As the forward four-man unit dug in, allowing the other three to retreat, the Russian tanks moved to within seven thousand meters of their position.
“Sir, I see an opening. I can still make the target—” Zinchenko of Team A said.
“Negative!” the officer shouted. “Withdraw.”
This was different from Donbass, where the Ukrainians could hold their positions, hunker down, and wait for their own tanks from other bases in the surrounding area to join the fight.
“Team A, continue firing, maximum rate—don’t save any ammo!” the major shouted over the secure radio.
There were two distinctive, blood-red flashes in his goggles. Zinchenko and Tkach went down. This was followed, almost at once, by a tank blast that took all of Team B plus Marchuk of A. The unit vanished in sound and churning olive clouds, but Marchuk died only meters from the major. He was torn nearly in half just below the rib cage, the edges of his Kevlar body armor frayed to tassels. Donbass had a dustoff, too, the capacity to evac by military helicopter. This covert mission had no backup.
It wasn’t a fighting withdrawal, it wasn’t even an unorderly withdrawal—it was a rout, a slaughter. The Russian shells ripped through the surrounding rocks, trees, and civilian structures without discretion and left them smoking husks on blackened, cratered ground.
Chorna dropped at the hands of a sniper, whom Romanenko placed much closer than he had anticipated, at only sixty-five meters. It was the last calculation the major made before his visor went red and he stopped moving.
He had been struck in the right hip and his view shifted to the horizontal. He had fallen on top of his weapon. Looking out, he saw Chorna move an arm.
Two of them were still alive. The mission was not quite finished.…
* * *
It was called Bionic Hill, and it was one of the preeminent high-tech centers in Europe. Co-founded by the first U.S. ambassador to Ukraine—whose consulting firm was responsible for developing the dynamic complex—it sprawled across 363 scenic acres in the heart of the great metropolis. Nearly thirty thousand people worked there, developing information and communication technologies, biotech and pharmaceutical innovations, and green, clean energy sources. The facility included a university and tenant space for firms that wished to partner with the Hill.
Buried in the orderly blocks of four-story glass-and-steel buildings was the office of Technological Support Laboratory Global, a vaguely named research division that had once been a part of the Special Operations Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. After forming a secret alliance with the Shemona Group in Israel—a provider of state-of-the-art hi-tech military software and hardware—the TSL was shifted to civilian work.
But only officially.
Apart from the name there was no identification, military or otherwise, on the frosted glass doors. Inside, in seven thousand square feet of clean-lined tables and stools, thirty-seven scientists worked in a fraternal setting, creating state-of-the-art equipment for the SOF.
The only exception was a room, called the Long Barracks, which ran narrowly along the back of the facility. It had been specially selected for its location away from security cameras, away from the main pedestrian walks. It was about as wide and high and long as a pair of railroad cars. Despite the lack of soundproofing, it was quiet—save for the occasional muted whoop or curse of someone inside.
The Long Barracks was run by a civilian, Havrylo Koval, a thirty-six-year-old who held a doctorate in computer science from Stanford University. Standing in the dark, he and five others were running a beta test on the plan that had been devised by one of the five—Major Josyp Romanenko of the Ukrainian Ground Forces, Operation Command East, and a frontline veteran of the War in Donbass. No one had a better firsthand knowledge of Russian hardware than the man who led the surveillance operations against the “humanitarian convoy” that Putin sent into Ukrainian territory.
Koval was merely an observer, and he had no avatar in the combat simulation. Which was fortunate: unlike the brawny five-foot-seven Romanenko, who had miraculously found places of concealment and narrow venues to advance in areas that weren’t designed for those purposes, Koval would simply have stood on a real field of combat in terrified immobility.
