Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  And Apollo knew that his father worried about him because of the dangers of his job.

  These and other thoughts gathered in his mind, as they often did just after he talked to his father. But today he couldn’t let go of his dad’s strange ramblings.

  “Russian Spetsnaz in Djibouti,” he said out loud at his desk, as if hearing it might help him understand.

  Apollo decided to use his position as team leader for NATO’s Very High Readiness Joint Task Force to see whether there was anything amiss down in Africa that might impact his father. He climbed out of his chair, left his office, and walked across the small Belgian special forces helo landing pads toward the ultra-classified areas of the base.

  Soon he stepped into the VJTF’s joint intelligence center. A perk of being assigned to the duty squadron meant unlimited access to classified information. The downside these days meant fighting off his men’s boredom, since everything interesting going on seemed to be happening in the Strait of Taiwan.

  Ah, good, thought Apollo on entering the JIC. His friend Lieutenant Luca Scarpetti, an Italian intelligence officer, was on watch.

  “Hey, Luca.” Apollo scanned the place; the usually bustling highly classified intelligence center for NATO was all but empty. “I see they have you working over the Christmas holiday.”

  “Yes, but it means I get days off for the . . . how you say, La Festa Degli Innamorati. The big festival of sexy.”

  “I’m not sure that means what you think it does.”

  “No, no, my friend, it is the day—how you say, the day for the lovers?”

  “Oh, St. Valentine’s Day.”

  “Yes, this. Now, how can I help you?”

  “I heard a rumor there were some Russian Spetsnaz guys down in Africa. Djibouti City. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “The United States AFRICOM headquarters put out a bulletin and asked all NATO allies to look out for any Russian-tagged cell phones and satellite phones broadcasting from Africa. We are monitoring, but no one is making a big deal. Russia is always, how you say, making little plans. Tutto a posto—it’s all okay?”

  “Do you have a way to see Russian sat phones in Africa?”

  “Sì.”

  “Okay, can you pull them up?”

  “I can show you the ones that we know about—you have the clearance—but you must, you know, keep the water in your mouth.”

  “Keep it to myself, you mean? Yes, of course. I just want to see if my old man is crazy.”

  “‘See if my old man is crazy’? French expression. It’s like . . . ‘Check it out’? See, even in your country some things don’t translate too well.”

  Lieutenant Scarpetti pulled up the brief on North Africa off of the NATO intelligence system called CENTRIXS. Checking through a few briefs, he found the one he was looking for. Several signals intelligence units had put it together and it showed a map slice of the European and African hemisphere. Colored dots in Africa and a few in Russia denoted individual satellite phones and their usage over a period of time.

  Scarpetti said, “The Chinese build back doors into the cell phone, and the Russians buy all their secret sat phones from the Chinese. We exploit the Chinese back doors. Someone built a batch intercept and tagged all the Russian sat phones in North Africa.”

  “What are the dots still in Russia?”

  “Probably Russian sat phones that were in Africa but have returned to Russia.”

  Apollo noticed that one of the red dots was in Western Europe. “So, what’s this?”

  “A stray cat? Perhaps a Russian general is on vacation, skiing.” Lieutenant Scarpetti laughed at his joke.

  “If they are Chinese-made sat phones given to Spetsnaz, they are probably using them for a specific purpose. Did all these phones show up at the same time?”

  “I can fish up the raw data. You wait.” Luca set a search for the original raw intelligence on the CENTRIXS system and a moment later pulled up a collection matrix. It was basically a chart with times and dates and lists of the units, or asset tags that helped identify each of the phones, even if someone switched the SIM cards or changed to a different satellite phone provider.

  Luca cocked his head. “Here. This is unusual. They are all turned on in the same week. In the last ten days.”

  Apollo saw that two of the tagged sat phones were in Djibouti City.

  “Are you sure?” Apollo asked.

  “Very sure.”

  “So something new and Russian is happening in the Horn of Africa . . . The old man was right.”

  “Again with the old man. But look here, this one, the one stray cat you saw on the master slide. It was yesterday. And it was in the German Alps.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “I pull up the JIC intercepts. We can see the same data they do at the signals intelligence branch.” Luca punched up a map of Europe on the combined intelligence common operating picture. Like Google Earth, it showed intelligence collections in different zones of the world. He cleared away all layers but signals intelligence, then cut and pasted the asset code for the Russian satellite phone being used in Europe. A pulsing red dot showed up in Germany. “This one is radiating right now.”

  “Someone is using it now?”

  “Yes. Looks like they are talking on the phone.”

  “Can you zoom in on the location?”

  “But of course. Here . . .” Luca used the mouse wheel to scroll in, zooming ever closer to the red dot. Then the dot disappeared.

  “Wait—is it lost?”

  “No, they just hung up. But I can still see where it was. We had the position from the satellites. Sometimes we use several satellites and fake out the phone. This one was tasked to European signals intelligence; they do good work, so they at least should be able to give us a location. There—you see, it is in the German and Austrian Alps. Right on this mountaintop here, called . . . Zugspitze. Are you going to check it? You are still the alert force, are you not?”

