Deep Black (20 page)

34

Rubens pushed back in his office chair, listening as his stereo played the first act of
Don
Giovanni
—the scene, in fact, where one of the Don’s lovers is warned of his treachery.

On his desk were two code-word classified, eyes-only papers. The reports were so secret that each one of their pages was imbedded
with metal foil that acted as a tracking device. The reflective ink of the words and the fiber pattern in the paper itself
made them difficult to read and harder to copy, although this was not impossible.

The top report was a twenty-page summary of the Russian coup plot, courtesy of Johnny Bib. The report expanded on the CIA
estimate, backing it up with more specific information about the units that might be involved. Most notably for Rubens, Bib
had managed to track down the MiG that downed the Wave Three aircraft, which belonged not to an IA-PVO or air defense unit
but an IAP or Frontal Aviation squadron—the portion of the Air Force that ordinarily operated either outside of the country
or, as the name suggested, on the front lines, not deep in the heart of Mother Russia. From the radio intercepts examined
so far, only one Army unit was clearly involved, but it was a division of armor headquartered southwest of Moscow, within
an easy drive of the Kremlin.

Like the CIA, however, Bib’s group hadn’t been able to pin down who was behind the coup. While the best guess was Defense
Minister Vladimir Perovskaya, none of the very large set of intercepts concerning him—including literally thousands of phone
calls he had made over the past few months—had so far yielded any trace of a coup. There were some materials still to be translated,
and Bib had just directed one of his teams to review a series of digital images thought to contain encryptions mixed into
the image data, but the only thing halfway incriminating was a series of instant messages sent in the clear with somewhat
ambiguous statements: “Big Boy will fall” was about the worst.

Not knowing for sure that Perovskaya was behind the coup complicated the plan contained in the second paper on Rubens’ desk,
a plan to deal with the coup. Code-named Bear Hug, it included two phases: Phase One was to monitor the coup as it progressed,
pretty much a no-brainer decision, though there were some intricacies involved in selecting and moving around assets. There
were never enough satellites or platforms when something like this happened, and everyone in the intelligence community seemed
to have their own perspective on what the priorities ought to be.

Phase Two outlined a strategy to stop the coup. Coordinated by Desk Three, the plan called for a massive attack on the command
and communications systems of the plotters, cutting off their leaders, crashing their computers and other electronic gear.
At the same time, Desk Three would provide intelligence about the coup to the Russian president and his loyalists. Clear lines
of communication would also be provided to the government. Bear Hug followed strategies developed during war games played
during the second Bush administration, updating them with some new computer weapons—most notably Piranha IV, an automated
virus that had already been implanted in the Russian defense system—and new remote vehicles, including the F-47C.

Rubens’ plan did not call for the direct involvement of any American force, since such a move might easily backfire. Field
agents would be needed to monitor the situation in Moscow, augmenting the thick network of sensors. In addition, they would
probably have to provide the Russians with radios, a delicate task Rubens wanted Karr and his team to handle.

Rubens, along with Admiral Brown and Johnny Bib, would present the plan at the White House in a few hours. While he would
naturally defend it aggressively, Rubens did have some doubts. Not about whether it would work—surely it would. But like Blanders,
he didn’t trust Kurakin. The Russian president had his own agenda, and his intercepts showed he didn’t think much of Marcke.
Marcke had seen the intercepts, of course; even if they weren’t so blatant, there were plenty of other examples of Kurakin’s
duplicity such as the laser system, which Kurakin continued to insist didn’t exist.

Perhaps he didn’t know. Perhaps Perovskaya had developed it on his own.

Highly unlikely, even in Russia.

The Federation might very well be part of NATO, but its history and relative strength still made it a serious threat. For
all the concern about Islamic extremists and Chinese nuclear sales and rogue South American drug dealers, Russia remained
capable of ending civilization at the push of a button.

The button on Rubens’ black phone for the direct line to the Art Room lit. He picked it up.

“Karr needs to talk to you,” said Rockman.

“OK,” he told Rockman. A second later the agent’s chronically overenthusiastic voice nearly broke Rubens’ eardrum.

“Hey, what’s happenin’?” said the team leader.

“You tell me,” said Rubens.

“I’m going north to check this base out where Martin is. How the hell did he get out of the plane alive? It was burned to
a crisp.”

“I assume you’re the one who’s going to answer those questions,” said Rubens.

“Yeah, but the only way I can do that is by grabbing his butt out of there. Rockman says we have like five hours now?”

“I gave them six.”

“Not enough for us, boss. We need more time.”

“Tommy, I need you in Moscow,” said Rubens.

“When?”