In real life, the team was dressed in skintight gray motion-tracking suits that were captured by cameras set around the barracks and fed into the program. What anyone did in reality appeared in virtual reality, and vice versa. The simulation had been designed to accommodate the parameters of the Long Barracks. Whenever Koval noted any kinks or glitches in the program, they would take the new version into the Ready Room. That was in a separate building, a cross between a school gymnasium and an aircraft hangar. The team would spend several days there, cut off from outside communications, so that mission specifics could not be leaked or hacked.
Right now, only Chorna and Romanenko were still moving. Though they were both upright, their avatars in the simulation were lying on the raw, ugly ground. When the digital display in the lower right corner read 1900 hours, Romanenko barked a termination of the simulation. There were deep inhalations to break the tension, a few shallow breaths to relieve the fear. The fog of war had been vivid and shared. The loss had tasted real and crushing.
They were standing in the dark when everyone had removed their goggles. Koval turned the lights on in stages. The simulation was a combination of extremes, from night vision to incoming artillery to the flash-bang explosions the unit had deployed as soon as they got the abort call. Their eyes had been strained in subtle ways to merge the pixel-fine graphics into reality, and that required decompression.
Even after their breathing became regular, no one spoke. No one approached anyone else. This was not the time or place for second-guessing, recriminations, back-slapping, postmortems, or anything other than quiet self-analysis. Given voice, the emotions and adrenaline of combat, real or simulated, inevitably created or enlarged the fractures that come with any team. Romanenko preferred to debrief everyone individually after they’d had time to reflect. In what he stubbornly called “phase one of the war”—instead of the gentler deceptions and euphemisms the politicians and diplomats used to describe the 2014 invasion—Romanenko earned the nickname niánia, “the nanny,” from his fellow officers for the way he both segregated and coddled his team. They didn’t drink or whore with other units. They also weren’t exposed to any of the systemic graft that cost the military $450 million that year. That was every dime of the money the United States had given to Kiev for the military. The major couldn’t answer for fellow officers or their troops, but he would not tolerate less than one hundred percent mission focus, personal loyalty, devotion to country, and scrupulous honesty in his own team. Built into the virtual-reality program were randomly generated temptations like jewelry, hundreds of kopiyoks, pornographic images, and—most desirable of all—pouches of expensive Russian shag tobacco, lying on the ground. If anyone turned to examine them, the program pinged. If anyone stopped to retrieve them, the program stopped and everyone did knuckle push-ups.
Goggles in one hand, his assault rifle in the other, the stocky but thickly muscled Romanenko strode toward the weapons table in the far corner. He moved as if he were a bronze statue come to life—smooth and powerful, no wasted motion. After setting down his weapon and hanging his goggles on an aluminum rack, he went to the personal lockers that lined the far wall on the eastern side of the chamber. He spoke his name, and the sophisticated voice-recognition software popped the lock. The click seemed unnaturally loud in the artificial silence and the semidarkness. The major glanced at his mobile phone.
“Dismissed,” he said in a loud, clipped voice. “Not you, Koval.”
Without wasted motion, the others finished stowing their gear and left by the front door, the only door. They would do what they always did after a test: go to unit HQ and wait, in silence.
When they had filed out, Romanenko retrieved his cigarettes from the locker, lit one, and tur
ned to the scientist.
“An email from Fedir,” he said thickly. “Galina has been murdered. Only her phone was taken.”
Koval, who was immune to the virtual violence, felt his legs weaken at the mention of Galina’s death. He had never met the woman, but she had been an integral member of the operation since its inception.
“She was supposed to meet with Ambassador Flannery this morning,” the major went on. “The timing suggests that she did.”
“Then he is exposed,” Koval said quietly.
“Galina was a professional, she may not have told him much,” Romanenko said as he scrolled down a list of her telephone contacts, thumbed one, put the device on speaker, and handed it to Koval. The scientist would have to translate for the major.
“Who is this?” a man answered in a shaky voice.
The tone itself told both men that dangerous developments were already afoot. Romanenko touched his ear, indicating that he understood, then rolled a finger to indicate that Koval should listen first and translate later.
