by Dale Brown
Huber hid a grimace. Both NORAD headquarters and the Pentagon were receiving live feeds from the operations center here—which was normal, especially considering the extraordinarily high level of Russian air activity around Alaska’s perimeter. It had been a coin toss to guess which group of senior brass would be faster off the mark to horn in on this crisis situation. He took the phone. “Third Wing, Colonel Huber speaking.”
“Colonel?” a woman’s voice said in reply. “We’ve never met, but my name is Miranda Reynolds. I’m in charge of the CIA’s operations directorate.”
Huber felt his eyebrows go up. Of all the people he’d expected to be speaking to today, the chief of the CIA’s clandestine service definitely had not been on his list. “What can I do for you, Ms. Reynolds?” he asked cautiously, strongly suspecting that whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it much. And the more he listened, the more he knew just how right he’d been.
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
That Same Time
Miranda Reynolds hung up the secure phone and looked around the table at the others present—who included Jonas Murphy, Bill Taylor, and the entire Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Well, the colonel bought it,” she said with a shrug. “He certainly wasn’t thrilled by the idea, but he’s okayed including members of our specialist go team in the search-and-rescue mission force. He thinks we want them along so they can comb through the wreckage of those Russian fighters and their reconnaissance plane.”
“Those downed aircraft might be all your people find,” General Frank Neary told her.
“That’s certainly possible,” Reynolds agreed coolly. “On the other hand, that Russian reconnaissance probe was pushed a lot harder than any of the others we’ve seen so far, wasn’t it?”
Neary and the others nodded somberly. Not only had the presence of Su-35s so far from the Russian mainland come as a very unwelcome surprise, but so had the willingness of those fighter pilots to mix it up so aggressively with the American aircraft sent to intercept them—aggression that had clearly led to disaster for both sides.
“My strong suspicion is that level of determination is itself evidence that Moscow knows something we don’t about the area their Tu-142 was searching,” Reynolds continued. “The Russians must have solid intelligence indicating their missing stealth bomber is hidden somewhere in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.”
From her position at the far end of the table, the Pentagon’s operations staff chief, Rear Admiral Kristin Chao, nodded. “I see your point. ANWR checks off all the boxes as a good place for this Colonel Petrov to conceal the PAK-DA prototype he stole.”
“Which is why I want our go team on the scene, ready to move in fast if it turns out I’m right,” Reynolds said firmly. “As bad as it was to suddenly lose all those aircraft, it may just have given us the chance we needed to beat Moscow to the prize.”
Neary stared coldly at her. “Maybe so, Ms. Reynolds. Assuming, of course, that we don’t find ourselves in a shooting war with the Russians over what just happened out there. In which case, there won’t be much of a prize left for your experts to pick over.”
Sharapovo Command Bunker, outside Moscow
Thirty Minutes Later
Piotr Zhdanov listened to Lieutenant General Rogozin’s grim report in stony silence. Although controllers at air bases along the Arctic coast and eastern Siberia were still trying to raise Colonel Zinchuk’s Tu-142 and its two Su-35 fighter escorts by radio, there seemed little doubt that all three aircraft had crashed—and within just a few minutes of the colonel transmitting a coded phrase suggesting his crew might have found the PAK-DA stealth bomber’s hiding place.
“This tells all we need to know,” the Russian president said when Rogozin finished. “That sighting report was genuine. And now the Americans have the same information.”
Rogozin looked puzzled. “Sir?”
Zhdanov stubbed his cigarette out in irritation. “Come now, Yvgeny. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Why else would the Americans order their fighters to shoot down our planes?”
“Except that we are not yet certain of exactly what happened to our aircraft,” the general reminded him carefully.
Zhdanov raised an eyebrow. “The pilots you assigned to this mission had strict orders not to fire first, correct?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Rogozin said.
“And were they reliable, disciplined officers?” the president asked pointedly.
