by Dale Brown
The other man shrugged. “So you claim. But there’s no real evidence to prove that any bomb ever existed.”
“Except that second suicide bomber who did succeed in detonating his vest,” Flynn said tightly. “The one who blew your Mi-17 helicopter to hell and gone. Remember him?”
“Again, there’s no hard evidence for your assertion.” The CIA officer’s expression was contemptuous. “For all we know, once the shit hit the fan and our security contractors started exchanging fire with the locals, stray rounds might have set off the helicopter’s fuel tank. Or maybe they detonated some of the explosives our team brought with them to sanitize the site.”
“You see our problem, Captain Flynn,” the Air Force general said. “Without forensic evidence from the battlefield, assessing what really happened boils down to deciding which of the two conflicting narratives we accept—yours or that of the Agency case officer who was also present.”
“Mr. White,” Flynn bit out.
“Correct,” the CIA executive agreed. “And our Mr. White is an extremely experienced operative, with years of field experience.” He steepled his hands and looked over them at Flynn. “Tell me, Captain, before this unfortunate incident, how many times have you been in combat?”
“None,” Flynn admitted, struggling to keep his voice even. He saw now where this was going. He’d walked into a Red Queen’s court right out of Alice in Wonderland, where the order of the day was “sentence first, verdict afterward.” With the press and Congress on the warpath, the Pentagon brass and the CIA were both looking for a scapegoat, someone they could blame if their continuing efforts to cover up the full extent of the disaster failed. And given the choice between a junior Air Force captain without any political influence and a ranking intelligence officer who could probably blow the whistle on a lot of questionable covert operations if he felt threatened, there wasn’t much doubt about whose head would roll.
Confirming his suspicions, the CIA representative turned his head toward the Air Force two-star presiding over this irregular kangaroo court. “Ideally, we’d prefer that Flynn here be held incommunicado in some stockade. The last thing any of us want is him being available to testify in front of any congressional hearings . . . or blabbing to journalists.”
Jesus Christ, Flynn thought, scarcely able to believe his ears. Just how far did these guys think they could go? Did they seriously imagine they could imprison any U.S. citizen, let alone a serving officer in the U.S. military, without trial or review? Forget Alice in Wonderland, this was starting to sound a lot more like the opening of The Man in the Iron Mask.
The Air Force general glanced at his Pentagon colleagues and then cleared his throat. “In our judgment, that would be . . . inadvisable. We don’t think it’s necessary in this case to go so far outside the regulations.” He looked briefly at Flynn and then turned back to the CIA’s representative. “Nevertheless, we agree it would be in the best interests of the Department of Defense and our national security to make sure what happened at the Wath Oasis fades quickly from the public consciousness.”
“What are you offering?”
“This episode is already highly classified. Which means that any unauthorized disclosure to the media or Congress is a serious felony, punishable by years in federal prison. Should Captain Flynn decide to do so anyway, in some fit of whistleblower zeal, we are also prepared to convene an immediate court-martial to try him for various crimes, including the unprovoked use of deadly force resulting in the killing of numerous civilians, fellow U.S. Air Force personnel, and other American citizens.” Here at least, the general had the grace to offer Flynn an apologetic look.
After a moment, the CIA man shook his head. “My agency needs something more concrete.”
“Which is why we’re also going to transfer the captain to a new duty post,” the general continued. “One that’s about as far from the District of Columbia as it’s possible to get. He won’t be talking out of school to anyone from there, at least not easily . . . or undetectably.”
“Flynn could resign his commission,” the CIA executive pointed out. “I’ve seen his records. He’s completed his active-duty service obligation. And once he’s out of the Air Force, all you’ve got as a hold on him is that top secret classification rating.”
Flynn sat rigid, half in shock and half in fury at the way these . . . pompous assholes . . . were so cavalierly debating the best way to wreck his life and his military career.
The Air Force general shrugged. “Any request Captain Flynn makes to resign can be denied on the grounds that the needs of the service come first. A year or year and a half should be long enough for this mess to die down and be forgotten.”
The CIA man thought about that for a moment and then nodded sharply. “Fair enough. That meets our needs.” With a cursory nod to the assembled Pentagon brass, he climbed heavily to his feet and left. He didn’t spare a glance for the young officer whose career he’d just helped destroy.
One by one, the somber-faced Army brigadiers and Air Force colonel took their own leave and walked out of the room, leaving Flynn and the Air Force major general behind. From start to finish, not one of them had said a word.
Of course not, Flynn thought bitterly. They’d all made up their minds on how this was going to end before I even got here. Why waste time and breath pretending this whole proceeding was anything but window dressing for a predetermined outcome? And pretty shoddy window dressing, at that?
“I’m sorry about this, son,” the general said at last, breaking an awkward silence. He stood up. “Really, I am.” He shook his head. “Look, I know this isn’t much consolation, but incoming rounds don’t care whose side you’re on, or whether your intentions were smart or stupid. Think of this as some random bullet that just happened to have your name on it. That may not be fair, but it’s reality. So take your medicine. Do the job we’re assigning you. And for God’s sake, don’t rock the boat or shoot your mouth off again. Then, in a year or two, when this has all blown over, we’ll let you resign your commission and start over again in the civilian world. And I can guarantee that a lot of corporate doors will be open to a young man like you with an honorable discharge.”
