Tom Clancy Line of Sight

by Mike Maden

  “Commander!” he called out, and jumped down onto the concrete floor.

  The two men crashed into each other in a hard embrace, long-lost comrades in a too-long war.

  “It’s so good to see you again, Commander,” Dzhabrailov said.

  Brkić beamed with pride. “Your bravery and your patience have reaped a great reward.”

  Dzhabrailov shrugged. “It’s for our people. How can I do less?”

  Like most Chechens, the lieutenant despised the Russians, a long and bitter oppressor of Chechnya. After years of suffering under the Russian boot, the latest Chechen government decided to join forces with its stronger enemy, and many young Chechen fighters joined their ranks.

  Many Chechens refused to serve with the hated Russian Army. But others, like Dzhabrailov, enlisted with an eye for both gaining combat experience and exacting revenge on their ancient enemy.

  Dzhabrailov had met Brkić four years before when Brkić recruited him into his organization. Secured communications had enabled them to formulate their plan for the stolen missiles.

  Brkić clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, my young lion. Show me this miracle you have brought.”

  23

  Dzhabrailov led Brkić and Emir to the far side of the building, where they found Walib hunched over a workbench, a wisp of smoke curling up from a soldering iron in his hand. On the table beside him was a four-inch-diameter electro-optical turret for the hand-launched, eagle-sized Elbit Systems Skylark I-LE UAV, which stood assembled on another elevated table a few feet away, stolen from the Russian arsenal as well.

  “Captain, I want you to meet my commander, Tarik Brkić.”

  The mustachioed Syrian turned around, a smudge of solder on his cheek. His eyes were black with fatigue, but his smile was genuine. Marrying the Grad’s ancient launch platform to the portable fire-control computer he’d brought in the Pelican case was taking more time and energy than he’d anticipated. He was having to improvise quite a bit. The Grad’s rifled launch tubes spun the rockets like a bullet to improve flight stability and accuracy. The trajectory of a rocket’s flight and its ultimate destination were determined by elevation and azimuth angles, along with the duration of engine fire, warhead weight, distance, wind speed, and a dozen other factors. Fortunately, most of these factors were known and fixed, and the variables could be measured or calculated, and all of it accounted for in the brain of the fire-control computer.

  “Commander, this is Captain Walib, the Syrian Arab Army’s finest rocket forces officer.”

  Walib extended a small, confident hand. Brkić took it.

  “Aslan has told me all about you, Commander.”

  “And he has spoken well of you, Captain,” Brkić said. He broke into a grin and pulled Walib into a bear hug and clapped him on the back, then released him from his massive embrace but kept a firm grip on Walib’s hand and a big paw on his shoulder.

  The commander’s good eye brightened. “Welcome to Bosnia. Thanks be to God for your safe travels. You have come very far.”

  “Without Aslan, I never would have made it.”

  “Without God, neither of us would have,” Dzhabrailov was quick to add. The journey had taken longer than expected, partly to avoid the Russians, who’d managed to pick up their trail early on.

  Brkić stepped closer to the workbench. “How close are you to completion?”

  “I have everything I need, but the work requires precision and is time-consuming.”

  The big Chechen bent close to the soldered electrical components, examining them with his one good eye. “We only have nine days to prepare, and there are still other pieces we need to put in place.”

  “I have already checked out the flight systems on the Skylark. Of course, it’s an Israeli unit, so it’s in perfect condition.”

  “Israeli?” Brkić asked.

  “They make the best equipment, so naturally the Russians buy their drones from them, or copy them.”

  “I thought the Americans made the best drones, like the Predator.”

  “Interesting that you mention the Predator. It was the first drone the CIA used in live combat reconnaissance, and the first place they flew it was in the Bosnian War. That experience is what began the modern drone revolution. But the Predator was invented by an Israeli engineer who emigrated to America to start his company. The Predator is a great machine, and Abraham Karem will go down in history as one of the great inventors.”

  Brkić’s darkening face told Walib what the Chechen thought about Jewish engineers.

  The Syrian pressed on. “The Skylark is a portable unit, hand-launched, quiet, and fully automated, with a three-hour flight time for its electric engine. Two men can set it up in the field and launch it within eight minutes.”

  “Shafiq has trained me how to do it,” Dzhabrailov said, smiling. “I’m a drone pilot now, though in truth, the operation is mostly automated.”

  “What is the purpose of the drone?” Brkić asked. “We know the GLONASS coordinates of the target.”

  “Aslan will ‘paint’ the target with the onboard laser. The Starfire missiles are equipped with a laser guidance system, which is the most accurate guidance system available. It drops the CEP—circular error probable—to less than one meter.”

  “Practically a sniper rifle,” Dzhabrailov said.

  Brkić’s white eye flared. “But lasers don’t work in bad weather.”

  “The weather forecast is sunny and cloudless for launch day,” Walib said.

  “But weather changes, especially around here.”

  “In case there is a problem, each missile is also equipped with a GLONASS guidance system. Also more than accurate enough for our purposes, with a CEP of less than thirteen meters.”

  “Like Uber, but for missiles?” Emir asked.

