Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (6 page)

Suddenly the Su-34s popped up, briefly gaining altitude while their onboard systems acquired multiple targets, transferred the data to their weapons, and calculated release points. Seconds later a cloud of precision-guided bombs and missiles fell away from beneath their wings and plunged onward toward the distant forest below. Instantly the four jets broke hard right, again diving for the deck to shake off any hostile radars as they exited the strike area

and vanished to the north.

Behind them the woods began exploding, erupting in huge pillars of blinding orange and red flame. Shattered trees were thrown high into the air, tumbling end over end for hundreds of meters before crashing back to earth.

Billowing clouds of smoke and lighter debris drifted downwind.

Nearly a dozen high-ranking Russian army and air force officers stood on the roof of an old concrete bunker dug into the forward slope of a nearby ridge, watching intently through binoculars. More than one hundred heavily armed airborne assault troops wearing snow smocks and bodv armor were deployed along the ridge, guarding the generals. Command and electronics vans were set up behind the bunker, well hidden among the trees beneath Infrared-resistant camouflage netting. Newly laid fiber-optic cables snaked awav through the forest, feeding back to a secure communications network.

To help preserve complete operational and strategic secrecy for this special set of maneuvers, dubbed WINTER CROWN, all radio, cellular, or standard landline transmissions were being severely restricted.

An army colonel, listening intently through a headset, turned to the short, slender man standing beside him. Alone among all the observers crowded onto the bunker roof, this man wore civilian clothes. He was snug in a plain black overcoat and scarf. The wind ruffled his sparse brown hair. “The exercise computers report all simulated enemy artillery batteries and mobile fire control radars destroyed, sir,” the colonel told him quietly.

Russian president Viktor Dudarev nodded calmly, still watching through his binoculars. “Very good,” he murmured.

A new wave of sleek ground-attack aircraft—ultramodern Su-39s—raced low over the nearest hills with their powerful turbojet engines howling. They flashed past the bunker at high speed, flying down the wide valley below the ridge. Hundreds of unguided rockets rippled out from the pods slung beneath their wings, streaking onward on trails of smoke and fire. The whole eastern edge of the forest vanished in a rolling series of thunderous explosions.

“All enemy SAM teams have been either suppressed or eliminated entirely,” the colonel reported.

The Russian leader nodded again. He swung his binoculars to the left, peering east down the valley. There, in a growing clatter of rotor blades, came a stream of mottled gray-black-and-white helicopters, Mi-17 troop transports, each carrying a team of Spetsnaz commandos. Moving at more than two hundred kilometers an hour, the fleet of winter-camouflaged helicopters swept by the bunker and vanished into the thick smoke clouds now rising above the bomb and rocket-shattered forest.

Dudarev glanced at the colonel, “Well?” he demanded.

“Our special-action forces have penetrated the enemy front lines and are en route toward their primary targets —headquarters units, fuel depots, long-range missile complexes, and the like,” his military aide, Colonel Piotr Kirichenko, confirmed, after listening closely to the reports streaming through his headset. He looked np. “The first echelons of our main ground attack force are deploying now.”

“Excellent.” The Russian president focused his binoculars on the distant opening to the vallev. Small specks appeared there, moving fast and spreading out across the rolling, open ground as the)’ drew nearer. They were tracked scout cars, BRM-ls, mounting 73mm cannons, missiles, and machine guns.

Behind the scurrying reconnaissance units came masses of heavier armor —

T-90 tanks armed with 125mm main guns. The 1-90, clad in explosive reactive armor and equipped with 1R jammers and anti-laser aerosol defenses to defeat enemy anti-tank missiles, was a significant upgrade of the older T-72.

Designed to reflect combat lessons learned during the seemingly endless war in Chechnya, it was the Russian army’s most modern battle tank. New com-puterized fire control systems and thermal sights gave the T-90’s main gun range, accuracy, and firepower that was almost equal to that of the American M1AI Abrams.

Dudarev smiled to himself, watching the formations of tanks maneuvering at high speed down the vallev. Western intelligence believed most of Russia’s T-90s were deployed in the Far East, facing the People’s Republic of China But the West’s vaunted spy agencies were wrong.

