Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  Besides, he reminded himself, Gennadiy was supremely confident that the defenses around the Perun’s Aerie complex were impregnable. Under the circumstances, Tarzarov concluded, wisdom dictated a course of waiting to see precisely how events unfolded.

  NATIONAL GEOSPATIAL-INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, FORT BELVOIR NORTH AREA, NEAR SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

  THAT SAME TIME

  Intelligence analyst Kristin Voorhees came back from lunch and entered her cubicle. The first thing she noticed after sitting down at her computer was that someone had futzed with her ThinkGeek Firefly magnetic word set. Clipped to one of her cube’s partitions, the board came with an assortment of words and suffixes used in dialogue from the cult-classic science-fiction series, and she was fond of arranging and rearranging them while noodling with complex database problems.

  In and of itself, the futzing wasn’t a problem. She’d made it clear that her colleagues were welcome to reset the board whenever the spirit moved them. Many of them did, especially during those all-night shifts during a major international flap—when it seemed like every U.S. intelligence agency and administration senior executive was screaming for more satellite imagery and analysis.

  No, it wasn’t the fact that the words had been rearranged while she was gone that caught her attention. It was what they now spelled out: Gorram wobble-headed doll caper.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She’d been activated.

  Years ago, while Voorhees was still just a computer-science postdoc interviewing to join the NGA, she’d been recruited by Scion as an unpaid sleeper agent. She’d never regretted her decision. Where so much of the U.S. intelligence community seemed bogged down in bureaucratic sloth and political infighting, former president Martindale’s private military and intelligence outfit had been out fighting the good fight—relentlessly opposing the enemies of the United States and the whole free world.

  Then again, she thought wryly, feeling her heart pounding in her chest, as a sleeper agent, she’d never been asked to take any risks. Not until now. Her Scion handlers had only expected her to do the best job possible for the NGA, earning promotions and steadily working her way up into positions of higher and higher responsibility.

  And now here she was, one of the agency’s data stewards charged with maintaining its huge archives of highly classified satellite imagery, maps, and other intelligence information. Her post gave her high-level, read/write access to those databases, and now it was time for her to use that power on behalf of Scion.

  For a moment, Kristen Voorhees was tempted to shuffle the words on her Firefly board back into random patterns and pretend the activation signal had never been delivered. That would be the safest course. If she were caught and convicted, the lightest prison term she could probably expect was something on the order of the two-year sentence handed to another government intelligence analyst caught passing classified satellite photos to Jane’s Defence Weekly back in the mid-1980s. But given President Barbeau’s long-standing feud with Scion and Kevin Martindale, her fate was likely to be a lot worse.

  Deep in thought, she pulled off her glasses and absently polished them with the untucked tail of her blouse. Doing time in federal prison was not an appealing prospect. She was pretty sure that convicts weren’t allowed access to computers for anything but e-mail.

  But she knew she couldn’t really just walk away. Not in good conscience. Anyone who followed the news knew that Russia was on the march again in Eastern and central Europe—using cyberwar weapons and terrorism to brutalize the small democracies America had turned its back on. Whatever Scion was interested in had to be related to that ongoing battle.

  She sat up straighter and put her glasses back on.

  Resolutely, she turned back to her keyboard, logged in with her access codes, and then entered a single, short command—a command that triggered a small piece of code buried long ago in the primary database operating software. In turn, this subroutine opened a tiny back door, a secret way into every NGA archive that could be used remotely by Scion intelligence operatives. For the next six hours, Martindale’s agents would have free, virtually undetectable, entry into every agency database. After that, the subroutine would erase itself until its next activation, sealing the back door and deleting any record of what she’d done.

  At least that was how it should work in theory, she thought. But no one knew better than she did that systems as large and complex as those used by the agency had peculiar, little quirks all of their own. It was entirely possible that this Scion foray would leave traces the agency’s counterintelligence people would spot on their next security sweep. And if that happened, Kristen Voorhees was going to be neck-deep in trouble with a capital E, as in “violation of the Espionage Act.”

  With a sigh, she turned back to her list of regular assignments and started work again. If they did come to slap the cuffs on her, she could at least try to make life a little easier for her successor.

  HEADQUARTERS, RUSSIAN AEROSPACE FORCES, MOSCOW

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Da, Mr. President!” Colonel General Valentin Maksimov said into the phone. “I understand. My forces will be ready for any eventuality.”

  He hung up and looked at his senior military aide, Major General Viktor Polichev. “The president has ordered us to prepare for the likelihood of limited air and missile hostilities along our western and northwestern borders.”

  The other man raised an eyebrow. “Based on what? Our intelligence reports show no signs of increased combat readiness by the Poles or their allies. Or by any of the NATO powers, for that matter.”

  “The president did not see fit to share his reasoning with me,” Maksimov said with a wry smile. “But I suspect he thinks the recent assassination attempt on President Wilk may have consequences.”

  “Yes, that seems likely,” Polichev agreed. “It is a pity that our FSB and Spetsnaz colleagues were so clumsy.” He frowned. “What exactly does the president expect us to do? Put our air-defense forces on full alert?”

