7
VLADIVOSTOK • SEVEROMORSK
VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIA
Vladivostok, with jagged snow-capped mountains rising in the background, is the largest Russian port on the Pacific Ocean. Off-limits to foreigners for thirty-five years during the Soviet era, the city is often envisioned by Westerners as an ice-coated military outpost in the Russian Far East. The reality is contrary, with harbor cranes rising skyward along the shores, titanic merchant vessels anchored in the emerald-blue water, and sleek white yachts rocking gently at their moorings. Vladivostok, which translates to “Ruler of the East,” is also home to the Russian Pacific Fleet.
This morning, with the green knolls to the west shrouded in a light morning mist seeping down toward the coast, Admiral Pavel Klokov, commander of the Pacific Fleet, was seated at the head of a conference table on the second floor of Pacific Command headquarters, flanked by members of his staff as they delivered the morning briefing. The only noteworthy news, Klokov thought, was that the Truman carrier strike group was departing the Sea of Oman and headed east, ostensibly to replace the Roosevelt strike group, which was headed to the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard for repairs.
On the matter of repairs, K-295 Samara, the newest Akula II in the Pacific Fleet, had just completed its sea trials after a midlife overhaul and modernization. Samara, along with seventeen other guided missile and attack submarines in the Russian Pacific Fleet, was fully operational. Although the United States had shifted the bulk of its Atlantic Fleet submarines to the Pacific after the devastating losses during its war with China, there were only fifteen operational American submarines in the Pacific. Russian submarines outnumbered the Americans’.
Klokov’s morning briefing was interrupted by his Operations Officer, entering the conference room with a message clipboard. Klokov read the message. The Pacific Fleet warships were being sortied to sea. However, the destination coordinates were unusual. What would the Pacific Fleet’s task be, so far from home?
SEVEROMORSK, RUSSIA
It was still dark along the shore of the Murmansk Fjord when Admiral Leonid Shimko entered the headquarters of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Awakened by a phone call from the duty officer an hour ago, Shimko was informed that a rare Priority One message had been received. A car had been dispatched to his residence, and during the short drive to his headquarters, Admiral Shimko mentally reviewed the status of Russia’s most formidable fleet. Scattered among a half-dozen bases on the Kola Peninsula were twenty-five submarines, numerous surface ship combatants, and Russia’s only aircraft carrier.
The aircraft carrier Admiral Flota Sovetskovo Soyuza Kuznetsov, commonly referred to as Admiral Kuznetsov, was the flagship of the Russian Navy. Although described as an aircraft carrier by the West, the Russian classification of heavy aircraft–carrying missile cruiser was wordier but more accurate. Carrying Su-33 and MiG-29K air-superiority fighters and Ka-27 helicopters for anti-submarine warfare, Kuznetsov was also capable of offensive operations on its own, carrying a dozen P-700 Granit Shipwreck missiles, 192 surface-to-air missiles, and sixty RBU-12000 rockets with various payloads for anti-submarine warfare.
When Admiral Shimko arrived at his office, the lights were already on and coffee was brewing in the Admiral’s mess. Not long after he took his seat, a steaming cup was delivered to his desk, along with the message he’d come in early to read. He read the directive as he sipped his coffee, then put the cup down. Every Northern Fleet warship was being sortied to sea. Although the destination wasn’t surprising, the application of so much force was.
Shimko lifted the message up, reading another Priority One message, this one directed to the Pacific Fleet, copy to Admiral Shimko. Russia’s two most powerful fleets were setting sail.
8
KURSK, RUSSIA
Major General Vitaly Vasiliev, head of the 448th Missile Brigade of the 20th Guards Army, relaxed in the back of his sedan as it sped toward his headquarters. Peering through the side window, he spotted the early morning sun rising above the twenty-four-meter-tall Kursk Triumphal Arch. Not far from the monument, atop a pedestal stood the resemblance of Marshal Georgy Zhukov, the co-mastermind of the Stalingrad counteroffensive in 1942, which surrounded Germany’s 6th Army and signaled the end of the Wehrmacht’s expansion across Russia. As the triumphal arch and Marshal Zhukov’s statue faded in the distance, Vasiliev’s thoughts turned to a battle much closer, and perhaps even more influential.
