Command Authority

by Tom Clancy,Mark Greaney

  But the Americans and British had taken significant losses themselves. Four MH-6 Little Bird lift helos used for transporting ground teams had been damaged or shot down, as well as one Black Hawk and one Kiowa Warrior. Five more helos of different types had been destroyed while on the ground.

  Nine Americans and two British SAS soldiers had been killed, and another twenty had been wounded.

  The JOC at Cherkasy Army Base had operated twenty-four hours a day since the opening hours of the conflict. The base had been bombed, but the Americans were in a hardened bunker that could survive everything short of the largest bunker buster or a nuclear detonation, and the bombs that had hit the base had been far enough away to be no major concern to Midas.

  Even though the enemy was stalled tonight, good weather was forecast for the next three days, and everyone involved in the operation realized this meant the Russians would inevitably push west again.

  Some had hoped that, after taking the Crimea, the Russians’ will to fight would wane, but so far no one in the U.S. defense and intelligence community had seen any real evidence of that.

  The Russians were coming, and it looked like they were planning on moving all the way to Kiev.

  Midas knew he couldn’t keep his operation here for much longer; there was even talk of moving the JOC to the west immediately, but he quashed the talk quickly. All the forward operating units still in the field had fallen back several times over the past two days, yet they were all still dozens of miles east. Midas determined he would move his JOC only if there was some compromise due to an intelligence failure or if there was a real risk his deployed assets might leapfrog past his position as they continued falling back in order to stay just ahead of the Russian advance.

  Despite the fact that his op had significantly slowed the Russian attack, Colonel Barry Jankowski didn’t feel like things were going well, so he decided to change tactics after dark this evening. They desperately needed to cover more ground before the Russians consolidated after sweeping through the Crimea and pressing the fight in the direction of Kiev, so he made the decision to reduce each unit’s size. He turned his twelve teams in the field to eighteen by sending a few reserve Delta recce troops into two new positions up near the Belarussian border, and breaking some of the larger A-teams down into five-, six-, and seven-man units.

  It would cost nothing as far as offensive firepower, as the men in the field weren’t using their own rifles, grenades, and pistols to engage the enemy. But Midas knew well it would deplete each force’s ability to defend itself if attacked.

  He’d radioed each unit and told them they would be lighter and faster now, and they needed to use this as an advantage and not see it as a liability.

  Midas had allowed himself a forty-five-minute catnap on a bunk near the JOC, and now he was back on duty, standing behind a row of men with computers in front of them. Beyond them, on the wall, was a monitor about the size of the average flat-screen television in an American home, but it suited their needs to give them a single digital map that everyone could point to with the laser pointers all the tactical operations men kept at their workstations.

  One of the men in comms with a 5th Special Forces Group observation unit, call sign Cochise, motioned Midas over to his laptop. “Hey, boss, Cochise is reporting a long column of T-90s has made it behind the Ukrainian defense force T-72s in their sector, and they are now bypassing Cochise’s pos, moving up an access road off the M50 highway. They say there are no other Ukrainian ground assets that can engage them at this time.”

  “Show me where they are now.”

  The operator used his laser pointer to indicate the unit’s real-time position on the map.

  Midas said, “These tanks are closer to Cherkasy than anybody, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, and they are supported by dismounts and dedicated air that’s keeping up CAS. They might lose air during the night, especially in this weather, but by tomorrow morning Cochise advises they will be within twenty miles of the JOC.”

  “What’s the strength of the red column?”

  “After the engagement with the T-72s, Cochise Actual puts their strength at fifteen T-90s, and another forty-plus APCs, MLRVs, and other support vehicles.”

  “Cochise lost a couple of guys yesterday.” Midas said it to himself, but the controller took it as a question.

  “Yes, sir. The captain leading them was KIA, and they had another troop injured in a hard landing in the initial helo insertion. There are four troops in total still out there, led by a first lieutenant.”

