Short Season

by DJ Scott

”Shiek Abdul al-Tikriti,” Castelli said softly. “Related to Saddam and a major player in the insurgency. Reported to pay a thousand dollars for every American killed.”

  “I can take him out right now,” replied Delgado. “An easy shot.”

  “Tempting,” Castelli whispered, “but in a few minutes they’ll all be road kill.”

  From the Mercedes stepped a tall man in flowing white robes and a long headscarf. He wore gold wire rimmed glasses over a prominent nose and a short pointed beard.

  “Abdullah Nazer. The money man.” Castelli adjusted his radio. “Crossbow, this is Lancer. Fast Arrow, I say again Fast Arrow.”

  “Roger Lancer, Fast Arrow confirmed. Suggest you clear the area.”

  “Roger, weapons free in two minutes,” came the terse reply.

  Captain Jeremy Rogers, weapons officer of the lead F-15E, made a quick calculation as to course and speed to place them in position for weapons release in two minutes. He passed this on to his pilot, Major Denise “Scooter” Callahan, who then ordered her wing man to take the same course.

  The GPS in the GBU-31 2000 pound JDAM (Joint Direct Attack Munition) was already tracking its location, and the target coordinates were pre-programmed into its onboard memory. A combination of the reliable Mark 84 2000 pound bomb with a bolt-on tail incorporating navigational and guidance capability, the GBU-31 would typically land within thirteen meters of its intended target. The arming sequence completed, instrument displays were quickly scanned for signs of problems or malfunctions. There were none—in less than two minutes, two tons of death would be on its way.

  At 0147 and eight seconds both weapons released and Major Callahan reported, “Weapons away,” to the AWACS and simultaneously to the Crossbow team on the ground. Mission completed, both F-15 crews completed a broad turn to the southeast and headed back to al-Assad for a debrief, a shower, and a few hours of sleep.

  “Time to go. East.” They moved quickly in a low crouch and in just under two minutes had moved an additional hundred-fifty meters, and were face down in a shallow wadi. Castelli knew how much punch a GBU-31 2,000 pound bomb could pack. If they were standing, they would still be within the kill radius of the weapons, but down in the wadi three hundred meters away, they should be relatively safe.

  Less than a minute later, the sky in front of them lit up brighter than daylight.

  At that point everything changed.

  Chapter 2

  August 18, 2017 0635Z (1035 MST)

  Gadzhiyevo Russia (30 kilometers northwest of Murmansk)

  Despite its size and industrial trappings, the missile assembly facility of the 3rd Nuclear Submarine Flotilla of the Russian Northern Fleet was a quiet place to work, with only the whine of the crane and the occasional metal on metal clink of tools disrupting the silence. Perhaps working with nuclear weapons inspired silent respect.

  Captain Second Rank Anatoly Grishkov, senior weapons officer of the Second Division, was personally supervising the mating of six thermonuclear warheads to a recently delivered R-29RMU2 submarine launched ballistic missile, NATO codename Liner. The three stage liquid fuel missile was an upgrade of the older Sineva missile and was designed to carry up to twelve small warheads with special capability to evade anti-ballistic missile systems. The project was years behind schedule, however, and—unknown to the West—Russia was fitting half its Liner production with refurbished warheads from the decommissioned Sinevas, both to speed their deployment and as a cost-cutting measure. Because of their larger size, only six of the older warheads could be mounted on each missile.

  Shipped in specially-designed stainless steel containers weighing five-thousand kilograms, the conical warheads were about two meters long and just over half a meter in diameter at the base. The massive steel boxes, which also incorporated a thin lead liner, were designed to provide radiation shielding, to protect the warheads, and to make theft nearly impossible. The sheer mass of these steel coffins was itself a deterrent, but there was also a unique digital locking mechanism, produced at the same facility that overhauled the warheads, that would deactivate the weapon and render it useless if even a single incorrect code were entered into its keypad.

  Anatoly had traveled to nearby Severomorsk, site of the First Light Machinery Maintenance Factory—the typically cryptic Russian name for the warhead reconditioning facility—to personally code the containers for the six warheads now being mounted.

