Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone

by George Galdorisi

  “You won’t be arriving as a group,” McCord said. “I’ve been talking to Mike Volner about this. You will lead the first landing, consisting of six JSOC troops, Volner will lead the second, and the five-person support team under Sergeant Moore will come in last. Each team will have a separate cover story—students on tour, which will explain why Mike’s group doesn’t speak the language; your group will be geologists, which will give Junior Warrant Officer Canter a chance to use his master’s degree; and the third group will be journalists.”

  “I want to be with the journalists,” Flannery said suddenly.

  The other three looked at him. He was intently studying the tablet in front of him.

  “Mr. Ambassador—” McCord began.

  Flannery cut him off. “As of two years ago, communications in that region were spotty at best,” the ambassador said. “And, even if your satellites are as powerful as Mr. Bleich says they are, the Russians have put relatively sophisticated wireless interceptors in place.”

  “Aaron assures us that they won’t be able to read his signal,” McCord replied.

  “That may also be true, but they will know that there is a signal, an encrypted signal, one that no one on that peninsula is likely to be sending,” Flannery said. He sat back and shook his head. “Putin has undercover operatives in the north, sympathizers—we knew that in 2014. Drones in the sky and eyes on the ground were how he received most of his intelligence.” He looked up at McCord. “You brought me here for my help, my opinions. My opinion is that someone who speaks Ukrainian and Russian must be with you.”

  “I’ll have to discuss that with Chase—”

  “I can and will go myself if I must,” Flannery said. “In fact, I can probably get there before your team does.” The ambassador’s voice had a resolute quality none of the others had heard before.

  “I’m listening,” Bankole said.

  “Thank you,” Flannery said. “This madness, something that a rogue element of the Ukrainian military is apparently planning, is a threat to a region I love, to an area I have been working for years to protect.” He looked at Allison, then back at McCord. “Am I … is this too highly classified?”

  “Ms. Weill is cleared,” McCord said. “Thank you for checking.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Weill,” Flannery said. “Diplomats are cautious sorts.”

  “I fully understand,” she replied with a reassuring smile.

  Flannery collected his thoughts. “We have seasoned Ukrainians—we don’t know how many or exactly where they are—who are looking to provoke Vladimir Putin,” the ambassador went on. “We don’t know whether their apparent plan to strike Sudzha is the real target, whether it’s a feint, or whether it’s just one of many. Someone has to be there to listen and interpret and, perhaps most important, to make educated guesses.” His gazed shifted to Bankole. “Can any of your people do that?”

  “We are world-class guessers,” he said. “But we’re not in your league.”

  “Then I don’t see that there are any options,” Flannery said. His eyes returned to McCord. “I assure you, I can do this,” he said.

  “You went down a flight of stairs,” McCord pointed out.

  “As Ms. Weill noted, our destination is very flat,” Flannery said. “No slopes. No cliffs. No stairs.”

  “Forgive me, but you are … sixty? Sixty-one?”

  “Sixty-two, which proves that I look younger, more vital, than I am.”

  Allison chuckled. McCord frowned.

  “I am under the age of retirement, and unless it’s raining I take daily hour-long walks in Central Park,” Flannery went on. “Don’t make me cry ageism. I can do this.”

  McCord sighed. “I can’t authorize this. That will have to come from Williams, and Paul will have to recommend it.”

  Flannery looked at him. “Mr. Bankole?”

  The international crisis manager took only a few seconds to decide. “Roger, I’ve got a bum leg. If I can boat, wade, and walk to wherever we have to go, so can the ambassador.”

  “Thank you,” Flannery said.

  Bankole was still looking at McCord. “So, we’re ashore on the Azov in the northern section of the Arrow. What happens next?”

  McCord replied, “You—you go south,” he said, still somewhat in disbelief. “You move carefully into Russian-annexed territory like you’re handling nitro.”

  “You won’t find it very difficult achieving that part of the journey,” Flannery said.

