Crossing Savage (34 page)

Knight One turned his aircraft sharply, using its vectored thrust. Relying upon radar guidance from Thor, he was on a course to intercept the Hinds from behind.

With his weapons door closed, Knight One approached the two helicopters under the cloak of invisibility. Bleeding off speed, Knight One came to within half a mile before opening his weapons door. At this close range, missile lock was almost immediate. Knight One fired the Sidewinder. With very little warning and a short flight time for the Sidewinder, the helicopter simply could not outmaneuver the heat seeker. The explosive charge detonated within the turbine engine, shattering the engine cowling, shredding the turbine blades and adjacent fuel and hydraulic lines. The Hind tumbled to the earth, out of control.

Having successfully defeated two missile attacks, Viper Two's luck ran out.

The lone remaining Hind pilot was courageous, but not stupid. He knew he stood next to zero chance of defeating the unseen intruder; he departed for his home base. Knight One did not pursue.

The
Spirit of Florida
and
Spirit of Hawaii
had, by now, completed their missions. Their job done, the two B-2s closed the external doors, regaining invisibility, and departed north, leaving the theater of engagement.

“Thor to strike force. This is Colonel Horn. I want to congratulate you on a job well done. All surveillance shows Venezuelan Air Force is standing down.”

The F-22 Raptors escorted the larger B-2s until they were well out of Venezuelan airspace and the sky was clear of threats, confirmed by the E-3 Sentry still on station. Nevertheless, the Raptors remained with the two strategic bombers until they were 700 miles north of Caracas. The B-2s continued north to rendezvous with the KC-130 tanker over the open ocean north of the West Indies and south of the Bahamas. The pair of escorts turned southwest and returned to Hato International Airport on Curacao.

Chapter 36

October 16

Washington, D.C.

The massive rear-projection
screen
was divided into quadrants—each quadrant displaying a different virtual false-color image of the unfolding operation over Venezuela. The upper right quadrant displayed the entire theater, using blue icons for friendly assets and red icons for enemy assets overlaid on a detailed map of the region. The icons moved in real time, due to an encrypted data downlink from the orbiting E-3 Sentry. The other three quadrants of the projection screen displayed enlarged images of the confrontation: the presidential palace and the two nearby air bases.

The E-3 was receiving surveillance data, not only from its own suite of radar sensors, but also from each Global Hawk in the theater of operation. This stream of data was collated and assembled in milliseconds into the most comprehensive and detailed real-time overview that Secretary of Defense Hale had ever seen of an active theater of battle.

Secretary of State Paul Bryan was mesmerized by the real-time images of the conflict. Everything was going well, and he silently breathed relief when the last of the American aircraft safely departed Venezuelan air space. He had been present, at Hale's invitation, in the War Room in the basement of the White House since the beginning of Operation Checkmate. Yet he felt like a fish out of water. Around him everyone else was busy. There were the Joint Chiefs and their aides and a gaggle of officers from each branch of the armed forces conversing on phones, working at computer terminals, entering and leaving the room. It looked to be rather chaotic to Bryan's novice eye.

Militarily, the mission was judged an unqualified success. No U.S. airmen were lost, and no manned aircraft was struck by enemy fire. The only loss of U.S. assets was one Predator UAV—most likely blown to pieces, and no one thought there was much chance the Venezuelans, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to gain any classified knowledge from the wreckage. In comparison, the Venezuelan air defenses suffered significantly greater losses. Numerous radar targeting systems were destroyed, six Su-27 fighter aircraft and six Mirage jets were destroyed, and two Mi-35 Hind helicopter gunships were shot down.

Both the principal air base in Barcelona and the presidential palace had been targeted, Bryan cogitated.
There could be no mistaking the message. If we had chosen to, we would have placed precision-guided bombs on those targets
.

Now it was a matter of waiting for the anticipated call of indignation and protest from the Venezuelan Foreign Minister Roberto Maldonado. Bryan did not have to wait too long.

The incoming phone call was forwarded to the War Room. Bryan's secretary, Marge, paged first to alert him that the call was from Caracas.

“Good evening Mr. Maldonado. What can I do for you?”

“This is an outrage! You know very well the reason for my call!”

“Do I?” Bryan answered innocently, a hint of a slim smile taking shape. Had this not been so serious, he might have chuckled.

“The United States has carried out an unprovoked act of aggression against the sovereign Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela!”

“What acts of aggression are you referring to, and what evidence do you offer that my country carried out these acts?” Bryan was playing his counterpart in an effort to learn something of Venezuelan intelligence capabilities.

