by Tom Clancy
"That's all right," Orlov said. "If you can get me the train, I can get a crew to run her. Will you let me know as soon as possible?"
"Stay where you are," Pasenko said. "I'll radio back within the half hour."
Signing off, Orlov handed the headset to Zalish. "Radio the military base on Sakhalin Island," he said. "Tell the operator I'd like to speak to a member of the spetsnaz detachment— I'll stay on the line."
"Yes, sir. Which member, General?"
"Junior Lieutenant Nikita Orlov," he said. "My son."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Monday, 1:45 P.M., Washington, D.C.
Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers were sitting behind Hood's desk studying the psychological profiles which Liz Gordon had just sent over.
If there was any strain between the men over what had happened in the Tank, it had been put aside. Rodgers had a strong independent streak, but he was also a twenty-year man. He knew how to take orders, including the ones he didn't like. For his part, Hood rarely overruled his deputy, and almost never in military matters. When he did, it was with the backing of most of his senior staff.
The Peggy James call had been a tough one, but the bottom line was simple. The intelligence community was small, much too small for grudges. The risk of sending a seasoned agent with Striker was acceptable, compared to the risk of alienating DI6 and Commander Hubbard.
Hood was careful not to be too solicitous with Rodgers after their little showdown. The General would have resented that. But Hood made himself more open to Rodgers's ideas, especially his enthusiasm for Liz Gordon's psychological profiles. Op-Center's Director put as much validity in psychoanalysis as he did in astrology and phrenology. Childhood dreams about his mother were as useful to understanding his adult mind as the gravitational pull of Saturn and bumps on the head were to predicting the future.
But Mike Rodgers believed and, if nothing else, it was useful to review the personal histories of their potential adversaries.
The concise biography of the new Russian President was on the screen, along with access to file photographs, newspaper clips, and video footage. Hood scanned through details of Zhanin's birth in Makhachkala on the Caspian Sea, his education in Moscow and rise from the Politburo to an attaché in the Soviet Embassy in London and then as Deputy Ambassador in Washington.
Hood stopped scrolling when he reached Liz's profile:
" 'He sees himself as a potential modem-day Peter the Great,' " Hood read Liz's summary, " 'who favors open trade with the West and a cultural influx from the U.S. to make sure his people continue to want what we have to sell.' "
Rodgers said, "That makes sense. If they want American movies, they'll have to buy Russian VCRs. If they want enough Chicago Bulls jackets or Janet Jackson T-shirts, companies will begin to open factories in Russia."
"But Liz says here, 'I don't think he has the same aesthetic sense as Peter the Great.' "
"No," Rodgers agreed. "The Czar was genuinely interested in Western culture. Zhanin is interested in building the economy and remaining in power. The question, which we also discussed with the President last night, is how sure are we of his devotion to this course of action as opposed to militarism."
"He has no military background whatsoever," Hood said, looking back over the biography.
"Right," said Rodgers. "And historically, that kind of leader is quick to try and use force to get his way. Anyone who's been in a combat zone knows firsthand the price you pay there. As a rule, they're the most reluctant to use force."
Hood continued reading. " 'Given the military warning General Rodgers heard at the White House meeting last night,' Liz wrote, 'I do not believe that Zhanin would pick a fight somewhere to prove himself or to appease the military. He prides himself on rhetoric and ideas, not on force or the use of arms. In these early days of his new government, his overriding concern will be not to alienate the West.' "
Hood sat back, shut his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You want some coffee?" Rodgers asked as he continued to scan the report.
"No, thanks. I swam in the stuff on the flight back."
"Why didn't you try and sleep?"
Hood laughed. "Because I got the last seat in coach, stuffed between the loudest-snoring humans on earth. Both of whom took off their shoes and passed right out. I can't watch those cropped and edited movies on airplanes, so I just sat there and wrote a thirty-page letter of apology to my family."
"Was Sharon mad or disappointed?" Rodgers asked.
"Both and more," said Hood. He sat back up. "Hell, let's get back to the Russians. I've got a better chance of understanding them, I think."