  “Hopefully not,” McCord agreed. “Akira Kôchi is having the requisite documents printed. Passports, itineraries, student and press IDs—”

  “Bribes,” Flannery firmly interrupted. “Documentation is important, but euros, dollars, or yen are better. They will certainly get us past any checkpoints between the north and south.”

  “Very good to know,” Bankole said, grinning.

  Allison raised a hand. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that I—”

  “We are finished here, thank you,” McCord said to everyone. His eyes settled on the cartographer. “Except for you. We have to go over potential routes on the Crimean Peninsula itself.”

  She gave Bankole a had-to-try look as he left with the ambassador.

  “Is there anything you’ll need before I go see Chase?” Bankole asked.

  “You understand why I insisted?” Flannery replied.

  “Yes, of course. It makes sense, and I’m extremely grateful.”

  “Good,” Flannery replied, wincing. “Painkillers,” he said. “That is what I very much need.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sudzha, Russia

  June 3, 8:46 PM

  General Yershov’s farewells with Lelya were always brief, not because he didn’t care for the woman but because he did. The older he got, the more difficult it became.

  Yershov was already in a reflective mood just from packing. He could have had an aide come and help, but that had never been his way. Even when it was a canvas bag carefully filled to fit a footlocker, he had taken that time to think about each journey, every journey he had undertaken before. The comrades who did not come back. The wives and children and parents they had left behind. He had met many of those families. The effects were cumulative. They inhabited his soul every time he packed his trunk.

  It was difficult packing with those invisible reminders of the uncertainty of his profession. It was difficult knowing that he might never lie beside his beloved Lelya again. But he went for a cause he believed in, the holiness of his great mother, the nation that had bred—and been nurtured by—generations of Yershovs.

  An embrace, a brief kiss as if he were going to the General Staff Building, and then he was out the door and into a waiting staff car. His trunk would follow in the black minivan parked behind it.

  “Anatoly?” his wife called after him.

  He stopped, turned. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Never forget that.”

  Yershov smiled, and did allow himself a lingering look at the dacha as they pulled away. It was the dream of every Russian to live in such a place, and he did. He smiled, because it dispelled all those many ghosts. He smiled because he thought, The next time you lay eyes on your home, this task will be behind you. The new leaves will have withered and fallen, there would likely be snow, the night would be nearly constant … but he would be back. And, perhaps, this other demon, the shame suffered by General Novikov, would finally be placed in its grave.

  The journey southeast from St. Petersburg to Sudzha was five hundred miles. Yershov was driven from his dacha to the Leningrad Naval Base, a touchstone of the Baltic Fleet—its name unchanged despite nearly a century of political upheaval. He was to be flown south on an Mi-24PN attack helicopter, the fiery warhorse of the skies. The aircraft made a short refueling stop at Kubinka Air Base outside of Moscow before continuing to its destination.

  From the skies, Russia was in bloom, a cresting, surging sea of green canopies and pastel fields. Yet there was a pall when he came in
sight of Crimea. Nothing had changed visually, but the helicopter was in its slow descent, radio chatter had decreased, the clouds thickened as the microclimate of the sea took hold, and the crew of two were more alert. NATO and Ukrainian drones were known to operate in this region, and sharp eyes watched the radar screen for any sign of an aerial intruder. Even the four-barreled 12.7-mm. Yakushev-Borzov Yak-B Gatling gun and the 30-mm. GSh-30K twin-barreled fixed cannon seemed a little more alert. No one manned the machine guns mounted at the cabin windows, which could be used for suppression firepower if needed, but even their benign posture could not conceal their lethal potential.

  The lower-altitude turbulence rocked Yershov’s trunk in the cargo hold. It was as if those spirits locked in his memory were trying to get out. Peering ahead, he focused on the Sudzha, which grew in size and clarity as they neared.

