Authors: James Barrington
‘You will be aware, Walter,’ Muldoon interrupted, ‘that the neutron bomb – the Enhanced Radiation Warhead – has an extremely small effective radius, usually under
two hundred metres. The physical damage it causes is very limited, but the burst of neutrons it releases is immediately lethal within about five hundred metres, and lethal within hours or days to
every living thing inside about a mile. More importantly, the radiation dissipates very rapidly and the area can safely be entered quite soon after detonation.’
Hicks stirred impatiently, but Muldoon pressed on. ‘The neutron bomb was always intended as a defensive weapon, allowing a numerically inferior force to decimate attacking armour. What
concerned us was the possibility that the Russians had managed to turn it into a first-strike weapon of some kind, giving it a high yield without the lingering radiation effects of a conventional
nuclear device.’
Muldoon paused, and Hicks looked at him. Hicks took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at the glowing end and then back at Muldoon. ‘I get the feeling,’ he said, ‘that
we’re coming to the awkward bit.’
Muldoon nodded. ‘We decided that the only way to get detailed photographs and proper radiation measurements was to pull a Blackbird out of retirement at Beale and fly it over the
tundra.’
Hicks exhaled sharply and blew a large cloud of tobacco smoke down the table. ‘That was possibly not a wonderfully bright idea, Richard,’ he said. ‘I won’t ask who
suggested it, but I would like to know who approved it.’
‘I did,’ Muldoon replied.
Hicks nodded and glanced round the table. ‘Well, the good news is that at least the rest of you have got top cover. The bad news is that if Richard falls into the shit, he’ll have
you to land on. What went wrong – I assume something did go wrong?’ Hicks stopped suddenly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You flew the fucking Blackbird yesterday morning,
didn’t you? That’s why every military radar and radio station in the CIS lit up like a Christmas tree.’
‘Yes, we did,’ Muldoon said. ‘The ’bird carried out the mission, but the crew had a few close calls over Russia – Foxbats, Fulcrums and couple of Foxhounds, I
believe – and punched out into Scandinavian airspace with light battle damage. Two, or maybe more, of the fuel cells were punctured, and the crew assessed that they couldn’t make it to
any of the tankers, refuel safely and get back to Mildenhall.’
‘Let’s hear the rest of it.’
‘The crew didn’t have many options, but they managed to put the ’bird down safely at a Royal Air Force base – Lossiemouth – in Scotland. They only just made it. The
approach was through very heavy weather and they had to be talked-down all the way. The Blackbird actually ran out of fuel on the runway.’
‘Could have been a lot worse,’ Hicks grunted. ‘They could have landed in mainland Europe, which would have meant a lot of diplomatic hassle, at best, or they could have ended
up in the North Sea. Goodbye one very expensive aircraft and crew, not to mention goodbye to the films and detector records. So, what’s the problem?’
‘The RAF is the problem – or, rather, the RAF and the British Ministry of Defence. They won’t let us have the aircraft back until we tell them what it was doing over the
CIS.’
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi
Headquarters, Yazenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
Sokolov knocked on the door and waited. After a few seconds, Lieutenant Nilov opened it and ushered him into the inner office. Modin was sitting at his desk, studying an
open file, but stood up and smiled as Sokolov entered the room.
‘Progress, old friend?’ he asked, hopefully.
Sokolov shook his head. ‘No, nothing. I can find nothing in the personnel files that should not be there, and none of the surveillance measures has revealed any deviations from normal
behaviour – at least, not so far. If there is a traitor, I don’t think we’re going to find him unless he does something really stupid, like trying to contact an American here in
Moscow. All we can do, I think, is watch and wait. And you?’
‘I have had Minister Trushenko here,’ Modin replied. ‘It was not a pleasant interview, for a number of reasons. First, he has ordered that the assembly of the last device be
completed no later than Friday next week, and transport is arranged for the next day. He has also brought forward the implementation date of
Podstava
to the eleventh of next month. If there
are no delays, that will leave just five days to get the weapon into position.’
Sokolov whistled softly. ‘That’s tight, Nicolai, very tight. There is little time to overcome any unforeseen problems.’
