by Tom Clancy
It was dark when the bus pulled through the gate into the facility, and everyone aboard was tired. Morozov was not terribly disappointed at the housing. All the beds were two-level bunks. He was assigned the top berth in a corner. Signs on the wall demanded silence in the sleeping area, since the workers here worked three shifts around the clock. The young engineer was perfectly content to change his clothes and go to sleep. He was assigned to the Directional Applications Section for a month of project orientation, after which he'd receive a permanent job assignment. He was wondering what "directional applications" meant when he drifted off to sleep.
The nice thing about vans was that lots of people owned them, and the casual observer couldn't see who was inside, Jack thought as the white one pulled into his carport. The driver was CIA, of course, as was the security man in the right seat. He dismounted and surveyed the area for a moment before pulling the side door open. It revealed a familiar face.
"Hello, Marko," Ryan said.
"So, this is house of spy!" Captain First Rank Marko Aleksandrovich Ramius, Soviet Navy (retired), said boisterously. His English was better, but like many Russian emigres he often forgot to use articles in his speech. "No, house of helmsman!"
Jack smiled and shook his head. "Marko, we can't talk about that."
"Your family does not know?"
"Nobody knows. But you can relax. My family's away."
"Understand." Marko Ramius followed Jack into the house. On his passport, Social Security card, and Virginia driver's license he was now known as Mark Ramsey. Yet another piece of CIA originality, though it made perfect sense; you wanted people to remember their names. He was, Jack saw, a little thinner now that he was eating a less starchy diet. And tan. When they'd first met, at the forward escape trunk of the missile submarine Red October, Marko-Mark! — had worn the pasty-white skin of a submarine officer. Now he looked like an ad for Club Med.
"You seem tired," 'Mark Ramsey' observed.
"They fly me around a lot. How do you like the Bahamas?"
"You see my tan, yes? White sand, sun, warm every day. Like Cuba when I went there, but nicer people."
"AUTEC, right?" Jack asked.
"Yes, but I cannot discuss this," Marko replied. Both men shared a look. AUTEC-Atlantic Underwater Test and Evaluation Center-was the Navy's submarine test range, where men and ships engaged in exercises called mini wars. What happened there was classified, of course. The Navy was very protective of its submarine operations. So Marko was at work developing tactics for the Navy, doubtless playing the role of a Soviet commander in the war games, lecturing, teaching. Ramius had been known as "the Schoolmaster" in the Soviet Navy. The important things never change.
"How do you like it?"
"Tell this to nobody, but they let me be captain of American submarine for a week-the real Captain he let me do everything, yes? I kill carrier! Yes! I kill Forrestal. They would be proud of me at Red Banner Northern Fleet, yes?"
Jack laughed. "How'd the Navy like that?"
"Captain of submarine and me get very drunk. Forrestal Captain angry, but-good sport, yes? He join us next week and we discuss exercise. He learn something, so good for all of us." Ramius paused. "Where is family?"
"Cathy's visiting her father. Joe and I don't get along very well."
"Because you are spy?" Mark/Marko asked.
"Personal reasons. Can I get you a drink?"
"Beer is good," he replied. Ramius looked around while Jack went into the kitchen. The house's cathedral ceiling towered fifteen feet-five meters, he thought-above the lush carpeting. Everything about the house testified to the money spent to make it so. He was frowning when Ryan returned.
"Ryan, I am not fool," he said sternly. "CIA does not pay so good as this."
"Do you know about the stock market?" Ryan asked with a chuckle.
"Yes, some of my money is invested there." All of the officers from Red October had enough money salted away that they'd never need to work again.
"Well, I made a lot of money there, and then I decided to quit and do something else."
That was a new thought for Captain Ramius. "You are not-what is word? Greed. You have no more greed?"
"How much money does one man need?" Ryan asked rhetorically. The Captain nodded thoughtfully. "So, I have some questions for you."
"Ah, business." Marko laughed. "This you have not forgotten!"
