Op Center 02 - Mirror Image

by Mirror Image [lit]

  five hundred pounds. With an extra tank of fuel carried outside and burned off first-so the bladder could be jettisoned over the sea and recovered-and coming home from a mission fifteen hundred pounds heavier than it went in, the Mosquito had a range of seven hundred miles.

  It was a breed of flying machine the press and lay public called "Stealth," but which the officers of the Mosquito program at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base preferred to call "low-observable." The point of such aircraft was not that they couldn't be seen. Enough radar energy directed at the F- I 17A or the B-2A or the Mosquito would enable an enemy to see it. However, there was hardly a weapons system in the world that could track and lock onto such an aircraft, and that was its advantage.

  None of the low-observable aircraft currently in service would have been able to execute the mission at hand, which was why the Mosquito program had been inaugurated in 1991. Only a helicopter could fly in low over mountainous terrain at night, deposit or extract a team, turn around and get out again-and only a low-observable could hope to do that in the carefully monitored and cluttered skies of Russia.

  Flying at two hundred miles an hour, the Mosquito would reach its target at just before midnight, local time. If the helicopter took more than eight minutes to complete its pickup in Khabarovsk, it wouldn't have enough fuel to reach the carrier that would be waiting for it in the Sea of Japan. But having run through every aspect of the mission on the cockpit computer simulator, pilot Steve Kahrs and copilot Anthony lovino were confident in the prototype, and anxious for it to earn its wings. If the special forces team did their job, this would send them back to Wright-Patterson heroes and, more important, would deliver yet another body blow to the once proud Russian military.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 3:25 P.m., St. Petersburg

  "General Orlov," Major Levski said, "I've had rather distressing news."

  Only the Major's voice came in over the headphones plugged into the computer in Orlov's office. The naval base on the outskirts of the city was not yet equipped with video capabilities; nor, with the budget cuts in the military, was it ever likely to be.

  "What is it, Major?" Orlov asked. He was tired, and his voice sounded it.

  "Sir, General Mavik ordered me to recall the Molot team."

  "When?"

  "I've just gotten off the phone with him," said Levski. "Sir, I'm sorry but I must carry out-"

  "I understand," Orlov interrupted. He took a sip of black coffee. "Be sure to thank Lieutenant Starik and his team for me."

  "Yes, sir, I will," Levski said. "You understand, General, that whatever is happening, you're not alone. I'm with you. So is Molot."

  Orlov's mouth perked at the edges. "Thank you, Major."

  "I don't pretend to know what's going on," Levski continued. "There are all these rumors of an impending coup, of black marketeers being behind this. All I know is that I once tried to pull a vintage Kalinin K-4 out of a nosedive, sit. It had a bear of an engine-a BMW IV, very stubborn. "

  "I know the plane," Orlov said.

  "I remember thinking as I burst through the clouds, looking straight down, 'This is a vintage beauty, and I've no right to give up on her, however temperamental she gets.' It wasn't just a duty, it was an honor. Instead of bailing out, I wrestled her to the ground. It wasn't pretty, but we both made it. And then I personally-personally-took that bastard Bavarian mechanism apart and fixed it."

  "She flew?"

  "Like a young sparrow," Levski said.

  Orlov knew he was tired because that Young Boy's Digest story touched him. "Thank you, Major. I'll let you know when I get my hands on the damn engine cowl."

  Orlov hung up and drained his coffee cup. It was nice to know he had an ally, other than his devoted assistant, Nina, who was due back at four. And then there was his wife. She was with him always, of course, but like the dragon slayer who carried his lady's colors into battle, he still rode out alone. And at this moment the sense of isolation was stronger than any he'd experienced, even in the bleakness of outer space.

  Using the keyboard, he switched back to the channel the militia used to monitor their field forces.

  ". . . want to be left alone," a female voice was saying in perfect Russian.

  "Leave a surgical assault force free in Russia?" Rossky laughed. He was obviously communicating with his quarry on his cellular telephone, patched together either through the Operations Center or the local police station.

  "We're not an assault force," said the woman.

  "You were seen entering the Presidential Palace with Major Pentti Aho-"

  "He arranged our transportation. We came to try and find out who killed a British businessman-"

  "The official report and remains were turned over to the British Embassy," said Rossky.

  "Cremated remains," said the woman. "The British don't accept that he died of a heart attack."

  "And we don't accept that he was a businessmanl" said Rossky. "You have another nine minutes to turn yourselves in or join your dead friend. It's that simple."

  "Nothing is ever that simple," said Orlov.

  Only the faint crackle of static filled the line for what seemed like a very long time.

  "To whom am I speaking?" the woman said.