In the spring of 1943, after the surrender of the German 6th Army in Stalingrad, the Wehrmacht counterattacked, delivering a crushing defeat to Soviet forces, retaking Kharkov and Belgorod. A bulge of Russian forces around Kursk remained, and with Hitler bent on revenge for Stalingrad, Operation Citadel was launched with the goal of encircling the opposing Soviet forces. The Battle of the Kursk Salient ensued, and with German Panzer formations breaking through the Soviet defenses, the Soviets directed the 5th Guards Tank Army to stop the II SS-Panzer Corps at Prokhorovka.
The Battle of Prokhorovka on July 12, 1943, was the largest tank battle in history, involving over one thousand tanks. The armored battle was considered a tactical success for Germany due to the high number of Soviet tanks destroyed, but a strategic victory for the Soviet Union because it prevented a German breakthrough. As Operation Citadel ground to a close, the initiative on the Eastern Front swung permanently over to the Red Army.
The glorious days of the Soviet Red Army, Vasiliev thought, crushing the German aggressors. Although the Red Army had been devastated by the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Ground Forces of the Russian Federation had slowly regained strength in both men and equipment, finally able to flex its muscles again. Part of that power resided in Vasiliev’s missile brigade, fielding the Iskander ballistic missile, capable of delivering conventional or nuclear warheads out to five hundred kilometers.
Vasiliev’s sedan pulled to a halt in front of his headquarters building, and it wasn’t long before he was at his desk reading the morning radio messages. His Intelligence Colonel hovered nearby; there was an important message on the boards, on top, as expected. What wasn’t expected, however, was the directive. His unit was being deployed.
Curiously, although the readiness of all units in the Western Military District was being increased one notch, only two other units had received orders: the 53rd Anti-Aircraft Rocket Brigade with the potent S-400 air defense system, and the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division. Vasiliev raised an eyebrow. The 2nd Guards was the only division-strength motor rifle unit in the Army, with all other motor rifle divisions being downsized to the brigade level. Comprising a motor rifle brigade and tank brigade, the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division was one of the most formidable units in the Russian Federation Army. Vasiliev read further, identifying the destination of all three units—Kaliningrad Oblast.
Most in the West were unaware of Kaliningrad Oblast, a region of Russia separated from the rest of the country. Home to Russia’s Baltic Fleet, Kaliningrad Oblast is surrounded by Lithuania to the north and Poland to the south. Ground transit to and from the oblast is controlled by Lithuania and Poland, with visa-free travel to the rest of Russia possible only by air or sea. As Vasiliev prepared to mobilize his missile battalion, he knew Lithuania and Poland might attempt to prevent the transfer of so much firepower into Kaliningrad Oblast.
It was infuriating, being forced to obtain the permission of foreign governments for travel between two autonomous regions of Russia. It was Russia’s sovereign right to station whatever troops and military equipment it desired in Kaliningrad Oblast without the approval of another country. But years earlier, when Russia announced its intentions to send advanced surface attack and air defense systems to the oblast, the Baltic States and NATO had objected. Now, Russia had a much stronger military and could press the issue.
Vasiliev smiled. NATO will not be pleased.
9
MINSK, BELARUS
Defense Minister Boris Chernov gripped the leather satchel in his lap as his limousine wound thr
ough the Belarusian capital, moving along sweeping boulevards flanked by imposing Soviet bloc–style buildings, a reminder of the city’s rebirth following World War II. During Minsk’s liberation from Nazi occupiers, eighty percent of the city was razed to the ground, then rebuilt in the 1950s to Joseph Stalin’s liking. Chernov’s sedan passed the House of Government, a monumental example of Stalin-era architecture, comprising symmetrical boxy buildings of varying heights, with the wings of the complex wrapping around an expansive front courtyard. A twenty-three-foot-tall statue of Vladimir Lenin, a tribute to the country’s past and indicative of its current alliances, rose in the center of the courtyard, greeting those entering the National Assembly of Belarus.