"In your debriefing, you mentioned that you ran an exercise in which you fired a missile, and then a missile was fired at you."
"Yes, years ago-was 1981 April, yes, it was twenty April. I command Delta-class missile submarine, and we fire two rockets from White Sea, one into Okhotsk Sea, other at Sary Shagan. We test submarine rockets, of course, but also the missile defense radar and counterbattery system-they simulated firing a missile at my submarine."
"You said it failed."
Marko nodded. "Submarine rockets fly perfectly. The Sary Shagan radar work, but too slow to intercept-was computer problem, they say. They say get new computer, last thing I hear. Third part of test almost work."
"The counterfire part. That's the first we heard of it," Ryan noted. "How did they actually run the test?"
"They not fire land rocket, of course," Marko said. He held up a finger. "They do this, and you understand nature of test, yes? Soviets are not so stupid as you think. Of course you know that entire Soviet border covered with radar fence. These see rocket launch and compute where submarine is-very easy thing to do. Next they call Strategic Rocket Force Headquarters. Strategic Rocket Force have regiment of old rockets on alert for this. They were ready to shoot back three minutes after detecting my missile on radar." He stopped for a moment. "You not have this in America?"
"No, not that I know of. But our new missiles fire from much farther away."
"Is true, but still good thing for Soviets, you see."
"How reliable is the system?"
That drew a shrug. "Not very. Problem is how alert the people are. In time of-how you say? — time of crisis, yes? In time of crisis, everyone is alert, and system may work some of time. But every time system works, many, many bombs do not explode in Soviet Union. Even one could save hundred thousand citizens. This is important to Soviet leadership. Hundred thousand more slaves to have after war end," he added to show his distaste for the government of his former homeland. "You have nothing like this in America?"
"Not that I have ever heard about," Ryan said truthfully.
Ramius shook his head. "They tell us you do. When we fire our rockets, then we dive deep and race at flank speed, straight line in any direction."
"Right now I'm trying to figure out how interested the Soviet government is in copying our SDI research."
"Interested?" Ramius snorted. "Twenty million Russians died in Great Patriotic War. You think they want to have this happen again? I tell you, Soviets are more intelligent about this than Americans-we have harder lesson, and we learn better. Someday I tell you about my home city after war, destruction of everything. Yes, we have very good lesson in protect Rodina."
That's the other thing to remember about the Russians, Jack reminded himself. It wasn't so much that they had abnormally long memories; they had things in their history that no one would forget. To expect the Soviets to forget their losses in the Second World War was as futile as asking Jews to forget the Holocaust, and just as unreasonable.
So, a little over three years ago, the Russians staged a major ABM exercise against submarine-launched ballistic missiles. The acquisition and tracking radar worked, but the system failed due to a computer problem. That was important. But-
"The reason the computer didn't work well enough-"
"That is all I know. All I can say is was honest test."
"What do you mean?" Jack asked.
"Our first yes, our original orders were to fire from known location. But the orders were changed just as submarine left dock. Eyes-only to Captain, new orders signed by aide to Defense Minister. Was Red Army col
onel, I think. Do not remember name. Orders from Minister, but Colonel sign them, yes? He wanted the test to be-how you say?"
"Spontaneous?"
"Yes! Not spontaneous. Real test should be surprise. So my orders sent me to different place and said to shoot at different time. We have general aboard from Voyska PVO, and when see new orders he is banana. Very, very angry, but what kind of test is it without no surprise? American missile submarines do not call on telephone and tell Russians day that they shoot. You either are ready or not ready," Ramius noted.
"We did not know that you were coming," General Pokryshkin noted dryly.
Colonel Bondarenko was careful to keep his face impassive. Despite having written orders from the Defense Minister, and despite belonging to a completely different uniformed service, he was dealing with a general officer with patrons of his own in the Central Committee. But the General, too, had to be wary. Bondarenko was wearing his newest and best-tailored uniform, complete with several rows of ribbons, including two awards for bravery in Afghanistan and the special badge worn by Defense Ministry staff officers.
