Red War

by Vince Flynn

  The relief on Nazar’s face at the Russians having passed faded. “Danya said you can only watch! If you try to do anything else he said I should—”

  “Shut up. Scott can you do it?”

  “Well, my knee’s bothering me and my calf’s stiffened up pretty bad. But since we’re going up against fifteen armed Russian soldiers I don’t think that’s going to make much of a difference.”

  “So you’re good?”

  “What could possibly go wrong?”

  “On my signal, then.”

  Nazar started scooting back and again Rapp stopped him. “Your part’s easy. When Scott and I have control, I want you to come out, look in the trees on both sides of the road, and shout at all your imaginary men to hold their fire. Can you handle that?”

  “What if you don’t get control?”

  “Then get on your horse and ride it like you stole it.”

  Rapp grabbed the AK next to him and ran crouched through the trees. When he was about five yards in front of the lumbering truck, he leapt into the road and fired at the windshield, aiming at the empty passenger side but still causing the driver to dive beneath the steering wheel. Two more controlled bursts sounded from the back of the truck, followed by Coleman shouting in Russian. He didn’t really speak the language, but his profession demanded mastery of a few useful phrases in dozens of languages. It was hard to get by for long without “Drop your weapons,” “If you move, I’ll cut your balls off,” and “Where’s the closest bar?”

  By the time Rapp made it to the back of the truck, half the soldiers had dropped their guns and the other half were trying but had gotten tangled in the slings.

  Surprisingly, Nazar hadn’t bolted. He appeared from the trees with his rifle held in front of him, shouting in Ukrainian to their non-existent comrades in the woods.

  Behind Rapp, the vehicle’s door opened and a man nearly fell out. He looked to be in his late twenties—decades younger than his men—and wore a better fitting uniform identifying him as a low-ranking officer. He didn’t even bother to glance back, instead bolting immediately for the trees.

  Rapp indicated for Nazar to gather the weapons lying on the ground and then took off after the young officer. After a two-minute chase, Rapp rammed him from behind and sent him sprawling across the rocky ground. He tried to roll to his feet, but Rapp shoved a boot down on his throat. For a moment, it looked like the Russian was going to try to fight back, but the barrel of Rapp’s AK pressed to his chest changed his mind.

  He was even younger than he’d appeared when he’d jumped from the truck, with a pale, unlined face and stylishly cut hair. A recent university graduate spending a little time in the military to kick start his rise through Russian society. Perfect.

  “I assume you speak English?”

  “Yes,” he managed to get out. “I . . . I studied it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Grigory Eristov. I—”

  Rapp smacked him in the forehead with the barrel of the gun. “I don’t give a shit about your name. Who are you? Regular Russian army?”

  “Yes! Yes. I joined six months ago. I was in the top of my officer training cla—”

  “What about your men? Where’d you dig them up?”

  “Reservists,” he said, confirming Rapp’s suspicions. “Some haven’t served in years. They were recalled to protect Russian interests in the region.”

  “What are you doing up here in the mountains? Why didn’t you just take them straight to one of your bases?”

  “I don’t know. I was told to use this route and to make them march.”

  He probably really didn’t know. Combat readiness was just a concept in a book to the kid. This was just a brief stop on his way to a cushy job in the extraction industry, bureaucracy, or politics. In Krupin’s Russia, contacts and demonstrations of patriotism were everything.

  “What are you transporting?”

  “Almost nothing. Just their equipment.”

  “Kind of a big truck for a few duffels.”

  Eristov’s expression suddenly became guarded. His initial panic had subsided and he’d figured out that he was being interrogated.

  “Who are you?” he said, finding his backbone. “Not Ukrainian. American?”

  Killing or significantly delaying these men was going to cause more trouble than it was worth. Unfortunately, so was leaving visible marks on them. So Rapp pulled his boot from the man’s neck and drove it down between his legs.

  Eristov immediately curled up into the fetal position, covering his wounded testicles with his hands and letting out a choking moan. Rapp grabbed him by his impeccable hair and dragged him through the dirt, finally slamming him into a sitting position against a tree.

  “Listen to me, you pampered little cocksucker. I’m not going to touch your men because they just look like a bunch of assholes who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you’re a professional soldier. I’ll take you to a cave and spend the next month doing shit to you that no one’s thought about for five hundred years.”

  The Russian was still focused on his suffering, but not so much so that he didn’t register the threat.

  “The truck . . .” He struggled to get words out. “Picking up soldiers . . .”

  “You’re dropping these men off and picking up others?”

  He nodded.

  “Where are you taking them?”

  “Back to Russia. To join the exercises.”

  “Exercises? You mean on the borders of the Baltics?”

  He nodded weakly. “Estonia.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  “Three times.”

  “Always the same?”

  He shook his head. “The first time, I brought in an empty truck. No men.”

  “What did you take out?”

  The pain had subsided enough to be replaced by courage. Instead of responding, he just glared.

