Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  The colonel general could not make out the Narva end of the big, wide bridge in such decimated visibility. Turning around, he also saw thick darkness coating his side of the river, where strict light and noise discipline had been imposed. What could not be totally suppressed was the grumble of dozens of vehicles being guided into position: Armata tanks and armored personnel carriers and missile batteries and trucks of every sort clattered and ground their gears and squeaked. The stirring of troops rose as a hushed shuffle.

  He took a final look at the bulk of the Hermann Castle on the Narva side and thought briefly about how useless such things had become. Instead of months of bombardment by cannonballs and a starvation siege, the big castle would fall to him tomorrow morning with a simple handshake with the mayor, whose name Levchenko could not recall at the moment.

  Months had been spent planning this thrust, now everything was being shifted into final positions through these vital last hours of darkness. When nine o’clock came, his force would uncoil like a powerful snake. As they moved over the 530-foot-long major bridge, they would also seize the pedestrian bridge near Kreenholm Island and the important railroad span that connected the two countries. Trains loaded with gear and supplies waited on sidings deeper in Russia.

  By the end of the day, he would have about two hundred vehicles and five thousand men across the river. They would be guarded by artillery tubes set deep behind Ivanogrod, thickets of antiaircraft missiles, squadrons of helicopter gunships and stacks of fighter-bombers.

  Once it began, Levchenko had no intention of stopping at the Narva city limits. The Estonians probably would be in action by then, and the general could order a full assault all along the border. The battle for the Baltics could begin in earnest. He took a final sniff of the wet air, and it had the smell of glory. He then left the rugged stone wall and walked back to his headquarters. The staff was hard at work, and a big clock was just striking two o’clock in the morning.

  32

  TALLIN, ESTONIA

  SWANSON AND CALICO MADE the trip in about two hours, each minute clanging like a church bell marking a funeral. The closer they got to Tallinn, the more she demanded that he hurry. He refused. Slow is smooth; smooth is fast. No room for error this close to home. He pulled to the curb in front of the house at two fifteen a.m., and slumped over the wheel that he had been gripping so hard that his fingers hurt. Jan Hollings flung open her door and dashed for the stairs, where an astonished CIA agent recognized her and yelled inside, “She’s here!”

  She hurried past the entranceway and hurled herself at her husband, Tom Markey, who grabbed her like she was the essence of life itself, and they rocked together in the unison of a slow dance while hugging and murmuring and weeping.

  Swanson came in more slowly, moved around the embracing couple, and barked, “Clear this house of all unauthorized essential personnel. Get a full guard detail outside, call some local cops for backup, and fuck if the neighbors complain. We have a full emergency on our hands, people.”

  Everything stopped for a confused moment. “Who the hell are you?” asked a startled army captain, one of Markey’s staff members.

  “Kyle Swanson with the CIA.” He brushed past the officer and into the dining room, where a table and sideboard were laden with radio and satellite communication gear. “Whoever works this rig get me a direct link to Langley right now. I want Marty Atkins, the deputy director of clandestine operations, on the other end. The operator, I and Colonel and Mrs. Markey will be the only ones in the room. Close it off.”

  “You can’t—” the captain started to say, following him into the room.

  Kyle effortlessly punched him in the gut. “Yes I can, and I just did. We are NOT playing around tonight, people. Consider yourselves, as of now, on a war footing. Get off your asses and do what I say and we will work on the details later.”

  “I’m the comms officer. War?” sputtered the captain, who had fallen onto a chair and was trying to catch a breath. He felt that an anvil had been dropped on him.

  Swanson helped him to his feet. “Now you’re getting the hang of this. Crank up your stuff.”

  From behind them came the soft voice of Colonel Markey: “Do as he says.”

  * * *

  ESTONIA WAS SEVEN HOURS ahead of Washington, so while it was 2:30 on Tuesday morning in Tallinn, it was still Monday evening in Virginia. Marty Atkins was about to adjourn a group situational briefing when an aide rushed in with a note. The time stamp was 1935, or 7:35 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. He read it, broke into a smile and clapped his hand on the conference table. “Calico is out!” he shouted. “She’s free and safe. I’ve got a call waiting from Estonia. You folks stick here until I get back with the details. Somebody pass the word over to Dean Thomas at the White House.”

  MOSCOW

  Sleep would not come to President Vladimir Pushkin. He had done everything he could and, as much as he hated it, he was at the point at which he had to trust his subordinates to carry out his orders. He was not strong on trust.

  Pushkin tried not to disturb his wife when he climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, and she only turned over and changed the tone of her breathing momentarily, then resumed a normal rhythm. The Russian leader found his slippers and his robe and after doing his business at the toilet, went to a full-length window that opened onto a patio, and pushed it wide.

