by Tom Clancy
Orlov quickly finished the last of his sandwich as the transcription began coming through. He pulled a cloth napkin from the paper bag and touched it to his lips. It bore a trace of Masha's perfume from when she'd packed it. He smiled.
As the voices began coming in, Titev had tagged them so the computer recognized which was Kosigan and which was Dogin. The text appeared in solid blocks, broken when someone else spoke and punctuated based on the inflection of the speaker. Orlov read with increasing concern. He was worried not only about the prospects for peace but about who was answering to whom in the relationship.
Dogin: General, we seem to have taken the Kremlin and the world by surprise.
Kosigan: That was my zadacha dnia my mission of the day.
Dogin: Zhanin is still busy trying to figure out what's happening- Kosigan: As I've said, force him to react rather than act and he's helpless.
Dogin: That's the only reason I let you move your troops this far before the money was in place.
Kosigan: Let?
Dogin: Agreed, let, what's the difference? You were right to want to put Zhanin on the defensive so soon.
Kosigan: Momentum we mustn't lose- Dogin: We won't. Where are you?
Kosigan: Thirty-two miles west of Lvov, Poland. All the forward regiments are in place and I can see Poland from my command tent. All we await are the great acts of terrorism Shovich's money is supposed to buy me. Where are they? I'm getting restless.
Dogin: You may have to wait a little longer than we'd planned.
Kosigan: Wait? What do you mean?
Dogin. The snow. General Orlov transferred the crates to a train.
Kosigan: Six billion dollars on a train! Do you think he suspects?
Dogin: No, no, it's nothing like that. He did it to get the cargo through the storm.
Kosigan: But on a train, Minister? So vulnerable- Dogin: Orlov's son's unit is guarding it. Rossky assures me the boy's a real soldier, not a trained space monkey.
Kosigan: He could be in league with his father.
Dogin: I assure you, General, that is not the case. And no one will ever hear of the money afterward. When this is finished, we'll retire Orlov the Elder and return Orlov the Younger to his military hole where no one will ever hear of it. Don't worry. I'll have the cargo met west of Bira, clear of the storm, and flown to you.
Kosigan: Fifteen or sixteen hours wasted! The first of the major disturbances should have been happening by then! You risk giving Zhanin the time to take control of the situation.
Dogin: He won't. I've spoken with our allies in the government. They understand about the delay- Kosigan: Allies? They're profiteers, not allies. If Zhanin traces this action to us and gets to them before some of the money lines their pockets- Dogin: He won't. The President will do nothing for now. And our Polish hirelings will act the moment they are paid.
Kosigan: The government! The Poles! We don't need either of them! Let me send spetsnaz troops disguised as shipyard or factory workers to attack the police station and television station.
Dogin: I can't let you do that.
Kosigan: Let?
Dogin: They're professionals. We need amateurs. This has to look like a revolt that springs up across the nation, not like an invasion.
Kosigan: Why? Who do we have to mollify, the United Nations? Half the Army and Air Forces and two-thirds of the Navy of the Soviet Union belong to Russia. We control 520,000 Army troops, 30,000 Strategic Rocket Forces, 110,000 Air Defense forces, 200,000 Navy personnel- Dogin: We can't break faith with the entire world!
Kosigan: Why not? I can seize Poland and then take the Kremlin. When we have power, what does it matter what Washington or anyone else thinks?
Dogin: And how will you control Poland when it's time to move on? Martial law? Even your troops would be spread too thin.
Kosigan: Hitler made object lessons of entire villages. It worked.
Dogin: A half century ago, yes. Not today. Satellite dishes, cellular telephones, and fax machines make it impossible to isolate a nation and break its spirit. I've told you before this must be a groundswell, and it must be guided by the officials and leaders who are already in place. People who can be bought but whom the Poles trust. We can't afford chaos.
Kosigan: What about the promise of broader powers when they win the elections there in two months? Isn't that enough to move the constables and mayors?
Dogin: It is. But they've also insisted on bank accounts if they lose.