  Rapp shouldered his weapon and pulled out a combat knife. “Don’t be stupid, kid. You don’t want to get carved up over Ukraine. You want to do your time in the army and then get rich.”

  Eristov looked at the dull black blade for a moment and then seemed to see the wisdom of Rapp’s words. “Antiaircraft weapons. I took out antiaircraft weapons.”

  “To the border of Estonia?”

  “Lithuania.”

  “And the second time?”

  “I brought men in and took other men out to the Estonian border.”

  “Same kind of men?”

  He seemed confused by the question.

  “Fat old guys in, fat old guys out?”

  He shook his head. “Men like these in, but younger, better-trained men out.”

  “Shit . . .” Rapp said under his breath. Then he sheathed the knife and began dragging Eristov to his feet.

  • • •

  When they came out of the trees, all the Russians were disarmed and on their knees under Coleman’s watchful eye. Rapp shoved the young officer to the ground and went over to Nazar, who was in the back of the truck, emptying duffels of their contents.

  “What did you find?” Rapp said, speaking quietly enough that none of the others could hear his English.

  “Nothing unusual.”

  “Okay, grab an empty bag and fill it with anything valuable. Then shake down the men. Cash, jewelry, phones. Anything worth stealing.”

  Rapp walked over to Eristov and crouched, speaking quietly into his ear. “Do you understand what I’m doing for you here? No one has to know about our conversation or that any of this ever happened. All you have to do is remind your men that if Andrei Sokolov ever hears that they were mugged on their way to base, he’ll slit their throats and hang them from the rafters.”

  CHAPTER 29

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  USA

  WHEN Irene Kennedy’s SUV pulled up to Air Force One, the president was already striding across the tarmac. He stopped when he saw her chasing after him, waiti
ng at the base of the stairs to let her go first. Always the southern gentleman.

  “Sorry to drag you around the country, Irene. My schedule’s down to the second this week.”

  Alexander led her into his surprisingly spacious office, waving off staff seeking a moment of his attention. Taking a seat at his desk, he indicated a leather chair on the other side.

  “No tea or pleasantries today,” he said as she settled in. “I’m speaking to a rally in Ohio in two hours and I haven’t even had time to look at my speech.”

  Kennedy understood his responsibilities, but they seemed almost comically trivial. More and more, the presidency was about cameras, television, and social media. Alexander’s job was to project the America his constituents wanted to see without giving his opponents an opening. The political parties were no longer organizations concerned with administering the country’s affairs. They were election-winning machines.

  Fortunately Alexander still saw himself as a problem solver. While he’d become more amenable to political spin and assigning blame to his opponents, it was still a secondary concern. She doubted the CIA would be so lucky with his successor.

  “I understand, sir. How much time can you give me?”

  “Twelve minutes.”

  He punctuated his words by actually setting a timer on his phone—something he’d never done in the entire time they’d known each other.

  “I think we’ve uncovered the reason for Maxim Krupin’s erratic behavior.”

  “About time. The Europeans are melting down about the troop buildup in Ukraine. What is it?”

  “We believe that he’s extremely ill. Possibly terminal.”

  Alexander’s expression froze and she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He’d been a good president—smart, open-minded, and decisive. He was also less risk-averse than most politicians, sometimes to the point of being hotheaded. Unfortunately, he was also far enough into his second term that his ability to focus was fading. He’d accomplished what he was going to and was looking to run out the clock.

  “With what?” he said finally.

  “Cancer. We strongly suspect brain, though we can’t be certain.”

  “Evidence?” he said, seeming to lose his ability to string words together.

  “It’s complicated and not something we should spend our twelve minutes on.”

  “But you feel confident that it’s true.”

  “I do.”

  The plane started to taxi and he looked out the window, considering his Russian counterpart’s position. Alexander would understand better than anyone the challenges Krupin faced in trying to maintain power. As important as optics were in the United States, they were even more so in Russia. Krupin’s survival depended entirely on his unshakable aura of strength and indomitable will.

  “And we have confirmation that Sokolov is his right hand man?”

  “Yes.”

  Alexander finally turned back to face her. “This changes everything.”

  “That’s our analysis, too, sir.”

  “I’ve gone hoarse telling the Europeans that Krupin’s buildup in Ukraine is just theater. As long as NATO doesn’t hold a membership vote, he’s not going to do shit. Now, though . . .” He fell silent.

  “He needs a nationalist wave—something to get his constituents behind. And he needs a diversion,” Kennedy said. “His treatment is going to be difficult and time consuming. Beyond chemotherapy and radiation, he could be looking at brain surgery. We think it may be too much to cover up with action in Ukraine.”

  His expression turned guarded. “What are you saying, Irene?”

  “Mitch is on the ground and he believes that Krupin’s forces there are a smoke screen.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It appears that the Russians are moving in empty transport trucks and men unfit for duty. Then they’re using the trucks to remove crack troops and cutting edge weaponry.”

  “Why? Where are they taking it?”

  “To reinforce the troops on the borders of Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia.”

