by FX Holden
D’Antonia waited a moment in case the other woman should speak, but she continued to sit and stare out into the empty air, her head only slightly inclined toward Roberta as though she was listening to something from another room as well.
“Well, I have many questions, shall we start?” D’Antonia said at last, her voice echoing in the cavernous wood-paneled office. “How is your English? I also speak Spanish, or French.”
“I am blind, not deaf, you don’t have to yell. And my English is good enough, thank you,” the woman replied drily. “What do you want to know?”
D’Antonia almost licked her lips. What did she, what did Western Intelligence, not want to know? She was being handed the intelligence coup of the decade, if not the century, and all because of the Russian love affair with internecine politics.
“Well, let’s start with you. General Bondarev called you the architect of the Groza system. Have you been involved since its early development?”
The woman sat quietly, as though considering how to answer. “You may have noticed that I have certain … distinguishing features,” Grahkovsky said eventually. “The story of Groza is also my personal story, if you allow me to tell it?”
D’Antonia reached toward the samovar on the coffee table. “Of course. Please do. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” Grahkovsky said. “I received my injuries from flying glass in the Chelyabinsk meteor strike of 2013…”
“I have heard about that,” D’Antonia said, wincing. She handed the teacup to Grahkovsky on a saucer, letting it touch her fingers so that she could take it and place it within reach. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” she said with genuine feeling.
“It was like being flayed alive, blinded and left to bleed to death,” Grahkovsky said. “But thank you for your sympathy. As I grew up, I became more and more fascinated, some would say obsessed, by the phenomenon of meteor strikes. After I completed my university studies, I resolved to dedicate myself to ensuring that…” Grahkovsky paused, appearing to be marshaling her words, “… that never again would our world be taken by surprise by such an event.”
“And so you created Groza?” D’Antonia frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite see the connection. I know Groza is a space-based weapons system, but how…”
“And there, you are already showing your ignorance,” Grahkovsky said. “Why would you think it is a weapons system?”
D’Antonia floundered. “I … well, the attack on Abqaiq…”
“Abqaiq? To my knowledge, the Saudi refinery was destroyed in a meteor strike, Ms. D’Antonia. Do you or the Minister have information to the contrary?”
D’Antonia felt heat rising up her neck. Had she been brought here to be treated like a fool? “My Minister has been led to believe so. And the Americans claimed in communications with the Saudis to possess intelligence showing that…”
“The Americans?” Grahkovsky raised her eyebrows. “You prefer to believe lies spread by our main enemy? Or rumors circulating in Kremlin corridors that your Minister has taken for fact?”
D’Antonia pushed down her frustration, took a breath, and spoke with as little emotion as she could. “Why don’t you tell me what Groza is then, Chief Scientist.”
“The public name for the system is Opekun, or Guardian. It was a name created for the early prototype program, but it stuck. As it moved into production phase, the program was internally renamed Groza, to provide a greater level of secrecy because it was decided the system could also have military applications.”
Ah, now we get to the truth, D’Antonia thought. “Military applications?”
“Yes, Groza is what we have always claimed it to be, an early warning system for detecting the approach of near-earth space objects. And as such, it may one day save the planet from destruction,” Grahkovsky said, taking up her cane and tapping it between her feet to emphasize her next words. “But it can also be used to map the objects already circling the earth today – satellites, space stations, space junk, spacecraft…” Grahkovsky smiled. “Map them in minute detail. With our Groza network we have been able to create the most complete map of man-made objects in orbit around the earth that has ever been created. Nothing bigger than a football can move up there, without us knowing about it – every American, Indian, Chinese or European commercial or military satellite, spacecraft or platform, dead or alive, can be tracked by us in real time. Our enemies can do nothing in space without our knowledge. We can target their surveillance satellites with perfect precision. Intercontinental ballistic missiles can be tracked from the moment of launch, their positions triangulated and data sent to the ground so they can be destroyed by our anti-missile defenses. It is still under development but one day soon we will have a sophisticated capability no other nation possesses. Perfect vision. Total protection, whether from a killer asteroid approaching earth or a missile in the skies right over Moscow. That is what Groza will become.”
