by Ward Larsen
“In a sense, both,” the armorer hedged.
“Both?”
“I took precise measurements, and this is definitely a fifty-caliber round. I’d say it was fired from a Barrett, which of course is an American gun. But it might not be so simple. The bullet exhibits certain signatures—the curvature of the shank and milling characteristics—that lead me to believe it was of Russian manufacture.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Here, I think, is where you might provide the remaining answers. Now that we know what it is, please tell me the circumstances of the engagement.”
Slaton did. He began by telling Vittorio about the first shot that had presumably been taken from extreme range, and in which the bullet couldn’t be recovered. “The target was three miles from shore on a very windy night, and he was standing on a boat that would have been rocking on heavy seas. A guided round makes sense. It makes the scenario realistic.” He then explained how he’d come across the spent round on the desk in front of them. Without mentioning Davos specifically, he covered a ski slope and a high ledge—a more manageable shot in terms of range, but taken against a fast-moving target. He also told Vittorio about the young man who’d visited the only outfitter in town.
After a reflective pause, Vittorio said, “Going back to your question, then—I would say your shooter is Russian, most likely Special Forces, but certainly a trained marksman. He probably used a Barrett. I can’t tell you why the Russians designed this round for a fifty caliber as opposed to their twelve point seven millimeter standard.”
“Maybe they stole the engineering diagrams and didn’t want to change anything. This weapon was always going to be highly specialized, essentially unique. And there’s nothing difficult about acquiring a Barrett—particularly the M82 civilian version.”
“I agree, although I think the word weapon is not sufficient. You and I are looking at but one part of a new weapon system. I have given a great deal of thought as to how such a bullet might track toward its target—truth be told, I was up half the night thinking about it. Was there any evidence that this shooter, or perhaps his spotter, had some kind of secondary targeting device?”
Slaton nodded. “In the hide on the mountainside—I saw what looked like the footprints of some kind of tripod. Based on what I saw, I’m convinced there was only one person under the ledge. Our shooter was operating alone.”
Vittorio nodded, deep in thought.
“Do you have any idea how it could work?” Slaton asked.
“The tracking itself is not so complicated. Given the wafer evident in the crushed nosecone, I would bank on one of two possibilities. First would be some kind of designator-tracking system, likely using reflected laser energy. The second is that both the bullet and targeting system have infrared sensors. Targets might be acquired using the pod, with an initial picture and perhaps even GPS coordinates transmitted to the bullet. Once airborne—generally referred to as the terminal phase—the bullet would transition to autonomous tracking. Both techniques are long established in military armaments, and miniaturization is an ongoing trend. The far greater problem, though…” The armorer’s voice trailed off.
“Spin,” Slaton said, finishing the thought.
“Precisely. Bombs and missiles use fins for stabilization, yet they can also be steered by them. Bullets, on the other hand, are stabilized in flight by their tremendous rate of spin. The round you’ve given me clearly contains some kind of perimeter weighting. It must function to either create a shift in mass, or perhaps alter the round’s aerodynamic shape. It is also likely that the gun’s twist rate has been modified to reduce spin. Either way, the challenge must have been to make it all work with respect to bullet rotation.”
“Is that possible?”
“There are some very clever engineers in this world, and I think the results speak for themselves. Whatever trick they’ve come up with, it seems to work.” Vittorio leaned back in his chair, and pointed toward the round. “I would love to keep this, but I suspect you want it back. There are intelligence services and manufacturers who could learn a great deal from studying it.”
“I do have to keep it,” Slaton said. He took the bullet and wrapped it tightly in the oilcloth. “Thank you for your help. I owe you more than last night’s dinner.”
Vittorio rose and shook Slaton’s hand. “Think nothing of it. You are, after all, a regular customer.”
Slaton turned to go, and as he did Vittorio said, “It is not really any of my business … but I recall reading about some recent ugliness down in Capri. Then another tragedy two days ago in Davos. Both Russians, I think.”
Slaton turned back toward the armorer, but said nothing.
“I trust that going forward you will use great caution.”
Slaton nodded to say that he would. Moments later, as he struck out into a bright Milan day, the armorer’s parting words seemed trapped in his head.
* * *
Zhukov watched the ancient MiG roll obediently behind a tug, its nosewheel connected by a heavy tow bar. Tan whirls of dust swept across the runway, the usual atmospheric confusion of early afternoon on the high desert.
The tug pulled onto the runway and soon had the jet positioned with its nose pointed down the ten-thousand-foot concrete strip. The driver disconnected the tow bar and left the jet where it was, lifeless and lonely against the bleak high plains backdrop.
“Run the prestart checklist,” Tikhonov ordered.
The engineer occupied the only available chair on the elevated, open-air control station. Standing behind him, Zhukov looked all around. He thought it was the most comical setup he’d ever seen. The two men were perched on the rooftop platform of a highly modified Sprinter van. Above them a great yellow beach umbrella fluttered under the midday sun. In the interior of the van beneath them were racks of radios and equipment, and heavy cables snaked away toward a second vehicle a hundred yards distant—a forty-foot-long refrigerated truck that had been converted into a mission control center. Tikhonov had assured him the umbilical was only a redundancy—the two vehicles were perfectly capable of operating great distances apart. Indeed, this was an essential part of the greater concept.