  "To the highest-ranking military officer in St. Petersburg," said Orlov, more for Rossky's sake than the woman's. "Now who are you? And spare us the cover. We know how you came here and from where."

  "Fair enough," said the woman. "We're COMINT officers who work with Defense Minister Niskanen in Helsinki."

  "You are not!" Rossky bellowed. "Niskanen wouldn't risk his resources to disinter a corpse!"

  "D16 could not agree on a course of action," the woman explained, "so they consulted the CIA and the Defense Minister. They agreed that it would be less provocative for myself and my colleague to come in and try and find out why he was killed-and, once that was accomplished, to try and arrange a dialogue to avoid retaliation. "

  "Cutouts?" Rossky sneered. "You would have taken a direct flight with cobbled passports, gotten in quickly to make your case. You came by midget submarine because you didn't want to be seen at the airport. You're lying!"

  "Which route crosses the Gulf of Bothnia?" Orlov asked.

  "Route Two," the woman replied.

  "How many provinces are there in Finland?"

  "Twelve."

  "This proves nothing!" said Rossky. "She was schooled! "

  "That's right," she said. "In Turku, where I was raised."

  "This is futile!" Rossky added. "She's in our country illegally, and in four minutes my forces will close in on her."

  "If you can find me."

  Rossky said, "The Kirov Theater is to your left, at the ten o'clock position. And there's a green Mercedes behind you. If you try to flee, you'll be shot."

  There was another silence. While the woman may have swept the car for transmitters, Orlov knew that she probably hadn't noticed the cellular telephone in the trunk. The line was kept open when an agent was on the job. It didn't show up on transmitter detectors, but allowed them to triangulate the position of the car at all times.

  The woman said calmly, "If anything happens to us, you'll lose an opportunity to communicate directly with your counterpart. Sir-I'm addressing the ranking officer, not the ruffian."

  "Yes?" Orlov said. In spite of himself, he liked the way she'd said that.

  "I believe, sir, that you are more than just the military head at St. Petersburg. I believe that you are General Sergei Orlov, and that you're in charge of an intelligence unit here in the city. I also believe that more can be accomplished by putting you in touch with your counterpart in Washington than by killing me and returning my ashes to Defense Minister Niskanen."

  Over the past two years, Orlov and his staff had tried to find out more about their "doppelganger" in Washington, their mirror image. An intelligence and crisis center that functioned much as theirs did. Moles at the CIA and FBI had been turned loose to discover wha
tever they could. But the Washington Op-Center was much newer, smaller, and tougher to penetrate. What this woman offered-because she was either very clever or very afraid-was the one thing he could not afford to let go.

  "Perhaps," said Orlov. "How would you communicate with Washington?"

  "Put me through to Major Aho at the Palace," she said. "I'll arrange it through him."

  Orlov considered the offer for a moment. Part of him felt uneasy about cooperating with an invader, but a larger part felt comfortable trying diplomacy rather than giving an order that was certain to result in bloodshed. "Release the man you're holding," he said, "and I'll give you your chance."

  The woman said without hesitation, "Agreed."

  "Colonel?" said Orlov.

  "Yes, sir?" Rossky replied, his voice taut.

  "No one moves except by direct order from me. Is that understood?"

  "It is understood."

  Orlov heard rustling and the sounds of muffled conversation. He couldn't tell whether it was from the car

  or from the Technological Institute Metro stop, where Rossky had gone to catch his rats. In either case, he knew the Colonel wouldn't be idle, that he'd do something to save face ... and to make sure that the two operatives did not get away.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Tuesday, 7.35 A.M., Washington, D.C.

  Hood had learned that the paradox of crisis management was you invariably had to lop off the head of Medusa, face the heart of the situation, when you were most tired.

  The last time his head had rested on a pillow, Hood was in a Los Angeles hotel room with his family. Now here he was, more than twenty-four hours later, sitting in his office with Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, Ann Farris, Lowell Coffey, and Liz Gordon, waiting for the first reports from a pair of Striker teams that had been sent to attack a foreign country. However they dressed up the language-which was what Ann would have to do in press releases if the teams were discovered or captured-that's exactly what Striker was doing. Attacking Russia.

  Hood's staff was marking time as they waited to hear from either team, and he only half listened as he considered the ramifications of what they were doing. From the outof-sorts look on Mike Rodgers's face he was evidently doing the same.

  Coffey hooked a finger under his sleeve and checked his watch.

  Herbert scowled. "Checking Mickey's hands every minute isn't going to make the time go any faster," he said.

  Liz sat up and jumped to his defense. "It's like chicken soup, Bob. It doesn't hurt."

  Ann started to say something but stopped when the phone beeped. Hood rapped the speaker button.

