The Coward's Way of War

by Nuttall, Christopher

  And yet, it was impossible to be really sure. A nuclear research facility was clearly identifiable as such. A biological research facility could pass for a hospital or even a program intended to develop defences against biological attack. A small sample of smallpox could be concealed within a kitchen freezer and stored until the day it was to be defrosted and used to start an epidemic. Iraq had been a large country, roughly the size of Texas, but Russia was many times larger. The President’s orders had been clear – the moment he felt that they were being impeded, they were to withdraw back to the planes at once – yet it would be easy for the Russians to stalemate them without being obvious about it. The inspection team had discussed it while they were preparing for departure, but no one had been able to suggest any real solution. The Russians would play ball or they wouldn't.

  The President’s words echoed in his head. “We will go to war, in all our power and fury, and we will not stop until Russia is no more,” she’d said. Nicolas believed her. So far, she’d shown herself to be a quick and decisive leader. He had no doubt that she would unleash the American military on Russia without hesitation, if the Russians tried to screw with the inspection process. And, if that happened, the entire inspection team was likely to find itself at ground zero. The UN had lost inspection teams to hostile natives before and he had no intention of it happening to him.

  Captain Darryl Tyler came into the compartment and nodded to Nicolas, who smiled up at him. Tyler was a former Ranger who had, in a long and varied career, served in several Third World countries as part of close-protection details. He’d been snapped up by Wildfire and offered the chance to command an unusual close-protection detail, one that would protect Wildfire’s medical researches when they went into red zones. Nicolas had served with him before, in a brief visit to Nigeria, and trusted him completely. Civilian doctors might have hesitated at the thought of being escorted and protected by the military, but Nicolas knew better. The Wildfire teams went into some of the most dangerous places in the world, including countries where an American accent was a death sentence.

  “Doctor,” Tyler said, “it’s time for the final briefing.”

  Nicolas nodded and stood up, following Tyler into the main compartment. It was normally used to house the press corps, but now it held thirty experienced biological warfare researchers and a handful of other disciplines. Nicolas had experienced a mild guilt trip over pulling so many men away from other duties in America, yet the President had reassured him that there was no real choice. They had to send their best and brightest to find out the truth. He hadn't socialised much with them on the flight, reading the secure updates from Washington. Panama, after discovering several cases of Henderson’s Disease in Panama City, had declared a complete lockdown and closed the Panama Canal to all traffic, particularly American shipping. The CIA believed that Venezuela, which had cut all in and outbound traffic the day the US declared a state of emergency, was behind the move, with Chávez clearly trying to squeeze some advantage out of the crisis. Nicolas silently wished him luck. The chances were good that Henderson’s Disease was already loose in his country.

  “The Russians have promised to behave themselves,” Tyler said, without preamble. “I believe that they will put very little in our way, although they have warned – and the President has accepted, at least for the moment – that we will not be allowed access to non-biological sites. I expect, however, that we will be under surveillance as soon as we get off the plane. Diplomats have been known to leave their embassies and come back covered in bugs – and I don’t mean little creatures that go buzz.”

  There were some nervous chuckles. “Be careful what you say anywhere we don’t control,” Tyler added. “They have promised us hotel rooms; I bet you anything you care to put forward that the phones will be tapped and there will be microphones in the showers. We will only hold secure conversations on the aircraft, after everyone has been though the bug detectors. There will be no exceptions. Be careful of the Russians themselves, by the way; that pretty girl chatting you up at the bar may have more in mind than a one-night stand. We have caught Russian agents who spent a night with a Russian girl and were then blackmailed by her superiors. I strongly advise you not to do anything that could be used against you later; if you have to go out and get fucked, kindly remember that blackmail will not be accepted as an excuse for treason back in the states.”

  He looked over at Nicolas. “Doctor,” he said. “Do you want to say a few words?”

  Nicolas nodded. “This is not going to be easy,” he said. “The important thing is to find out the truth as soon as possible – that is our absolute priority. We will be polite and firm, but we are not going to lord it over the Russians. I do not want to put this team in danger. If there is a real problem, we will withdraw and leave it to the diplomats.”

  He scowled. “Record all of your work and burst-transmit it to the satellites at regular intervals, so there is a record even if something happens to you,” he concluded. “And, if any of you are feeling religious, why not spend some time before we land reminding God who’s side He’s on.”

  The intercom buzzed. “We are just coming into land now,” the pilot’s voice said. Air Force Two, like its more famous counterpart, flew so gently that there was no need to be seated, or to wear safety belts, but Nicolas started to return to his seat anyway. “If you will look out the port windows, you will see our escort.”

  Nicolas turned and looked out over the Russian countryside. A pair of dark-coloured fighters was pacing them, matching their course and speed. The Russian fighters, he had been assured, were inferior to the best that America could produce, but somehow that wasn't so reassuring now he could see the Russian aircraft and the missiles slung under their wings. Air Force Two was a great aircraft, but the Russian fighters could have blown her out of the sky with ease. It would have started a war, yet would the Russians care? A chill ran down his spine as he realised the truth. They didn't know for sure just what they were flying into, or just what was going on in Russia...