  “Yeah,” Apollo said, looking at the screen. “I might go take a look. It’s really curious that a Russian Spetsnaz sat phone tagged for North Africa has ended up in the Alps.”

  “You think the higher-ups will have trouble with you trooping around the Alps?”

  “It’s within my authority. No harm in going to just check it out. The German KSK guys aren’t fully ready to launch for contingencies yet.”

  “Okay, Apollo. Hey, let me know if you want to go to the sexy festival. It would be so much fun, and we melt the girls’ hearts, you and me both.”

  Apollo nodded and smiled. He patted his Italian buddy on the back, then stepped out of the JIC, still thinking about the odd connection between his father’s observations and the stray Russian sat phone in the Alps.

  CHAPTER 19

  PAŽEŽYN, BELARUS

  23 DECEMBER

  Colonel Danilo Dryagin left his assault element’s staging area in the snowy Belarus countryside just after midnight and reported to the headquarters tent for a meeting with General Eduard Sabaneyev outside the railway station in the town of Pažežyn.

  The general and his colonel shook hands standing next to a Bumerang, an amphibious wheeled armored personnel carrier and the newest addition to Russia’s ranks of powerful armored troop vehicles. It was a twenty-five-ton monstrosity with a 510-horsepower engine, heavy armor protection, and a remote-controlled turret that carried an array of weapons, including a cannon, an anti-tank missile launcher, and a 7.62mm machine gun.

  In addition to its crew of three, the APC could be loaded with eight combat troops, giving the vehicle more firepower through its ability to dismount soldiers to bring them into a fight.

  There would be 170 Bumerangs involved in Red Metal’s Western Spear attack into Europe, and this meant the entire operation relied on the success of this new piece of equipment.

/>   Colonel Danilo Dryagin was a tallish man with thinning brown hair. Wiry, lean, he looked anything but the part of the assault force commander and the subordinate of the dashing General Sabaneyev. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for with experience and single-mindedness. He treated his orders like they were a complete certainty, a foregone conclusion, then worked tirelessly to see them properly enacted. Dryagin was a true believer of Sabaneyev, and this made him invaluable.

  They had worked together for more than eight years of Colonel Dryagin’s twenty-five-year career, and the general had carefully tracked Dryagin’s progress along the way. Six months earlier Sabaneyev manufactured a reason to visit the colonel as he trained his men in the field. What he saw was a quiet professional, not one taken to fits of anger or outbursts of emotion. He had an inherent understanding of tactics and was a natural with the men. Just the kind of well-loved, charismatic leader Sabaneyev needed.

  Sabaneyev knew he had little rapport with troops himself—not that he cared. He had a larger sense of the battlefield, understood the “operational level of war,” the in-between ground where few tacticians could translate their experiences at the company or battalion level and where few of the higher headquarters strategy and policy makers could effectively plan.

  Sabaneyev asked, “Where do you sleep tonight?”

  “Sir, I’ll go to the reconnaissance element directly following our meeting. I will spend the night among them.”

  “Why not with the assault wave commanders? I’m counting on you to direct them proficiently.”

  “The reconnaissance elements, the GAZ Tigrs, they are where I place my bid for success. What path they forge, the rest will follow.”

  Ah, again he proves his worth. He wishes to stay with the frontline troops, thought the general.

  They walked together to the headquarters tent and sat on folded chairs. Several gas lanterns and a camp stove burned brightly, and smoky haze gave a warmth to the glow. An unsecured tent flap occasionally blew open, stirring the smoke and making the flame flicker.

  Sabaneyev’s headquarters personnel with him were not used to the cold like their infantry and reconnaissance brothers, and someone grumbled for the latest intruder to close the flap. Several men on watch were bundled in their cold-weather gear manning the radios and maps. Those off watch slept, huddled up in groups against the edges of the tents, not willing to brave the cold outdoors, their sleeping bags wrapped around them like cocoons.

  Sabaneyev said, “Ensure you stay in constant touch with my headquarters. I cannot support you if you try to go it alone. My train will try to stay with you, but in several phases you will be at the edge of my radios . . . and, more importantly, my fire support.”

  Sabaneyev stared into the fire now as he reached over to grab a worn leather map case next to his chair. He opened it and pointed to a checkpoint on the Polish-German border. “What’s this?”

  “Checkpoint twenty, sir.”

  “You have it memorized?”

  “I have them all memorized, sir.”

  Sabaneyev stopped himself from his urge to quiz the man further; he didn’t need to check his subordinate’s knowledge. The man knew his orders; that was why the general had selected him. If anyone could lead the crucial Western Spear of Red Metal, it was Colonel Danilo Dryagin.

  “Do not forget the prisoners,” the general commanded. “They are critical. Your men must know the NATO ranks by heart.”

  “We do, sir.”

  Sabaneyev stood, and Dryagin followed. “Good luck, Colonel. I will see you in Stuttgart for a drink before the trip back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dryagin said with a salute.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later Dryagin’s driver delivered him to the front ranks of his troops. A company of armor, T-14 Armata tanks, was staged in and among the trees. They were not enforcing nighttime camouflage, but that was by design. Let the West count their numbers by satellite. Let them underestimate them.