Flynn ignored that unsubtly dangled carrot. Instead, carefully controlling his voice to hide his anger, he simply asked, “So where am I being exiled to . . . sir?”
The general didn’t hesitate. “One of the North Warning System’s long-range radar sites. At Kaktovik, Alaska.”
“I’m not exactly qualified to manage radar systems,” Flynn pointed out bluntly.
“We know that, Captain,” the general agreed. He shrugged. “The North Warning System is largely automated anyway, with any necessary maintenance or upkeep handled by civilian contractors.”
Flynn frowned. Then what the hell was he being sent to do? Play poker with bored civilian radar technicians?
“Congress has been bitching about potential security threats to our early-warning air defense radars,” the general explained. “They’re worried about possible Russian commando raids or sabotage. So we’ve agreed to explore the formation of small Joint Force security teams for these sites.”
“And that’s where I come in,” Flynn guessed flatly.
The general nodded. “That’s where you come in. We’re putting you in command of the first experimental Joint Force security detail.”
Christ, Flynn thought bleakly, they were assigning him to glorified sentry duty at a post well above the Arctic Circle. He shivered inside. If they’d tried for a thousand years, these bastards couldn’t have picked a better place to punish him for the crime of making the CIA’s covert ops gurus look like fools. For a Texas boy who’d grown up seeing snow only on occasional ski trips, the thought of Alaska’s subzero winter temperatures and endless dark nights was downright hellish.
Four
Bekhterev Private Clinic, Moscow, Russia
Early October
Set in a quiet side street in the heart of Moscow’s Mes
hchansky District, the Bekhterev Private Clinic occupied a five-story glass-and-concrete office building. Its namesake, Vladimir Bekhterev, born in 1857, was known chiefly as one of Russia’s most famous neurologists, a rival of Ivan Pavlov, and also for his probable murder on the orders of Josef Stalin. Asked to examine the dictator in 1927, Bekhterev had privately warned colleagues that Stalin was a paranoiac. He died suddenly and mysteriously the following day. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia’s new rulers reinstated him in the pantheon of national medical heroes. The Bekhterev Clinic had been sponsored by profit-seeking investors as part of that rehabilitation process. And now its cadre of highly trained doctors and neurosurgeons provided discreet and expensive medical services to Russia’s government and business elites.
One of those specialists, Dr. Viktor Obolensky, had his office on the clinic’s fourth floor. Delicate watercolors on its dark-paneled walls, the doctor’s elegant oak desk, comfortable leather chairs, and richly colored Oriental rugs created an aura of luxury that was a far cry from the dingy, run-down atmosphere of state-run medical offices and hospitals. His usual patients, men and women of influence and wealth, valued the difference.
Right now, Colonel Alexei Petrov didn’t give a damn about his surroundings. His whole attention was focused on the MRI images Obolensky had just shown to him to explain his diagnosis. Slowly, he looked up from the blue-tinted pictures to focus on the neurologist. “There is no possibility of a mistake?”
Apologetically, Obolensky shrugged his shoulders. He wore an expensive, immaculately tailored Italian suit under his regulation white coat. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Kuznetsov. The indications are unmistakable.”
Petrov took the blow in silence. The name Kuznetsov, the Russian equivalent of Smith, was the pseudonym he used for his visits to the clinic. He was also paying cash for these tests and consultations, since the last thing he wanted was a paper trail his Air Force superiors might be able to follow. Now, more than ever, he was glad that he’d taken precautions. “And the prognosis?” he asked at last, not sure if he really wanted an answer.
“Not good,” the doctor admitted bluntly. “A combination of radiation treatment and chemotherapy might slow the progression. At least to a degree. But the location and size of this malignancy make surgery . . . inadvisable.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I wish I could give you better news. Unfortunately, this is not a case where there is even the slightest margin of doubt.”
Petrov took a short, sharp breath. “I see.” For a brief moment, darkness seemed to veil his vision. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And the likely time frame?” he asked, noticing with a trace of cynicism that he’d chosen a deliberately distanced, almost clinically sterile way to phrase his question. No doubt that was common for people in his position.
Again, Obolensky shrugged. “My best estimate would be anywhere from six months to a year. Perhaps eighteen months at the outside.” He nodded at the sheaf of MRI images still clutched in his patient’s hands. “The precise progression of tumors of this kind varies widely from individual to individual. Regular scans would let us track its growth more closely, of course.”
And fatten your pocketbook, too, Petrov thought bitterly.
The neurologist looked somber. “If you have any serious responsibilities in your work, it would probably be best to let your associates and your employer know the situation as soon as possible.”
“In case I drop dead suddenly?” Petrov felt his mouth twist into a thin, wry smile.
Obolensky shook his head. “That is unlikely. But the frequency and severity of your headaches is likely to increase over the coming months. I can prescribe medication to alleviate some of the pain, but these medicines naturally have significant side effects. As time goes on, it may become more and more difficult for you to concentrate. Or to handle complex, difficult problems.”