“Tomorrow or the next day the latest.” Rubens wasn’t sure; the estimates on when the coup might begin were nebulous at best.
“We’re working out the details.”

“Ah, we got plenty of time.”

“You don’t have the resources to take on a Marine brigade.”

“Relax, it’s just a battalion.”

“I doubt that would make much of a difference.”

“True. But the Russians would feel better with bigger odds,” said Karr.

“I want you in Moscow.”

“I’ll get there.” Karr’s voice became instantly more serious. “If it’s our guy, we have to get him. Got to.”

The truth was, Rubens really didn’t disagree. If Karr really did locate Martin, and really was convinced that it was him,
he had to try to get him. They might not have the opportunity again.

Six hours was, in fact, too short.

“I need you in Moscow the day after tomorrow,” said Rubens finally. “Get the Wave Three wreckage to the transport point. Scout
the site. Be prejudiced toward caution.”

“My middle name,” said Karr.

“Tommy, I’m serious about you being careful. I don’t want you going in there and up and getting slaughtered by a battalion
or whatever it is of Marines. And I need you in—Tommy? Karr?”

He’d already hung up.

35

Kurakin waited until the cabinet ministers were rising before signaling that the defense minister should stay. Perovskaya
reacted the way the Russian president knew he would—a self-important grin flickered across his face before he nodded solemnly
and pretended that this was what he had intended all along.

Among other things, the meeting had touched on the death of Laci Babinov in an officially unexplained—and unpublicized—shootdown
beyond the Ural Mountains. The death of the head of Moscow’s riot police was a blow to Kurakin, an unfortunate accident, because
Babinov was a supporter.

The shootdown had been necessary, however. Without it, the Americans might have realized the significance of the earlier attack.

“The unit responsible for the attack will be discovered,” said Perovskaya after the others had gone. He was repeating word-for-word
his earlier pledge. “I will find it myself.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Kurakin, who was actually sure he wouldn’t. “But we have a more important matter to discuss.”

Perovskaya looked at him with a mixture of surprise, caution, and disdain. His scalp seemed to glow beneath his thin hair,
and the corner of his mouth curled just short of a sneer.

“The American ABM system must be neutralized,” said Kurakin. “Until it is, we have no leverage. We cannot deal with the southern
insurgents as they should be dealt with. We cannot punish the Chinese for helping them as we should.”

Perovskaya surprised Kurakin by saying nothing. The president had not expected that. He had thought—hoped, assumed—that Perovskaya’s
native animosity toward the Americans would result in something suitably bombastic. Standing no taller than five-six, Perovskaya
made up for his slight stature by blustering and talking the bully. But whether because he was caught so completely by surprise
or genuinely thought the idea of blinding the Americans too belligerent even for him to suggest, he said nothing.

“We have discussed the ABM system many times,” continued Kurakin. “The problem is well-known. But until now the idea has been
to attack it directly, which of course would be suicidal. An indirect attack on only those satellites that can detect our
launches—that is safer and more feasible. Without those satellites, the Americans could not warn the Chinese, much less stop
an attack. Once the Chinese realize that, they will stop helping the rebels. They will realize this is aimed at them.”

“The Americans won’t—they’ll interpret this as an act of war,” said Perovskaya.

“Why?”

“Because it
is
an act of war.” The defense minister practically crossed his eyes, obviously trying to discover whether Kurakin was tricking
him in some way. “If the Americans knocked out our satellites, we would respond harshly.”

“We couldn’t,” noted Kurakin. “Not with the ABM system in place. With it blinded, well, such things then might be possible—they
would have to take that into account. We would have more leverage with them.”

“You’re thinking of the
Becha,
” said Perovskaya, using the code word for the laser weapon.

“Of course.”

“To strike the satellites, even in their parked orbits—the lasers are untested. It would be difficult.”

No tests had been conducted, since doing so would tip the Americans off. But Kurakin had seen the results of four different
computer simulations; it would work.

Perovskaya was not privy to the simulations, which Kurakin had ordered using his envoys. So rather than citing them, the president
merely said he was confident the weapons would work—and then asked pointedly if the troops manning the weapons were incompetent.

Perovskaya’s face turned red, and finally he reacted the way Kurakin had foreseen.

“There are no more potent weapons,” said the defense minister. “They could destroy the American satellites—they could eliminate
missiles, aircraft—they are as effective as the Americans’ own system. More effective.”

Perovskaya caught himself. He was proving considerably more mature than Kurakin had believed he was. “Using them would be
provocative. And of course, we would have to succeed.”

“They would destroy their targets in seconds.”

“From the time the order was given, three minutes. Four or five minutes between salvos. But no. It is far too risky.”

