Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  Sabaneyev reached out and rapped his gloved knuckles on the aluminum exterior. “Is this supposed to stop a bullet, Colonel?”

  “No, sir, it is not. We will make sure no bullet comes within ten kilometers of you.”

  The general grunted, unconvinced.

  “The concept of Red Blizzard 1 is to take advantage of three things. First, due to track problems in Poland, the actual Strizh regularly makes all manner of scheduled and unscheduled detours. This makes it easier to divert the assault train onto any lines we see fit without much notice from Polish rail stations. My Spetsnaz teams will ensure the right tracks are open at the right times.

  “Second, in preparation for the 2018 World Cup, Russian Railways bought twenty-four special Spanish-manufactured Talgo trains. Central and Western Europe use different-sized tracks from Russia, but the Talgos have variable gauges, so they can change the width of their wheel gauges automatically without the usual slow and extensive gauge switches required of many other trains transiting the same stretches of rail.

  “Our military appropriated three Talgos after their use during the 2018 FIFA championship to create this mock Strizh train with variable gauges.”

  “And the third thing?”

  “Third, and possibly most important to you and your men: these Talgos are wider-body train cars that can fit more ammo, fuel, and every other thing you will need during your journey. No one will notice the difference in size unless your train happens to be parked next to an authentic Strizh.”

  The general was impressed so far, but he hid it well. “Tell me about the layout.”

  “Yes, sir. The first five cars make up your command center and officers’ quarters. Fully outfitted with map boards and targeting computers, they also hold the radar masts and communications towers that will rise when the train slows to support Colonel Dryagin and his assault regiment. The next five cars hold antiair batteries, plus three complete 240mm autoloaded mortar systems and their ammunition. The next five cars will hold a company of motorized rifle troops, ammunition, and food. And the last five cars will be loaded with diesel fuel and ammo for the tanks.”

  Borbikov turned to the general. “For the operational level raid I’ve designed, this will be sufficient to support the frontline troops.”

  Borbikov pressed a button on a door and it slid open. He and Sabaneyev climbed up the steps.

  “Your command car, Comrade General.”

  Walking around the car, the general ran his hands over a series of flat computer screens bolted to the bulkhead of the train and still covered in plastic. He pulled one cover off and looked at the manufacturer name.

  “Sony? We couldn’t find reliable Russian technology?”

  “These Sony monitors are lighter than other brands, and they come prehardened to endure the jolts and bumps you might endure on your journey.”

  “The systems are on standby. Turn them on,” Sabaneyev said.

  “They come on in an instant. Observe.” The colonel nodded to a technician sitting at one of the swivel chairs, who took his cue.

  In moments twelve computer screens, two of them well over two meters wide and dominating the center of the car, all came to life.

  “Bring up the rail route,” Borbikov ordered.

  A Google Earth three-dimensional image of their current rail station showed on the screen. The technician pressed a few more buttons and the rail path from the warehouse to Moscow lit up and flashed.

  “Your initial path, General,” Borbikov said. “It will bring you to the Moscow station on the same timetable as the actual Strizh train, which will be removed from service. From there you will travel to Smolensk. All following the exact route and virtually indistinguishable from the actual civilian train, except you will not stop. My Spetsnaz forces will switch you onto tracks to your advantage. Europe and NATO will have their hands full with other matters, and one train traveling down unauthorized tracks will not even be noticed, let alone fretted over.”

  “You are beginning to impress me, Colonel. Let’s continue with the tour.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Borbikov then led the general and his entourage to the next train.

  Red Blizzard 2 was fifty-eight cars, with four engines, which made it a particularly long European cargo train. But otherwise it looked relatively normal. On closer inspection, though, Sabaneyev saw unconcealed radar masts and communications antennas and two cars had obvious antiair batteries featuring the S-400 Triumf, a beast of a missile with a four-hundred-kilometer range.