Rodgers gave him a light swat on the back as they looked at the screen.
"Liz says here that Zhanin isn't an impulsive man," Hood said. " 'He always sticks to his plans, guided by what he feels is moral or right, whether or not it's at odds with prevailing wisdom. See extracts Z-17A and Z-27C from Pravda.' "
Hood brought up the cited newspaper clippings and saw how, in 1986, Zhanin strongly backed the plan of Deputy Interior Minister Abalya to crack down on mobsters who were abducting foreign businessmen in Georgia, even after Abalya was assassinated, and how he earned the enmity of hard liners by refusing to support a law in 1987 that would have banned the use of Lenin look-alikes for what were referred to as 'evenings of mockery.'
" 'A man of integrity,' " Hood read Liz's closing comments, " 'who has been shown to err on the side of risk-taking rather than caution.' "
Rodgers said, "Part of me wonders if that risk-taking would include a military adventure."
"Part of me wonders that too," Hood admitted. "He didn't hesitate to recommend using the militia against gangsters in Georgia."
"True," Rodgers said, "though you can argue that that isn't the same thing."
"How so?"
"Using force to maintain the peace is different from using force to assert one's will," Rodgers said. "There's a point of legality there that, psychologically, would make a big difference to someone like Zhanin."
"Well," Hood said, "this pretty well agrees with what you decided in the Oval Office last night. Zhanin's not the problem. Let's see who else might be, then."
Hood went to the next section of Liz's report. She had playfully titled it Loose Cannons. He began scrolling through the names.
" 'General Viktor Mavik,' " he read, " 'Marshal of Artillery in the Army.' "
"He was one of the officers who planned the attack on the Ostankino television center in 1993," Rodgers said, "defied Yeltsin, and still survived. He's still got powerful friends in and out of government."
"'But he doesn't like acting alone,"' Hood read. "Then there's our friend General Mikhail Kosigan, whom she describes here rather colorfully as 'a real nutburger.' He was Chief Marshal of Artillery and openly defended a pair of officers who had been rebuked and reprimanded by Gorbachev for ordering suicide missions in Afghanistan."
" 'Gorbachev gave him the ultimate punishment short of a court-martial,' " Rodgers read, " 'a demotion, after which he went to Afghanistan and personally commanded repeats of those same missions. This time, however, they turned out differently. He threw men and arms at the rebel hideout until it was taken.' "
"He definitely sounds like someone to watch," Hood said as he inched the text ahead.
The next name on the screen was the most recent addition.
"Interior Minister Nikolai Dogin," Hood said, then read, " 'This man never met a capitalist he didn't despise. If you look at picture Z/D-1 you'll see that the CIA photographed him secretly visiting Beijing when Gorbachev came to power. Dogin was Mayor of Moscow at the time, and he was secretly trying to rally the support of international Communists against the new President.' "
"There's something about you former Mayors that worries me," Rodgers said as Hood accessed up the photograph.
His deadpan remark drew a smile from Hood.
The men leaned close to the monitor and read the "Eyes Only" notation on
the photograph. It indicated that the picture had been turned over to Gorbachev by the U.S. Ambassador.
Rodgers sat back. "Dogin must have had a hell of a lot of support to stay in power after Gorby found out about that."
"Absolutely," said Hood. "The kind of support you nurture over the years and build into a network. The kind of support that lets you slip a government right out from under a duly elected president."
The intercom outside the door beeped. "Chief, it's Bob Herbert."
Hood pressed a button on the side of his desk and the lock clicked open. The door swung in and an agitated Bob Herbert wheeled over. He dropped a diskette on the desk. Whenever Herbert was upset or puzzled, his Mississippi accent thickened. It was very thick now.
"Somethin' happened at eight P.M., local time," Herbert said. "Somethin' big."
Hood glanced down at Herbert's diskette. "What happened?"
"All of a sudden, Russians are every-goddamn-where." He pointed at the disk. "Run it. G'wan."
