“How detailed was the information provided?” asked Kaparov.
“Detailed enough,” answered Greshnev, signaling that Kaparov’s line of questioning about the source had come to an end.
“Americans?”
“Definitely not,” answered Greshnev.
“You don’t expect they’ll find him, do you?”
“I had my doubts from the beginning,” said Greshnev. “I’ll make sure you receive a copy of the after-action report for this operation. I need a pair of cynical eyes sifting through the results.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Your cynicism is what I like about you, not to mention your experience. Take a hard look at the report and get back to me with your observations. I’ll make sure Inga knows.”
Inga Soyev, Greshnev’s personal secretary, had earned the reputation as one of the most pitiless gatekeepers in Lubyanka’s history. Nobody saw Greshnev without her approval.
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” said Kaparov, still not sure what to make of this bizarre meeting.
“Looks like they finally discovered my absence,” said Greshnev. “Surprised it took the jackals so long.”
A pack of agents craned their necks from side to side to find him, some abandoning their prime locations in front of the screen to reposition themselves closer to the director.
Jackals indeed.
Instead of stepping forward into the inner circle, Kaparov took a few steps backward and made room for the swarm. A few eyed him skeptically, or jealously—he couldn’t tell in the soft blue glow of the tactical operations center. He truly didn’t care one way or the other. Getting out of there was his number one priority. If he managed to sneak away within the next few minutes, he could be home in bed within the hour. Any longer and he might as well lie down on the floor in his office.
One of the support agents seated among several smaller monitors arranged at a spacious workstation next to the main screen made an announcement over the loudspeaker.
“Alpha team leader reports negative contact with primary objective. The team managed a quick pass through the undamaged part of the laboratory structure, finding no human remains. Secondary objective destroyed in the fire.”
He assumed the secondary objective meant live virus samples. Greshnev shook his head, mumbling something to one of the men standing next to him as the report continued.
“The team needs to be airborne in two minutes. ELINT support has detected increased sensor activity and radio transmissions from the Indian Naval Air Station at Hansa. The team has shifted its focus to intelligence collection for the little time they have left.”
“Has there been any indication of a local law enforcement response?” Greshnev responded immediately.
A few seconds passed before he received an answer.
“No response detected,” said the agent.
“Pass along an urgent request to Director Baranov at CSN (Center of Special Operations). I strongly suggest they leave a discreet team behind, as discussed during the planning phase. There’s one shitty little road leading to and from the facility, and we’ve had it under continuous surveillance. If the primary objective was indeed on-site at any time in the past forty-eight hours and somehow narrowly escaped this attack, he can’t be far away.”
“Understood, Director Greshnev,” replied the agent.
The director glanced back at Kaparov, his look betraying the same skepticism that Kaparov himself felt. Something didn’t add up here.
Chapter 4
White House Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
Frederick Shelby studied the faces of the men and women seated around the conference room table. He was far more interested in their reactions to the unsuccessful raid than the news itself. Shelby was still an outsider within this tight circle of power, a fact he couldn’t afford to forget or ignore. He’d secured a seat at the highest stakes table in town because of a single instrumental act of loyalty to the True America party, but knew all too well that the chair could be yanked out from under him at any moment, regardless of the cards he held. Reading poker faces could be as critical to success inside the Beltway as competence, especially tonight.
The failure to capture or kill Anatoly Reznikov in tonight’s raid would fall squarely in the CIA’s lap, and as the director of National Intelligence’s representative tonight, it would hit Shelby’s lap first. He noted a baleful flash from General Frank Gordon, commander of United States Special Operations Command, but he’d expected as much. SOCCOM had lives directly on the line tonight, and the intelligence shared with them by Shelby turned out to be a bust. He expected them to be hot. No. His focus centered on the immediate members of the president’s inner circle, the people that really mattered. The wrong word whispered in the right ear could be disastrous for Shelby.
He briefly turned his attention to the massive projection screen mounted to the front wall of the room. Live video feed from Operation RAINFOREST occupied the left half; a digital map displaying military symbols filled the right side. Four blue symbols clustered a hundred miles off the central western coast of India, each corresponding to one of the friendly units still in play. Within minutes, barring any unforeseen circumstances, only two blue circles would remain, their speed and direction data indicating a high-speed run due southwest, away from the coast.
The adjacent green-scale image showed the slowly approaching flight deck of a low-profile combat ship from one of the pilot’s helmet-mounted cameras. One of the two hangar bays situated forward of the flight deck was open, swallowing the tail rotor of a recently landed helicopter. The image switched to the crew chief’s helmet, revealing a secret that would never extend beyond the handful of men and women in this room or on board the helicopters.
RAINFOREST redefined the concept of “need to know.” Not even the ships’ commanding officers had been told what the stealth helicopters had ferried across the Indian coast or where they had stopped. Each Arleigh Burke destroyer had capably served as a two-billion-dollar taxi for one of the most classified military operations in recent U.S. history.
Shelby sensed a shift in the White House chief of staff’s posture and took his eyes off the body-armor-clad soldiers seated inside the helicopter to meet her glare. Beverly Stark’s words were quick to follow.