  Borbikov said, “This one was designed to follow on behind the assault train with enough fuel and ammunition for the assault element, and to be called forward if necessary to refuel, rearm, and replace losses in the assault force. Under tarps we will conceal tanks and armored personnel vehicles.”

  Red Blizzard 3 was another cargo train, longer than Red Blizzard 2, and for now it was all but empty. But on the day of the invasion, Borbikov explained, it would hold an entire regiment of additional tanks and armored personnel carriers. Its purpose would be to provide full replacements to the assault element. At a whopping sixty-eight cars long, it needed eight engines to pull it, and it had already been outfitted with numerous Pantsir-SM surface-to-air missile launcher batteries and twenty stanchions for man-portable 9K333 Verba antiair missiles.

  At the end of the tour, Borbikov and Sabaneyev sat in a heated trailer in the center of the rail yard and toasted the trains with vodka.

  Borbikov said, “Our next drink together will be a celebration in Moscow. You and I only, unfortunately, because General Lazar will be stuck guarding those mines in Africa for some months.”

  Sabaneyev chuckled at this. He was in good humor now, more confident than ever in Borbikov’s plan. “Don’t you worry about Lazar. Old Boris is happier in a shit-filled foxhole with pimple-faced privates than he is swilling vodka in Moscow with well-heeled senior officers.”

  The two men toasted again, and then they drank to Red Metal.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE PENTAGON

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  17 DECEMBER

  Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly and Major Bob Griggs sat next to each other in the “plans cell” weekly coordination meeting, listening to each officer in the room give a quick review of the projects they were working on. Connolly’s turn came up, and he delivered his review, detailing the work he and Griggs had been doing regarding the order of battle of the forces arraying in the Pacific.

  The chief of staff for the director of the plans office was a Navy captain, the rank equivalent to a colonel in the Army, Marine Corps, or Air Force. The admiral was in attendance as well, but he normally didn’t speak up until the end, when he’d deliver some last words of wisdom before the plans cell carried on with the day.

  Griggs had been waiting for the end of the meeting to speak up. He and Connolly knew they had to try one more time to convince the admiral to take a closer look at Russian involvement in cyberespionage in Asia.

  “Last thing from me,” continued the chief of staff. “Don’t forget—flu vaccinations are mandatory DoD-wide, so don’t put the shop in a bad spot. Get your shots on time to keep us off the director’s shit list.” There were bored nods of ascent around the room. “Okay . . . anything else?” The chief of staff scanned the room now, pointing with his pen in the direction of each man sitting around the big table. When the pen reached Connolly and Griggs, the major raised his hand, and the chief raised his eyebrows. “Major Griggs, you have something for the group? Make it quick.”

  “Yes, sir, will do. Sir, I’d like permission to pull a few more facts and figures on the Russia thing.”

  “What Russia thing?” asked the chief, clearly perturbed.

  “Sir, myself and Lieutenant Colonel Connolly . . . we think we may have found a connection.”

  “Connection to what?”
<
br />   The admiral interrupted. “I’ve got this, Chief.” He pointed to Connolly and Griggs. “You two were brought on board to review the requirements and order of battle for our deployment to the Pacific, not to worry about a completely different combatant command. We already heard from NSA about this supposed Russia hack involving the admiral and the general, and there are plenty of folks looking into it. Right now you two are to focus on your assigned mission. Is that clear?”

  “Check, sir,” Griggs said.

  “Roger, sir,” Connolly added.

  The captain closed his notebook. “Okay, shipmates, I have nothing else to pass to you this afternoon. Have a super week. Keep up the good work.”

  The admiral stood and the room came to attention.

  “Dismissed,” said the admiral as he walked out of the room.

  The chief of staff called out as the others were leaving. “Griggs, let’s take a walk.”

  “Copy, sir.”

  “Me, too, sir?” Connolly asked.

  “No. Just Griggs. Follow me, Major.”

