by Marc Cameron
FIELD OF FIRE
MARC CAMERON
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 Marc Cameron
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3892-3
First electronic edition: January 2017
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3893-0
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3893-4
VD1_1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
PART I - CONSPIRE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PART II - ACQUIRE
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
PART III - FIRE
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DEAD DROP Teaser
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For Julie
Thanks, Sis.
The art of war . . . is a matter of life and death, a
road either to safety or to ruin.
—SUN TZU
Prologue
VOSTOK Satellite Imagery Reconnaissance Post Khabarovsk, Russia, 11:05 A.M.
The dimly lit basement held nothing but conscripts and sad stories, none of which Junior Lieutenant Andre Bukin wanted to hear. Corporal Popovich knew this full well, and still the bony soldier beckoned Bukin to his flickering video monitor. Bordering on skeletal, he was one of twenty-four paste-white faces around the walls of the quiet room. As officer of the watch and a recent graduate of the Budyonny Military Academy in St. Petersburg, Bukin was absolutely certain he was smarter, stronger, and imminently better than any of the other two dozen men and women around him slouching in front of computer screens. He was a stern-looking man, with jet-black hair slicked backward like a young Joseph Stalin. A heavy brow and strong jaw added weight to his brooding manner and made him perfect for the job of overseer. His superiors saw his potential, and he took enormous pride in that.
Every soul Bukin supervised had been drafted into the Army for the term of a single year. Some were nearing the end of their service, but most were at the halfway point. It was called service, but was it really if served at the point of a sword? When their year was done, these minions would flee like prisoners paroled. No one expected much of them, and they gave no more than was expected.
Around the chilly room, computer fans hummed and keyboards clicked. In the rare event that any of the soldiers spoke, they did so in churchlike whispers. It was no secret that most kept a mobile phone resting on a thigh and hidden below the desk, content to play games and chat with friends on ICQ. For the most part, the conscripts watched their monitors, and Bukin watched them. It was all so mundanely perfect, the consistent work from which careers were made—until the idiot corporal raised his bony arm.
Nestor Popovich was a skeletal thing, barely out of his teens, with a shaved head that bore the many knots and scars of dedovshchina—the brutal hazing he’d received from more senior conscripts during basic training. His baggy blue coveralls appeared to be eating him alive.
“There is something in the river, Lieutenant,” he whispered, when Bukin was close enough, dipping his scarred head toward the image on his screen. “Frozen, I think . . . but it is too early in the season . . .” Popovich rolled his chair back from the long metal counter with a squeak, giving Bukin room for a better vantage point. The boy looked up with obscenely naïve eyes.
Bukin studied the screen for a long moment, leaning in, then back, then in again. His breath quickened as it dawned on him what he was seeing. He toggled the keyboard to enlarge the image. He had to make certain his eyes were not playing tricks.
“Dead fish,” Bukin gasped, taking an instinctive step backward, distancing himself from the screen if not the situation. The horrific images from the satellite feed flickered against his slack jaw. He hooked a finger in the constricting collar of his uniform shirt, a futile attempt to get more air, and thought of how insane it was that a river of dead fish was about to cost him his career—or worse.
“Fish?” Popovich said, a little too loudly for Bukin’s rapidly fraying nerves.
His head swimming, Bukin had to lean forward and rest his hands on the long counter to stay upright. It put the men elbow to shoulder, and he turned his head to stare at the corporal, seething inside. It was protocol to summon a superior in such instances, but Bukin hated him for it.
It was unlikely that the ignorant boy had any idea what he was even seeing, but the lieutenant knew too well. The events unfolding in real time on his screen sent audible waves of nausea gurgling through his bowels. Sweat trickled down his forehead and disappeared into the thick brow that formed a single, unbroken line overhanging his face.
The enlarged image on Popovich’s screen showed thousands of bloated white bellies in the otherwise dark oxbows of an Arctic river, forming a shockingly pale raft against the green tundra and gray mountains.
The corporal pointed toward the images of crosshatched streets and drab concrete buildings that made up the Siberian port village on the shores of the Chukchi Sea.
“This is Providenya,” he said.
Bukin shot a furtive glance
around the dimly lit room as if Popovich had just divulged a state secret. No one looked up.
Bukin turned back quickly to lock eyes with the skinny conscript, narrowing his eyes in the unspoken but universal look from a superior officer that said, Keep your mouth shut.
