by Dale Brown
“‘Just sitting back’ would imply a level of passivity which does not exist,” Martindale said quietly.
“Meaning what?”
“Far from fighting these resignation requests, Moscow actually expedited them. In fact, when the brigade commander, a Colonel Andreyev, filed a protest with his superior officers, he was threatened with disciplinary action for daring to stand in the way of any officer or soldier who wanted to return to civilian life.”
Patrick McLanahan’s frown was plain through the clear visor of his LEAF life-support helmet. “Tactics, marksmanship, and demolitions?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Those aren’t skill sets in high demand in the civilian world.”
“Not in ordinary civilian life, no,” Martindale said, with a thin, humorless smile. “But that’s not where these men are actually heading.”
There was a momentary silence around the table.
Finally, Brad sighed. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where are these Spetsnaz soldiers really going?”
“Fortunately, the Russian armed forces, like all government bureaucracies, amasses paperwork—even if in digital form—like a ship accumulates barnacles,” Martindale explained. “The records my agents captured include copies of every request for separation made by every departing officer and enlisted man. All of them report that they’ve been offered employment by a company called Razresheniye Konfliktov Uslugi.”
Nadia raised an eyebrow. “Conflict Resolution Services?” she translated automatically.
“Which is what? In real life?” Macomber wondered.
“That’s still an open question, Colonel,” Martindale said flatly. “My people haven’t been able to learn anything of substance about this company. Russian commercial databases show only its name, without any details about its financing, officers, facilities, or operations.”
“Then this Conflict Resolution Services is a dummy corporation, nothing more than a shell,” Nadia said coldly.
“Yes. And one almost certainly established by the Russian government for its own purposes, or perhaps more accurately, for Gennadiy Gryzlov’s purposes,” Martindale agreed. He smiled wryly. “Since I have some small experience of my own in setting up clandestine enterprises along those same lines, the pattern is unfortunately familiar to me.”
His smile disappeared. “But that’s not the only information we’ve gleaned from the Twenty-Second Brigade’s files.” He looked around the table again. “Like all Spetsnaz units, its armories included significant quantities of Western small arms, ammunition, and other hardware—probably for use in covert operations against NATO or other American allies.”
“That’s not exactly news.” Macomber shrugged his massive shoulders. “Hell, our people do the same thing, only in reverse.” He showed his teeth in a quick, fierce grin. “Over the past couple of years, our Iron Wolf recon units have amassed a pretty good-sized collection of Russian assault rifles, grenades, RPGs, and other military gear. It’s SOP for any well-trained special forces outfit.”
“Yes, it is standard Spetsnaz operating procedure,” Martindale said, speaking with care and precision. “Which makes it all the more remarkable that those inventories of Western-style arms and equipment have now been completely zeroed out. Everything’s marked as ‘transferred for sale to state-approved buyers in the private sector.’”
“Which would be that so-called Conflict Resolution Services,” Brad guessed, with a sinking feeling.
“Undoubtedly.”
“What about Russia’s other elite units?” Patrick pressed. “Is the same thing happening to them?”
“It seems probable,” Martindale said. “Obviously, we can’t run the same kind of intelligence-gathering operations against more Spetsnaz and air-force units now, but it’s a safe bet that their troops, equipment, and pilots are also being acquired by this front company.”
“Well, that’s just fucking swell,” Macomber growled. “Gryzlov’s decided to recruit his own private mercenary army. He’s out there creating a Russian version of Scion and the Iron Wolf Squadron.”
Martindale looked pained. “Quite so, Colonel. And while imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, in this case, I could easily live without it.”
RKU RECONNAISSANCE TEAM CHECKMATE-ONE, NEAR BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
A FEW DAYS LATER
The hitchhiker trudging stolidly along the shoulder of eastbound Interstate 80 never even looked up at the cars and trucks slashing past him at speeds that were uniformly ten or fifteen or twenty miles an hour over the posted limit. The whirling, dust-laden gusts kicked up by their passage tore at his jeans, Army-surplus jacket, and faded black nylon backpack. Behind dark sunglasses, his eyes were narrowed to slits against the glare of the early-morning sun. His mouth felt gritty, as dry as the Kazakh Steppe in high summer.
