Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  “Matt, call Gavin with the particulars. Hacking a realtor’s computer should be a nice change of pace for him. How’d you do with the docks?”

  “The docks are pissing me off, that’s how we did,” Dom said. “The UTM we have is dead center in the water, about a hundred feet offshore. Maybe these assholes have a midget submarine.”

  Jack couldn’t help but laugh. His friend was having a grudge match with Byma1. “Go get him, bud.”

  “What now?” asked Ysabel.

  “We wait.”

  Until they got eyes on Borisoglebsk, they were in limbo.

  • • •

  THE DAY WORE ON.

  As planned, Medzhid was moving from interview to interview on every radio station and television channel in Makhachkala. He was never more than twenty minutes from being seen or heard by an increasingly attentive citizenry. Continuing the tone they had set after the debunking of the Almak massacre story, hosts lobbed him softball questions, which he deftly turned into mini-speeches that hammered at Seth’s themes—dignity, self-determination, trust, and pride of nation.

  Between spots, Medzhid and Seth conferred over the phone, reshaping and refining the minister’s message and slowly but steadily turning up the rhetoric.

  At ten-thirty that evening, he gave his final television interview of the day: “My fellow Dagestanis, I share your shock over today’s news reports regarding our president Nabiyev. Of course, we must let the investigation into these allegations take its course, but Mr. Nabiyev’s refusal to address this matter disappoints and surprises me, as I’m sure it does you.

  “As never before it is critical we remember that we are one people, whether Avar or Tsakhur; Muslim or Orthodox; rich or poor. We are all Dagestanis with a long and proud heritage.

  “I am also both heartened and saddened today. Heartened by the hope I saw in your faces as I walked our city’s streets. Saddened because I can’t help but feel I could have served you better. Corruption, wherever it is found, is a stain on our nation. You deserve better.

  “I tell you this now, without reservation: I am reenergized by your devotion. I share your hope for a better life for yourselves, for your children, and for our future generations.

  “While it is not my place to direct the path you choose, I am confident the coming days and weeks will be ones we will all remember with pride for decades to come. Tonight, as you go to sleep, ask yourselves what the future of Dagestan should be, and know that anything is possible if we stand together.

  “Thank you for your time. I am, and always will be, a proud Dagestani. Good night.”

  Spellman aimed the remote at the television and turned it off.

  There was silence around the table.

  Seth murmured, “If that doesn’t drive them into the streets, nothing will.”

  Makhachkala

  THE NEXT MORNING the rain finally broke. The clouds drifted west over the Tarki-Taus, leaving behind the sun and white cotton-ball clouds. The weather had certainly tipped in Seth and Medzhid’s favor as they began their final media blitz before the coup. There would always be a fraction of would-be protesters that hated standing in the rain, no matter how worthy the cause.

  As he was the day before, Medzhid was out the door at first light, moving through the city, shaking hands with early-morning commuters and shop owners on the sidewalks, listening to people’s concerns and assuaging their fears, and holding impromptu press conferences at carefully chosen spots throughout the city. At each venue the size of the crowds grew and took longer to disperse until intersections and entire streets were blocked. Politsiya from the Ministry of the Interior rerouted traffic.

  Hand-painted signs appeared on the façades of government buildings. As Seth had predicted, the first messages were simple ones, reflections of the themes Medzhid had been pushing for the past twenty-four hours—hope, pride, unity. Protesters started gathering outside the Parliament Building, the signs calling for action: CHOOSE FREEDOM, STAND TOGETHER, THE FUTURE IS OURS TO MAKE. Seth’s unwitting agents were there, videotaping every moment, uploading snippets to Facebook with captions like “Peaceful Dagestanis asking only for a better life,” and sound-bite interviews with smiling twentysomething protesters appeared on Twitter. The local newspapers and radio stations picked them up and ran them instead of commercials between scheduled programming.

  By noon reporters from BBC and Al-Jazeera were landing at Makhachkala’s airport, where they were immediately granted temporary visas by Ministry of the Interior border-control officers and assigned a personal guide and a car.

