A marine lieutenant-general in one of the chairs that were not placed in the top echelon of importance raised his hand, as if wanting the attention of the teacher in school. Brad Middleton, the deputy national-security adviser, had been listening closely to the Russian, as had everyone else. Instead of parsing the real meanings, he had noticed something odd.
President Thompson looked at him, nodded. “What is it, General Middleton?”
“Nothing about what he said, sir, but something he did not say.” Middleton once had been the head of a secret and elite group of special operators known as Task Force Trident, whose triggerman had been Kyle Swanson. Although Swanson was now a CIA operative, Middleton stayed in close touch with him as a back-channel contact. “Pushkin made no mention of the CIA agent who has been rescued. She was likely going to be a bargaining chip to be swapped at the Narva bridge, probably for Colonel Strakov. Having her was an important part of their overall plan, a vital piece of propaganda, and now she’s not there anymore.”
“Go on,” said Thompson. He had not mentioned the agent called Calico either.
“This whole thing has been running like a finely tuned engine, sir. But with her safely back in our hands, they have lost important leverage, she has spilled the beans on their intention, and Russia is suddenly off balance. They had claimed she was meddling in the election over there, so it would have been very easy for Pushkin to throw her in your face as the reason for them being on high alert. He may still be planning to do that.”
“Your conclusion?”
“Pushkin does not know that she is gone. Nobody told him. The president of Russia is out of the loop. Moscow is not running the show.”
33
TALLINN, ESTONIA
COLONEL TOM MARKEY USHERED Kyle Swanson into a chilly and dim room at the NATO Cooperative Cyber-Defence Centre of Excellence. This was his domain, a never-never land of computer hackers, programmers, nerds, theoreticians and developers who pulled strings of electrical DNA from the air and wove secret computer projects that ordinary mortals probably would never see. Parts of the work would eventually leach into the public domain, but the Centre was primarily Europe’s electronic war room. “Welcome to my world,” Markey said with pride.
“We’re running out of time, Tom.” Swanson was not in the mood for a show-and-tell computer seminar.
“In real-world time, you are right, but within these walls, the clock is not really much of a factor. Have a seat over there.” Markey pointed to a row of chairs positioned around a silvery table. The colonel took the chair at the head of the display board, flanked by two military assistants, one each from Latvia and France.
“Now, Kyle, what did you tell Atkins about your personal preference for handling the situation at the bridge? Do you recall?”
“Of course. I wanted to point a laser at the bridge and blow it up with a load of smart bombs. The answer was negative because I probably couldn’t get down there in time with the needed manpower support and equipment.”
“Right.” Markey said. “We conquer time and distance in here on a regular basis, so let’s first get you in place. Captain Vauban? Captain Augulis? Please build the Narva bridge.”
The shiny tabletop began to hum with a low vibration, and light blue lines rose from the edges and divided into squares that shimmered with flashes of energy and formed a visible plate that floated a foot above the surface of the table. “That is our canvas, Kyle. Now we paint,” Markey said.
A column of blue numbers scrolled in the air, and a blizzard of photographs slashed along one side. It reminded Swanson of the calibrations he saw in the scope of his Excalibur sniper rifle. The computer was thinking.
“We are creating a hologram. With unimaginably exact measurements and images gathered over the years, we have every inch of the Narva bridge on file, almost from every possible angle. Other bridges, other things, other places, too, of course.”
“I thought you guys just hacked e-mails.”
“Cyberwarfare can take many forms, my friend. Snooping on e-traffic is not our purpose.”
The floating image took shape, squares and rectangles flashed into being, found position and shrank to pixels, which then were sharpened until finally the image of the Narva bridge hung before Swanson, correct in every detail. “Amazing. Nice picture, but so what?”
“Wait for it. Captain Vauban, proceed to real time, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the French officer. He slid his fingers across a flat-surface pad that took the place of a normal keyboard and directed new instructions into the holographic interface.
