The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “He what?” the president glared at him.

  “He was only joking about that, I’m sure, Mr. President.” Lazarus allowed his mirth to show just a little. “However, there is no question that it is Russian policy to place as many of their redundant young men as mercenaries as they can. It helps solve two problems: first, the unemployed are employed, and second, the flow of hard currencies is increased. As a side benefit, they often manage to sell an appreciable amount of Russian war materiel as well.”

  “They actually charge money for this?” The president seemed incredulous.

  “Absolutely.” Lazarus took a puff of smoke from his pipe.

  “And to think just a few years ago we were both giving away all that in the name of winning the Cold War.”

  “Times have changed,” Lazarus observed quietly. “They even have a New York lawyer to draw up the contracts.”

  President Hayward studied Lazarus, but finally decided to let that last comment drop. Times have indeed changed. “Tell me about Iraq, what’s that new madman, Khalid, up to with those Russians?”

  Jonathan Boswell hemmed, indicating that he would answer. “He’s following right in Saddam Hussein’s footsteps. Now that he has had all the UN sanctions removed, he is pumping oil like there’s no tomorrow. He’s got money to burn. It’s quite clear that he is rebuilding the Iraqi armed forces with the help of those Russian mercenaries. The difference it that he will have an effective fighting machine when he’s done, for unlike Saddam, this guy is smart and savvy. For example, he’s building a powerful and well-trained air force, one that can defend the ground troops from aerial assault.”

  “No more turkey shoots like in the Gulf War?” the president commented.

  “Exactly,” Boswell replied. “They already have at least two squadrons of MiG-39s operational and should have about ten more in a year. However, this time the pilots will know what they’re doing. They even have a training range like our Red Flag exercises setup. We’ve picked up their radio transmission with our satellites. Apparently the Russian instructors play at being the attacking American aircraft.”

  “Jeezus,” the president muttered.

  “Khalid is good,” Lazarus noted. “He’s learned from all of Saddam’s mistakes. In a few years, Iraq will be a country to worry about.”

  “The Israelis are already worried,” the president said. “They think that the Iraqis are on the verge of having nuclear weapons. What’s your assessment?”

  Lazarus looked meaningfully at Jonathan Boswell. The Director of the CIA nodded, accepting the responsibility of answering. “Our assessment, Mr. President, is that they will have between ten and twenty nuclear weapons within the next twelve months.”

  “WHAT!” the president exclaimed. “Why haven’t I been told?”

  “We just learned of a secret shipment of several hundred pounds of plutonium from Russia, or more correctly, stolen from Russia and sold to Iraq by some unscrupulous Russian military officers,” Boswell replied.

  The president’s expression was a mixture of shock and dismay with a large dose of foreboding. “How?”

  “The Russians have been dismantling their surplus nuclear weapons for years—several thousand of them, in fact. That gave them a stockpile of nearly five hundred tons of weapons grade uranium and almost a hundred tons of plutonium.”

  “But I thought that we bought all of that up.” Panic crept into the president’s voice when he realized what had happened. A few hundred pounds would hardly be missed out of a hundred tons, particularly if you controlled the accounting system.

  “Apparently not, sir,” Boswell said. “Some of it got away.”

  “And the Russian nuclear scientists that found jobs in Iraq?”

  “They’d know what to do with it,” Boswell answered. “They were the ones that built the original weapons. They’d have little trouble reassembling such weapons for Iraq.”

  “Oh, Christ!” President Hayward looked hopefully at Director Boswell. “Do the Israelis know about this yet?”

  “They’re the ones who told us, Mr. President.”

  “Dengi!Dengi! Dengi!Money! Money!Money!” Vladimir Petrovich Golovanov swore angrily. “Everybody has their hand out! What do they think—that I grow it! Ah, for the old days, back when we told them what to do and shot them if they didn’t.”

  “Those days are gone forever, Vladimir Petrovich,” Aleksei Ilyich Dekanozov, Director of the SVR commented.

