by Tom Clancy
While the attack turned out to be a failure, it led to an unexpected and ultimately beneficial series of events. The JSF tracked Green Vox and his cronies to a training camp in the mountains of Bulgaria, but before they reached him, Izotov was able to plant information on the terrorists linking them to members of the European parliament.
The idea was to get the Americans to turn on the European Federation. Start a war between them. And then Izotov and Doletskaya would move in for the kill and seize all of Europe. Green Vox escaped that attack, but the JSF found the information planted by the GRU.
But then the situation turned once more. Green Vox holed himself up in the swamps of Belarus.
And that’s when Doletskaya made his first mistake.
The Enforcers Corps had, in fact, captured Green Vox, but Doletskaya ordered his platoon leader to demand the turnover of Green Vox so that the Russians could deliver him to the United States because the Euros could not be trusted to do that. The Euros refused and, remarkably, wiped out Doletskaya’s men.
And so Izotov and the president were forced to put another spin on the incident: European forces fired on Russian troops as they were attempting to capture Green Vox. As a consequence, Kapalkin stopped the flow of Russian oil and natural gas to Europe. Security forces at an Albanian refinery were overwhelmed by Russian forces, and some of the European shipments were restored.
Of course, blowback from the incident was severe. Russia was on the brink of war with the EF. And if the Euros managed to turn over Green Vox to the United States, he would crack under interrogation and reveal that he’d been funded by the GRU.
Both the EF and the United States would wage war against the Motherland.
That was hardly the plan.
Green Vox needed to die. And so Doletskaya had assembled one of his best teams, who infiltrated Fort Campbell and reprogrammed the base’s air defenses so that the plane carrying Green Vox was blown out of the sky before it could land.
Many bottles of vodka had been emptied in the hours following that crash.
Even better, the Americans were unable to identify Green Vox’s assassins. Of course, Kapalkin was sure to point the finger at the European Federation. And Nathalie Perreau, that infuriatingly brilliant French woman who’d become the first president of the EF in 2016, was quick to return the accusation.
It was in the Motherland’s best interests to drive a huge wedge between the United States and Europe, so Izotov and Doletskaya had come up with a final plan, which took them back to the beginning of it all:
Destroy the Freedom IV lifter, whose launch had been delayed because of the first Green Brigade attack.
Again, relying upon his cunning and two decades of tactical military experience, Doletskaya ordered a well-disguised team of Spetsnaz forces to seize control of a European air base in Finland. They killed everyone, erased all security data, and uploaded a virus into the European Federation’s missile shield.
Hours later, when the Freedom IV lifted off, the virus caused Europe’s laser satellites to misidentify the spacecraft as a missile. The ship was incinerated, killing dozens of Americans onboard. To create even more confusion, Doletskaya arranged for no less than ten terrorist groups to claim responsibility for the Finland base attack and destruction of the lifter.
More bottles of vodka were emptied.
And now there was great mistrust between the European Federation and the Americans.
No, it was not a total victory for the Motherland, but given how badly things could have gone, Doletskaya had been quite satisfied with the outcome.
Now another chapter in the war was about to be written, and it had begun with an elegant dinner and the company of a woman more beautiful and more intelligent than any Doletskaya had encountered.
“Hello, Colonel,” she said, wearing a dark red dress, pearls, and a smile that left Doletskaya breathless. He helped her into her chair, returned to his; and as he sat, she hoisted her perfectly tweezed brows and tossed her jet-black hair out of her eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Colonel. I’m fine. It’s just I’ve never seen you out of uniform.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Likewise.”
He smiled. “You have a keen wit.”
Viktoria Antsyforov was a colleague of Doletskaya’s at the GRU, a woman who had recently proven her mettle by helping him coordinate several attacks on selected EF targets. She had worked her way up through the ranks, an impressive accomplishment and evidence of the more progressive policies instituted by the GRU. The first time they had met, she had been quick to point out that Russian women had made major contributions to the defense of the Motherland.
The 1st Russian Women’s Battalion of Death had formed during World War I, and while they’d never officially been part of the Motherland’s other armies, their victories had been well documented. She had gone on to give him a history lesson that had proven quite fascinating.
Rumor had it that Antsyforov was an excellent marksman and that she had excelled in all of her martial arts training. Doletskaya hadn’t taken much more time to do research into her background—that was, until she had invited him to dinner to discuss a few ideas.
And so he had learned that at thirty-six she had never been married, had a brother in the navy, and dedicated some of her free time to environmental causes. She also donated a lot of money to charities, particularly those that helped victims of radiation poisoning and those focusing on cancer research.
“You’re still looking at me like something is wrong,” she said.
“Nothing. I’m sorry.” He’d lied. He was having painfully wrong thoughts about her.
The waiter arrived. They ordered vodka, appetizers, and lit up cigarettes.