  "Mr. Hood," Bugs Benet said, "there's a call for you relayed through Major Pentti Aho's office from St. Petersburg. "

  "Put it through," Hood said. He felt like he did on hot summer mornings, when the air was still and silent and it was difficult to breathe. "Any guesses, Bob?" he asked, hitting mute on the phone.

  "Our Striker man there may have been caught and forced to call," he said. "I can't think of any other-"

  "This is Kris," said Peggy.

  'Scratch that," said Herbert. "Kris is Peggy's code name if she's free. Kringle if she's stuck in the chimney, so to speak."

  Hood unmuted the phone.

  "Yes, Kris," he said.

  "General Sergei Orlov would like to speak with his counterpart," Peggy said.

  "Are you with the General?" Hood asked.

  "No. We've raised him by radio."

  Hood touched mute and looked at Herbert. "Can this be on the level?"

  "If it is," Herbert said, "Peg and George worked a Galilee-grade miracle."

  Rodgers said, "That's what Striker's trained to do. And the lady was no slouch either."

  Hood unmuted. "Kris, his counterpart agrees."

  A strong voice said in thickly accented English, "And with whom have I the honor of speaking?"

  "This is Paul Hood," he answered as his eyes took in the faces of his officers. He noticed that everyone in the room was leaning forward in their chairs.

  Orlov said, "Mr. Hood, this is a pleasure."

  "General Orlov," said Hood, "I've followed your career for many years. We all have. You've many admirers here. "

  ""Thank you."

  "Tell me, do you have video capabilities?"

  Orlov said, "We do, through the Zontik-6 satellite."

  Hood glanced at Herbert. "Can you hook me into it?"

  The intelligence chief looked as though someone had turned a cold hose on him. "He'll see the Tank, You can't be serious."

  "I am."

  With an oath, Herbert called his office on his cellular phone, swinging his wheelchair around and huddling over it so Orlov couldn't hear.

  Hood said, "General, I would like to talk face-to-face. If we can arrange that, will you agree to it?"

  "Gladly," Orlov said. "Our respective governments would shudder if they knew what we're doing."

  "I'm shaking a little myself," said Hood. "This isn't exactly standard operating procedure."

  "That is right," said Orlov. "But these aren't ordinary circumstances either."

  "How true," said Hood.

  Herbert turned around. "We can do it," he said, his eyes imploring. "But I urge you-"

  "Thanks," Hood said. "General Orlov-"

  "I heard," he said. "Our audio is very good here."

  "What does he think ours is?" Herbert muttered. "CIA hand-me-downs?"

  "Ask your man to access channel twenty-four," Or lov said, "on what is undoubtedly a state-of-the-art communications control systems satellite dish and transmitter, Model CB7."

  Hood grinned at Herbert, who wasn't in the mood. "And ask him," said Herbert, "if cosmonauts still urinate on the bus tires before they head to the launch pad."

  "We do," Orlov said, his voice wafting past Hood's critical expression. "Yuri Gagarin started the tradition after drinking too much tea. But women cosmonauts do it too. In matters of equality, we have always been ahead of you, I think."

  Ann and Liz both looked at Herbert, who shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair as he put in the call to the satellite room.

  It took two minutes for the connection to be made, and then the General's face winked on-the thickrimmed black glasses, strong cheekbones, swarthy complexion, and high, unworried forehead. Looking into those intelligent brown eyes, eyes that had seen the earth from a perspective granted very few people, Hood felt he could trust them.

  "Well," said Orlov, smiling warmly, "there we are. Thank you again."

  "Thank you," Hood said.

  "Now let us be frank," said Orlov. "We're both concerned about the train and its cargo. It concerns you enough that you sent a strike force to intercept it. Perhaps to destroy it. It concerns me enough to have posted guards to stop them. Do you know what the cargo is?" Orlov asked.

  "Why don't you tell us?" Hood replied. He figured that they might as well hear it from the horse's mouth.

  Orlov said, "The train is carrying currency which will be used in Eastern Europe to bribe officials and finance anti-government activities."

  "When?" Hood asked.

  Herbert raised a finger to his lips. Hood touched mute.

  "Don't let him try and tell you he's on our side," Herbert said. "He could stop the train if he wanted. Someone in his position has to have friends."

  "Not necessarily, Bob," Rodgers pointed out. "No one knows what's going on in the Kremlin."

  Hood unmuted the phone. "What do you propose, General Orlov?"

  "I cannot confiscate the cargo," Orlov said. "I haven't the personnel."

  "You're a general with a command," Hood said.

  "I've had to have an ally here scan my own line and office for bugs," he said. "I am Leonidas at Thermopylae., betrayed by Ephialtes. I am holding a very dangerous pass here."