  Surrounded by microphones, Medzhid gave walking interviews while throngs followed him, jostling one another in hopes of getting a handshake or to pat Medzhid on the back.

  The momentum was building.

  • • •

  WHILE JACK, Dom, and Ysabel watched from the couch, Seth and Spellman paced the conference area, talking into Bluetooth headsets, while a retinue of MOI staff sat shoulder to shoulder at the table, working the phones and passing messages to Seth and Spellman. On the wall above them all three televisions were on.

  Seth took off his headset and called, “It’s on! Channel Fifteen. Everybody be quiet!”

  One of the staff members unmuted the television in the middle. A woman with blond hair and a stern expression was saying, “. . . once again, we have reports that President Nabiyev has left the capital in the wake of the allegations raised by the Sulak land deal. A source close to Nabiyev claims the trip to a newly opened canning factory in Buynaksk has been on his schedule for several weeks. Channel Fifteen producers have tried to contact Mr. Nabiyev’s press secretary for further comment but have received no response. We now take you to the Parliament Building, where crowds are rapidly growing . . .”

  “That’s enough, turn it down.”

  The assistant muted the television again.

  Seth walked over to the couch. “What do you think? Clockwork. Did you notice they’re using the term president a lot less? That’s a big deal here, it’s sort of like saying ‘that guy Nabiyev.’”

  “Nice touch with the ‘in the wake of the allegations’ bit,” said Jack.

  “That wasn’t us. Channel Fifteen has never liked Nabiyev.”

  “Is that true about his trip?” asked Ysabel.

  “Mostly. He went to the factory yesterday. The last part about the press secretary is slightly exaggerated. It’ll come out later the trip was actually unscheduled. I’m sure Nabiyev is already on his way back. When he reaches the city limits there’ll be crowds and cameras waiting for him. With any luck his limousine will hit someone. Relax, I’m kidding. I mean, if it happened it wouldn’t hurt our cause, but we’re not going to shove somebody under Nabiyev’s wheels.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Ysabel said sarcastically.

  “What can I say? I’m a sharing carer.”

  “So what happens next?” asked Dom.

  “Nabiyev will go on radio and television and deny the allegations, but he’ll be whispering in a wind tunnel. Medzhid’s exposure ratio is climbing by the hour. Nabiyev will never catch up and the questions he’ll get will be brutal. We’ll be leaking bits and pieces of the Sulak story all day, then drop the bomb tonight.”

  “What bomb?”

  “That some people in Sulak were forcefully ejected from their homes. One of them had a heart attack. And yes, before you ask, it’s all true. We’ve got a couple of them—an elderly farmer and his wife—lined up with interviews before Medzhid goes on one last time. We’re firing on all cylinders, guys. Tomorrow we dump the nitro in. Oh, and be packed up and ready to go by seven. We’re moving to the command center.”

  Seth headed back toward the conference area, then stopped and turned back. “Anything from Gavin?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Jack, before morning we need to know if Volodin’s sending bombers our w
ay. We’ll have a hundred thousand people on the streets by nine. I’m not going to walk them into a slaughterhouse.”

  Seth walked away.

  Jack dialed Gavin, who said, “Nothing yet. Mary Pat’s got a Keyhole scheduled for retasking, but it’s probably going to be another eight hours before it’s overhead Borisoglebsk.”

  “What about the old schoolhouse downtown?”

  “I got into the realtor’s system with no trouble. The building is being leased by something called Pacific Alliance Group. It stinks of something, but I don’t know what yet. Hey, Gerry and John want to talk to you. I’ll transfer you.”

  A few seconds passed, and then Gerry Hendley’s voice came on the line. “Jack, CNN and MSNBC have picked up the Dagestan story—both the protests and the Nabiyev scandal. They’re running them at the top of every hour and the news crawler’s running full-time. They’ve probably got reporters headed your way, too. Looks like Seth knows what he’s doing after all.”

  “It’s red meat for the press,” Jack replied. “Scandal, greed, and hope, with a hint of chaos on the streets that could turn ugly at any second.”

