by Dale Brown
The plan to move the S-300 brigade secretly into central Turkmenistan was Gryzlov’s, but it could be accomplished only with perfect and careful security. All of the components of the S-300 could easily be disguised while on the march, and it could stay well disguised and hidden even when fully set up and operational—it could go from completely closed up and camouflaged to ready to fire in just five minutes. The key was simple: Keep the radars off the air and the datalink transmissions between radar and fire-control centers limited to fiber-optic landline cables. The orders were not followed—or were never properly issued—and the brigade was discovered. No one in Moscow thought the Americans would immediately open fire on the brigade with precision-guided and cluster munitions, but they did, and the cost in human life and loss of equipment was high indeed.
And someone was going to have to pay it.
“Damn it, Boris, I’m sorry it happened,” Gryzlov said. “I wish your boys had kept their fingers off the COMMIT buttons.”
“I apologize for that, General,” Kasimov said. “I take full responsibility. But the fact remains: The Americans killed almost two dozen men and injured many more. The Americans provoked a response by their actions, and they employed offensive weapons in violation of the peacekeeping agreement.”
“I know, and I will hold them fully responsible for the deaths they caused,” Gryzlov said. “I’m sorry, Boris, but I have to bring you back to Moscow. You did not pull the trigger, but you are responsible for what happened out there and for the actions of your men.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Don’t worry, Boris, I’m not going to make you the whipping boy—you know more about Central Asia than almost any other general officer, and you’ve done a commendable job commanding our forces in Turkmenistan all these years. You’ll still be involved in everything that goes on in Central Asia. Turn your staff operations over to General Bilatov, hop a flight back, and report to General Stepashin. After you two have a chance to talk, we’ll meet and discuss our next moves, once the furor over this incident dies down.”
“Yes, sir,” Kasimov replied. “I’ll depart within the hour.”
“Good. That will be all. I’ll see you in a day or two.”
Colonel General Kasimov felt somewhat relieved as he called for his staff transport jet, a Yakovlev-40, to be made ready for departure and his staff car brought around to take him home so he could pack. He was going to be roasted over the coals by Nikolai Stepashin, the new chief of staff and the commander of the Ministry of State Security, perhaps even demoted. But Gryzlov needed experienced, well-educated officers for his Central Asian campaign, and Kasimov felt confident that his talents were not going to be wasted commanding some frozen remote radar site in Siberia for the next ten years just because one of his lieutenants had an itchy trigger finger.
Kasimov briefed his deputy commander while he loaded files into his briefcase, then shook hands with his office staff members and strode out to his waiting car. The plane would not be ready for at least another hour, so he had time to relax and have a few drinks in his quarters, an unassuming concrete-block building on the northeast side of Ashkhabad International Airport. He told his aide and driver to stay in the car—he could pack easier and faster himself, and he wanted to be alone. He would be done as soon as the plane was fueled and ready for takeoff.
He was sure as hell not going to miss this shitty little house, he thought as he fixed a stiff drink, retrieved his A-3 kit bag from under his bed, zipped it open, and started throwing clothing into it. Duty in Turkmenistan was great until this whole incident had blown up in their faces—the Taliban invasion of eastern Turkmenistan, the threat to Russian interests, the mobilization of troops, the American involvement, the battle for the cities of Mary and Chärjew, and the Americans’ preemptive strike inside Russia to cut off their counterattack. Since then all officers who had formerly lived in nice apartments in the capital had to move to these little houses at the airport, where it was a bit more secure. Inadequate heat and light, terrible water, leaking plumbing, drafty doors and windows, cold in the winter and hot in the summer—he now lived only slightly better than his troops in their tents or out in the field camping beside their armored vehicles.
Satisfied that the rest of his packing could be finished in a few minutes, Kasimov kicked off his boots, stretched out on his bed, and took a deep sip of his vodka on ice. Still at least a half hour to wait. He thought he should call his wife but decided instead to call her from base operations right before departure. He took another sip, then closed his eyes for a short catnap.