  “I know that!” Golovanov shouted. “And instead of studying Marx and Lenin, we’re studying cash flows and budgets. We need money, but where do we get it?”

  Golovanov’s gaze fell upon Vasili Petrovich Dobrovolsky, Marshal of the Russian Armed Forces and Defense Minister of Russia. “Since you are our major source of foreign currency, how are our military sales doing?”

  Vasili Dobrovolsky moved uncomfortably in his chair. He was a big man, built like a world-class Russian weight lifter and probably as strong as one. Every called him “Medved” or “Bear” when he wasn’t around.

  Marshal Dobrovolsky opened a folder. “Our Renta-Army program is a success. Some ten divisions of troops and a total of sixteen squadrons of aircraft are employed worldwide. Fortunately, the worldwide ethnic strife has encouraged a number of smaller nations to hire our people as mercenaries.”

  “How about armaments?”

  “Small arms are doing well as are tanks, missiles, and armaments,” the marshal replied. “However, our aircraft sales are well off.”

  “Why?”

  Marshal Dobrovolsky looked at the Russian president. “The Americans are talking about an export version of their F-22. Although our MiG-39 is a match for it, the Americans are telling everybody that our electronics technology is still in the vacuum tube era. Unfortunately, the customers are believing them, even though we are only just a few years behind them.”

  “How bad?” Golovanov looked at Marshal Dobrovolsky in alarm. Aircraft sales were a major contributor to his foreign capital supply.

  “Except for spare parts, almost a total cessation of sales,” Dobrovolsky confessed. “And it’s going to be worse when the world learns about the American’s ATASF and their new CLEO computer.”

  Golovanov stared at the marshal. “The what?”

  “They are developing a new high-technology fighter, the Advanced Technology Air Supremacy Fighter. I’m not too concerned about that; our Sukhoi-41 will have the same high-maneuverability. However, their CLEO computer completely revolutionizes air combat. It can fly the aircraft and fight it by itself. Without that technology, we won’t be able to give our aircraft away.” He paused to let his last point sink in. “We must gain that technology for ourselves,” Dobrovolsky added.

  “How?” Golovanov exclaimed. “We don’t have enough money to develop it, we can’t buy it, and since the end of the Cold War, it’s much harder to steal.”

  “Why is it so much harder to steal?” Marshal Dobrovolsky asked innocently.

  President Golovanov glared at the field marshal. “You have a plan?”

  “For at least the most significant piece of their technology, the CLEO computer.”

  “Why the CLEO computer?”

  “The CLEO computer system, Vladimir Petrovich,” Dobrovolsky said knowingly, “can only be described as magical. It thinks—like a man.”

  President Golovanov looked dubiously at Dobrovolsky. “It thinks?”

  “Da. Like a man. It can fly airplanes with more skill than any pilot can, and it is capable of making independent decisions for itself. For example, if you order it to bomb, say Berlin, and if it runs into unexpected defenses, it will find a way around those defenses all by itself.”

  “You make it sound like human pilots are obsolescent,” Golovanov’s look became suspicious. “I think you have reason to question your intelligence.”

  Dobrovolsky flinched at the comment, uncertain how to interpret it. “My information comes from Director Dekanozov.”

  President Golovanov turned
toward Aleksei Dekanozov, the Director of the SVR. “What is your assessment of this computer?” Golovanov asked Dekanozov. “Is it as important as our defense minister claims?”

  “Da,” Dekanozov replied. “It’s going to be the basis of every defense system they will build for the next hundred years. They actually have a computer that can think like a man. It can already fly their latest top-secret fighter.”

  “This must be very new technology,” Golovanov commented.

  “That is correct, Vladimir Petrovich,” Dekanozov said quietly. “The existence of the CLEO computer system is a closely held American secret that the SVR has only recently penetrated. The Americans have indeed perfected a heuristic neural network computer. It thinks like a man. It will be the basis of every defense system they develop for the next century. Therefore, it’s absolutely vital to the survival ofRodina. the Motherland,that we obtain the secret of this computer for ourselves as quickly as possible.”