  “Could that happen?” asked Gerry.

  “Anything can happen, but Medzhid’s walking the tightrope pretty well. The streets are full, but there haven’t been any reports of violence. It doesn’t hurt that Medzhid’s politsiya are standing back. We haven’t heard anything here about Volodin. Has he made a statement yet?”

  “No, but it probably won’t be long now,” replied Clark. “His tone will tell us a lot.”

  Dom said, “Like whether he’s going with the ‘organic failure’ approach or the boot-on-the-throat approach.”

  “Exactly. What we don’t know is if the Russian garrison troops in the border districts will turn and head for Makhachkala. If that happens Medzhid’s going to have a tough choice to make—tell the masses to go home or gamble that the garrison won’t wade in with clubs swinging. Does Seth have any early-warning assets in place?”

  “I expect so,” Jack replied. “I’ll check. He’s more worried about the Frogfoots and Fencers. We’re cutting it close with the satellite imagery.”

  “It’s coming,” Gerry promised.

  Jack hung up. He stood, paced a bit, then sat back down and twirled his phone in his hands. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “And go where?” asked Ysabel.

  “Back to Chirpoy Road. I want to know why Wellesley’s computer system went dark.”

  Dom said, “I’ll give up Jimmy John’s if the dickhead’s standing there when we walk in.”

  • • •

  WITH YSABEL at the wheel, they pulled out of the Tortoreto’s garage and swung by the Ministry of the Interior building a few blocks away. The street was quiet save a couple dozen people walking up and down the sidewalk, either chanting “Medzhid . . . Medzhid” or holding up signs bearing his official MOI photograph.

  “They’re campaigning for the guy,” Dom said from the backseat.

  “Nice signs,” Ysabel replied with a smile. “Surprisingly sophisticated for an average Makhachkalan. Seth’s covering a lot of bases, isn’t he?”

  She made a U-turn, then headed north toward Wellesley’s apartment. Four times in the mile between the MOI building and Chirpoy Road, politsiya detoured them around intersections thronged with protesters. Through the Suburban’s half-open windows Jack could hear bullhorn-amplified voices over the cacophony.

  Ysabel turned onto the road Jack and Dom had been using as a stakeout spot and pulled to the curb. She rolled down her window so Jack could survey the complex through binoculars.

  “Everything looks normal. I don’t see Zoya’s car.”

  After their last break-in here, they’d decided to take a risk and not return the woman’s key card and permit. If she’d reported them missing they would soon know.

  “Any sign of creepy vodka guy?” Ysabel said.

  “No.”

  “He’s probably got his eye pressed to the peephole, pining for your return,” said Dom.

  “Stop it.”

  “You broke the guy’s heart, Ysabel.”

  Jack said, “Enough, kids. Let’s go in and see what happens.”

  • • •

  NOTHING HAPPENED. Ysabel pulled through the gate, waved the permit at the goon—not creepy vodka guy—then parked in Zoya’s spot. They waited until the man disappeared back into the apartment, then trotted to the stairwell and up to the second floor.

  Jack knelt by the door and got out Gavin’s Devpulse lock-buster. Dom drew his Ruger and nodded. Jack disengaged the lock, then scooted aside as Dom stepped through. “Clear,” he whispered. Jack and Ysabel followed him in.

  Aside from a bundle of cables dangling above the table, the apartment was stripped bare.

  “Jack, I think this is for you,” Ysabel said, pointing at a yellow Post-it note on the table.

  Jack picked it up.

  Better luck next time, Jack.

  By the way, I enjoyed your Dobromir impression.

  So sad to learn his sweetheart is no longer with us.

  Your doing, I assume?

  —W.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He passed the note to Dom and Ysabel.

  She said, “Seth’s right: He is a cocky bastard.”

  “And slippery,” said Dom.

  Where is Raymond Wellesley? Jack wondered.

  There was no way the SIS man had gone home, which meant he’d set up his nerve center elsewhere in anticipation of the coup. Surely he would have seen Medzhid’s media blitz and the Nabiyev/Sulak story for what they were—Seth’s softening-up barrage.