The Republic of Belarus, situated to the west of Russia, beneath the Baltic countries and above Ukraine, was Russia’s most steadfast ally. Since the establishment of the country in 1991 following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, there had been only one president, Alexander Lukashenko, and his five-term presidency along with accusations of voter fraud resulted in some Western journalists labeling Belarus as “Europe’s last dictatorship.” Lukashenko’s firm grip on power would be a key factor in fulfilling his end of Belarus’s pact with Russia.
Chernov’s car pulled to a halt in front of the Residence of the President, where Chernov was greeted by his Belarusian counterpart, who led the way to President Lukashenko’s office. The Belarusian minister of defense glanced at the satchel in Chernov’s hand before retreating, leaving the two men alone.
Chernov settled into a chair beside Lukashenko’s desk. After the standard greetings and diplomatic exchange, he broached the sensitive reason for their meeting.
“Have you made a decision yet?” Chernov asked.
“You request much,” Lukashenko said, “and my support will place me in a precarious position during the next general election. If this does not turn out well…”
Chernov listened as Lukashenko highlighted the risks to himself and his country; it was clear he was preparing to request more from Russia than had been offered. At the end of his soliloquy, Lukashenko made his demand.
“Your offer of a twenty percent reduction in natural gas and oil prices is insufficient. A fifty percent reduction is required, for a term of twenty years.”
Chernov replied, “Your current prices are the cheapest in Europe, only forty percent of what other countries pay. You already receive a steep discount, which should be factored in.”
“Let us be clear,” Lukashenko said. “Your low prices benefit Russia, keeping Belarus on the teat of the sow, dependent on your … generosity.”
Chernov hadn’t expected Lukashenko to address their delicate relationship so directly. Although Belarus was a staunch Russian ally, its loyalty was due in part to its energy dependence on Russia, receiving all of its oil and natural gas from its eastern neighbor, and the Russian monopoly of Gazprom controlled the entire natural gas infrastructure of Belarus. Beneath the offer of reduced prices lay Russia’s threat. There would be consequences should Lukashenko refuse Russia’s request.
Chernov conceded Lukashenko’s point. “Russia benefits from your dependence on our natural resources, but Belarus benefits more. Your economy thrives due to the low prices, and your country will benefit even more as we reduce the costs further. We are willing to offer an additional twenty-five percent discount, guaranteed for five years.”
“That is insufficient. I cannot commit for less than a forty percent reduction for fifteen years.”
“Thirty percent, ten years.”
Lukashenko studied the Russian defense minister for a moment, then said, “Make it thirty-five percent for ten years, and we have a deal.”
“Agreed,” Chernov said, pulling a folder from his satchel, withdrawing a thick document. He flipped to the last page and signed it, then slid the agreement to Lukashenko.
The Belarusian president skimmed the document, searching for the terms of the agreement. Looking up, he said, “This agreement is already filled out with the terms—a thirty-five percent reduction for ten years.”
Chernov smiled. “We knew you would drive a hard bargain.”
“I’ll have to review this agreement in more detail before signing.”
“That’s understandable,” Chernov said. “However, we’d like a commitment within forty-eight hours.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
10
ZAPORIZHIA, UKRAINE
From across the crowded street, Randy Guimond watched a dark gray sedan grind to a halt along Lenin Avenue, stopping in front of Korchma, a quaint restaurant specializing in traditional Ukrainian food. From the sedan stepped a middle-aged man, who, after a quick glance in both directions, entered the small restaurant. The man had a lot to learn about surveillance, Guimond thought, although his own knowledge of the profession would have been a surprise to his co-workers at Metinvest, an international Ukrainian mining and steel holding company; Guimond’s public identity and employment with Metinvest was a front. His real employer was the SVR, better known as the successor to the KGB.
Guimond waited a moment, then returned the carved wooden jewelry box he’d been examining to a disappointed shopkeeper and headed across the street. Upon entering the restaurant, he paused briefly, taking everything in: staff dressed in authentic Ukrainian clothing, four couples to the right, a family of six to the left. The interior of the restaurant was decorated with trinkets and heirlooms reminiscent of a rural Ukrainian village, but what interested Guimond most was a small room in the back, closed off from the rest of the restaurant. He nodded to the hostess as he made his way to the door, knocked, then entered.
