by Brad Thor
Chapter 50
W ith its nineteen-inch-thick armor-plated steel hull and twin steam turbine engines, the nuclear icebreakerVyesna made the four hundred and fifty kilometer trip to Murmansk in just under seventeen hours. The dummy charges Carlson rigged in the reactor room and at other strategic points throughout the vessel, which he threatened to detonate via remote if there was any trouble, were enough to ensure the crew’s complete cooperation. The men were professional sailors, not soldiers and had no desire to die.
Via encrypted messages transmitted back and forth to Washington, Harvath learned that the threat of a pending Russian attack was already beginning to leak out. People in America were hoarding food, water, and medical supplies, while millions were fleeing major metropolitan areas, unsure if they had been targeted.
Now that Harvath had succeeded in disabling Russia’s previously envisioned impregnable air defense system, hawks in Rutledge’s cabinet were calling for a full-on first strike to neutralize the Russians and calm fears at home. The president, though, was still concerned about the Soviet nukes secreted on American soil and urged Harvath to get back to DC as quickly as possible. There was less than two days until the State of the Union address.
By the time theVyesna crashed its way into the Kola Inlet, General Paul Venrick of the American Joint Special Operations Command had established a rendezvous point just across the border with a Norwegian Special Forces Team.
After DeWolfe had disabled the ship’s communication equipment and Carlson, with Alexandra translating, warned that he could still detonate his explosives from up to twenty kilometers away if the crew did anything stupid, the team lowered one of the icebreaker’s rigid inflatable boats over the side and headed for land.
They beached just down from a small town called Platonovka, where Avigliano located an old UAZ-brand cross-country vehicle and, seeing no one around, promptly “commandeered” it. Stopping at two gas stations, Alexandra and Harvath went inside where they allowed the attendants to hear them speaking English. Alexandra then asked for directions in Russian to a village on the Finnish border about two hundred kilometers to the southwest. At no time did they allow the attendants to see the car they were driving.
With enough of a false trail in place to occupy the police and the military until they could make it out of the country, they headed for the Russian border with Norway, using back roads whenever possible.
Two hours later, they ran out of road and had no choice but to abandon the UAZ and hike the rest of the way in on foot. When they made it to the rendezvous point, the Norwegian Special Forces unit allowed them a few minutes to catch their breath before making their presence known. Harvath, having been tasked to SEAL Team Two—the Navy’s cold weather experts, also known as the Polar SEALs, was well versed in winter warfare and noticed the soldiers before anyone else. The rest of the team was taken somewhat by surprise, as the men appeared virtually out of nowhere.
Once identities had been established, the unit commander called in a Royal Norwegian Air Force Bell 412 helicopter for their extraction. They were transported to Kirkenes Airport about forty kilometers away where the CIA Air Branch Cessna Citation X, which Harvath had flown over to Berlin on six days ago, was de-iced and waiting.
The Mach .92 Citation X traveled nearly at the speed of sound. With a range of three thousand nautical miles it was necessary that they put down in Greenland to refuel. They stopped at Sondre Stromfjord airport and were on the ground for less than fifteen minutes before being airborne again. Harvath and Alexandra hardly noticed the minor interruption and declined to exit the craft to stretch their legs and instead remained on board and continued to pour over Stavropol’s journal.
The man might have kept extensive notes, but he was no fool. Sensitive information was encoded somehow and it was only now, after almost three-and-a-half hours and two thousand miles of flight that Alexandra was beginning to get a handle on it. The fact that the man wrote in cursive Cyrillic and had terrible handwriting to boot, relegated Harvath to the back seat while Alexandra twisted her hair in knots, broke pencil point after pencil point and wore down several erasers trying to crack Stavropol’s code. The code itself wouldn’t have been such a problem had they not lost the first journal. Much of the encrypted information seemed to directly relate to earlier entries in the other notebook.
Leaving Greenland’s airspace, Harvath had received an intelligence update. He was told that Gary Lawlor’s condition had stabilized and that he’d been transported to the Landstuhl Medical Center in southwestern Germany, near Ramstein Airbase. That was the good news. Then came the bad. Not only had none of the Russian nuclear devices been discovered, but until they were verifiably locked down, president Rutledge wasn’t taking any chances. With less than twenty-four hours left until the State of the Union address, his aides were preparing two separate speeches. Though giving the speech the Russians wanted would create worldwide financial chaos and do immeasurable harm to America’s economy, he was not willing to risk the greater damage to American lives and infrastructure that would be created by the detonation of nuclear weapons on American soil.
Being cooped up in a plane over two thousand miles from home, Harvath had never felt so impotent in his life. Sitting on his hands was driving him insane.
They were over Newfoundland when Alexandra began excitedly rifling through her stack of notes, pulling out several pages in particular and laying them in front of her. Next, she tore four pages out of Stavropol’s journal and placed those to her side. Without even looking up from what she was doing, she told Harvath to go find her more paper.
When he returned, she grabbed a sheet off the top of the small stack he held in his hands and told him to sit down. He slid into the seat across the table from her and said, “What is it?”