“You know very well what I am talking about, but you wish to play games, I see. So I will tell you what you already know. Stealth aircraft executed unprovoked attacks on several fighters from the Venezuelan Air Force. These fighters had been scrambled to intercept and identify other stealth aircraft over Caracas and Barcelona that had launched anti-radar missiles at defense installations. In the Western Hemisphere, only the United States has the capability to deploy stealth aircraft.

“I am quite confident that passenger air control radar records for the Southern Caribbean region will confirm that military aircraft were flown south from the United States. Your assertion that my country has supported terrorist acts against the United States was merely a convenient excuse to attack Venezuela!”

“Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Maldonado. The U.S. Air Force flies training missions all over the world, including the Southern Caribbean.”

“If you continue to insult my intelligence with your childish games, I will end this conversation and take up the matter with the United Nations Security Council and the General Assembly immediately. My ambassador to the U.N. is already on the phone to the secretary general. The provocative actions of the United States are nothing short of an act of war!”

“Your ambassador will find that the secretary general is quite aware of tonight's events,” replied Secretary Bryan in a calm voice.

“What are you talking about, Mr. Bryan? I do not have patience tonight for riddles.”

“I am not speaking in riddles, Mr. Maldonado. Yes, my country sent a message to President Garza tonight. It is our sincere hope that he adequately received and understands that message.”

“So, you admit to your acts of aggression against Venezuela.” There was a hint of surprise in Maldonado's voice, as if he were expecting the American secretary of state to deny any involvement.

“President Taylor directed strategic bombers to circle above the presidential palace in Caracas and the General Jose Antonio Anzoa Tegui Air Base in Barcelona. The aircraft were not authorized to strike their targets… not this time, anyway. But they were ordered to destroy all targeting radar and military aircraft vectored toward their positions.”

“This is illegal! You have no right to attack my country! We will take this matter before the U.N. and insist on sanctions. America will finally be seen by the international community as the oppressor Latin America has long suffered it to be.”

“Of course, that is your prerogative. But as I said, Mr. Maldonado, you will find that the secretary general and the Security Council are very familiar with this current situation. I gave them detailed briefings well in advance of our actions tonight. In those briefings I documented in great detail the campaign of terror that has been directed through your government—a brutal and merciless campaign aimed at denying all countries the knowledge to synthesize oil. Yes, Mr. Maldonado, the international community knows of your country's ambition to maintain the power of the oil cartel, and they do not approve.”

“My country does not seek approval from the U.S. We are not your puppet! We have powerful allies! If it is war you want, it is war you shall have! For too long you Yankees have held Latin America under your thumb. No more!”

“If the powerful ally you are referring to is the Russian Federation, you will be disappointed. We tracked the Russian submarine
Saint Petersburg
into U.S. territorial waters off the coast of Alaska on her mission to insert your terrorist squad and a second team… a spetsnaz sniper team. The sniper team did not make it back to their sub for the exfiltration. Fortunately, a U.S. Naval vessel was in the vicinity and rendered assistance, rescuing the Russian spec ops soldiers from the near-freezing water, for which they were very thankful. Do you want to know what they told us?”

Secretary Bryan paused for two long seconds, waiting for a reply. But none was forthcoming, and that spoke volumes to the secretary of state.

“Needless to say, the U.N. Security Council and secretary general were not supportive of Russia carrying out military operations in the territorial waters and on the sovereign soil of another nation. To say the least, it made everyone rather nervous. So when we explained the situation to President Pushkin and Prime Minister Petrovsky, they naturally chose the wise path of diplomacy over confrontation. You could learn a lot from Pushkin, you know. He's quite the politician and statesman.”

The phone line was silent. Bryan was certain he heard a heavy sigh.

Bryan let the silence last a moment or two before speaking again. “It's really up to you, Mr. Maldonado. You have a choice to make right now. We do not seek war with your country. We deliberately restrained our actions tonight, and President Taylor was very specific to the Joint Chiefs to limit the rules of engagement to exclude civilian assets. If you make the wrong choice, that too may change.”

“What do you want?” It was all the foreign minister could muster.

“We stand by our earlier demands. The government of Venezuela must immediately cease all support, direct and indirect, of terrorism—that includes both terrorist groups and acts of terrorism. And your government must pay compensation to the families of those you have murdered through these acts. The amount of the settlement will be determined by the International Court. You will not appeal their decision or attempt to delay the process, and you will make payment promptly.”

“But that could cost us tens of millions of dollars!”