“Well, that was a bust.”
He held back, knowing that nothing good would come out of his mouth for the next several seconds. Better to let someone else speak first.
“The operational pieces are undamaged and appear to have remained undetected,” said General Gordon. “That’s all that matters at this point.”
President Alan Crane continued watching the helicopter on its final approach to the ship’s flight deck. Without turning away from the screen, he directed a question at Shelby.
“Any new information from our friends in Moscow?”
Shelby scanned his laptop screen for any last second messages transmitted from the Defense Clandestine Service (NCS) Operations Center. A single-sentence post appeared moments before he responded.
“Interesting. The Russians left a skeleton team behind to try to pick up Reznikov’s trail,” said Shelby, typing a question for the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) team talking to Moscow.
“They did what?” said Gordon, furiously typing on his own laptop.
“Is that confirmed?” asked Beverly Stark.
Gordon looked up, nodding. “Confirmed. A three-man team from Gladiator-One stayed behind.”
“How did we miss that?” asked President Crane. “More importantly, how the hell did it go unreported?”
“I’m trying to get to the bottom of that,” Gordon replied.
“Please do,” said Beverly Stark, turning to Shelby. “And you need to make it crystal clear to our Russian friends that this is unacceptable. There was no mention of purposefully leaving a team behind during any of the mission briefings. This leaves us exposed.”
Shelby couldn’t see how it left t
hem exposed, but instead of addressing the obvious kneejerk question, he summarized the answer relayed by the DIA. “Intelligence strongly suggested that Reznikov was on site when—”
“I don’t see how he could have escaped if that was the case,” interrupted Gerald Simmons. “It’s not like he had many options.”
Shelby feigned a smile. He hated Simmons. For the life of him, he didn’t understand how this smarmy little shit had landed the position of White House Counterterrorism director. Prior to the 2008 election, Simmons had played a relatively obscure role in the Pentagon as the assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict. Shelby had only run into this turd a few times prior to the 2008 election and remembered wanting to smash a computer over his head the last time they were together.
In fact, the meeting had taken place in this very room, during the failed raid on Sanderson’s Argentina compound. Operation BOLD SCIMITAR. What a cluster fuck that had turned out to be. He wouldn’t be surprised if Simmons brought it up, especially since Shelby had provided the initial intelligence for that operation. Guys like Simmons thrived on other people’s failures.
With a strained game face, Shelby replied, “That’s precisely why they insisted on leaving a team behind. With few exfiltration options available, the Alpha Group commander felt they stood a solid chance of either catching up with Reznikov or uncovering a solid lead regarding his next move.”
“With the state’s Indian armed forces on full alert,” added Stark. “Not to mention every law enforcement asset in the area.”
“The Russians left behind are no longer our concern,” said Shelby.
“Except for the fact that we deposited them on Indian soil,” stated the president.
“Nobody will ever know that, Mr. President. We’ve run through the scenarios—”
“Not this one,” Stark cut in. “At no point did we discuss leaving a team behind to investigate.”
“I’m sure they don’t plan on lingering at the site,” Shelby explained, starting to get annoyed.
What was done was done. Everyone in the room knew the risks going in. Ferrying Russian commandos into India to conduct a raid against a suspected bioweapons target was unheard of in the first place. Now they were squabbling about three Spetsnaz operators that could probably live off the land, remaining undetected for weeks? He hated this kind of shortsighted pettiness.
“The Russians know what they’re doing,” said General Gordon. “And I suspect the detachment they left behind is part of Spetsgruppa Charlie, or Smerch.”
“Smerch? Sounds like something out of a James Bond movie,” said Stark, eliciting a few stifled laughs.
“Service of Special Operations,” said Shelby, who had made it a point to learn everything there was to know about Russian Special Operations (Spetsnaz) groups. “It’s a relatively new group that specializes in the capture and transfer of high-profile mafiya or bandit leaders throughout Russia. If Reznikov or his handlers left a trail, they’ll find it, and will stay out of sight.”
General Gordon interrupted the conversation. “Gladiator-Two is secure on board USS Mustin. The taskforce is headed southwest at top speed. There’s no indication that either the ships or helicopters have been detected by Indian sensors. I’d say we’re free and clear.”
The video feed next to the map changed to a black screen blinking the words LINK LOST.
“The helicopters flew over thousands of people and shot up several buildings just a few miles away from some reasonably populated towns,” stated Nora Crawford, secretary of state. “I expect State to hear from the Indian embassy tomorrow, especially when they determine that the buildings are part of a laboratory facility.”
“Surely not blaming us,” said Erik Glass, secretary of Defense.
“Not directly, but I’ll get the call nonetheless,” said Crawford. “There’s only one military capable of flying helicopters in and out of another country undetected.”
“Rumored to be capable,” said the secretary of Defense.
Crawford took a deep breath, exhaling before she replied, “I’d get these two warships back into their regular deployment schedules immediately. I guarantee that India’s Research and Analysis Wing will be monitoring our ships’ movements closely.”
