by Mark Greaney
Well . . . two of the three ground commanders. Borbikov would be in command of the Spetsnaz forces involved in the operation, and they would be conducting literally hundreds of missions behind enemy lines. Even though Borbikov was no general, he knew his role in the direct action of Operation Red Metal would be every bit as important as the work he did to design the operation in the first place.
He forced himself to take a calming breath to settle down and he realized his excitement had almost as much to do with meeting General Boris Lazar as it did with the operation itself.
Eduard Sabaneyev was a well-known general as well, but he was known more as Lazar’s former adjutant than as a star in his own right. Borbikov wondered what it must have been like to live a career in the shadow of another man, to always be considered the heir apparent, the underling.
The colonel imagined the younger of the two colonel generals would approach his mission as if he had something to prove, and that was just fine with Borbikov.
This conference room was normally swept for bugs twice daily, but the colonel requested another pass by the countersurveillance team. They had just wrapped up their sweep when the two generals entered.
The technicians stepped aside to let the men pass through the doorway before slipping out behind them, and Borbikov could see two separate entourages standing outside the room as the door closed. Today’s briefing would be exclusively for Lazar and Sabaneyev, but today would be followed by dozens more meetings about Red Metal in the next four months, and the generals’ staffs would be involved in virtually all of them.
Borbikov was careful to address both men with equal deference, because although Lazar had been his idol since he was a boy, Eduard Sabaneyev was Lazar’s equal in rank.
“It is a great honor to meet you both,” Borbikov said as he shook the two generals’ hands.
Sabaneyev looked like an actor. Handsome, with high Slavic cheekbones and a well-defined jaw, gray-flecked blond hair that was slicked back off his high forehead. He had a smile full of straight teeth and his tall, fit frame was just a few centimeters shorter than Borbikov’s own.
Lazar, by contrast, was short, big, and soft jowled. His round face was weather-beaten and wrinkled, and his eyebrows were full and low on his forehead.
The three of them sat down in a small sitting area and Borbikov poured tea for them all. “I understand you’ve just read the briefing packages that were prepared for you regarding operation Red Metal?”
Sabaneyev spoke first, and this surprised Borbikov. “You are being too humble, Colonel. We know you are the architect of this. You’ve found that rare thing, that balance between firm direction and not overcontrolling those aspects better left to the man on the ground.”
“Thank you, Colonel General. I’ve been that man on the ground many times, as I know you both have been.” He hastened to add, “More than I, of course. As you are well aware, it’s best to know your orders but to retain enough autonomy to achieve them in the best manner possible.”
Sabaneyev said, “I’ve spent the last hour asking around about you. I understand you were there, at Mrima Hill, during the standoff.”
“And prepared to fight,” Borbikov said. “Unfortunately we were ordered to stand down.” He smiled. “But now . . . now the time is right for this. We are seeing a confluence of events I didn’t even dream of when I wrote up the proposal. The U.S. has turned its eyes to Asia. The scandal in the Pacific with the general and the admiral is causing a shake-up at the top of the Pentagon and throwing the American military into crisis.
“Gentlemen, if those natural resources in Kenya, which are the rightful property of Russia, are ever to be reclaimed, it has to be right now. I firmly believe, and President Rivkin agrees, that Red Metal is the way.”
Borbikov turned to General Lazar now, finding himself anxious that the older man had not yet spoken.
Finally Lazar said, “I will execute my orders to the best of my ability. I have some nits to pick, but they center around the logistics end of the operation primarily, so perhaps we shouldn’t get into the weeds with it right now.”
“I am available to you or your chiefs of staff at any time, day or night, Colonel General Lazar, if you would like to pursue your concerns.”
“Spasiba.” (“Thank you.”) And then: “There is one thing, conceptually, that I’m not yet clear on.”
“Please, sir. Tell me.”
“If the operation fails . . . if I make it to Mrima Hill without the armor and the men to wrestle it away from the forces protecting it, or if I manage to take it but find myself unable to hold it with the remaining forces at my disposal . . . what then?”
Borbikov cocked his head. “I’m certain that was laid out in the briefing papers.”
“Yes . . . but indulge me. I want to hear it from you. The architect.”
“Certainly, sir. If you are unable to achieve your mission in full, you are to render the mine incapable of producing rare-earth metals.”
Lazar just said, “Go on.”
Sabaneyev rolled his eyes a little while Borbikov shifted in his chair.
Finally the colonel said, “Yes. General . . . as it states in the orders, you will carry six special artillery shells. When you and your retreating armor are a safe distance away, you will fire the shells at the mine.”
Lazar made no great reaction. “And . . . what’s so special about these shells?”
“As written, General, they have nuclear warheads. Also, if you are able to seize the mine but unable to hold it from counterattack, I have specially trained Spetsnaz troops who can wire the shells into a stationary device. In this case, you will place the improvised nuclear device in the center of the mine, leave, and then detonate it.”
“So . . . to clarify. If we fail to hold our objective, we are to . . . nuke the entire location.”
“Correct.”
“And . . . why is that?”