Since gaining control over the Kremlin, the ex-KCB officer had worked hard to rebuild and reform his nation’s dilapidated armed forces. Thousands of corrupt or lazy or politically unreliable officers had been sacked. Dozens of poorly equipped or poorly performing tank and motor-rifle divisions had been ruthlessly disbanded. Only the best formations were kept in the army’s order of battle. And more and more money from Russia’s growing oil revenues had been spent on making sure this smaller force of elite divisions was far better-paid, better-equipped, and better-trained than the massed conscript armies of the old Soviet Union.

Dudarev glanced at his watch. He tapped the colonel lightly on the arm.

“Time to go, Piotr,” he murmured.

Kirichenko nodded. “Sir!”

As they turned to go, the generals nearest to them snapped to attention and saluted.

Dudarev wagged a teasing finger at them. “At ease, gentlemen,” he said.

“Remember, no formality is necessary. After all, I am not really here. Nor have I ever been here. According to the Kremlin press office, I am off on a short holiday, spending a day or so at my dacha outside Moscow.” A humorless smile creased his thin lips. He turned and motioned toward the dozens of tanks and tracked BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicles now rumbling through the vallev below them. “Nor is any of this really happening. Everything you see is no more than a dream. WINTER CROWN is only a paper drill, a mere headquarters map exercise. Correct?”

The assembled senior officers chuckled dutifully.

Under the terms of various conventional arms treaties Russia had signed, all of its large-scale military maneuvers were supposed to be announced weeks and even months in advance. WINTER CROWN was a flagrant viola-tion of those agreements. None of the foreign military attaches stationed in Moscow had been notified. And every element of the exercise itself had been very carefully timed to ensure that U.S. spy satellites were not overhead whenever the thousands of troops and hundreds of vehicles involved were actively maneuvering across the snow-covered fields and forests.

The same exquisite timing and elaborate security measures would soon be employed in other major exercises scheduled around the periphery of the Russian Federation, near the borders of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and the break-away Central Asian republics. Anyone asking inconvenient questions about these intensive battlefield rehearsals would be informed that Russia was simply conducting “special antiterrorist training” for its rapid deployment forces.

By the time the deception became obvious, it would be too late. Far too late.

With Colonel Kirichenko close at his heels, he trotted down the steps cut into the hillside at the back of the bunker. A stocky, gray-haired man stood at the bottom waiting patiently for him. Like Dudarev, he wore a drab dark overcoat and stood bareheaded in the bitter cold.

The president turned to his aide. “Go ahead and make sure everything is ready for our departure, Piotr. I’ll be along shortly.”

The colonel nodded. He walked away without looking back. Part of his duties included knowing exactly when to vanish—and exactly what not to see °r hear.

Dudarev turned back to the gray-haired man. “Well, Alexei?” he asked softly. “Make your report.”

Alexei Ivanov, an old and trusted comrade from the KGB, was now the head of a little-known section in the KGB’s successor, the Federal Security Sen ice, or FSB. On formal organization charts circulated by the Russian government, Ivanov’s department carried the rather boring title of the Special Projects Liaison Office. But insiders called his shadowy domain “The Thirteenth Directorate” and tried very hard to stay out of its way.

“Our friends have signaled that HYDRA is in motion—and on schedule,”

he told the Russian president. “The first operational variants are taking effect.”

Dudarev nodded. “Good.” He looked up at the bigger man. “And what of those information leaks you found so troubling?”

Ivanov scowled. “They have been … sealed. Or so it is claimed.”

“You are not sure?” Dudarev asked, raising an eyebrow.

The head of the Thirteenth Directorate shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have no real reason to doubt these reports. But I admit that I do not like this game of working by remote control. It is an imperfect process.” He frowned.

“Perhaps even a dangerous one.”

Dudarev clapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Alexei,” he said.

“The old ways are dead, and we must move with the times. Decentralization and power-sharing are all the rage these days, are they not?” His eyes turned cold. “Besides, HYDRA is a weapon best employed at a safe distance and with total deniability. True?”

Ivanov nodded heavily. “That is true.”

“Then you will continue as planned,” Dudarev told him. “You know the timetable. Keep a wary eye on our friends, if need be. But do not interfere directly unless you have no other choice. Clear?”

