Red War

by Flynn Vince

  “This would explain a great deal. How good is your intelligence on this, Mitch?”

  “Ninety-nine percent.”

  “Then I retract what I said earlier. An attack on the Baltics would be very much in Krupin’s best interest. I agree with Mitch’s recommendation that we move forward with the nuclear option.”

  In fact, the Baltics had no nukes—it was just what they’d come to call their last resort strategy for dealing with a Russian invasion. They’d empty their cities and destroy critical bridges, runways, and communications. They’d dismantle their military and disperse small, self-contained guerilla units throughout the territory. The prosperous, modern country he and Coleman had driven through would cease to exist. Healthcare, schools, food distribution, and commerce would implode. In many ways, they would be sending themselves back to the nineteenth century.

  The theory was that when Krupin saw this happening, he’d have no choice but to scrap his invasion plans. In order to hide his illness and shore up his power base, he needed to put on a show. He wanted to have Russia’s citizens glued to state-run media, watching images of their soldiers protecting the motherland from a Baltic threat. Instead Krupin’s army would roll across an empty landscape before finding itself mired in a grinding guerrilla war that would make Russia’s fight with the Mujahideen seem like a school yard brawl.

  “We could also simply surrender,” the Estonian president offered hopefully. “Agree to become part of Russia and pull out of a NATO that is freely admitting it’s incapable of living up to its obligations. There would be no bloodshed and no destruction of our infrastructure.”

  “And no freedom,” General Strazds said. “In order for us to avoid Sokolov’s firing squads, everyone in this room would have to become one of his pets.”

  “Either way, the time for running your mouths is over,” Rapp said. “You can fight or you can get on your knees. Which is it going to be?”

  CHAPTER 32

  SOUTH OF RODOVOYE

  RUSSIA

  “REPEAT that, Doctor. You cut out.”

  Andrei Sokolov was seated in the back of an armored truck modified to transport VIPs in and out of military bases without attracting attention. The plush leather seats and wood trim seemed overly opulent even for general staff, though he approved of the soundproof glass separating him from his assistant.

  “Subject nine has died. The stimulant cocktail given to him was too strong. His heart failed.”

  Sokolov gazed out onto the muddy field they were traveling across. The rain was forecasted to stop around midnight, bringing partly cloudy skies and low wind speeds that would persist for the better part of a week. The breakup of NATO’s exercises was continuing and would soon reach its zenith. Based on the latest intelligence, Western forces were approaching the moment that they would be in maximal disarray. Everything was coming together for the invasion and every variable had been quantified save one: Maxim Krupin.

  Even with a modification of his treatment schedule, he would be a shadow of his former self on the day of the incursion. Of course, his weight loss could be hidden with clothing. Custom contact lenses were being fabricated to replace the tinted glasses obscuring his eyes. The expected hair loss hadn’t materialized, thank God, and his growing beard had minimized the amount of pale skin in need of makeup.

  On the other hand, his voice was weak and wavered noticeably. Worse, his mind had lost its laser-like focus, now tending to wander. It was critical that he give the attack order personally and that he be physically present in Moscow to announce the invasion. In his current condition that would be impossible.

  And that’s where Dr. Fedkin came it. He was working to create a cocktail of antinausea medication, stimulants, and other drugs that could temporarily reinvigorate Krupin. It was a difficult balancing act, though. The medicine had to be potent enough for him to project the strength that made him so admired and feared, but not so much so as to kill him.

  “Then the obvious course would be to reduce the dosage, Doctor.”

  “It’s not that simple. Small reductions in dose have significant reductions in efficacy.”

  Even in the situation he’d been put in, Fedkin thought only of the well-being of his patient. Understandable, but laughably small-minded. The geopolitical currents buffeting the region were far more powerful—far greater—than any one man. Alliances were crumbling. Borders were being redrawn. The world order, in place since the fall of Nazi Germany, was struggling for breath.

  “Continue refining your formula, Doctor. You have sixteen hours. Safety is a major consideration but the priority is effectiveness.”

  There would be little point to Krupin surviving the stimulants if his enemies noted weakness and set upon him. His death from Fedkin’s cocktail could be explained away as an assassination and Sokolov could cast suspicion on Krupin’s inner circle in order to secure power. An outcome to be avoided, for sure, but one that Mother Russia could survive.

  “I want to be perfectly clear, General. I strongly recommend against using stimulants on the president. I’ll accept no blame if they injure or kill him.”

  “And I want to be perfectly clear that I’ll blame you for whatever I choose.”

  Through his window, Sokolov spotted a formation of tanks bursting from the trees. A barely perceptible smile played at his lips as he watched them speed across the open plain. “Another subject will be delivered to replace the one who died, Doctor. Just make sure your stimulant mixture is ready to be administered.”

  He disconnected the call and used the vehicle’s intercom to speak to the driver. “Stop here.”

  “Here, sir? We’re still—”

  “I said stop here.”