“You feel an attack would be suicidal?” said Kurakin.

“Against our interests. Not suicidal. No, it would succeed. But the consequences.”

“We need to stop the rebels, and the Chinese from helping them.”

“Yes. But this—no.”

Kurakin got up from the long table where he’d been sitting and walked across the room. He paused near the window. Through
its glass he could see a line of tourists in the distance near Trinity Tower.

“No. I was rash,” he told Perovskaya finally. “The rebels have me frustrated, and the Americans block us from dealing with
them properly.”

Perovskaya eyed him warily, clearly sensing that this had been a performance but not sure to what end. It was possible, Kurakin
thought, that the defense minister would question others in the government about Kurakin’s sanity. Hopefully those conversations
would take their usual belligerent tone—and be remembered.

“I’m feeling very out of sorts,” added the president. “The election is only a few months off. Democracy is a stressful thing.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“That was it?” asked Perovskaya.

“Should there be more?”

When Perovskaya was gone, Kurakin picked up the phone set and dialed into the private line of his security chief.

“So?” he asked.

“We can use it. He seemed reluctant at first.”

“That can be edited out.”

“In a sneeze.”

“Make it happen,” said Kurakin. “We will need the tape in a few days.”

36

While they waited for Karr at the helicopter, Lia propped herself against the pile of metal in the hold and tried to take
a nap. She had her legs tucked up against the helicopter’s sidewall and her jacket beneath her head as a pillow. Her right
breast drooped ever so slightly, and Dean could easily imagine it bare.

Karr sailed into view, a big smile on his face. Dean and Fashona took a few steps away from the helicopter to meet him.

“Where’s the Princess?” Karr asked.

“In the Hind sleeping.”

“Ah, leave her a minute. She needs all the beauty rest she can get.” Karr turned to Fashona. “Raymond, you and the Princess
cart the wreckage down to the railroad head as planned. Paul Smith is on his way out to meet you. You know him?”

“CIA.”

“The same. Come back with an S-1 pack. We’ll be up checking out the Marines or whatever the hell they are. Did they tell you
it’s called Arf?”

“I think it’s more like Veharkurth,” said Lia, emerging from the Hind.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.
Arf
sounds better,” said Karr. He turned back to Fashona. “When you bring the Hind up, I don’t want them to see you, OK?”

“Really? No shit.”

“I wouldn’t shit you. You’re my favorite turd.”

“You’re both so clever,” said Lia.

Within a half hour, the helo had clattered off the runway. Dean and Karr were back in the truck, heading toward Veharkurth,
or Arf, as Karr insisted on calling it.

“What’s an S-1 pack?” Dean asked.

“Kind of a standard surveillance set of tools kind of thing,” said Karr. “A lot of good toys; you’ll like ’em. Even if you
are a Luddite, baby-sitter.”

“I’m not against technology,” said Dean. “How are they going to get the helicopter close to the air base without being detected?”

“They’ll figure it out. Stuff kind of comes to you. You know what I mean?”

“No,” said Dean.

Karr looked at him and laughed. “You’re a real ball-buster, Charlie Dean.”

They were still about five miles from Arf on the main road when Karr suddenly pulled off it. He cupped his hand over his ear,
obviously listening to a transmission from the Art Room. As he waited, Dean saw a small puff of dust on the horizon.

Karr said nothing but threw the truck into reverse. He did a one-eighty and headed back south.

“What’s up?” asked Dean.

“Gomers are moving on us. There was a crossroad back about a mile, wasn’t there?”

“Yeah.”

They sped down the road toward it, fishtailing onto its barely packed surface. Karr charged down the road about five hundred
yards, looking for a rise or some other vantage point from which to observe the approaching caravan. He finally spotted what
looked like a trail leading to a hill on the right; twenty yards in, it turned into a bog. He jammed the brakes too late to
avoid skidding about hub deep in the water but managed somehow to get the truck backed up onto more solid land.

“Out,” he told Dean, jumping from the truck with the motor still running.

Dean followed through the water and mud to the rise. By the time he got there, Karr was on his belly, watching the trucks
with his binoculars.

They were close enough that Dean didn’t need the glasses. Twenty-three KAMAZ 5320 6X6s passed, doing about forty miles an
hour. The backs were covered and it was impossible to know how many men were in each truck, but it was obvious there were
plenty; Dean saw a few hanging off tailgates as the convoy passed.

“So, what’s that tell us?” asked Karr, turning over when the procession had gone by.

Dean shrugged. “They’re deploying somewhere. They have no heavy weapons. Twenty-three trucks, could be as many as two dozen
guys in a truck. Five hundred men. Two whatever those were at the end, like Land Rovers. Company commanders, maybe.”

