Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  “Just as we head into winter,” Macomber growled. “That’s not going to be fucking pretty.”

  “No, it will not,” Wilk said quietly. “With the cold and darkness of winter looming, President Dumitru is gravely concerned that his government could be toppled by a wave of massive public unrest.”

  “With the Russians waiting hungrily in the wings,” Brad said.

  “True,” Wilk said. “And naturally our friends in Moscow are doing their best to make things even more difficult for Dumitru. This morning they presented him with a virtual ultimatum. The Russians are threatening to cut off all natural-gas exports to Romania unless he accepts price increases far beyond Bucharest’s ability to pay.”

  Martindale’s expression darkened. “So there’s the iron fist without the velvet glove,” he said caustically. “I assume there’s more.”

  Wilk nodded. “Dumitru was also handed a personal communication from Gennadiy Gryzlov promising to provide the energy supplies Romania needs, but only if he abandons the Alliance of Free Nations and signs a defense pact with Moscow.”

  “That’s classic,” a cold, electronically synthesized voice said.

  Surprised by the sudden interjection, Wilk and the others swung toward the huge CID standing motionless by the far wall. “General?”

  “Gryzlov never misses a chance to kick people when they’re down,” Patrick McLanahan continued. “That accident at Cernavodă was the perfect opening for him to make trouble. The Romanians can either kowtow to Moscow now, or do it later—after a new pro-Russian government takes power. My bet is that Gryzlov is already in touch with leaders of the opposition parties in Bucharest.”

  Wilk nodded slowly. “A correct assessment, General.” He shrugged. “Many of Dumitru’s political opponents already favor the Russians, either out of conviction or sheer expedience.”

  “That son of a bitch in Moscow is pretty goddamned fast on his feet,” Whack Macomber said. His gaze darkened. “Too fast, if you ask me. Which is why I’ve got a nagging itch that says the Russians engineered this whole thing.”

  “Your instincts are accurate, as usual, Major,” Martindale said softly. “My Scion IT experts finished their preliminary analysis an hour ago. The computers at Cernavodă were hacked. That reactor was deliberately configured to melt down.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “Which is why the plant’s automated systems seemed to be fighting me every step of the way,” Brad realized. “Like every time I turned a valve or tried to get through a door.”

  “Your report gave us the first clues,” Martindale agreed. “Apparently, there were traces of malware in every significant operating system.”

  “But how?” Wilk asked. “Surely Cernavodă’s designers were not foolish enough to connect their control computers to the Internet?”

  “Not officially, no.”

  “Then—”

  “Regrettably, there are many ways to infect a computer with malware, Mr. President,” Nadia Rozek told him grimly. Wilk suddenly remembered that her father was a software engineer who specialized in Internet security.

  “Major Rozek is quite right,” Martindale said. “Anyone with access to the plant’s automated control systems could have implanted those sabotage programs using something as simple as an easily concealed USB flash drive or a microSD card half the size of a thumbnail. Only the most sophisticated body scanners can detect them, and Cernavodă did not have them.”

  “How many people had such access?” Wilk wondered.

  “Too many,” Martindale said. “My guys think that malware might have been put in place weeks or even months ago. So the hackers could have bribed a plant operator, either somebody still on staff or planning to quit or even retire. Or maybe they suborned someone else, someone who visited Cernavodă in an official capacity. Like a contractor or an IAEA inspector, for example.”

  “Whoever did it is long gone,” Patrick McLanahan said tonelessly. “Either conveniently dead . . . or hidden away in Russia, far beyond our reach.”

  “Probably so,” Martindale conceded. “I’ve ordered a Scion security team to work with the Romanian police to narrow down the list of possible suspects. But it’s not real likely that we’ll ever get our hands on whoever planted that malware.”

  Wilk scowled. “Then how do we prove the Russians were responsible for this catastrophe?”