  ***

  General Zaitsev – he had made certain to don his dress uniform to remind everyone just who was in charge – watched dispassionately as Air Force Two came in to land, followed by a pair of smaller aircraft that were completely unmarked. The unnamed airfield, isolated from Moscow by forest and armed guards, seemed to hum to life as the three jets slowly rolled to a halt, with ground crews struggling mightily to bring up the stairs for the plane’s passengers. In Moscow, it would have been far more practical, but no one had wanted the Americans to land in Moscow. It would have been too humiliating.

  At the orders of his superior, the Russian President, he had sealed off the entire airfield with loyalist troops, backed up by armed vehicles. The Americans would wonder if it was a show of force, something that worried him, yet there was no choice. He knew enough to fear what the hardliners might do if they got a clear shot at the Americans, even though it would risk causing the destruction of Russia. Those few in the know about the American visit – and the ultimatum that had forced Russia to accept the inspection teams – knew why the President had allowed them to visit, yet not all of them had accepted it. The hardliners, in particular, had used every trick in the book – and some they’d invented themselves – to keep the biological warfare program active. They’d succeeded so well that it had remained funded even during the worst of the post-soviet years. That was real clout, a level of control that was none the less impressive for remaining hidden. No one, not even Yeltsin, had been able to dismantle the program – and Yeltsin’s successors hadn't even tried.

  He scowled over at the FSB Representative, wishing that the man could be sent to a gulag for the day. The FSB’s officer – Dyakov had flatly refused to join him at the airfield – was a dangerous unknown, yet the FSB had to be involved. The FSB was responsible for securing and concealing the biological weapons program and their cooperation was required, but he had no idea just how much he could trust them. He shook his head in
wry amusement. The answer was actually very simple; not at all. It occurred to him that the real reason the FSB was so annoyed was because it would waste all of their hard work, but there was no choice. The President had spoken and Zaitsev, who respected and admired his friend, would obey.

  There was a short delay as the ground crew mated the steps to the American aircraft, before the hatches opened and allowed a pair of men to come forth into the Russian cold. The Americans – one of them, he noted with a twinge of the old racism, was clearly of Arab descent – hadn’t come prepared for Russia's cold. He snapped his fingers at a pair of soldiers and they hurried off to find a set of greatcoats. The Americans would not be able to use the cold as an excuse to stop inspections and declare war.

  He stepped forward and held out a hand as the Americans reached the tarmac. “General Zaitsev,” he identified himself. “Welcome to Russia.”

  The American's eyes narrowed, but if he wondered just what was going on, he didn't ask. “Doctor Nicolas Awad,” he said, shaking Zaitsev’s hand. “It's been a long flight.”

  “Of course, of course,” Zaitsev said, studying the American carefully. The Americans, honouring an inspection protocol that everyone else regarded as a dead letter, had thoughtfully supplied files on the inspectors for the Russians to read. The FSB had warned that the files were probably lies – they lied when Russian inspectors went to America - but Zaitsev wasn't so sure. The Americans wouldn't have lied about something so simple. “I suggest that we spend twenty minutes refreshing ourselves and getting everyone fitted out for the cold, and then we can head to the first inspection site.”

  The American nodded, thoughtfully. “That would be welcome,” he said. “My team and I are keen to start as soon as possible.”

  ***

  Nicolas watched as the Russians welcomed the team, a handful of Russian scientists sharing observations with their American counterparts. The small reception hall had been outfitted with small glasses of vodka and some snacks, but there was no massive feast, much to his private relief. He didn't want to be rude, yet one way the Russians had distracted previous inspection teams had been wining and dining them until they were too full to move. Apart from checking that the team had been vaccinated against Henderson’s Disease – Nicolas had heard nothing definite, but he had the impression that the first cases had appeared in Russia – the Russians had been content to allow the Americans to set the pace. It made a pleasant change from endless stonewalling.

  The Russians finally escorted the team into a set of buses and drove off through the forest. Russia – at least the parts of the country he could see through the windows – seemed to be a pretty country, although he had to admit that he could see very little of it. Tyler had commented, in one of his rare relaxed moments, that the Germans had thought the Russian autumn was pretty too...and that had been followed by a hellish winter. The Russian winter had destroyed quite a few armies over the centuries. It boded ill for war, if war came between America and Russia. The most optimistic conventional war plans he'd seen suggested that the war would take at least three years.

  He sat up as the coaches drove through a set of secure gates and into a massive courtyard. He turned his head and saw a large building, built in the traditional Russian style and surrounded by armed guards. A large sign written in the strange Russian alphabet stated that it was the Moscow Institute of Commercial Research. Nicolas snorted to himself as they were urged off the coaches and into the building. The Russians had artfully concealed most of their biological weapons program under a veneer of commercial research. The building would be easy to use as a hiding place for biological weapons.

