Arctic Gold (7 page)

Dean did know. The National Security Agency and Desk Three were successful only insofar as they could elude the spotlight of public awareness. The encounter over the Baltic could well mean big

trouble for the Agency.

Especially if the opposition managed to shoot the plane down.

As for the pilot hanging it all out for God and country at the top of the world well, Charlie Dean thought, these Art Room chess players were pretty focused on the big picture. If the pilot got bagged, they would cry tomorrow. Or perhaps next week.

Ghost Blue

Two miles northeast of Ostrov Kotlin

0059 hours

Major Delallo waited until the missiles were trailing him. He was passing fifty- eight thousand feet, now, but the trio of Guidelines was closing faster than he could climb. It was going to be damned close.

Past fifty- nine thousand feet. The missiles were five miles below him, still coming strong at three times the speed of sound.

Delallo had a tactical choice. He could keep climbing, hoping to get above the SAMs’ operational ceiling, and hope to hell the Russians hadn’t packed a surprise into those three birds, like some extra altitude. Or he could turn into the missiles and try to force an overshoot. The good news was that his F-22 was much more maneuverable than the missiles.

A major factor was those two MiG-31s back there. They were climbing, too, and coming fast. The MiG-31 Foxhound was the best interceptor in the Russian arsenal, and it could both outclimb and outrun the F-22. It would not be a good idea to let them get too close.

Delallo gauged the right moment, then popped chaff, hauling around on the stick and vectoring his engines sharply in a grueling, high- G Herbst maneuver.

The Herbst maneuveralso known as the J- turnwas only possible for high- performance aircraft like the Raptor. You needed post- stall technology, meaning vectored thrust engines and advanced computer- operated flight controls to manage a high enough angle of attack to pull it off. As he brought his nose around and down, his velocity fell off dramatically. The missiles were closing quicklyhe could see their exhaust plumes out of the corners of his eyes as he concentrated on flying his plane.

An alarm sounded as he went into a stall; only his vectored thrust engines, delicately handled in sharp, precise movements, kept him properly oriented. In seconds he had the aircraft on a new flight path, down and into the missiles, which were about sixty degrees off his nose. He was forcing them into a maximum rate turn, a maneuver he knew he could win. Accelerating now at full throttle and assisted by the relentless pull of gravity, he was past the first Guideline before it could even begin to alter course then past the second, then the third. All three had failed to hack the turn.

Now he eased off the throttles and made a gentle turn back toward his original heading, still descending and accelerating past Mach 2.

Grunting hard against the savage, crushing pressure of the G- load, Dick Delallo automatically swept his eyes over the threat indicator panel. It was blank.

So he was surprised when a missile he had neither seen nor known was tracking him exploded twenty feet below his right wing. Surprised? It was the shock of his life. After the flash and thump that rocked the plane, the surprise was that he was still alive.

Deep Black 7 - Arctic Gold

4

Operation Magpie

Waterfront, St. Petersburg

0059 hours

A BRIGHT, SILENT, SMALL FLASH briefly flared in the western sky, somewhere above the fog, but no one on the ground saw it.

The guard was deep into his perusal of Akulinin papers. Akulinin had the feeling that these guys weren’t exactly the MVD finest. More like armed postal clerks, trying to decide if he needed more stamps.

You need pay special tax, the guard said, waving Akulinin Russian visa.

As if that were news! Okay, okay, Akulinin said. Skol’ka?

How much?

The two guards exchanged a glance; Akulinin could see the avaricious smiles shielded behind their eyes. Eight hundred rubles, the first said.

Akulinin nodded. I can take care of that. He reached for his billfold.

No, one of the guards said, gesturing with his AKM. You come with us. Pay atwhat is word? At office.

Listen, Ivan, Akulinin said, throwing some swagger into his voice and manner. Our papers are fine. You’re just trying to shake us down for a little vzyatka,

am I right? He deliberately mispronounced the word, which was Russian for bribe.

The guards’ faces hardened. You come. There was no mistaking the threat behind the words. Now!

The Art Room

NSA Headquarters

Fort Meade, Maryland

1659 hours EDT

I’m hit! Ghost Blue voice called. I’m hit!

Dean stared at the flashing icon marking a point just north of Kotlin Island in the Gulf of Finland, the coffee in his mug forgotten. He could hear the ragged edge of stress in the pilot voice.

The controllers in the Art Room, all of them, remained silent. Dean could almost feel the oppressive sense of helplessness as the drama played itself out on the other side of the world.

