by Tom Clancy
Lee's wound felt like a hellish muscle cramp, sunburn-hot to the bone and brutally tight from his thigh to his knee. It was impossible to move his leg without sending a sheet of pain from his heel to his neck. Craning his head around, Lee looked at the plane some two hundred yards away. The underbelly of the fuselage was flashing white and dark from the lights and the ground crew continued their work, though now two men had appeared in the open doorway. Both were dressed in dungarees and sweatshirts and neither man carried a gun. Either they weren't stupid, Lee thought or they were.
The two men ducked back into the plane, shouting at one another.
Lee knew that they'd be returning soon, and mustering his will, he flopped onto his belly, got onto his left knee, and climbed to his feet. He winced with pain as he began hopping forward, unable to put weight on his right leg without causing a burst of white light to erupt behind his eyes. As Lee approached, he looked at the ground crew as they watched him. They were working quickly without wanting to appear as though they were hurrying, as if to say they'd taken the money and would do the job, but this wasn't their fight.
It was Lee's fight, however. One he'd been trained for, one from which he wouldn't run. Not when he had his quarry pinned in a plane that was suckling on a fuel tank, unable to go anywhere.
When he was nearly at the nose of the plane, one of the two men reemerged in the cabin door. He was holding a German Walther MP-K submachine gun, and he wasted no time firing a burst at Lee. Having expected that, the FBI agent pushed off on his good leg and dove toward the opposite side of the plane, putting the nose of the aircraft between himself and the gunman. He wondered where airport security was: they had to have heard the gunfire, and he didn't want to believe that they were all on the take like the ground crew and that son of a bitch Sawara.
The shells picked a jagged line in the tarmac to his right, but they were several feet away from where Lee hit the ground. Crawling forward on his elbow, he stretched his arm out to shoot at the nosewheel; that would keep the plane on the ground long enough for someone to look into what was going on. Unless everyone at the airfield, including the security forces, had been paid off.
An instant before Lee fired, a burst erupted from behind him, chewing into his armpit and shoulder.
He hadn't expected that. His arm jerked up and he missed the tire, sending four shots into the wing and fuselage. Then another burst hit him in the right thigh.
He turned and saw the bloodied form of Ken Sawara standing above him.
"You couldn't just leave it," Sawara gasped as he dropped to his knees. "You couldn't let me go!"
Putting all his strength into his arm, Lee swung his.38 toward the soldier. "You want to go?" he said, sending a bullet into his forehead. "Go."
As Sawara dropped to his side, Lee turned his face toward the plane. He was struggling for air as he watched the men continue fueling the aircraft. This couldn't be it, he told himself. The crimefighter is betrayed by his partner and dies on oil-slick tarmac? No one to see, no sirens in the distance, no one to book the criminals or lend him a hand not even a conscience-stricken worker?
Simon Lee died feeling like he'd failed, utterly.
* * *
A half hour later, the plane took off, bound for Russia. Because of the darkness, no one on the ground or in the aircraft saw the thin stream of black smoke curling from the port engine as the Gulfstream pushed skyward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Monday, 12:30 A.M., Washington, D.C.
Over lunch ordered from the commissary, Lowell Coffey, Martha Mackall, and their aides worked in the attorney's wood-paneled office, picking through the legal minefield that was a part of every Striker mission.
Finland's President had approved a multinational Striker landing to examine radiation readings in the gulf, and Coffey's deputy, Andrea Stempel, was on the phone with the Interpol office in Helsinki arranging to get a car and fake visas for three team members to enter Russia. Nearby, on a leather couch, Stempel's assistant, paralegal Jeffrey Dryfoos, went over the wills of the Striker commandos. If the paperwork was not in order, reflecting up-to-date changes in marital status, children, and assets, documents would be faxed to the aircraft for signing and witnessing en route.