“I finally figured it out,” she said, as she placed one of the pages from the journal side by side with a blank piece of paper and began writing. “It’s a combination of something we callPoluslovitsa , or half-word, where certain letters are purposely left missing, and an old form of Russian fast written characters.”
Harvath watched as she filled in the missing Russian words and then translated the text into English. As its meaning became clear, Harvath scrawled down a message and rushed it to DeWolfe, who encrypted his words and sped them ahead of the plane to Washington.
Chapter 51
W hen the Cessna Citation X landed just a few miles southeast of Washington, DC, at Andrews Air Force Base, it was met by a contingent of agents from the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group.
Established in 1994, the CIRG represented the FBI’s highest-end tactical and investigative resources. CIRG teams could be deployed anywhere in the country to handle critical incidents requiring an immediate law enforcement response such as hostage takings, child abductions, prison riots, and terrorist attacks. One of the CIRG’s best-known units was the FBI’s famed Hostage Rescue Team, which had a helicopter standing by to transport Harvath and the rest of the team to FBI Headquarters at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue.
As the Bell 412 helicopter raced across the dark Metro DC sky, agents of the Behavioral Analysis Unit pumped Harvath and Alexandra for anything they knew about Helmut Draegar that might give them the edge in stopping him before he could carry out his assignment.
The questions continued as they rode the elevator down from the improvised landing pad on the roof and made their way into the FBI’s Strategic Information and Operations Center, or SIOC.
The main operations area was pulsing with activity as harried operatives simultaneously worked the phones and computer terminals. Large, flat-panel monitors surrounded the room and tracked everything from street traffic to air traffic. Utility and public works departments were being monitored, as was the main 911 Emergency Call Center. Representatives from the Capitol Police Containment & Emergency Response Team were present, as well as representatives from the US Park Police SWAT team, the Federal Marshal Service’s Special Operations Group, the Washington, DC, Metropolitan
Police Department Emergency Response Team, the Secret Service’s Counter Assault, Uniform Division Emergency Response, and Counter Sniper Teams, the Department of Energy’s Nuclear Emergency Support Team, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Security Council, and a host of other agencies.
Security was always extremely tight leading up to a State of the Union address, but with a confirmed nuclear terrorist threat in the works, the CIRG had been operating at an exhausting, almost overloaded capacity for the last week.
Harvath and Alexandra were shown to a conference room above the frenetic main floor, while Morrell and the rest of his team were taken to another part of the Center to be debriefed by both CIA and Defense Department officials.
As the door to the crowded conference room opened the first voice Harvath heard belonged to Homeland Security Director Driehaus. “Ifit’s found in time.”
“If it’s not, then the president is reluctantly prepared to evacuate the Congress and give his address from the White House,” replied the chief of staff, Charles Anderson.
“Taped, of course.” said CIA Director Vaile. “Your people can record it now and then feed it out tonight while he’s safe and sound aboard Air Force One.”
“The president’s not very happy about that option,” answered Anderson. “It’s not his style. He doesn’t like the idea of hiding out while millions of American lives are at risk.”
“But like it or not, it’s his duty to remain alive,” interjected Driehaus. “If this thing does come down, the American people will want to turn to him for his guidance and leadership in the aftermath.”
“You’ve got no argument with me,” said Anderson. “Anyway, unless we’re one hundred percent certain that the threat has been neutralized, he’s giving the Russians what they want and going with the alternate speech. The international and economic pieces will just have to fall where they may.”
“Hold on a second,” said Driehaus, as he suddenly noticed Alexandra standing next to Harvath in the doorway. “Who the hell cleared them to be in here?”
“I did,” replied FBI Director Sorce, who instructed the two newcomers to take a seat.
“She’s a Russian SVR agent, for Christ’s sake!”
“Who has given us one of our biggest breaks in this case.”
Driehaus was incensed. “What if she’s a plant? What if everything she’s given us is disinformation? I want to go on record that I object to her being here and believe that her presence at this meeting puts our national security in serious jeopardy.”
“Duly noted,” replied Sorce.
“What for?” rebutted Driehaus. “She’s already decoded and provided us with the list of sleepers and their locations before she and Agent Harvath even landed in DC.”
“True,” replied Sorce, “but we still do not have themeans by which to contact them and therefore we believe she may still be useful. There’s no telling how much of a head start Draegar already has on us in activating them.”
“What about the sleepers here in DC?” asked Harvath, anxious to avoid a protracted pissing match between Sorce and Driehaus. “What have you been able to find out about them?”
The FBI director took a deep breath before responding. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to agree with Secretary Driehaus at this point. We’re going to need to talk about those two privately.” Looking at Alexandra he said, “We have a team here in the main operations area coordinating the pickups of the sleeper agents across the country. As we pop them, our field agents will be feeding back live video of their interrogations and the searches of their cars, residences, and so on. On each field team is an agent who can speak Russian, just in case Draegar tries to make contact. That being said, you’ve been a very big help to us so far, and if we can impress upon you to assist us further we could really use your help down on the floor.”