  Walib smiled. “Perhaps. But at least with these, you don’t have to tip the driver.”

  “And what if the GLONASS system fails?” Brkić asked.

  “Highly unlikely, sir.”

  “Humor me, Captain.”

  “Then there is an onboard inertial navigation system, computerized gyroscopes and accelerometers. No guarantees at that point we will hit the target, but even so, we will land close enough to cause enormous casualties.”

  “Computerized, eh? And what if that fails as well?”

  “Three system failures? It isn’t possible,” Dzhabrailov said.

  Brkić jabbed a finger on the larger man’s chest. “In war, anything is possible, especially the unexpected.”

  “Your commander is right. Technology can fail.” Walib nodded at the big green 6x6 truck. “I first trained on the Grad system. It’s old technology, but reliable. The rocket motors are reliable and the fuel burn rates are known quantities. A straight launch with no electronic guidance systems at all will still result in a satisfactory strike. Think of it as a very long-range, very effective mortar system.”

  “We cannot fail,” Emir said.

  Brkić nodded, satisfied. “So everything is ready?”

  “Not yet. The next thing I’m doing is taking the extra precaution to confirm that the laser wavelength on the Skylark’s laser designator is synched with the laser-guidance computer onboard each of the Starfire missiles.”

  “Excellent. Leave nothing to chance. What else is there?”

  “Once the missiles are programmed and synched to the portable fire-control computer, we should move the launcher to the location we talked about, much closer to the target. The shorter the range, the better.

  “Once the launcher is fixed in place, I will need to make fine gun-laying adjustments to the launcher by hand, using the Grad’s mechanical traverse wheels on the stabilized platform for azimuth and elevation in milliradians. It won’t be necessary to be more precise than that; the laser and GLONASS guidance will more than make up for any mechanical erro
r.”

  “It will be a Day of Judgment. A glorious victory for the Dar al-Salam,” Dzhabrailov said.

  “That is not for us to decide,” Brkić cautioned. “All we can do is work, and pray.” He turned to Walib, and pounded his narrow shoulder. “But thanks to you, the work will be easier, and the prayers lighter.”

  “There is a reason why God brought the two of you together,” Dzhabrailov said. “Your vision, Commander, and your expertise, Captain. How can we fail?”

  “Inshallah,” Emir said.

  “As soon as we have all of the missiles, I can finish the other work.”

  Brkić frowned. “What work is that?”

  Walib pointed to the open Pelican case on the floor. It contained the portable fire-control computer he’d also stolen from the Russian armory.

  “With that unit, I can preprogram the exact coordinates and elevation of the target on each missile, which is critical. In my studies at the Russian artillery academy, they taught us that back in 1999, during the Yugoslav wars, the American GPS-guided JDAM bombs slammed into the Chinese embassy in Belgrade because the wrong targeting coordinates had been inputted.”

  Brkić grinned. “So, the Americans make mistakes?”

  Walib shrugged. “At least, that was the Americans’ official explanation. Of course, other sources indicate it was intentional, because they believed the Serb White Tigers were being directed out of that building.”

  “Fortunately for us, our target is permanently fixed, and its exact geo-coordinates are widely available on the Internet. No accidents are possible as far as the GLONASS targeting system is concerned, let alone the laser.”

  “Excellent.”

  “The computerized fire-control system also allows me to perform hardware and software checks before launch. So far, everything I’ve tested has been in perfect working condition, so I anticipate no problems with the other units when they arrive.”

  “If you need anything, come to me directly,” Brkić told the Syrian. “You are the top priority. Everything we have is yours.”

  “What I need most is time,” Walib said. “And the rest of those missiles.”

  “Of course.” Brkić turned to Emir. “Walk with me.”

  * * *

  —

  Brkić and Emir exited the warehouse and headed for the trees for privacy. When they were out of earshot, the Chechen asked, “When do you expect the next shipment to arrive?”

  The small Bosniak shook his head. “Tomorrow night.”

  “And the rest?”

  “The day after, or perhaps two.”

  “I don’t like these delays,” Brkić said.

  “It can’t be helped. The rumors of Russians in country aren’t just rumors.”

  “SVR?” Brkić asked, incredulous. The Russian version of the CIA.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I myself spoke with a driver who was stopped only last night.”

  “Names? Faces? Anything we can use?”

  “Only that he heard Russian spoken.” Emir grinned. “He still reeked of his own urine. He thought for sure they would kill him.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t.” Brkić scratched his beard. “Did you contact your friend in the police? Tell them about these Russian spies running around? That might help our cause.”

  Emir shrugged. “Our police friend laughed. A murdered truck driver? Yes, that would get things moving. But a stopped truck, with no one injured and nothing taken? Who cares?”

  “But they’re Russians on Bosnian soil.”

  “These Russian devils are smart. Keeping a low profile gives them freedom of movement, and keeps the police disinterested.”

  “How did the Russians even find out about this?”

  “We don’t know.” Emir shrugged again. “Of course, someone could have told them.”

  “Who? Walib? The Syrian?”

  “We don’t really know him.”

  “But Aslan swears by him, and I swear by Aslan. Besides, if it was the Syrian, what is there for him to gain?”