  “We can’t,” Martindale said bluntly. “At least not clearly enough to sway international opinion if it comes down to a United Nations pissing match between us and Moscow.” He shook his head in regret. “The code my experts have analyzed has similarities to malware they’ve seen before—to viruses created by a Russian hacker group called Advanced Persistent Threat 28, or ATP 28. But—”

  “But these computer criminals often share their techniques and secrets with others around the world,” Nadia Rozek said. “So such a similarity would not be sufficient evidence.” Her eyes were ice-cold. “Not for President Barbeau and the other weaklings afraid to stand up to the Russians.”

  Martindale nodded. His own expression was equally bleak. He turned to the others. “Whether or not we can prove it is pretty much beside the point. What’s more important is that this cyberwar attack on Cernavodă was perfectly planned and executed. And if Brad hadn’t been close enough to intervene with a working CID, we’d be overwhelmed right now trying to deal with the physical and political fallout from a radioactive plume spreading across Europe on the wind. You can bet that millions of people would have been hightailing it away from Romania as refugees.”

  “The danger would not have justified so much panic,” Nadia said stubbornly. “The accidents at Chernobyl and Fukushima showed that any significant damage would have been limited to those areas within thirty or forty kilometers of the plant.”

  “Maybe so,” Martindale agreed. “But most folks aren’t logical. Scientific studies don’t carry much weight when they run up against generations of ‘nuclear bogeyman’ scare tactics.” He shrugged. “As it is, we were fortunate Brad was in the right place at the right time.”

  “Sure,” Macomber said. “Trouble is, now we’re down one of the new CIDs we needed to bolster our forces. That robot is basically fried. Hell, just about every system is shot. To get the thing back up and running, we’re practically going to have to rebuild every piece, from the actuators on up.” He shot Brad a wry look. “No offense, kid, but you’re hard as hell on expensive gear.”

  Brad did his best to look sorry. “Yeah, Whack, that is a bad habit. And it’s one I’m trying real hard to break.”

  “No sweat, Brad,” Macomber said more seriously. “Pain in the ass though you often are, I’m glad you came through in one piece. CIDs I can replace. Good pilots are a heck of a lot tougher to find.”

  Half listening to the two Iron Wolf officers banter, Wilk stared down at the table, gathering his thoughts. At last, he looked up at Martindale. “If we cannot prove that what happened at Cernavodă was a Russian attack, is there any point to announcing that the reactor was deliberately sabotaged?”

  “Officially? Probably not, Piotr,” the American said slowly. “That would only raise questions we can’t answer right now.” He allowed himself a quick, sly grin. “But we could leak the suggestion to some friendly journalists, off the record. God knows the broader public loves conspiracy theories. And even the hint that what happened was Moscow’s fault might buy Dumitru and his government a little breathing room.”

  Wilk nodded. For months, Russian propaganda outlets—both official and unofficial—had been flooding the airwaves and the Internet with all kinds of wild stories about “warmongering Poland” and its “bloodthirsty, piratical mercenaries.” Giving Gryzlov and his minions a taste of their own medicine couldn’t hurt.

  “But what if this was not just a single act of sabotage?” Nadia asked. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “What if Cernavodă was merely the first salvo in a new Russian war against us? A war waged with computers rather than ta
nks and aircraft?”

  “That, Major Rozek, is the billion-dollar question,” Martindale said. He looked somberly around the table. “My guess is that we’re not going to have to wait long to find out.”

  FIVE

  THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE NEXT DAY

  Listening to Gennadiy Gryzlov preach at her over a secure video link with Moscow, U.S. president Stacy Anne Barbeau blessed the decades she had spent smiling winsomely at men she secretly despised. For years, she’d schemed, flirted, and backstabbed her way up through the ranks of American politics—serving in the U.S. Senate, as secretary of state, and now as president. Washington was littered with the still-breathing political corpses of rivals and former allies she’d first charmed, then outmaneuvered, and finally dumped by the wayside.