D’Antonia sipped slowly at her own tea. Something did not jibe. “If the system is so powerful, how was it we did not detect the Abqaiq meteor strike?”
A thin smile flitted across Grahkovsky’s lips. “You presume we did not.”
“We detected it, but did nothing to alert the Saudis?” D’Antonia asked.
“I like your use of the word ‘we,’ Ms. D’Antonia,” Grahkovsky remarked. “It seems your loyalties lie in the right place.”
“My ‘loyalties,’ as such,” D’Antonia replied, “lie with my Minister. If we had advanced warning of a strike on a major oil processing facility in Saudi Arabia, at the very least, my Minister should have been advised.”
Grahkovsky laughed, a horrible, gurgling sound. “I said we could detect an asteroid with great accuracy, I did not say we could predict where it would strike with such accuracy.” She put her teacup down and took up her cane again. “We estimated it would impact in empty desert west of Abqaiq, but we were wrong by a matter of about a hundred miles.” Her eyes closed, as though she was suddenly processing something very complex. “Predicting the impact point of an object entering the atmosphere from space is not as simple as tracking an ICBM. We were able to identify the asteroid and track it perfectly. The atmospheric entry models we need to predict an impact point are not yet as perfect. But Abqaiq gave us valuable data with which to refine them.”
The clinical and abstract way she spoke about the deaths of hundreds of people chilled D’Antonia. “We surely could have issued an alert. The public face of the Groza program is the detection of near-earth objects. To be able to provide warning of an event as destructive as Abqaiq would have been a major scientific coup for Russia and your Groza program. It would have reinforced your public cover story.”
Grahkovsky grasped her cane in both hands. “Or created a major embarrassment if we had been wrong. It is still too early. We will need a hundred Abqaiqs before we can make any such predictions with confidence. But we have alerted the world to the broader danger.”
“This nonsense about an unmapped asteroid field?” D’Antonia asked.
Grahkovsky tapped her cane hard on the floor, a hard knock that echoed around the room. “That is exactly what I mean. You call it nonsense. You, who have no reason to doubt, whatsoever. Groza detected that field. Groza allows us to map it. Groza is the reason we can predict, no matter how uncertainly, when the next collision will occur and where it will strike.”
OK, Chief Scientist, D’Antonia thought. I will bite. “That would be…” She leaned forward in her chair. “That would be incredibly valuable information to my Minister. If you were willing to share it.”
Grahkovsky clucked her tongue. “Of course I am or I would not be here. General Bondarev has ordered me to share it with you, but only unofficially. No offense to your Minister, but as I said, our impact models are still not perfect and the last thing our program needs is doubters and critics within the walls of the Kremlin. We are not yet willing to commit our predictions to Kremlin briefing papers.”
“I understand,” D’Antonia said. “I will provide that context in my brief to the Minister.”
“And you commit to keep this for his ears only? We understand you may feel the need to make contingency plans, but you will find some cover story?”
Just tell me! D’Antonia felt like screaming at the woman, but counted to three and spoke slowly. “Of course. I think the truth is always the best cover story. If we initiate contingency planning, it would be because, as you say, we need to plan for this new threat – this unmapped asteroid field.”
“Yes,” Grahkovsky said, sitting back in her chair, taking her cane and slotting it into a gap in the chair between the cushion and the backrest, as easily as a swordsman would slide a sword into a scabbard. It was obvious she had been in Bondarev’s office before. “That would do. The next significant collision with the asteroid field will take place sometime in the next 36 to 48 hours, and we predict an impact similar in size to the explosion over Abqaiq. The impact footprint will be centered about fifty miles southeast of … Lincoln, Nebraska.”