He glanced around. She certainly knew how to pick a restaurant. The place was called Kupol, owned by the family of world-famous chef Anatoly Komm. The dining area offered a spectacular view of the Moscow river.
“I’ve never been here.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Even better when you’re not picking up the check.”
She laughed. “It’s okay. I thought if I bought you a nice dinner, you might want to jump into bed with me.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, grinning himself.
“But your wife would not approve.”
He shook his head. “Colonel, I’m in a good mood. And I’m going to let your little joke go unnoticed. I want to thank you for bringing me here. I suspect we will have a magnificent meal.”
Her expression grew more serious. “Yes, we will.”
They made small talk, drank some more, and ate like a king and queen. Not once did she mention any of her “ideas,” and toward the end of the meal, Doletskaya, tipsy as he was, blurted out, “So was this a plan to seize my body . . . or my mind?”
“Maybe a little of both.” She lowered her voice, leaned forward, and in a few carefully chosen sentences, unfolded a plan that left Doletskaya beaming.
She had taken the obvious, exploited it, turned it around, and made it all seem new again. Step by step she covered the details, as he did, trying to shoot holes in her assertions, but she countered his every attempt.
“I’m sure the Americans have considered this,” he told her.
“Which is why I’ve worked their expectations into our plan. Pavel, a battle plan is like a narrative, a story that must be carefully constructed, familiar yet surprising.”
“A story?”
“Yes. All stories are about desire.”
When the word came out of her mouth, Doletskaya gasped. “Go on . . .”
“Our desire is to overcome the obstacles.”
“And reach the goal,” he concluded.
She nodded slowly. “But not before the climax.”
“What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”
Suddenly, Major Alice Dennison was now sitting at the table with them, demanding that Antsyforov tell her what she wanted to know.
“Please, Major,” said
Antsyforov. “We haven’t even had dessert yet. I understand the ice cream here is incredible. You like ice cream, don’t you?”
Dennison, an XO in the JSF and a woman almost always under complete control, would not do what she did. At least Doletskaya thought so. But this was his imagination, and he could imagine her doing anything he wanted.
So she lifted up the table, throwing everything onto the floor with a horrible crash and drawing the stares of everyone in the restaurant.
As a team of waiters came rushing over, she screamed at Doletskaya, “What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”
He and Antsyforov exchanged a knowing grin.
And when Doletskaya opened his eyes, he was sitting in a chair and staring into the beefy, bearded face of one of his interrogators, who asked again, “What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”
SEVEN
President of the United States David Becerra, fifty-six and the first Hispanic chief executive, was seated aboard Air Force One flying on a southwesterly heading at 38,500 feet above the Atlantic Ocean.
Recent news had left him with pain behind his eyes and a pit in his stomach; it seemed unlikely those discomforts would dissipate any time soon.
He was on a conference video call with Europe. The screens before him displayed European Federation President Nathalie Perreau, Enforcers Corps General Amadou de Bankolé, and Enforcers Corps Executive Officer Capitaine Ilaria Cimino.
Becerra had already greeted them and took a deep breath before speaking, determined to make the conversation go exactly where he wanted.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, Madame President, three days ago the Russians sent up three cosmonauts to the International Space Station on what our intelligence sources concluded was a resupply and repair mission.”
Perreau, just a few years younger than Becerra and an equally captivating speaker, glanced up from another screen set into her desk. “Yes, Mr. President. We monitored that launch, of course. And I’m still amazed that old station hasn’t crashed into the ocean.” Her English, though spoken with a French accent, was flawless.
“You’re amazed, Madame President? The engineers who worked on the ISS are some of the best in the world. That station will far exceed its lifespan, and it became the springboard for everything we put into the new Freedom Star.”
“If you’ve called to discuss that—” she began, immediately growing defensive. The Euros had been staunch opponents of Freedom Star, Perreau calling it “the beginning of a new insanity.”
“No, ma’am. I’m not calling for that.”
“Then, Mr. President, maybe you’ve called to explain why your ground forces pulled out of Moscow so quickly?”
The challenge came from General Amadou de Bankolé, commander of all special forces in Europe. He had even been involved in the design of the Enforcers Corps and possessed one of the most intimidating visages Becerra had ever seen: deep brown skin, a jaw that appeared to have been carved into shape with a bowie knife, and the cold, almost lifeless eyes of a shark.
Becerra carefully picked his words. “No, General, I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics of those operations.”
“I guess retreating is a bit embarrassing.”
Tucking his fist into the seat, Becerra responded slowly, “I’ll say this: any maneuver by the Joint Strike Force is carefully planned. Sometimes we trade space for time. And as the son of a Marine master sergeant and a Marine reservist myself, I understand that. As a military officer of your status, a man who has studied our tactics, techniques, and procedures, the situation and accompanying explanations should be obvious.”
There, he’d insulted the bastard.