Kasimov never heard the gunman enter through the back door, step silently into the bedroom, place a pistol muzzle under the general’s chin, and fire a single sound-suppressed round into his brain. In seconds the gunman retrieved the spent shell casing and replaced it with one from a small plastic bag, left some hair and fabric samples near the body so they could be easily found by forensic investigators, and departed.
The Kremlin, Moscow, Russian Federation
A few minutes later
Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle. “Something terrible has happened—General Kasimov has been murdered in his quarters,” he said tonelessly, matter-of-factly.
Minister of State Security and Chief of the General Staff Nikolai Stepashin nodded. “A horrible tragedy. I shall commence an immediate investigation. No doubt anti-Russian Turkmen assassins or Muslim terrorists were involved. They will be hunted down and summarily executed.” He could have been reading from a long-ago-prepared script—which, in fact, he was.
“Now that we have the unpleasantries out of the way,” Gryzlov said, “these are my orders: I want Turkmenistan in complete Russian control in thirty days. I want every Taliban fighter and sympathizer dead and buried, and I want every American aircraft blown out of the sky. That idiot Kasimov tipped our hand and gave away the element of surprise, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what forces you need to mobilize—just do it. I want every oil and natural-gas field in that entire fucking country with a Russian infantry battalion on it.”
Stepashin nodded—he dared not voice any of the dozens of concerns he had—and picked up the telephone to issue the orders that would send a hundred thousand more Russian soldiers into Turkmenistan.
1
Air Intelligence Agency Headquarters,
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
Weeks later
Where is he, Chief?” Colonel Trevor Griffin, operations officer and acting commander of the 996th Information Warfare Wing of the Air Force Air Intelligence Agency, asked as he hurried through the doors. His excitement was obvious as he waited at the verge of impatience exchanging security badges with the guard, facing a sensor for a biometric face-identification scan, and entering a security code into a keypad to open the outer door. Griffin was a sort of caricature, like a kid wearing his dad’s military uniform—short in stature, bean-faced, with slightly protruding ears and narrow, dancing blue eyes. But the broad shoulders, thick neck, and massive forearms under his overcoat only hinted at the soldier hidden behind those giddy eyes.
“In the boss’s office, sir,” the command’s Chief Master Sergeant Harold Bayless responded as he met the colonel on the other side of the security barrier. “I came in early to get caught up on some paperwork, and he was already here. I buzzed you and the boss as soon as I found out.”
“Let me know when the boss gets in,” Griffin said as he removed his Air Force blue overcoat and handed it to the chief master sergeant. “Make sure he has an office, a car, and billeting set up.”
“Yes, sir,” Bayless said. Physically, the two men could not have been more different: Bayless was husky and tall, with lots of thick, dark hair and humorless, penetrating dark eyes. Despite their height difference, Bayless had trouble keeping up with the quick full bird—Bayless finally had to let Griffin hurry off ahead of him, and he retreated to his own o
ffice to make all the appropriate notifications on behalf of this most unexpected distinguished visitor.
Despite his fast pace, Griffin wasn’t even breathing hard as he hurried past the stunned noncommissioned officer in charge and into his office. There, sitting on the sofa in the little casual seating area, was their unexpected visitor. “General McLanahan!” Griffin exclaimed. He stood at attention and saluted. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t know you’d be here so soon. I’m Trevor Griffin. Good to meet you, sir.”
Patrick McLanahan got to his feet, stood at attention, and returned the colonel’s salute. Griffin came over to him and extended his hand, and Patrick shook it. “Good to meet you, too, Colonel Griffin,” Patrick McLanahan responded.
“For Christ’s sake, General, please, sit down,” Griffin said, a little confused at McLanahan’s formal bearing. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, sir. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“Coffee is good, thank you. Black,” Patrick said.