Too late, Rogozin saw the trap into which he’d just walked. “Yes, sir,” he agreed reluctantly, obviously knowing there was only one acceptable answer. “Aggressive, of course, as the best fighter pilots must be. But Major Kuryokhin and Captain Troitsky were both loyal, trustworthy men.”
Zhdanov nodded in vindication. “There you are, then. The Americans had to have started this mess by firing on our planes. It’s the only logical conclusion. Washington wants to make sure it seizes Petrov and the PAK-DA bomber first.”
On his side of the conference table, Aleksandr Ivashin nodded vigorously. Ordinarily dour and undemonstrative, the head of the GRU suddenly appeared unusually animated. “I may be able to confirm your hypothesis, Mr. President.”
“How?”
“We’ve just received an emergency signal from one of our two-man, deep-cover Spetsnaz teams,” the spymaster said. Given enough time during any major crisis, it was Russian practice to deploy small covert commando units into rival nations—tiny groups of highly trained operatives who were expected to provide intelligence in the runup to open hostilities, and to conduct sabotage missions and targeted assassinations once war broke out. “These agents are stationed outside the large American military base near Anchorage, the one they call Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. They’ve reported signs that the Americans are readying helicopters for immediate deployment to northern Alaska. And they believe this force includes elements of the CIA black ops team recently flown to the base.”
Zhdanov stared at him. “They’re sure of this?”
Ivashin nodded. “Their report indicates a high level of confidence in this assessment.”
“Can you contact this Spetsnaz team directly?” the president demanded. “Without wasting time going through cutouts or your other usual security procedures?”
A trace of worry appeared on the GRU director’s face. “Yes, but doing so would significantly increase the risk of American intelligence detecting their presence.”
“I don’t give a shit about the risks,” Zhdanov said coldly. “We’ve gone far beyond the point where individual lives matter.” He lit another cigarette and then stabbed it at Ivashin. “Your team is to take immediate, preemptive action against those American helicopters. I don’t care how they do it, but they are to stop this CIA operation before it gets off the ground. Is that clear?”
Ivashin’s mouth opened in surprise.
“I will not listen to any objections,” Zhdanov warned him. He glared around the table at his senior advisers and military commanders. “We have one overriding objective right now: the Americans must not be allowed to get their hands on our stealth bomber and its weapons payload. While I still want to avoid open war if at all possible, no one here can deny that this situation has already escalated dangerously, thanks to the Americans’ own warlike actions against our reconnaissance aircraft!”
Slowly, they nodded.
Now Zhdanov’s mouth compressed into a tight, thin line—as though he were being forced to swallow something extraordinarily unpleasant. “One thing more. We’re going to have to agree to meet the traitor Petrov’s demands, while still assembling air units and commando forces to retake or destroy the stolen bomber if the opportunity arises.” He saw their astonishment and scowled. “Don’t act so surprised! What other choice do we have? Now that we know the aircraft is already on American soil, it’s essential that we get it safely back to Russia . . . even if it means temporarily yielding to blackmail.”
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
That Same Time
In a deserted subterranean corridor outside the ECR, Jonas Murphy signaled Miranda Reynolds over. “I just heard from the president directly,” he said quietly, without any preamble.
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“The aggressive actions of those Russian aircraft searching for their stealth bomber have convinced him, and his whole White House team, that this Colonel Petrov’s offer is not a scam or one of Moscow’s disinformation operations,” Murphy told her.
Reynolds nodded. It seemed a little late to draw that fairly obvious conclusion, she thought wryly, though she supposed almost every politician had an ingrained instinct to play it safe—especially with so many influential voices in the Pentagon urging caution.
Murphy sighed. “And all of the State Department’s efforts to persuade the Russians to step back from the brink of open hostilities have been rebuffed so far. So have the president’s own personal attempts to reach out to Zhdanov.”
“Is this heading where I think it is?” Reynolds asked, keeping her voice even lower.
The DNI nodded again. “The president’s decided to meet the financial demands made by this would-be defector and his backers.” He shrugged. “In the circumstances, he’s willing to take the chance that we might be dealing with some very unsavory characters.”