Damn it, Sarah Cassidy said from a nearby console. I told

them they should use F-47s!

Dean said nothing. Like every other branch of the American intelligence community, the National Security Agency had for years been working toward what Dean considered to be an impossible goalthe ability to conduct operations with a complete lack of risk for human operators. Spy satellites, remote sensors, unmanned aerial and submarine dronesbillions of dollars had been spent over the past few decades to reduce the possibility of human casualties to zero.

The same mentality had haunted the Pentagon for decades now as well. Was it possible to fight a war relying solely on robotic weaponry, smart bombs, and invisible aircraft, to win a war without the images of body bags on

the nightly news to remind the people at home that victory always came at a price?

Within the intelligence community, the list of serious intelligence failures over the past few years only emphasized the fact that all the spysats in orbit couldn’t provide the same depth and detail of data as a single well- placed human agent, HUMINT as opposed to SIGINT.

That, in fact, had been a large part of the philosophy behind the creation of Desk Three. The NSA was the principal agency responsible for America SIGINT capabilities, but there were times when you needed people

on the ground, down and dirty.

Or, in this case, in an F-22 Raptor above the icy waters of the Gulf of Finland.

Okay okay, I’ve got it , the voice said over the speaker. Dean could hear the whoop and buzz of alarms in the background. Starboard engine out, but I’ve still got control. Heading for Waypoint Tango Bravo.

Ghost Blue, Haunted House, Rockman said, touching a microphone transmit switch. Be advised that there are two, repeat, two targets closing on you. Probable Foxhounds. Over.

Yeah, I got ‘em on the gadget. I’ll be over international waters before they catch me.

Copy that. Good luck, Ghost Blue.

The answer was unintelligible.

Sir! Cassidy called out. We’ve lost Magpie signal!

Ghost Blue had been relaying radio communications from the Magpie team but must have now moved out of range.

That okay, Rubens replied from another console down the line. We’re getting their signal through Mercutio and the safe house.

Who Mercutio? Dean asked, joining Rubens.

Rubens looked up at Dean, then back to the big display.

One of our agents, Rubens said with cryptic understatement. He in charge of the backup team for Magpie.

Where the hell are they, anyway?

At a commercial dock in St. Petersburg, Vasiliev Island. They’ve been detained by MVD guards at a customs checkpoint

I thought you said they were safe

?

Comparatively speaking. Mercutio is moving in now to get them through to the safe house.

Safe house?

A cruise ship tied up at the dock. Lia and her partner are posing as tourists. They’re close enough to the ship now that we’re getting their personal com transceiver signals boosted through from a satellite dish on the ship. He shook his head and sighed. It was a close one tonight, Charlie.

Tonight

. Dean smiled at that. It was, in fact, just past five in the afternoon. Rubens was so attuned to the mission in St. Petersburg right now that he was thinking in terms of it being past one in the morning.

So why did

they decide to use a Raptor?

My call, Rubens told him. We’ve been having real problems with communications in high latitudes lately. Sunspots. A live pilot gave us better flexibility.

Dean nodded. It was as he’d suspected. Desk Three often used unmanned drones like the F-47C to relay radio communications and datanet streams from operations on the ground, but sometimes you needed the human element.

Do we have an ID on the opposition?

Rubens gave him a sour look. Hardly. Lia and her partner weren’t exactly in a position where they could stop and take pictures. Best guess at the moment is that they’re Russian mafia.

Oh, joy.

Dean first op with Desk Three had been in Siberiathat had been where he’d first met both Lia and Tommyso he knew a little about the Russian mob. Any intelligence agent inserting into modern Russia had to know at least a little about the Organization, if only because he was

going to find himself working with them, one way or another.

Tambov group? he asked. The Tambovs were the largest and arguably the most dangerous of the Russian Mafia groups in St. Petersburg.

You’re going to tell us.

Oh?

I’m sending you to St. Petersburg, Charlie. I want to know who set us up and what they were after.

When do I leave?

ASAP. Briefing tomorrow morning, ohnine hundred hours, Green Room. You’ll get your legend then. We’ll have a commercial flight booked for you by tomorrow afternoon.

Then I guess I’d better pack. He looked up at the large display. Cruise ship, huh? Sounds great. I know Lia could use a vacation.

She won’t be there for long.

Oh? Why not?

Because the Russian Mafia tried to take her down tonight, Charlie. She managed to get away, but the opposition is tough tough, capable, and determined. He turned a cold gaze on Dean. I want to know exactly what the hell going on over there. And I want our people safe and out of there. You hear me?