  His predecessor had made the mistake of forgetting one of the codes, thus damaging a warhead to the extent that it required complete rebuilding. That error had set back arming and loading a missile submarine by more than two weeks and had ended that particular officer’s career. Anatoly Grishkov, son of a submarine skipper and nephew of his flotilla’s commanding officer, was determined not to repeat the error.

  In addition to the technical side of nuclear warheads, Anatoly understood the geopolitical significance of these awesome weapons as well. One had only to look at North Korea or Pakistan, insignificant nations made large by their possession of these devices. The significance of a robust fleet of missile submarines was the reason the aging Delta IV boats were still in service. Originally destined for the scrap yard after introduction of the new Borei Class boats, the Deltas’ life had been extended several times due to production delays, shipyard accidents, and costly redesign of the Boreis.

  The shipping container for the sixth and last warhead, for the sixteenth and final missile destined for the submarine Karelia — K-18—was opened without incident. A small crane lifted the massive lid, then removed the warhead and placed it onto a custom dolly for movement by elevator up to the assembly level, twelve meters above the floor.

  At this point Grishkov attached a small cable from an instrument the size of an ordinary voltmeter to a connector inside the mating ring at the base of the warhead. The unit ran a quick check of the weapon’s small nuclear battery and electronic systems. When the indicator LED turned green, he disconnected the cable.

  He then attached a different cable for the permissive action link encoder to a connection nearer the center of the base. The PAL encoder programmed the warhead for the conditions under which it could be armed. First, of course, was the arming code to be entered by the crew of the submarine. There were also conditions such as acceleration, altitude, and time which would ensure that the weapon had actually been launched as intended. These security measures were not as complex or elaborate as those used by the Americans, but to Grishkov’s mind they were entirely adequate. The PAL parameters were programmed into the encoder by the Defense Ministry, and Grishkov had only a vague idea what they were. The encoder was delivered from Moscow under heavy guard and was stored and guarded entirely separately from the missiles and the warheads.

  Despite the complexity of what it did, the encoder was actually quite simple to operate. He had only to switch it on and press ‘PROGRAM’ after which small green LEDs would light in sequence. When all six were lit, he was done and simply had to disconnect the device. There had never been a problem.

  Until today. One light lit, then flickered and went out. The next two lit but did the same, then all stayed dark. He tried ‘PROGRAM’ several times without result.

  God damn it. The last warhead of the last missile for this boat, and there was a malfunction! These warheads were freshly reconditioned, and he had never encountered the slightest problem. He knew the commanding officer of the submarine was expecting this missile to be transported to the boat and loaded today. Feeling desperate, he then did something he had never even considered before.

  Grishkov found a torx wrench and removed the small access plate next to the encoder socket.

  He had no idea why he did it. It wasn’t like he could repair the warhead. But ever since he was a boy, he had been fascinated by nuclear weapons—their ingenious design and meticulous construction stood out so clearly amidst a world of makeshift design and shoddy workmanship. An
d now he simply wanted to know what was wrong.

  The plate was about the size of the palm of his hand and came off easily. To the astonishment of his crew, Grishkov then peered into the interior of the warhead with a small flashlight. He had seen the interior of many warheads and was familiar with the basic design of every nuclear warhead in the inventory of the Russian Navy.

  This did not look at all like any of them. In fact . . .

  Oh shit.

  There was a bare circuit board mounted on a bracket just inside the base which was attached by wire bundles to both the test and PAL sockets. There was also what appeared to be about a dozen large disc-type batteries wired together and attached to the circuit board. One of the leads to the PAL socket had a loose solder joint which probably accounted for the malfunction. Looking farther up into the warhead, he saw pieces of steel reinforcing rods and a large blob of what looked like concrete.

  The warhead was a fake! But that was impossible. He had seen it loaded into the case, had programmed the lock himself. Each warhead was shipped under the tightest security in separate trucks. Every truck and every case was accounted for; he had accounted for them personally. Despite the chill of the Arctic morning, Anatoly Grishkov was suddenly drenched with sweat.

