Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “Of course, but it is not me. Moscow is doing it and fully realizes the risks and the rewards. The Black Train is the only free item on my menu today, Kyle. Now that I have crossed the line and left my job, I need money. I will want a lot of money for further information, with more to come as I yield more intelligence gold, and I want my new CIA friends to arrange a new and comfortable life for me.”

  Kyle grinned. “How about this instead: We throw your skinny ass into a prison if you don’t tell us everything?”

  Ivan did not change expression. “Ah. At last, we are bargaining. The best things in life aren’t free.” He finished his coffee in silence, then he spoke again. “That deportation tip is free because I wanted to establish a baseline that will prove my information is valid and important. I want a million dollars for the next big thing, which you obviously did not see during your visit. I admit being a bit surprised that you missed it.”

  Swanson gave a derisive grunt. “Hardly. It does not require a genius to figure out that the new road construction, the fuel facilities, the nice new airstrip and the buildup of troops in and around the Ivangorod Fortress are to increase tension along the border.”

  Now it was Strakov’s turn to smirk. “You really didn’t catch it, did you? I should be asking ten million.”

  “What? You want the cash, earn it.”

  “Go ask your masters, or put me back in my room, Swanson. You, of all people, know they could not break me in any interrogation.” He glared over at the big mirror. “When the shit hits the fan, the world will ask why the CIA let this all happen for a lousy million bucks. Let me remind you that we are not even at the good stuff yet; the codes and the data banks.”

  Swanson walked out of the room. The analyst and the technician were sitting there dumbfounded and Calico was already on the telephone to Washington, describing the defector’s revelation. She held a finger up to keep him quiet and listened for a minute, then said, “Yes. I consider that the first nugget he handed over is very important. It is confirmation of what we had heard about a Black Train taking away prisoners, but could not confirm. Russia is clearing out its critics in the Estonian border, probably shipping them to Siberia, just like in the bad old days.”

  Her golden hair picked up available light in flashes when she nodded in the direction of CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Her voice was soft, but firm. “Yes. That information about the Disappeareds alone is worth the price. God knows what else he’s got. I recommend we do it.”

  A longer reply. Calico turned and stared at Kyle. “Yes. I recommend giving him the whole package: new identity, a secret account, the works. We can always take it back and shoot the son of a bitch if he’s lying.” Jan Hollings terminated the encrypted conversation and pointed at Kyle. “They are patched through on a live uplink, so they heard and saw it all. Go make the deal,” she said.

  Swanson returned to his seat, carrying two cups of fresh coffee. “Okay, Ivan. You’re a rich man now. So impress me. What did I miss?”

  Strakov said, “Excellent. Good decision. The Armata, Kyle. You did not mention the Armata!”

  Kyle closed his eyes for a moment, and exhaled a long sigh, almost visualizing the panic in the adjoining room and back at Langley.

  13

  SWANSON KEPT HIS FACE like stone, but thought: Well, that was certainly worth a million. It was also the ticket that would allow him to leave the negotiation. People at big desks and wearing stars on their collars would soon notice they were suddenly having trouble breathing, and wondering about those chest-tightening squeezes around their hearts.

  Kyle had not seen an Armata nor any evidence whatsoever that there was one around Narva. The last memo on Russian military preparedness had declared the weapons platforms were not even supposed to exist yet. The timetable for the first MBT Armata T-96 main battle tank to roll off the production line at the Uralvagonzavod factories was still more than a year away. At least that was according to the best data collected by the Western intelligence agencies over the past decade. If Ivan was right, then the analysts had seriously screwed up and the Russians had fielded a tank that could maul the best U.S. armor in a head-on fight.

  “An Armata?” he finally said to the colonel. “I call bullshit on that, Ivan. Russia has a hard time building a decent automobile, much less a Star Wars muscle tank way ahead of schedule. Even field testing has not yet begun on that toy.”