There was more shimmering and the image smoothed out even more until Kyle realized with a start that he was seeing it exactly as it was, with such clarity that even the water beneath was rippling. Two men in police uniforms walked along an edge.
“The Russians closed it this morning, Colonel,” said the Latvian. “That’s why there is no traffic.”
Markey nodded. “Very well. Now, Kyle, take that pen from the holder before you. Click it on and a laser will fire up that is slaved through our system to the image.”
Swanson pushed his thumb down on a small bulge on the titanium-encased laser. A bright, emerald beam popped to life from the end. He danced it across the bridge, a bright green lance of light with a small circle as a pointer. “Are you saying that I can paint the bridge from right here?”
The colonel laughed. “Exactly. Wherever you rest the point, the bombs will strike with precision. I suggest that we now call NATO and tell them we are ready on this end. All they have to do is scramble a plane suited up with a package of GBU-12s.”
“Son of a bitch,” Kyle muttered.
IVANOGROD, RUSSIA
Levchenko was back outside, having found his headquarters a claustrophobic hive of busy people, while out in the open, he felt the energy of his mighty force pulling at its leash. The night had been short and gloomy, but had provided the needed cover to move the pieces into their final jump-off positions. The fog and haze had cleared to give him a better view of the city of Narva sitting there, waiting for him to come and take it.
As always, the situation demanded late changes. That damned fool mayor had let the American spy escape and gotten himself captured in the process! The chief of police had personally called Levchenko several hours ago with that news and for instructions about what to do with him. For months, the Russians had been inserting Spetsnaz soldiers into the security forces across the river, and the chief was a Russian by birth and on the payroll.
How much did the spy know? The police chief reported that she had been isolated in a holding cell prior to the escape. The mayor then came on the phone and promised she knew nothing of the morning’s plan. He had been forced by a mysterious and murderous agent to fetch her. Two officers were dead. Levchenko detected the lie in the nervous voice, but he had to analyze the situation as it stood at the moment.
It didn’t really matter. The mayor should still come across the bridge at nine o’clock. One hour from now. The idiot could be dealt with later.
As the Russian watched from the rampart of the fortress on his side of the border, he saw some dots appear above the western horizon. He grabbed his binoculars and zoomed in as a flight of four Estonian Army choppers rushed in to land, and soldiers popped out and formed into ranks. He matched that move by ordering a platoon of assault troops to the front of the line to provide support for the advancing tanks. The police chief would try to interfere with the Estonian troops over there, but that was a losing proposition in the long term. No matter, thought the general. His forces would brush that light force aside like wolves going through a family of rabbits.
The biggest decision he had made that morning was to keep all of this new information to himself. Spreading it to higher levels might cause fear in Moscow, and he did not want any interference from afar. He was the commander on the ground, and he would command.
THE SPIRIT OF KANSAS
Lizzie Borden and Calamity Jane
had been in the air for hours after taking off from Royal Air Force Fairford base in Gloucestershire, England, and were loitering in a racetrack pattern at forty thousand feet before getting their final instructions. They were the chosen ones. “Fuck, yeah,” exclaimed U.S. Air Force Major Elizabeth “Lizzie” Sullivan, the thirty-four-year-old command pilot of the huge B-2 bomber named the Spirit of Kansas.
“Watch your language, bitch. There are ladies present,” shot back the only other member of the crew, copilot Captain Janie “Jane” Dean, as she started punching in the target coordinates and other data.
This would be a relatively short hop. Two days ago, they had been at the home base of the 509th Bomb Wing in Whiteman Air Force Base outside of Knob Noster, Missouri. Despite their notorious nicknames, the two officers were among the best in the squadron. Sullivan, who held a graduate mathematics degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, lived alone following a divorce and had no problem preparing for the flight to England. Dean, a Georgia Tech graduate with a master’s degree in electrical engineering, had to line up a babysitter for her kids because her husband was also a B-2 pilot and was off somewhere else in the world for the entire week. Reaching the RAF Fairford forward-operating location had been little more than a long, easy glide for the two friends. Being smaller than men, they had more space in the tight cockpit, and the plane had carried no ordnance; it was simply moving closer to a potential battlefield.