The van was positioned roughly at midfield, fifty yards clear of the northern edge of the runway. The mission truck was farther back, centered in a clearing in the scrub. Zhukov thought it an awkward way to go about things, yet Tikhonov had assured him it was a tried and true process.
Everything was driven by one unique characteristic of the jet sitting before them: taking the place of the pilot in the cockpit was a box of control and telemetry equipment. In essence, the MiG had been converted into a drone. From his perch on the Sprinter, Tikhonov would fly the airplane off the runway using a joystick and throttle on the control panel in front of him. He had explained to Zhukov that having eyes on the drone was essential during takeoff to correct for crosswinds and gusts—the delay in transmitted data was simply too slow, the naked eye having an advantage of critical milliseconds. Once the aircraft was airborne, at a safe altitude, control would be handed off to a pilot in the mission truck who ran things for the bulk of the flight. On recovery, the same process ran in reverse, Tikhonov taking over from the van’s rooftop to land the MiG—the most delicate maneuver of all.
Zhukov watched a pair of crewmen with headsets walk up to the jet.
“Gear pins,” Tikhonov challenged.
“Removed,” came a voice over a speaker.
“Panels.”
“Closed and secured.”
Step by step, the final checklist was run. Battery, generator, fuel pumps, auxiliary power unit.
Minutes later the MiG’s engine was idling, the technicians trotting away. Zhukov knew things would happen quickly now—the MiG-21 was a gas hog, and time spent on the runway with the engine running was time lost in the air.
Tikhonov ran through a series of control checks, and Zhukov saw the jet’s ailerons and rudder move in concert with his inputs. Fi
nally the power was advanced, and the turbofan began spinning up. Even at mid-level thrust it brought a dull roar, drowning out every other sound and scattering a flock of sand grouse nearby.
“Brakes released,” Tikhonov said.
The jet began moving, tentatively at first. Then the engine throttled to full power and the afterburner was engaged, dumping torrents of raw fuel aft of the turbines. Commercial airliners, Zhukov knew, had engines designed to minimize noise, a neighborly gesture to the busy cities above which they operated. The MiG was not so constrained. It barreled down the runway with a roar that was raw and unrefined, tearing apart air as it accelerated, beating the desert silence into submission. As the jet passed the control van Zhukov felt its sound more than he heard it, a low-frequency thrum that shook him to the core.
Yet it wasn’t the noise that made the greatest impression. Over so many years in the military, he’d seen many fighters take flight. Never had he seen one thunder past without a pilot in the cockpit. It seemed robotic and cold, a machine without a soul.
Soon the raucous noise faded, and the MiG became little more than a dot as it clawed into a flawless blue sky. He looked at Tikhonov and saw something close to glee. He was like a teenager behind the joystick of the ultimate video game.
“Prepare for transfer,” Tikhonov said into his microphone.
“Ready to accept control.”
“On my mark. Three … two … one … execute.”
There was a moment of uncertainty, a technical pause as circuits closed and switches activated. It reminded Zhukov of a handoff in a track relay race—a few doubtful seconds in which the baton might be dropped.
“I have the aircraft,” said a remote voice from the truck behind them.
Tikhonov pushed back in his chair. “Clockwork, I tell you! Come, Colonel, we will watch things unfold from the mission truck.”
“How long will the flight last?”
“Thirty minutes of actual test work. Then we run the recovery sequence.”
“That doesn’t seem like much.”
“Fighters are designed for speed, not endurance—they are the thoroughbreds of the sky.”
Tikhonov backed onto the ladder that led down past the Sprinter’s rear doors. As Zhukov followed, the big umbrella above them fluttered in a gust, its edges shimmering like the petals of a giant yellow flower. Once again he thought the whole arrangement looked ridiculous, but he set the notion aside. If their plan succeeded, no one would be laughing.
Zhukov reached ground level, and side-by-side the two men walked toward the mission truck. It was a slightly uphill grade, in unseasonable heat, and he noticed the engineer was sweating profusely—in truth, he looked not far from a heart attack.
They encountered a section of ground that appeared charred, and Zhukov paused. The grass was burnt to its roots, and even stones and rocks had been blackened. “Was there a fire here?” he asked.
“Yes, we lost a jet here last month. It crashed during landing.”
Zhukov looked over his shoulder at the Sprinter fifty yards behind them. “You were on top of the van … and it crashed so near?”
“It wasn’t that bad. One of the landing gear collapsed and the jet skidded off the runway. It was nearly out of fuel, so there wasn’t much of a fire.”
The two began walking again, a subtle grin beneath the engineer’s beard. “Do not worry, Colonel. Because of the mishap, I decided to incorporate a change. Each aircraft now carries a modest explosive charge. If control is lost, I can flick one switch and…” Tikhonov touched all ten fingers together, then spread them wide in an instant. “Boom!” He laughed robustly.
“That sounds like a fix an army general would order,” Zhukov said.
“I suppose it does. But the contingency will likely never be used. You know what they say … lightning never strikes the same place twice.”