  Strakov stifled a chuckle, and a big smile lit his face. He knew he had their attention now. “Kyle, we don’t care about building cars because we can buy Italian Ferraris or Japanese Hondas from dealerships in any of our big cities. Military development is an entirely different beast. There are at least one hundred operational Armata platforms in the immediate area around St. Petersburg, all of which could be vectored over to the Narva bridgehead within an hour. Black Eagle tanks, Boomerang armored vehicles, tracked artillery, mobile antiaircraft, and Kurganets infantry fighting armor. Quite a few are already around Narva. I was counting on you seeing at least one.”

  “Well, I didn’t. So they are probably not there. You could be lying through your teeth about this just to get cash.”

  “But I am not. What this tells me is that our new electronic stealth-and-cover technology is also working, leaving your satellites blind. Otherwise, how could they miss a fifty-ton tank being hauled into position? That information is probably worth another million, and I have a lot more than hardware.”

  Swanson heard Calico’s voice in his ear, soft but urgent, telling him to wrap it up. He stood away from the table and stretched. “Well, buddy, you’ve just graduated far beyond my pay grade, so our session is over. You obviously have good info, and I think you can stop worrying about the value of a Russian ruble.”

  Ivan Strakov was not ready to break off the talk. He held the upper hand and didn’t want to stop. “Oh, we’re not done yet, Kyle. I still want you as my intermediary.”

  Swanson shrugged. “You are out of my league, Strakov. I’m just a washed-up old sniper who now hustles for a living in the private sector, while you are a slick intelligence genius. The U.S. government and NATO have specialists who can understand what you have to say. I do not. I mean, apparently I could not even see the world’s meanest tank when you pointed me straight at it. So, adios, compadre. See you around the campus.”

  Strakov said, “Don’t think you can walk out on me, Kyle.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking, Colonel Strakov. Good guess.”

  “You will be back soon.”

  “No. I’m heading back to Washington in a few hours. My personal opinion is that you were a liar twenty years ago and you are a better liar now. Send me an e-mail in about thirty years to let me know how this all turns out. I’m done with you.”

  Strakov’s eyes turned hard as marbles and humorless and he walked over to face the mirror, looking through his reflection to those on the other side. “You people in there have a problem. Your negotiator here thinks he can call me a liar, then just up and leave whenever he wants. Change his mind. You are facing a madman and a major threat to NATO. You have no time to spare; absolutely none!”

  * * *

  THE THREE CIA PEOPLE had the looks of a small herd of deer caught in oncoming headlights when Kyle reentered their lair. “You’re not seriously considering leaving now, are you?” Calico raised an eyebrow. “We’re just getting started. This stuff is gold, Kyle!”

  “I am totally serious. Ivan will talk to your experts for enough money, or if you put a hood on his head and let our pals in Guantánamo have a crack at him. You don’t need me for either of those things.” Swanson held his hands before him, palms up. “Worse, I don’t like him, and I think he is blowing smoke. Do not think that a brick of cash will guarantee the truth.”

  Jan Hollings said, “Armata battlewagons being deployed is not smoke, Kyle. Quite the opposite.”

  “That hardware was going to be online sooner or later anyway, Jan. They have been on the trade-show circuit for so long
that you can probably buy a detailed model at your local hobby store.”

  “But we are not ready for something like that! NATO isn’t ready! It would be a disaster if those beasts start rolling.”

  “Then tell NATO to get ready. There is nothing I can do about that!” Swanson was exasperated. All he wanted to do was leave. “The value of Colonel Strakov is in an entirely different area. You really want what he may possess: cyberspace, black information and intent. The Armata dump is a sideshow, just to get your attention. I am no tank warfare genius, but neither is he. No tank, not even a super-tank, can fight a war all by itself. He dropped that pearl just to get your attention. He got it.”

  The analyst spoke in a low tone. “You are misreading the situation, Agent Swanson. The Armatas actually do represent a serious threat. If a hundred of those monsters descend along Estonia’s border all at one time, it would be catastrophic. NATO would have to respond. A war would erupt.”