Hood downloaded the data and saw that Herbert wasn't exaggerating. Pilots and planes from Orenburg were being transferred to the Ukrainian border. The Baltic Fleet was on a low-level alert, ostensibly as a drill. And the battery of four Hawk satellites usually used to monitor the West had been diverted to potential Russian targets in Poland.
"Moscow's paying special attention to Kiev and Warsaw," Rodgers said as he studied the satellite coordinates.
Herbert said, "What's interestin' about the Hawks is that the downlink station in Baikonur went silent at eight P.M., local time."
"Just the station?" Rodgers asked. "Not the satellite dishes?"
"Not the dishes," Herbert said.
"Then where's the data going?" Hood asked.
Herbert said, "We're not sure— though here's where it gets real curious. We detected increased electrical activity in St. Petersburg at exactly eight P.M., local time. Now, that happens to have been when the TV station in the Hermitage began broadcasting, so it could have been coincidental."
"But you wouldn't bet the Ponderosa on it," Hood said.
Herbert shook his head.
"This is what Eival Ekdol promised us," Rodgers said, still studying the deployment. "Something military. And it's being done very cleverly. If you take each of these events individually, they're all pretty routine except for the change in the Hawk targets. Matériel is moved from the port at Vladivostok on a regular basis. Maneuvers are held on the Ukrainian border twice a year, and it's time for that now. The Baltic Fleet frequently drills close to shore so that isn't unexpected."
"What you're saying," Hood said, "is that unless somebody had the big picture, it would seem as though nothing were amiss."
"Right," Rodgers said.
"But what I don't understand," said Hood, "is if Zhanin isn't behind whatever's going on, how could an operation of this magnitude be kept from him? He'd have to be aware that something's going on."
"You know better than anyone that a leader's only as good as his intelligence," Rodgers said.
"I also know that if you tell two people something in Washington, it's no longer a secret," Hood said. "That's got to be true in the Kremlin as well."
"It isn't," said Herbert. "If only one person knows something over there, it's no longer a secret."
"You're forgetting something," said Rodgers. "Shovich. A man like that can use threats and money to shut down the information pipeline pretty effectively. Besides, though he may not have the big picture, Zhanin probably knows about some of what's going on. Dogin or Kosigan may have gone to him right after the election and convinced him to authorize a few of the maneuvers and troop transfers to keep the military happy and busy."
"Dogin would benefit from that as well," Herbert pointed out. "If at some point any of this goes wrong, Zhanin's autograph is on several of the orders. There's mud on everyone."
Hood nodded, then cleared the screen. "So Dogin's the probable architect, and St. Petersburg is his sandbox."
"Yes," said Herbert. "And Striker's gone to play with him."
Hood continued to stare at the black screen. "The Interpol report is due at three," he said. "That's when you guys sit down with the Hermitage plans and updates and figure out how to get inside."
"Right," said Rodgers.
Herbert said, "I've got the Tactics and Strategy team putting together plans for getting our team across the Neva, using an airdrop, power rafts, or a midget submarine. Dom Limbos is overseeing it. He's worked river crossings before. And Georgia Mosley in supplies knows what gear she may have to dig up in Helsinki."
"Then you've ruled out the idea of Striker going in as tourists?" Hood asked.
"Pretty much," said Herbert. "The Russians are still watching tour groups and photographing suspicious individuals in hotels, on buses, and at the museum and other sites. Even if our people never go back, we don't want their photos on file."
Rodgers looked at his watch. "Paul, I'm going to go sit in on the TAS session. I've told Squires he can expect a game plan before he lands at around four P.M., our time."
Hood nodded. "Thanks for everything, Mike."
"Sure," Rodgers said. As he rose, he looked at an antique globe paperweight on the desk. "They never change," he said.
"Who?" asked Hood.
"Tyrants," said Rodgers. "Russia may have been a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma to Winston Churchill, but what I see here is a story as old as history— a band of power-hungry individuals who think they know better than the electorate what's best for them."