  Procedure called for him to notify the Division Commander immediately, followed by notification of the Flotilla senior weapons officer. The Division commander, however, was out on one of the boats, and the weapons officer was nothing more than a political sycophant. He made a quick decision. He replaced the inspection plate and ordered his crew off the assembly platform. He then told the senior security officer that, pending further orders, no one could leave or enter the building.

  He went to his small office and dialed a number he knew well. The phone was answered after one ring, “Sergei Grishkov.”

  “Sir, Uncle, it’s Anatoly. It is imperative you come at once to the assembly building.”

  His uncle, a long time survivor of both the Soviet and Russian military systems asked no questions. “On my way.”

  In fifteen minutes, Vice Admiral Sergei Antonovich Grishkov, Commanding Officer of the Third Submarine Flotilla, arrived in a dark green staff car, his personal Mercedes having been left at his office. A large bear of a man—actually too big for submarines—especially now that advancing years had begun to expand his middle—the elder Grishkov wore a broad moustache which, before it began to grey, was sometimes compared to Stalin’s. He had publically bristled at the comparison, but was privately amused by it. His rank of Vice Admiral qualified him for a comfortable senior post in the Defense Ministry, but his health was failing, and he requested his last assignment be back with the Northern Fleet. He had friends in the Arctic, and in this post he could keep watch over the career of his nephew. Such nepotism was frowned upon in the American Navy, but was tolerated—even expected—in the Russian.

  He was quickly shown into his nephew’s office, his aide Captain First Rank Piotr Kulakov, in his wake. His nephew snapped to attention.

  “So Anatoly Ivanovich, what exactly requires my attention. I expected to see the building on fire, but am gratified to see it is not.”

  “When you see what I have discovered, you might prefer a fire.”

  Sergei Grishkov raised his eyebrows. “What then?”

  “Come with me.” The younger Grishkov threw a glance at Piotr Kulakov.

  “Piotr is my aide and trusted friend. Whatever this is, he will have to know.”

  They rode in silence up the elevator where the access plate was again removed. Holding his nephew’s flashlight, the Admiral peered inside and then motioned for his aide to look as well. Both men understood immediately what they were seeing.

  Sergei stood aside while Piotr replace the plate. “Who else knows about this?”

  “The four men working with me and the senior security officer know something is wrong, but not what. No one else.”

  “Good, good. Let’s keep it that way. Dismiss your crew. Tell them there is a problem with the warhead that must be addressed. They are not to return until notified. Security will seal the building and no one permitted to enter unless accompanied by you, Piotr, or myself.” The Admiral took a deep breath and looked up, as if for inspiration. “Clearly, the fake must have been substituted at the reconditioning facility. I will order a helicopter, and we can be there in thirty minutes. I will arrange for Northern Fleet security to detain the facility director and hold him until we arrive. I’ll have to notify Admiral Sokolov as well, but that should be done by secure telephone from my office.”

  “The Commander of the Northern Fleet?”

  “Don’t you think he would want to know? He will find out something is happening anyway as soon as I contact his security people. He is an old Communist, but a good officer, a submariner, and I don’t want him hearing anything second hand. I also want to suggest we keep this within the Defense Ministry and use their GRU intelligence people to investigate.”

  “You mean you’re going to hide this from the FSB?” asked his nephew with alarm.

  Piotr cleared his throat. “I believe the Admiral wishes to direct the problem where he feels it will receive the most . . . efficient response.”

  “Yes, Piotr, very tactful. You might add that I also wish to avoid dealing with the knuckle-breaking incompetents of our esteemed President’s former employer.”

  Within minutes the three officers had been driven, at breakneck speed, to the admiral’s office where he and his aide both made a number of urgent calls. They then embarked on a Kamov Ka-29TB helicopter for the brief flight to the First Light Machinery Maintenance Factory. When they landed in a lot normally used to load and unload trucks, they were approached by a security officer who told them that the factory manager, Alexi Kovolenko, was away on vacation. He had departed one week ago, the same day the latest group of warheads had been shipped out to the 3rd Flotilla.

