by Mark Greaney
• • •
Chavez, Caruso, and Linus Sabonis met in a room at the Kempinski Hotel in Cathedral Square. Sabonis had a dozen armed men watching over him, so Chavez and Caruso were surprised when they were not searched, wanded, or run through any sort of security before finding themselves sitting in front of the nation’s top intelligence officer. They just simply entered the room, shook hands with a few men, and sat down.
“My friend Peter Branyon told me what you did.” Sabonis shrugged. “Not so much who you are, though, other than the fact you are not current employees of his organization.”
The Americans did not respond.
Sabonis said, “I thank you for what you have done for my country already, but I would like to ask something more of you.”
Chavez said, “We’d be happy to help in any way we can.”
“We know of over one hundred Russian assets or agents here . . . I am speaking of Vilnius, not even the whole of the nation. FSB men and their informants, working in the city. They have a good operation to monitor SSD employees like myself, as well as CIA, MI6, and other agents friendly to our cause. It is truly their main role in the nation, neutralizing their opposition. Keeping our eyes down and our ears tuned in to the countersurveillance mission.”
Dom said, “You are saying there is an intelligence stalemate here, which works to their advantage, because they can just wait for an invasion, at which point they can simply round the intelligence opposition up.”
“That’s right,” Sabonis said. “Except there is an interesting wrinkle in the status quo. Another group of opposition here in the city. My men have tried to pin down who they are and what they are doing. Clearly they are on the side of the Russians, but they are not Russian, not from any of the other embassies here.”
“How do you know about them?”
“We’ve heard rumblings, both out in the border towns and now here in Vilnius. These are not the Little Green Men who are actually Russian military. No, this is a foreign proxy force of some kind.”
Dom said, “Like the guys who we came in contact with last night?”
“Exactly like those men you speak of,” said Linus Sabonis. “I am thinking you two men might be the only people on our side of things who have actually encountered them.”
“Any idea what they are doing here?” Dom asked.
“My feeling is they were brought in because the FSB is aware that they are known to us. This other force is being kept here in the city, ready to act in some way in support of the invasion. In what capacity, I do not know.”
Ding said, “They were damn well trained. I was sure they were some sort of Spetsnaz force until Branyon insisted they weren’t even Russian. I’ve got to assume they are here to disrupt any defense. Political assassinations, deniable actions. Obviously they are trained in kidnapping as well. You’ve got problems, Mr. Director.”
“Which is why I wanted to talk to you. I’d like you to attempt to draw these men out in some way. Just enough to find out who they are. If we can identify another actor here in country, we can reveal this to the international media. Perhaps pressure whatever country these forces come from to withdraw them.”
Chavez said, “I get it. You want to use us as bait.”
Sabonis shrugged. “There is a benefit around here to not being known by the opposition. My first thought was to do this without asking your permission. Since I am known to the Russians, just walking up to you in a café and sitting down would put the eyes of the FSB upon you. At that point you would be marked by the opposition.”
Dom didn’t like the thought of this guy forcing them into playing bait like that. He said, “And the only reason you didn’t was because you didn’t know if that would just get the FSB you already know to tail us, as opposed to the other guys.”
“Frankly, yes. These are desperate times for my nation, as you can imagine. My intentions are in the best interests of Lithuania.” He leaned forward. “But now that I have told you how I want to use you, it might interest you to know I have a plan how you can attract the interest of the correct unit. Just to draw them out.”
“How?” Chavez asked.
“Since the shootout at the border, a group of men has been outside the apartment of Peter Branyon, conducting surveillance on the building. We received a report of this from a local, who was adamant these men were speaking some language other than Russian. I can only assume they found Branyon’s home address when they kidnapped him. A key, a receipt, a laundry ticket, something on his person. They are not FSB, we are certain of that, because they are not in interaction with anyone we know here in the city, and we have the FSB in a stalemate.
“Our first thought was to get the local police to pick them up and check their documents, and to perhaps interview them, but it occurs to me they wouldn’t be here without good cover stories and good-looking credentials. No, we need to catch them in the act of doing something . . . something where we will have some leverage over them.”
Caruso said, “Again, you want to use us as a way to entrap them.”
Sabonis nodded. “If the two of you went to Branyon’s apartment and entered it, made it clear somehow that you had an objective of an intelligence collection or operations nature, then perhaps you would be recognized as the two men involved in the gunfight at the border. At that point, I can only assume you would be followed by the proxy force. They will want to know who you are. Their lack of knowledge about your existence the other day led to the deaths of five of them, after all.”
Dom said, “And when these guys start following us, your men will swoop in and take them down.”
Director Sabonis lit a cigarette. The Campus men had yet to encounter a soul in Lithuania who did not smoke. He said, “If it were that easy we would do just that. But my entire staff is being followed, as I said. If my men come to your aid, you will also draw the attention of the FSB.”
Now Dom really didn’t like where this was going. “So you want the two of us to reveal ourselves to some malevolent group we haven’t identified, and then . . . what? We take them down ourselves?”