"Comrade General, I regret whatever inconvenience I have caused you, but I do have my orders."
"Of course," Pokryshkin noted with a broadening smile. He gestured to a silver tray. "Tea?"
"Thank you."
The General poured two cups himself instead of summoning his orderly. "Is that a Red Banner I see? Afghanistan?"
"Yes, Comrade General, I spent some time there."
"And how did you earn it?"
"I was attached to a Spetznaz unit as a special observer. We were tracking a small band of bandits. Unfortunately, they were smarter than the unit commander believed, and he allowed us to follow them into an ambush. Half the team was killed or wounded, including the unit commander." Who earned his death, Bondarenko thought. "I assumed command and called in help. The bandits withdrew before we could bring major forces to bear, but they did leave eight bodies behind."
"How did a communications expert-"
"I volunteered. We were having difficulties with tactical communications, and I decided to take the situation in hand myself. I am not a real combat soldier, Comrade General, but there are some things you have to see for yourself. That is another concern I have with this post. We are perilously close to the Afghan border, and your security seems not lax, but perhaps overly comfortable."
Pokryshkin nodded agreement. "The security force is KGB, as you have doubtless noted. They report to me, but are not strictly under my orders. For early warning of possible threats, I have an arrangement with Frontal Aviation. Their aerial-reconnaissance school uses the valleys around here as a training area. A classmate of mine at Frunze has arranged coverage of this entire area. If anyone approaches this installation from Afghanistan, it's a long walk, and we'll know about it long before they get here."
Bondarenko noted this with approval. Procurer for wizards or not, Pokryshkin hadn't forgotten everything, as too many general officers tended to do.
"So, Gennady Iosifovich, exactly what are you looking for?" the General asked. The atmosphere was somewhat milder now that both men had established their professionalism.
"The Minister wishes an appraisal of the effectiveness and reliability of your systems."
"Your knowledge of lasers?" Pokryshkin asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I am familiar with the applications side. I was on the team with Academician Goremykin that developed the new laser communications systems."
"Really? We have some of them here."
"I didn't know that," Bondarenko said.
"Yes. We use them in our guard towers, and to link our laboratory facilities with the shops. It's easier than stringing telephone lines, and is more secure. Your invention has proven very useful indeed, Gennady Iosifovich. Well. You know our mission here, of course."
"Yes, Comrade General. How close are you to your goal?"
"We have a major system test coming up in three days."
"Oh?" Bondarenko was very surprised by that.
"We received permission to run it only yesterday. Perhaps the Ministry hasn't been fully informed. Can you stay for it?"
"I wouldn't miss it."
"Excellent." General Pokryshkin rose. "Come, let's go to see my wizards."
The sky was clear and blue, the deeper blue that comes from being above most of the atmosphere. Bondarenko was surprised to see that the General did his own driving in a UAZ-469, the Soviet equivalent of a jeep.
"You do not have to ask, Colonel. I do my own driving because we do not have room up here for unnecessary personnel, and-well, I was a fighter pilot. Why should I trust my life to some beardless boy who barely knows how to shift gears? How do you like our roads?"
Not at all, Bondarenko didn't say as the General speeded down a slope. The road was barely five meters wide, with a precipitous drop on the passenger side of the car. "You should try this when it's icy!" The General laughed.
"We've been lucky on weather lately. Last autumn we had nothing but rain for two weeks. Most unusual here; the monsoon's supposed to drop all the water on India, but the winter has been agreeably dry and clear." He shifted gears as the road bottomed out. A truck was coming from the other direction, and Bondarenko did all he could not to cringe as the jeep's right-side tires spun through rocks at the road's uneven edge. Pokryshkin was having some fun with him, but that was to be expected. The truck swept past with perhaps a meter of clearance, and the General moved back to the center of the blacktopped road. He shifted gears again as they came to an upslope.
"We don't even have room for a proper office here-for me at any rate," Pokryshkin noted. "The academicians have priority."
Bondarenko had seen only one of the guard towers that morning as he ran around the residential facility, and as the jeep climbed the last few meters, the Bright Star test area became visible.
