Dark Winter

by Anthony J. Tata

  “RPG!” Cassie’s voiced bellowed through his headset.

  * * *

  In Yazd, Iran, Cassie dove to the ground. The rocket propelled grenade whooshed overhead. Her ankle screamed at her to take better care. She rolled to her left as machine-gun rounds walked up the tunnel toward her at the opening. Behind her the Mossad fire team fired 40mm grenades from an M4 rail mounted launcher. The Jordanian army fire team laid down a base of fire with M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, spitting nearly one hundred rounds per minute at whatever lurked in the darkness.

  Using her night vision googles, Cassie studied the tunnel, mostly obscured by haze. After their return fire, everything went silent save the distant echoes rolling through the mountains behind them.

  “Team one, move,” Cassie said. “Stay in the middle. About one hundred meters on left is the room. Carports on left and right, so watch for stragglers.”

  “Roger,” Hattab said. He led the team down the center of the tunnel to avoid the funnel effect from ricochets that would hug and ride along the walls. He was tossing smoke grenades ahead at regular intervals.

  Cassie pulled up behind the two Mossad agents who were dragging the Iranian Key on a poncho litter as if he were wounded.

  After moving the distance required, Hattab slowed the single file train of soldiers until they could see the door. For good measure, he tossed several smoke grenades into the deep recesses of the cavern, beyond the door to the biometric chamber.

  Cassie dashed forward and pulled open the door, which was unlocked. Given the chaos that they had created twenty-four hours earlier, she was not surprised. Beyond the door, the lights were bright and everything seemed to be in working order.

  They saw four walkways leading to the center stage, one from each cardinal direction, it seemed.

  “Which one is for the Iranian?” Hattab asked.

  From an airplane flying somewhere far away, Mahegan whispered into Cassie’s ear, “Seven minutes.”

  “Any ideas? There’s four chambers,” Cassie said.

  “Gorham got away first, so he was probably the one closest to the tunnel,” Mahegan said. “The North Korean general was last, so he was probably the one farthest from the tunnel. That narrows it down by fifty percent.”

  “Wasting time,” Cassie said, though she eyed the walkway nearest them and thought Gorham. Then she looked across the stadium and saw the walkway leading to the center and thought North Korean. She looked left and right and saw two identical walkways. There was an anomaly in the seating area at the end of the walkway on the left.

  “Shayne said the Russian president shot their Key. Is one of them occupied?” Mahegan asked.

  “Precisely,” Cassie said. Then to Hattab, she said, “This way.” She sprinted as best she could to the right, counterclockwise, around the rim of the stadium. She found the portal open and ran to the base while remaining outside. She saw the biometric scanners had reset. Six big red Xs.”

  “Better be right,” Hattab said. “Or Israel, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia go up in flames.”

  “Four minutes,” Mahegan said into Cassie’s ear.

  “Four minutes, guys. Let’s go.”

  One of the Mossad agents was waving a smelling salt under the nose of the Iranian Olympian, the biometric key. And the only way to stop a nuclear attack on three nations. One man was inserting a syringe into the Iranian’s massive forearm.

  “Sodium Pentothal,” Hattab said.

  “Truth serum?”

  “The only chance,” he said.

  “The machine is ready,” Mahegan said into Cassie’s earpiece. “Sean says it is prepped. Three minutes.”

  The smelling salts woke the Olympian, who appeared dizzy. He muttered a few words in Farsi and his eyes darted between the men hovering over him. He stood.

  “Into the chamber,” Hattab said.

  “I shoot myself first,” Persi said. “I am loyal Iranian. Persian.”

  “Running out of time,” Cassie said.

  They stood at the entry. They needed him to walk to the Biometric Scanning Station twenty meters down the ramp.

  A man wearing an Iranian general’s outfit rose from the stadium seating, lifted a rifle, and shot Cassie and Hattab. Both dropped to the floor.

  “Quick!” the general said in Farsi. “With me.” The man raced up the steps and hugged Persi. “What is your name?”

  “Alexander Persi.”