Sabonis shook his head. “No, of course not. You two are the carrot. You simply use other men from your organization to serve as the stick.”
Dom had been sitting forward on the sofa, but now he rocked back, looked away in frustration.
Chavez just smiled. “For all intents and purposes, Director Sabonis, the two guys sitting in front of you represent the entire operational capacity of our organization.”
The Lithuanian intelligence chief just sighed. He conferred with one of his men for a moment, speaking Lithuanian, of course, then returned his attention to the Americans. “If you can get the men to follow you, we can arrange for a police roadblock. The FSB isn’t watching our individual policemen here in the city.”
Caruso looked to Chavez. “Those guys we shot it out with at the border. They had skills. They were utterly ruthless . . . They would chew up a police roadblock in nothing flat.”
Chavez nodded. “You’re right. They had no compunction about killing, and they have been trained to do it well.”
Sabonis waved his hand in the air. “I am not talking about the men who write the traffic tickets here. I can get a unit of ARAS, our Interior Ministry counterterrorism police. They are no good for surveillance duties, so we can’t help with that, but they are serious gunmen. If you lead these mysterious interlopers to them, they will be able to arrest them . . . or do whatever they need to do to remove the threat.”
Chavez nodded. “I don’t know what choice we have, or what choice Lithuania has. Whatever this force’s mission is here, taking some or all of them off the table is worth the risk.”
Now Dom Caruso said, “If we do this for you, I think it’s only fair you supply us with weapons.”
Sabonis nodded. “No problem at all. You can choose from whatever ARAS has available.”
He stood. It was obvious he had other places to be. “Very well. I will leave you with my assistant to work out the details of the operation. I thank you for your service to Lithuania. I hope, when this crisis passes, you men can come back here and see what a nice and peaceful place this is.”
The men shook hands, and the Campus operators expressed their wish to someday return, although both men wondered if this city was just days from finding itself behind the New Iron Curtain.
62
President Jack Ryan had done his best to get as much sleep as he could on the flight back from Europe so he would be ready to hit the ground running upon his return to D.C. He’d managed four and a half hours of rest, which was less than he’d hoped for but more than he’d expected, but his body clock was thrown off by the seven-hour time difference.
The international press had been hard on President Ryan’s stop-off in Sweden after his failure with NATO. Many editorialized that it was cynical of him, and they characterized his actions as storming away from a failure. Insults flew from half the newspapers on the continent, accusing him of using the dead of the Swedish Airlines flight as pawns in his militaristic game.
But his meeting with the prime minister of Sweden had gone well. Ryan didn’t mention the fact he was considering unilateral action in Lithuania, but he hinted that he was prepared to help the Baltic nation resist the Russians in some way. The prime minister expressed his fury at the Russians for the deaths of his countrymen on SA44, and with a handshake he told Ryan he personally would do all he could to encourage his national legislature to support America should it get involved in the Baltic.
Ryan sat in the Oval Office now at four-thirty p.m., the fading light of the late-October day still glowing through the windows behind him, but with all the time changes he’d undergone, he felt like it was midnight after a full day’s work.
And on top of his fatigue today was the worry about the two thousand Marines he was considering sending into harm’s way. Two thousand versus fifty thousand was an oversimplification. The Lithuanians had a brigade-strength force of four thousand or so of their own troops, plus another five thousand volunteer militia who could be used for non-front-line duty: roadblocks, rear security, and the like.
And the two thousand Marines would be assisted by U.S. Air Force aircraft flying from all over Europe, perhaps even from B-52s and other platforms flown from the USA.
But still, the Marines heading into the Baltic were going to be seriously outnumbered, and a lot of them would die.
Ryan reached for his coffee and downed a third of it as his secretary came over the intercom. “Mr. President, Director Foley and Secretary Burgess are here.”
Ryan tapped the intercom. “Send them in, please.”
All three sat on the sofas in front of the President’s desk. Ryan thought they would have some defense-related intelligence product to show him; he wasn’t certain about their request for the quick meeting but had assumed it would only involve satellite photos over Belarus.
But they had nothing in front of them.
Mary Pat said, “Mr. President, technicians at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency have been working on a project for the past three and a half years that we would like to bring to your attention because we think it might be helpful now.”
Ryan said, “I get briefings on ongoing NGA projects. Which one is it?”
Burgess said, “Actually, this is one you don’t know about. It was something that seemed a little pie-in-the-sky a couple of years ago, from the viewpoint of the DoD, so it didn’t get a lot of funding or attention. But now we at the Pentagon have seen what this system can do, and we want your blessing to use it.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
Mary Pat still had nothing to show him, which he thought was odd. She said, “The project is called EARLY SENTINEL. It melds the latest satellite and global-positioning data, signals and electronic intelligence information, along with high-quality battle-space imagery and ballistics and trajectory data.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“To radically speed up the deployment process of troops into combat zones, and to increase the efficiency of the troops.”