That changed overnight in England, and by the time Sullivan and Dean strapped in early that morning, the old stealth bird was toting a load of eighty precision-guided bombs that weighed five hundred pounds apiece. Each could be used for a different target on the same mission and they’d fall before enemy radar even knew the B-2 was there. There had been jokes back in Missouri about this unique girl’s-night-out mission.
When she smoothly carved the B-2 toward Estonia, Sullivan recited the old singsong verse on the private intercom, as she did on every attack run: “Lizzie Borden took an axe…”
Dean picked it up as she ran the numbers, “… And gave the Russians forty whacks.”
“And when she saw what she had done…” Sullivan eased the throttle forward and the bat-winged aircraft rose easily upstairs to a higher altitude and flowed to a speed of over six hundred miles per hour.
Calamity Jane studied her full-color flight instrumentation system to adjust for the go-to-war mode, and finished, “… She gave the Russians forty-one.”
NARVA, ESTONIA
Gunfire. Levchenko was at the Russian edge of the bridge when sporadic shots cracked like whip-snaps on the other side. Excellent, he thought. Excellent! Ivan Strakov had predicted that federal troops of Estonia would come in and clash with the Narva cops whose real loyalty lay with Moscow. That would only legitimize the official position in the future propaganda blitz that the other side, the Estonians, had fired first. All the Russians did was to answer the plea of the city’s legitimately elected mayor to stop the attempted military takeover of Narva by the Estonian troops. Levchenko could explain at any future hearing that he moved in to declare martial law in the embattled zone so as to protect civilian lives while cooler heads settled the results of the city’s free and fair vote.
He turned and saw the first Armata tank was only twenty-five yards behind him, with the assault commandoes in position on both sides of the road, ready to dash across. Radar was showing nothing but the mothlike dots of helicopters in the sky, but the antiaircraft missiles became hot and ready. All he needed now was the invitation, the final spark.
Mayor Konstantin Pran was now in sight, scurrying behind a phalanx of Narva cops. The shooting was over by the Town Hall area, and the police had spirited him out through a rear corridor. He was breathing hard from the physical exertion, but could see Colonel General Levchenko standing at the other end of the bridge, watching through binoculars, waiting for him. Pran waved with a white envelope that contained a letter on official city stationery, in which he sought the protection of his Russian comrades, along with a copy of the Worker’s Party resolution for Narva to secede from Estonia and rejoin the beloved Motherland. He was sweating and wiped his brow and face with a handkerchief as he hurried along.
* * *
“BOUNTY HUNTER TO SHADY Lady,” Kyle Swanson said in Tallinn, where he was watching the hologram. He had no microphone nor headset, but simply conversed with empty air that was alive with communications. Swanson recognized the tubby man approaching the Estonian edge of the bridge as the mayor. Russian men and armor were waiting, but still not moving from the other end. “Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady.”
“Shady Lady to Bounty Hunter.” The controlled voice of Captain Janie Dean came back crisp and sharp through the cyberwarfare network.
Swanson took his green laser and put the little circle right on the shiny head of Mayor Konstantin Pran, easily tracking him as he came to a stop and adjusted his suit, and then resumed his travel in a slow walk. “Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady. Execute! Execute!”
Calamity Jane locked her weapons to the computer data feed that was flooding up from Tallinn and looked over to Lizzie Borden, who nodded her approval with a bob of her black helmet. The B-2 released four GBU-30 bombs that dropped like anvils for a second, then flexed their fins as the internal navigation and the global-positioning guidance system took control. At that point, the weapons began a highly accurate and irreversible power dive that lasted almost a full minute.