  Sergei looked at Anatoly and Piotr. None of them needed to say it. This was where the warheads had gone missing.

  There was no point in remaining, so Sergei Grishkov ordered his helicopter to return to Gadzhiyevo. Enroute he told his nephew, “Bring enough trusted men back to the Assembly Building to remove each of the remaining warheads from that missile. Inspect them, and reload them into their transport boxes. I think we all know what you will find, but we must be sure.”

  Anatoly nodded, unable to speak.

  Chapter 3

  August 18, 2017 0805Z (1005 CEST)

  Aboard the Frecciarossa

  High Speed Train South of Rome

  Alexei Kovolenko, accompanied by his fiancée, Anna Voronina, was traveling in comfort towards Salerno. Not that they were going by those names. At the moment, they were Arvid and Ilse Hämäläinen, Finnish school teachers on holiday. They could not speak a word of Finnish, but neither could anyone else outside of Finland so they were getting by in heavily-accented German. They smiled knowingly at each other as they enjoyed their business class breakfast of fruit, cheese, and smoked meats. Aided by a second glass of local wine, the couple was beginning to relax for the first time in more than a week.

  They were an incongruous pair. Alexei was a large man in his early forties—broad shoulders, big hands, and a large, slightly-crooked nose. His long dark hair comb over periodically dropped down over his forehead, landing on the top of steel-rimmed glasses. The typically-Russian eyewear was an oversight which he would have to fix at the earliest opportunity—and they did make nice eyewear in Italy. Anna, by contrast, was a petite blond with short hair, sparkling blue eyes and infectious laugh. The latter, plus her spectacular figure, was what had attracted Alexei in the first place. He still didn’t know what had attracted her to him, and he had long ago decided not to ask.

  He had degrees in both Physics and Mechanical Engineering, while she had a high-school diploma, but her worldliness was immensely appealing. You don’t see much
of the world when you’re running a secret warhead maintenance facility. They had met at a small coffee bar in Severomorsk where she was what the Americans would call a barista.

  Alexei was fascinated by the fact that she had once lived in Chechnya, to him a place both exotic and dangerous.

  Indeed, her father, a minor bureaucrat, had moved Anna, her mother, and her little brother, Boris, to Grozny in 2000 as part of a program to prove that Moscow had the rebellious province firmly under their control. They did not, of course.

  Anna’s mother was killed in 2005 by a car bomb while shopping at a vegetable market. Both teens by this time, Anna and Boris learned to navigate the streets and to instinctively recognize danger. Anna finished her schooling, and her father arranged a job for her with the Ministry of Economic Development, North Caucasus Region. Boris, small but cunning and quick, became a runner for Chechen criminals, who more than once steered the two Russians away from ambushes and suicide bombers.

  In 2009 their father suffered a fatal heart attack, brought on by years of chain smoking, heavy drinking, and mediocre health care. With no reason to stay in Chechnya, the brother and sister moved, along with most of the Russian troops, back to Russia and an uncertain future. Like the American veterans of Viet Nam and the French civilians fleeing Algeria, Russia had little interest in the plight of its citizens returning from the ill-fated mission in Chechnya. They lived in Moscow for a few years, Boris working off and on for his contacts in Chechen organized crime and Anna as a bartender in a club frequented by the spoiled children of the new class of Russian plutocrats. On the same night in 2012, Boris was badly beaten by members of a rival mob, and Anna barely avoided a full-blown sexual assault while serving, and being groped, in one of the private rooms at her club. They both realized there was no future in Moscow.

  Exploiting her charm and good looks, Anna convinced an old friend of their father, a senior official in the Defense Ministry, to arrange a low-level job for Boris at a new, and very secret, facility being built in Severomorsk. He had no work for Anna, but convinced her that the closed military city would also need a young woman with her ‘talents.’ They arrived in the high Arctic a month later where Boris began work at the First Light Machinery Maintenance Factory, and Anna began serving espresso.