An occasional boot in his side prodded him to move faster, bruising his ribs in the process. The rocks’ sharp edges tore through his uniform and scraped away chunks of skin.
“There. Halt. Exercise, Stanev, exercise. It cleanses the soul of any girlish weakness, any womanly softness. Today we have this special morning surprise for you. Ready? Exercise!”
Konstantin Stanev did push-ups.
As he came up, the NCO put a boot on top of Stanev’s back and shoved, slamming him down on to the rocks. The other Russian training sergeants gathered around.
“Exercise, Stanev, exercise. We have started this morning’s activities a full two hours early, just so that you may have our full attention.”
He shoved himself up with the help of a boot in the ribs. Then another boot slammed him down again.
Dimonokov stood in the background, watching and nodding his approval.
“Very good, Captain,” the NCO said. “Welcome to the Special Security, Captain. That is one repetition. Repeat…Repeat…Repeat…”
Formal Dining Room
The Peacock Lounge
Perm, Russia
Each of the forty tables was covered with crisply ironed linen tablecloths and set with shining silver dinnerware. Vintage wine filled heavy crystal goblets. Servers in rich velvet jackets and starched white shirts waited attentively but discreetly, just out of earshot. The steak was butter-soft, the vegetables the precise combination of crisp and melt-in-your-mouth.
There were but two diners: Alexi Dimonokov and his guest, General Pavlik Roskotovitch, Army Chief of Staff, Central Asian Strategic Zone. Besides his Army position, Roskotovitch also served as the Strategic Zone’s senior officer of Russia’s primary military organization responsible for nuclear munitions—the 12th Main Directorate of the Ministry of Defense, Glavnoye Upravleniye Ministerstvo Oborony, more simply known as the 12th GUMO. The Directorate had functions similar to the US Defense Nuclear Agency for nuclear weapons surety and US military units responsible for physical security of nuclear weapons assigned to US forces.
As a member of the bureaucracy and with a brother in the Special Security—the Army force designated to supply security for Russian nuclear weapons sites—Alexi was privy to the GUMO’s secret history and organization.
Unlike most other major directorates of the Russian Defense Ministry, the secretive 12th GUMO was effectively invisible to public. Military research and scientific test organizations, as well as military units engaged in the immediate operation of nuclear munitions, were subordinate to 12th GUMO.
In the first years after the breakup of the Soviet Union, the 12th GUMO maintained over forty large central nuclear munition depots filled with tactical, operational/strategic, and strategic nuclear weapons withdrawn from non-Russian areas of the former Soviet Union, or otherwise taken off line. When the cost of maintaining multiple facilities became too high, it was 12th GUMO personnel who consolidated the nuclear weapons at the Infernesk Depot. In addition to units for transporting nuclear weapons, the 12th GUMO had exclusive control over a variety of research, development, and support facilities.
Alexi knew three other things about the general: he was Viktor’s boss, he was on Alexi’s payroll, and he had gambling debts that even the sale of half the national treasury would not pay off.
But the sale of a 12th GUMO-secured nuclear weapon might.
“You treat me too well,” said Roskotovitch. “Poor soldiers such as I never eat this well. Only black bread and soup with the troops.”
“An empty stomach ruins good judgment. Someone in your position must make good decisions. That is why you have friends like Alexi, to make sure you eat well, drink well, and do not have to worry about trifles such as money.”
“You have been very generous. I can only hope that my service to my country and to you have been sufficient.”
“Come, come. You have been very helpful to your friend Alexi on many occasions.”
Alexi’s cell phone rang. He felt his stomach turn.
“Forgive me.” He pulled the phone from his pocket. The caller was brief.
“Bring him to my office,” Alexi told the caller. “I will be there in two minutes.” He snapped the phone shut.
“It is impossible to find competent subordinates,” Alexi said. “I must attend to a small detail. Forgive my ungracious absence, I will return shortly.”
He motioned the servers to refill the general’s wineglass.
~*~
Alexi’s office above the lounge was big and dark. Flanked by two oversized thug underbosses and their bodyguards, Alexi sat behind his heavy mahogany desk. Josef stood, called on the carpet, in front of him.
Alexi listened, mind already made up, to Josef’s story.
“They had troops, two hundred at least. And a dozen HIND helicopters. I saw a general in charge. The t
rucks were destroyed. It was at a bend in the road, Highway 5. I stopped and confronted their commander and demanded, as a Russian citizen, to know what had transpired. I think I frightened him, because he lied and told me that there had been only an accident.”
“A general, you say? And you bullied him? This is truth?” Alexi knew it was not.
“No, no general. But I do not want to say who I saw in charge.”
“You will tell me. Now.”
“I am sorry, Alexi. It was Viktor.”
“My brother wears a uniform and his Special Security is charged with protecting such items. Did he have them?”
“He must have. But now the Americans at Infernesk have them.
“Ziven is the boss of the Infernesk security and labor force.”
“I know Ziven. He is a pig. All the guards work for him, and they are pigs too.”
“His men saw Americans, not in uniform, bring in two trucks and guard them closely.”
“So the Americans are working with the Special Security?”
“What other explanation can there be?”
Viktor and the Americans. Alexi thought hard. Viktor had ambushed Alexi’s men and was now giving the weapons straight to the Americans. Viktor who would not help his own brother. Viktor who wanted more money for his stupid secret army medical projects. Viktor who treated him like less than dirt.
This was the last straw.
“So the Americans have the weapons and you do not.”
“I tried my best. Alexi, do not be angry.”
“I am never angry. What good does it do to become angry at what cannot be helped? One can only learn from his mistakes, or the mistakes of others.”
“I learn fast, Alexi.”
Alexi pulled a pistol out of his center desk drawer. He shot Josef three times in the chest.
“He did not learn fast enough,” Alexi said as he put away the pistol. “Learn from his mistake. I do not tolerate failure.”
~*~
Alexi’s plan was fully formed by the time he walked back into the dining room. He no longer wanted to be a broker; he would instead corner the market.
The Best Defense Page 5
