About the Book
Russian President Petrov is determined to restore his country’s dominance on the world stage at any price. In order to develop deadlier nuclear weapons, he recruits Ilana Rabinovich, a beautiful but lethal scientist, to infiltrate the Mossad and steal their research. What no one expects is for the Israelis to then assign her an even more dangerous mission of their own: to penetrate the US nuclear facilities in the deserts of Los Alamos.
If the information falls into the wrong hands the results could be devastating. Especially as in the Hindu Kush, ISIS soldiers are also plotting to acquire nuclear weapons. It’s up to CIA agent Curtis O’Connor to stop them before it’s too late. From Russia’s secret nuclear city of Sarov, across the myriad canals of St Petersburg, to an assault on an ancient castle more impenetrable than Colditz, the chase is on.
Contents
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
Also by the Author
For Michelle
The members of the National Security Council and their advisors all rose as President Bedford Travers entered the White House Situation Room located beneath the Oval Office. The Vice-President, Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Director of National Intelligence and the National Security Advisor were some of the most powerful men in the country. The President took his leather seat at the head of the long polished mahogany table and glared around the room. The Director of the National Clandestine Service, Tom McNamara – the CIA’s chief spy – exchanged glances with his old colleague Dwight D. Corbett, the grey-haired Secretary of Defense. Both men had served various administrations, Republican and Democrat, but neither had ever encountered anything like the irascible, unpredictable Travers.
The Situation Room was far more cramped than the media images portrayed, but the old mahogany walls had been replaced by high-tech ‘whisper walls’ and the six embedded flat screens ensured the president and his advisors could access encrypted video communications with other leaders and generals around the world. A CCTV camera, located in amongst the dome lighting in the roof, enabled the president’s Secret Service detachment to monitor proceedings from outside the room.
‘Mr President, if I can direct your attention to the screen on the far wall, we have a recording of an address Caliph Abu Muhammad al-Rahman made just minutes ago.’ Lester Metcalf, the burly four-star Air Force General and Director of National Intelligence nodded to his aide and the screen came to life, showing a bearded al-Rahman wearing a black turban. The Caliph was speaking from behind a stone balustrade, the top of which was covered in snow.
Travers’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the self-styled leader of the Sunni jihadist Islamic State.
‘I have a message for you Infidels,’ the Caliph began in an ominous tone. ‘It’s a message that comes directly from Allah and the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. We will shortly be in possession of nuclear warheads, and if you do not immediately cease your operations against us in Iraq and Syria and other parts of the world, your cities will be reduced to smoking, radioactive rubble. The President of the United States is weak and unpopular. Your western civilisations have sunk into the depths of depravity. Your politicians are corrupt. Your banks are corrupt. Your entire society is corrupt. But, Insha’Allah, now you have an opportunity to reform.’ And with that, the screen went blank.
McNamara observed the president with a growing sense of unease. Travers’s face had reddened alarmingly.
‘Who the hell does he think he is?’ President Travers exploded in fury. ‘Where was that broadcast made?’
The Secretary of Defense raised an eyebrow toward the Secretary of State. This was not the first tirade they had witnessed and an uncomfortable silence descended on the Security Council. Tom McNamara thought hard before he broke it. In the past, the CIA and other agencies had learned to their cost that this president had little understanding of the workings of the intelligence community and scant regard for endangering the sources of top-secret information. At the very time this meeting had got underway, McNamara knew that his leading field agent, Curtis O’Connor, and elements of SEAL Team Six were preparing to launch an airborne assault on an ancient castle in the snow-capped Caucasus Mountains in Georgia, not far from that country’s northern border with Chechnya, a republic of Russia. But he also knew that O’Connor and his men were after something far more critical than Caliph al-Rahman. The capture or assassination of the Caliph was only a secondary target, but because this president and his staff could not be trusted to keep the operation on a strict need-to-know basis, McNamara had put it into a ‘black’ compartment. The only other person in the room who was aware of Operation Caucasus was General Reid, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
‘We believe that video was made in the Pankisi Gorge in Georgia,’ said McNamara, finally breaking the silence with the barest information. ‘But we have yet to confirm that from another source.’
‘What do you mean another source?’ Travers rasped.
‘Mr President, we have a tried and tested system for grading intelligence, and it’s one that has served us well for many decades,’ McNamara responded evenly. ‘We rate our sources from A – meaning a history of complete reliability – down to F – meaning we can’t judge it. Those ratings are further refined with ratings for the reliability of the information itself. One means confirmed, through to six where again, we can’t make a judgment. The current report on the ISIS Caliph has been graded B2, meaning it’s from a usually reliable source and it’s probably true, but until we can confirm the information from a second source, we need to tread carefully.’
‘That’s the problem with you intelligence bureaucrats. You always tread carefully,’ Travers fumed, ‘but I’m here to tell you the American people have had it up to here with your pussyfooting delays!’ The president slammed his fist onto the mahogany table. ‘I’m here to tell you that President Bedford Travers is a man of action and it’s action I’m going to take. Now where in the Pankisi Gorge exactly is this so-called Caliph?’