  “We must have that computer for ourselves,” Golovanov murmured as his hands tightened into fists. “Rodinawon’t be safe without it.”

  “That’s exactly the same conclusion Director Dekanozov and I came to weeks ago,” Marshal Dobrovolsky interjected. “We realized that.…”

  “How do you plan to capture it?” Golovanov interrupted.

  “We have a plan. It is calledOperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka— Operation Armored Fist,”the field marshal said as he opened his briefcase. He pulled out six red folders, each tied with a golden ribbon. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing along copies of the overview to Operation Armored Fist for review by this committee, just in case the topic came up,” he replied as he handed one to President Golovanov. “Do you wish to see it, Vladimir Petrovich?”

  What the defense minister failed to note was that the plan was already in progress, a minor detail he was not about to admit.

  President Golovanov reached out to receive his copy. Suddenly, he withdrew his hand. “No, I think that it is better if I know nothing about this plan—officially, at least. Can you give me a quick summary of what is in this?”

  “Well,” Marshal Dobrovolsky began, “the plan actually consists of two parts. The first is the bait,New Babylon ; the second is the trap.You are already aware thatNew Babylon is the super cannon the Iraqis are paying us to build for them in the Gomazal Valley.”

  “But that project has been under development for years,” President Golovanov objected, “and it isn’t due to be operational for at least two more years.”

  “That’s correct,” Marshal Dobrovolsky agreed, “but under Operation Armored Fist we are accelerating the deployment of the weapon to raise concerns among the Americans and their Israeli allies. We will even permit the Israelis to discover that some plutonium has been covertly sold to Iraq.”

  Golovanov winced. “If that is ever traced back to us.…”

  “Don’t worry about that, Vladimir Petrovich,” Marshal Dobrovolsky said sternly. “The transaction is well covered. And we have the necessary scapegoats in place.”Besides, he told himself,the Israelis have already found out about it, anyhow.

  “But the Israelis will obviously do everything in their power to destroy that cannon.…”

  “Including pressuring the United States into destroying it for them?” the field marshal interjected.

  “Yes,” Golovanov agreed, “they would.”

  “Given the location of the super cannon, almost a thousand kilometers from the nearest Israeli border, it will be almost impossible for them to repeat their famous attack on Osirak. We have seen to that ourselves by selling Khalid Ribat modern air defense radars, MiG interceptors and antiaircraft missiles. Even if their attack got through those defenses, they would have to have great luck to do any damage to the cannon.”

  “Why?” The idea of dozens of nuclear weapons going off in an effort to destroy the super cannon flashed through his mind. He couldn’t see how anything could survive such an onslaught.

  “Simply because they don’t know exactly where it is,” the field marshal replied with a hearty chuckle. “It’s buried in a mountain and unless they know within a few meters exactly where it is, they have no real hope of destroying it.”

  “Which leaves the Americans holding the bag?”

  “Exactly,” the field marshal replied triumphantly. “Only they have the technology to attack the cannon.”

  “How does that get us the CLEO computer?” Foreign Minister Anastas Ptukihin objected. “All the Americans have to so is send in one of their stealth fighters like those they used during the Gulf War and bomb that cannon.”

  “The American F-117A can be countered, Anastas Ivanovich. That has already been proven over Serbia,” Dobrovolsky replied as he leaned back in his chair. “Besides, we can at least spot the attack and protect the cannon.”

  “How?”

  “With fireworks, my friend, with ordinary fireworks,” Marshal Dobrovolsky answered with a knowing smile.

  “Fireworks?” The utterance had come from President Golovanov.

  Dobrovolsky beamed at the President. “It is very simple, Vladimir Petrovich. The cannon is located in a small valley about a hundred and fifty kilometers from Turkey, which is the nearest nation friendly to the Americans. That will give us plenty of time to detect such an attack. We’ll then use fireworks rockets to create a smoke screen over the entire valley. If the fireworks contain the correct chemicals, the smoke they produce will absorb the infrared light the American planes use to find their targets in the dark.”

