Mirror Image o-2

by Tom Clancy

  "We're already doing that," Marev said. "Colonel Rossky ordered us to follow the troop movements."

  "Where is the information going?" Orlov asked.

  "To the central computer."

  "Very good," Orlov said, recovering quickly. "See to it that the information comes directly to my screen as well."

  "Yes, sir," Marev said.

  Orlov turned to his computer monitor and waited. Damn Rossky, he thought. Either this was payback for their earlier dispute or Rossky was in this somehow— perhaps with his patron Dogin. But there was nothing he could do about it. As long as information was recorded in the Center's main computer, available for dispersal internally or among other agencies, Rossky was not obliged to report it to the General even an event of this magnitude.

  As he waited, Orlov tried to get a handle on the situation, starting with the stunning suddenness of Ukraine's request. Like many other officials, he had assumed the various maneuvers were President Zhanin's way of showing the world that he had not abandoned the military in favor of Western business. But now it was clear that the march into the former republic had been planned, and that that was the reason so many troops had been near the border or en route. But planned by whom? Dogin? And why? This wasn't a coup, and it wasn't a war.

  The first data began coming in. Russian infantry was arranging to link up with Ukranian forces in Kharkov and Voroshilovgrad, yet these weren't joint maneuvers. The appreciative communication from President Vesnik had made that very clear.

  What was equally surprising was the unexpected silence from the Kremlin. In the eighteen minutes since the troops had crossed the border, Zhanin had made no public statement about the event. By now, every Western embassy in Moscow would be drafting and hand delivering letters of concern.

  Marev and his small team continued distilling raw data from the incoming communications. The numbers of people and machines being moved were staggering. But even more astonishing were some specifics of the deployment. To the west of Novgorod, near the Ukrainian Administrative Center of Chernigov, General Major Andrassy had set up a ten-kilometer line of artillery battalions in triangular support formation: two hundred meters of M-1973 and M-1974 howitzers with one kilometer between them and the next two-hundred-meter bank; nearly a kilometer behind them, in the center of the forward kilometer gap, was another two-hundred-meter spread of artillery. The guns were aimed at the White Russian border and were located close enough to be equipped with direct fire optical sights.

  This was no test. These were preparations for war. And if they were, he was wondering how much Rossky— and by association, himself— were involved in them.

  Orlov asked Nina to get Ministry of Security Director Rolan Mikyan on the phone. Orlov knew the erudite Mikyan from his Cosmodrome days, when the Azerbaijani— who held a doctorate in political science— was seconded from the GRU, the military intelligence agency, to head up security at the space facility. The two had met several times over the past year to work out ways of sharing intelligence and prevent duplication of effort. Orlov had found that while the years hadn't dulled Mikyan's commitment to Russia, the upheavals had made him cynical— due, he suspected, to a late-blossoming fondness for his native republic.

  Nina found the Director at home, though he hadn't been sleeping.

  "Sergei," said Mikyan, "I was about to call you."

  "Did you know about Ukraine?" Orlov asked.

  "We're intelligence heads. We know everything that's going on."

  "You didn't, did you?" Orlov asked.

  "We seem to have had an information gap in that area," Mikyan said. "A blind spot that was contrived by elements in the military, it would seem."

  "Do you know that we have a hundred and fifty howitzers pointed at Minsk?"

  "The night Director just informed me," Mikyan said.

  "And aircraft from the carrier Murometz off Odessa have been flying along the Moldavian border, being very careful not to cross over."

  "You've been at this longer than I have," Orlov said. "What's your reading?"

  "Someone high up has masterminded a very top-secret operation. But don't feel bad, Sergei. It's caught a lot of people by surprise including, it appears, our new President."

  "Has anyone spoken to him?"

  "He's locked Away with his closest advisers now," Mikyan said. "Except for Interior Minister Dogin."

  "Where is he?"

  "Ill," Mikyan said, "at his dacha in the hills outside of Moscow."

  "I spoke with him just a few hours ago," Orlov said disgustedly. "He was fine."