‘Again, we’re not sure, Mr President,’ said McNamara, maintaining his calm disposition, ‘but we think the location is not far from a little village called Jokolo in the upper reaches of the Alazani river.’
‘Then we bomb them,’ said the president.
McNamara immediately regretted speaking up. To describe the president’s current demeanour as erratic and impulsive would, McNamara thought, be at the kind end of the spectrum.
‘Mr President, with respect,’ the grey-haired Secretary of Defense Corbett intervened, ‘bomb whom?’
‘ISIS! I promised the American people I would destroy these barbarians and I will, and I’m starting with their leader.’
The Defense Secretary took a deep breath. ‘Mr President, we can’t just order our aircraft to bomb another country. Georgia is not Syria or Iraq. And even if such a grave step were taken, without more exact intelligence on the precise location of a target, conventional weapons are not going to have much effect, other than on the civilian population of Jokolo.’
‘Then we nuke them.’
A collective gasp echoed off the walnut walls.
‘Mr President, you can’t be serious.’ This time it was the turn of the Secretary of State to reason with the increasingly irritable and fitful Travers.
President Travers glared at the veteran diplomat. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. ISIS is messing with Bedford Travers, and I’m going to teach them a lesson. As of right now,’ the president said, turning to General Elbert T. Reid, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, ‘I’m authorising you to use one or two of those low-power battlefield nukes you’ve briefed me on. That way, the damage will be confined, but make no mistake – I’m going to wipe these barbarians off the face of the earth!’
‘Mr President, you have the authority vested in you as President of the United States to order a nuclear attack, but you need to be aware that in a nuclear attack, the damage is never confined.’ General Reid ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, but like McNamara, he remained calm and measured. ‘We are all advising you not to take such an extreme step. It must have occurred to you that if we launch small nuclear bombs – even conventional bombs – into Georgia, not only will innocent Georgians get killed but the Russian President will see that as an attack on his interests and he may retaliate. President Petrov’s Sarmat ICBMs are the fastest in the world. They travel at over 15 000 miles an hour and they would reach us with multiple warheads in under 12 minutes. Our Minuteman missiles were designed in the 1950s and the system is now over 50 years old. Quite frankly, Mr President, I’m not convinced we could react in time.’
‘Petrov would do no such thing,’ President Travers shot back. ‘He hasn’t got my ticker. ISIS have threatened us with nuclear weapons, and that will be all over tonight’s news. I’m going to tell the American people that we will fight the ISIS fire with a bigger fire. Get your battlefield nukes ready, and I want a brief on my desk by tomorrow morning with a plan to wipe this village off the map. The plan is to include putting our missiles and submarines on full alert in case Petrov decides he wants to mix it with me. ISIS is not going to get away with this, because no one – no one – calls me weak and unpopular and gets away with it. This meeting is terminated!’ The President stormed out of the Situation Room toward the stairs that led up to the Oval Office.
The members of the National Security Council immediately broke into small groups. There was only one topic of conversation: the fitness of this president to serve in high office and his seeming inability to comprehend reality. McNamara shook his head, unsure which was the greater threat to the world – ISIS or an unstable President of the United States. His thoughts turned to O’Connor and SEAL Team Six, 6000 miles away. O’Connor would, he knew, be preparing to launch his covert mission into Georgia from the Turkish Air Base at Incirlik near the Turkish Mediterranean coast.
The Marine guarding the briefing room closed the door to any unwanted intruders, and Curtis O’Connor highlighted the satellite images with his laser pointer.
‘The ruined Pankisi Castle is located here, in the mountains above the village of Jokolo in the Pankisi Gorge in Georgia,’ O’Connor began, ‘although much of it is still intact.’ Tall, fit and solidly built, O’Connor’s thick, dark hair fell roughly into place. His face was tanned, and his blue eyes held an air of mischief, but that could be deceptive. Curtis O’Connor had one of the sharpest minds in the CIA.
‘They’ve got to be bloody joking,’ Petty Officer Louis Estrada muttered. The short, muscular veteran of SEAL Team Six stared in disbelief at the towering stone sides of the ancient stronghold. The snow-capped mountains either side of the Pankisi Gorge were perilously steep and the castle had been constructed on a rocky outcrop high above the Alazani river. At the time, the sixteenth-century fortress had been designed to provide the wily Georgian Kakhetians with a commanding view of the route into the soaring Greater Caucasus Mountains to the north.
‘I heard that, Estrada,’ O’Connor responded with a wry grin, ‘and unfortunately, they’re not.’ Like the other members of SEAL Team Six, Estrada and O’Connor had operated together in both Iraq and Afghanistan. ‘Somewhere in that castle, ISIS are holding one of our most distinguished nuclear physicists, Dr Denis Bartók, and we’ve been tasked with rescuing him.’ O’Connor paused. He knew only too well that the combined CIA–SEAL Team Six operation had only a very slim chance of success.