  “Come on in,” the Russian General said, waving them past the armed guards. They didn't look happy to see so many Americans walking past them as if they owned the place, but said nothing. Nicolas was unfamiliar with their uniforms, yet there was something about them that suggested police, rather than soldiers. It was a faintly sinister air. “The Director is looking forward to meeting you.”

  Nicolas was quite looking forward to it himself. Biopreparat – the cover the Russians used for their biological weapons program – was almost totally black, even to the CIA and other western intelligence agencies. The CIA hadn't even been able to put a name to the director, nor had the British, French, Germans or Poles. The Europeans might have concealed information they possessed – the CIA had a bad reputation for burning sources, no matter who they worked for – but Nicolas doubted that it would happen in this case. There were, at last report, over three hundred cases of Henderson’s Disease in Europe.

  He blinked in surprise as a small woman, with hair so blonde that it was almost white, appeared out of a large wooden door. She was tiny – she barely came up to Nicolas’s shoulder – yet she was clearly formidable, with sharp blue eyes and tight lips. Her face was alarmingly pale, coloured only by her red lips and bright eyes. She held out a hand and Nicolas took it automatically, feeling her hand squeeze his tightly.

  “This is Director Olga Dmitriyevna Sedykh,” Zaitsev said. “She is the current director of the biological research program.”

  “I have been ordered to give you full access to the labs,” Olga said. Her English was perfect, but clipped, as if she was biting out each word. She wasn’t happy to have the Americans invading her domain. “If you will come with me...”

  Nicolas followed her, concealing his own surprise with an effort. Russia was, despite some positive changes, a very sexist society in many ways, even though it was hardly comparable to most of the Middle East. It was rare to see a woman in such a position of power and responsibility, which meant that she was either extremely formidable or had very powerful patrons. She wouldn't be someone’s mistress, not with such a vital post; she would be someone trusted to carry out her duty.

  “Of course,” he agreed. There was no point in trying to make it any harder than it had to be. “We are looking forward to getting down to work.”

  The conference room, large enough for three inspection teams, was dominated by a large map of Russia. Nicolas looked up at it and swore; there were hundreds of biological research facilities marked on the map, some hundreds of miles away from Moscow. Unless the Russians were completely insane, the facilities they needed to visit would be among those located above the Arctic Circle. The entire inspection tour could take weeks.

  He shook his head and took one of the chairs. “We’ll divide our forces and begin the inspection with an examination of your records,” he said, flatly. The Russians had given them access to everything, but it would take far too long to inspect everywhere. It was a neat way of delaying the inspections; after all, no one could threaten war over too much cooperation. Perhaps the records, all of which were stored in Moscow, would tell them where to start. “With your permission...?”

  “Yes,” Olga said, flatly. “They will be brought to you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Social trust is what holds society together. Without that trust, society falls apart. The states we consider to be part of the Third World are that way, partly, because they have very low levels of social trust. This isn't a flaw so much as a feature; their societies reward those who trust no one outside their kin and punish those who try to extend trust. The man who trusts is not a good guy, but a fool.

  - Captain Darryl Tyler

  New York, USA

  Day 17

  “All right, listen up,” Doug snapped. The twenty-one middle-aged soldiers, stiffened with a handful of men with more recent combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, looked back at him with varying levels of attention. The unit’s discipline had taken a terrible knock in the wake of the news leaks about the Mayor of New York, who many of the men had once respected. Doug had heard several of them openly discussing leaving their posts and striking out on their own, even though it would count as desertion. “We have a job to do and, you’ll be pleased to hear, we’re going to be leaving this post and going into New York.”

  That, as he had expected, dre
w some smiles. The Forward Operating Base – it felt weird to use such terms on American soil – had been set up in a set of local buildings, which felt surprisingly luxurious after some of the hovels they’d had to use in Afghanistan. The soldiers had had comfortable beds, access to civilian cooking equipment and a dedicated entertainment suite, including cable television and the internet. Doug had warned them that they had to leave the houses in good condition – the owners had been encouraged to evacuate and were temporally resettled in a refugee camp some distance away – and he’d been pleased with the response he’d been shown. The houses would be left in better condition when the soldiers finally pulled out, if they ever could. One of his private nightmares was remaining on the blockade forever, while New York died in front of him. It haunted him in the dead of night.

  He'd only been able to speak to his wife a handful of times since the crisis had begun and he was worried about her, more worried than he had been willing to admit. Lindsey was right in the middle of the city, trying to tend to the sick and dying, even though she hadn't been vaccinated yet. She hadn’t been able to say much, but Doug had searched the internet and read a few medical blogs coming from the heart of the crisis. What he had read had shocked him. There were dead bodies piling up all over the city and the food was running out. It was a recipe for trouble, even before the Mayor decided to alienate the entire population.