“Good, baby-sitter, right up until the end. You’re thinking in U.S. terms. That’s just about an entire Russian Marine battalion
we watched go by. Maybe the whole thing.”

“Five hundred men is a battalion?” Dean asked.

“Marine battalions are bigger than the Army battalions,” said Karr.

“An American battalion is over a thousand guys, and once you start talking about support—”

“This ain’t America. In theory, the Russian Marine brigades have close to a thousand men, but I don’t know of any force in
the country that’s at more than fifty percent strength, so I’m guessing that was the whole shooting match, give or take.”

“If that was a full battalion, there’d be more support, more gear,” said Dean.

“Maybe they left their ships home,” said Karr. “We’ll find out soon. Come on, before our truck sinks into the swamp.”

. . .

A second convoy passed them as they drove, this one with only five trucks, all of them much older Zils. Dean told Karr these
probably included backup gear and extra supplies for the main group.

“Could be, baby-sitter,” he said.

“You ever going to stop calling me that?”

Karr just laughed. They drove for another two hours before coming to the town where the base was. It was still heavily guarded,
and there didn’t seem to be an easy way of looking inside or even examining the perimeter without being seen. The small settlement
nearby offered no cover. There was a long stretch of fence near the highway; Dean saw a stake and a ribbon flag and guessed
it was a minefield.

“We’ll have to get the latest satellite download, then wait for Fashona and the Princess,” said Karr. He gunned the truck
off the muddy path they’d been on back onto the main highway. “There’s some sort of old building up the road about two miles.
Satellite pic shows it’s deserted.”

“Looks like your satellite’s a little whacked,” said Dean as they approached the building. Two dozen small tents were pitched
near the cement-block structure; several campfires burned. “Maybe somebody should go up there and clean the lens.”

“Could be we’re hallucinating,” said Karr cheerfully. Slowing to a stop, he rolled down the window and gazed at the small
city for a moment, then turned off the engine. “Let’s check it out.”

At least a dozen men were staring at them. Dean couldn’t see any rifles, but their ragged clothes could easily hide a myriad
of weapons.

“Be a little safer to leave the engine running, don’t you think?” said Dean. “One of us stay in the truck?”

“Don’t be paranoid.” Karr shut the door behind him nonchalantly.

Dean pushed out reluctantly, adjusting his pistol under his belt. Two of the men who’d been watching them walked toward Karr
as he shambled forward and did his hail-fellow-well- met thing. Dean came around the back of the truck slowly. Something flashed
on the left; instinctively he drew out his gun, dropped into a crouch, and yelled a warning.

In the next second, he realized it was simply a glint of light bouncing off a steel fry pan.

“Lighten up, baby-sitter,” said Karr.

He said something to the Russians and they laughed. A few eyed Dean apprehensively, but they seemed to take his suspicion
in stride. He slid his pistol back into his belt and tried smiling, but it was a weak effort at best.

One of the Russians walked up and offered him a drink from a water bottle. Dean, who hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast,
took it.

And nearly choked on the homemade vodka.

“Don’t spit it out,” said Karr, pounding him on the back.

“That’s a big-time insult.”

“Tastes like gasoline,” managed Dean.

“White lightning, with a vodka tint,” said Karr. “Never accept a drink in Russia. Once you do, you have to swallow it all
and ask for more. Otherwise they’ll think you’re a wimp.”

The man who had offered the bottle to Dean was now gesturing that he should have more. Dean tried giving him back the bottle,
but the man waved him off. Dean tried to insist, but the man waved him away, his expression starting to cloud. Karr saved
the situation by grabbing the bottle and taking what looked like a huge swallow, which elicited a happy remark from the Russian.
Karr answered and they bantered a bit.

“Says I’m drinking my weight,” the NSA op explained finally. “At least I think he is. Can’t get the hang of their accents.”

“Why are they here?”

“Yeah, good question.” Karr scratched the side of his head. “They’re some sort of gypsies. I think they’re native people who
got into some sort of argument with someone a lot more powerful than they are. I’m not going to get deep into it. Here, pretend
you’re drinking.”

“Don’t you think you ought to figure out what the hell they’re up to?”

“Not good to act too nosy, baby-sitter.” He took the bottom of the bottle and pushed it up, as if urging him to drink.

“What you do is put your tongue on the opening, choke it off. Let it dribble down your cheek if you want. They won’t notice
after a while.”

“Burn a hole in my tongue.”

“Better than in your stomach. Keep them amused, OK?”

“How?”

“Show ’em your gun. I told them we’d trade it for food, if they can rustle up anything less than a week old. I’m going to
mingle.”