“They can watch our ships all they like,” said Glass. “The USS Mustin is on its way to the Arabian Gulf from Japan. Part of a scheduled deployment. And the USS Howard is on its way home to San Diego after an extended deployment. They’ll adjust their speeds, supported by fuel tankers, to maintain their schedules after diverting close enough to Diego Garcia to launch the helicopters. The Navy has worked out the timing for a late night landing at the air base on the island.”
“I want those birds out of sight and out of mind as quickly as possible,” said General Gordon. “We have another mission brewing in the region that might necessitate their use.”
“Strategic Airlift Command has two C-17 Globemasters waiting at Diego Garcia to fly your birds stateside. You’ll have your helicopters within the next forty-eight hours,” said Glass.
Beverly Stark shook her head. “I still can’t believe we let the Russians see those helicopters.”
Neither could Shelby, but he wasn’t about to share that sentiment. The entire mission had been a compromise-turned-joint-effort between the United States and the Russian Federation. The Russians had precious, timely intelligence on a top-tier threat to both countries and the United States had the delivery platforms to pull off the raid. U.S. Special Operations Command offered to execute the mission on behalf of the Russians, but Moscow wanted confirmation that Reznikov had been terminated, not assurances, and that meant Russian boots on the ground during the mission.
“Trust but verify,” they’d said. He didn’t blame them for throwing Reagan’s words back in their faces.
“Their interaction with the helicopters was minimal, as agreed,” said Gordon. “On load. Off load. There’s not much for them to see inside the helicopter, or outside for that matter.”
“But now the Russians know we have them,” said Stark. “Which means everyone will know soon enough. Seems like the Russians came out ahead on this one.”
Gordon shrugged, blatantly offering the same sentiment Shelby fought to conceal. They’d been through this over and over again. The Russians hadn’t faked the intelligence and gone through the motions of putting their own commandos in harm’s way just to gain access to their latest generation stealth helicopters. Beverly Stark couldn’t seem to get this particular conspiracy theory out of her head.
“So…where does this leave us with Reznikov?” asked the president.
“Back to square one if the trail goes cold,” said Shelby. “The Solntsevskaya Bratva has proven to be adept at hiding Reznikov.”
“Then I guess we better offer Moscow our support in the matter,” said President Crane. “Frederick, make the necessary arrangements with the National Reconnaissance Office to coordinate a real-time package.”
“Understood, Mr. President. I’ll coordinate with them immediately.”
“Is there anything else?” asked President Crane, scanning the faces in the room.
Shelby gave him a quick shake of his head when their gazes met, taking his cue from the rest of the room.
“Then that’s it for now.”
The room cleared, leaving Shelby alone with General Gordon, who appeared to linger. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Gordon right now.
“Look at the bright side. At least the Russians didn’t hijack one of the helicopters or purposely disable one,” said Gordon.
The last part of his statement was a clear reminder of the failed operation to grab Sanderson two years ago. The only shot fired during the clandestine raid, a strategically placed .50-caliber sniper rifle bullet, shredded the tail rotor assembly of a Black Hawk helicopter that had landed inside Sanderson’s compound, forcing the assault team to leave it behind on Argentinian soil. A fact used by Sanderson to buy a blanket immunity deal
for the Black Flag organization. All sins of his past and present wiped away with a single bullet. The whole thing was a setup, and Shelby had provided the intelligence that led Gordon’s people and the White House right down the primrose path. At least the general had waited until the president and his cronies had departed.
“You win some and you lose some in this game,” said Shelby. “You’ve been around long enough to know that.”
“So far you’re batting zero when it comes to invading other countries,” replied Gordon.
“I just provide the intelligence. You can always say no.”
Gordon considered him for a moment, his caustic glare easing imperceptibly. “Not with people like Reznikov on the loose,” said the general, leaving the room.
Shelby cracked a faint smile. “Especially not with people like Reznikov on the loose.”
Chapter 5
Lockrum Bay, Anguilla
Jessica Petrovich stirred under the soft silk sheets, a warm breeze caressing her face. Her eyes opened to a red-orange sky beyond a wide, floor-to-ceiling glass sliding door. A scattered band of puffy, dark purple clouds floated above the red ocean, outlined by the fiery sunlight moments from breaching the horizon. She’d never get used to this view, or the life that came with it.
She yawned, stretching her hands above her head until they touched the headboard. Holding that stretch for a few seconds, she glanced at Daniel lying next to her. He appeared undisturbed by her movement or the light pouring into the room, but she knew better. Her husband woke to the slightest change in his sleeping environment; a survival instinct drilled so deeply into his psyche that she doubted it would ever slip away.
He’d probably been awake for several minutes now, waiting for her to rise naturally. Possibly all night with the balcony door open. If the intermittent breezes didn’t keep him awake, the fact that an exterior door just a few dozen feet from their bed was wide open to intruders most certainly doomed his night of sleep. The pristine ocean air carried into the room by the calm late evening winds had lured her into bed with the best intentions of getting up and closing it a few minutes later. She vaguely remembered Daniel joining her in bed a little while later, nestling his warm body against hers. Nothing after that.
OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 3