  “What is your occupation?”

  “Persian Olympic champion boxer.”

  “What else?”

  “I am the key to the nuclear arsenal.”

  “The arsenal is in trouble. We need you to walk through the chamber and confirm your identity.”

  “But General—”

  “Do as ordered, soldier!” the general admonished.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Into the chamber. Now!”

  “One minute,” Mahegan said into Cassie’s ear.

  Persi walked down the chamber. Cassie watched through barely open eyes. The green check mark appeared for Gait. He stood in front of the biometric scanner. The green check mark appeared. Eyes. Then Facial. Then Handprint. Then DNA. Persi didn’t speak.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  The general ran down to the platform and was outside of the chamber, shouting, “Say your name!”

  Cassie felt the ground begin to rumble. Top Secret intelligence speculated that Yazd was the location of one of Iran’s fully functional nuclear missiles. She visualized a hatch opening somewhere. A missile smoking in the ground, ready for take-off. The thirty second countdown being watched by someone, somewhere.

  Persi turned his head and looked at the general.

  Remembering the truth serum, Cassie whispered, “What is your name? Ask him, ‘What is your name?’ ”

  “What is your name?”

  “Alexander Persi,” he said.

  The green check mark appeared. Voice.

  “Alexander Persi. Approved.”

  Cassie heard Mahegan say to O’Malley, “Go.”

  By her count they had maybe twenty seconds to overwrite the launch code. The ground kept rumbling like a heavy earthquake. The building shook. The fluorescent lights high on the ceiling rattled in their casements.

  “Got it,” O’Malley said.

  “Hear that?” Mahegan asked Cassie.

  “Yes. You sure? This place feels like we’re in a volcano.”

  “Sean says he got it.”

  The vibrations reached a peak, then suddenly tapered. She visualized the fire and smoke disappearing, being sucked through the ventilation shafts. Crisis averted, for now.

  “Rubber bullets cause any damage?” Mahegan asked.

  “Nothing Bald Head Island won’t cure,” Cassie said. That was her cue to him that she was fine. 100 percent there. Lucid. Normal. Nearly euphoric. Their acting scheme had worked. The Mossad agent who had been hiding in the background the entire time had done so purposefully to avoid being seen by the Iranian Key. He had packed a full Iranian general’s uniform and donned it during the rush into the tunnel, during the darkness with all of the machine-gun fire dueling back and forth.

  Cassie stood, reached out a hand to Hattab, who was too late to stop the Mossad agent from running into the biometric chamber.

  “No!” Hattab said.

  The ersatz Iranian general lifted an Uzi and fired as he ran down the walkway, striking the confused Iranian boxer in the head, killing him.

  The Iranians wouldn’t be able to launch their nuclear weapons anytime soon. Further, five tubes had opened. Five missiles had been smoking and burning. Five signatures had been picked up by American intelligence, which was being shared with Israeli intelligence, most certainly.

  Cassie looked at the Mossad agent dressed as an Iranian general. She looked at Hattab and the rest of the team. She wondered what came next for them. Was there a way out? She’d come so far.

  The door burst open and Iranian infantry soldiers began spilling through, firing at
will.

  CHAPTER 20

  GORHAM SAT IN THE LEATHER RECLINING CHAIR IN THE OFFICE OF his Boeing 777 Extended Range aircraft and studied the maps and images of the wars. “Done,” he said, tapping the RETURN button. He had disabled the jet’s transponder and they were flying off radar. Military radars would track them when they came within range, but they were not registering with the standard civilian air traffic control radars.

  Stasovich sat by his side looking like Frankenstein’s monster as the big man dumped a bottle of antibiotics and painkillers on the mahogany table. He had a vertical line of stitches along his forehead where Captain Bagwell had cut him with a scalpel. His left arm was in a sling where she had lacerated his hand and forearm. He had bullet wounds that had been surgically repaired.

  So much for cyber war, Gorham mused.