  The timer on his phone chimed and he silenced it with a jab of his finger. “You’re telling me that you think the Russians are going to simultaneously invade three NATO countries?”

  “Yes, sir. Our best guess is that they’ll initiate the attack at the most opportune time during the breakup of the exercises in Poland. When Western forces are in disarray and on their way home.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Irene? Those exercises are winding down now!”

  “Yes, sir,” she said calmly. “Our people expect the Russian army to start their push into the Baltics in approximately three days.”

  Air Force One started to accelerate down the runway and the president stood, steadying himself against his desk. “Are you seriously sitting there telling me that World War III is scheduled for later this week?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I wish I could have given you more notice, but this just wasn’t a scenario we were gaming. Krupin only does things that strengthen his position at home and an invasion of the Baltics never qualified.”

  “Until now,” he said numbly.

  “Until now,” she agreed. “This will disrupt every aspect of Russian politics and everyday life. Normally, that’s the kind of instability that he works to counter. But now it’s the goal. Everyone will be just as off-balance as he is. And, in the long run, if it turns into a disaster—”

  “He doesn’t care,” Alexander said, finishing her thought. “He’s thinking in terms of weeks, maybe months. There probably is no long run for him.”

  “Exactly.”

  He sank back into his seat, looking uncharacteristically out of his depth. “I . . .” His voice faltered again. “Recommendation?”

  “Our first order of business should be to announce an extension of the NATO exercises. That could cause the Russians to delay their invasion.”

  “It’s primarily a European operation,” Alexander said. “We’re not running it. Just participating.”

  “That would have to change. We need to announce that we’re joining them in a significant way and massively expanding the scope of the exercises.”

  He considered that for a few moments. “If we move a bunch of ships in there and put thousands of boots on the ground in the Baltics, the Russians will call it a provocation. Krupin will see his window closing and he’ll use our increased presence as political cover. At that point, his invasion won’t look crazy, it’ll look decisive—a strike against the West before they march on Moscow.”

  “I don’t disagree, sir. But you asked for recommendations and that’s the best we’ve been able to come up with.”

  He shook his head slowly, trying to process the information he’d been given. “If you’re right, there is no way to stop it. He isn’t going for economic gain or geographic expansion or to put down a threat to his country. His goal is chaos. How do you deter that?”

  It seemed to be a rhetorical question but she answered anyway. “I’m not convinced that we can. And I don’t think we can get sufficient troops and equipment in place to repel it. I also don’t think that we can win those countries back by conventional means once they’re gone. Krupin will declare them Russian territory and threaten a nuclear response to any counterattack.”

  “So you’re telling me that seventy-two hours from now, three NATO countries are just going to disappear? What good is a military alliance that can’t protect its members from the exact threat it was designed to fight off?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Playing a game against someone who isn’t in it to win is . . . Problematic.”

  He locked his eyes on hers. “You always choose your words so carefully, Irene. Why did you say problematic instead of impossible?”

  “Let me answer your question with another question, sir. When you were a quarterback in college, what would you have done against a team whose only goal was to injure as many of your players as they could?”

  He thoug
ht about it for a moment. “Taken my guys off the field.”

  “Exactly. Years ago, we helped the Baltics create a contingency plan for a Russian invasion. The goal was to bog the Russians down long enough for NATO to respond. Unfortunately, the plan is so destructive to their infrastructure and economy that no one’s ever even dreamed of using it as a preemptive strategy. But what if we could convince them to trigger it prior to the invasion? Krupin needs a worthy opponent to make him look powerful. He needs spectacular battles, glorious victories, even heart-rending defeats. For him, this is about drama and nationalism and disruption. What if it was possible to deny him all that?”

  CHAPTER 30

  SALEKHARD

  RUSSIA

  “THEY say I can’t even have one glass of wine. I’ll bet if I were Russian it wouldn’t be problem.”

  Azarov gripped his phone tighter, knuckles whitening and the plastic flexing noticeably. Cara’s voice barely carried over the marginal connection. The energy and joy that had once propelled it was gone. Taken by him.

  “You didn’t laugh,” she said. “My delivery isn’t as good as it used to be, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His apology sounded laughably hollow. Sorry for what exactly? Dragging her into his world? Letting her sacrifice herself for his sins? Leaving her to fend for herself, full of tubes and trapped in a hospital bed? The list seemed to have no end.

  “What are you doing?” she said, trying to pry more than two words out of him. While she was undoubtedly improving, conversations in which he took the lead were easier for her.

  “I’m at CIA headquarters. Helping them understand what’s happening in Russia.”

  Another lie that would eventually lead to another apology. In fact, he was sitting in a dilapidated apartment in northwestern Russia, staring through a dirty window at the rain. Across the street, a gray house listed slightly to the right behind an unmaintained wooden fence. It was the home of a former soldier who shared it with his wife and two school-aged daughters. He’d left the army almost a decade ago to take a series of mining jobs throughout the country. This would be the last of them, though. It was here that his brain tumor had been discovered and deemed inoperable.