  It was even greater than the days-old photographs had suggested. In that time, more aircraft, more armored vehicles, more personnel had arrived. This was not just a forward base; it was the proud beating heart of the new Russian military—a younger, more streamlined, more up-to-date military that was no longer using spit to hold together a crumbling Cold War infrastructure and rusting vehicles.

  This was the kind of command any general would be proud to lead—though Yershov still hoped that President Putin would have a change of heart and send this iron wave out to meet the enemy. In his mind, Yershov had replayed that meeting many times, trying to determine whether there had been something in Putin’s eyes or tone, a gesture, anything that had intimated a course of action different from the one he was stating.

  “War without war, conquest without loss. A siege of the mind.”

  Was that a brilliant tactic or an impossible hope? Why send a general of Yershov’s background and temperament if not to prepare for a crushing military action?

  Because, with me, the president can have both, Yershov had decided. He could turn a drill into an assault with a single “Go” order.

  The helicopter landed off tarmac, near the command center, concealed from the western side by the sprawling complex of buildings. Yershov’s eye was drawn to four new Uran-6 de-mining robots with bulldozer blades and trawls. They were designed to replace a bomb squad of twenty and could be operated from a distance of one kilometer. It was one of the first pieces of equipment President Putin had authorized in the rebuilding of the Russian military. Behind his medals, pride filled the general’s chest.

  The acting commander—Colonel Dyomin, a one-eyed veteran of Afghanistan—met the general with a sharp salute and a firmer handshake. They started toward Yershov’s quarters, but the general asked, instead, to be taken directly to the SIC—the Surveillance and Intelligence Center—for immediate briefing.

  The staff in the dark room snapped to in a way that Yershov recognized: The new commander is coming, make a brilliant first impression. He relaxed them with a gesture and, making his way around the circle of monitors clustered in the center of the room, he was introduced to the intelligence chief, the middle-aged, soft-spoken Major Pavel Zharov. Yershov asked for a tour.

  “We have drones over Crimea at all times,” Zharov said, indicating flat-screen monitors with aerial imagery. “Two”—he indicated the screens—“have infrared capabilities. This station receives reports from the twenty-three operatives we have spread throughout the region, both undercover and sympathizers in territory that is presently controlled by Kiev.”

  It was not lost on Yershov that Zharov had emphasized the word “presently.”

  “These three stations receive intelligence from the armored columns and from the air,” the major went on. “The channels are always open.”

  Yershov understood that comment, too. The troops wore radios, and the radios were required when they were in uniform. There was very little talk about personal matters, unless they wanted those distractions known to command. This was a first-line installation. Professional demeanor was required at all times while on duty.

  “What is this?” Yershov asked as he noticed a series of grids on the next two monitors. They looked like lie detectors.

  “That’s new,” Zharov said proudly. “Aerostatics.”

  “Blimp surveillance,” Yershov said admiringly. “Audio?”

  “Yes, General. The two DP-29 units were launched three days ago and are the most sophisticated listening posts on the planet. These are unmanned, but the Dozor class will carry a small crew and a marksman for targeted strikes.”

  At Zharov’s command, the technician handed him a tablet.

  “All the data from these shakedown missions is stored on this device and shipped to Moscow for further evaluation,” the major said.

  “Why not send it electronically?” Yershov asked. “Kiev has American-made electronics—surely they can intercept the signal from the blimp.”

  “Incoming signal-acquisition software makes hacking dangerous for the enemy,” Zharov said. “The blimp can pinpoint and listen back at them. They learned that very quickly when they intercepted us relaying their precise location to Moscow. They stopped tuning in. But they would be able to hack our signals to Moscow, so we will send the weekly records on these.”

  Yershov took in the major, the monitors, the room beyond with a feeling of immense pride. He had not been entirely sure that this post wasn’t a demotion, on some level. Now he knew better. President Putin had entrusted him with the most valuable military assets in the Russian arsenal.