Popovich shrank back, rolling his chair closer to his workstation. He clicked the computer mouse to overlay a map on the satellite image, zooming in more and bringing the river into sharper focus. Both men stared, their mouths hanging open.
“Gemorróy!” Popovich gasped. Literally, “hemorrhoids!”
Lieutenant Bukin thought it an apt description of the situation. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, his mind spinning through the possibilities. A die-off near Providenya could mean only one thing.
The flight path of Kosmos 2491, one of the satellites responsible for over-watch of American military bases in Alaska also took it directly over the small settlement in the protected bay on the Russian coast, 3,500 kilometers northeast of the monitoring station where Bukin’s sweat now dripped onto the metal counter. Along with the dead fish, the satellite feed clearly showed the gray and unremarkable concrete buildings of the old MIG 17 base across Providenya Bay. Most everyone in the Russian Army knew the lonely outpost had also been a depot for chemical weapons during the Soviet days. Official reports said it had been closed for over forty years. Strategically placed debris and the rusted hulks of several military planes on and around the airstrip indicated that the remote base had fallen into disrepair.
Bukin knew differently. From here on, discretion was not only a matter of state security; his life depended on it.
Corporal Popovich, still oblivious to the gravity of the situation, glanced up at his superior.
“There are so many, sir” he said. “What could have killed them?”
Bukin put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, trying to sound like a father figure though he was no more than a few years older. “You must watch your words on this.”
“With respect,” the corporal said, “such a massive die-off will be difficult to conceal.” The boy’s hand shot to his open mouth. “Lieutenant, look!”
Bukin watched the screen in horror as a small skiff carrying six men moved upriver from the mouth of the bay. The man seated at the bow stood as they neared the fish, teetered there for a moment, then fell overboard, floundering in the water, apparently unable to swim. A moment later the others in the boat began to thrash wildly. Two more fell into the river. The remaining three lay sprawled on the deck of the boat, motionless. With no one to steer it, the skiff arced gracefully through the water to run itself up on a gravel bank mere feet from the drifting raft of bloated fish.
Bukin blotted the sweat from his hands on the front of his uniform trousers and placed them palms down on the countertop. A sudden flush of panic washed over him when he saw the glowing red clock below the video monitor. Standing bolt upright, he snatched a small notepad from the pocket of his tunic and ran a trembling finger down the list of times and numbers he’d taped to the back.
He found what he needed and grabbed up a black handset beside the monitor and dialed the number from the back of his notebook. Bukin hated the corporal for following protocol—and shortly, another officer would feel the same way about him.
He had ninety-one minutes until a U.S. Lacrosse satellite made its first of two daily flights over Providenya. When it did, the Americans were sure to see the river.
Still hopelessly oblivious, Popovich used the computer mouse to move around the image, studying the old MIG 17 base.
“My girlfriend is Chukchi Eskimo,” The corporal whistled under his breath. “She tells me crazy stories of Providenya. The townspeople do not speak of it much, but there are many secret things that go on there.”
Junior Lieutenant Bukin held up his hand to quiet the idiot corporal, then cupped his hand around the telephone receiver to explain the situation in frenzied whispers. If the other conscripts noticed, or cared about what was going on, they didn’t show it. The officer on the other end of the line explained in no uncertain terms how he wanted Bukin to proceed.
“Now?” the junior lieutenant whispered. “Here?”
The officer held firm with his order.
“Yes, Captain,” Bukin said, feeling his future prospects drain away. “I understand. I will do so immediately.” He replaced the receiver, trying to remain nonchalant as his hand dropped to the Makarov pistol on his belt and moved it to the pocket of his uniform tunic.
“I want to hear more about what your girlfriend has told you,” Bukin said, offering the conscript a cigarette, hoping the boy didn’t see his hands shake. He shot a conspiratorial glance around the room. “But we mustn’t do it here. Let us step outside and discuss it in private. Bukin followed the foolish conscript out the door, his hand gripping the Makarov in his uniform pocket. His orders had been clear. Those who spoke too much of Providenya must end up like the fish.
GRU Regional Headquarters, Khabarovsk, 11:33 A.M.
“Gemorróy!” Colonel Ruslan Rostov spat into the telephone. His bald head glowed red, his broad face twisted as if frozen in the middle of a sneeze. Thick knuckles turned white around the handset. “How many dead?”