  Using a bandaged hand, Stasovich picked up two Cipro tablets and two OxyContin tablets, tossed them into his mouth, chewed them like candy, swallowed and smiled a broken-toothed grin at Gorham. “Where we going, boss? The Korean Key is dead. The Iranian Key is dead. Chasing that North Korean tang almost got us killed. Two of our satellite systems are trashed. Two of our conventional ground command centers are destroyed. All we’ve got are the Russians and from the way you made it sound, you didn’t really give them anything to be excited about with respect to you, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” Gorham snapped. “Khilkov is a moron.”

  “But a smart moron,” Stasovich said, somewhat counterintuitively. “A moron that has outsmarted you, in a way. He kills his Key and there’s nothing left. His hackers have built the great wall of Russia inside the Internet, the Dark Web, the Deep Web, you name it. Anywhere you can type commands, you’re going to be detected, shadowed, assessed, engaged, and destroyed.”

  “This is true. It still means we have one play with the Russians, right? They have 7,000 nukes and the U.S. for all intents and purposes is probably unable to respond with 98 percent of its arsenal, if not less. We are watching the U.S. as they try to patch the weapons, but it is a slow process. So, a few nukes are able to respond. Russia can handle that. What we need is the Russian nukes on top of the United States with the two thousand nuke scenario.”

  “My point,” Stasovich clarified, “is that the Russians will do what they want to do. With the temporary setbacks in North Korea and Iran, will the Russians have confidence in our capabilities going forward?”

  Gorham looked at Stasovich, but thought of Draganova. Where was she? He needed her to help him think his way through this problem set. The boxes in his mind were scattered all over the floor. Unpacked, open, sealed. All varieties. The therapy was only good as long as it moved him forward in his thinking. He needed to make two calls, one to Draganova and one to Russian President Khilkov.

  Plugging his iPhone into the satellite relay of his airplane he dialed Draganova and got the same message, the same sultry voice, the same rejection. Where was she? Next he dialed Khilkov and the president answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, Gorham?”

  “What is your time line for launch?”

  “I am independent actor on world stage. I don’t follow your time lines.”

  “I reviewed the tapes of the ambush at the tunnel. When we were leaving. Your car took a hit, a door flew off, Serena fell out, but you kept going.”

  Khilkov paused. “Why do you mention this?”

  “Because I saw the big man, Mahegan, grab Serena and take her. They got on the helicopters and flew back to Afghanistan. Then he took her onto an airplane. Your dog is alive. I know where she is. I can get her back for you.”

  “She’s just a dog,” Khilkov said. “Insignificant in the larger scheme of things.”

  Gorham heard the hollow bluff for what it was. “It is sad to hear you say these things, Konstantin. Serena is a beautiful animal. Your best friend. Perhaps your only friend.”

  “Stop,” Khilkov demanded.

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. Serena is like my child. I thought she was dead, was mourning her loss. You’re sure she’s alive?”

  “Positive. The Iranians overran the basecamp in Farah, Afghanistan. Forensics teams there found the DNA of my chief operating officer, Shayne, and your Serena.”

  “Is your Shayne still alive?”

  “I’m not sure,” Gorham said. He was ambivalent. A trade was no longer possible because the American captain had escaped. Shayne had been important to him, but he seemed to be doing okay so far without him. He would miss him as a friend, but so be it. He could get a dog, too.

  “What is your proposal for retrieving Serena unharmed?”

  “They are on an American cargo plane headed for a refuel stop in Hawaii, right now.” Gorham watched his radar screen. Manaslu app developers had created an app similar to Flight Aware, but which also included all military aircraft. He’d disabled the civilian aircraft function and was watching American military jets and planes buzz around the Pacific Rim. He watched the action unfold near the USS Eisenhower and assumed that was the team that had disabled the Manaslu facility in North Korea. He watched the C-17 command and control aircraft come in for a landing at Hickam Air Force Base, most likely to refuel.

  “And your solution is what? Or shall I say, your bargain is what?”

  “Execute your two thousand missile contingency plan within the next twelve hours. I know where the airplane is going. I will secure Serena for you.”