Alexandra agreed, and Sorce had one of his assistants show her to the area the sleeper pickup teams were being managed from. Once she was out of the conference room and the door had closed behind her, The FBI director looked at Harvath and said, “Out of the names you gave us, one is dead and one is missing.”
“Who are they?” asked Harvath.
“The dead guy owned a very successful antique store on Wisconsin Avenue in upper Georgetown. His client list reads like a who’s who of Washington insiders. No priors, never bothered his neighbors, regular churchgoer, no outstanding debts, you know the profile.”
“Was he Russian by birth or did someone turn them here?”
“That’s something we’re still working on.”
As Sorce handed him the file, Harvath looked it over and said, “Draegar’s cleaning house. Why?”
“The Russians are tying up their loose ends,” offered Driehaus.
“My guess is that the antiques guy changed his mind,” said Sorce. “That’s always the risk you run with a long-term sleeper. When it came to the point that he was actually called into action, he didn’t want to do it. His ideology had changed. He liked what he had going on here and didn’t want to give it up, so Draegar broke into his apartment and killed him.”
“Where did he live?” asked Harvath as he continued to scan the file.
“In some apartment building near Dupont Circle.”
“What about the other guy?”
“That’s the one that really stings,” said the FBI director as he handed over the other file. “His name is David Patrick. He’s an aide to the National Security Council’s deputy executive secretary. Apparently, he went to Moscow on a goddamn Fulbright Scholarship.”
“Our American tax dollars at work,” replied Harvath.
“His job at the NSC put him in a perfect position to slip that ransom note into the president’s briefing papers.”
Harvath closed the file and slid it back over to the FBI director, “So where’s our man now?”
“At this point, it’s anybody’s guess. We’ve cast a very intense net for him. If he’s out there, we’ll get him.”
“I assume you’ve got a team at Patrick’s apartment,” said Harvath, “just in case he comes back.”
“We do. I reassigned the guys I had on Gary’s place. Why? Are you thinking about going over there?”
“I’d like Agent Ivanova to see it, and the antique dealer’s home and office as well. She’s got good instincts and might pick up on something we missed.”
“Now that she’s in the building,” interrupted the homeland security secretary, “I don’t know if I like the idea of her leaving it.”
Sorce had no choice but to agree, it was too dangerous.
Harvath, though, disagreed. “I know the idea of an SVR agent running around loose while we’re dealing with a major threat from the Russians is a little unorthodox, but I’m telling you she has a very good eye. It’s precisely because she’s Russian that she can be of help to us. She can approach this from a completely different angle.”
“And if she tries to rabbit?” asked Sorce, playing Devil’s advocate.
“She won’t.”
“But if she does?” prodded Driehaus.
“Then I’ll put a bullet in her,” replied Harvath. “As sure as I’m sitting here, if Agent Alexandra Ivanova tries to run, I give you my word that I’ll kill her myself.”
Chapter 52
T hey ended up spending half of the day in the SIOC. With Alexandra’s knowledge of Helmut Draegar, Russian Intelligence, and the events that had transpired, she was suddenly deemed an asset too valuable to let go. As Harvath watched, she fielded question after question and gave her opinion to the agents taking down sleepers on everything from interrogation tactics to potential hiding spots for Russian nukes. Soon, no one made a move without consulting her first. Though the shift in operational control unsettled some of the FBI’s higher-ups, one look at what Alexandra was doing was enough to convince them that the trust their agents were putting in her was well founded. Her advice was solid.
The good news was that the pickup teams had gotten to the sleepers
before Draegar did. The bad news was that they were proving extremely resolute. Across the country, once captured, they gave up little to no information whatsoever.
Finally, Harvath had seen enough. His country needed him. If Alexandra Ivanova wanted to continue to play oracle at Delphi, that was fine with him, but he needed to check out their other leads. Standing around doing nothing was more than he could stand.
It took Harvath another hour to track down the FBI’s director, but once he did, the man pledged to him any support he needed.
The first thing Harvath needed was a helicopter that could get in and out of tight spaces—one that could land on a building without a helipad or in the middle of a narrow DC side street, and the HRT Bell 412 sitting on the roof of FBI Headquarters just didn’t fit the bill. What’s more, HRT’s other birds were already in use. It only took one call to Andrews Air Force Base to track down an MH-6 Little Bird and a Nightstalker pilot from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment who was ready to see some action.
Harvath also needed a support team he could trust, and Rick Morrell and Company, still in the building on reserve, were more than happy to help him out. A quartermaster and armorer from Quantico were sent up to see to all the team’s needs. The team was outfitted in black, fire-retardant Nomex fatigues, HellStorm tactical assault gloves, and First Choice body armor. Included with the cache laid out by the armorer, were several newly arrived futuristic .40-caliber Beretta CX4 Storm carbines, as well as Model 96 Beretta Vertec pistols, also in .40 caliber. There was something about being able to interchange their magazines that Harvath found very comforting.
A Picatinny rail system allowed him to outfit the CX4 Storm with an under-mounted laser sight and an above-mounted Leupold scope. He shoved as much extra ammunition as he could get his hands on into his empty pockets and after grabbing a pair of night vision goggles, headed up to the roof with the rest of the team.