Dean shrugged. “They’re deploying somewhere. They have no heavy weapons. Twenty-three trucks, could be as many as two dozen guys in a truck. Five hundred men. Two whatever those were at the end, like Land Rovers. Company commanders, maybe.”
“Good, baby-sitter, right up until the end. You’re thinking in U.S. terms. That’s just about an entire Russian Marine battalion we watched go by. Maybe the whole thing.”
“Five hundred men is a battalion?” Dean asked.
“Marine battalions are bigger than the Army battalions,” said Karr.
“An American battalion is over a thousand guys, and once you start talking about support—”
“This ain’t America. In theory, the Russian Marine brigades have close to a thousand men, but I don’t know of any force in the country that’s at more than fifty percent strength, so I’m guessing that was the whole shooting match, give or take.”
“If that was a full battalion, there’d be more support, more gear,” said Dean.
“Maybe they left their ships home,” said Karr. “We’ll find out soon. Come on, before our truck sinks into the swamp.”
* * *
A second convoy passed them as they drove, this one with only five trucks, all of them much older Zils. Dean told Karr these probably included backup gear and extra supplies for the main group.
“Could be, baby-sitter,” he said.
“You ever going to stop calling me that?”
Karr just laughed. They drove for another two hours before coming to the town where the base was. It was still heavily guarded, and there didn’t seem to be an easy way of looking inside or even examining the perimeter without being seen. The small settlement nearby offered no cover. There was a long stretch of fence near the highway; Dean saw a stake and a ribbon flag and guessed it was a minefield.
“We’ll have to get the latest satellite download, then wait for Fashona and the Princess,” said Karr. He gunned the truck off the muddy path they’d been on back onto the main highway. “There’s some sort of old building up the road about two miles. Satellite pic shows it’s deserted.”
“Looks like your satellite’s a little whacked,” said Dean as they approached the building. Two dozen small tents were pitched near the cement-block structure; several campfires burned. “Maybe somebody should go up there and clean the lens.”
“Could be we’re hallucinating,” said Karr cheerfully. Slowing to a stop, he rolled down the window and gazed at the small city for a moment, then turned off the engine. “Let’s check it out.”
At least a dozen men were staring at them. Dean couldn’t see any rifles, but their ragged clothes could easily hide a myriad of weapons.
“Be a little safer to leave the engine running, don’t you think?” said Dean. “One of us stay in the truck?”
“Don’t be paranoid.” Karr shut the door behind him nonchalantly.
Dean pushed out reluctantly, adjusting his pistol under his belt. Two of the men who’d been watching them walked toward Karr as he shambled forward and did his hail-fellow-well- met thing. Dean came around the back of the truck slowly. Something flashed on the left; instinctively he drew out his gun, dropped into a crouch, and yelled a warning.
In the next second, he realized it was simply a glint of light bouncing off a steel fry pan.
“Lighten up, baby-sitter,” said Karr.
He said something to the Russians and they laughed. A few eyed Dean apprehensively, but they seemed to take his suspicion in stride. He slid his pistol back into his belt and tried smiling, but it was a weak effort at best.
One of the Russians walked up and offered him a drink from a water bottle. Dean, who hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast, took it.
And nearly choked on the homemade vodka.
“Don’t spit it out,” said Karr, pounding him on the back.
“That’s a big-time insult.”
“Tastes like gasoline,” managed Dean.
“White lightning, with a vodka tint,” said Karr. “Never accept a drink in Russia. Once you do, you have to swallow it all and ask for more. Otherwise they’ll think you’re a wimp.”
The man who had offered the bottle to Dean was now gesturing that he should have more. Dean tried giving him back the bottle, but the man waved him off. Dean tried to insist, but the man waved him away, his expression starting to cloud. Karr saved the situation by grabbing the bottle and taking what looked like a huge swallow, which elicited a happy remark from the Russian. Karr answered and they bantered a bit.
“Says I’m drinking my weight,” the NSA op explained finally. “At least I think he is. Can’t get the hang of their accents.”
“Why are they here?”
“Yeah, good question.” Karr scratched the side of his head. “They’re some sort of gypsies. I think they’re native people who got into some sort of argument with someone a lot more powerful than they are. I’m not going to get deep into it. Here, pretend you’re drinking.”
“Don’t you think you ought to figure out what the hell they’re up to?”
“Not good to act too nosy, baby-sitter.” He took the bottom of the bottle and pushed it up, as if urging him to drink.
“What you do is put your tongue on the opening, choke it off. Let it dribble down your cheek if you want. They won’t notice after a while.”
“Burn a hole in my tongue.”
“Better than in your stomach. Keep them amused, OK?”
“How?”
“Show ’em your gun. I told them we’d trade it for food, if they can rustle up anything less than a week old. I’m going to mingle.”
37
“They’ll take Kurakin out,” said Collins, helpfully keying a picture of the Russian president onto the data screens around the conference table in the White House situation room. “They’d have learned their lesson from the aborted Yeltsin coup, and they’d take him out right away.”