And before Bankolé could reply, another voice broke in. “Mr. President, could you answer a question for me?” Capitaine Ilaria Cimino raised her brows. She was in her mid-thirties, an attractive woman who’d already had a distinguished career with Italian special forces units. In some ways, she reminded Becerra of Major Alice Dennison.
“President Becerra, I asked Capitaine Cimino to join us because she and her team were responsible for intercepting the original transmission and decrypting what they could.”
Becerra nodded. “Excellent work, Capitaine. I’m glad I have this opportunity to thank you.”
She grinned. “I appreciate that. But now I must ask for all us—have you learned what Operation 2659 is? Who is Snegurochka?”
“We are still working on Doletskaya, but the interrogation has proven difficult.”
“Torture him,” snapped Bankolé. “And get what we need.”
“It’s not that simple, General.”
He raised his voice. “Torture him.”
“I didn’t call this meeting to discuss Doletskaya or our justification for pulling out of Moscow. We have a serious problem, and I need your help.”
General Bankolé sighed and began to shake his head, but President Perreau quickly said, “Mr. President, sorry for the interruptions. You have our complete attention.”
Becerra sighed through a nod. “As I said, three cosmonauts headed up to the ISS on a repair and resupply mission. There are two other researchers up there right now: a Japanese scientist and an engineer from Brazil. About twenty hours ago we lost all contact with them and with the Russians, and shortly thereafter the station repositioned itself.”
“Just a technical failure?” asked Perreau, her tone indicating that she already expected the worst.
“We had hoped. But following the communication break, we lost two key satellites, the early warning bird around the Arctic Circle and a comm satellite with ELF capability to communicate with submarines under the ice cap.”
“Mr. President, what do you mean lost?” asked Cimino. “Lost communication?”
“No, Capitaine. I mean destroyed. We’ve picked up the debris fields. We’re not sure if they—”
“Mr. President, if you believe the European Federation’s laser satellites were somehow—”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. And I don’t suggest that Spetsnaz forces have introduced a virus into your system. We’ve been down that dark road before.”
“You’re trying to make a connection between those cosmonauts on the ISS and your lost satellites,” concluded Bankolé.
“Exactly. The data’s being reviewed right now. But there’s already speculation that the Russians used the ISS as a platform to take out our satellites. Our missile shield would stop anything they launch with a ground-based trajectory, but they could have smuggled up parts to construct a weapons system and fired it from the station. Could be laser- or projectile-based. We’re uncertain at this time.”
“What do you need from us?” asked President Perreau.
“If the Russians have seized control of the ISS, and if they have a space-based weapon onboard that station, one they could use to take out some of your lasers or our kinetic energy weapons, then we need to strike first.”
“Oh, my God.” Perreau gasped. “You want us to destroy the station?”
“No, if it comes to that, we’ll do what’s necessary. But right now I’ve got a blind spot up in the Arctic, and other stations have reported that the Russians have flown in some reconnaissance and communication aircraft. I need your lasers to take them out.”
General Bankolé frowned deeply. “If I may interrupt. Mr. President, if the Russians have done as you say—smuggled up parts to construct a weapon on the ISS, then why would they use it on two of your more insignificant satellites? Why didn’t they pick the obvious targets: your Rods from God and our lasers?”
“Thirty minutes ago I was sitting here, staring out the window, asking the same question. I don’t know all the details, the science involved. Maybe they couldn’t reposition the ISS to do so. Or maybe they took out the smaller satellites as a test. But believe me, we’re working on it. We’ll get the truth.”
“Well, if you’re right about the test, we should take out the station immediately,” cried Bankolé.
Becerra recoiled. �
�The political fallout from that . . . I need proof of what happened up there. My hands are tied until I get it.”
Bankolé’s voice grew more stern. “Madame President, I suggest we direct one of our lasers on the ISS—as a precautionary measure.”
“Mr. President, you will understand if we do that?”
“Absolutely. I’ll send word. But you should be prepared to make a statement to the Brazilians and the Japanese if they discover what’s happening.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll take out those spy planes?”
“With pleasure.”
“If there’s any change, I’ll contact you immediately. General Bankolé? Capitaine Cimino? Our Joint Strike Force commanders will coordinate with you, as always.”
“Mr. President,” called Bankolé, “I hope that you are compensating for your satellite problem and still keeping a sharp eye on the Arctic.”
“Rest assured, General. We are.”
Becerra said his good-byes and ended the call.
Of course he’d failed to tell Bankolé that they’d now lost contact with one of their subs and were frantically reactivating the old Michigan ELF transmitter to reestablish ELF comms under the Arctic ice. The old system, shut down in 2010, took twenty minutes per character to transmit its three-letter alert.
“Mr. President?” called Mark Hellenberg, Becerra’s chief of staff, from his laptop across the aisle. “Bad news from Paris. We lost General Smith. He was forced to call in a kinetic strike on his position. But the good news is that enemy forces were also destroyed and we’re still holding the line there.”
Becerra nodded, averted his gaze. “Smith was a good man.”