  He had spent other nights like this, when his nerves jangled with excitement, but he had never lost courage. One by one, his targets and opponents had fallen, because he stayed firm in his belief that he could restore Russia to its rightful place as a global superpower. Keep pushing the West, ever so gently, but always pushing. The United States, badly bloodied in the Middle East, had lost its taste for foreign wars. Europe still remembered two world wars, the Cold War and innumerable conflicts between themselves of the past hundred years or so, and hid behind the shadow of NATO. Their combined power seemed formidable on paper, but that unity was about to be severely tested. Would France abandon her flighty lifestyle to send soldiers to die for Estonia? Would the selfish Italians lay it all on the line for Latvia? Would little Portugal really commit the lives of its troops for Lithuania?

  The official declaration sounded good; twenty-eight nations guaranteeing mutual defense. But would Iceland really join the fight, and if it did, who cared? The country had less than four hundred troops, including reserves. Albania? Slovenia?

  Pushkin’s conclusion had been that NATO had become a paper tiger. In Ukraine and Georgia and Chechnya, they had done little more than chant protests. Never back down, he reminded himself.

  The tabletop digital clock flashed its scarlet numbers as he climbed back into bed and pulled up the coverlet and snuggled against his wife. Three o’clock in the morning, the same as in Estonia. Six hours. Time would tell.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The president and his first lady had been hosting a formal state dinner at the White House for the prime minister of Japan, starting with a receiving line at eight o’clock. He was in a great mood after receiving the news that still another problem had been resolved: the CIA agent in Estonia had been rescued and was safe at home. She and her husband would be flying to Washington tomorrow, and he looked forward to their private meeting. She had done a wonderful job over there for eight years.

  The grip-and-grin receiving line gave way to cocktails for a hundred VIP guests, and since it was so warm outside, the dinner was held on the South Lawn beneath a trellis of little lights. His national security adviser, Dean Thomas, also wearing a tuxedo, came up, trying not to look worried. He whispered in the president’s ear that an emergency meeting was being called in the Situation Room. President Thompson glanced at him and saw the seriousness in his friend’s eyes. “Start it without me. I will be there right after the speech,” he said.

  The president carried on with smooth, practiced normality, for there were members of the media present and the nearby press room guaranteed that anything he said out of the or
dinary would be instantly turned into a news story. Jumping up and running to the basement was out of the question. He and the Japanese PM toasted with sake and both gave brief statements about the importance of the Pacific Rim while never mentioning the trade imbalance. While the dinner had been a marvelous concoction, the words were very standard fare. Then he told the guests to enjoy the musical portion of the program, and apologized for having to tend to a few things. He would rejoin them later, he promised.

  As soon as he was in the Situation Room, he knew that he would not be listening to the concert at all. Instead, he was listening to Kyle Swanson, in Estonia, talk about a possible war with Russia that could commence in only six hours. The Pentagon generals recommended getting ready for anything, and President Thompson agreed. He ordered DefCon Four.

  The orders flashed to the isolated bomber bases at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, to the Marine Corps at Twentynine Palms in California, to every naval battle group afloat, and to Army units based in Korea. Everybody wearing a United States military uniform was to be put on alert and every light in the Pentagon would soon be on.

  The United States military establishment snapped to Defense Condition Four at the order of President Christopher Thompson. Normally, things operated at DefCon Two in most theaters, which was just a bit above normal readiness conditions. The unending threat of terrorism had done that. This was much more serious. DefCon Four meant that all American armed forces throughout the world were to be ready to deploy and begin combat within six hours. The only step higher, DefCon Five, meant that nukes were flying. The nations of NATO were warned to prepare to repel an invasion. He placed a personal call to the president of the Republic of Estonia. America, he promised, would stand with them.

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  General Frederick Ravensdale was asleep, alone, in his quarters when he was awakened by his aide. He automatically reached out to touch Arial Printas, only to find empty space and realize where he was. “Yes, I’m awake. What is it?” He was grumpy. Middle of the bloody night!

  “Sah!” A full colonel was beside his bed and someone else was turning on lights. “The U.S. has gone to DefCon Four and all NATO commanders are needed for an emergency meeting at oh-five-hundred hours. That is in thirty minutes, sir.”

  “What is this ruckus, Colonel?” Ravensdale rubbed his eyes against the sudden brightness.

  “I don’t know, sir. Our chums the Russians seem to be up to something over there in Estonia. A video conference is being set up and you are needed at our headquarters.”

  Ravensdale’s gut churned. Narva, he thought. They are going for Narva.

  “Your car will be waiting as soon as you are ready, sir. Staff is being gathered.” The colonel started to leave, but had one more thing. “Bit of good news, sir. That American spy who was captured has been freed. Stroke of luck there, eh? We will have hot tea and biscuits waiting at the office, sir.”

  The general looked up blankly. “Very well,” he said, and the visitors left the room so he could dress. He went to the bathroom and almost puked before getting himself under control. The change of command to CJTF 10 had not yet occurred, so he still had a hand in shaping the NATO response. He knew what Arial would advise.

  TALLINN, ESTONIA

  “I can stop this,” Kyle Swanson declared with his usual absolute certainty. He was on the screen with Marty Atkins. Jan Hollings was absent, having been taken to her upstairs bedroom. As feisty as she might be, Calico had been through an emotional ordeal and desperately needed rest. A doctor gave her a sedative and she was sound asleep. Colonel Markey had stayed with her until she was down for the count then came downstairs for the video conference.