“Me, too—commando style.” Griffin buzzed his clerk, and moments later the man came in with two mugs of coffee. Griffin introduced his NCOIC, then dismissed him. “I apologize, sir, but I didn’t expect you for quite some time—in fact, I was only just recently notified that you’d be joining us,” Griffin said. He stood aside so Patrick could take the commander’s seat, but Patrick reseated himself on the sofa, so Griffin, a little confused, took his armchair at the head of the table. “We’re thrilled to have you take command of the unit.”
“Thank you.”
Griffin waited until Patrick took a sip of coffee, then said with a smile, “I’m Trevor—or ‘Tagger’ to my friends, sir.”
“Sure,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick.” Griffin nodded happily and took a sip of coffee, still acting as excited as a kid about to go through the turnstiles at Disneyland. “I guess it’s been a while since I’ve reported in to a new unit. I’m a little nervous.”
“And I’m not used to two-star generals showing up without a lot of fanfare.”
“I’m no longer a two-star, Tagger.”
“It was either a mistake, or a temporary budgetary/billeting/ allotment thing, or somebody’s sending you a pretty strong message, Patrick,” Griffin said, “because the Air Force doesn’t take away a general’s stars, like you’re some young captain that just got a DUI. If they did, guys like MacArthur and LeMay would’ve been buck sergeants in no time. General officers either get promoted or they retire, either voluntarily or involuntarily—they don’t get demoted.” He couldn’t help but stare, bug-eyed, at the ribbons on Patrick’s chest, especially the Air Force Cross—the highest award given to an Air Force officer besides the Medal of Honor—and the Silver Star. “But whoever’s testing you or pushing on you,” he went on, dragging his attention back to his new commanding officer, “it’s their loss and my gain. But we didn’t expect you for another month at least.”
“I decided to show up early and meet everyone,” Patrick said. “My son is with his aunt in Sacramento.”
“And your wife?”
“I’m a widower, Trevor.”
Griffin’s face fell. “Oh, shit…I’m sorry, sir,” he said sincerely. He averted his eyes apologetically, embarrassed that he hadn’t known this extremely important piece of information. “I received your personnel file, but I only glossed over it—as I said, I didn’t expect you for a few weeks.”
This uncomfortable pause gave Patrick a chance to look Trevor Griffin over. His compact frame only served to accentuate his powerful physique—he looked as if he had been power-lifting most of his life, and perhaps still did. Griffin’s short-sleeved casual uniform had few accoutrements—command jump wings under a senior weapons director’s badge—but Patrick saw his Class A uniform hanging on a coatrack behind the door, and it appeared as if Griffin had every ribbon and award an Air Force officer could have—and then some: Patrick noticed a Combat Infantry Badge and even a yellow-and-black RANGER tab.
“That’s okay, Trevor,” Patrick said. “I guess I’ve thrown a monkey wrench into your office by coming here early like this. I’m sorry.”
“We both have to stop saying ‘sorry’ to each other.”
Patrick smiled and nodded. Wishing to quickly change the subject, he nodded toward Griffin’s uniform blouse hanging behind the door. “I know of only one other Air Force officer that wears a Ranger tab.”
“I think there is only one other: Hal Briggs. I convinced him to go to Ranger school as a brand-new second lieutenant fresh out of Security Police school—he had so much energy I thought he’d drive us all crazy. I lost track of him over the years.”
“He’s a full bird colonel at my previous base in Battle Mountain, Nevada.”
“What’s he doing at Battle Mountain?”
“Hal commands a unit of high-tech, highly mobile ground forces that direct unmanned close-air-support and reconnaissance aircraft.”
“It must be under some very tight wraps for us here at AIA not to hear about it,” Griffin said. His eyes sparkled in excitement even more. “Sounds very cool, Patrick. I want to learn more about it.”
“Sure. You’d fit right in, I think—you look like you’re either an Olympic gymnast or you’re from the special-ops community.”