  Zharov brought up video of the blimps being launched from the airfield. The black envelopes with a modest red star on the side were roughly the size of a freight car. But, despite the shouts of the crew managing the guy lines fore and aft, the balloons were extremely quiet.

  “Those are the propulsion?” Yershov asked, pointing at two small ducts in the rear.

  “Virtually soundless lateral-ducted fan air accelerators,” he said. “At night, unless you happen to look up and it blots the stars, you wouldn’t know it was watching.”

  “And there is no infrared—” Yershov realized.

  “No fuzzy images, only crisp audio,” Zharov said, smiling.

  They continued the tour, and the general took in every detail as if his brain were a computer and his eyes were high-definition cameras. He felt as if he had been transported to his youth, to a younger version of himself—yet with his wisdom and his experiences intact. It was a brilliant feeling, one he knew he should probably never experience again.

  He had been given the keys to his nation’s future in the region, and there was no circumstance in which he would allow the Ukrainians or their allies to damage them. None.

  Assembling his top eight officers for dinner in the modest dining hall of the command compound—with Zharov to his immediate right, a place signifying the importance he placed on intelligence—Yershov listened to the general plans for maneuvers, which would begin just before dawn.

  “I do not need to know the location and nature of everyone, every device that is not only listening and watching,” Yershov told the men, but he was primarily addressing Zharov. “What I need to know is every person and every asset that goes into motion when we begin our maneuvers.”

  “We have operators in the front lines,” said Colonel Ivan Isaev, who sat to the general’s left. “Seven Special Forces squads integrated into the local populace or posing as hikers, surveyors—”

  “There is something being planned,” Yershov interrupted. “I was personally informed by Minister of Defense Timoshenko and by Mr. Putin himself that the Cyber-Surveillance Directorate of the GRU has uncovered what we believe is an imminent plot against one of our bases—most likely this base, given its proximity to the front and its importance.”

  He waited for those words to register before continuing.

  “Our agents in Moscow and America have been risking their lives shutting down the enemy’s spy network. One of our top men lost his life on that mission in the heart of New York City.” Yershov fell silent as the main-course plates were rem
oved, then motioned for the staff to wait for him to call them. He folded his hands before him. “I have been charged—personally, by the president—with making our forces here as battle-ready as possible as swiftly as possible. I intend to carry out those orders. And I have one order of my own. You have no doubt, all of you, heard of tank commander Captain Taras Klimovich, the so-called Fox.”

  There were nods and general murmuring among the eight other men.

  “He has been in hiding,” Yershov continued. “But I believe that if Kiev is going to move against a facility deep with armored assets he will be involved. He must be. He is their best tactician and field officer.”

  “Indeed, he is a hero to them, a legend in the military,” Isaev remarked. “Why would they expose him?”

  “You mean they would keep him safe like Gagarin after he became the first man into space, not risk having him killed on a second trip?”

  “That, General, and not risk having him captured and humiliated,” Isaev said.

  “What you say is possible,” Yershov agreed. “But I have read all about this man. Before the battle at Labkovicy he was a highly visible leader, an inspiration to his men and to all the Armed Forces of Ukraine. I might almost say there was a touch of narcissism.”

  “Like Rommel?” Isaev suggested.

  “This Fox and Hitler’s Desert Fox seem to have much in common, no?” Yershov said.

  The men laughed. The names made that obvious.

  “If there is a tank component, I do not believe he will stay hidden,” Yershov said. “I want him. Major Zharov, can your blimps search for particular voices, speech patterns? There must be recordings?”

  Zharov didn’t answer immediately. He idly touched a dessert spoon.

  “Major?” Yershov pressed.

  “May I speak frankly, sir?”

  “I would appreciate that,” Yershov said. He looked around the table. “You are each specialists here. I do not know your jobs in detail. I rely on your candor.”

  There were a few nods, but most of the officers remained silent, wary. They were professional officers. In any military, outspoken or contradictory officers did not rise. Some, like Erwin Rommel, did not survive.