  "I'm sure he was," Mikyan said. "Which should give you some idea about who masterminded this."

  The phone beeped. "Excuse me," Orlov said to Mikyan.

  "Wait," Mikyan said. "I've got to get to the Ministry, but first I was going to call because there's something you should consider. Dogin sponsored your facility in the Kremlin, and you went on-line shortly before the incursion. If the Minister is using the Operations Center to help run this thing, and he loses, you may be facing a firing squad. Crimes against the state, helping a foreign power—"

  "I've just been thinking something like that myself," Orlov said. "Thanks, Rolan. We'll talk later."

  When Mikyan hung up, Nina told Orlov that Zilash was on the line. The General switched to the interoffice line.

  "Yes, Arkady?"

  "General, Air Defense on Kolguyev Island reports that the Il-76T crossed over Finland to the Barents Sea and is now headed east."

  "Do they have any idea where it's headed?"

  "None, sir," said Zilash.

  "A guess— anything?"

  "Just east, sir. The plane is headed due east. But they said it could be a supply plane. We're using the 76Ts to ferry cargo from Germany, France, and Scandinavia."

  "Did Air Defense try identifying it?" Orlov asked.

  "Yes, sir. They're sending out the right signal."

  That didn't mean anything, Orlov knew. The heat-emitting beacons placed in the noses of the planes were easy enough to build, buy, or steal.

  "Has anyone talked to the 76T?" Orlov asked.

  "No, sir," said Zilash. "Most of the transports are maintaining radio silence to keep the airwaves clear."

  "Has Air Defense picked up outside communications with any other Russian aircraft?" Orlov asked.

  "Not that we're aware of, sir."

  "Thank you," Orlov said. "I'd like half-hour updates, even if nothing changes. And I want one thing more, Zilash."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Monitor and record any communications between General Kosigan and the Interior Ministry," Orlov said. "The regular phone lines as well as the General's private uplink."

  The dead air lasted only a moment, though it seemed longer.

  "You want me to spy on General Kosigan, sir?"

  "I want you to follow my orders," Orlov replied. "I'll assume you were repeating them rather than questioning them."

  "Yes, sir, I was, sir," said Zilash. "Thank you."

  When Orlov hung up, he told himself he was wrong about the plane, that this was one of those drills the CIA occasionally ran to see how the Russians would react if they thought the crew of one of their planes or ships had become agents-in-place— operatives recruited to provide information about their own spheres of activity. There was nothing worse in any military confrontation than for commanders to start doubting the loyalty of their own troops.

  But instinct argued against that, helped along by caution. Assuming the plane was from the U.S. or NATO, he considered possible destinations. If it were headed for the U.S., it would have gone over the Arctic or across the Atlantic. To reach the Far East, it would have used the air lanes in the south. He thought back to his last conversation with Rossky, and to the question that seemed to have only one answer. Why use a Russian plane unless they were planning to go somewhere in Russia? And where in eastern Russia could they possibly want to go?

  That question, too, seemed to have only one answer, and Orlov didn't
like it.

  He punched in 22. A deep voice rumbled from the phone.

  "Operations Support Officer Fyodor Buriba.

  "Fyodor, this is General Orlov. Please contact Dr. Sagdeev at the Russian Space Research Institute and get me a summary of U.S. and NATO satellite activity from nine P.M. until one A.M. this morning, covering the area of eastern Russia between the Sea of Okhotsk and the Aldan Plateau, as far south as the Sea of Japan."

  "At once," said Buriba. "Do you want just the prime coverage— global positioning system reports and the times the data was downloaded, or do you also want the electro-optical sensor reports, isoelectric focus—"

  "Prime coverage will be enough," Orlov said. "When you have that, correlate the data with the time the goods were transferred from the Gulfstream to the train in Vladivostok and see whether any of the satellites might have seen it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Buriba hung up, and Orlov sat back and gazed up at the black ceiling. Albert Sagdeev's Office of Space Debris Reconnaissance at the Russian Space Research Institute had been established to track the increasing numbers of discarded boosters, abandoned spacecraft, and dead satellites orbiting the earth and presenting real hazards for space travelers. But in 1982 its staff of five was doubled and it was also charged with clandestinely studying U.S., European, and Chinese spy satellites. Sagdeev's computers were tied to uplinks across the nation, and watched whenever the satellites transmitted data. Though most of it was digitally scrambled and couldn't be reconstructed, at least the Russians knew who was watching what and when.

