As Chernov’s sedan headed toward the airport, he pulled a folder from his leather briefcase and reviewed the document inside, preparing for his next meeting.
17
NEW DELHI, INDIA
Under a clear blue sky with the heat shimmering along the brick path before them, Chernov walked beside Indian President Deepak Madan as they strolled through the gardens behind Rashtrapati Bhavan, the presidential mansion atop Raisina Hill. Among the verdant trees and colorful flowers in Mughal Gardens, two channels of water ran north to south and another two east to west, dividing the garden into a large central court surrounded by a smaller grid of squares on the periphery. The air was still today and the water tranquil, its surface reflecting the imposing presidential residence, a four-story, 340-room mansion located within the sprawling 320-acre estate.
As the two men walked among lush vegetation, the sun beating down on them, Chernov was convinced Madan had left the air-conditioned spaces of his presidential palace not for privacy reasons, but to subject the Russian defense minister to the intense Indian heat. Perspiration dotted Chernov’s forehead and he resisted the urge to loosen his tie; it was only mid-spring, but the heat was suffocating, the temperature already cresting toward one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Additionally, they had left their interpreters behind, with Madan insisting they continue their conversation in English, as if to point out the ubiquity of America’s influence.
Thankfully, Madan led the way to a shaded gazebo, where the temperature dropped considerably. After he took his seat at a marble picnic table, Chernov sat opposite him, preparing to deliver his pitch, which he’d rehearsed in his mind many times during the flight to New Delhi. Chernov had already explained the basic plan. The challenge was convincing President Madan that an alliance with Russia was in India’s best interest.
“America is in decline,” Chernov began, “while Russia is rising, reestablishing itself as a superpower. In the twenty-first century, you can align with the United States, Russia, or China. The American sphere of influence is shrinking each year, and it won’t be long before the United States becomes inconsequential in the Western Pacific. That leaves China or Russia, and your interests are much better served by an alliance with Russia.”
“This is not debatable,” Madan agreed. “However, I noticed that you met with China’s president yesterday. As you point out, China is our primary economic and military competitor, and I am curious as to what was requested of them, and what was promised.”
Chernov took a few minutes to lay out China’s role—most of the details, that is—finishing with, “China hasn’t committed yet, which makes India’s role more critical, and also more lucrative. Your participation will be greatly rewarded.”
“You ask much,” Madan replied. “Although I concur with your assessment—America is in decline—the United States is still a formidable economic and military force, with much influence around the world.”
Chernov pressed the issue. “The United States has become weak, both politically and militarily. They lost half of their Fleet in the war with China, and they have no stomach for additional conflict. We attacked one of their aircraft carriers—a blatant assault—knocking it out of commission and killing scores of Americans, and they did nothing. With the proper alliances, America will again look the other way and do nothing. And if they do not”—Chernov paused for effect—“we will make them pay dearly. All that remains is India’s commitment.”
Madan answered, “What you propose is within my authority as president. However, I will not commit unilaterally. This must be discussed among my National Security Council.”
“I understand,” Chernov said. “There are many issues to be considered.”
“When do you need an answer?” Madan asked.
“May ninth.”
Madan raised an eyebrow. “Victory Day?”
Chernov smiled. “There is no better day.”
18
MOSCOW
Christine O’Connor peered out the window of the C-32 executive transport, the military version of Boeing’s 757 and designated Air Force One when the president was aboard, or Air Force Two when the vice president was being flown. As the aircraft descended, it broke through the heavy gray clouds, revealing a sprawling metropolis—the capital of the Russian Federation and home to twelve million. In the distance, she spotted the Kremlin, where the next round of negotiations for the successor to New START would occur.
Today, Christine would meet with the Russians for the second time. The first round hadn’t gone well, with Russia refusing to allow inspections of their new Bulava missile or the Borei class submarines that carried them. However, following the Russian assault on Ice Station Nautilus and the American president’s threat to go public with what Russia had done, President Kalinin acquiesced, agreeing to allow inspections of their new missiles and submarines. However, the concession was only verbal up to this point, and Christine was bent on ensuring the agreement became documented in the next draft of the treaty.
The C-32 touched down at Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport, and after descending the staircase onto the tarmac, Christine was met by her Russian counterpart, National Security Advisor Sergei Ivanov. This was her first time meeting Ivanov, who’d been out of town during her last visit. Although Christine was handling the negotiations from the American side, Russia had defaulted to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which negotiated New START. As they shook hands, Ivanov gave her an odd look, reacting the same way many within the Russian administration did upon meeting her for the first time.
Standing beside Ivanov was Mark Johnson, Christine’s interpreter for the negotiations, supplied by the American embassy in Moscow. Christine and Johnson joined Ivanov in the back of his limousine, which sped from the airport toward the Kremlin. Along the way, Ivanov described the Russian landmarks they passed, and it wasn’t long before Red Square appeared through the car windows.
