The printout of the day's activities of the soldiers in Belgorod indicated nothing unusual to Bob Herbert and his team of analysts. For nearly two days, the routine had been the same:
Time Activity
0550 First Call
0600 Reveille formation
0610-0710 Physical training
0710-0715 Make Beds
0715-0720 Inspection
0720-0740 Orders of the day given
0740-0745 Wash
0745-0815 Breakfast
0815-0830 Cleanup
0830-0900 Preparation for duty
0900-1450 Training
1450-1500 Prepare for lunch
1500-1530 Lunch
1530-1540 Tea
1540-1610 Personal time
1610-1650 Care and cleaning of weapons and equipment
1650-1840 Cleaning camp and general sanitation
1840-1920 Secure perimeter
1920-1930 Wash hands
1930-2000 Dinner
2000-2030 Watch TV news
2030-2130 Personal time
2130-2145 Evening formation
2145-2155 Evening inspection
2200 Retreat
While Herbert and his people stayed on top of the military developments, they also tried to collect information for Charlie Squires and his Striker commandos about the situation at the Hermitage. Satellite reconnaissance turned up no unusual traffic, and Matt Stoll and his technical staff weren't having much luck working up programs to enable the AIM-Satellite to filter out the noise in the museum itself. The lack of personnel on the ground compounded their frustration. Egypt, Japan, and Colombia had agents in Moscow, but none in St. Petersburg-and, in any case, Herbert didn't want to tell them that something was brewing at the Hermitage, lest they side with Russia. Old loyalties weren't necessarily changing in the post-Cold War world, but new ones were constantly being forged. Herbert didn't intend to help any of those along, even if it meant allowing extra time so Striker could study the site firsthand before defining their mission.
Then, at ten minutes after noon-8:00 P.M. in Moscow-the situation changed.
Bob Herbert was called to Op-Center's radio room in the northwest comer of the basement. Wheeling over, he headed toward Radio Reconnaissance Director John Quirk, a taciturn giant of a man with a beatific face, a soft voice, and the patience of a monk. Quirk was seated by a radio/computer unit, UTHER-Universal Translation and Heuristic Enharmonic Reporter-which was capable of producing a virtually simultaneous written translation of everything that was being said by over five hundred different voice types, in over two hundred languages and dialects.
Quirk removed his headset as Herbert arrived. The three other people in the room continued working at their monitors, which were trained on Moscow and St. Petersburg.
"Bob," Quirk said, "we've intercepted transmissions indicating that equipment is being collected at air bases from Ryazan to Vladivostok for shipment to Belgorod. "
"Belgorod?" Herbert said. "That's where the Russians have been holding maneuvers. What kind of equipment are they sending over?"
Quirk turned his blue eyes toward the screen. "You name it. Automated communications trucks, vehicle mounted radio relay stations, a helicopter-mounted retransmission station, Petroleum, Oil, and Lubricants trucks and trailers, along with full maintenance companies and field kitchen trucks."
"They're setting up a communications and supply route," Herbert said. "Could be a drill of some kind."
"I've never seen one this sudden."
'What do you mean?" Herbert asked.
"Well," Quirk said, "this is clearly an engagement build-up, but before the Russians engage there's always a great deal of communication about the expected time of the encounter and the anticipated size of enemy forces. We'll pick up their calculations on speed-of-movement scales, and there'll be conversations between frontline forces and headquarters about tactics-envelopment, turning movement, combined, that sort of thing. "
"But you didn't get any of that," Herbert said.
'Zero. This is as sudden as anything I've ever seen."
"Yet when everything's in place," Herbert said, they'll be ready for something big ... like a move into the Ukraine."
"Correct."
"Yet the Ukrainians are doing nothing," Herbert said.
"They may not know anything's up," Quirk said.
"Or they may not he taking it seriously," Herbert said. "NRO photos show that they've got reconnaissance personnel close to the border-but not deep reconnaissance companies. Obviously, they don't expect to have to operate from behind enemy lines." Herbert drummed his leather armrests. "How soon before the Russians are ready to move?"
"They'll be in position by tonight," Quirk said. "By aircraft, it's just a short hop to Belgorod."
"And there's no chance that these are bogeys?" Herbert asked.
Quirk shook his head. "These communications are real, all right. The Russians use a combination of Latin and Cyrillic characters when they want to confuse us. The letters shared by the alphabets are supposed to throw us off because it's tough to know which alphabet they mean." He patted the computer. "But Uther manages to sniff them out."
Herbert squeezed Quirk's shoulder. "Good work. Let me know if you pick up anything else."
TWENTY-TWO
Monday, 9:30 P.M., St. Petersburg
"Sir," said red-cheeked Yuri Marev, "the radio room says they've received a coded communication via Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok. It's from the plane you've had me follow on the Hawk satellite."
General Orlov stopped his slow pacing behind the computer bank and walked to the young man, who was seated at the far left of the bank.