  It was conceivable— no, likely, the more Orlov thought about it— that the increase of Russian troop movements over the past few days would have caused the U.S. and Europe to keep a closer eye on military facilities like the naval base in Vladivostok. And in so doing, they may have seen the transfer of the crates from the jet to the train.

  But why should that attract enough attention to send a plane after it? he wondered. Especially when the train could be watched from space, if all the U.S. or Europe wanted to do was follow it.

  If the plane intended to meet the train, it would probably want to spend as little time over Russian territory as possible. That meant an approach from the east, which gave his son anywhere from ten to fourteen hours to prepare.

  Still, it was a dangerous undertaking for whoever was running the 76T, and the question remained. Why would anyone bother?

  Despite all that was going on, Orlov knew he had to find out why the cargo was so important. He knew there was only one way to do that.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Tuesday, 10:09 A.M., Ussurisk

  The pre-War steam locomotive had a rusting boiler plate, dented cowcatcher, and a smokestack blackened with decades of soot. The coal tender was full. The cab was littered not only with coal dust but with souvenirs of previous trips across the breadth of Russia. There were pieces of dry, brittle leaves from the forests of Irkutsk, sand from the plains of Turkestan, smudges of oil from the fields in Usinsk.

  Then there were ghosts. The shadows of the countless engineers who had worked the throttle or shoveled coal into the boiler. Junior Lieutenant Nikita Orlov could see them in the whistle's wood handle, dirty with age, on the iron floor whose studded surface had been worn smooth by the scuffing of shoes and boots. When he looked out the window, he could imagine the peasants who had looked at this engine in wonder and thought, "At last, rail travel has come to Siberia!" The long treks by ox or horse across the Great Post Road were a thing of the past. Now the hundreds of small communities had a lifeline of iron, not mud.

  But history was one thing, and urgency was quite another. Orlov would have preferred a diesel engine to this relic, but it was all the transportation director in Vladivostok had been able to spare. If there was one thing Orlov had learned about government and the military, it was that a car or train or plane in hand, whatever the vintage, was more negotiable than nothing. You could always try to swap for something better.

  Not that the engine was bad, he thought. Despite six decades of wear and tear it was in relatively good repair, Nikita concluded. The main rod, connecting rod, and driving wheels were strong, the cylinders solid. In addition to the coal tender, it was pulling two cars and a caboose. It traveled at a good speed, over forty miles an hour in the driving snow. At that speed, and with two soldiers stoking the boiler in shifts, Lieutenant Orlov expected to clear the storm within sixteen or seventeen hours. According to his aide and radio operator, Corporal Fodor, that would put them between Khabarovsk and Bira.

  Nikita and the blond, baby-faced Fodor sat on opposite ends of a wooden table in the first boxcar. One third of the wooden crates were stacked pyramid style, six rows deep in the far side of the car. The shutter on the right side of the train was open with a parabolic dish clamped to the ledge, facing out. Two cables ran from the dish to the briefcase-sized secure telephone sitting beneath it on a blanket on the floor. Fodor had tacked a canvas sheet over the open portion of the window to keep the wind and snow out. He had to get up every few minutes to brush the wet snow from the dish itself.

  Both men were wearing heavy, white, fur-lined winter coats and boots. Their gloves and a lantern sat on the table between them. Nikita was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and holding the backs of his bare hands next to the lantern. Fodor worked on a battery-powered laptop. They had to yell to each other in order to be heard over the screaming winds and rattling wheels.