“Mr. Ambassador, I work—worked—with Galina Petrenko,” the scientist said.
“Go on, quickly.”
Koval had never met the ambassador, but Flannery was clearly a professional and obviously under pressure. The diplomat did not ask for information that would have been offered if the caller wanted it known, such as “Who is this?” or “Where are you calling from?”
“I am with the contact who is second in the queue in Kiev,” Koval said. “He does not speak English—”
“You really weren’t expecting to lose her, were you?” Flannery said.
“Mr. Ambassador—”
“No, listen. Whatever you’re planning, the other side has turned up the heat. You’ve got to stand down.”
In the growing light, Koval saw the fire in Romanenko’s eyes. “That will not happen, sir,” the scientist said. “If anything, I believe the schedule has just been accelerated.” He waited a moment, then asked, “Was Galina able to secure your assistance?”
“I am uncommitted and deeply concerned,” Flannery replied. He switched to Ukrainian. “You are on speaker—who else is there?” It was appropriate to ask that now. No one liked to be blindsided.
A cigarette-deepened voice replied, “The commando leader.”
“Your name, sir?”
“It is not needed,” the major replied. “What is needed, desperately, is the information Galina Petrenko sought.”
“Sir … what is needed is patience,” Flannery said. “Diplomacy moves slowly, but, like Galileo’s earth, it does move. Any action, covert or otherwise, will rightly be perceived as a provocation.”
“This matter has been debated and decided.”
“By your government?”
“Our government is powerless,” Romanenko replied. “They have no motivation to achieve anything of consequence. Not when they are in a position to simply manufacture medals and honors while pressing for foreign aid—which the military will never see.”
“Then your plan is not known or sanctioned by the government?” Flannery pressed.
“The prime minister and members of Parliament have not been consulted,” the major replied.
“‘Members,’” Flannery said, his mind attuned to the use of language. “Were all members not consulted?”
“All members … have plausible deniability,” Romanenko answered.
Flannery’s exhalation told the Ukrainians what they already knew: that was not the answer he wanted to hear. The truth was that several militant members of Parliament were aware of a plan, but not this plan, and it had their tacit approval. If successful, it would have their vocal support.
“Gentlemen, I am late for a call … no, two,” Flannery said. “I must speak to you later.”
“Only if there is a reason to continue this conversation,” Romanenko said. “Otherwise, we thank you for your time and for seeing Galina. We pray that some part of her spirit lives on in you.”
The scientist ended the call. The major nodded appreciatively.
“You should have become a diplomat,” Koval said.
“I don’t have the tongue for it,” the major replied. “Or the stomach.”
“You have the patience and determination—I’ve seen you work,” Koval said.
The major began walking to the exit.
“Major!”
The officer stopped and turned.
“How should I modify B2?” the scientist asked.
“Add undefused land mines,” he said.
“You want it … more difficult?”
“Absent the ordnance to destroy the pressure plates, we should not assume we got all of the mines going in,” Romanenko said. “What if we didn’t?”
“But the mission and the retreat both failed without that added challenge.”
“When you lift weights competitively, you train with more than you will ever need to press,” Romanenko said, exhaling smoke. “When you jog, you run with ankle weights. This is no different.”
“I understand the theory—”
“It’s more than theory,” Romanenko insisted, taking a few steps toward Koval. “Getting all the mines delayed Chorna and threw our timing off by six full minutes. What if he skipped a few outlyers and was then on point for Team B instead of having to fall in, rear guard? Or, even as things were, I could have sent Zinchenko through the opening he saw and ordered Team A forward in support. And two of us were still alive. The mission was not optimal, but it was not over. We will try again in sixty minutes, if you can add the mines by then?”
Koval looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. “Of course.”