“If it means avoiding war, funneling money to criminals might not seem so bad,” Reynolds agreed.
“Exactly,” Murphy said. “Anyway, as far as the president is concerned, the sooner that stealth bomber is firmly in our hands, the better. Once that happens, Zhdanov will have to come to terms and negotiate for its return.” He smiled tightly. “Which we will gladly do . . . once our technical experts have finished studying its avionics and other systems.”
She eyed him closely. “So you want me to . . .” she said slowly, drawing it out. Like his boss, Murphy was a politician first. In the past, CIA officers had gotten into a lot of trouble for acting on the basis of winks and nods from occupants of the Oval Office and their subordinates—only to have the ground cut out from under their feet when things went sour.
“Signal our agreement by encrypted email through that secret server of yours,” he confirmed, with a crooked grin of his own that told her he knew exactly what she was doing. “Treasury officials are already transferring the necessary funds, three billion dollars, to your agency’s ‘black accounts.’ Now we just need you to let Petrov’s backers know that they’ve won.”
Thirty
Aboard the Megayacht Polyarnaya Zvezda, off the Island of Ischia, Italy
A Short Time Later
Not far from Naples, a sleek, hundred-meter-long ship rode at anchor off the volcanic island of Ischia. Though it was as large as a naval frigate, the vessel’s big, gleaming windows, luxurious fittings, swimming pool, and aft helicopter pad marked it as a rich man’s plaything.
High up on the megayacht’s top deck, Dmitri Grishin stood at a railing. Through half-closed eyes, the Russian oligarch surveyed the glittering, moonlit waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Streetlamps illuminated the faded stucco facades of the restaurants, shops, and hotels that lined Ischia’s beaches and small harbor. He rolled his shoulders, in an effort to ease some of the tension eating away at him from the inside.
Abruptly, he turned as he heard quiet footsteps behind him.
It was Pavel Voronin. In a concession to the Mediterranean fall climate and his employer’s desire for discretion, he’d traded in his usual tailored business suits for an open-necked shirt, blazer, and khaki slacks. He’d flown in from Moscow the day before, and as far as Grishin’s family and the ship’s crew were concerned, the younger man was just another of the junior corporate executives the oligarch sometimes rewarded with brief stays on his yacht.
“Well?” Grishin asked.
“They’ve met our price,” Voronin told him with a slight smile. “I just confirmed it with our financial networks. All the required funds have been securely transferred.”
Grishin breathed out in relief. “Who met our demands? Moscow or Washington?”
“Both of them,” Voronin said, smiling more broadly now.
For a moment, the oligarch stared at him in astonishment, taken completely by surprise. But then a sly, triumphant grin spread slowly across his own face. This was beyond his wildest and most optimistic expectations. In the blink of an eye, the operation he’d dubbed Vanishing Act had just netted him close to six billion U.S. dollars. True, on paper, that was still less than his publicly declared net worth. But until now, most of his nominal fortune had consisted of hard assets—of factories, mines, oil and gas wells, ships, and fleets of trucks and railcars. Unfortunately, in Piotr Zhdanov’s Russia, tangible possessions and investments were not real wealth. They were only hostages: hostages to a government that could seize them by decree, either on a whim or to appease an angry mob looking for scapegoats for their country’s increasingly dire economic conditions. Under Moscow’s despotic and unpredictable rule, today’s billionaire could all too easily become tomorrow’s imprisoned pauper.
But now, Grishin thought with growing delight, he’d broken free. Close to six billion dollars, sheltered in an impenetrable web of dozens of secret accounts, represented both security and continued power and influence for himself and for his family. Even if Zhdanov tried to throw him to the wolves, he would fail. Grishin could safely ride out the coming economic and political storm abroad—biding his time until the moment arrived to choose the next winner in Russia’s ongoing cycle of internecine power struggles.