  “But their SOFLAM is operational, right?”

  “That’s right, but in order to engage the new column, they’ll have to break cover and head southwest. It’s going to take them away from the M50, and who the hell knows what else might be coming up that highway that they’ll miss.”

  Midas saw the problem. From the Belarussian border down to the Crimea, he had only eighteen teams to cover about thirty-five possible attack vectors the Russians could be using. It was impossible to man them all, and although the Ukrainian Army was out there on the ground, their technology wasn’t giving them the punch in this fight they needed, considering their smaller strength and subpar training.

  What Midas needed was another team to fire the laser. He looked down at the controller. “You talk to Ukrainian SF? They got anybody who knows how to do this?”

  “Negative, sir. Their equipment is their equipment, and they are all deployed.”

  He’d been told in no uncertain terms not to use the Rangers on base for forward operations. There simply weren’t enough men to protect the American helos and the JOC and also task them with operating the SOFLAM.

  Midas thought it over. “Okay. Send the Kiowa, Black Wolf Two Six, and any Reapers that are in range.”

  “That’s not going to be enough Hellfires to stop that attack.”

  “I know. They’ll have to do a hit-and-run, try to slow them down tonight to buy some time for the Ukrainians to get their shit together and rush some tanks over there by morning.”

  “You got it, boss,” said the controller, and he reached for his walkie-talkie.

  74

  Malcolm Galbraith was not a pleasant man.

  Ryan had learned enough about the seventy-year-old Scottish billionaire in the past few months to know that although he’d had the misfortune of losing ten billion U.S. dollars when his company was stolen out from under him in Russia, he retained a personal net worth somewhere north of five billion.

  The Galbraith Rossiya scandal hadn’t exactly left him homeless, either. His main residence was a restored eighteenth-century castle in the Scottish village of Juniper Green, and he possessed homes all over Europe, as well as yachts, private jets, and two state-of-the-art Eurocopters.

  But wealth had not bought him happiness—this was clear to Ryan the moment he met the man face-to-face in Galbraith’s private office in his Juniper Green castle.

  Ryan was unable to detect anything but sourness and mistrust in his demeanor, and he hadn’t even told Galbraith the bad news yet.

  Ryan had asked for the surprise meeting this morning and the request had been granted immediately, even though he had requested discretion and that the conversation be between just the two of them. Jack arrived alone—Sam and Dom had driven him in a rental car and dropped him off at the front gate; then they pulled up the street within sight of the gate and kept the car running.

  Jack had expected a robust security force here protecting the man—he was, after all, worth more than the GDP of some small nations—but there had been only a couple of uniformed men at the gate and a rent-a-cop driving around in the golf cart that ran him up the driveway, and here inside the building he was shown into Galbraith’s study by a well-dressed man who may or may not have been carrying a weapon under his suit.

  But that was it. Even the man’s dogs were corgis. Not rottweilers or Dobermans or German shepherds.

  It occurred to Ryan that a man who was considering legal act
ion against the Russian government might want to take a few more measures to keep his person secure.

  There was a lot about Galbraith that Jack found odd. Jack had not been offered coffee or tea when he arrived, which he suspected was a major breach of protocol for a business meeting in a castle. And when Galbraith himself stepped into the room, Jack was surprised to see the man wearing faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt that looked like he’d used it to clean axle grease off his hands.

  Galbraith walked past Ryan, who had his hand extended, and then sat behind his desk, put his elbows on it, and asked, “So, what are we going to talk about?”

  Either the man didn’t know Ryan was the President’s son, or else he didn’t give a damn. It was just as well for Ryan that the man hadn’t offered to shake hands. Ryan was not overly meticulous about his appearance, but Galbraith’s body odor was extreme.

  Ryan sat back down in the chair. “Mr. Galbraith, as I explained to your secretary, I have been working on your case for Castor and Boyle for the past few months.”