  There was a time, she admitted to herself, when the younger Russian president’s rugged good looks would have turned her on. But not anymore. Not since last year, when his threats and crazed nuclear saber rattling had pushed her into a corner, forcing her to choose between the safety and security of the United States and her personal pride.

  She didn’t regret seeing Poland and the other Eastern and central European countries drop out of NATO. In her view, letting them into the American-led alliance after the collapse of the Soviet Union in the first place had been a huge mistake—one that virtually guaranteed continued conflict with Russia and threatened U.S. interests without any concomitant gain. But the way NATO fractured had made her look bad, and it had hurt her politically here at home, where right-wing hawks were always circling . . . looking for any excuse to bash her as a weak-kneed woman.

  Someday she would find a way to stick a shiv in Gennadiy Gryzlov, she thought silently. Someone so arrogant and self-assured was bound to give her an opening, sooner or later. For now, though, she concentrated on hiding her seething anger behind a diplomatic mask of polite attention.

  “My government is grateful for your efforts to restore order in Europe, Madam President,” the Russian said suavely. “And we share your view that this Alliance of Free Nations is a threat to the region’s stability. After all, if it were not for pressure from the militaristic Poles and their black-market hired soldiers, the Baltic states, Romania, and the rest would gladly see reason.”

  Barbeau’s eyes narrowed. “And just how do you define reason, Gennadiy?” she asked pointedly.

  He smiled broadly. “I mean, of course, that the nations of Eastern and central Europe could again assume their traditional role as neutral buffer states between the great powers—rather than serving the geopolitical ambitions of the Polish madman Piotr Wilk and your own former president, Kevin Martindale.”

  “Martindale’s a criminal,” Barbeau shot back, touched on a sore point. “His actions are in no way condoned by my government.”

  Gryzlov’s own gaze hardened. “If I thought otherwise, Madam President, our conversation today would be proceeding along very different lines.” He relaxed. “As it is, I am confident that our vital national interests coincide on this issue. Restoring the proper balance between NATO and Russia is the key to European peace and security. But this cannot be achieved unless we stop Poland’s efforts to build a ramshackle empire. If not, we may find ourselves again dragged to the edge of an abyss because some petty Polish client state sees war as an alternative to domestic unrest or self-imposed catastrophe.”

  Barbeau regained her composure. She was not going to let this bastard rattle her again, she decided. Nor was she going to let him smooth-talk her into making any commitment she might regret later—like saying something Gryzlov could later claim gave him the green light for another military adventure against Warsaw.

  “I agree that the instability of some of the countries in this new alliance worries me,” she said carefully. “But I think you exaggerate the short-term risks.”

  “Do I?” Gryzlov replied, arching an eyebrow. “With the example of this terrible accident at the Cernavodă nuclear reactor before our very eyes?” He shook his head. “What more evidence do you need of the dangers posed by these backward countries?”

  He raised his eyes as if to heaven. “If it were not for a miracle, your true allies in Western Europe—the Germans, the French, the Italians, and all the others—would even now be submerged by waves of refugees fleeing the radioactive contamination caused by Romania’s criminal negligence.”

  Oh, good God, Barbeau thought disgustedly. How stupid did this clown think she was? “There are rumors that that reactor was sabotaged by Russia-based hackers,” she said dryly.

  “If so, the gang in Bucharest must be reading too many spy thrillers,” Gryzlov said coolly. “Cernavodă’s design and construction flaws and management failures are matters of record. Read the reports from the IAEA and other responsible organizations if you doubt me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, blaming foreigners is always the first resort for any government eager to hide its own incompetence.”

  “Perhaps so,” Barbeau retorted. “But blackmailing President Dumitru by threatening to cut off Russian natural-gas exports just adds fuel to that particular fire.”

  Gryzlov actually laughed. “What of it?” he asked. “Like any rational power, Russia will use whatever leverage it can to woo countries away from Poland’s dangerous embrace.”