Sabaneyev muttered under his breath, but loudly enough to be plainly heard. “Oh, for fuck sakes, Boris.”
Borbikov looked back and forth between both men uncomfortably, then said, “For the purpose of denying the West the prize they did not earn. Control of the technology sector of the world’s economy for the next generation. Please remember that although the force you will be taking into Africa will be more than enough for the job at hand, there is no way to ensure Russia could repel a protracted siege when the Americans finally do get their act together. One month after you arrive, two months, three months . . . at some point there will be a response, and you need to have an ace in the hole. Your possession of the nukes at Mrima Hill will keep our enemies at bay.”
The colonel continued. “But I’m sure when the West learns any attack on the mine will not only kill all the attackers but degrade the world’s future technology prospects . . . they will back down, and they will make both peace and beneficial economic deals with Russia.” Borbikov smiled. “The weapons are merely a fail-safe. A peacemaker.”
Sabaneyev jumped in. “This is all a moot point, because Boris Petrovitch will succeed. He’s the Lion of Dagestan. The possibility of failure is not worthy of consideration.”
Borbikov turned to Sabaneyev. “I’m certain of it. But, nevertheless, the Kremlin has approved the full scope of this operation, so I suggest we continue with the operation as written.
“Colonel Generals . . . the rodina called for a military solution to a problem it was unable to solve by other means. The operation you have been charged with is the one that’s been approved and assigned. In one hundred and twenty days it will begin . . . and I feel quite certain our leaders have chosen the right men to lead it.”
Lazar placed his hands palms up on his knees, a show of contrition. “Of course, Colonel. As I said, I’m a nitpicker. I’ve been around a long time, so I’ve seen every sort of mess one can dream up. I will question . . . That is what I do. But on
the day my armor begins to roll south, I’ll be leading the way, and I’ll be ready.”
Borbikov smiled, but his impression of the great Boris Lazar had been irrevocably damaged.
CHAPTER 9
THE PENTAGON
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
21 NOVEMBER
The Pentagon’s pressing concerns about a possible war between China and Taiwan meant more work for Marine Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly and Army Major Bob Griggs. They had been moved out of J5 and up into the director’s joint plans cell in the E ring, in the chairman’s old office space, where they were tasked with supporting the planners of each of the military services as well as operating as a de facto war command post for the admiral running the office.
In the three months since the assassination in Taiwan that kicked off the initial conflagration in the Pacific, Connolly had left early for work each morning and he hadn’t been home before nine o’clock most nights. Even Griggs had picked up his game, rolling into work closer to “on time” than Connolly had ever known him to.
Connolly had missed multiple soccer games, music recitals, and even a birthday party for his daughter, and the situation was playing havoc on date nights and family time with Julie. She’d been through this all before, of course, during Connolly’s multiple deployments into war zones, but when she learned a year and a half earlier that her husband would be coming to the Pentagon to ride a desk, she thought his absences would become a thing of the past.
It was just past six p.m. now, Connolly and Griggs were going over some new intelligence about several Chinese landing dock ships that had left port in Zhanjiang two weeks earlier. The vessels had steamed to within miles of the Strait of Taiwan and then, according to satellite photos, stopped just outside of Taiwanese territorial waters. They were already being resupplied with fuel and food, which made it look like they had no plans to go anywhere for a while. China had threatened to invade only after the December 29 elections in Taiwan, and this was still some time away, so it was presumed at the Pentagon that the Chinese were merely demonstrating their resolve in hopes of both affecting the election results and dissuading a massive buildup in the region by the Americans.
On the latter front, things weren’t going as planned for the Chinese. Carrier Strike Group Five had arrived in the area, with the USS Ronald Reagan as the hub of the wheel. Around it were seven Arleigh Burke‒class destroyers, three Ticonderoga-class cruisers, and several support ships.
On top of the CSG-5’s movement into the contested area, the USS Kearsarge (LHD-3), an amphibious assault ship, was docked in Okinawa and ready to deliver a battalion of Marines into battle if the Chinese invaded Taiwan. Another LHD, the Wasp (LHD-1), was also repositioning to Japan so that two more battalions of Marines could be lifted into Taiwan.
The Americans were not backing down, but instead of this causing hesitation on the part of the Chinese, they simply sent more PLA ground forces to Xiamen, a Chinese port directly across the strait from Taiwan.
The Chinese and the Americans both moved forces around, endeavoring to influence each other’s actions.
There was no question that China was threatening war with Taiwan, whether or not someone else helped foment mistrust on that front, but in the back of his mind Connolly was bothered by everything going on. He still wondered whether some other actor might have been trying to turn Western eyes in that direction.
In the past month Connolly had been looking into the latest news out of Russia, and he’d discovered military movements well inside the nation’s borders that were out of the statistical norm. Fuel consumption had decreased and repairs had increased.
The knee-jerk assumption around the Pentagon was that Russia was planning on a possible foray into Ukraine. The goings-on noticed so far weren’t of the obvious magnitude to indicate a major offensive, such as one necessary to invade the Baltic States, another potential target for Russia.