  But had the SIS man left this apartment because he knew it had been broken into or because the move had been planned from the start? The Post-it note suggested the former, but Jack couldn’t be certain, not with Wellesley.

  “What’s this mean?” asked Ysabel. “What about the UTM coordinates? Are they just a distraction?”

  “Can’t be,” said Dom. “We know the ones for the Internet hub sites are right, and those clearings you found on the ridge are real enough, and so is the dodgy schoolhouse.”

  Jack nodded. “You’re right. The ridge sites are at least three weeks old, which means they were created even before Wellesley knew I existed. The guy’s smart, but he’s not clairvoyant.”

  “It’s gotta be the schoolhouse; that’s his new nerve center. Where’s a better spot than downtown Makhachkala in the middle of the action?”

  “Agreed.”

  When will Wellesley make his first move? Jack wondered.

  And what will it be?

  Makhachkala

  LATE AFTERNOON, as Medzhid was winding down his interviews and his staff was preparing for the move to the command center in anticipation of Seth’s husband-and-wife-farmer bombshell, Gerry Hendley called.

  “We got the Keyhole images back. All the Frogfoots and Fencers are right where they should be at Borisoglebsk.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Seth replied.

  “Not quite yet. John, you tell them.”

  “Okay, guys, it’s a bit complicated, so bear with me. Khibiny and Borisoglebsk are places in Russia, we know that. But they’re also associated with something else—EW.”

  Jack leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. “Shit.”

  “EW?” Ysabel said.

  “Electronic warfare,” Clark replied. “Using directed energy to disrupt equipment—communications, radar, television signals . . . Essentially anything that uses the EM spectrum. Depending on the power of the weapon you can jam or fry whatever you’re targeting.”

  “Like satellite Internet,” Spellman said. “And cell towers.”

  “Right, those are easy. Your hubs are harder. That’s why Wellesley has all of them mapped. They’re queued up for EW attacks.”<
br />
  “This can’t be happening!” Seth barked. “Hell, it can’t be done. Ahmadinejad tried to do it in ’09 and it didn’t work.”

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t have what Volodin has. Do you guys remember the USS Donald Cook?”

  “No,” said Dom.

  “It’s an Arleigh Burke–class guided missile destroyer. Top-of-the-line warship with latest-generation Aegis, Tomahawks, RIM surface-to-air missiles. In spring of ’fourteen it sailed into the Black Sea to give Volodin something else to worry about other than Ukraine and Crimea.

  “Two days later the Cook gets buzzed by a Russian Su-24 Fencer. They never saw it coming. The Cook’s Aegis radar, fire control systems, comms, and data network went dead. The boat was essentially blind and deaf and defenseless. The Fencer repeated the process twelve more times and there was nothing the Cook could do.”

  Clark said, “The Fencer was carrying an EW pod nicknamed Khibiny.”

  “One plane did that?” asked Ysabel.

  “Yes. In the space of a few seconds. Khibiny is part of a larger system called Borisoglebsk-2, along with something they call Zhitel. Rumor is, it’s specifically designed to take down satellite and GPS systems.”

  “So, one plane flies over Makhachkala and our whole hub network goes down,” said Seth. “Is that what you’re telling us?”

  Jack said, “Relax, Seth.”

  “Relax? How about you go fuck—” Seth took a breath, let it out. “Sorry, Jack.”

  Clark said, “To answer your question, no, one plane won’t do it. The Fencer disabled the Cook because it was a single target, not a diffuse web like you’ve got there.”

  “Explain that,” said Ysabel.

  Gavin said, “We’re just guessing here, but Wellesley probably doesn’t know exactly how sophisticated your hubs are. For all he knows, after the first pass by a Fencer, you’ll start moving your hubs, cycling the power, maybe rotating frequencies. What the Khibiny and Zhitel can’t see they can’t hit.”

  “Which means,” Jack said, “unless Volodin commits a dozen planes and runs round-the-clock sorties, the attacks won’t come from the air. They’ll be land-based. Ground vehicles.”