  Kyle blew out a breath. “That is not going to happen. You are the ones misreading the situation. The question is not about a new piece of hardware, but why is Ivan painting this nightmare. I am a trained scout, spent years doing it, and nothing that I saw over in Narva indicates any fight on a massive scale. For one thing, there were no huge ammunition dumps or major supply depots. Those things have to be as big as mountains to sustain a major attack. So possible trouble, yes. Escalating tension, yes. War, no.”

  “But suppose you are wrong, Kyle?” Calico reached for the encrypted phone. “We have to imagine the worst-case scenario.”

  “Whatever. I bid you all a fond farewell and wish you good luck, fair winds and following seas. I have a plane to catch.” He straightened his jacket and walked away.

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  Dirty weather came roaring down from the Arctic Circle early Sunday morning. Force-nine winds churned the Baltic Sea into a maelstrom, as towering rollers alternated with falling troughs and the winds skimmed away the foam on top in long streaks of spray. Captains of big ships buckled into their control-room seats. Overhead, the sky was the color of concrete and so turbulent that commercial airlines were rerouted rather than chance flying through the clouds. On the ground, trees and signs bent to the power of the storm, which threw debris at motorists. Animals huddled in shelters, away from the heavy snow-rain mix.

  The ugly conditions did not darken the mood of Colonel General Valery Ivanovich Levchenko in his opulent headquarters. On some days, the commander of the Western Military District felt like a lone dray horse trudging along an endless road, pulling the heavy load of the entire Russian Federation in a sleigh behind him. It was tiring. Outside, the wind clawed at the windows of his office, teasing him.

  Then came a ray of sunshine in the form of an urgent communique from Moscow. As he read it over word by word for a third time, he felt both anger and joy. The information only reconfirmed his belief that General of the Army Pavel Sergeyev, the chief of the general staff, was a timid old woman. This was the latest example of “Do Nothing Grams” from him. It stated that there was growing evidence that a certain Colonel Ivan Strakov of the GRU, who supposedly had perished recently in an airplane crash in Siberia, was not only still alive, but had defected to the Americans. Deep-cover intelligence sources reported that Strakov had shown up unexpectedly at the U.S. Embassy in Finland, and immediately had been swept into secrecy.

  The Kremlin message warned that if the report was true, Strakov posed extreme harm to Russia because he had for years been given immense access to top-secret material. Therefore, General Sergeyev in Moscow was ordering all senior military commanders to temporarily halt all operations that might be interpreted as aggressive and just remain vigilant pending further developments. They were to undertake absolutely no provocative actions. That, thought Levchenko, was the same as doing nothing.

  Ivan, you slippery bastard! You did it! Levchenko felt the heavy sled that he pulled advance a bit, and the load seemed a bit lighter as he plodded another step forward. Levchenko shouted, and his own chief of staff hurried into the office, snapping to attention. The chief knew the contents of the note, since he had been the one to decrypt and deliver it. He had been waiting for his boss to react.

  The colonel general was at the desk and had pulled a legal pad toward him and was furiously writing an order in longhand. “Pyotr Ivanovich, my friend, do I recall that during a briefing yesterday, there was a report that two GRU agents were murdered in that little castle over in Narva? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” the chief confirmed. “They were part of a sweep of some dissidents.”

  “No doubt it was an ambush, then? They were lured into a trap and killed. I mean, how else could a pair of highly trained GRU operatives be overpowered?”

  The chief could almost see the wheels turning within his boss’s busy brain. In his own opinion, the two thugs just got careless and picked on the wrong dissident, and on the wrong side of the border. “Yes, sir. It was an ambush. Without a doubt,” he agreed. “Two good, loyal police officers who were just doing their duties.”

  “At the request of local authorities in Narva, no doubt.” He was looking for a loophole in the facts.