D’Antonia nearly dropped her cup. “Nebraska, USA?” She didn’t buy the whole early warning system story at all. But the fools were going to hit a target in mainland USA? Why?
“Yes, I think there is only one Nebraska,” Grahkovsky said tartly. “We can’t be accurate to within more than about fifty square miles at the moment, but it’s a relatively unimportant area…”
“I doubt the people of Lincoln, Nebraska think so,” D’Antonia retorted.
“Socially, or economically,” Grahkovsky continued, smoothly. “And before you ask, the General has conferred with his superiors, and we do not intend to alert the Americans to this risk. The uncertainties are too large, we might look like fools. But we will gain more invaluable data and…”
D’Antonia stood, putting her cup down with a clatter of porcelain. “This is madness. They will not believe this was an accident. They already suspect Russia of the Abqaiq strike. A strike on American soil? This will provoke a retaliation.”
“Retaliation?” Grahkovsky scoffed. “Against nature, perhaps? For an act of force majeure? For an event that rattles a few farmhouse windows and scares a few cows? I’m sorry to ruin the conspiracy theory you apparently hold dear, Ms. D’Antonia, but there is no oil infrastructure in Lincoln.”
D’Antonia tried to master her thoughts, and failed. She was overwhelmed by contradictions. Her AISE handlers had told her the stories about a new asteroid field were Russian disinformation. That American intelligence had confirmed Groza was a space to ground kinetic weapons platform. That the strike on Abqaiq could only have been carried out by Groza. Now, she was supposed to believe it had a nobler purpose, to predict meteor strikes, not propagate them. That the asteroid field was real and that in less than two days, there would be another strike. On the plains of Nebraska?
D’Antonia smoothed her skirt. “Excuse me for my outburst, Chief Scientist,” she said carefully. “This period of increased risk from the new asteroid field, how long do we expect it will last?”
“Several months, possibly. The field is moving, passing across Earth’s orbit, but it is quite irregular and will take some time before we are clear of it.”
“I see,” D’Antonia said, lifting her coat from the arm of the chair and picking up a folio she had brought with her. “Thank you for this briefing. Can I ask you to advise me if Groza detects future possible threats also? While a strike on Lincoln, Nebraska is not likely to rock the global economy, future strikes may not be so … remote. We may need to make contingency plans.”
“Of course,” Grahkovsky nodded. She folded her hands on the top of her cane. “I will see your office gets word of any future threats, if you demonstrate that you and your Minister can deal with the information discreetly.” She stood, using the cane to lever herself to her feet, and keeping her face toward D’Antonia even though she could not possibly see exactly where she was standing. It was a neat trick. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Ms. D’Antonia. I want to see Groza revealed to the world in all its technological glory, and for us to be able to share the alerts we are generating with the whole world. But not until we have perfected our collision models. To send out warnings based on inaccurate calculations may lead to unnecessary panic, loss of life and, not least, undermine the credibility of our system. I won’t allow that.”
“I understand,” D’Antonia said, automatically reaching her hand out to shake and then pulling it back again. “Please thank the General for this opportunity. And I look forward to meeting you again some time.”
Grahkovsky smiled, the first true smile D’Antonia had seen. It made the terrible mask that was her face soften into something much more human, almost beautiful. For the first time, D’Antonia felt she was seeing the person who was Anastasia Grahkovsky, not the scientist. “Thank you. I don’t often hear that,” she said.
Five minutes after the Italian woman had left the building and climbed into her waiting car, Bondarev returned to his office. Grahkovsky was seated again, pouring herself another cup of tea in a fresh cup, as the one D’Antonia had poured her had gone cold.
“That went well,” Bondarev said, sitting himself at his desk. “Thank you.”
“You listened?” Grahkovsky asked. She had expected he would, though he hadn’t explicitly said so.
“Of course,” he said.