  “And so, to keep their Israeli allies happy, they will eventually risk their precious computer?” Golovanov asked. A faint smile appeared on his lips as he appreciated the cunning of the plan more and more.

  “Exactly,” the field marshal responded. “We will keep the view of the valley obscured until such time as they send the CLEO computer and its state-of-the-art airplane to attack the cannon. Once they do that, we will shoot down the plane and capture the computer.”

  “But don’t you run the risk of destroying the computer?” Golovanov’s concern was evident in his expression.

  “There is a risk of that,” Dekanozov replied. “However, the Americans value it enough to have it eject with the human pilot.”

  “Human pilot?” President Golovanov was obviously confused. A very thin smile of amusement showed on Dekanozov’s lips.

  “Da,” he responded. “They have to train the computer just like a human. Therefore, they have the airplane rigged so that an experienced human pilot can go along and teach it. That is to say, they’re teaching it as though it were a human. We would have to do the same—teaching it Russian like a schoolchild, for example.”

  Golovanov rubbed his eyes. “I can hardly understand all this technology, but I can see the importance of obtaining that computer. We must do so at any cost.”

  He eyed the marshal. “How much is all of this going to cost?” Golovanov asked. He glanced around the table and then added, “No, on second thought, don’t tell me. I’d never be able to get any sleep if I knew.”

  Chapter Ten

  Colonel Rodell looked up from his notes. It was his first full day at Groom Lake, and he had barely seen the sun. Within hours of Jerry’s agreeing to accept the assignment, General Winslow had gotten him relocated to the air base. Now he was in school again.

  So far, the entire morning had been taken up by the briefing on the CLEO system. Dr. Daniel Reinhardt, an overweight middle-aged man with a gray beard and little taste in clothes, stood in front of the whiteboard with a red marker in hand. Behind him was what appeared to be the organizational chart for a company.

  “Have I explained the layout of the computer systems adequately, Colonel?” Dr. Reinhardt asked as he put the marker pen in the whiteboard’s tray.

  “Yes, Doctor.” Jerry compared his notes to the chart on the whiteboard. At the top was Cleo. She functioned as the chief executive officer, overseeing the moment-by-moment activities of the ATASF aircraft. As in the case of a large
company, the various functions of the aircraft were divided into department-like organizations such as navigation, communications, fuel and propulsion, weapons, and, last but not least, aerodynamic control. As in the case of the president of the company, Cleo did very little of the actual work herself, but instead oversaw the activity of something like twenty-seven triply redundant computers, each with its own specific functions. Her responsibility was to make decisions and coordinate all of her subordinate computers—all of that, plus deal with what Dr. Reinhardt jokingly called the “chairman of the board,” the pilot.

  Jerry Rodell grinned. He wasn’t obsolete yet. Computers had come a long way, but they still could be beaten by human pilots in combat. The look faded when he realized that it was only a matter of time before even that last vestige of humanoid superiority would be overcome by rapidly developing technology.

  “Well, Doctor,” Jerry said as he put his pen down, “I think I understand most of it, at least conceptually. It’s all a logical extension of today’s high-tech aircraft. What I’m having trouble with is Cleo herself. From what I know about computers, she’s very much a different breed.”

  The scientist laughed. “You have no idea just how different, Colonel. It’s almost ten, and Dr. MacCauley, Cleo’s inventor, should be here any moment to explain how Cleo works.”

  As on cue, the door to the impromptu classroom opened and a woman entered. Dressed in an unbuttoned lab coat over military-issue fatigues, she carried a pile of notes clasped to her chest, schoolgirl fashion. Jerry waited a few seconds before getting up, taking the time to study their visitor. He quickly noted that she was in her mid-thirties, wore no makeup and had her auburn hair tied up in a bun on the back of her head. Her only concession to feminine vanity was contact lenses.

  “Ah, Madeline,” Reinhardt called cordially, “you’re right on time, as usual.”