The sudden deep blaaat of an air horn made him turn around.
A big truck, painted kelly green with gold stripes, thundered past and then pulled off the highway onto the shoulder. It braked to a full stop about a hundred yards ahead of him.
For a moment, the hitchhiker stood motionless, as if considering his options. Then he shrugged and plodded on over to the waiting big-rig. He came up on the cab’s right side and yanked the door open. Then, wearily, he climbed up inside and plopped back against the seat with a deep sigh.
“Long night?” the driver asked sympathetically.
“Oh, you could say that, Dobrynin,” former Spetsnaz captain Kirill Aristov said with a glare. He turned his head, hawked, and spat out onto the ground. “I think I’ve swallowed half of this damned Nevada desert in the past twelve hours.”
Nikolai Dobrynin chuckled, checked his mirrors, and then pulled back out onto the highway. “Where to next, sir?”
“Just keep heading east for now,” Aristov told him. “We’ll report in to Kurakin from Salt Lake City tonight. After that, who knows?” He shrugged. Orders from RKU’s chief had kept them on the hop for days, sending them rushing from place to place across the length and breadth of the U.S. to scout potential targets for Shakh i Mat, Operation Checkmate.
He closed his mouth on a powerful, jaw-cracking yawn. There were more and more moments when the details of this seemingly unending trek began to blur together in his travel-worn mind. The general had better give us time for a little R&R before the balloon goes up, he thought darkly. Or we’ll be too tired to take on even a couple of those American Girl Scouts peddling their overpriced cookies.
With an effort, Aristov forced himself to sit up straighter. At least Moscow had been right about their disguise. There were so many millions of commercial trucks coming and going on this country’s highways and byways that no one paid any real attention to them. It was the next best thing to being invisible.
He glanced at Dobrynin. “So what did you and the others learn while I was out there all night crawling around like a snake?”
While Aristov conducted an up-close and personal reconnaissance along the outer perimeter of Sky Master’s Battle Mountain facility, the rest of his team had spent the night parked at an isolated side road. Using the surveillance equipment built into their concealed hideout inside the big-rig’s trailer, they’d monitored radio signals, cell-phone and landline calls, and other electronic emissions from the American compound.
“Not much,” Dobrynin admitted. “Sky Masters has done an excellent job of screening its activities from nosy visitors like us. All radio and phone transmissions, whether from the air operations center or roving security patrols, are encrypted beyond our ability to decipher. We couldn’t pick up any signals from wireless computer networks, which means either they’re heavily shielded, or more likely, their networks are hardwired.”
“What about their airport radar?”
Dobrynin grimaced. “Extremely powerful. It’s certainly far more capable than any other system in regular civilian use.” He shrugged, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road. “There’s obviously a lot going on inside those hangars and office buildings, si
r. But short of getting one of our people on the inside, there’s no way to find out for sure.”
Aristov nodded. The other man’s assessment matched his own observations. He’d gotten close enough to the fence enclosing McLanahan Industrial Airport and the rest of the Sky Masters facility to identify a remarkable array of passive and active sensors guarding every centimeter. Sneaking through that perimeter would be an impossible task. In fact, nothing short of a full-on assault employing heavy weapons was likely to breach Sky Masters’ security.
A slow smile spread across his tired face. Which made it fortunate that was probably precisely what Major General Kurakin and President Gryzlov had in mind.