Hood said, "That's why we're here. To tell them they can't do this without a fight."
Rodgers looked down at Hood. "Mr. Director" — he smiled— "I like your style. Me and General Gordon."
Rodgers left with Bob Herbert, leaving Hood perplexed and feeling as though he'd bonded with his General— though if his life depended on it, he couldn't figure out how or why.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 5:51 A.M., Sakhalin Island
Sakhalin Island in the Sea of Okhotsk is a rugged, six-hundred-mile-long stretch of fishing villages on the coasts and majestic pine forests and coal mines in the interior, of rutted roads and a few new highways, of ruins of Romanov prison camps and of ancient graves where the most common surname is Nepomnyashchy— "Unremembered." Situated one time zone west of the International Date Line, it is closer to the Golden Gate Bridge than it is to the Kremlin. When it is noon in Moscow, it is already 8:00 P.M. on Sakhalin. The island has long been a retreat for leaders, many of whom have had dachas, comfortable cottages in the hills, and for eremites who lose themselves in Sakhalin's untouched wilderness to seek God and peace.
The Russians have long maintained a military presence in Korsakov, on the island's southeastern tip near the Kuril Islands, which stretch from the northern tip of Hokkaido to the southern tip of Kamchatka. The islands were occupied by the Soviet Union in 1945, though Japan still claims the seven-hundred-mile-long string of islands and the nations have argued over them ever since.
The Russian base in Korsakov is spartan, consisting of an airstrip, a small harbor, and four barracks. Five hundred naval troops and two regiments of spetsnaz frogmen and naval soldiers are stationed here, daily air and sea patrols keeping an eye and electronic ear on the activities of Japanese salmon boats.
Twenty-three-year-old Junior Lieutenant Nikita Orlov sat at his desk in the command post, high on a peak overlooking the sea and the base. His black hair was close-cropped, save for the longish waves that hung down over his forehead, and his full, ruddy lips were set in a square jaw. His brown eyes were alert and gleaming as he reviewed local intelligence and faxed news reports from the previous night— and stole frequent glances out the open window.
The young officer loved getting up before dawn, learning what had happened while he slept, and then watching the sun peek over the horizon and burn across the sea toward the base. He loved the waking of the world, even though each day no longer held the promise it did when he was
a boy and then a cadet: that the Soviet Union would stand as the most enduring empire in the history of the world.
As keen as his disappointment was, Nikita loved his country as passionately as ever, and he loved Sakhalin. He had been sent here straight out of the spetsnaz academy, in large part to get him out of Moscow after the incident with the Greek Orthodox church— but also, he had always felt, to keep him from sullying his father's good name. Sergei Orlov was a hero, valuable as a flight instructor to impressionable young pilots, useful as propaganda at international symposia and conventions. Nikita Orlov was a radical, a reactionary who yearned for the days before Afghanistan destroyed the morale of the world's greatest military, before Chernobyl damaged the nation's pride, before glasnost and perestroika caused the economy and then the union to come apart.
But that was the past. And here, at least, there was still a sense of purpose, still an enemy. Captain Leshev— perhaps suffering from a touch of cabin fever after three years in command of the spetsnaz troops on Sakhalin— spent a great deal of time organizing shooting competitions, which were his passion. That left Orlov in charge of most military matters, and he felt that someday Russia would once again face Japan militarily, that they would try to establish a presence on the island and he might have the honor of leading the shock troops against them.
He also felt, in his heart, that Russia was not yet finished with the United States. The Soviets had beaten Japan in a war, and ownership of the islands was the prize. But there was a sense that Russia had lost a war with the United States, and the Russian spirit— certainly Orlov's spirit— bridled at that. Spetsnaz training had strengthened his belief that enemies must be destroyed, not accommodated, and that he and his soldiers should be unencumbered by any ethical, diplomatic, or moral considerations. He was convinced that Zhanin's efforts to turn Russia into a nation of consumers would fail just as Gorbachev's had, and that would lead to a final reckoning with the bankers and their puppets in Washington, London, and Berlin.