Alone in the Long Barracks, under full illumination, Koval had to admit that the man had logistical points. As a commander, Romanenko also factored in ephemerals like “will” and “adrenaline” and “camaraderie” and even “competition,” elements that did not figure in Koval’s work.
The scientist left the room, his eyes happier in the darkness outside the facility. He thought briefly of Galina, of her career, her courage, her patriotism. He felt the stab of the loss but, more important, he felt a flush of inspiration. In the distance, he saw a searchlight stabbing the sky for Russian aircraft. It wasn’t much of a deterrent, but it was what the major called a placeholder: it let Putin know that Kiev was not complacent. It was simply in stand-down mode.
For now.
CHAPTER SIX
Op-Center Headquarters, Fort Belvoir North,
Springfield, Virginia
June 2, 1:04 PM
The walk from the Geek Tank to Williams’s office took less than a minute, but it was enough time for the director to privately give Anne a quick assignment and then explain to Dawson what Bleich had found.
“A multiplayer game written by a buddy at Stanford, first-person shooter,” Williams said. “He’s looking for a government job and parts of it ended up on his reel. All of that is common enough, I’m told. What was different is the location of this game. It is built on a basic template that could be one of three Russian bases very close to the Ukrainian border: Voronezh to the southeast, Sudzha to the northeast, or the naval base at Sevastopol—”
Dawson frowned. “The port facility in Crimea that’s being expanded even before it’s finished?”
Williams nodded.
“I can see where the Ukrainians would want to take that one out,” Dawson said. “Putin’s thumb squarely in their eye.”
“By treaty,” Anne pointed out, “signed in 2015 for a twenty-five-year period.”
“Where I come from, having a twelve-inch, forty-caliber gun to your head is called extortion,” Dawson said.
“Regardless,” Williams said, “those three bases are all undergoing a similar and ongoing expansion, which is what caught Aaron’s attention. The game includes their standardized expansions.”
“Nice to know the kid reads the intel reports I send out,” Anne remarked pointedly from behind them.
“Sudzha is on the ver
ge of being operational,” Williams went on. “The other two expansions will be ready within a month or two. Those would be perfect targets for Special Ops forces.”
“No military advantage other than a blow to Putin’s pride,” Dawson said. “And it would make tactical sense to take on walls that are not quite ready to be defended.”
“A good reason to pick the most difficult of the three,” Anne said, looking at images from space. “The trees in the VR don’t give us any clues. All the bases have plantings for concealment.”
“Is there signage anywhere in the VR?” Dawson asked.
“Nothing,” Williams said. “This seems to be an alpha version that was sent somewhere else for completion.”
“Right,” Dawson said. “The finish would probably have more graphic details about the base as well. I’m assuming the game was commissioned—”
“The RES on Aaron’s team tried to find out who, what, where,” Williams said as they reached his office. He was referring to the reverse-engineering specialist, Charlene Squires, the daughter of Op-Center’s former military leader Charlie Squires. “She said it was an anonymous buyer, cash. But here’s the interesting thing: there were obviously no restrictions on the software, no proprietary or confidentiality agreements. That’s how it ended up on the reel.”
“Restrictions might not have mattered,” Dawson said. “I’ve never known a designer who doesn’t like to show off. It’s the post-Gates, post-Jobs generation. I see them in bars sometimes, running at the mouth. They’re the new jocks, except their secrets can’t handle anything harder than Amstel Light.”
“Or it could be carelessness,” Anne suggested, hearing something bitter—about bars, not nerds—creeping into Dawson’s voice. “Or an ‘If I don’t do this, no one will ever know I did it’ from the designer.”
“Possibly,” Williams agreed. “Duncan, you had a thought on that?”
“Yeah.” The logistics director, who had been walking behind Anne, shouldered past. “Someone wanted it to be picked up,” he said in a Liverpudlian accent that seemed to have been duplicated precisely across an entire population. “Someone wanted to see how the Russians would react to a simulated attack on one of their forward bases.”
Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone Page 4