  The T-14, the latest-generation Russian main battle tank, included explosive reactive armor (ERA) and a new composition of layered steel alloy, called 44S-sv-Sh. The ERA was called Malachit in Russian and consisted of bricks of explosive that detonated incoming missiles, a part of the Russian fourth-generation defensive systems intended to mitigate what was seen as the West’s obsession with antiarmor missiles fired from aircraft.

  Dryagin walked through the woods toward the reconnaissance forces now. They were in a spot specially chosen just kilometers from the Polish border. The music and the large campfires of the tankers behind him were replaced by the relative silence of the woods and his quiet reconnaissance forces.

  “Who walks?” came a commanding voice from within the woods, startling the colonel out of his thoughts.

  “It’s Colonel Dryagin,” he said, realizing he had walked farther than he’d expected.

  “Very well, sir. Advance to be recognized,” said the voice from the trees.

  Colonel Dryagin continued forward, and when he was within ten paces of where he supposed the voice was coming from, he saw the outline of a camouflaged machine-gun nest. Movement close on his left in the dark startled him. A sniper climbed out of a snow-filled gully along the farmers’ road.

  “Colonel, do you not sleep?” asked the soldier.

  “Not yet. Where is your commander?”

  “Sir, the lieutenant colonel is with the Bumerang maintenance men going over some last-minute repairs. You’ll find him one hundred paces down this road. You cannot miss him.”

  “Good. And nice work on this ambush. Don’t ever let your guard down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Dryagin walked the requisite pace count and still almost missed the vehicle staging area. The area was silent except for the sound of some chains being dragged as a vehicle was being rigged for towing by another vehicle.

  “Reconnaissance force commander, report!” he exclaimed, a little louder than necessary, refusing to go looking for him in the freezing December night.

  “I am here, sir,” came a voice next to the towing vehicle.

  “Do we have a downed vehicle? I saw nothing of this on the headquarters report.”

  The reconnaissance lieutenant colonel stood from where he was kneeling with the men, hooking up the tow latches. He wiped his bare hands with a grease rag. “Sir, we are towing it over to the tank maintenance section. It needs new batteries and we must replace two of the wheel drive assemblies. It will take no more than two hours. We will still be ready at the appointed time.”

  “Let your men handle it. I wish to take a walk with you in the field. Inform your men so we are not shot. They are particularly alert tonight, a testament to your leadership.”

  The lieutenant colonel beamed. “They are cold, sir, and nothing keeps men more alert than the possibility of lying down and never getting up.”

  A freezing sleet began to fall. Dryagin looked up at it. “This weather will work to the advantage of Russia.” He nodded. “Very good.”

  CHAPTER 20

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  24 DECEMBER

  Captain Apollo Arc-Blanchette stood in the cold morning and watched as the two French special forces H225M Super Cougar helicopters taxied toward him and his ad hoc squad of soldiers.

  He was glad to get the newer French Eurocopters today. They had a much better range and could carry more weight than the older and more common AS532 Cougars.

  The skies were gloomy and gray, as were some of his men’s looks. They were all fresh off leave, and there had been a promise of no alerts, since the German KSK commandos were already “in the hopper” to take over the NATO Very High Readiness Joint Task Force. But Apollo had thought this Russian sat phone intriguing enough to check it out for himself and to ask for volunteers from his unit to join him.

  Virtually his enti
re second squad had mustered, and this made him proud as hell.

  “You’ve gotta love ’em,” said Apollo to the leader of his second squad, Sergent-Chef Lucien Dariel.

  Dariel adjusted a strap on the backpack resting at his feet. “Good men,” he agreed.

  Ten minutes later, the twenty-three men of the 2nd Squad, 1st Platoon, 2nd Squadron, of the 13th Parachute Dragoon Regiment were loosely assembled under the helos.

  Apollo said, “Listen, boys—it’s Christmas Eve, and I know you’d all rather be enjoying your leave, but we have some intel tidbits we need to go check out. And since our German colleagues in the KSK are not fully up to speed, I asked our buddies over in the 4th Helo Regiment to lend us some lift today.

  “We’re going into the German Alps on a recon mission. The good news is, if this turns out to be a wild-goose chase, I’ll ask the pilots to take us somewhere near the target site to do some skiing.”

  The men let out a cheer and Apollo couldn’t help but smile, but soon he got serious. “NATO has tracked a suspicious cell phone to this area.”

  Apollo signaled for the intel officer. The intelligence lieutenant laid out acetate maps on the ground that showed two peaks marked with red crosses.

  “First we’ll fly over near Zurich and land at Dübendorf Air Base. The ops center is getting clearance for that layover and refuel now. Then we’ll get back in the air. Our ultimate destination, and today’s objective, is right here”—Apollo pointed to the German mountain peak called Zugspitze—“the highest point in the German Alps.”

  Within minutes the rotors were spinning, and the twenty-four men and their gear were on board. The helos lifted off into the gray sky, and Apollo told himself that, whether or not they found a Russian soldier with a sat phone on a mountaintop, at least this Christmas Eve wouldn’t be boring.

  * * *