Coffey and Mackall themselves were looking at a computer monitor on the desk, drafting the "finding," the lengthy final-draft document that Coffey would need to present to the joint eight-person Senate and Congressional Intelligence Committee before Striker landed. They had already negotiated the kinds of weapons that could be used, exactly what type of operation would be run, the duration and other constraints. Coffey had been involved with some findings that had gone so far as to specify which radio frequencies could be used and what time, to the minute, the team would exit and enter. After all was said and much was done, approval from the committee to enter Russia did not actually give them the right to do so under international law. But without it, if captured, the Striker team would be disavowed without approval and left to twist in the wind. With it, the U.S. would work quietly through diplomatic channels to arrange for their release.
Down the hall, past the offices of Mike Rodgers and Ann Farris, was Bob Herbert's tidy command center. The narrow, rectangular room consisted of several banks of computers on a small table, with detailed world maps on three walls and a dozen television monitors on the far wall. Most of the time the screens were dark. Now, however, five of them were aglow with satellite images of Russia, Ukraine, and Poland. Old pictures morphed into new ones every.89 seconds.
There was a long-standing debate in intelligence circles about the value of ELINT/SIGINT spies in space as opposed to reliable data gathered from HUMINT personnel on the ground. Ideally, agencies wanted both. They wanted the ability to read the odometer on a jeep from a satellite fifty miles in space, and ears on the ground to report on conversations or meetings held behind closed doors. Satellite spying was clean. There was no chance of getting captured or interrogated, no risk of double agents feeding false information. But it also didn't have the capacity of an intelligence officer on the ground to distinguish between real and false targets.
Satellite surveillance for the Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI, and Op-Center was managed by the highly secretive National Reconnaissance Office in the Pentagon. Run by the meticulous Stephen Viens, a college buddy of Matt Stoll, it consisted of banks of television monitors set in ten rows of ten. All of them watched different sectors of the earth, each generating an image every.89 seconds providing a total of sixty-seven live black-and-white images a minute at various levels of magnification. The NRO was also responsible for testing the new AIM-Satellite, first in a series of orbiting audio-imaging monitors designed to provide detailed pictures of submarine and aircraft interiors by reading the sounds and echoes of sounds produced by people and instruments therein.
Three of the NRO's satellites were watching troop movements on the border of Russia and Ukraine, while two kept an eye on forces in Poland. Through a source at the United Nations, Bob Herbert had heard that the Poles were getting antsy with the Russian buildup. Though Warsaw had not yet authorized the mobilization of troops, leaves had been canceled and the activities of Ukrainians living and working in Poland, near the border, were being monitored by Warsaw. Viens agreed with Herbert that Poland deserved watching, and had the photos sent directly to his office, where Op-Center's surveillance analysis team was studying them as they appeared.
The printout of the day's activities of the soldiers in Belgorod indicated nothing unusual to Bob Herbert and his team of analysts. For nearly two days, the routine had been the same:
Time Activity
0550 First Call
0600 Reveille formation
0610–0710 Physical training
0710–0715 Make Beds
0715–0720 Inspection
0720–0740 Orders of the day given
0740–0745 Wash
0745–0815 Breakfast
0815–083 °Cleanup
0830�
�0900 Preparation for duty
0900–1450 Training
1450–1500 Prepare for lunch
1500–1530 Lunch
1530–1540 Tea
1540–1610 Personal time
1610–165 °Care and cleaning of weapons and equipment
1650–184 °Cleaning camp and general sanitation
1840–1920 Secure perimeter
1920–1930 Wash hands
1930–2000 Dinner
2000–2030 Watch TV news
2030–2130 Personal time
2130–2145 Evening formation
2145–2155 Evening inspection
2200 Retreat
While Herbert and his people stayed on top of the military developments, they also tried to collect information for Charlie Squires and his Striker commandos about the situation at the Hermitage. Satellite reconnaissance turned up no unusual traffic, and Matt Stoll and his technical staff weren't having much luck working up programs to enable the AIM-Satellite to filter out the noise in the museum itself. The lack of personnel on the ground compounded their frustration. Egypt, Japan, and Colombia had agents in Moscow, but none in St. Petersburg— and, in any case, Herbert didn't want to tell them that something was brewing at the Hermitage, lest they side with Russia. Old loyalties weren't necessarily changing in the post-Cold War world, but new ones were constantly being forged. Herbert didn't intend to help any of those along, even if it meant allowing extra time so Striker could study the site firsthand before defining their mission.
