Arctic Storm Rising

by Dale Brown

  The president glanced at those around him. “Comments, gentlemen?”

  “The colonel’s proposed Ghost Strike is certainly audacious, Mr. President. Who knows? It might even work out the way he hopes,” a stocky, bull-necked man seated three chairs down from the president said bluntly. Major General Vasily Mavrichev was the chief of Russia’s Long-Range Aviation Force. He had a vested interest in the PAK-DA program. Once the first stealth bombers reached operational status, they would fall under his direct command. But he was also known as an advocate for tried-and-true tactics and procedures, with an abiding distrust of anything new, let alone anything that might be considered revolutionary. “However, I don’t like the idea of the PAK-DA carrying armed cruise missiles on what’s really just a glorified training exercise. In my judgment, that’s an unnecessary risk factor.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I recommend that we load practice missiles with dummy warheads instead.”

  Petrov hid his irritation. Mavrichev’s opposition to that part of his Ghost Strike plan was no surprise. But he could not afford to concede the point. Without real Kh-102s aboard the bomber when it took off, this whole operation was pointless. “Since we’ve already proved that the PAK-DA prototype is perfectly airworthy, the risk is minimal,” he argued, aiming his words at Zhdanov rather than the general. “Besides, we don’t have enough practice missiles in our arsenal to make up a complete weapons load. We’d be taking off light, which would not come close to replicating a real-life combat sortie.”

  “So we build more of the dummy weapons,” Mavrichev countered stubbornly.

  “Adding more delay and more expense,” Petrov retorted. “And for no good reason. Sooner or later, we’ll have to certify the PAK-DA’s readiness to carry a full payload of live missiles. It’s one of our key program milestones. Why not achieve it now if we can, considerably ahead of schedule?”

  Zhdanov saw his point. “The colonel makes sense, Vasily Ivanovich,” he said to Mavrichev. “As the Americans say, ‘He’s got the ball, let him run with it.’” Smiling broadly, he turned back to Petrov. “You won’t let us down, will you, Colonel?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. President,” Petrov promised. He matched Zhdanov’s smile. “In fact, I can guarantee that you will be absolutely amazed by the results of Ghost Strike.”

  And that, he thought with carefully concealed pleasure, might have been the most truthful thing he’d said during this entire briefing.

  Federal Military Memorial Cemetery, on the Northeastern Outskirts of Moscow

  Several Hours Later

  Petrov stared moodily at the bronze bust of his father, Major General Vladimir Alexeyevich Petrov. Set atop a red granite tombstone, the sculpture’s suitably heroic visage stared out at an open vista of empty grass squares, paths, and access roads. The national cemetery, a replacement for the Kremlin Wall Necropolis, was intended to serve as a burial place for Russian dignitaries and military heroes for the next two hundred years. So far, only a small fraction of its forty thousand plots had been filled.

  He snorted. If the stubborn old bastard weren’t dead, he’d probably be complaining about the lack of company. As befitted a true Hero of the Soviet Union, the general had always “modestly” believed he should be the center of everyone’s attention.

  Irreverently, Petrov lifted his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, old man. I’m sure I’ll see you in hell.” He tossed back a quick swig and then retightened the cap.

  “Was that a belated funeral libation?” a dryly amused voice said from behind him. “Or simple thirst?”

  Petrov turned around. Pavel Voronin stood a few paces away, dapper as always in a dark double-breasted wool coat.

  “A bit of both.” He offered the flask. “Care for one yourself?”

  Voronin shook his head politely. “Thanks, but not right now. Perhaps another time. Somewhere more . . . cheerful.” He glanced around the empty cemetery. There was no one else in sight. “Should I assume your presentation to the president went well?”

  “Very well,” Petrov confirmed. Quickly, he ran through the details of the Ghost Strike exercise Zhdanov had approved.

  Voronin whistled under his breath when he heard that the PAK-DA would now be carrying nuclear-armed cruise missiles. “Wasn’t that pressing your luck a little far?”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always emphasized the commercial aspects of this joint venture?” Petrov asked slyly.