Kosigan: Bastards.
Dogin: Don't fool yourself, General. We're all bastards. Just stay calm. I've alerted Shovich that the shipment will be late, and he's told his agents.
Kosigan: How did he take it?
Dogin: He said he used to mark time by scratching lines on the wall of his cell. A few hash marks more won't bother him.
Kosigan: I hope so, for your sake.
Dogin: Everything is still on track— merely delayed. Instead of twenty-four hours from now, we'll be toasting our new revolution forty hours from now.
Kosigan: I hope you're right, Minister. One way or another, I promise you: I will go to Poland. Good evening, Minister.
Dogin: Good evening, General, and stay calm. I won't disappoint you.
When the transmission ended, Orlov felt the way he had the first time he was spun in a centrifuge during cosmonaut training: disoriented and sick.
The scheme was to take over Eastern Europe, oust Zhanin, and build a new Soviet empire, and it was ingenious in its evil way. A Communist newspaper in a small Polish town is blown up. The Communists in cities from Warsaw to the Ukrainian border counterattack hard, well out of proportion to the blast, and Dogin gets his groundswell as old-time Communists become encouraged— there were still a lot of them who respected the way Wladyslaw Gomulka tossed out the Stalinists in 1956 and formed Polish-style Communism with its odd hybrid of socialism and capitalism. Poland is torn in two as the old Solidarity alliances are revived and, with the Church, they begin railing against the Communists, just as they did when the Polish Pope urged Catholics to make Lech Walesa President. Closet Communists come out in the open, leading to a replay of the strikes, lack of food and other goods, as well as the disorder that Poland experienced in 1980. Refugees pour into the rich Ukrainian west so they can eat, old tensions between Catholics and the Ukrainian Orthodox Church are fired up, Polish troops and tanks are called in to stem the exodus, and Kosigan's troops are used to escort the refugees back to their homes in Poland. Those troops don't leave, and then the Czechs or Romanians become the next target.
Orlov felt as if he were dreaming, not only because of the events that were about to unfold but because of the position in which he'd placed his son. To stop Dogin, it would be necessary to order Nikita not to turn over the cargo that had been entrusted to him, and perhaps to take up arms against anyone trying to claim the crates. If Dogin were victorious, Nikita would be executed. If Dogin lost, Orlov knew his son: Nikita would feel as though he'd betrayed the military. Then there was also the possibility that Nikita would disobey his father. If that happened, Orlov would have no choice but to arrest him after the train had stopped and the cargo had already been delivered. Insubordination or disobedience of orders carried a prison sentence of one to five years, and not only would it be the final break between them but Masha would take it much harder than the trouble Nikki had had back at the academy.
Since the transcript and even the broadcast could have been faked at the Center— digitally cobbled together from earlier recordings— there was nothing he could take to President Zhanin as evidence of treason. But the crates must not be delivered, and that was something he could tell the Kremlin. In the meantime, he hoped he could convince his son that Dogin, a man who had served his country selflessly and had helped to prevent the boy's expulsion from the Academy, was now an enemy of that country.
* * *
Colonel Rossky had not been resting.
Corporal Valentina Belyev had gone home, leaving Rossky alone in his
office. He had been listening to communications between the offices at the Center, using a system that had been installed for him by the late Pavel Odina. It was because Pavel had put it in, and because no one else could ever know about it, that the communications expert had had to die on the bridge. Pavel was not a military man, but that didn't matter. Sometimes even the loyal service of civilians must result in death. It was like the tombs of ancient Egypt, the security of which was ensured by the death of their designers. There could be no room for sentiment where national security was concerned. Spetsnaz officers were expected to kill any man who was wounded or who hesitated. Deputy commanders were expected to murder commanders who failed to kill the wounded or cowardly. If necessary, Rossky would take his own life to protect a state secret.