“Possibly,” conceded Rubens. “I would point out, however, that we have no intercepts on it, and no evidence.”
“There are no direct intercepts on the coup at all,” she volleyed back — a not-so-subtle suggestion that the NSA wasn’t doing its job.
Rubens refused to take the bait, continuing to argue that it would be difficult for the plotters to hit Kurakin. “His bodyguards are all exceedingly loyal — most of them either are old friends or are related by blood.”
“They’ll take him if they can,” said Blanders, the defense secretary. “They’ll use an assault force and, if all else fails, a sniper.”
“Can we protect him?” asked the president.
“Should we?” said the defense secretary, making one last play at keeping America on the sidelines. “Should we even try and interfere with the coup at all?”
Rubens sat back and listened as the others debated the matter. It was clear that the president had already decided to do just that, calculating that above all else the democratic system in Russia must be preserved. He said twice that he neither liked Kurakin nor trusted him — Rubens thought the former wasn’t true, even if the latter was. But President Marcke clearly believed that long-term, democracy in Russia was preferable to a return to dictatorship, especially if it was run by the military.
Rubens’ gaze met Collins’. She’d aged quite a bit in the last three years, but she was still attractive.
In two more years she wouldn’t be worth another look.
Be director of the agency by then.
“What do you think, William?” asked the president.
“Kurakin would be a high-priority target,” he said. “They would need a rather large assault team with heavy firepower to get past his bodyguards. As for a sniper…” He gestured with his hands. It was certainly possible. “The best way to protect him is to tip him off to the coup.”
“If he believes us,” said Marcke.
“That would be up to him,” said Rubens.
“Tipping him off is the best way to protect him,” said Collins. “But
revealing that we know about the coup will tell the Russians a great deal about our capabilities.”
Rubens hadn’t expected the note of caution. Obviously she was positioning herself for any contingency — no matter what happened, she would be able to say she’d been right.
So like her.
“There are many trade-offs,” said Hadash. “I would recommend telling Kurakin that he’s a target once we’re sure, but leaving out details of our own attack. If we jam the rebels, ID the loyal units, and keep his communications lines open as Mr. Rubens has outlined — if all of that does not ensure his success, then he does not deserve to be president.”
“Assuming he’s alive for us to tell,” suggested Collins.
She was baiting him, Rubens finally realized — the agency had humint on a plot they hadn’t shared.
It could not be very reliable if there were no intercepts. Nonetheless, Rubens saw his best move — his only move: feign some vague understanding of it already.
“You haven’t briefed the president on the assassin theory,” he told Collins. “Perhaps you’d better.”
She hesitated ever so briefly. Rubens felt as if he’d won the point, if not the set.
“As Mr. Rubens hints, it is just a theory,” said Collins. “But a strong one.”
She detailed humint gathered within the past six hours that indicated a highly trained member of the Russian military had cased out part of Bolso in the Caucasus region last week, examining part of the city where President Kurakin was supposed to have been this week. When Kurakin’s schedule changed, the man disappeared.
“We call him the Wolf,” Collins added with an unbecoming smirk. “He was involved in the Georgian operation last year and has assassinated two leaders of the southern Islamic movement.”
Rubens did not know who “Wolf” was, and Collins didn’t pop up an image on the screen. Whether this meant she didn’t know either, or she was deliberately holding back information from him was anyone’s guess.
He fully suspected the latter.
“Why didn’t you share this information earlier?” asked Hadash.
“We just developed it,” said Collins. “And I’m still not convinced it’s significant.”
“William?” asked Hadash.
“There are no intercepts to back it up,” said Rubens. He resisted the temptation to add a subtle dig about the CIA not sharing, deciding it was best not to provoke her. “But I agree in principle. It’s very possible.”
“Where is he?” Hadash asked.
“We believe Moscow,” said Collins.
“Desk Three can attempt to find and intercept Wolf as part of the operation,” said Rubens. “If we can get data on him. Still, informing Kurakin is our surest way of protecting him.”
The secretary of state began to argue that they should go completely public with the information immediately, putting the whole world on notice. Rubens rolled his eyes.
It was obvious that the president didn’t take that seriously, but he did pay attention when Blanders suggested that the entire country’s electrical grid be disrupted. This could be accomplished largely through a software attack similar to the one planned for the communications networks, but there would have to be a physical attack on at least two parts of the grid. Desk Three did have assets to launch the attack; it controlled two groups of remote F-47C attack planes, which could be fitted with bombs. But Rubens believed shutting down the grid would ultimately hurt the loyal forces more than the plotters.
“You’d have considerable suffering in the general population,” Hadash said, making the argument for him. That allowed Rubens to speak up with what seemed like a reasoned counterproposal — it could not have been a better setup if it had been scripted.
“We do have the option for some selective, temporary blackouts, if necessary,” he told the president. “And we will have assets in the air in case it’s deemed necessary.”
“I envisioned more comprehensive forces,” said Blanders. Having made his last stand, he was now belatedly trying to carve out a piece of the pie for his people. “Delta and some Rangers could be there within twenty-four hours.”