  “Your point?”

  Petrov forced a laugh. “Having those weapons under our control only strengthens our bargaining position,” he explained. “The fancier the goods in the shop window, the more a merchant can charge, right?”

  The other man nodded slowly, acknowledging Petrov’s point. Nevertheless, it was clear that he didn’t particularly like the idea of a last-minute change in their plans. “Will loading those missiles affect the timetable?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Petrov assured him. “You can give your boss the green light.” He checked his watch. “Tell him the show kicks off just a little over forty-eight hours from now.”

  Thirteen

  Office of the Director of National Intelligence, McLean, Virginia

  One Day Later

  Determined not to feel intimidated by the fact that she was meeting one-on-one with the man in charge of all U.S. intelligence activities, Miranda Reynolds, head of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, followed an aide into Jonas Murphy’s office. Murphy, she reminded herself, was not an intelligence professional. Before being recently appointed as the DNI, the director of national intelligence, he had been a U.S. senator, and before that, a federal prosecutor. He undoubtedly had administrative, legal, and congressional know-how, but he lacked the experience that came naturally to those who’d spent their lives in the shadowy world of spies and counterspies.

  His office itself was surprisingly small, with a single executive desk and a comfortable-looking swivel chair set between a pair of windows with the blinds drawn. A round conference table and several other government-issue chairs took up most of the rest of the room. A few prints, mostly of historical battles, lined the plain white walls, along with the usual photos of Murphy with the president of the United States and other high-ranking politicians.

  Murphy himself, tall and lean, with faded red hair, stood up to greet her. He smiled politely. “Ms. Reynolds, it’s a pleasure to see you today.” He waved her into one of the chairs around the conference table and came over to join her. His aide departed as quietly and unobtrusively as he had appeared.

  “Thank you, Director,” she replied crisply.

  Murphy held up a hand, smiling. “Please, call me Jonas. Let’s leave that kind of stiff formality for places like Capitol Hill, where they thrive on titles instead of on what people actually do.”

  Briefly taken aback, she stuttered, “Uh, yes, sir . . . I mean, Jonas.” If she hadn’t studied Murphy’s file first, she would have thought he was hitting on her. But the former senator was happily married, and, unlike many of his senatorial colleagues—both male and female—he actually seemed to be faithful to his vows. In a way, she thought that was too bad. She’d been divorced herself for nearly ten years. And it got harder and harder to date anyone the higher you rose in the CIA. Relationships carried too much chance of scandal or compromise, especially if you were a woman pushing ahead in what had once been largely a male-dominated preserve. Besides, she admitted to herself, having an in with the man who ran the entire intelligence community could have come in very handy during Langley’s next round of cutthroat internal warfare.

  “So, Miranda,” the DNI continued, smiling faintly as though he’d discerned her thoughts, “as the saying goes, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  Reynolds forced herself back to the present. “Well, the truth is, I’m here to make what may seem like a very strange request.”

  “Sounds like a regular day at the office, then,” Murphy joked. “I get those all the time. Fr
om your people at Langley. From the Pentagon. Heck, you can’t even imagine the kind of oddball proposals that come in from the NSA or the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. I don’t think those codebreakers and satellite geeks really live in the same universe with the rest of us.” He saw her face and sobered up. “But you’re serious.”

  She nodded her head. “Yes, I am. Dead serious.”

  “Okay,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Shoot.”

  “I need a top secret alert sent out to all U.S.-controlled radar stations, AWACS planes, and other air units operating in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Turkey,” Reynolds said bluntly. “Basically, if they detect an unidentified aircraft—any unidentified aircraft—in their zone of operations sometime in the next twenty-four hours, I need them to intercept and shadow it . . . but not to engage the bogey unless it takes hostile action. I also want them to immediately report any such contact directly to me. And if this unidentified aircraft tries to land at a friendly air base or even a civilian airport, they should allow it to do so—and then take immediate action to secure that aircraft against air or ground attack.”