Then, at ten minutes after noon— 8:00 P.M. in Moscow— the situation changed.
Bob Herbert was called to Op-Center's radio room in the northwest comer of the basement. Wheeling over, he headed toward Radio Reconnaissance Director John Quirk, a taciturn giant of a man with a beatific face, a soft voice, and the patience of a monk. Quirk was seated by a radio/computer unit, UTHER— Universal Translation and Heuristic Enharmonic Reporter— which was capable of producing a virtually simultaneous written translation of everything that was being said by over five hundred different voice types, in over two hundred languages and dialects.
Quirk removed his headset as Herbert arrived. The three other people in the room continued working at their monitors, which were trained on Moscow and St. Petersburg.
"Bob," Quirk said, "we've intercepted transmissions indicating that equipment is being collected at air bases from Ryazan to Vladivostok for shipment to Belgorod."
"Belgorod?" Herbert said. "That's where the Russians have been holding maneuvers. What kind of equipment are they sending over?"
Quirk turned his blue eyes toward the screen. "You name it. Automated communications trucks, vehicle-mounted radio relay stations, a helicopter-mounted retransmission station, Petroleum, Oil, and Lubricants trucks and trailers, along with full maintenance companies and field kitchen trucks."
"They're setting up a communications and supply route," Herbert said. "Could be a drill of some kind."
"I've never seen one this sudden."
"What do you mean?" Herbert asked.
"Well," Quirk said, "this is clearly an engagement build-up, but before the Russians engage there's always a great deal of communication about the expected time of the encounter and the anticipated size of enemy forces. We'll pick up their calculations on speed-of-movement scales, and there'll be conversations between frontline forces and headquarters about tactics— envelopment, turning movement, combined, that sort of thing."
"But you didn't get any of that," Herbert said.
"Zero. This is as sudden as anything I've ever seen."
"Yet when everything's in place," Herbert said, "they'll be ready for something big like a move into the Ukraine."
"Correct."
"Yet the Ukrainians are doing nothing," Herbert said.
"They may not know anything's up," Quirk said.
"Or they may not he taking it seriously," Herbert said. "NRO photos show that they've got reconnaissance personnel close to the border— but not deep reconnaissance companies. Obviously, they don't expect to have to operate from behind enemy lines." Herbert drummed his leather armrests. "How soon before the Russians are ready to move?"
"They'll be in position by tonight," Quirk said. "By aircraft, it's just a short hop to Belgorod."
"And there's no chance that these are bogeys?" Herbert asked.
Quirk shook his head. "These communications are real, all right. The Russians use a combination of Latin and Cyrillic characters when they want to confuse us. The letters shared by the alphabets are supposed to throw us off because it's tough to know which alphabet they mean." He patted the computer. "But Uther manages to sniff them out."
Herbert squeezed Quirk's shoulder. "Good work. Let me know if you pick up anything else."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monday, 9:30 P.M., St. Petersburg
"Sir," said red-cheeked Yuri Marev, "the radio room says they've received a coded communication via Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok. It's from the plane you've had me follow on the Hawk satellite."
General Orlov stopped his slow pacing behind the computer bank and walked to the young man, who was seated at the far left of the bank.
"Are you certain?" Orlov asked.
"There's no doubt, sir. It's the Gulfstream."
Orlov glanced at the clock on the computer screen. The plane wasn't due to land for another half hour, and he knew that region well: if anything, at this time of year the winds would work against them and the plane would be late.
"Tell Zilash I'm coming," Orlov said, walking quickly to the door that opened into the corridor. He entered that day's code on the keypad beside a door across the hall, then went into the cramped, smoke-filled radio room which was located next to Glinka's security operations center.