Thirteen
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
President Stacy Anne Barbeau had spent decades mastering the art of charming powerful men she otherwise loathed. For all their supposed intelligence and sophistication, a great many members of Washington, D.C.’s self-proclaimed elite were surprisingly easy to manipulate—at least by an attractive woman willing to use every weapon at her disposal, including her sexual favors, if that became necessary. Flattering useful idiots who weren’t fit to kiss her dirty high heels had required an enormous amount of self-control. Screwing them while smiling took even more.
Unfortunately, former U.S. president Kevin Martindale was one of the very few men who’d seen through her right from the start. He’d immediately perceived her ruthless willingness to do whatever was necessary to achieve her desires. Well, of course, he pegged me early on, she thought viciously. For all his bullshit about protecting the free world, Martindale was just as much a Machiavellian manipulator as she was. That was one of the reasons she’d always hated, and secretly feared, the devious son of a bitch. So it was a relief now to be able to drop the mask and confront him openly.
Even if it was only via a secure video link to Warsaw.
She’d condescended to listen to Martindale’s pitch only after several urgent requests by the Polish government made through diplomatic back channels. She’d hoped it would give her a chance to learn more about his latest schemes—with a special emphasis on figuring out just how far he was prepared to go to help John D. Farrell beat her in November. But within the first couple of minutes, she’d realized this call was a waste of time.
“The intelligence my people have gathered is clear and undeniable, Madam President,” Martindale said quietly. “It’s highly probable that Gennadiy Gryzlov is organizing his own mercenary force on the sly. Coupled with his reckless personal nature and worldwide geopolitical ambitions, that’s an extremely unsettling and dangerous development. I’ve no doubt that Gryzlov will use these mercenaries against his enemies—against us—while claiming his own hands are clean.”
Oh, Christ, I should have known better, Barbeau thought with unconcealed disdain. For all his celebrated cleverness, ultimately, Kevin Martindale was just a one-trick pony. The Russians, the Russians, the Russians. It was always the goddamned Russians.
“Spare me the histrionics, Mr. Martindale,” she retorted. “What’s your proposition?”
“It’s high time we set our personal and political differences aside,” Martindale replied without any evident hesitation, somehow managing to sound surprisingly sincere. “Wherever he intends to strike first, Gryzlov poses a serious and growing threat to all of us—to NATO, to the Alliance of Free Nations, and to the United States itself. But if we openly pool our military and diplomatic resources and fully share our respective intelligence assets and information, we might be able to deter the Russians from acting rashly. At a minimum, our combined forces would be strong enough to—”
That was enough, she decided.
“Cut the Cold War crap, Martindale,” Barbeau snapped, interrupting him in midsentence. “Do not expect me to fall for your old and very tired line of bullshit. And don’t come crying to me because you and your hired killers—and the morons in Warsaw who pay you—are suddenly running scared. Did you really think you could end-run international law with your own goddamned private army and air force without anybody else deciding to follow your lead?”
Angrily, she shook her head. “My number one priority is to protect the citizens and national security interests of the United States. It sure as hell isn’t to save your sorry old playboy ass when the bear you’ve been batting around suddenly bites back.”
Visibly annoyed, Martindale leaned forward. “Madam President, I can assure you that saving my sorry old ass, as you so eloquently put it, is not what this is about—”
“Bull! You and that lunatic Patrick McLanahan set an incredibly dangerous precedent when you decided you could play toy soldiers with real people and real countries,” Barbeau continued, overriding him. “Well, that was a fucking stupid game to play and it ended up killing McLanahan. Now it may be your turn. Tough shit. I guess you and the Poles are just going to have to learn to live with the consequences of your own illegal actions. In any case, you can sure as hell forget about hiding under my skirts! If Gryzlov really does send his own mercenaries after you and Piotr Wilk and the rest of your gang, you’re on your own.”
Contemptuously, she tapped a control on the keyboard at her elbow, cutting the secure link to Warsaw.
The wall-sized screen went black.