‘So what makes this Bartók guy so important?’ asked Estrada, still shaking his head.
‘If you will switch to receive for a while instead of listening on transmit, Estrada, I will come to that shortly,’ O’Connor responded, still smiling. The gentle rebuke was delivered without an edge to it. O’Connor’s team never needed to be reminded who was in charge.
‘As you can see from the satellite images, the mountains either side of the Pankisi Gorge are even more forbidding than Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush and the area has a long history of conflict, going back past the Persian occupation in the 1600s.’ O’Connor paused again to let his team study the hostile terrain. He had decided to go in with just seven hand-picked men, all of whom he had worked with before. O’Connor knew they would be significantly outnumbered by the larger ISIS force, so he planned to rely on an advantage of surprise and stealth.
‘More recently,’ O’Connor continued, ‘the gorge has been home to Chechen rebels fighting the Russians in Chechnya across the mountains to the north and more recently still, it has been used as a safe haven for ISIS forces, particularly those training to fight in Syria. There are only twelve remote villages on the banks of the Alazani river and the entire area has a population numbering less than 10 000. The Saudi form of extreme Wahhabi Islam, under which you can be flogged for listening to music, giving flowers or watching football, is starting to take hold and in the past few years, every village has been gifted a mosque.’
‘No prizes for guessing where the money is coming from,’ observed Rudy Kennedy. The wiry, fit Chief Petty Officer had not hesitated to once again serve as O’Connor’s second-in-command.
‘Exactly,’ agreed O’Connor. ‘We’re up against a brutal, merciless bunch of ideologues, and that brings me to Estrada’s question. Doctor Denis Bartók is – or was – one of America’s foremost nuclear physicists. I say “was” because Bartók is a traitor. Up until two weeks ago, he was working at our top-secret nuclear laboratories in Los Alamos.’
Kennedy nodded knowingly. The Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico had been established in 1942 to house the Manhattan Project, which led to the development of the world’s first atomic bomb. Since then, the Los Alamos scientists had been at the forefront of nuclear research and the development of ever more powerful nuclear weapons.
‘Bartók emigrated to the US from Russia 30 years ago,’ said O’Connor, flashing up a picture of the lanky, pasty-faced scientist. ‘Prior to working for us, he was subjected to the most rigorous background investigation, and he held the highest Top Secret Sensitive Compartmented Information clearance. He was given his own laboratory and every support to work on what is known as the “Holy Grail” of energy – a nuclear fusion process that mirrors the nuclear reaction that keeps the sun burning. His researc
h offers the prospect of limitless, clean energy.
‘For Estrada’s sake, I won’t go into the nuclear physics,’ O’Connor continued, grinning at the twice-decorated Navy SEAL, ‘but Bartók recently cracked the code – a code that nuclear physicists have been attempting to break for decades. It’s Nobel Prize territory, but for reasons that are yet to be explained, two weeks ago Bartók fled the country, taking with him the results of his research on a thumb drive. Again I won’t go into the details, but when he fled to Paris, Bartók met up with General Dragunov, the head of the Russian nuclear program. If our intelligence is correct, Bartók and Dragunov have been captured by ISIS who are now holding both of them in the castle. But there is more to it than just Bartók and Dragunov . . . far more.’ O’Connor’s team listened in shocked silence as he briefed them on why ISIS were holding such high-value hostages, the extent of the mission and the threat to the world if they didn’t succeed.
‘We are not, however, going in entirely blind because our Chief of Station in Tbilisi has not been idle. For obvious reasons, tourism in the Pankisi Gorge is in serious decline. Money talks, and we’ve managed to bring an old tour guide into our tent.’ O’Connor flashed up a map of the internal layout of the ruined castle. ‘Our landing zone is here,’ said O’Connor, directing his laser pointer onto a rocky outcrop 2 kilometres above the target. ‘Although the area is remote, we’ll still be dropping at night, and we can’t risk the noise of our parachutes opening at low level, so it will be a HAHO drop.’ The High Altitude, High Opening parachute insertion with oxygen and full equipment was one of the most difficult operational techniques elite forces had to master, but O’Connor and SEAL Team Six had done it many times before.
‘We will jump at 35 000 feet, 15 kilometres from the landing zone.’ The team’s steerable parachutes had a glide ratio of 3:1, which meant they covered three feet forward for every one foot of descent, and the toggles allowed O’Connor and his team to steer their chutes. Pulling on one toggle curled one side of the chute down, enabling a turn, while pulling on both toggles acted as a brake. The jumpmaster, with the aid of a computer that took into account a range of variables, including wind speed and direction, was responsible for calculating the HARP or High Altitude Release Point. ‘Tonight has been chosen because there’s no moon,’ said O’Connor. ‘Chief Kennedy will be the jumpmaster for this drop, so at this point, I’ll hand over to him.’
The Russian Affair Page 1