Swanson had a fleeting thought that this was the ultimate sniper hit. He could see the target, but the target did not even know he was in the crosshairs. And while Kyle worshipped his .50-caliber Excalibur sniper rifle, a B-2 stealth was a no-brainer upgrade. Even if those four bombs missed, it had another seventy-six ready to go with the flip of a switch. At present, each of the extra bombs was being electronically locked onto individual Russian tanks and vehicles arranged so neatly at the eastern end. But that was not Swanson’s job nor his decision. His green circle remained right atop Mayor Pran, who was a quarter-way out on the span.
The mayor tugged again at his vest and straightened his tie. He was making history with each stride. The sporadic gunfire in Narva had become irrelevant to him. In about a minute, his dream would become a reality. Levchenko put aside his binoculars and stood at parade rest, waiting for the civilian to make the last bit of distance and formally ask for his help.
In Tallinn’s cyberwar center, Colonel Markey counted down from five … four …
The floating hologram shook in a storm of static as all four bombs hit with eyeblink simultaneous detonations. On the ground, the joint cities of Narva and Ivanogrod jumped with the dramatic force of the shock and concussions. Old stones flew in every direction as flames flashed, spooling clouds of smoke enveloped the area, and a giant spout of water erupted from the river. The computers more than a hundred miles away soon regained their satellite video feed, ironed it through the programs and solidified the real-time image again.
Through the debris and smoke, Kyle saw that the entire western half of the bridge had disappeared. A gaping hole was being filled by the river with a powerful whirlpool of water. There was no trace of Mayor Konstantin Pran. Swanson moved the laser across the bridge to the Russian side and saw that men were down and vehicles, even tanks, had been pushed around like toys. The officer who had been standing out in front had taken the full force of the sudden explosions and had disappeared. But the Russian half of the bridge remained intact, untouched by the precise tornado of bombs. The planned attack died in its cradle.
“Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady.”
“Shady Lady to Bounty Hunter,” responded Calamity Jane.
“You may depart your station. Many thanks.”
“Anytime,” replied Lizzy Borden, and headed her B-2 back to England.
34
ABOARD THE VAGABOND
IT TOOK A WEEK for normality to return. There had been no war, although it had been a very close call. Kyle Swanson had experienced a new side of combat that se
emed to have come straight out of a Hollywood special-effects studio. Drones and cameras and robots and gigantic computing power were the tools of future combat. Even the stealth B-2 was so obsolete that only twenty of them were left on active service. The best bomber in the sky was little more than a flying dinosaur. Eventually gadgets would replace pilots in the heavens and grunts down on the dirt. Creepy-crawlies would roam the battleground. Hadn’t he himself just blown up a bridge and killed the bad guy, or guys, while being nowhere near the actual combat? He looked out over the sharp bow of the Vagabond and took another gulp of cold beer. Lethal collections of wires and transistors would replace the guy on the ground with a gun. Nah. Not going to happen.
* * *
EVERYBODY ON THE PLANET was cocked and locked after the bridge incident until President Vladimir Pushkin blinked, called President Christopher Thompson and lied like a thief. The man who headed the Russian government offered that he had not been kept accurately informed of what was happening in Narva because a previously trusted general had gone rogue. Pushkin insisted that after the earlier presidential telephone conversation, he had sought out the true facts and learned how Colonel General Valery Levchenko, acting without authorization from the general staff or the Kremlin, had decided to turn the routine Operation Hermitage war game into an invasion of Estonia. General Levchenko had, by some miracle, survived the bombing of the bridge and was now under arrest, although he was in grave condition from wounds. Doctors were pessimistic about whether he would survive to face trial.
Thompson responded that his own information had also become more clear. Apparently the mayor of Narva was trying to secede from Estonia. The man’s body had been recovered from the rubble of the western half of the bridge and the federal government in Tallinn had invalidated the local council’s decision. The rebellious local police had been temporarily replaced by NATO troops.
The Russian president commented that he considered that to be an internal matter for the Estonian government.
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