“I wouldn’t win any Nika acting awards,” Grahkovsky grumbled. “I don’t believe for a minute that she bought the story that Groza is some sort of glorified space junk tracking system.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Bondarev teased. “I remember your little performance in front of the Technical Committee, the day you stood there, showing off all your scars and daring us not to approve your precious weapon. I bought your act back then.”
“Yes, well, I suspect she is rather more intelligent than you, Major-General,” Grahkovsky said quite matter-of-factly. She drank her tea in one gulp and stood. “What happens now?”
“Well, it seems our Saudi and Iranian friends are happy to keep rattling their sabers at each other. Traffic in the Strait is backing up and the price of oil is still climbing.”
“Such a shame they are just rattling sabers,” Grahkovsky said, eyebrows arched. “It would no doubt do wonders for your precious oil prices if Iran nuked Riyadh into glowing green slag.”
“That was sarcasm, yes? They may still decide to. But for now, you get back together with my staff and finish planning the strike on Korla,” Bondarev said. “Meanwhile, I will be following the actions of our Italian friend very closely to see exactly what ‘contingency plans’ she puts in place.”
Grahkovsky chuckled. “Do you have so little trust in the vetting capabilities of our vaunted Federal Security Service, General?”
“Trust, but verify, madam Chief Scientist,” Bondarev winked. “Trust, but verify.”
One of the things people noticed about Roberta D’Antonia was her aquiline nose. As a younger woman she had considered surgery to have it straightened, but had been persuaded its imperfection added a little personality to her face and, besides, it was a trait she shared with others in her family, so she kept it. Over the years, it had also shown itself to be a very capable lie detector.
And right now it was telling her something smelled to high heaven.
Sitting in the back seat of her car as it drove itself back to the Ministry of Energy on Moscow’s Shchepkina Street, Roberta D’Antonia put a set of earbuds in her ears and brought up the digital assistant on her phone. She always worked on the assumption there were listening devices in the car monitoring her conversations and comms, but had no concerns about being overheard when she was just doing what any good ministerial assistant in her position would do.
“Siri, show me a satellite map of Lincoln, Nebraska please.”
The map loaded onto her screen, and she scrolled around it. It was much as Grahkovsky had said. A small urban area, and a lot of fields and farms.
/> “Siri, are there any oil or gas plants near Lincoln, Nebraska?” she asked.
I don’t see any oil or gas plants near Lincoln, Nebraska, the digital voice replied. Do you want me to show you gas stations?
“No. How about refineries, oil storage sites, oil pipelines?” she asked.
I don’t see anything like that, Siri replied. Would you like a list of heating oil suppliers in that area?
D’Antonia suppressed a laugh. “No. Energy utilities. Are there any energy utilities?”
On the screen, a number of pins appeared. Showing energy utilities in the area of Lincoln, Nebraska.
Southeast of Lincoln, somewhere in a fifty square mile area, that’s what Grahkovsky had said. D’Antonia put two fingers on the screen, zoomed it out and swiped it so that Lincoln lay in the upper right corner. South of Lincoln was a pin – the Sheldon Power Station.
“Siri, tell me about the Sheldon Power Station, Nebraska.”
Sheldon Station is Nebraska’s largest coal-fired electric generating facility, supplying enough electricity to serve 600,000 Nebraskans. It is consistently ranked as one of the lowest production-cost electric generation plants in the nation. Sheldon Station generates 225 megawatts of electricity. Power generated here is distributed to Nebraska’s residents through transmission lines leading to Lincoln, Hastings and Beatrice, the voice said.
Interesting, but no. Knocking out the power to a few thousand households in Nebraska could hardly be on Russia’s political agenda. She swiped the map further east, seeing another pin there.
“Siri, tell me about the, uh,” she squinted at the small text, “the … Cooper Power Station.”
Cooper Nuclear Station is a boiling water reactor type nuclear power plant located on a 1,251-acre site near Brownville, Nebraska between Missouri River mile markers 532.9 and 532.5, on Nebraska’s border with Missouri. It is the largest single-unit electrical generator in Nebraska.