No, most analysts’ suspicions were that Russia was preparing for some limited action, and this likely meant a heavier fighting season in eastern Ukraine.
But Russia wasn’t Connolly’s problem, so for now he got back to work on the conflict in the Pacific Rim.
Just as he returned to his papers, Griggs called out from his desk: “What do you say we knock off for dinner?”
Connolly didn’t even look up from a new report from the National Reconnaissance Office as he rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, probably a good idea. Could go for a beer, too.”
“Siné?” Griggs asked. Siné Irish Pub in nearby Crystal City was a watering hole for Pentagon workers. It was close and it was good, and for two guys who didn’t want to do any more thinking today than they had to, it was an easy pick for dinner.
* * *
• • •
As the two men entered the pub, Griggs got a series of text messages that he replied to before sitting down. Since Griggs was a bachelor without many friends away from work, Connolly noted the activity.
“Why are you so popular all of a sudden?”
Griggs said, “It’s Nik Melanopolis. He says he’s been at the Pentagon all day, and he just swung by our office and found it empty.”
Connolly cocked his head. “He came to see you?”
“Yeah. That’s weird. Anyway, I told him we were here, so he’s on his way over. He wants a Guinness waiting for him.”
“Of course he does,” Connolly said with an eye roll, and ordered a Guinness for himself and another for Melanopolis, while Griggs ordered a Harp and a basket of fried cheese.
A few minutes later the heavyset bearded man entered, scanned the room, and saw Connolly and Griggs in a booth halfway down the length of the establishment. He shook his head and pointed to the back corner. Both men looked in the direction he indicated and saw a darkened booth far from any other customers.
The NSA analyst began marching over to the out-of-the-way table.
Griggs said, “I guess he wants us to move,” and he snatched up his Harp and started over.
Connolly sat there for a moment, then muttered, “Computer guys.” He grabbed his beer along with Nik’s and followed.
All three men sat down together, and Melanopolis hefted his Guinness and took a foamy swig before saying, “I’ve got something I need to show you guys.”
Connolly noticed suddenly that the doctor appeared tired, drawn, and stressed.
“Dude,” Griggs said, “you look like death warmed over. How long since you slept?”
Connolly added, “How long since you ate a vegetable?”
Melanopolis waved their comments away. “Look, this is serious. And this is bad.”
“If it’s as bad as you’re making it sound,” Connolly said, “should you really be telling a couple of midlevel guys in an Irish pub? Why aren’t you telling your superiors?”
“I did. They know. Now, I’m telling you, because . . .” He looked up to Connolly. “Because you were right.”
“Right? Right about what?”
Nik grabbed his pint of Guinness, took another long sip, and then put the glass back on the table. He pulled his laptop out of his bag and opened it, then moved around and slid into the same side of the booth as the other two men.
“Okay, check this out. This is data from an FBI server.”
Connolly said, “Wait. What?”
Griggs added, “Are you literally breaking into the FBI?”
“Of course not. Not right now, I mean. I did this yesterday. This is a report I made from the metadata.”
The two military officers just stared at him.
“Oh, grow up, guys. We do it all the time when they refuse to share stuff with us. We’re covered under an old law that says we’re allowed to as long as they don’t know we’re doing it and it’s vital to national security.” He looked back to Lieutenant Colonel Connolly’s dubious expression. “You straitlaced Pentagon stiffs really have
no idea, do you? There’s a war going on in the cyber world—has been for some time—and guys like me are on the front lines.”
He added, “We get a little callous to the public’s sensitivity to these kinds of things.”
Connolly finally just shrugged. “Well, I didn’t do it, so my conscience is clear. What did you find, Doc?”
“This is a list of government computers that have been compromised in the last year. The ones we know of, anyway.”
Connolly looked at the long list as Melanopolis scrolled down. One device listed was highlighted in red. “That’s General Newman’s laptop,” the NSA man said.
Each listing noted the machine’s operating system, and Connolly saw there was a wide range of OSs present. He looked at the Internet operating system reports of all the listings and again noted that many different applications and service providers had been compromised.
Besides the fact that they all worked in spheres that touched the Pacific, Connolly wasn’t seeing any connection between the computers listed. “If you want me to see a pattern here, I don’t.”
“Let me help you out.” Melanopolis zoomed in to the manufacturer’s name on each of the reports of the hacked devices. “All the hardware is from the same two manufacturers.”
“Interesting,” Connolly said.
Nik typed up a few more items and the first manufacturer’s website appeared on the screen. “All these computers originated from China.”
Griggs said, “And they had some kind of latent back door in their programming allowing the Chinese to break into them?”
“Not their programming. That would never do. People scrub their software all the time. Plus, most operating systems are made in the U.S., and we have our own back doors built into the OSs.”
Griggs said, “We do?”
“Like I said, there’s a war going on. Anyway, the Chinese had latent back doors built into the hardware. That comes in handy for them, especially considering the fact they build ninety percent of the world’s computers and seventy percent of the world’s cell phones.”