“I see.”
“If you prefer, I can brief the necessary people for you,” the neurologist said hesitantly. “These kinds of conversations are often painful. Sometimes a relatively disinterested, scientific approach is best.”
Petrov smiled thinly again. “That would require me to waive my right to doctor-patient confidentiality, would it not?”
“Yes, it would,” Obolensky admitted. He steepled his hands. “I fully understood your desire for privacy early on, Mr. Kuznetsov.” His tone left little doubt that he knew the name was phony. “But you can see that the situation has changed. Sooner or later, those for whom you work will realize you aren’t well.”
And the doctor was concerned that they would blame him for helping hide the bad news, Petrov realized. For all Obolensky knew right now, his patient was a high-level financial director or senior government executive—someone whose illness-induced mistakes could cost billions of rubles or cause a terrible political scandal. None of the promises of patient confidentiality made by the Bekhterev Private Clinic would protect it in such a case. All of which gave Obolensky every reason to start digging to find out Petrov’s real identity if he refused to cooperate.
Understandable or not, Petrov thought coldly, that was something he simply could not risk. “I take your point,” he said at last. “Look, it’s already Friday. What if I put together a list of names and numbers over this weekend? I should be able to get it to you by Monday morning.”
Relieved, Obolensky sat back. “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence. And you can rely on my discretion.”
Petrov smiled more genuinely this time. “Oh, of that, I have absolutely no doubt, Doctor.”
Outside Moscow
Later That Evening
Humming softly along with the Korean pop music wafting from his Lexus luxury sedan’s premium sound system, Dr. Viktor Obolensky turned off the main thoroughfare and onto a narrow private road that led to his country dacha. He was looking forward to a couple of days away from his office and importunate patients. As a medical specialty, neurology paid exceedingly well, but all too often it meant dealing with desperate people who wanted to see him as a miracle worker—as someone who could save them from a tragic fate otherwise decreed by genetics or by some random cosmic ray that had sleeted through their brains and condemned them to death.
This far outside the city, he had no close neighbors, and the woods lining both sides of the road were already pitch-dark. Glowing a spectral white in his high beams, row after row of slender birch trees appeared briefly and then vanished in the blackness.
Abruptly, there was a muffled bang from his right front tire. The steering wheel jolted under his hands and then tugged hard to the right.
“Sukin syn!” Obolensky muttered, wrestling the car back straight and braking to a stop. “Son of a bitch!” One of his tires had just blown out.
Still grumbling under his breath, he switched off the ignition—leaving the headlights on—and climbed out onto the graveled road. It was too dark to make out anything outside the arc of the sedan’s beams. With a sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and activated the flashlight. Using it to light his way, he moved around the front of the Lexus and leaned over to inspect the damaged tire.
And then the world flashed bright red as a terrible blow smashed into the back of Obolensky’s head. Blood spattered across the sedan’s shiny, polished side panels.
Dazed, he dropped to his knees. His right hand fluttered upward, weakly feeling for the site of the injury.
His attacker brutally slapped that away and caught him in a tight hold, dragging his head hard back into an armpit. Suddenly terrified, Obolensky fumbled at the arms that gripped him. It was too late. A single quick, powerful twist snapped his neck—killing him instantly.
The attacker, dressed in dark clothing and gloves, a face mask, and a hood, knelt briefly beside the corpse. He scooped up the dead man’s cell phone from where it had fallen. Then, quickly and efficiently, he went through the doctor’s pockets, retrieving his keys and wallet. Satisfied, he got back to his feet, opened the car door, switched off the headlights, and t
apped a control to pop the Lexus’s trunk.
It required only a couple of minutes’ more work for him to manhandle the body over to the trunk and stuff it inside. With a little luck, he thought, it would be at least a couple of days before anyone investigated the abandoned car and found Obolensky’s corpse. And with a bit more luck, it would look enough like a robbery gone wrong to satisfy the local police.
Sweating slightly despite the cool night air, Colonel Alexei Petrov used the dead man’s cell phone flashlight to survey the scene one more time. It was vital to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything that would raise unnecessary questions or lead back to him. Beneath his mask, a slight, confident smile crossed his face. There was nothing. Just a few scuffed footprints around the front of the sedan and faint smears of dried blood that would match that of the victim, not him.
Finished, Petrov turned away and headed back through the darkened forest to where he’d parked his nondescript rental car. Part of him regretted killing Obolensky. But he knew the act had been necessary. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the project he had undertaken. That was true now more than ever. Dmitri Grishin, the oligarch who was backing his plan, believed he was primarily motivated by money. This was not the time to disabuse him of that notion.
Five
Barter Island Long Range Radar Site, near Kaktovik, Alaska
The Next Day
Barter Island sat just off Alaska’s desolate Arctic coast. Roughly four miles long and two miles wide, it was a snow-covered, treeless plain. On a narrow spit just off its northern shore, there was a large mound of heaped-up whale bones. Not far from the mound, the tiny village of Kaktovik occupied the island’s northeastern quarter. Around two hundred people lived in its assortment of cabins and prefab houses, most of them Iñupiat Alaska natives.