Preparations were under way for Russia’s Victory Day celebration, commemorating the surrender of Nazi Germany to the Soviet Union at the end of World War II, referred to within Russia as the Great Patriotic War. Huge banners draped the facades of buildings along the perimeter of Red Square, and the roar of jet engines pulled Christine’s eyes skyward as a dozen jets streaked overhead; a squadron of Sukhoi Su-35s, Ivanov explained, practicing for the Victory Day parade, which would include a flyover by 150 military aircraft.
The limousine passed within the five-hundred-year-old Kremlin walls, pulling to a halt in front of the triangular-shaped Kremlin Senate, the Russian version of the White House, with its distinctive green dome. Ivanov escorted Christine to the third floor of the building, entering a twenty-by-sixty-foot conference room containing a polished ebony table capable of seating thirty persons. As before, on one side of the table sat Maksim Posniak, director of security and disarmament in Russia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, along with his interpreter, although neither side had needed one for the initial discussions. Posniak’s accent was thick but his English understandable.
Waiting in the conference room along with Posniak was Russia’s minister of defense, Boris Chernov. The three men at the table rose as Christine and Ivanov entered the room.
“Welcome back to Moscow, Christine,” Chernov said. “It’s good to see you again.”
Christine noticed Chernov’s use of her first name, instead of addressing her as Miss O’Connor as was customary. “It’s good to see you again, too, Boris.”
Chernov smiled. “You should find Russia’s recent concessions incorporated into the new document Maksim has for you, but if not, please don’t hesitate to contact me. As for the details, I leave that for you two to work out.”
He checked his watch. “I cannot stay, but before I leave, I must inquire. Will you be attending the ball tomorrow night?” Chernov’s eyes wandered as he spoke, examining her body; he seemed unaware she could follow his eyes.
“Yes,” Christine answered. “I received the itinerary for my visit and packed the necessar
y attire. If I may ask, what is the occasion?”
“It’s a Victory Day gala.”
“I thought Victory Day was on the ninth.”
“We have managed to turn the entire month into a celebration,” Chernov replied. “Several foreign leaders have already arrived, and we plan to keep them entertained.” He added, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stop by to see how things are going tomorrow, and of course, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Chernov and Ivanov departed the conference room, leaving Christine with Posniak and the two interpreters.
Christine turned to Posniak as she eased into her chair. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
19
ARISH, EGYPT
The Sinai Peninsula in the northeast corner of Egypt, with the Mediterranean Sea to the north and Red Sea to the south, serves as a land bridge between Africa and Asia. Given Egypt’s arid climate and vast desert terrain, it’s counterintuitive that almost half of the peninsula’s northern coastline is a swampy lagoon: three hundred square miles of brackish water and marshland separated from the Mediterranean Sea by a narrow limestone ridge.
As a result, Arish is the only major city along the Sinai coast. Serving as an outpost during the Egyptian dynasties and fortified during the Roman and Ptolemaic eras, Arish is a city with a great deal of history and very little to show for it: a litter-strewn beach giving way to a sprawling city of low-rise cement-block buildings. Even so, Arish is one of the country’s better holiday destinations—less than two hundred miles from Cairo—and as close as many will come to the clear blue waters and pristine sands of the Menorca coast or French Riviera.
Not far from the palm-fringed coastline, Anton Belikov worked quickly in the dark, attempting to gain access to a small building. The temperature south of Arish had dropped significantly after sunset, and for that, Belikov was thankful. Although the temperatures in the Arctic, where Belikov and his team had worked less than forty-eight hours ago, were frigid, he preferred the colder climate. That was expected, however, since Belikov was from Norilsk, Russia, located above the Arctic Circle and encased in snow up to nine months each year.
The door unlocked and Belikov pushed it slowly open. There was no one inside, only automated equipment. Belikov activated the pale blue light strapped to his forehead, providing just enough illumination for him to tend to his task. Moving swiftly toward the massive machinery, Belikov slid a black duffel bag from his shoulder, laying it carefully on the ground. As he worked in the faint blue glow inside the building, the other members of his platoon were working at various points farther inland.
It didn’t take long and everything was soon in place, with one last item remaining. It had been disconcerting at each previous location—with the equipment controlled remotely—and this time it was no different as he entered the required sequence of numbers. The panel activated, confirming proper operation. Belikov wrote down the GPS coordinates and, after collecting his empty duffel bag, headed to the exit. After securing the light on his forehead, he stepped into the cool night.
20
USS MICHIGAN
Captain Murray Wilson climbed the metal ladder through the Bridge trunk, pulling himself through the hatch into the darkness at the top of the submarine’s sail. Stepping into the Bridge Cockpit, faintly illuminated by a full moon hovering in a cloudless sky, he stood between the Officer of the Deck and the Lookout, the latter with binoculars to his eyes, scouring the barely discernible horizon for contacts. Wilson breathed in the fresh air, and after verifying there were no contacts nearby, he shifted his gaze to the navigation repeater, examining the submarine’s position. Hours earlier, Michigan had reached the northern end of the Red Sea, surfacing before entering the shallow Gulf of Suez. Behind Wilson and atop the submarine’s sail, the American flag fluttered in the brisk wind as Michigan headed northwest at ahead standard, and it wouldn’t be long before they began their journey through the Suez Canal.