"Are you certain?" Orlov asked.
"There's no doubt, sir. It's the Gulfstream."
Orlov glanced at the clock on the computer screen. The plane wasn't due to land for another half hour, and he knew that region well: if anything, at this time of year the winds would work against them and the plane would be late.
"Tell Zilash I'm coming," Orlov said, walking quickly to the door that opened into the corridor. He entered that day's code on the keypad beside a door across the hall, then went into the cramped, smoke-filled radio room which was located next to Glinka's security operations center.
Arkady Zilash and his two assistants were sitting in a tiny room filled to the ceiling with radio equipment. Orlov couldn't even open the door completely, since one of the assistants was using a unit tucked behind it. The men were all wearing headsets, and Zilash didn't see Orlov until the General tapped him on the left earphone.
Startled, the gaunt radio chief removed his headset and stuck his cigarette in an ashtray.
"I'm sorry, sir," Zilash said in his low, raspy voice.
As if suddenly realizing he should stand, Zilash began to rise. Orlov motioned with his fingers for him to sit back down. Without meaning to, Zilash had always managed to test the boundaries of military protocol. But he was a radio genius and, more important, a trusted aide from Orlov's Cosmodrome days. The General wished he had more men like Zilash on his staff.
"It's all right," Orlov said.
"Thank you, sir."
"What did the Gulfstream have to say?"
Zilash turned on a digital audiotape recorder. "I've unscrambled it and cleaned it up a bit," he said. "The transmission had a great deal of static-the weather is terrible over the sea right now."
The voice on the tape was faint but clear. "Vladivostok: we have lost power in our port engine. We do not know how serious the damage is, but some electrical systems are out. We expect to land a half hour late, but can go no further. Will await instructions."
Zilash's big, hound-dog eyes peered up through the smoke. "Any reply, sir?"
Orlov thought for a moment. "Not yet. Get me Rear Admiral Pasenko at Pacific Fleet headquarters."
Zilash glanced at his computer clock. "It's four in the morning there, sir-"
"I know," Orlov said patiently. "Just do i
t."
"Yes, sir," Zilash said as he typed the name into his computer keyboard, accessed and input the scramble code, then radioed the base. When the Rear Admiral came on, Zilash handed the headset to Orlov.
"Sergei Orlov?" said Pasenko. "Cosmonaut, fighter pilot, and reclusive homebody? One of the few men I would get out of bed to talk to."
"I'm sorry about the hour, Ilya," Orlov said. "How have you been?"
"I've been well!" said Pasenko. "Where have you been hiding these past two years? I haven't seen you since the all-service senior officers' retreat in Odessa."
"I've been well-"
"Of course," Pasenko said. "You cosmonauts exude well-being. And Masha? How is your long-suffering wife?"
"Also well," Orlov said. "Perhaps we can catch up later. I have a favor to ask, Ilya."
"Anything," said Pasenko. "The man who kept Brezhnev waiting to sign my daughter's autograph book has my undying friendship."
"Thanks," Orlov said as he thought back to how irate the leader of the Soviet Union had been. But children are the future, the dreamers, and there was never any hesitation on Orlov's part. "Ilya, there's a crippled aircraft that will be landing at the airport in Vladivostok-"
"The Gulfstream? I see it here on the computer."
"That's right," said Orlov. "I've got to get the cargo to Moscow. Can you give me a plane?"
"I may have spoken too soon," Pasenko said. "Every plane I can spare is being used to transport materiel to the west."
Orlov was caught off guard. What can be happening in the west?
"I'd be happy to piggyback your shipment in my air craft," Pasenko continued, "space permitting, but I don't know when that will be. Part of the rush is we're expecting several days of severe weather from the Berring Sea. Anything still on the ground tonight is expected to remain there for at least ninety-six hours."
"Then there isn't even time to send a plane from Moscow," Orlov said.
"Probably not," Pasenko said. "What is so urgent?"
"I don't know myself," Orlov said. "Kremlin business."
"I understand," Pasenko said. "You know, rather than have your goods sit here, Sergei, I can help arrange for a train. You can run your shipment north from Vladivostok and meet it when the weather clears."
"The Trans-Siberian Railroad," Orlov said. "How many cars can you get me?"
"Enough to carry whatever is in your little jet," Pasenko said. "The only thing I couldn't give you is personnel to man it. That would have to be approved by Admiral Varchuk, and he's in the Kremlin meeting with the new President. If it isn't a matter of national security, he can get thorny about interruptions."
"That's all right," Orlov said. "If you can get me the train, I can get a crew to run her. Will you let me know as soon as possible?"
"Stay where you are," Pasenko said. "I'll radio back within the half hour."
Signing off, Orlov handed the headset to Zalish. "Radio the military base on Sakhalin Island," he said. "Tell the operator I'd like to speak to a member of the spetsnaz detachment-I'll stay on the line."