  “Where is the airplane going? Where are they taking her?”

  “That’s not something I’m prepared to share, Konstantin. You know this,” Gorham said.

  Static filled the silence. His 777 droned along through Russian airspace.

  “I could have you shot down, you know?”

  “But you won’t. And you don’t want to waste resources on tracking me when you’ve got the Americans off your coast ready to invade, right?”

  “The Americans are not invading. They prefer the localized action of North Korea and Iran. They do not want to take on Russia.”

  “Well, let’s make sure they don’t then. Your two thousand missile scenario. The next twelve hours. You get Serena back. Seems like a fair trade.”

  “Serena is worth every missile I have,” Khilkov muttered. An uncharacteristic removal of the mask of command. “I had planned launches on just the American ICBM locations and their major cities. The five hundred missile scenario. What are another fifteen hundred missiles if it means getting Serena back?” He chuckled.

  “I agree,” Gorham said. “Say, in the next twelve hours?”

  “That was my plan. We are still making good progress in Europe. Almost through the northern part of Germany. Berlin has fallen. Everything, for us, is going according to plan. Though I understand it is different for the rest of the alliance.”

  “Yes, but they are not as critical as you and your country, Mr. President. We need Western Europe to fall to conventional attack. The Iranians are still locked in battle in Amman and the Golan Heights. The North Koreans are moving toward Pusan and focusing the American military there. We want all of this done by tomorrow, before the first American tank division can deploy anywhere. Now, I’ve got some coordination to do. Let me know when you have begun the launch sequence.”

  After a brief pause, Khilkov said, “I have started the launch sequence. Mark your watch. Twelve hours from now, Russia will fire two thousand missiles at programmed targets.”

  “Excellent. I will secure Serena and deliver her back to you,” Gorham said.

  “If you don’t, well, I know where you live,” Khilkov said. He laughed from deep in his belly, a bellowing chortle that continued until Gorham hung up the phone.

  Does he know where I live? Gorham wondered. Because that was important information. A nuclear warhead in Idaho Falls was entirely different from a nuke on his house. Two completely different things. One would kill him, for sure; the other he would easily survive.

  He flipped screens to ManaTra
c, the military jet tracker app his developers had created. He saw the XC-17 airplane take off from Hawaii, heading east toward the United States. Had they figured it out? They had stopped the ComWar systems in Iran and North Korea by targeting the ManaSat constellations. Gorham figured that the U.S. was slow in getting its antisatellite missiles reconfigured to be accurate. The Trojans his team had emplaced on the military weapons were not exceptionally sophisticated, but they did take time to locate, diagnose, delete, and repair. Even a common cold took a couple of days to recover from. And if he still had Shayne by his side, they would be disrupting U.S. attempts at repairing the infected weapons systems. Still, the two-year remote access Trojan program had been successful. The American and Allied militaries were inaccurate, defenseless, and confused. The bureaucracy had stymied individual efforts to warn the U.S. DoD of the threat of cyber warfare. Most generals and admirals were too linear, analog in their thinking to conceptualize the cyber dimension of combat.

  They still had AOL e-mail addresses from thirty years ago, Gorham mused. His Mmail system had become the new standard, overtaking Gmail and all other forms of e-mail. He had hundreds of millions of e-mail addresses he was monitoring, archiving, and exploiting. There was no system, secure or unsecure, that was not within his reach. Manaslu had won dozens of information technology architecture contracts with the DoD and the Manaslu Deep Web had secret back door networks to each of them.

  He bounced his signal off the secure Bap-Bird satellite and pinged the secure phone inside the XC-17 that was a route to . . . Idaho Falls? The ManaTrac software was able to hack into the autopilot of the airplane and mine for the destination latitude and longitude.

  “So, they know,” Gorham said to himself.

  “Who knows? And what do they know?” Stasovich asked.

  Gorham had forgotten the big man was next to him. “General Savage and his merry band of JSOC geniuses are headed to our facility in Idaho Falls.”

  The phone rang. A man answered.

  “Line unsecured,” the man said.

  * * *