  The truck’s tires hunted for traction when he applied the brakes, but finally they slid to a halt. Sokolov stepped out into the rain, opening an umbrella above him as he walked through the deep mud. He would have preferred to feel the rain on his face, but this inspection was quite different than the one in Ukraine. He was dressed in civilian clothes and had arrived on a commercial airliner emptied of passengers. The umbrella was perhaps an abundance of caution with the thick cloud layer, but it was impossible to keep up with the West’s technological advances.

  The tanks passed and Sokolov watched them recede, reveling in the roar of their motors and the scent of diesel. No human endeavor could ever compare in grandeur to that of war. Nothing else existed that could generate such focus, ambition, and industriousness. Displays of courage and cowardice, brutality and mercy, loyalty and treachery all gained an intensity that didn’t exist in any other arena.

  Every scenario they’d run—even the worst-case ones—suggested that NATO would be powerless to stop an invasion of the Baltics. Initial victory would be secured within a few days, with approximately two more months to destroy any remaining organized resistance. After that, it would just be a matter of controlling the borders and dealing with the occasional isolated insurgents.

  More important than putting down insurgents, though, would be the propaganda surge designed to convince the world that NATO wasn’t just ineffective but also a provocation that sabotaged any hope of peace. The American people were particularly susceptible to this message. Secure in their distant land, they saw the organization as nothing but a financial drain and creeping threat to their sovereignty.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sokolov saw a jeep speeding toward him. It skidded to a stop some ten meters away and a man in the uniform of a colonel leapt out. He rushed forward, nearly falling in his zeal.

  “Please refrain from saluting me, Colonel.”

  “Or course, sir,” he said, coming alongside. “Did your vehicle bog down in the mud? Why didn’t you call? I was just—”

  “Colonel. Be silent.”

  He did as he was told, scanning the empty field in an attempt to discover what had so captivated Russia’s supreme commander.

  “Are the exercises going well?” Sokolov asked finally.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve r
eceived significant resources from Ukraine and have integrated the men and equipment into our forces.”

  “Then they’re combat ready?”

  The colonel jerked a bit straighter at the question. “Absolutely, ready. If you’re anticipating a confrontation in Ukraine, sir, there are no better men in the Russian army.”

  “I’m not expecting a confrontation in Ukraine.” Sokolov glanced over at the man and was pleased to see a hint of disappointment. “No. Instead, you will lead a full-scale invasion of Latvia.”

  The expression of disappointment turned to one of shock. “Sir?”

  “Your counterparts will be carrying out similar attacks on Estonia and Lithuania.”

  The man looked nervously toward the Latvian border, hidden by distance and mist. “May I ask our end goal, sir?”

  It was a reasonable question from a man who had grown up in a time where militaries were used more for gaining political advantage than seizing territory.

  “Nothing less than the permanent reintegration of the Baltics into Mother Russia and the destruction of the Western alliance.”

  CHAPTER 33

  RIGA

  LATVIA

  A YOUNG man with a ponytail appeared at the end of the hallway, sprinting in their direction. Rapp stepped aside to let him pass and then watched him disappear into the gloom. “They look a little panicked.”

  He and Coleman were walking down a stone passageway that ran across the back of an ancient building in central Riga. Many years ago, it had housed the country’s main phone exchange, but more recently it had been taken over by popular shops and restaurants. The modernized parts of the structure were closed for the night but the forgotten sections behind and below had been transformed into one of the many autonomous command centers springing up throughout the country.

  “It’s a little hectic right now, but not as bad as it looks. The Baltic countries have been worried about a Russian invasion since the day they gained their independence. I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised at how well prepared they are.”

  Footsteps became audible from behind and again Rapp moved aside. This time they were passed by a woman who, despite carrying what looked like a computer from the eighties, wasn’t much slower than her colleague.

  “Really? Because it looks like a clusterfuck to me.”

  “Always the cynic,” Coleman said. “You see panic, I see hustle.”

  Coleman’s good cheer was understandable, but a little irritating given the circumstances. His body was working again and he was about to see a battle plan his company had spent years developing go into action. But most of all, he was about to—as he was fond of putting it—go toe to toe with the Russkies. Not everyone’s idea of a good time, but for a former SEAL and military history buff, it was a dream come true.

  “It’s pretty incredible what’s been accomplished here, Mitch. They’ve spent hundreds of millions of dollars and managed to keep it all off Krupin’s radar. They’ve also uncovered a lot of Russian malware on their military and civilian systems—particularly the power grid and communications. Instead of diplomatic protests, though, they’ve kept it under their hat and written code that can wipe it out at the touch of a button. It’s made the Russians lazy. If they think they’ve got good penetration, they don’t bother upgrading.”

  “Wars aren’t won with computers, Scott.”

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. The government’s done a good job of convincing people to keep emergency stores of food, water, and fuel. Also, the way this country’s modernized, most urban dwellers still have close relatives living in rural areas. Riga’s the largest city in the Baltics, but it only has about half million residents. They can empty the city in less than twenty-four hours, which will cut down on civilian casualties and throw a wrench in Krupin’s propaganda machine. Saying that Latvia’s a threat that has to be dealt with and then driving your tanks into an empty city won’t play well on TV. Even Russian TV.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Caches all over the country in addition to what the military will take with them when they scatter. And we took a lesson from the Afghans during their fight with the Russians. Do you remember the Mujahideen’s favorite saying?”