  “Without question, sir. The locals would have asked for assistance in a dangerous mission against terrorists.” The chief made a note. He would arrange paperwork to back that up.

  With a grim smile, General Levchenko made the decision. “Then it was a deliberate provocation! We cannot sit by idly while those Estonian terrorists murder our people. Therefore, we are going to take advantage of this horrible weather to test combat preparedness under most adverse conditions. It will send them the message that we are prepared to act if these provocations continue, and we demand that justice be done. This storm is a blessing, Colonel. All divisional commanders will immediately begin preparations for Phase One of Operation Hermitage. Our troops are to respond to a simulated NATO attack on St. Petersburg.”

  “Sir? In this mad weather? We will surely lose valuable men.” The chief of staff read the crisp two-sentence order to be sure he had everything straight in his mind before leaving. It would stir the Baltic and the Northern Fleets to life, launch elements of the 6th and 20th Guard Armies, Spetsnaz and air assault units, and then the 1st Air and Air Defense Forces planes would take to the skies. Almost everybody in the district was going to get wet on this miserable and dangerous day. His general was not angry at all. In fact, he seemed excited and pleased. In a matter of minutes, he had molded the bad weather, the terrible news about the defector and the deaths of a pair of careless GRU thugs into a singular reason to start the gigantic war game. Moscow would be unable to question the decision.

  “Of course we will lose a few, Colonel Dolgov! Nature does not cooperate with military men, but we must be able to fight through it all. We will begin surveillance overflights of our entire border with Estonia to test NATO alertness as soon as possible,” he said. “I don’t care if this is the greatest storm in history, those pilots will scramble and take off or I will put my boot up their rear ends for being cowards.”

  “Yes, sir. As you order.” The colonel saluted and headed back to his adjoining office, happy that he was not in the air force.

  “And after you dispatch those orders to get Phase One under way, gather my Goon Squad. This is a great day for a run.”

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  The black pearl finish of the Audi A8 luxury sedan was beginning to spot with rain as Kyle Swanson sat comfortably in the rear compartment and let the driver do his job unmolested. He watched the turbulent sky for only a moment, knowing that his flight, a British Airways Airbus, would be moving away from the incoming storm that was battering northern Europe, and in the first-class cabin he would make the trip as smooth as possible. Money insulated him against many of the bumps in life as other people did the things necessary to accommodate him. The airline and limo reservations, everything from baggage handlers to concierge services, had been made by Janna Ecklund back in the States.


  He found the VIP waiting lounge at the airport, where he was surrounded by even more helpful people who served him drinks and snacks, took care of the ticketing and escorted him to a small private office. Thousands of people were on the move throughout the airport, but that was an entirely different world. With the rails greased even more with his black diplomatic passport and CIA creds, Kyle Swanson hardly had to lift a finger. Polite customs and security people came to him for a private security check. He felt like a fraud. This was not who he was. He was from a place that smelled like gun oil, not eau de cologne.

  Swanson checked the correct time as he opened his laptop. Belgium was only an hour ahead of London, so he would not be disturbing Sir Geoffrey Cornwell with a quick call. The old man probably wanted to know why Kyle was still hanging around Europe when he should be back in the Washington office of Excalibur Enterprises, milking cash out of the Pentagon budget. He selected the Skype icon at edge of the screen, the machine swam to life and seconds later a head-and-shoulders image of Sir Jeff appeared.

  “Kyle, my boy!” Cornwell called out, and in the background, off-camera, Swanson heard his mom, Lady Pat, shout out, “Is that Kyle? He’s still in Brussels, isn’t he?” She angled onto the screen with a smile. “Come to London!”

  “Hi, folks. How did you know where I am?”

  Jeff gave a guffaw. “You have been causing trouble again. I have received several calls from Belgium and from Langley within the past hour.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.” Belgium meant NATO, and the CIA was headquartered in Langley, Virginia. They had moved fast since he had walked away from the interview.