“It’s . . . it’s a computer program?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And it will speed up deployment by how much?”
“Compared to just four years ago, by a factor of five. What used to take a day can now be accomplished in under five hours.”
Ryan was incredulous. “You’re kidding.”
Burgess said, “I’ve seen it in action. It’s as good as the NGA advertised it from the beginning.”
“How does it work?”
Mary Pat said, “I’m going to give you the simplest version of this I can give you, not to patronize you, Mr. President, but simply because I don’t understand it all myself. NGA has put into their system all the data regarding Russian troops in position in both Kaliningrad and Belarus, including weapons systems and logistical needs, and dozens and dozens of additional criteria. And NGA also inputs all the ballistic and terminal data of the weapons of our troops. They’ve taken information from the Pentagon and DIA about our assumptions for the Russian plan of attack, and the specific terrain, geography, meteorology, architecture, soil composition, and hundreds of other pieces of data.”
Burgess nodded. “Even humidity, the percentages of leaves left on the trees this time of year, even rainfall and wind data.”
“Keep going,” Ryan instructed.
Mary Pat said, “All this data generates specific positional deployment orders down to the level of the individual warfighter. We can tell a specific Marine rifleman, for instance, which window in a particular apartment building he needs to position himself in in order to have a line of sight on both a specific clock tower where a Russian sniper might hide himself and the highway, so he can report up to his command if heavy trucks pass. We’ve mapped out individual geometries of fire for every different weapon on the battlefield, including indirect-fire weapons, laser targeting devices, and other more technical weapons.”
Burgess broke in again. “So when the time comes to deploy, we give information to the battalion commander, who tasks his company commander, who sends it down to his people, et cetera, et cetera. By the time the helicopters, Ospreys, and C-130s land in Lithuania, we will have a battalion of Marines with each one knowing exactly where he needs to be.
“The NGA has determined that the Russians’ options for attack are extremely limited. Terrain is the culprit chiefly. Those tanks can’t pick and choose where they want to cross the border. They have to do it somewhere high and dry enough for them to avoid getting bogged down.
“The logistics staff will have the most work, of course, but once everyone is in place, it will be down to the eighteen-year-old rifleman to know that, if he orients himself in just the right direction, he’ll have the best situational awareness for his location.”
Ryan was skeptical. “The map is not the territory.”
Burgess said, “Very true, but this is not a map. We’ve had operatives in Lithuania in the past two weeks taking hundreds of high-level images that were input into the system to increase the precision even more.”
Burgess had been ready for pushback from Ryan. “NGA had a lot of skeptics at the Pentagon, as you can imagine, myself included. And obviously we understand that several factors are involved that we cannot possibly control for. But our war planners who have been working on the Lithuania area of operations for the past several weeks, refining it the moment our satellites showed us just who showed up for the snap drill . . . they are convinced EARLY SENTINEL provides the most efficient and effective way to deploy our assests to turn our Marines into a blocking force against an enemy vastly superior in numbers.”
Mary Pat Foley said, “The most important feature of this program, Mr. President, is the de
ception element.”
“Deception?”
“Yes, sir. With deployment sped up by a factor of five, we can hold our units in reserve until the moment we know the attack is imminent. The Russians will see no barriers ahead of them, they will formulate their movements accordingly.”
Ryan said, “And then, when they get over the border, they are suddenly up against well-trained Marines who weren’t there four hours earlier.”
“Correct.”
“I want to see how this works,” Ryan said, his fatigue momentarily forgotten in the excitement of this new program.
Mary Pat did not look surprised. “I’d be very pleased to show you, Mr. President. I can have a PowerPoint worked up and I can deliver it myself.”
Ryan shook his head. “You misunderstand me, Mary Pat. I want to go to the Pentagon, right now, or the NGA building in Springfield, if that’s where I need to go. I want to sit at a desk, and I want to see this. I’m not going to micromanage our military in this. If the Pentagon wants to use EARLY SENTINEL, then that’s what we’ll do. But I want to see it for myself.”
Mary Pat nodded, still not surprised that Ryan, an ex–CIA analyst, required raw data in his face to make up his mind on how to proceed.
• • •
The Granite was an oil-products tanker hauling kerosene from Houston to Tallinn, Estonia, with a stop-off in Gdańsk, Poland. It had just left port in Gdańsk three hours earlier, and was now steaming northeast in international waters just west of Kaliningrad.
The captain of the Granite was South Korean, and his crew almost exclusively Malaysian. He had strayed east of the regular shipping lanes by design, hoping to avoid the high seas that would come from a storm passing to the east. He kept a keen eye on his marine navigation computers, kept himself clear of hazards and other traffic, as well as national boundaries.
He was vigilant, but he never saw the boat that killed him, nor did he see the instrument of his death. The boat was the Vyborg, a Russian Kilo-class submarine that had been in service for thirty-five years. And the weapon was the Type 53-65, a five-thousand-pound, twenty-five-foot-long torpedo.