The 120-mile-long Suez Canal, enabling travel from the Pacific into the Mediterranean Sea without transiting around Africa, would cut Michigan’s transit from weeks to mere days, but the transit wasn’t without risk. Less than a year ago, during America’s war with China, mercenaries sank three oil tankers with shoulder-fired missiles, temporarily blocking the canal, forcing America’s Atlantic Fleet to take the long route around Africa into the Pacific. During the Arab-Israeli Six-Day War in 1967, both ends of the canal were blocked by scuttled ships, trapping fifteen merchants in the canal for eight years.
With the risk of direct and indirect attack weighing on Wilson’s thoughts, he focused on the pending transit. The canal was a single-lane waterway with passing locations in the Ballah Bypass and the Great Bitter Lake. As a result, ships transited the canal in convoys, with a northbound convoy departing from Suez at 4 a.m., synchronized with a southbound convoy from Port Said. Michigan would be the first ship in the northern convoy this morning. Wilson checked the time on the navigation repeater. It was 3 a.m.: time to station the Maneuvering Watch. He gave the order, and the Officer of the Deck passed the word over the shipwide 1-MC announcing circuit.
* * *
An hour later, Michigan approached the southern entrance to the Suez Canal, passing several dozen merchants at anchor awaiting their designated transit time. Loitering near the entrance was Michigan’s security detail, two patrol boats armed with .50-caliber machine guns. The real danger was ashore, however, and the patrol crafts’ machine guns would be of little use against shoulder-fired rockets or missiles.
A shoulder-fired rocket would likely hit the submarine’s sail, and it wouldn’t take much to put the submarine out of commission. Destroy the submarine’s periscopes and antennas, and Michigan would be on the way home for repairs. Not to mention the loss of life; most, if not all, of the personnel atop the sail would be killed.
Assuming Michigan’s transit through the Suez Canal was uneventful, things could get interesting once the guided missile submarine entered the Mediterranean Sea. According to the last intelligence update, the Russian Northern Fleet had also entered the Mediterranean, steaming east. The best estimate was that the Northern Fleet was headed to Latakia, Syria. Satellite reconnaissance had detected the buildup of replenishment stores along the wharves at the Syrian seaport. If things went as planned, Michigan would intercept the Russian fleet not far from Latakia.
As they approached the entrance to the Suez Canal, Wilson requested a handheld radio, which the Officer of the Deck passed to him. After selecting the proper channel, he brought it to his mouth.
“Canal Operations, this is inbound United States warship. Request permission to enter the canal at time zero-four-hundred.”
After a short squawk, the radio emitted the expected response. “United States warship, this is Canal Operations. You have permission to enter the canal at time zero-four-hundred.”
Wilson checked the navigation repeater. His Officer of the Deck, plus his Navigator stationed in the Control Room below, had done a superb job, timing Michigan’s approach perfectly. The submarine’s security detail took their positions, one boat in front and one behind the submarine, with each machine gun manned and ready. Rather than stand during the 120-mile journey, Wilson pulled himself to a sitting position atop the sail, with his feet dangling in the Bridge Cockpit, settling in for the tense fifteen-hour transit.
21
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
In a windowless cinder-block building off Taylor Avenue, Tim Johns leaned back in his chair at his computer workstation, waiting for the algorithm to begin sending data. Johns, a Cryptologic Technician Networks Petty Officer Second Class, was assigned to the U.S. Cyber Warfare Command, which was responsible for centralized control of all military cyberspace operations. Comprising 133 teams with varying assignments, Cyber Warfare Command employed over six thousand cyber warriors.
Johns was a member of a combat mission team, a cyber unit loosely modeled after special operation forc
es. During offensive operations, Johns’s unit would plant cyber bombs in target networks, but the current assignment was less ambitious, simply hacking into encrypted Russian diplomatic and military networks. After identifying another vulnerable node, he had planted a new spider, an algorithm capable of decrypting all messages transiting the router, searching for keywords.
The new spider started sending data, scrolling down his screen, which would be reviewed by the intelligence analysts. So far, the spiders had detected thousands of hits using the supplied keywords, but most were meaningless sentences and phrases. His eyes shifted to the top of the display as a new keyword appeared: Блок TM85.1051. As it moved down the screen, he read the sentence, translating it into English in his mind: Unit TM85.1051 reports the order was executed flawlessly. Not particularly interesting, Johns thought. But at least it was something new for the analysts to chew on.
22
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was midafternoon in the Oval Office, with SecDef McVeigh seated between Kevin Hardison and Colonel DuBose, across from the president’s desk. There had been a breakthrough in the investigation into Russia’s attack on USS Roosevelt, and a blue folder resting on McVeigh’s lap contained the critical snippet of information, along with the Pentagon’s assessment.
“What have you got?” the president asked.
McVeigh answered, “Cyber Command has been scouring Russian military and diplomatic message traffic—emails and official messages. We have the ability to decrypt the lowest level of Russian classified messages—those corresponding to our Confidential level—and we detected an important keyword in a weekly summary provided from the Russian Navy to its minister of defense.”
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