Modin shook his head. ‘You’re wrong, Grigori. There is no time to overcome any problems. Everything must go right, first time. The only insurance policy,’ he added, ‘is
me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I will be accompanying the convoy, to oversee the placement of the weapon. It is not a task I relish, but Minister Trushenko was quite specific.’
Hammersmith, London
The courier knocked on Richter’s door at ten minutes to four, and placed an armful of files on the desk. Of the twenty-three files, there were seventeen classified
Confidential and above which had to be signed for individually in the Classified Documents Register before the courier left. Then Richter took a ruler from his desk drawer and measured the height
of the pile of files before ringing Simpson. He answered at once.
‘I hope you’re not hoping for an answer today on the Newman case,’ Richter said, ‘because the heap of bumf from SIS sits seventeen and a half inches high on my
desk.’
‘That’s more or less what I expected,’ Simpson said. ‘Newman would have had some input into virtually every matter that Moscow Station was dealing with. I’ve got a
bad feeling about this, so make the Newman stuff your priority. If you need to shunt your other work around, let me know.’
‘OK,’ Richter said, and put the phone down. He spread the files out on his desk and started work. Thankfully, a good deal of the information could be discarded after a cursory
glance, but that still left a substantial amount of reading matter in the Station files, and he was going to have to cover all that Newman had personally been involved in from his reports. By five
thirty in the afternoon he had done little more than sort the stuff out, and decide what he had to read and what he could ignore or just scan through. Then he put the whole lot in the safe, span
the combination, signed out of the building and went home. He would start again on Monday morning.
Office of the Director of Operations (Clandestine Services), Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Richard Muldoon stopped talking. There was a moment’s silence, and then, as if by common consent, everyone looked towards the head of the table.
‘So what the hell are they doing?’ Hicks asked.
‘At the moment, nothing,’ Muldoon replied. ‘The ’bird is sitting on the ground in a hangar in Scotland. We can’t get near it, and we can’t talk to the crew
except on an open phone line that’s almost certainly being monitored.’
Hicks ground out his cigar in an ashtray, then looked up. ‘When did the ’bird land?’
‘Yesterday morning,’ Muldoon replied
‘OK, Richard. What have you done since then to get the aircraft back?’
Muldoon coloured slightly. ‘Once we knew there was a problem, we tried through the USAFE to persuade the British to co-operate and release the aircraft, but we got nowhere.’
‘And what do you expect me to do about it?’ Hicks asked.
‘You’re acting DCI at the moment,’ Muldoon said. ‘We have assessed that we’ll probably need strong diplomatic pressure to get the ’bird released without
telling the Brits what they want to know. We’d like you to request the President, through the National Security Council, to try to get the aircraft back.’
Walter Hicks picked up the cigar packet and looked inside. Then he pushed his chair back and walked over to his desk, picked up a fresh pack of cigars and sat down again. ‘Kind of
“please can we have our ball back, mister”?’ he said. Muldoon nodded. Hicks leaned back in his chair. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let me summarize the situation as I
understand it. We’ve had a whisper from a source in Moscow—’
‘A reliable source, Director,’ Hughes interrupted.
Hicks just glanced at him, then continued. ‘We’ve got a whisper from a usually reliable source – I won’t put it any higher than that – in Moscow that some kind of
covert offensive is being implemented, although we can’t detect any signs of it whatsoever. We’ve got seismograph recordings of a weapon test high in the tundra. And finally,
we’ve possibly got film records of the possible weapon test site stuck in the surveillance cameras of a Blackbird at –’ he checked his notes ‘– at RAF Lossiemouth in
Scotland that the Brits won’t let us look at until we tell them what the hell the aircraft was doing over-flying north-west Russia, threatening détente and all.’ He looked round
the table. ‘Is that it?’
Three heads nodded.
‘It’s a crock of shit,’ Hicks said flatly. ‘It’s rumour and unfounded speculation – you’ve no hard evidence at all. In fact, all the evidence you have
says that the RAVEN message is disinformation. You can’t start a covert assault without some signs of military activity. I can’t take that and try to get NSC or Presidential approval
for any further action. Christ, it’s going to be difficult enough getting the Blackbird back to Mildenhall without answering a lot of real awkward questions.’