Barbeau swiveled her chair to look at Luke Cohen and Ed Rauch. Her chief of staff and national security adviser were the only two people she’d trusted to hear what passed between her and Martindale. Bringing more staffers into the loop only multiplied the odds of a leak to the press and that was something she simply could not risk. Rumors from Warsaw wouldn’t gain any traction. Nobody important would believe them.
But at this stage of the campaign, having anonymous, high-level White House sources confirm that she’d been in secret contact with Martindale and the Polish government could be disastrous. Public and congressional support for her foreign policy in Europe hinged on a belief that cutting ties with Poland and its half-baked Alliance of Free Nations was a rational move—one in America’s best interests. Anything that suggested she might be rethinking that could seriously damage her credibility . . . and lay her wide open to Farrell’s political attacks.
Barbeau snorted in disgust. Did Martindale really think she was that dumb? Reversing course now to forge new defense and intelligence links with Poland and its allies would be political malpractice of the highest order. It would split her own party right down the middle—dividing it between those who would loyally toe whatever line she took and those who genuinely wanted a new détente with the Russians. That kind of division could easily cost her a closely contested election. If she’d ever doubted the former president was in bed with her opponent, there was her answer.
She could rely on Cohen keeping his mouth shut about this aborted conversation because the lanky New Yorker’s political future was entirely tied to hers. Without her, he would be nothing . . . just another washed-up White House toady who’d be lucky to land a paying gig at some rinky-dink cable news network.
And Rauch was trustworthy because he was smart enough to know that he could never spill anything like this to reporters and get away with it. Leaking confidential and classified information was a federal crime. The general rule in D.C. was that leakers never paid a price. But Barbeau was willing to bet that her skinny, gray-haired national security adviser knew damned well she was vengeful enough to make him the exception.
“Comments?” she snapped.
“Assuming the intelligence information he shared is accurate, former president Martindale could be right,” Rauch said reluctantly. “At least about the potential danger a deniable Russian mercenary force represents.”
Barbeau’s lip curled. “You’re not really going to tell me that a couple of hundred ex-Spetsnaz troops could threaten this country’s survival, Ed?”
“Our survival? No, Madam President,” Rauch said quickly. He looked worried, though. “But a clandestine force of that size could inflict som
e serious damage on a U.S. military installation, either here, or more likely, in Europe.”
“Get real, Dr. Rauch,” she retorted. “There’s no way the Russians could hope to sneak that many men into this country or one of our NATO allies . . . not without getting caught. They’d be lucky to infiltrate ten men successfully. Trying the same thing with even twenty would be one hell of a risk.” She shrugged. “What could Gryzlov really hope to accomplish with a handful of former Spetsnaz thugs with small arms and maybe some RPGs and explosives? That’s not a strategic game changer. Not even close.” Reluctantly, Rauch dipped his head, acknowledging her point.
Barbeau turned her cold-eyed gaze on Luke Cohen. “Anything to add, Luke?”
Her chief of staff nodded. “Sure, Gryzlov’s ballsy. But he’s not stupid enough to come after us. Not without good cause,” he said confidently. “He’s got to know that we’ll retaliate for any attack on us or our real allies . . . no matter how hard he tries to spin it as some phony-baloney mercenary operation.”
“Okay, that’s a solid point,” she agreed. She looked back at Rauch. “Well, Ed?”
“I can’t argue with Mr. Cohen’s analysis, Madam President,” he said. The pale little former academic looked thoughtful. “But fear of us won’t stop Gryzlov from attacking the Poles again, using his ‘private’ covert-action units to sow terror and confusion ahead of a more conventional offensive.”
“Is the CIA or anyone else in the intelligence community picking up any hints that Moscow’s planning a new war against Warsaw and the AFN?” Barbeau asked sharply.
“Not really,” Rauch admitted. He spread his hands. “But our intelligence assets—our satellites, intercept stations, and HUMINT sources—are all almost exclusively oriented against Russia’s official military and political establishment. If Gryzlov really has created an off-the-books mercenary force, our people might not even be looking in the right direction.”