“Too risky,” said Marcke. “A large force could easily complicate matters.”
Johnny Bib nudged Rubens’ leg under the table. He was looking at his alphanumeric pager and scribbling furiously on his yellow pad. Rubens tried to look discreetly at the notes but couldn’t make out what Bib was writing.
“I will choose the moment to inform Kurakin,” said the president. His voice was firm; the decision was irrevocable and it was time to move on. “Billy, I want you to make the assassin a priority. Can you do it, Billy?”
He’d need Karr and his team and some of the CIA people.
The CIA people were already in place; they’d have to take point.
Change the satellite priorities.
Revamp the signal intercept schedule.
Stretch everyone to their breaking point.
Impossible.
“Yes, of course we can do it,” Rubens said.
Bib slid over his pad. Rubens had to squint to decipher the words, and even then it was tough going. Bib had filled the page with chicken scratch that would make a doctor’s prescription look like forty-eight-point block letters.
“Bear Hug will execute at my command only,” said Marcke. “George, I want you at the command center to keep me updated. We’ll use the dedicated line.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” interrupted Rubens, rising. “The units we’ve been watching are on the move. I would estimate the action will begin in forty-eight hours, or less.”
38
Karr clicked through the different magnifications of the photographs, though he was no longer paying any real attention to them. Most of the vehicles that had been at the base yesterday were gone, which probably meant that the bulk of the troops that had been located there had left with them. The question was, Had Martin?
There seemed like only one way to find out — go in and look. But that wasn’t going to be easy.
The bug that had heard Martin had landed between two low-slung buildings near the northwestern perimeter of the base. Two guard posts were situated within fifty feet of the buildings along the fence line. Even if there was no surveillance equipment to supplement them, their sight lines not only overlapped but also were visible from another set of posts farther away. Because of the way the buildings were arranged, Karr doubted there were mines between them and the fence — but since the satellite archives showed there were minefields just to the south, it would be difficult to be sure without checking.
Less than a hundred yards from the buildings sat a small airstrip, probably intended solely for helicopters. Six Helix and two Hip choppers were dispersed around it. The strip was heavily guarded. A pair of ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns were set up in shallow revetments at either end of the field; there were at least two other netted areas south of the helicopters where 23mm guns might also be hiding. Mounted on tank chassis, the weapons were primitive but deadly, and not just against aircraft. Farther to the south, just off the main road into and through the complex, was an SA-6 missile launcher with its associated vans and radar. The air defenses could hold off a pair of F-16s, let alone the Hind.
A bit of a knot, but probably doable.
“So what do you think, kid?” asked Charlie Dean, leaning in the truck window. He smelled of the rotgut he’d been pretending to drink.
“I think we need a clandestine insertion, a major diversion, and a Marine division.”
“No high-tech miracle force multipliers?”
“Actually, all we need is a pair of pliers.” Karr pondered the image, then clicked the handheld’s keys and had the computer conjure a simple outline from the photo. He knew they could get in; the plan to do it was hovering somewhere in the back of his brain but just hadn’t come forward yet.
“We’re not getting in,” said Dean.
“Sure we are,” said Karr. Something in Dean’s sarcasm final
ly coaxed the idea into the conscious part of Karr’s head. “We slip across here, come right over the road, then find our guy. We need a serious diversion down on this end at first. Then again at the end.”
Dean looked at him as if he were insane. “This looks like a minefield.”
“That’s because it is.”
“How do we get across it?”
“Fly,” Karr joked.
“The chopper will be a sitting duck.”
“I’m kidding, Charlie Dean. Man, you’re a lot of fun, but sometimes you’re way too serious.”
“I’m always serious where my life’s concerned.”
Karr laughed. “Listen, I want you to come in with me. We’re going to need Princess out here in case we get nailed, and besides, watching her butt while you’re getting through a minefield is extremely distracting.”
“You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”
“That’s what they tell me.” Karr gave him a fist to the shoulder. He liked the geezer; working with him kept him on his toes. “Let’s go find some food. All this thinking makes me hungry.”
* * *
On the one hand, Dean agreed that they had to rescue their man, no matter the odds. He admired that; it was, after all, the Marine Corps way. On the other hand, what Karr had sketched out barely deserved to be called a plan.
They’d been ambushed at the junkyard because they put too much stock in their high-tech gizmos, but at least that plan could be defended based on the available intelligence. This one couldn’t. Forget the satellite photos. Even just driving around it told Dean it wasn’t going to be infiltrated. Best to go in there with a couple of companies and serious firepower.
As in six or seven tanks.
They drove back to the gypsy camp, Karr bopping up and down to some tune only he could hear, Dean trying to come up with some kind of alternative plan.
There weren’t any.
Nor were the gypsies or whatever they were at the building. Instead, a black car sat in front of the building ruins, a man in a suit sitting with his arm out the window, smoking a cigarette. Karr kept a steady pace as they passed.
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