  Murphy stared at her for a few seconds. Then he shook his head in amazement. “Yeah, I guess you weren’t kidding.” He sat back a little. “And is there anything more you need?” he asked, with a hint of irony. “Short of operational control over . . . oh, let’s say, a couple of Army divisions, or maybe a Navy aircraft carrier task force?”

  Reynolds flushed slightly at his tone. Maybe she should have laid out more of the groundwork first, but what was done, was done. “Yes, I do need more,” she said quietly.

  “Such as?”

  “Authorization to form a special ‘go’ team of CIA and U.S. Air Force security personnel and technical experts, including specialists from the Foreign Material Exploitation Squadron at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base,” she told him. “A team that would be prepared to fly anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice.”

  The Foreign Material Exploitation Squadron was exactly what it sounded like—a group of scientists, engineers, and other experts whose job was analyzing foreign-built aircraft and aerospace equipment captured on the battlefield or acquired by darker, less savory means. In earlier incarnations, it had pried open the secrets of captured Luftwaffe fighters and Soviet-era MiGs.

  “That’s a pretty long list,” Murphy commented dryly. “So let’s cut straight to the bottom line: what exactly is the deal here?”

  Reynolds had known this question was coming. But she still found it surprisingly difficult to lay her cards on the table. Secrets were the currency of the intelligence community, and once you revealed them, their value diminished precipitously. For now, she decided to disclose most of what she knew, just not everything. “A new HUMINT source inside Russia has suggested that a pilot may be about to defect with one of their advanced military aircraft,” she said cautiously. “Probably from a base somewhere in southern or central Russia. So I want to avoid the possibility that this attempt could end in tragedy, with one of our own fighters or missile units shooting the defecting aircraft down by mistake.”

  “Sensible,” the DNI agreed. His eyes narrowed slightly. “What kind of aircraft are we talking here? One of their new Sukhoi fighters?”

  She shook her head. “Bigger than that. In fact, the experimental version of their brand-new stealth bomber.”

  “Jesus,” Murphy said in surprise. “You’re kidding me.”

  “That’s the word I’ve been given.”

  Murphy considered that for a few seconds. “Okay, so what’s the motivation of this HUMINT source of yours?” he asked. “Is it something ideological? Personal? Or just plain mercenary?”

  “Purely mercenary, I think,” Reynolds admitted, feeling a measure of surprise that he knew enough to ask that particular question. Understanding the impulses that drove those willing to betray their country’s secrets to the United States was a vital part of assessing their overall credibility and possible value as agents and sources. Those motivated by a desire for revenge for past crimes or slights or by gauzy ideals like freedom and world peace were more mercurial, and often harder to handle. Prospective agents who were primarily interested in money were usually more reliable—at least until greed got the better of them . . . or their own side made it more valuable to stay loyal.

  The DNI sat back again. “Okay, Miranda, in your best judgment, what are we really looking at here?”

  “You mean, is my source’s claim about a possible defection true? Or is it just a piece of pie-in-the-sky bullshit peddled to score some quick cash from Uncle Sam?” Reynolds asked with a wry smile.

  “That’s about the size of it,” Murphy agreed.

  She shrugged. “Frankly, I’d put the odds that this is a genuine defection at only around one in four. But I figure it’s better to be prepared . . . just in case this Russian is telling the honest-to-God truth.”

  Murphy considered that for a long moment. Then he nodded again. “Okay, that makes sense. I can sell both the alert and pulling a team of specialists together as a reasonable precaution.” His gaze sharpened. “You say your source is all about money. If so, what’s our exposure so far?”

  “Minimal.” Reynolds spread her hands. “But if it pans out, we’ll need to dip pretty heavily into our black funds to secure exclusive access to the aircraft.”

  “‘Heavily’ is a pretty vague word,” he said coolly. “What kind of real numbers are we talking about here?”