THIRTY-THREE
“Something has come up,” Sorensen said as she sat with her hands on the car’s steering wheel.
Slaton stared at her. In his years in the field, he’d developed a private theory that the more banal an intelligence officer’s opening line, the greater the impending doom. If it held here, it did not bode well for his near-term well-being.
He’d taken the first available flight from Milan, and on his request, she’d picked him up at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. They needed to talk, and instead of wasting an hour in a cab, he’d reasoned this would be more efficient—at least from his point of view. Sorensen had commandeered a generic sedan from the embassy motor pool, and they were at that moment stalled in the usual afternoon rush in the heart of Rome.
“Argos performed an offload in the Red Sea last night,” she said. “Three smaller boats arrived and crates were transferred.”
“And you find this surprising?”
“I guess not. The smaller boats delivered whatever it was to various points along the coast—all in Saudi Arabia. Since then, we’ve learned that Cirrus did pretty much the same thing from the waters off Yemen. Tasman Sea is a little behind, but she just dropped anchor north of Al Jubail in the Persian Gulf.”
“Okay, so we have a coordinated smuggling effort on the Arabian Peninsula. Tell the Saudis and let them handle it.”
“That may not be an option.”
“Why not?”
Sorensen didn’t respond right away, her eyes fixed on the bumper of a motionless truck ahead.
“Why not?” he asked in a manifestly level tone.
“There’s a complication.”
There it was again, he thought. Ominous understatement. His eyes bored into her, and she finally met his gaze.
“We weren’t the only ones who noticed Argos,” she said.
“Who else would be looking—” Slaton locked up midsentence. “Israel.”
She nodded. “They have satellites too, and watch their backyard closely. There’s been a flurry of back-and-forth today at the highest levels—it began with the Israeli foreign ministry contacting our state department, and ended with CIA director Coltrane having a lengthy discussion with his counterpart at Mossad.”
“Director Nurin.”
Traffic began moving ever so slowly. “I know the two of you have a history,” she said.
“That’s putting it lightly.”
“Nurin thinks highly of you, as does Director Coltrane.”
Slaton felt like a fighter watching a big glove coming toward his face. No time to duck. “You know why I don’t like platitudes?” he asked reflectively.
Sorensen didn’t respond.
“Because people give them right before they dump something lousy on you.”
“Are you this cynical with your wife?”
“Ask her.”
“Like I said,” Sorensen picked up, “there was a lot of back-and-forth. No one knows what was in those crates. Conventional weapons seems the most likely answer, but WMD can’t be discounted. Israel is adamant about pursuing this. Argos has moved farther up the coast toward the Gulf of Aqaba—she’s anchored southwest of Sharmaa, still in international waters.”
“But closer to Israel.”
“I’m afraid so. Mossad has a tactical team on standby. They intend to go in and determine what the cargo is.”
“By force?”
“Surreptitiously would be preferred, but whatever it takes. And that’s where you come in.”
“Where I come in?”
“Director Coltrane told me to emphasize that participation on your part is strictly voluntary.”
“How considerate of him—notwithstanding the fact that I don’t work for the CIA and never have. I’m not even an American citizen.”
As if not hearing his protest, Sorensen said, “I briefed him on your situation. I told him the Russians are circulating that you might have murdered two of their citizens—as it turns out, two men who had an ownership stake in these ships.”
“I’m sure that coincidence wasn’t lost on the director.”
“No. And he mentioned
something else—something I didn’t know. He said you worked with Mossad not long ago, a joint operation in the Golan Heights.”
Slaton felt like he was again streaking down the mountain in Davos—only this time instead of skiing he was tumbling, caught in a kind of private avalanche. He had done a cross-border exfil mission with a Mossad tactical team eight months ago. The objective had been to retrieve an ISIS defector, and it had ended as a qualified success. Now it was just another operation coming back to haunt him.
“Coltrane doesn’t need me,” he argued. “If the CIA wants a hand in this, they have plenty of operators.”
“True. Unfortunately, it’s Mossad who are being problematic. You’re the only one they’re willing to work with. It was something worked out personally between the two directors.”
“And if I decline?”
Sorensen was silent for a time. “I don’t know,” she said. “Nobody seems to have thought things through that far. I’m pretty sure Israel is going to go forward, with or without you.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Honestly … it looks to me like they’re backing you into a corner. Maybe you should tell them all to go to hell. The world will go on.”
He nodded appreciatively. “Thanks for that.”
“I mean it. I’ve gotten to know Christine and Davy, and I’d totally get it if you walked away right now. Set sail on that boat of yours and never looked back.”
He sat in silence.
“But whatever you decide,” she continued, “I need to know soon. They want an answer.”
“All right. I’m guessing it can at least wait another hour.”
“Another consultation with your wife?”
“Something like that.”
Sorensen acquired a thin smile.
“What?” he asked.
“It just struck me that when most guys ask for a kitchen pass, it’s to go golfing or watch a game at a bar.”
“Guess I’m not most guys.”
She looked at him with something he couldn’t place. The road opened up ahead, and she accelerated on a freeway.
He said, “Regardless of what I decide, there’s something I need from you.”