The outside telephones and internal communications net at the Operations Center were both linked to Rossky's computer. But there were also electronic bugs, as fine as human hair, threaded through electrical outlets, inserted into air vents, and hidden beneath rugs. Each microphone had a keycode on his computer. That way, Rossky could listen to any of the conversations using headphones, or the conversations could be recorded digitally for playback or electronic transmittal directly to Minister Dogin.
Rossky had sat with his lips pressed tightly together as he played back the conversation between Orlov and his son. Then he listened as General Orlov ordered Titev to tap into the Minister's conversation with General Kosigan.
How dare he! Rossky thought.
Orlov was a popular man, a figurehead who had been hired because his fame and charisma were needed to get money from the Finance Minister for the Operations Center. Who was he to question the actions of Minister Dogin and General Kosigan?
And now Rossky listened as General Orlov, this much-decorated hero, told his son that upon receiving word of his destination, he was to proceed there and, upon arriving, to refrain from turning over the crates to Minister Dogin's representatives. General Orlov said he would send his own team from the naval college to confiscate the cargo.
Though Nikita acknowledged the order, Rossky could tell his heart wasn't in it. That was good. The boy would not be charged with treason and executed along with his father.
Rossky would gladly have committed the murder himself. But Minister Dogin did not allow lawless tactics among his lieutenants. Before the Center had become operational, the Minister had instructed Rossky to get in touch with him and he would contact General Mavik, Marshal of Artillery, if it was necessary to have any of Orlov's orders countermanded.
When General Orlov radioed Major Levski, commander of the twelve-man Molot team, and ordered him to prepare for a flight to Bira, Colonel Rossky had heard enough. He entered a computer code that accessed a private line, a direct line to the Ministry of the Interior, and apprised Minister Dogin of the situation. Dogin said he would contact General Mavik to arrange for Orlov's departure, and instructed Rossky to begin making plans to assume control of the Operations Center.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 8:35 A.M., South of the Arctic Circle
Lieutenant Colonel Squires looked on absently as Ishi Honda checked the communications gear in his rucksack. While they were on the 76T, they used the airplane's uplink to talk to Op-Center. Once they were on the ground, however, they would be using the miniature black antenna tucked into the side of the ruck, next to the radio itself.
Honda knelt and unfolded the legs and arms of the seventeen-inch-diameter unit, checking to make sure that each prong was fully extended. He screwed the antenna's black, coaxial cable into the radio, slipped on his headset, and listened as the system went through a self-calibration check. Then he checked the microphone, counting backward from ten, and gave Squires an okay signal.
Next, he checked the global positioning system receiver, a remote-control-sized device with a luminous digital readout stored in a side pocket of the rucksack. He sent out a quarter-second signal which would enable him to make sure the device was working and yet wouldn't give the Russians time to fix their position. Private DeVonne was entrusted with the team's compass and altimeter, and would be responsible for getting them to the extraction point once the mission was completed.
Having woken from a nap, Sergeant Chick Grey checked his Tac III assault vest. Instead of containing a gas mask and 9mm submachine gun magazines, the pouches contained the C-4 they'd need for the mission. Before parachuting into Russia, all the Striker members would don their warm, rigid Nomex gloves, balaclavas, coveralls, goggles with shatterproof lenses, Kevlar vests, and assault boots. Then they would check the equipment in their Tac III overvests as well as the rappelling belts, the thigh pockets with flash/bang grenades, and their H&K 9mm MP5A2 submachine guns and Beretta 9mm pistols with extended magazines.
Only one thing was missing, Squires felt. He would have traded all the hot, hi-tech gear for a small fleet of fast-attack vehicles. Once they were on the ground in Russia, there wouldn't be much that Op-Center could do to help them with the train or extraction. But a couple of FAVs to get them across the rocks and ice at eighty miles an hour, with maybe an M6OE3 machine gun forward, a rear seated gunner with a.50-caliber machine gun— now, that would be nice. Hell to parachute down and assemble, but nice.