  Griggs fell in next to the chief and they walked out of the briefing room and into the E ring, headed toward the “bullpen,” the cubicle farm where Connolly and Griggs worked.

  The chief of staff said, “Major Griggs, something’s buggin’ me.”

  “Yes, sir? How can I help?”

  “You can help by cutting out the shit.” On the last word the chief of staff pivoted to look directly at Griggs. “I’m tired of you digging around into a bunch of crap not assigned to you. Do you and Lieutenant Colonel Connolly really think we don’t have all of the European desk officers focused firmly on Russia? How stupid do you think the chairman’s staff is? Do you think J3 Ops and J2 Intel are just fartin’ around?”

  “No, sir,” said Griggs, but he couldn’t contain himself. “But we’ve already talked to J3 and J2, and no one is really looking at this specifically. They now admit the Russians were at least partially involved in the hack on the computer, but they don’t think it means the Russians are up to anything. Dan . . . uh, Colonel Connolly feels—and I have to concur—that the Russians went to a hell of a lot of work just to make things harder for us in the Pacific. Add that to the fact they seem to be ramping up repairs of equipment and increasing fuel stores, and it’s troubling. The PACOM folks are fixated on the Taiwan issue and see this all fitting nicely into their profile for Taiwan invasion precursors, and the EUCOM folks are just fixated on the NATO exercises we have coming up after the new year. I just thought we needed to make sure the admiral took this up to the vice chairman for his SA.”

  The vice chairman’s situational awareness was the responsibility of the chief of staff.

  The chief said, “All right, Major Griggs, you’ve told me what you wanted to say. Now I’ve got a few things for you. First, were you aware that this morning Russia announced war games in Belarus next week that will last through Christmas?”

  Griggs shook his head slowly.

  “War games that will account, I’m pretty damn certain, for the uptick in their repair tempo and fuel storage.”

  Griggs said nothing.

  “Russia is just going to their client state for exercises; they’re not invading anybody, anywhere, and you picking up some cyber scrap from NSA about Russia doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

  The captain continued. “We’ve already got dead sailors off Taiwan, and we might well be just weeks away from war with the Chicoms, so get your fat ass back to the job you were brought over to do! Got it?”

  Without waiting for a response, the captain turned and walked away.

  Connolly pressed Griggs when he returned to the bullpen. “So, how bad was it?”

  “Just wondering at what rank the ass chewings stop. I’ve had enough to last a lifetime.”

  Connolly poured Griggs a cup of coffee. “Bob, they get less frequent, but they also get more vitriolic.”

  “Guess I should be happy my military career is in the tank, then. Hey, did you know Russia just announced war games in Belarus?”

  “What?”

  “Since you and I have been working on PACOM planning since first thing this morning, we didn’t know about it, and to the chief of staff that means neither of us knows jack shit about Russia.”

  “These war games—when do they begin?”

  “Next week, running through Christmas.”

  “Why the hell would they hold war games at Christmas?”

  “No idea,” Griggs said, “but I sure as hell hope it doesn’t give our president any ideas.”

  Connolly looked off across the bullpen for several seconds. “You know much about a General Lazar?”

  Griggs nodded. “Yeah, he’s that old-school Russian colonel general, as high ranking as they come. One of their best, follows kind of a Soviet doctrine. He was, like, the head instructor at their war college for a few years. His most recent big combat command was Chechnya and Dagestan, like, ten years ago. What about him?”

  Connolly turned to his computer. “I was poking around, saw something on an INTSUM.”

  He clicked around a moment looking for an intelligence summary file in his saved classified e-mails. “Here it is. This struck me as odd. J2 found out that Lazar put his dacha up for rent. When I saw that, I thought that might have meant he had money troubles or something. But now . . .”

  “Now what?”