He pulled out another cigar and took his time lighting it. ‘Did it ever occur to any of you that RAVEN might be a plant?’ he went on. ‘That this supposed agent might just be
part of a deception operation intended to force us into doing something stupid – which it has? The KGB planners were experts at that kind of thing, and bearing in mind that they all now work
for the SVR, do you really think they’ve lost their touch? Hell, the fucking source probably even works for the SVR!’ He looked round the table. ‘Well, did you? Any of
you?’
Ronald Hughes replied quietly. ‘Yes, Director, we did. We did consider it, but the quality of the data we received was so good that we don’t believe the SVR would have released it as
part of any deception campaign. We’ve been able to cross-check quite a lot of it, and there are no indications whatever that the source is anything other than what he appears to be – a
disaffected officer right at the very top of the SVR or GRU.’
‘Good. I’m pleased to see somebody’s been thinking. Have we had anything from RAVEN since this note?’
‘Nothing,’ Hughes said. ‘Either the SVR tumbled to him, in which case we’ve lost the best high-level source we’ve ever had – in my opinion – or
he’s having to lie low for the moment. Obviously,’ he added, ‘we hope he’s still in place.’
‘OK,’ said Hicks. ‘In my view, this is probably the SVR twisting our tail, just letting us know that they’re still there and still in business. I’ll spell it out.
First, RAVEN was a walk-in. We don’t know who he is or why he’s doing it. I hear what you say about the data, Ron, but it is possible that we’re being fed disinformation which is
being supported by related leaked data that you’re using to cross-check it. Kind of like a circular argument.’
‘That’s not the way I read it,’ Hughes said, ‘but I’ll concede that it is just possible.’
‘Second,’ Hicks continued, ‘the note was handwritten, which is suspicious for two reasons. If RAVEN was caught with the note in his pocket, his handwriting would be
identifiable to another SVR or GRU officer at his level. If he is genuine, that would be too dangerous, too much of a risk. And why handwrite it? Why not just photograph the document, the same way
he photographed all the other documents? And finally, your checks, Ron, showed no evidence whatsoever of military preparations for any kind of assault.’
There was silence round the table for a minute or so, then Hughes spoke. ‘There could be other explanations for the note, Director. It could be that RAVEN has only just been indoctrinated
into the operation, that he’s only just been told about it. He may have been briefed verbally, and not seen any documents at all. If the project is classified highly enough, no documents
describing the entire concept may exist, or there may be just one copy held in a two-key safe which can only be opened by two officers simultaneously; we know the KGB used that technique for added
security. So there are several possible reasons why he may have had no option but to scribble brief details down, just to alert us to what’s going on. If that is the case, then he will be
relying on our ability to pick up the trail and find out what’s happening. I wouldn’t like to think that we’re just going to drop it.’
Walter Hicks gave Hughes a brief grin. ‘You misunderstand me, Ron. I’m not going to drop it. I’m just acting as devil’s advocate, putting up the obvious
counter-arguments.’
Muldoon leaned forward. ‘There are a couple of other possible reasons for the lack of military preparations. First, an off-the-wall suggestion,’ Muldoon said, looking slightly
uncomfortable. ‘The Russians could have developed a weapon so powerful that they believe that simply the threat of using it would force the West to accede to any demands they made.’
Hicks laughed. ‘Dr Strangelove stuff, Richard? A “Doomsday Weapon”? I don’t believe that. Their weapons science is a long way behind ours, unless things have changed a
hell of a lot since the USSR collapsed. Besides, we’d need to be convinced that the weapon would work, which would mean a demonstration somewhere – an obvious demonstration, not just a
hole in the ground high in the tundra. Even then, what would they do about our retaliatory capability? No, that doesn’t hold water. What’s the other reason?’
‘This is the one that’s given me shivers ever since I saw the RAVEN message, Walter. What if they’ve got weapons in place already, here in the States? Nuclear devices, smuggled
in. That could be construed as a covert assault, and it wouldn’t involve any kind of military build-up or other preparations.’
Hicks sat silent, digesting Muldoon’s suggestion. Then he shook his head. ‘That’s a sneaky idea, Richard, but to what purpose? Even if they’d positioned a nuclear weapon
in every major city in the States, and threatened to detonate them, we could still destroy Russia and the rest of the CIS. It would still be a stalemate, just like in the bad old days of
MAD.’