  He shrugged. “You should follow our example and further tighten your own restrictions on trade and commerce. Your Congress is too hesitant. Too weak-willed. You must show those now looking to Warsaw that the price of ignoring America is too high.”

  “What Congress will or won’t do is an internal political matter,” Barbeau snapped, stung by the Russian’s barely concealed taunt. “It’s certainly not any of your business.”

  “You have my apologies, Madam President,” Gryzlov said, though without an ounce of genuine contrition in his voice. “You are correct. Your disagreements with Congress are not my concern.” He smiled slyly. “But then neither should you criticize business decisions we make about our natural-gas exports to Romania. Gazprom is, after all, a wholly Russian-owned corporation.”

  For a moment, Stacy Anne Barbeau fought the temptation to unleash every expletive in her formidable arsenal. Slowly, with enormous difficulty, she regained control over her temper. Gryzlov had set a cheap rhetorical trap and she’d walked straight into it. That was bad enough. But arguing the point with him further would just put her in the position of someone wrestling with a pig: you both got dirty and only the pig enjoyed it.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to smile sweetly at the Russian. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. President.”

  “Excellent!” Gryzlov said with a wide, false smile of his own. “In that case, I look forward to our next discussion. I am sure it will be . . . illuminating.”

  Once the connection to Moscow was broken, she sat glowering in silence for a few moments before spinning toward Luke Cohen, her White House chief of staff and longtime political adviser. The tall, rail-thin New Yorker had been hovering off-camera through the whole conference. “Well?”

  “He’s up to something,” Cohen said flatly.

  Barbeau snorted. “No kidding.” She spun back to stare at the blank screen again. “And we’d damned well better find out what it is . . . before it bites us in the ass.”

  Frowning, she turned back to Cohen. “Pull together a special interagency group of economic, intelligence, and military analysts, including Cyber Command. Grab the best people you can find and get them focused on the situation in Eastern Europe. Tell them to flip over every goddamn rock from Moscow to Prague if they have to.”

  Cohen nodded. He hesitated. “Should I bring Nash in on this?”

  “Christ, no!” Barbeau said. “With a lot of help from staff, that moron might be able to find Bucharest or Budapest on a map.” She shook her head in disgust. “But I doubt if he’d know which was which.”

  It had taken her months, but she had finally been able to force out the last holdovers from
the Phoenix administration—the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Air Force general Spelling, and CIA Director Thomas Torrey. Her replacement for Torrey, James Buchanan Nash, was an amiable nonentity, a former senator from Virginia. His onetime colleagues had confirmed him largely on the strength of his prior service in U.S. Navy intelligence. What most of them didn’t know was that Nash had spent most of his short naval service on “detached duty” in Guam, supervising the base bowling alley because his superiors had seen that as the safest place to park a junior officer with solid political connections but severely limited competence.

  Despite that, Barbeau had made him her CIA director because she’d wanted someone politically reliable heading the agency—someone malleable enough to do what he was told without protest. Jimmy Nash might be dull-witted, but he looked good on television and in front of congressional committees . . . as long as he had aides close by to feed him the answers to tough questions. Best of all, the new CIA director had never been part of that aging prick Martindale’s faction or an admirer of the late, totally unlamented, and lunatic former Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.

  “Okay, I’ll keep Nash in the dark,” Cohen agreed. “That won’t be hard.” He jotted down a few notes to himself on his ever-present tablet computer. “Anything else?”

  Barbeau nodded. “Put the fear of God and the FBI into everyone in that working group. I don’t want any leaks—not to the Hill, not to the press, and especially not to anyone connected with Sky Masters or Scion. Whatever intelligence they dig up about Russian plans stays inside the White House. It doesn’t go floating around. Got it?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Cohen promised.

  “You’ll do more than that, Luke,” Barbeau said sharply. “You either keep a lid on this or I’ll find someone else who can. Is that clear?”