Squires walked to the cabin to stretch his legs and get an update from the crew. Everyone was feeling good about not having been contacted by the Russians, pilot Matt Mazer noting that it wasn't a tribute to their stealth and cunning but to the massive amounts of air traffic. After checking the map and seeing how far they had left to go across the Arctic Ocean and then down the Bering Sea and southwest over Japan, Squires returned to the cabin— just in time to receive a call from Mike Rodgers. Now that the 76T was within range of the Russian receivers, the call was being relayed through a radio link Defense Minister Niskanen had set up in the tower at Helsinki so it couldn't be traced back to Washington.
"This is Squires, sir," he said when Honda handed him the receiver.
"Colonel," said Rodgers, "we have a new development with the train. The Russian unit has stopped and taken on passengers— civilians There appear to be anywhere from five to ten men and women in each of the cars."
Squires took a moment to digest the information. He and his squad had practiced train-clearing exercises with terrorists and hostages, where the enemies were fewer in number and the civilians anxious to leave. But this was something different.
"Understood, sir," Squires said.
"There are soldiers in each car," Rodgers said. His voice sounded drawn, almost defeated. "I've gone over the photos of the train. You're going to have to get flash/ bangs in through the window, then disarm the soldiers and off-load everyone. When you've done that, we'll contact Vladivostok and tell them exactly where to find the passengers. Leave them with whatever cold-weather supplies you can spare."
"I understand."
"Extraction time is at the bridge I told you about earlier," Rodgers said. "Pickup is exactly at midnight. You'll have eight minutes before the extraction craft leaves, so make sure you get there. The Congressional Intelligence Committee wouldn't give us any more time than that."
"We'll be there, sir."
Rodgers said, "I've got some serious reservations about this one, Charlie, but there doesn't seem to be any alternative. If it were up to me, I'd've hit the train from the air— but for some reason, Congress frowns on killing enemy soldiers. It's better to risk our own."
"It's the job we signed up for, sir," Squires said. "And you know me, General. It's the kind of job I like."
"I know," Rodgers said. "But the officer in charge of the train, a junior lieutenant named Nikita Orlov, isn't one of those kids who joined the Army for a regular meal. According to what little we have on file about him, he's a fighter. The son of a hero cosmonaut who has something to prove."
"Good," Squires said. "I'd hate coming all this way just to walk through a mission, sir."
"Colonel, it's me," Rodgers said sternly. "Save the bravura for the troops
. More than wanting the train stopped, I want my Strikers back. Do you understand?"
"I understand, sir," Squires said.
After wishing him good luck, Rodgers hung up and Squires handed the phone back to Ishi Honda. The Radio Officer returned to his seat and Squires looked at his watch, which he hadn't bothered to reset as they zipped through the time zones.
Another eight hours, he thought. Folding his hands on his belt, he extended his legs and shut his eyes. Before joining Striker just seven months before, he'd spent time at the Army's Natick Research and Development Center outside of Boston. There, he'd taken part in experiments designed to produce a uniform that instantly mimicked its surroundings like a chameleon. He'd worn uniforms with light-sensitive sensors that adjusted the light output of the cloth. He'd sat around while chemists toyed with the silk gene to create a synthetic fiber that changed color automatically. He'd tried to move in a comparatively bulky but remarkable EPS— electrophoresis suit— that had liquid dye poured between layers of plastic fabric, electrically charged particles coloring one or the other fabrics depending upon where and how strongly an electric field was applied. He remembered thinking at the time that before the century was out, camouflage suits, invisible Stealth tanks, and robot probes could make it possible for the United States to wage virtually bloodless wars. How the scientists would become the heroes, and not the soldiers.
He was surprised to find that that thought had saddened him, for while no soldier wanted to die, part of what drove all the fighters he ever knew was the desire to test themselves, to be willing to risk their lives for their country or their comrades. Without that danger, that price, that hard-fought victory, he wondered if anyone would cherish their freedoms as much.
With that thought on his mind, and Rodgers's voice still resonant in his ears, Squires drifted asleep thinking that at least there would always be chicken fights in the base pool, his son on his shoulders, and Private George falling backward, a look of surprise on his face