“Yes, your orders are clear,” the bigger man agreed reluctantly. “I only hope your faith is justified.”

Amused, the Russian president raised an eyebrow. “Faith?” His lips twitched upward in a brief, icy half-smile. “My dear Alexei, you should know me better than that. I am no true believer—in anything or anyone. Faith is for fools and simpletons. The wise man knows that facts and force are what truly govern the world.”

Tbilisi, Georgia

Georgia’s capital lay in a natural amphitheater, surrounded on all sides by high hills topped by ancient fortresses, crumbling monasteries, and dense forests. On a clear day like this one, the far-off snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus Mountains appeared on the northern horizon, standing sharply etched against a pale blue sky-Sarah Rousset, a correspondent for The New York Times, leaned on the railing of the balcony of her top-floor room in the five-star rated Tbilisi Mar-riott. She was only in her mid-thirties, but she had allowed her originally chestnut-colored hair to go mostly gray. Looking older than she really was somehow reassured both senior editors and potential news sources. With one eye shut, she focused through the viewfinder of her digital camera and began snapping pictures of the enormous crowd filling the wide, tree-lined avenue below.

She zoomed in on a diminutive white-haired woman holding a rose-colored banner aloft. Black mourning ribbons fluttered from the staff. Tears trickled unheeded down the woman’s wrinkled face. With one light tap of her finger, Rousset froze the powerful image and stored it in her camera’s memory. That one should make the front page, she thought. Right beside the lead article with her byline plastered on it.

“Marvelous,” she murmured, still taking pictures.

“I beg your pardon?” the tall, square-jawed man standing at her shoulder said coldly. He was the chief of mission for the U.S. embassy here.

“All those people,” Rousset explained, nodding at the Georgians packed below them. Beneath a sea of rose-colored flags and placards, the silent crowd was slowly flowing east toward the Parliament building. “There must be tens of thousands of people down there in the freezing cold. Maybe more. And all of them united in sorrow and grief. Just for one sick man.” She shook her head.

“It’s going to make a marvelous story.”

“More like a terrible tragedy,” her companion said tightly. “For Georgia certainly, and perhaps for the whole Caucasus region.”

She lowered the camera and glanced sidelong at him from under her long lashes. “Really? Would you like to explain why … in a way my readers can understand, I mean?”

“Not for attribution?” he asked quietly.

Rousset nodded. “No problem.” She smiled delicately. “Let’s say that you’ll appear in print as ‘an expert Western observer of Georgian politics.’”

“Fair enough,” the diplomat agreed. He sighed. “Look, Ms. Rousset, you need to understand that President Yashvili is more than just an ordinary politician to those people. He’s become a symbol of their democratic Rose Revolution, a symbol of Georgia’s peace, prosperity, and maybe even its continued existence.”

He waved a hand at the distant hills and mountains. “For centuries, this region was torn back and forth between rival empires, Persia, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Turks, the Mongols, and finally the Russians. Even after the Soviet Union imploded, Georgia was still a wreck, ravaged by ethnic infighting, corruption, and political chaos. When the Rose Revolution swept him into office, Mikhail Yashvili began changing all that. He’s given these people their first real taste of competent, democratic government in eight hundred years.”

“And now he’s dying,” Rousset prompted. “Of cancer?”

“Maybe.” The tall American diplomat shrugged gloomily. “But no one really knows. My sources inside the government say that his doctors haven’t been able to identify the illness killing him. All they know is that his vital organs are failing rapidly, shutting down one by one.”

“So what happens next?” the female New York Times reporter wondered aloud. “After Yashvili dies.”

“Nothing good.”

Rousset pressed harder. “Gould other regions break away—just like South Ossetia and Abkhazia?” Fighting in those two self-declared “autonomous republics” had killed thousands and lasted for years.

“Or maybe even escalate into another all-out civil war?” she went on. Filing reports from a war zone was a risky business, but it was also the path to journalistic stardom. And Sarah Rousset had always been ambitious.

“Possibly,” the tall man admitted. “Yashvili doesn’t really have a clearly defined successor, at least not anyone trusted by all the different political factions, nationalities, and ethnic groups in Georgia.”