There were three security checkpoints. General Pokryshkin stopped his vehicle and showed his pass at each of them.
"The guard towers?" Bondarenko asked.
"All manned round the clock. It is hard on the chekisti. I had to install electric heaters in the towers." The General chuckled. "We have more electrical power here than we know how to use. We originally had guard dogs running between the fences, too, but we had to stop that. Two weeks ago several of them froze to death. I didn't think that would work. We still have a few, but they walk about with the guards. I'd just as soon get rid of them."
"But-"
"More mouths to feed," Pokryshkin explained. "As soon as it snows, we have to bring food in by helicopter. To keep guard dogs happy, they must eat meat. Do you know what it does for camp morale to have dogs on a meat diet when our scientists don't have enough? Dogs aren't worth the trouble. The KGB commander agrees. He's trying to get permission to dispense with them altogether. We have starlight-scopes in all the towers. We can see an intruder long before a dog would smell or hear one."
"How big is your guard force?"
"A reinforced rifle company. One hundred sixteen officers and men, commanded by a lieutenant colonel. There are at least twenty guards on duty round the clock. Half here, half on the other hill. Right here, two men in each of the towers at all times, plus four on roving patrol, and of course the people at the vehicle checkpoints. The area is secure, Colonel. A full rifle company with heavy weapons on top of this mountain-to be sure, we had a Spetznaz team run an assault exercise last October. The umpires ruled them all dead before they got to within four hundred meters of our perimeter. One of them almost was, as a matter of fact. One pink-faced lieutenant damned near fell off the mountain." Pokryshkin turned. "Satisfied?"
"Yes, Comrade General. Please excuse my overly cautious nature."
"You didn't get those pretty ribbons from being a coward," the General observed lightly. "I am always open to new ideas. If you have something to say, my door is never locked."
Bondarenko decided that he was going to like General Pokryshkin. He was far enough from Mosco
w not to act like an officious ass, and unlike most generals, he evidently didn't see a halo in the mirror when he shaved. Perhaps there was hope for this installation after all. Filitov would be pleased.
"It is like being a mouse, with a hawk in the sky," Abdul observed.
"Then do what a mouse does," the Archer replied evenly. "Stay in the shadows."
He looked up to see the An-26. It was five thousand meters overhead, and the whine of its turbine engines barely reached them. Too far for a missile, which was unfortunate. Other mudjaheddin missileers had shot the Antonovs down, but not the Archer. You could kill as many as forty Russians that way. And the Soviets were learning to use the converted transports for ground surveillance. That made life harder on the guerrillas.
The two men were following a narrow path along the side of yet another mountain, and the sun hadn't reached them yet, though most of the valley was fully lit under the cloudless winter sky. The bombed-out ruins of a village lay next to a modest river. Perhaps two hundred people had lived there once, until the high-altitude bombers came. He could see the craters, laid out in uneven lines two or three kilometers in length. The bombs had marched through the valley, and those who had not been killed were gone-to Pakistan-leaving only emptiness behind. No food to be shared with the freedom fighters, no hospitality, not even a mosque in which to pray. Part of the Archer still wondered why war had to be so cruel. It was one thing for men to fight one another; there was honor in that, at times enough to be shared with a worthy enemy. But the Russians didn't fight that way. And they call us savages
So much was gone. What he had once been, the hopes for the future he'd once held, all of his former life slipped further away with the passage of every day. It seemed that he only thought of them when asleep now-and when he awoke, the dreams of a peaceful, contented life wafted away from his grasp like the morning mist. But even those dreams were fading away. He could still see his wife's face, and his daughter's, and his son's, but they were like photographs now, flat, lifeless, cruel reminders of times that would not return. But at least they gave his life purpose. When he felt pity for his victims, when he wondered if Allah really approved of what he did-of the things that had sickened him at first-he could close his eyes for a moment and remind himself why the screams of dying Russians were as sweet to his ears as the passionate cries of his wife.