  “Fortunately not,” Maksimov said.

  Polichev looked relieved. And for good reason. Raising the alert status of their fighter squadrons, radar units, and SAM regiments would set off alarms in defense ministries across Europe and even in the United States. Of itself, that was no real problem. However, in the aftermath of the crude attack on Poland’s president, going on high alert could trigger an unwanted sequence of actions and reactions from both sides. Like many Russian Aerospace Force officers itching to avenge their combat losses last year, Polichev had no problem with fighting the Poles. But that didn’t mean he wanted to blunder into a shooting war by accident because some trigger-happy pilot or missile officer got careless. “Then what are your orders?” he asked his chief.

  “Have your couriers finished distributing the new target-acquisition-software upgrade for our S-300 and S-400 forces?” Maksimov wondered.

  “Deliveries to our units in the Eastern and Central Military Districts are continuing,” Polichev said. “But all our SAM regiments in the Western and Southern Military Districts have already been upgraded.”

  Maksimov nodded in satisfaction. Those were the regions most vulnerable to attack by enemies equipped with “netrusion” technology and stealth drones. The Chinese did not possess such weapons, at least not yet. “I want you to schedule a rotating series of battle drills at the regimental level starting tomorrow, Viktor,” he said firmly. “That should help our missile troops shake off the cobwebs and learn the ins and outs of these new programs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Polichev said. “Should I inform the various foreign military attachés?”

  Maksimov thought about that. To avoid unnecessarily raising international tensions, it was standard practice to brief other governments on major military exercises. “Go ahead. But, Viktor?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Make sure no one says anything about the software improvements we’ve made. And keep them well away from any of our command centers,” Maksimov caut
ioned. “As far as our foreign friends are concerned, we will say these are simply routine drills to check equipment readiness. Let them draw their own conclusions about our real intentions.”

  Polichev nodded. It was all part of the complicated game of diplomatic and military signaling so common in relationships among the great powers. By announcing its series of SAM drills in advance, Russia was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. But at the same time, the short notice with which those same exercises were called also sent a message that Russia’s armed forces were alert and able to defend their country if attacked.

  If all went well, they would make the Poles and their American mercenaries think twice about seeking revenge. And if not . . . well, Russia’s air-defense forces in the sectors most likely to be attacked would be ready and waiting.

  THIRTY

  IRON WOLF SQUADRON HEADQUARTERS, 33rd AIR BASE, NEAR POWIDZ, POLAND

  THE NEXT DAY

  Brad McLanahan looked around the oval conference table. Counting Piotr Wilk, who was joining them by secure video link from his hospital room, the key members of the joint Polish–Iron Wolf command team were here. All but one.

  For a moment, his vision clouded. The medical team monitoring his father’s deteriorating condition sent him reports every few hours or so. All of them said pretty much the same thing: “The general’s life is moving peacefully to its close.”

  Earlier, one of the doctors had tactfully suggested removing Patrick McLanahan from life support—a suggestion Brad had heatedly declined. “I may not be able to save my dad’s life,” he’d snapped. “But I am damned well not going to kill him. As long as he isn’t in unbearable pain, you’re going to give him every chance to fight this last battle in his own way and go in his own time. Is that clear?”

  Nadia had intervened at that point, dragging the ICU physician off for an intense, private conversation in fast-paced Polish. From the apprehensive look on the man’s face when they’d parted company, he guessed she’d put the fear of God, or at least Major Nadia Rozek, into him.

  Martindale’s voice drew him back to the present.

  “We have a confirmed target,” the gray-haired chief of Scion said quietly. “Thanks to the clues provided by our ‘guest,’ the regrettably still-breathing Igor Truznyev.”

  “And what did you promise him in return for this information?” Wilk asked. His eyes were steely, unforgiving.

  “His life, nothing else,” Martindale said bluntly. He offered them a thin, humorless smile. “Truznyev was in no condition to ask for anything more.” He shrugged. “Of course, now that he’s betrayed Gryzlov’s secrets, he has no leverage at all. And over time, I’m sure we’ll think of a great many more interesting questions to ask him—questions he will be in no position to dodge.”

  Brad nodded to himself. Truznyev was doubly screwed. Even if the Russian ever figured out that he’d been tricked, it was too late now. The first time he balked, all the Poles had to do was threaten to hand him back to Gryzlov’s people, along with a brief précis of the classified information he’d already spilled.

  “Good,” Wilk replied. He sounded pleased. “I’m sure we can find suitably uncomfortable quarters to keep him on ice for as long as we see fit.”

  Impatiently, Whack Macomber broke into the conversation. “Glad as I am to hear that piece of shit Truznyev is slated for more bad tidings of discomfort and woe, I’d kind of like to know more about this target Mr. Martindale mentioned.” His expression was grim. “Because I have this bad feeling that it’s not going to be real easy to hit.”

  Martindale nodded. “Ten out of ten, Major.” He looked around the table. “I’ve had teams of Scion and Polish intelligence analysts working around the clock to confirm Truznyev’s claims about the location of this ‘Perun’s Aerie’ cyberwar complex. While he could not give us its precise coordinates, his information let our people zero in on the most probable site.”