  “To track us down, disrupt our operations. Kill our leadership.”

  “Then we would already be dead, wouldn’t we? He’s here.” The Chechen pointed a scarred finger toward the distant road. “And the Russians are still out there.” He shook his head. “No, it was God who brought us the Syrian and his missiles, not the Russians.”

  Emir nodded submissively. “Yes, of course.”

  “Do whatever you must to get the rest of those missiles delivered here, and tell me when they arrive.”

  Emir nodded. “God’s will be done.”

  24

  HENDLEY ASSOCIATES, ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Gerry Hendley sat at his spotless desk in his top-floor office, squinting behind his reading glasses as he scrolled through the minutes of the latest European Central Bank meeting from the Bloomberg news feed on his desktop.

  As director of one of the most successful privately held financial services firms in the world, he had the responsibility of staying on top of global macroeconomic news, but he employed an army of talented analysts to handle the day-to-day tactical decisions of stock trades, arbitrage plays, and other client services.

  The former senator liked to dress the part of the financial mogul whether in the office or not, but today he was headed for lunch with the ranking minority leader of the Senate Finance Committee, an old colleague and bridge partner. For the occasion he wore a crisp, starched white dress shirt with French cuffs and a blue silk tie. To complement his full head of perfectly coiffed silver hair, he wore a silver Rolex watch, sterling silver medallion cuff links, and a matching silver tie bar, all offset by a charcoal-gray, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit.

  A soft knock at the door caught his attention.

  “Come in.”

  The door pushed open and Gavin Biery stumbled in, holding his iPad in his trembling, overcaffeinated hands. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with exhaustion after an all-nighter fueled by a steady flow of Monster drinks, peanut M&M’s, and Cheetos. Wrinkled beige chinos and a crumb-dusted blue polo rounded out his disheveled-casual ensemble.

  “Hi, Gerry. You sent for me?”

  Hendley suppressed a smile. He hadn’t hired Gavin for his sartorial splendor, but rather for his impeccable brain. Gavin was the IT manager for both Hendley Associates and The Campus, and also Gerry’s best hacker.

  Gerry set his reading glasses down and pointed to the overstuffed chair in front of his desk. “Pull up a chair and take a load off, son.”

  “Thanks.” Gavin smiled weakly and fell into the leather wingback, ignoring the springs groaning under his weight.

  Gerry put his computer to sleep. “I saw your e-mail. Somewhat cryptic, but it sounded urgent.”

  “I don’t know about urgent. Interesting, maybe.”

  “You’ve got my attention. Shoot.”

  Gavin shifted around in his chair. “So, is Jack still going to press charges against that Elena Iliescu woman?”

  “Last time I talked to him, yes. Can’t say that I blame him, especially after the ice-chest revelation.”

  “Yeah, that was creepy, for sure. Did she press charges against him yet?”

  “Strangely, no. I just got off the phone with the lawyer we hired for Jack. She thinks Iliescu is holding off, hoping that Jack will drop his charges against her.”

  “A Mexican standoff,” Gavin said. Then he caught himself. “Is it okay to say that?”

  “Who the hell knows anymore.” Gerry leaned forward on his desk. “Why don’t you fill me in on the details of your e-mail.”

  “So, just like the Slovenian police told Jack, the woman is squeaky clean. No priors, no Interpol notices, not even a ticket for jaywalking. I mean, I don’t know if jaywalking’s a crime over there, I’ve never been to—”

  Gerry waved a grandfat
herly hand. “Go ahead, son, get on with it.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to double-check her background myself, and so I broke into the Interpol network—”

  “You what?”

  “No worries, I’ve done it before, and I’m buried behind a Tor browser and a couple remote VPNs.”

  Gerry sighed. His IT director might as well have been chattering in Urdu, with all of his technical mumbo-jumbo. But that’s why he hired Gavin in the first place. He was the best. He could hack into virtually any computer, anywhere, and hide from just about anybody.

  “Go on.”

  “So I checked the retinal scan she has on file with Interpol, the one that gets checked when she passes through EU customs.”

  “And?”

  “All clear.”

  “But you said you found something.”

  “Don’t ask me why, but I got a bug up my nose, and I decided to pull up the retinal scan Jack sent me from the crime scene.”

  “And?”

  “And the funny thing is, the scan Jack sent doesn’t match the Interpol scan.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I can think of a couple things, but it all boils down to the fact that somehow she’s managed to get her actual retina scan to convert to a clean dummy file within the Interpol system that makes her look like Mother Teresa. Which made me think, of course, that maybe she isn’t, especially since Mother Teresa was Albanian, and not—”

  “Please, Gavin. Stay focused. I’ve got a lot on my plate today.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Gavin yawned like a hippo. “Sorry, I’m running on fumes.”

  “No worries.”

  “So, where was I?”

  “The real versus fake retina scan.”

  “Oh, yeah. So, that isn’t easy to do, spoofing a major database like that. Somebody’s got some chops—or insider access.”

  “Interesting.”

  “The next thing I decided to do was take another run at her in some of the other databases I have access to.”

  “Such as?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know. I mean, legally.”