  Kyle saw him enter the room and turned from the screen momentarily to inform him about the jump to DefCon Four. That meant the colonel would have to report to his office immediately to handle the cyberwarfare front. His team probably was already on the way. The doctor said Jan would be asleep for about eight hours solid, so he could leave her with the nurse.

  “How?” Atkins asked Swanson. “What can you do that the rest of us can’t?”

  “I can go back to Narva by helicopter with a squad of Estonian troopers for protection, and take a ground-laser designator up into that big castle that overlooks the river. Then give me an F-18 with some Paveway smart bombs overhead and I will paint that bridge for them. Blow it to hell and back. Piece of cake, Marty.”

  “No,” Atkins answered firmly. “You’ve been constantly on the go. Get some rest.”

  “I can sleep when I’m dead, Marty. I’m the best person available for this job and I’m almost next door to the place. I can do it.”

  “Kyle, you are at least two hours away, using a helicopter or not. Things are moving too fast for you to pull another Lone Ranger mission. So. No. Anyway, we are discussing something else for you to do later today.”

  “Damn it!” He looked ferocious.

  Tom Markey broke into the conversation. “Kyle sometimes forgets that he is smack in the middle of Europe’s Silicon Valley, Marty. Electrons move faster than men around here. I have an idea.”

  NARVA, ESTONIA

  The mayor was found a little after six o’clock on Tuesday morning, still tied to his chair. The relief guard had arrived, found no Volvo outside and no guard. He rang and knocked and called out, but all of that went unanswered. He walked around back and peered in. Nothing but a mudroom with a door closed. Going back the other way, he spied a lumpy black plastic raincoat between two trees, and a foot sticking out beneath it. The cop drew his gun, ran to the front and kicked in the door. Konstantin Pran and his wife were safe, but locked down. And another policeman, quite dead, was drenched in blood.

  Mayor Pran was livid with rage, but the single officer was in no position to do anything else alone. He radioed for help and police cars flooded into the neighborhood. Despite his loud demonstrations, complaints, demands and threats, the new mayor had some serious issues that needed to be explained. Two dead guards and an escaped American spy required a thorough investigation. The mayor protested that he had to get to his office immediately, and could reveal what happened later.

  The chief of police refused to let him leave the house until Pran went over everything in detail, including why the alleged raider in the black mask had not killed him. Another question was the clay necklace and dud detonator worn by his wife. The chief thought the mayor might be in on this so-called escape, so he called across the river to ask Colonel General Levchenko for instructions.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Almost midnight. It was time for the presidents to talk. Both knew their words would be studied by future generations, particularly if things went bad. Special phones carried the conversation so it would be heard by hand-wringing aides in the Situation Room and in the Kremlin in Moscow. Once the courteous pleasantries were observed, they got directly to business.

  “It is my duty as president of the United States to make it plain, President Pushkin, that we will stand beside our NATO ally, Estonia, should hostilities begin there.” Thompson had removed his tuxedo jacket but still wore the starched shirt, unable to break away from the crisis even long enough to go up to the executive quarters and change clothes.

  “And I, President Thompson, emphasize that we have no designs on Estonia.”

  “Sir, your country has gathered a very large military presence at the border, particularly at the Narva bridge. That is an aggressive posture and one that we must take most seriously.”

  “President Thompson, the troops you mention are merely preparing for the second phase of a war game named Operation Hermitage. Your people observed the first part only a few days ago. It is designed to repel any attack on St. Petersburg. Meanwhile, the United States has elevated its readiness status to DefCon Four? We find that quite troubling.”

  “That was our reaction to the entire situation that has developed during the past week, President Pushkin. NATO has no intention of harming St. Petersburg, or any other place in Russia. You
know that. Please forgive me, but it is a ridiculous scenario.”

  “As is your assertion that Russia plans to storm into the Baltic States.”

  Chris Thompson looked around the room. Nobody believed the Russian president, but the conversation was in danger of falling into a he-said, he-said exchange. It was better to remain subtle. While Pushkin was waffling words, the clock was ticking and history was watching.

  “We both desire the continuing peace between our nations, Mr. President,” said Thompson. “Nothing must jeopardize it.”

  “On that we are in absolute agreement, Mr. President,” replied Pushkin. “I can pledge that Russia will not be the first to fire in any Estonian border skirmish that develops because of your DefCon Four. I ask for your restraint. Good day, sir.”

  Vladimir Pushkin was still relaxed, although he had not expected the DefCon-Four development. However, he had gambled with fate many times, and usually won. There was still time left, so he decided to let the dice roll a while longer.

  In Washington, Thompson said “Good-bye” and the U.S. Army Signal Corps operator terminated the call. The president stuffed his hands in his pockets and let his eyes go around the room, then said, “Pushkin is blowing smoke and leaving himself a lot of wiggle room. My opinion is that they’re going to do it. Let me hear some final alternatives and go over that SSGN thing, the submarine-launched cruise missile, again.”