Jubilantly, he clapped Voronin on the shoulder. “Well done, Pavel!” He chuckled out loud. “Now you’re a rich man, too!”
Voronin had been promised a 1 percent share for his work in coordinating and orchestrating Vanishing Act. Perhaps such a sum was not true wealth when compared to that possessed by his employer, but it was a fortune nonetheless and ample reward for his labors, Grishin believed. Somewhat smaller shares had been promised to Bondarovich and the other ex-Spetsnaz soldiers Voronin had hired for the real dirty work. More, naturally, had been promised to Colonel Alexei Petrov for his part in the conspiracy.
“Which nation’s payment will we honor?” Voronin asked dryly. “After all, I need to let Petrov know in which direction the bomber should fly—once the winds ease up enough for it to take off again.”
Grishin shrugged. “Tell him to return the PAK-DA prototype to our own country, of course.” He turned back to the rail and looked out across the water again. “I’m willing to bleed Zhdanov and his cronies, but I’m no traitor. Not to the Motherland.” He glanced at the younger man. “The Americans were dupes, leverage to use against Moscow—never anything more.”
“Naturally,” Voronin agreed.
Grishin eyed him. “Once the stealth bomber takes off, are your men ready to clear off themselves?”
The other man nodded. “Bondarovich and the others have their orders. They’ll head for the Canadian border by snowmobile, where I have a bush plane waiting to pick them up. Nothing at the camp can be traced back to us.”
“And Colonel Petrov?” the oligarch asked quietly. “What arrangements have you made for him?”
Casually, Voronin leaned against the railing. His eyes were hooded. “Regrettably, Alexei is a proud and volatile man,” he said reflectively. “Somehow, I don’t think he’s really suited to a quiet, discreet life of luxury. It would be very hard for him to accept the need to disappear completely.”
“Perhaps so,” Grishin agreed.
“Which is why my men will take the necessary action on their way to the border,” Voronin assured him. “You can be very sure that no one will ever see the colonel again.”
In the Hills Overlooking Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, near Anchorage, Alaska
That Same Time
On the slope of a hill climbing steeply two hundred feet above a frozen stream, two men crouched near the base of a Sitka spruce tree. They wore thick parkas, ski pants, and fur-lined hoods against the intensifying
cold. Besides their civilian winter clothing, they also had powerful night vision–capable binoculars slung around their necks. As storm clouds rolled across the sky above them, driven by high winds whistling down out of the north, daylight was fading fast.
One of them, Spetsnaz Captain Arkady Timonov, zoomed in on the pair of American HH-60G Pave Hawk helicopters parked on the apron near one of the air base’s two runways. Both had their rotors turning. “They’re spooling up,” he said to his companion. “Better get ready.”
“This is madness,” the other man, Lieutenant Leonid Brykin, muttered, more to himself than to Timonov. He knelt beside a large equipment bag and started unzipping it.
“Madness or not, we have our orders,” Timonov growled. Privately, he agreed with his subordinate, but Moscow’s urgent instructions left them with no real latitude. What made it even worse was that their superiors in the GRU had chosen to relay those instructions using encrypted text messages sent directly to their smartphones. Given the eavesdropping and code-breaking capabilities of the American National Security Agency, that was almost as bad as emailing their cover identities and pictures straight to the FBI. As it was, the Spetsnaz captain figured he and Brykin had no more than a day before federal law enforcement officers started looking for Mr. Pindar and Mr. Jones in earnest.
Still grumbling under his breath, Brykin finished unzipping the bag and hauled out a long, green fiberglass tube with a handgrip and trigger mechanism near the midpoint. It was a Pakistani-made Anza Mk III surface-to-air missile launcher. Based on a Chinese model derived from Russia’s own 9K38 system, this particular weapon had been captured from Muslim extremists in Chechnya and then smuggled covertly into Alaska years ago. Quickly, he set the tube in place on his right shoulder and flipped a switch to power up the missile’s seeker head and gyros. A soft hum confirmed the system was ready.