Although the windowless room could seat twenty guests, only Alex Rudenko was present, sitting at a table with a menu in his hands. Guimond took a seat opposite him as a waiter entered, then departed after both men placed their order. When the door shut, Guimond turned to business.
“We’ve been given authorization to proceed,” he said.
Rudenko, a Ukrainian of Russian descent, shot an uneasy look toward the door, then focused on Guimond. “I cannot agree without assurance.”
“You won’t be killed,” Guimond replied, failing to divulge the most important detail. “However, the others on the podium…” He trailed off before continuing, “There will be several deaths. This we cannot avoid. I suggest you carefully consider who will accompany you.”
Rudenko nodded. “I have already decided.”
“Good, then,” Guimond said, pushing forward even though Rudenko hadn’t formally agreed. He was part of the conspiracy now. “We need the event scheduled quickly. Well publicized; a major announcement forthcoming, perhaps.”
“Yes, yes,” Rudenko replied. “I have a plan. Covered by all the media outlets.” Rudenko fell silent as the door opened and the waiter entered, depositing their drinks before exiting.
“The second event?” Guimond inquired.
“Not yet planned,” Rudenko said, “but it won’t be a problem. It’ll be a large gathering, well attended by the media again.”
“Excellent,” Guimond said.
Rudenko asked, “How do I inform you once the events are scheduled?”
“It won’t be necessary. We’ll be following your activity. It would be best if there was no further contact between us.” Guimond withdrew his wallet, tossing one hundred hryvnia onto the table as he stood. “This should cover my meal.”
Rudenko grabbed Guimond’s wrist. “My reward? Has the Kremlin agreed?”
“Yes, Alex. The Kremlin has agreed to your request.”
A smile creased Rudenko’s face as he released his acquaintance’s wrist.
Guimond returned a warm smile as he slid his wallet into his pocket. The required events had been arranged. Whether Rudenko fully understood what would transpire wasn’t his concern.
11
WASHINGTON, D.C.
In her West Wing corner office, National Security Advisor Christine O’Connor scanned the documents on her desk, pa
ying no attention to the rain droplets splattering against her triple-paned, bombproof windows. It had been an unusually harsh winter, but the snow had finally melted, giving way to a wet spring. The heavy rain and overcast skies darkened her mood this morning, but she did her best to remain focused on her task—preparing for her trip to Russia.
She was headed to Moscow for the next round of negotiations for the follow-on to New START, the treaty governing the two countries’ nuclear weapons. Russia made several concessions following the events at Ice Station Nautilus, but everything to this point was verbal. Christine was intent on ensuring the agreements became codified in the new treaty. Her eyes shifted between the printed document on her desk—the most recent draft of the new agreement—and handwritten comments in her notepad, recording the issues resolved since their last meeting.
There was a knock on her open door, and Christine looked up to find the president’s chief of staff, Kevin Hardison, in the doorway. “The president wants to see us.”
Grabbing her notepad, she joined Hardison for the short journey to the Oval Office, finding SecDef McVeigh seated on one of the two couches. As the president pushed back from his desk to join them, Hardison said, “SecState will be here soon.”
“Be seated,” the president said, and Hardison settled onto the couch beside McVeigh while Christine took a seat opposite them.
* * *
The president approached the three members of his staff and cabinet, taking a chair at one end of the two sofas. As they waited for SecState Dawn Cabral’s arrival, the president noted Christine’s position opposing the two men, and his thoughts turned to her unique situation, the only member of the opposite political party on his staff.
Three years ago, on a recommendation from Kevin Hardison, he had interviewed Christine for his national security advisor. She had the requisite background, serving as a congressional staffer specializing in weapons procurement, followed by a stint as assistant secretary of defense for special operations and low-intensity conflict, along with several years as the director of nuclear defense policy. During her interview, he’d been surprised: Christine pulled no punches, explaining how his proposed policies would be disastrous for the United States. After being surrounded by staffers eager to please and agree with the president-elect, he found Christine’s candor a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t made the phone call until the next morning, but he’d made his decision before the interview was over.
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