  “We’re not afraid of Russians. We’re afraid of Russian helicopters.”

  “Exactly. The Baltics have spent a huge amount of money on bleeding-edge mobile surface-to-air missile systems and spread them out all over the country. This stuff’s a long way from the hand held crap the Afghans used. It’s an autonomous, artificially intelligent system that can identify and take out even stealth-equipped aircraft. Best part? iPhone compatible. Seriously.”

  “Yeah, but every fight eventually gets bloody. How are things going to go when they’ve got to look the Russian army in the eye?”

  “They’re good fighters and their knowledge of the terrain is going to give them a serious advantage. So will their motivation. Small raids by small teams. In and out. Sustainable for the long haul. It won’t take long for the average Russian soldier to wonder why the hell he’s in Latvia waiting to get picked off by a sniper or blown apart by a mine.”

  Rapp nodded. The strategy Coleman had helped the Baltics design was typically smart and streamlined. But in the face of war, even the most perfect plans tended to go to hell. When the Russians would threaten Europe with nukes and the locals would fall apart when Sokolov started executing, starving, and freezing the civilian population. The truth was that the era of wars between modern powers was over. No matter how they were carried out, everyone lost. Everyone but Maxim Krupin.

  They turned the corner and found themselves at a dead end.

  “Are you impressed yet?” Coleman said as the stone wall in front of them began to slide to the side. “I love this shit. The Addams Family meets Get Smart.”

  Inside they found a rusted spiral staircase leading to an expansive concrete bunker that looked like it dated back to at least the Soviet era. Power cables snaked in every direction and stacks of generators and batteries obscured one wall. Chairs and desks had a thrift store look, though the computers and the twentysomethings manning them all looked state-of-the-art.

  General Markuss Strazds was barely recognizable in his civilian clothing. The stoic expression that Rapp associated with him had been replaced by one of stunned resignation. Not surprising. Rapp had thwarted more terrorist attacks that he could count, but he’d never been faced with the sudden end of America. Organizations like al Qaeda could do a hell of a lot of damage, but they weren’t likely to sail up and annex the East Coast.

  “You were right,” Strazds said. “It’s begun.”

  He was referring to the cyberattack that everyone assumed would be Russia’s first wave.

  “What’s that say?” Rapp asked, pointing to a set of computer screens mounted to the wall. Each one had gone dark with the exception of a few lines of illegible script at the center.

  “It’s a ransomware message. Hackers demanding the equivalent of a million U.S. dollars in bitcoin to unfreeze our system. In this case the grid that powers the northeastern portion of the country.”

  “It’s what I’d do,” Rapp said. “If the attacks were traceable to the Kremlin it’d telegraph their intentions. Krupin knows you want to believe it’s not them and they’re giving you a reason to.”

  “If it weren’t for your warning that’s exactly what our politicians would be doing. Burying their heads in the sand, delaying action until Russian tanks were traveling our streets.”

  Despite the fact that they were underground, the dull wail of an air raid siren suddenly became audible.

  “We’re beginning the evacuation of the cities,” Strazds explained. “Cellular and the Internet are down, but we’ve managed to keep cable television and most of the radio stations running. Within twelve hours, our major population centers should be all but abandoned.”

  “Power?” Coleman asked.

  “About twenty percent of the population is currently without e
lectricity, but we’ll have that down to ten percent in the next hour. I imagine that piece of shit Maxim Krupin will be pissing himself. Based on the malware we’ve found, he would have been expecting most of the country to be dark.”

  “How long until you can get Internet back online?” Rapp asked.

  “We’re not sure. The newer and more sophisticated equipment is the most vulnerable.”

  “Cell service?” Rapp said.

  “We’re not anticipating getting cellular back. By the time we get the servers rebooted, we assume that the Russians will be actively jamming signals. It won’t cripple us as badly as they think, though. Come, let me show you.”

  As he led them toward the back of the bunker, everything went dark. Noisy swearing rose up from the kids behind the computers, quieting again when the generators kicked on.

  Strazds continued through the dim emergency lighting, ushering them through an archway that looked like it had been built by the Romans. What they found on the other side wasn’t that much more modern. Women in headphones, many who seemed to have been snatched from nursing homes, were seated at an enormous board tangled with cables. All were talking into headsets and making physical telephone line connections. Along the opposite wall was a man sorting through hundreds of deteriorating wires that occasionally showered his greasy overalls with sparks.

  “Ludvigs!” the general shouted. “Why do I have no power?”

  The man pivoted on a bad leg. “I’ve been doing this since before you were born, Markuss! You should show me respect!”

  “I can’t show you anything because you’re half-blind and there isn’t enough light!”

  The man shook a fist in their direction before going back to work.

  “Latvia didn’t modernize as quickly as the West,” Strazds explained. “Some of this equipment was in use as recently as twenty-five years ago and many of the people who operated it are still alive. There was never any real reason to go through the trouble of getting rid of it, and when we began planning for a potential Russian invasion we were grateful we hadn’t.”