Arkady Zilash and his two assistants were sitting in a tiny room filled to the ceiling with radio equipment. Orlov couldn't even open the door completely, since one of the assistants was using a unit tucked behind it. The men were all wearing headsets, and Zilash didn't see Orlov until the General tapped him on the left earphone.
Startled, the gaunt radio chief removed his headset and stuck his cigarette in an ashtray.
"I'm sorry, sir," Zilash said in his low, raspy voice.
As if suddenly realizing he should stand, Zilash began to rise. Orlov motioned with his fingers for him to sit back down. Without meaning to, Zilash had always managed to test the boundaries of military protocol. But he was a radio genius and, more important, a trusted aide from Orlov's Cosmodrome days. The General wished he had more men like Zilash on his staff.
"It's all right," Orlov said.
"Thank you, sir."
"What did the Gulfstream have to say?"
Zilash turned on a digital audiotape recorder. "I've unscrambled it and cleaned it up a bit," he said. "The transmission had a great deal of static— the weather is terrible over the sea right now."
The voice on the tape was faint but clear. "Vladivostok: we have lost power in our port engine. We do not know how serious the damage is, but some electrical systems are out. We expect to land a half hour late, but can go no further. Will await instructions."
Zilash's big, hound-dog eyes peered up through the smoke. "Any reply, sir?"
Orlov thought for a moment. "Not yet. Get me Rear Admiral Pasenko at Pacific Fleet headquarters."
Zilash glanced at his computer clock. "It's four in the morning there, sir—"
"I know," Orlov said patiently. "Just do it."
"Yes, sir," Zilash said as he typed the name into his computer keyboard, accessed and input the scramble code, then radioed the base. When the Rear Admiral came on, Zilash handed the headset to Orlov.
"Sergei Orlov?" said Pasenko. "Cosmonaut, fighter pilot, and reclusive homebody? One of the few men I would get out of bed to talk to."
"I'm sorry about the hour, Ilya," Orlov said. "How have you been?"
"I've been well!" said Pasenko. "Where have you been hiding these past two years? I
haven't seen you since the all-service senior officers' retreat in Odessa."
"I've been well—"
"Of course," Pasenko said. "You cosmonauts exude well-being. And Masha? How is your long-suffering wife?"
"Also well," Orlov said. "Perhaps we can catch up later. I have a favor to ask, Ilya."
"Anything," said Pasenko. "The man who kept Brezhnev waiting to sign my daughter's autograph book has my undying friendship."
"Thanks," Orlov said as he thought back to how irate the leader of the Soviet Union had been. But children are the future, the dreamers, and there was never any hesitation on Orlov's part. "Ilya, there's a crippled aircraft that will be landing at the airport in Vladivostok—"
"The Gulfstream? I see it here on the computer."
"That's right," said Orlov. "I've got to get the cargo to Moscow. Can you give me a plane?"
"I may have spoken too soon," Pasenko said. "Every plane I can spare is being used to transport matériel to the west."
Orlov was caught off guard. What can be happening in the west?
"I'd be happy to piggyback your shipment in my aircraft," Pasenko continued, "space permitting, but I don't know when that will be. Part of the rush is we're expecting several days of severe weather from the Berring Sea. Anything still on the ground tonight is expected to remain there for at least ninety-six hours."
"Then there isn't even time to send a plane from Moscow," Orlov said.
"Probably not," Pasenko said. "What is so urgent?"
"I don't know myself," Orlov said. "Kremlin business."
"I understand," Pasenko said. "You know, rather than have your goods sit here, Sergei, I can help arrange for a train. You can run your shipment north from Vladivostok and meet it when the weather clears."
"The Trans-Siberian Railroad," Orlov said. "How many cars can you get me?"
"Enough to carry whatever is in your little jet," Pasenko said. "The only thing I couldn't give you is personnel to man it. That would have to be approved by Admiral Varchuk, and he's in the Kremlin meeting with the new President. If it isn't a matter of national security, he can get thorny about interruptions."