  Connolly read the intelligence summary. “DTG 2019-09-16, Moscow North West. Gavrilkovo, Tverskaya Oblast, Russia. Today the Moskovskij Komsomolets newspaper showed an advertisement for Colonel General Boris Lazar’s dacha. The rental value was placed at 70,000 rubles a month. Leninskaya Ulitsa number 133, Novozavidovsky, Tverskaya Oblast, Russia.”

  Over his shoulder Griggs said, “You know the spooks are going to go nuts when they see us looking up Russian cabins for rent on our government computers.”

  “Better we do it on the government machines so your buddy at NSA’s comrades don’t see it on our personal laptops.”

  After a few seconds Connolly said, “Found it! It’s online at intermarksavills-dot-ru.” He began scrolling through images of the place. “Pretty sweet pad. Log cabin, lake view. Well appointed, and sits on a peninsula among pine trees next to the Zavidovo National Park.”

  “How long is the rental?”

  “Looks like it’s offered for up to nine months.”

  “That’s a weird term, isn’t it? I usually see rentals on a month-to-month, or six months, or a year.”

  “Maybe he’s involved in this war game and they are training and gone for that,” Connolly said.

  “That would be the longest Russian war game in history. Let’s look up who is in charge of the exercises in Belarus. They usually announce it.”

  Griggs typed this into his machine. “Not your guy. Looks like a fella named Sabaneyev. He’s also a colonel general.”

  “Maybe Lazar’s gotten command somewhere else.”

  Griggs said, “Hold up. Found something.”

  Connolly left his computer and headed over to Griggs’s cubicle. The Air Force guys were putting on their coats, preparing to leave for the day. Connolly checked his watch: it was past 1800 hours. Julie was going to have his ass. He was supposed to be picking up the kids in a half hour, and with D.C. evening traffic he was already pushing it.

  “Shit, Bob, I might have to head out soon.”

  “First, take a look.” Griggs pointed to an article about Colonel General Eduard Sabaneyev leading upward of thirty thousand troops in the Belarus military training exercise. Moscow was bragging about his credentials in the article, which Griggs had translated to English using Google Translate. The exercise over the Christmas holidays, the Russians claimed, was for the purpose of validating several newer pieces of equipment, including the Bumerang armored personnel carrier and the T-14 Armata, Russia’s newest tank, to “de
monstrate the effectiveness of superior Russian technology and the spirit of partnership with the people of Belarus.”

  Connolly said, “Well, that’s a load of bullshit.”

  Griggs agreed. “No kidding. Belarus doesn’t want the Russian army pounding around their nation at Christmas, but they can’t tell Moscow no. And as far as the Russians go, they’ve done small-scale exercises over the holidays before, but always to test some poor-performing unit’s readiness. Something of this magnitude . . . I’m pretty sure it’s unprecedented.”

  Connolly said, “Let’s look at Intelink,” he said, referring to the government’s own classified version of Google.

  Griggs and Connolly both spent several minutes looking through the files on Eduard Sabaneyev. He was clearly one of Russia’s premier generals. The reports detailed his schooling, military history, and profile, and—Connolly found this interesting—the files said he had been second-in-command to Boris Lazar for many years.

  “Should we try Intelink-TS?” Connolly said, referring to the top secret version of the portal.

  “We’d have to go to the vault to get on top secret.” TS intelligence could be accessed only at a sensitive compartmented information facility, a special locked and protected room. The Pentagon had many SCIFs, but getting into one took some time.

  Connolly looked down at his watch.

  Griggs saw this and said, “You get home, boss. I’ll stay and check out the top secret intel on this joker.” He added, “Hey, you want me to check with NSA or CIA?”

  “No. If we do that, we’ll just skyline ourselves. The chief will shit his pants if we send over a special intel request that has anything to do with Russia.”

  Connolly put on his Marine Corps “tanker’s jacket,” the coat worn with the Marine Corps Class B and C uniform that was meant for rain or cold. “Don’t stay too late, Bob. Need you bright and fresh in the morning.”