  No response, so Ryan continued. “It’s been a difficult maze, and the illegal raiding tactic used by the government against you makes it almost impossible to identify anyone in the private sector who is culpable.”

  “So Hugh Castor has been telling me for nearly half a year.”

  “Yes. But I decided to dig a little deeper into other transactions made by some of the same corporate entities that were involved in the auction of your assets, and by doing this, I have identified a company that benefited from the sale of Galbraith Rossiya Energy.”

  The seventy-year-old let out an annoyed grunt. “So have I. Gazprom. Why the fuck am I paying you to tell me something I already know?”

  Jack took a deep breath. “No, sir. Another company. A smaller company that seems like it was only set up to receive a payoff from the proceeds of the sale.”

  “A shell company?”

  “Yes, but I know who is on the board of directors. Are you familiar with a man named Dmitri Nesterov?”

  He shook his head. “Who is he?”

  “I am told he is affiliated with the FSB.”

  Galbraith shrugged like that was no surprise. “And how much did he get?”

  “As far as I can tell, Mr. Galbraith, he got all of it. One-point-two billion U.S.”

  Galbraith leaned forward over his heavy desk now. “Hugh Castor hasn’t told me a word of this. How is it you have all the answers?”

  “It’s a complicated scheme, and uncovering it involved some . . . some tactics that Castor and Boyle does not fully support.”

  “And that is why you are here and not your boss?”

  Jack nodded. “I have identified the bank where Nesterov’s Antigua-based bank launders money in Europe.”

  “Where is this bank?”

  “It’s in Zug, Switzerland.”

  Galbraith immediately said, “Let me guess. RPB?”

  Jack was astonished. There had to have been a dozen banks in Zug. “That’s a good guess.”

  Galbraith waved away the compliment. “Lot of dirty money at RPB. Dirty, old money. Dirty, old Russian money.”

  Jack cocked his head. “I have to ask. How do you know that?”

  With a shrug, the Scotsman said, “There’s a bit of old Scot money there as well.”

  “You have accounts at RPB?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about. Not even to some kid who sneaks up here, hiding from his boss, to try to shake me down for a cut.”

  “A cut? A cut of what?”

  “I know your type. Seen a hundred like you, I have . . . What did you say your name was?”

  So this guy didn’t know him. Jack found himself surprised, but pleasantly so. He just said, “Jack.”

  Galbraith chuckled, but it was an angry sound. “Okay, Jack. Let me have a go at it. Your boss doesn’t give me what I want, so here you come, young, hungry, with a story about how you just want what’s best for my company and my bottom line, and if I’ll cut you in a wee bit we can do a go-around on your boss and your company and you can recover me assets. What’s the pitch? Computer hacking? One look at you and I think it’s computer hacking. You can steal my money back or work as a go-between in the middle between me and the Russian mob. Only catch is I slip ten percent of the return to you, paid into your account in BVI or Luxembourg or Singapore. Right? How did I do? Nail on the head?” He stood up, ready to end the meeting.

  “Look, Malcolm,” Jack said, keeping his seat while the lord of the castle stood there. Jack had given up on polite and respectful. “I don’t want one pence of your fucking money. Yesterday, a bunch of Russian mafia goons tried to fucking kill me for what I know about your shitty business, so I am trying to get answers.”

  “Kill you? Is that right?” He did not believe the American.

  “You ever watch the news? Corby? A couple hours north of London? Four dead Russians.”

  Malcolm Galbraith sat back down now.

  Jack said, “Yeah. That was all about you.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “I’ve been digging too deep into your case. I found out this guy Dmitri Nesterov was tied up in this, and then suddenly a group of Seven Strong Men assassins came over from Ukraine to stop me, and to kill one of my contacts.”

  The Scottish oil services tycoon softened his tone. “You are completely serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  “Why isn’t Castor telling me any of this?”

  Jack decided to level with him. “Mr. Galbraith, I think it is very possible that Mr. Castor is somehow . . . compromised by Mr. Nesterov.”