“At this point, twenty-seven, sir,” Captain Evgeni Lodygin said, his voice characteristically deadpan. “I anticipate that number to go up as the spill moves downstream and enters the bay.”
Rostov knew Lodygin to be exceptionally capable though he did have his little eccentricities. But for certain violent lapses in judgment with the occasional prostitute—whom no one would ever miss anyway—he was able to control his most unseemly appetites. There were times when a high-functioning psychopath could be a valuable commodity—a fact that Rostov had learned from experience.
The colonel bounced his fist on the desk in frustration. “How much was leaked?”
Lodygin cleared his throat, obviously stalling.
“How much?”
“The entire cache is missing,” Lodygin said.
“Then this was no accident?” Rostov felt his career evaporating. The general would be furious. He hunched forward in his chair, dumbstruck. “Someone released the chemicals on purpose?”
“I fear that is exactly what occurred, Colonel,” Lodygin said.
“The old fool dumped all his work into the river?” Rostov said, still processing the gravity of the situation. He felt as though he might begin to weep. “This will kill thousands. I will be summoned to Moscow . . .”
“That is the thing, Colonel,” Lodygin said. “All the Novo Archangelsk is missing, but we have only found a dozen empty containers in Volodin’s lab.”
Rostov closed his eyes, steeling himself.
“How much stock was on hand?”
“He destroyed the records,” Lodygin said. “Much of the stock has already been sent to secure storage in the vault, but there were at least three cases in the lab as of last week.”
“Two full cases . . .” Rostov whispered. That meant two-dozen canisters of the most deadly gas known to mankind were unaccounted for. The news hit him like a sledgehammer in the guts, but as terrible at that was, he had the more immediate problem of the oncoming American satellite.
“Very well,” he said. “We must focus on the immediate problem of the spill at this moment.”
“Of course,” Lodygin said. “The deaths would have been catastrophic had the water not diluted the compounds. Prevailing winds continue to blow in from the sea, toward generally uninhabited mountains. If the winds reverse, or begin to blow southerly the entire city would be affected.”
Rostov groaned. Providenya was a far-flung outpost at the edge of nowhere—that’s what made it perfect. But two thousand bloating bodies would be a difficult thing to conceal, even at the edge of the world.
“All but essential personnel have been ordered to remain in their quarters,” Lodygin continued. “Those who must work outdoors are required to wear a protective suit and breathing apparatus. I’ve told local authorit
ies across the bay that there has been a leak of chlorine gas from a shipping container. They are using the tsunami warning system to have everyone stay in their homes until ordered to do otherwise. So far no one has spoken of Novo Archangelsk.”
“And you would be wise to keep quiet about it.” Rostov exhaled slowly. Containment. Everything now was about containment. “What of the fish?” he said. “What do you intend to do about them?”
“Ah, the fish,” Lodygin said, maddeningly smug. “My men are spraying them with black paint as we speak.”
“Paint?” the colonel bellowed. He shoved the padded leather chair away from his desk, sending a ceramic coffee mug made for him by his fifteen-year-old daughter against the thin, institutional carpet, dashing it to pieces. “Paint, you say? How you were ever promoted to captain is a mystery to me. I am told the Onyx 182 will overfly Providenya in sixty-three minutes and your most brilliant plan to conceal the fish is to spray them with black paint?
Onyx was a codename for the fifteen-ton American Lacrosse radar imaging satellite that passed over the Russian Far East twice every day.
“I assure you, Colonel, we will prove successful, but I am happy to institute your superior plan.”
Rostov closed his eyes. He took a deep breath through his nose in an effort to steady himself before speaking.
“Captain Lodygin,” he said. “Did it even occur to you that you will simply have a river full of dead fish covered in black paint? You would be wise to remember that American satellites are capable of counting the dimples on a golf ball at night and in bad weather.”
“That is true enough.” Lodygin gave a hollow cough, as if he was being forced to pay attention to something that bored him, his superior officer for instance. “But the Lacrosse passes over 650 kilometers above us, covering a large target swath with each pass. That is a great deal of area on which to spy encompassing many square kilometers of terrain. More clearly, the American satellites are so sophisticated that they have mountains of data to sift through. This makes it much easier to hide the golf ball you mention unless they have a specific reason to focus on it in particular.”