  “Which is where . . . exactly?” Macomber pressed.

  In answer, the Scion chief brought up a topographical map on one of the wall displays. It showed a rugged landscape of jagged, sawtooth ridges and mountains and glaciers, cut by narrow, winding river valleys. A red circle surrounded one of the peaks. “Here. Buried inside Mount Manaraga in the Nether-Polar Urals, about sixty-five nautical miles due east of the city of Pechora.”

  “Meaning?” prompted Brad.

  Martindale zoomed the map out, showing the cyberwar complex’s location in a broader geographic context. Mount Manaraga lay deep inside northern Russia, more than 1,400 nautical miles east of Poland, and only 250 nautical miles south of the frozen Barents Sea.

  “Oh, fuck,” Macomber muttered, with an unhappy look on his hard-edged face.

  Silently, Brad echoed the sentiment. That mountain was one hell of a long way inside enemy territory.

  “How sure are your analysts of this?” Wilk asked, studying the same image repeated on a display in his hospital room.

  “Just about one hundred percent,” Martindale said. “Like I said, once Truznyev pointed us in the right direction, our people were able to do some discreet and focused poking around inside various National Security Agency and National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency databases. They hit pay dirt fairly quickly.” He tapped another control, bringing up a succession of satellite images and short transcripts of intercepted Russian radio and phone conversations.

  Several months-old satellite photos showed freight cars loaded with the spoil from underground excavations sitting on sidings around Pechora. Other images taken around the same time showed what might be traces of new roads built through the pine forests surrounding Mount Manaraga. Later photos showed no signs of those same roads. Either they had been destroyed, or more likely, better camouflaged.

  Among the intercepts was a signal from Atomflot headquarters to the Ministry of State Security protesting an explained directive that Atomflot sell a naval nuclear reactor intended for one of its new Arktika-class icebreakers to “an entity under your ministry’s control” at cost. A terse reply informed the state-controlled company that its protest had been rejected “at the highest authority” and that any further discussion of the issue was “forever foreclosed by Presidential National Security Decree 117.”

  Heads nodded slowly around the table, seeing the picture this was all painting.

  “And then when our people went digging inside the corporate records of a Russian computer manufacturer named T-Platforms, we turned up a purchase order for an extremely powerful supercomputer,” Martindale continued.

  “A purchase order from who?” Brad asked.

  “A company we’ve long suspected of being a front for the FSB,” Martindale said.

  “And where was this supercomputer delivered?” Nadia wondered.

  Martindale smiled. “That’s the curious fact of the dog that didn’t bark in the night, Major Rozek. As far as T-Platforms’ records are concerned, the computer was never delivered. But neither is it still in their inventory.”

  Nadia wrinkled her nose. “That was sloppy.”

  “It was,” Martindale agreed. Then he shrugged. “On the other hand, without the added clues Truznyev gave us, we’d just be looking at another tantalizing dead end.”

  “How could American intelligence miss this secret project?” Wilk wanted to know. “With all these images showing new excavations and construction work around this mountain, I mean.”

  “Because it’s like looking at one particular grain of sand on a whole beach,” Martindale explained. “The major industry in this part of the Urals is mining. New tunnels and roads are a dime a dozen. The only reason my folks are pretty sure this isn’t just some new commercial mine is the effort the Russians made to hide their tracks—along with the fact that there are no records of any mining claims registered for Mount Manaraga.”

  “And that was even sloppier,” Nadia said.

  “Maybe,” Martindale replied. “But remember, our spy satellites take enormous numbers of i
mages every day—more images than we have the ability to thoroughly analyze in anything approaching real time. More and more of the work is automated, but—”

  “Computers only see what they’ve been programmed to look for,” Nadia finished, sounding disgusted.

  “Exactly,” Martindale said. “In the old days, satellite intelligence analysts had to make bricks without straw, stretching tiny fragments of information to the breaking point to make a case. Now they’re flooded with more and more imagery captured from wider and wider swathes of the earth. More images than they can possibly examine closely in any normal human lifetime.”

  “Which means analysts only focus on issues they’ve been tasked to address,” Brad realized. “And nobody in the States had any idea Gryzlov was building this cyberwar complex in the first place.”

  Martindale nodded.

  “All this is just peachy-keen,” Whack Macomber said gruffly. “But assuming this fucking mountain really is what we’ve been looking for, do we have the slightest damn idea of what kind of defenses the Russians have deployed to protect it?”

  “That’s a good question, Major,” Martindale said coolly. He tapped another control, bringing up two side-by-side images of the mountain. One was dated from more than two years ago, presumably before any serious construction began. The other was only several weeks old.

  To Brad’s untrained eye, they looked absolutely identical.

  When he said as much, Martindale looked pleased. “Yes, they do, Captain McLanahan. That’s why I had our best analysts dive in deep, scouring these images right down to the individual pixel. They wrote special programs to speed up the work. And this is what they turned up . . .”