"Yes, sir. Which member, General?"
"Junior Lieutenant Nikita Orlov," he said. "My son."
TWENTY-THREE
Monday, 1:45 P.M., Washington, D.C.
Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers were sitting behind Hood's desk studying the psychological profiles which Liz Gordon had just sent over.
If there was any strain between the men over what had happened in the Tank, it had been put aside. Rodgers had a strong independent streak, but he was also a twenty-year man. He knew how to take orders, including the ones he didn't like. For his part, Hood rarely overruled his deputy, and almost never in military matters. When he did, it was with the backing of most of his senior staff.
The Peggy James call had been a tough one, but the bottom line was simple. The intelligence community was small, much too small for grudges. The risk of sending a seasoned agent with Striker was acceptable, compared to the risk of alienating D16 and Commander Hubbard.
Hood was careful not to be too solicitous with Rodgers after their little showdown. The General would have resented that. But Hood made himself more open to Rodgers's ideas, especially his enthusiasm for Liz Gordon's psychological profiles. Op-Center's Director put as much validity in psychoanalysis as he did in astrology and phrenology. Childhood dreams about his mother were as useful to understanding his adult mind as the gravitational pull of Saturn and bumps on the head were to predicting the future.
But Mike Rodgers believed and, if nothing else, it was useful to review the personal histories of their potential adversaries.
The concise biography of the new Russian President was on the screen, along with access to file photographs, newspaper clips, and video footage. Hood scanned through details of Shannon's birth in Makhachkala on the Caspian Sea, his education in Moscow and rise from the Politburo to an attache in the Soviet Embassy in London and then as Deputy Ambassador in Washington.
Hood stopped scrolling when he reached Liz's profile:
"He sees himself as a potential modem-day Peter the Great,' " Hood read Liz's summary, " 'who favors open trade with the West and a cultural influx from the U.S. to make sure his people continue to want what we have to sell.' "
Rodgers said, "That makes sense. If they want American movies, they'll have to buy Russian VCRs. If they want enough Chicago Bulls jackets or Janet Jackson T-shirts, companies will begin to open factories in Russia."
"But Liz says here, 'I don't think he has the same aesthetic sense as Peter the Great.' "
"No," Rodgers agreed. "The Czar was genuinely interested in Western culture. Zhanin is interested in building the economy and remaining in power. The question, which we also discussed with the President last night, is how sure are we of his devotion to this course of action as opposed to militarism."
"He has no military background whatsoever," Hood said, looking back over the biography.
"Right," said Rodgers. "And historically, that kind of leader is quick to try and use force to get his way. Anyone who's been in a combat zone knows firsthand the price you pay there. As a rule, they're the most reluctant to use force."
Hood continued reading. " 'Given the military warning General Rodgers heard at the White House meeting last night,' Liz wrote, 'I do not believe that Zhanin would pick a fight somewhere to prove himself or to appease the military. He prides himself on rhetoric and ideas, not on force or the use of arms. In these early days of his new government, his overriding concern will be not to alienate the West.' "
Hood sat back, shut his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You want some coffee?" Rodgers asked as he continued to scan the report.
"No, thanks. I swam in the stuff on the flight back."
"Why didn't you try and sleep?"
Hood laughed. "Because I got the last seat in coach, stuffed between the loudest-snoring humans on earth. Both of whom took off their shoes and passed right out. I can't watch those cropped and edited movies on airplanes, so I just sat there and wrote a thirty-page letter of apology to my family."
"Was Sharon mad or disappointed?" Rodgers asked.
"Both and more," said Hood. He sat back up. "Hell, let's get back to the Russians. I've got a better chance of understanding them, I think."
Rodgers gave him a light swat on the back as they looked at the screen.
"Liz says here that Zhanin isn't an impulsive man," Hood said. " 'He always sticks to his plans, guided by what he feels is moral or right, whether or not it's at odds with prevailing wisdom. See extracts Z-17A and Z-27C from Pravda.' "
Hood brought up the cited newspaper clippings and saw how, in 1986, Zhanin strongly backed the plan of Deputy Interior Minister Abalya to crack down on mobsters who were abducting foreign businessmen in Georgia, even after Abalya was assassinated, and how he earned the enmity of hard-liners by refusing to support a law in 1987 that would have banned the use of Lenin look-alikes for what were referred to as 'evenings of mockery.'
"A man of integrity,' " Hood read Liz's closing comments, " 'who has been shown to err on the side of risk-taking rather than caution.' "
Rodgers said, "Part of me wonders if that risk-taking would include a military adventure."
"Part of me wonders that too," Hood admitted. "He didn't hesitate to recommend using the militia against gangsters in Georgia."
"True," Rodgers said, "though you can argue that that isn't the same thing."
"How so?"
"Using force to maintain the peace is different from using force to assert one's will," Rodgers said. "There's a point of legality there that, psychologically, would make a big difference to someone like Zhanin."
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