  "It would take, sir, three fifty-mile round-trips by an Mi-8 to carry the cargo to the nearest spot where a jet could land," Fodor said as he studied the green and black map on the screen. He turned the computer so it was facing the officer. "That's here, sir, just northwest of the Amur River."

  Nikita looked at the screen, his thick, black brows pulled together in thought. "If we can get a plane, that is. I still don't understand the trouble in Vladivostok, why there was nothing available but this train."

  "Maybe we're at war, sir," Fodor joked, "and no one bothered to tell us."

  The phone beeped. Fodor leaned back and answered it, poking a finger in his other ear so he could hear. A moment later, he moved the lantern aside and handed the black receiver to Nikita.

  "It's Korsakov, relaying a call from General Orlov," Fodor said, his eyes wide, a trace of awe in his voice.

  His expression stony, Nikita got on and shouted, "Yes, sir."

  "Can you hear me?" the General asked.

  "Barely! If you'll speak up, sir—"

  General Orlov said slowly, distinctly, "Nikita, we believe that an Il-76T controlled by a foreign government may try and intercept your train late tonight. We're trying to determine who or what is on board, but to do that I need to know what your cargo is."

  Nikita's gaze shifted from his lap to the crates. He couldn't understand why his father didn't just ask the officer in charge of the operation. "Sir," he said, "Captain Leshev did not share that information with me."

  "Then I'd like you to open one," General Orlov said. "I'm entering the order in my log and you won't be held responsible for inspecting the shipment."

  Nikita was still looking at the crate. He had been curious about the contents and, acknowledging the order, asked his father to hold the line.

  After handing the receiver to Fodor, Nikita pulled on his gloves and walked across the car to the crates. He slipped a shovel from a hook on the wall, wedged the blade under the lip of the wood, put his foot on thee shoulder of the shovel, and pushed. The edge of the crate squealed and rose.

  "Corporal, bring the lantern."

  Fodor hurried over, and as the orange light fell on the crate they saw the bundles of American hundred-dollar bills, tied with white paper bands and stacked in neat piles.

  Nikita pushed the lid back down with his boot. He told Fodor to open another crate, then walked across the rattling car to the table and picked up the phone.

  "The crates contain money, Father," he shouted. "American currency—"

  "Here too, sir!" yelled F
odor. "American dollars."

  "That's probably what all the crates contain," Nikita said.

  "Money for a new revolution," General Orlov said.

  Nikita covered his open ear with his palm. "Excuse me, sir?"

  The General spoke up. "Has Korsakov informed you about Ukraine?"

  "No, sir, they haven't."

  As General Orlov briefed him on the movement of General Kosigan's armies, Nikita found himself growing irate. It wasn't just that he felt cut off from the real military action. Nikita didn't know if his father and General Kosigan had had any contact in the past, though he could tell they were on opposite sides of the incursion. And that presented a problem, for he would rather be working alongside the dynamic and ambitious General Kosigan than with a highly decorated test pilot one who remembered he had a son only when Nikita embarrassed him.

  When his father finished, the young officer said, "May I speak openly, sir?"

  The request was extremely irregular. In the Russian Army, even speaking informally to a komandir or nachal'nik— a commander or chief— was unacceptable. The answer to any question was not da or nyet, yes or no, but tak tochno or nikak nyet— exactly so or in no way.

  "Yes, of course," General Orlov replied.

  "Is this why you sent me to chaperon this shipment?" Nikita asked. "To keep me from the front?"

  "When I first contacted you, son, there was no front."

  "But you knew it was coming," Nikita said, "you had to. At the base, we've heard that where you are now there can be no surprises."

  "What you're hearing are the death throes of the propaganda machine," General Orlov said. "The operation took many high-ranking officials by surprise, myself included. And until I find out more about it, I don't want the money leaving the train."

  "What if General Kosigan plans to use it to buy cooperation from local Ukranian officials?" Nikita asked. "Delaying the money may cost Russian lives."

  "Or save them," General Orlov pointed out. "It costs money to wage a war."

  "But is it wise to second-guess him?" Nikita asked. "I've heard he's been a soldier since he was a boy—"