“I was in special ops before the Air Force really had them,” Griffin said. “I was an Army Ranger and fought in Grenada, then decided I wanted to join the Air Force and be an officer—I thought I was done crawling and bleeding in the mud. I was in Security Police for a while—that’s where I met Hal Briggs—but I couldn’t leave the special-ops career field and became a combat air controller.
“I directed a combat-controller wing in Desert Storm—my guys set up a half-dozen forward-resupply points and landing strips inside Iraq, including three that we set up in the western side of the country weeks before the air war started. I had one squad that actually put a laser beam on Saddam Hussein’s getaway vehicle—he was hightailing it to Jordan—but we couldn’t get a shooter in to launch on him fast enough.
“After Desert Storm I attended Air War College, was assigned to U.S. Special Operations Command headquarters at MacDill, then married a great woman that had two small kids; I adopted hers, and we had one of our own. It was then, after realizing I was almost forty with three young kids, that I decided to settle down. I joined the intelligence career track, and except for service schools and one year at the Pentagon, I’ve been either at Kelly Field or here at Lackland. I like to think I contribute the ground-pounder’s perspective to the high-tech Air Force.”
“The Air Battle Force is designed to have shooters deploy with ground forces at all times,” Patrick said. “We use unmanned long-range bombers to launch unmanned armed attack vehicles that can be directed via datalink by the ground forces.”
“We definitely need to talk and compare notes, sir,” Griffin said enthusiastically. “If you can forgive all my ignorance-based faux pas until I’m up to speed, I assure you again that I’m thrilled that you’re coming here and working with our wing.”
“Thanks.”
Griffin looked at McLanahan carefully for a moment, then said, “If you’d allow me to make an observation, sir?”
“Go for it.”
Griffin’s smile dimmed a bit. “I’d say you’re here early to check out this agency…to decide whether you want to stay in the Air Force or not.”
Patrick looked at Griffin sternly, as if he were ready to challenge him on his observation—but moments later he glanced away, then nodded. “I hoped it wouldn’t be that obvious,” he said.
“Like I said, very few general officers get demoted,” Griffin said. “Maybe they want to see what you’re made of, what your real goals are. The rumors are still hot and heavy that you’re being considered for the post of national security adviser if the president wins reelection—or maybe even to help Thorn win reelection. If you got kicked out of the Air Force, or were even forced to resign, it might look bad for the president to consider bringing you on. Maybe they wa
nt to see whether you’d stick it out or not, show some loyalty.”
“Trevor, I assure you, I’m not going to be national security adviser,” Patrick said.
“Hey, I didn’t make up the rumors—I’m just helping propagate them,” Griffin said, his energetic and engaging smile returning. “Do you have any intel background?”
“No,” Patrick replied. “Bombers, engineering, research and development. The units I flew with had their own organic intel capabilities—we rarely called on outside intel sources.”
Griffin grinned again, getting more and more intrigued by the minute. “The Air Battle Force operated with its own intel sources? Sounds cooler all the time, Patrick.” Griffin looked at Patrick carefully. “Hold on…that attack on the Russians in Turkmenistan a few weeks ago. The Russians claim an American B-1 bomber attacked an unarmed observer team being sent into Mary.”
“It wasn’t an ‘unarmed observer team’—it was a mobile SA-12 site, a full brigade, sitting twenty miles inside the cease-fire zone.”
“I knew it,” Griffin said. “We caught a glimpse of it here, requested some ground support—send some special-ops guys to go in and take a look—but that was vetoed by General Houser. Your own intel sources identified it as an SA-12?”
“We were lucky and caught one squeak from its search radar,” Patrick explained. “We couldn’t get it to turn the radar back on—until we made like we were going to attack it.”
“Well, we certainly didn’t think of using our air-intel assets as decoys to incite the Russians to attack us,” Griffin admitted, “but if it worked, I won’t knock it. The SA-12 attacked?”