  “My source is pushing for something on the order of a couple of billion dollars,” she admitted.

  “Holy crap!” Murphy blurted out in astonishment. He shook his head firmly. “That’s considerably above my authority. There’s no way in hell I can authorize anywhere close to that figure. Not without direct approval from the president himself.”

  Reynolds nodded. “Yes, sir, I know.” Legally, the DNI could unilaterally transfer up to $150 million between different intelligence agency budgets. Securing anything above that amount would be far more complicated. “And that’s why I want a security and evaluation team ready to pounce on that plane as quickly as possible.”

  “Ah,” he said, taking her point. “Meaning that what this source of yours demands is not necessarily what they will get.”

  She smiled wolfishly. “Bingo. Because as soon as that aircraft is safely on the ground inside friendly territory, the negotiating power shifts pretty dramatically in our favor.”

  Barter Island Long Range Radar Site, near Kaktovik, Alaska

  That Same Time

  Captain Nick Flynn looked around the brightly lit vehicle maintenance bay. The center of the large, oil-stained concrete floor was now covered by a thick exercise mat, courtesy of the logistics personnel down at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson who’d finally filled one of his supply requisitions. He nodded in satisfaction. With the weather worsening day by day, he and Sergeant Andy Takirak had agreed they needed to move as much of their routine training indoors as possible. The maintenance bay might not be heated, but at least its prefab metal walls kept the wind and snow and ice outside. And he knew from their daily workouts that it was more than big enough for what he had in mind.

  He unzipped one of the large duffel bags that had come up on the same flight with the exercise mat and started pulling out gear—mouth guards, boxing-style protective headgear, padded gloves, knee pads, and hard rubber training knives. This was the equipment he needed to run the team through a refresher course on what the U.S. Army and Air Force both referred to as “combatives”—the art of hand-to-hand combat. Far from being obsolete in an era of rapid-fire small arms, precision-guided munitions, and ever-more-destructive ranged weapons, hard-earned experience in Afghanistan and Iraq and other conflicts around the world had proved that the ability to survive and win in close-contact physical combat was a vital soldier skill. Hand-to-hand fighting could break out while troops were clearing buildings and villages, while they were manning security checkpoints, or even when trying to control
prisoners taken on the battlefield.

  Flynn heard the outer door behind him open and felt a swirl of freezing cold air. Suppressing a shiver, he got back to his feet and turned around.

  First Sergeant Andy Takirak had come into the maintenance bay. The grizzled Alaskan brushed snow off his parka and stomped his boots to dislodge ice chunks wedged into their treads. “It’s coming down pretty hard out there, sir,” he reported. “Looks like that forecast was right.”

  Flynn nodded. Weather stations along the Arctic coast and satellites had been picking up indications of a large series of storms building up over the polar ice cap and starting to move south. Air Force and civilian meteorologists were all predicting an extended period of high winds, blowing snow and ice, and near-zero visibility. Which meant, in turn, that the training gear he’d requested had arrived just in time. There weren’t likely to be any more supply flights arriving at the airport until the blizzards headed their way died out.

  He indicated the equipment he’d unpacked. “What do you think, Andy?”

  “I’ve always figured if you were close enough to an enemy to reach out and touch him, you were already in a world of hurt,” Takirak said calmly. He showed his teeth. “Give me my rifle and a couple hundred yards of distance any day.”

  Flynn nodded. “I can’t argue with that.” Then he smiled. “But I checked your records. You took the combatives instructor course and aced it a few years ago.”

  Takirak shrugged. “Well, that’s because I learned a long time ago that wishes are one thing, and reality’s another.”

  “Want a chance to brush up on your techniques before we run classes for the rest of the team?”

  Takirak matched his smile. “Just the two of us, Captain?”

  “Yep.” Flynn picked up a pair of gloves and some headgear. “If I’m going to get dumped on my ass getting back up to speed on this stuff, I’d just as soon not have it happen in front of witnesses.”