I hear you.

Good.

Dean listened to the concern in Rubens’ voice. The old man didn’t usually show his worry, not this clearly, at any rate.

Dean wondered just what it was he was about to get himself into.

Operation Magpie

Waterfront, St. Petersburg

0101 hours

Akulinin considered his optionswhich weren’t many and weren’t good. Every sector of life in modern Russia was dominated by corruption, from ordinary citizens on the street to the highest ranks of government and industry. These two customs guards, almost certainly, were engaged in a bit of opportunismshaking down a couple of rich American tourists who happened to be alone on the waterfront in the middle of the night.

It was just possible that something more was going on here, that the guards were part of the ambush back at the warehouse and that Akulinin and Lia were about to be turned over to the mafia. That didn’t feel like the answer, though. These two, he was certain, were just looking for a little graft.

But why did they want to take the Americans someplace else?

They couldn’t afford to be taken out of sight. If these guys weren’t

in with the mafia, they might be soon, once the word went out on the street that the two Americans had escaped. It could be a pretext to rob the two of them. Or

He glanced at Lia. She was

a most attractive woman. These two bastards might have something else in mind besides money.

The watch phrase for all intelligence agents was lowkey. You never called attention to yourself, and kept a carefully tailored and very low profile. Still, there were times when it paid to be as loud and as obnoxious as possible.

He folded his arms belligerently. I’m not goin’anywhere, fella! he bellowed, his voice echoing from the

walls of nearby buildings. I know my rights! I am a citizen of the United States of America, and you can’t tell me where to go or what to do!

Startled, both MVD guards took an awkward step back. Akulinin stepped forward, crowding them, jabbing an angry forefinger at them both. Their English probably wasn’t up to deciphering more than a word in three, but it was clear that Akulinin emotion needed no translation.

What kind of country are you running here, anyway? I demand to see the American consul! I demand to see your commanding officer! I demand

Psychologically, the tables had turned. The guards still had the assault rifles, but the large American, screaming into their faces, had the advantage.

There you are, my friend! a second booming voice called across the pier from the St. Pete 2’

s gangway. What has been keeping you, eh?

James Llewellyn strode toward the customs checkpoint, an impressive figure in a heavy trench coat and a goatee that Lenin himself would have been proud of. Llewellyn was in his sixties, with a deeply lined and weathered face, but he moved with surprising strength and self- assurance. One of the MVD guards turned, raising his weapon, apparently grateful for the interruption, and barked, Stoy!

Llewellyn, Akulinin knew, was Welshnormally he worked for the National Security Agency at the Menwith Station in Yorkshirebut his Russian was excellent. More, his understanding of Russian psychology was excellent.

Nyeh kulturnii! he snapped at the guard in Russian. Do you know who I am?

He waved an open wallet at them, presumably flashing an ID. Both MVD guards came sharply to attention.

For the next five minutes, Llewellyn reamed both

guards a variety of new bodily orifices. In his role as an American tourist, Akulinin had to pretend he didn’t understand a word, but he listened with genuine admiration as Llewellyncode name Mercutiodiscussed in vivid detail the guards’ mysterious parentage, lack of breeding, improper upbringing, nonexistent education, subhuman intelligence, and utter lack of culture, never once repeating himself and never once actually telling the two just exactly who he was supposed to be. The Russian syllables, thick as glue, flowed from his lips in an uninterrupted and uninterruptible torrent.

These are my friends! he said at last, gesturing at Lia and Akulinin. My very special friends! They are coming with me! Vih panimayiti?

Da, grahjdaneen! both guards stammered. Panimayu!

Get your papers, Llewellyn said in English, still glaring at the two guards as if he could nail them in place by sheer force of personality. Start for the ship.

Lia snatched up passports and ID, then touched Akulinin shoulder. Move it! she said, her voice a harsh whisper. Together, they walked past the checkpoint, past the pier facility with its shabby hotel and gift shop, and onto the wharf. As they walked up the pier toward the gangway, Akulinin felt an intolerable itch building between his shoulder blades; if the guards decided to start shooting

Llewellyn remained to have a few more choice words with the MVD guards. When Akulinin glanced back, he saw a sheaf of Russian currency changing hands as Llewellyn paid their tax. He then turned and strode after them, his trench coat billowing after him like a cape.

Once on board the ship, Akulinin allowed himself to begin to relax. Was that a shakedown? he asked Lia. A simple extortion? Or something more?