  Malcolm Galbraith stared Jack down for an uncomfortably long time. Jack thought he was about to meet resistance in his theory, but instead, Galbraith said, “Castor’s a fucking crook.”

  Jack raised his hands and began to temper his comment. “I can’t say for sure just what—”

  The Scotsman said, “I knew he worked with sketchy, powerful Russians. I just didn’t know he worked with the sketchy, powerful Russians who took my money. Who is this contact they want dead?”

  “He’s an old British spy. I don’t know how he is connected yet, but I’m hoping you can help out.”

  “Name?”

  “Oxley. Victor Oxley.”

  “Never heard of him,” Galbraith said, disappointed.

  “He was involved in a case in Switzerland in the 1980s. That case, believe it or not, involved RPB.”

  “The bankers killed by Zenith.”

  “That’s the story. Nothing proved.”

  “Yes. I remember. I was banking at RPB at the time.”

  “I came to you hoping you could help me connect the dots between the murders there and the theft of your property. Oxley and Castor are connected, but the same Seven Strong Men henchmen who tried to kill Oxley also had been following me while I worked on your case. I don’t know why.”

  “The connection, lad, is the Russians.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Malcolm Galbraith pressed a button on his desk, and a female voice came over the intercom.

  “Sir?”

  “Tea for me, coffee for my new friend.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  —

  Galbraith and Ryan had moved to a parlor; in front of them was a tea and coffee service, and Ryan was putting it to good use. He’d slept little in the past twenty-four hours, and he didn’t know when he’d get another chance to rest.

  Galbraith’s mood had made a 180-degree change since the moment he learned Jack wasn’t up here with a business proposition. The old man even apologized for his appearance, telling Jack he’d been working on one of his classic cars in his garage and had not bothered to change because he expected nothing more than a visit by a shyster junior analyst.

  As they sipped their beverages Galbraith got into his story about RPB. Jack wanted to take notes, but he wasn’t about to break the flow by asking for paper and a pen, so he just listened very carefully. />
  Galbraith said, “Shortly before the death of Toby Gabler—he was the first of the two bankers to die—he came to a friend of mine who held some assets at RPB. Gabler said he had a client who wanted to buy out hard assets the man held in safety deposit boxes.”

  “What kind of hard assets?”

  “Gold. Don’t know the value but this bloke had gotten out of the markets and put everything in gold bars. The deal fell through, don’t remember why, but immediately after—I’m talking like the next day—Toby came to me and tried the same thing. He said he had a client with a problem. The client had funds in a numbered account, but he didn’t trust the system anymore. He had to get the funds out of the bank in a hurry, couldn’t transfer them to another bank because of some sort of corporate dispute. Toby hinted the men were East European. Didn’t say they were Soviet, that I would have remembered.

  “At the time, I had multiple drilling operations going in the North Sea, I’d done quite well for myself when oil prices went up in the seventies, and I had a deal in the works with one of the young Saudi princes to expand my operations into the Middle East. To do this, I had arranged some hard assets.”

  “What kind?”

  He shrugged. “The prince liked gold. Turned out it was a good investment. I thought he was crazy. Anyway, I began amassing it for the deal, and I kept several safe-deposit boxes full of bars at RPB.”

  “Okay,” Ryan said. He realized the man was talking about some sort of a kickback, but there was no shame in his voice. “What did Gabler say?”

  “Toby said he operated as an agent for his client. Said he’d pay way beyond top bloody dollar for the lot of my gold. I had over one hundred million, laddie. At what he was offering for it, I would be a fool not to take the deal.”

  “What happened next?”

  Galbraith lifted his teacup and laughed. “I was a fool. I didn’t take the deal. I knew the Saudi contract could pay me for decades, so I hung on to the gold, despite the offer. Sadly, the prince was arrested by his brothers and I never made a shilling.”