“Mr. Maldonado, by my estimate, you lost something in the neighborhood of 400 million dollars' worth of military assets tonight. I'd say your compensatory payments, whatever number the court decides, are a bargain compared to the future cost to your country if you fail to make the right choice, right now.”

Again the phone line was silent. The foreign secretary was thinking through his options. He had expected to play the indignant, persecuted small nation, being taken advantage of by their powerful neighbor to the north. Never had he imagined that the careful plans and secrecy shrouding their operation would be so fully compromised.

“President Taylor is also offering an olive branch. He will restore full diplomatic relations in addition to a generous aid package.”

“And what if my country says no to your demands?”

“That would be the wrong answer. My country has already secured international support to vanquish the Garza government if our demands are not met within twelve hours. You saw what happened in Iraq. In comparison, defeating your government will be a cake walk. I hope we understand each other, Mr. Foreign Minister.”

“Perfectly.” Maldonado's voice was dripping with acid.

“Excellent!” Bryan's polite charm only served to further aggravate Maldonado.

“I will have to confer with President Garza. You have not given us much time to make a decision.”

“On the contrary, President Taylor could have used the full backing of the United Nations to invade your country tonight. I would wager that if he had, President Garza would already be out of a job… and quite possibly dead. Perhaps you too might not have survived the night. So, I'd say that President Taylor has been extraordinarily generous. You have twelve hours. Please, use that time wisely. Oh, and one more thing—”

“And that would be?”

“Please be sure that President Garza understands that this choice is simple. There really is only one correct answer.”

Chapter 37

October 17

Moscow, Russian Federation

“All is well, Grigory.”
As powerful as Grigory was, he always felt an uncontrollable needle of fear begin to prick his neck when Vladimir Pushkin called unexpectedly. He preferred such communication to be well planned in advance; he could not ensure he would be fully prepared when the conversation was not anticipated.

Grigory was at a loss for words. Had the president just asked a question? No, it was more of a statement. Still, he had to be cautious in his reply.

“Sir?” he replied. Grigory needed to listen carefully, since he still had no idea what the purpose of the call might be—only that it must be important. The call had come in on his private, secure mobile phone.

“Relax, Grigory.” Pushkin laughed lightly. He knew the extent of his power, and he enjoyed the fear he sensed in Grigory Rostov's voice. He imagined the minute drops of perspiration beginning to form on the man's forehead.

“I am simply calling to tell you that the Americans have taken the bait.”

Rostov was confused. “I am not sure I understand.”

Pushkin laughed again; this time it was a deep laugh. Grigory thought he might be drunk.

“Of course not. I do not share all my plans with you, surely you know this.” Another laugh, and Grigory was certain he heard the sound of ice cubes clanging against a glass. There was a pause, and he imagined Pushkin was swallowing his iced vodka.

“No, I share with you only what you need to know.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I have new instructions for you, my friend. You are to suspend your operations for a while. I will let you know when they can resume. But for now, do nothing unless I tell you to.”

“May I ask what has changed? We are very close to achieving the primary objective. I have our best operative positioned and ready to strike.”

“Your best operative,” Pushkin's voice no longer was light and cheery; it had taken on a hard edge. “I presume you mean Ramirez?”

It was completely unprecedented to use direct names and Grigory was stunned into silence. If somehow this call was being intercepted, Pushkin had just shared fundamental intelligence that could be extremely harmful to the mission.

“The Venezuelans have just provided their last useful action to our mission. They are no longer our partner; really, they never were. I just allowed you to use them. And now they have outlived their usefulness.”

Rostov could not believe what he was hearing. To mention Venezuela was completely contrary to all established secure communication protocols.

“Sir, I respectfully remind you that we must follow proper communications—”

Pushkin cut him off. “Don't you dare lecture me! If you hadn't botched the strike in the Aleutians, I would not have been forced to deal with this situation!”

Grigory heard the tinkle of ice again as Pushkin paused. He missed the soft ding signaling the listener that encrypting was being switched on or off—it was only a brief sound obscured by the jingle of ice cubes swirled in a tumbler.

“Sir, as you know, no field operation can be absolutely certain. We implemented contingency plans, and those plans worked. The strike team was not captured alive. And they had nothing on their persons to identify them. We can still eliminate the target.”

“You have become arrogant and overly confident. You failed to plan adequately, and you abused my trust. Yes, the strike team was terminated, but the spetsnaz soldiers were captured, very much alive.”

“What? How could—”

Pushkin again cut off Rostov.

“The Americans have them, both of them. I had a most uncomfortable phone call with President Taylor. It turns out that the Americans were watching almost every step of your failed operation. They threatened to go public with their information.”

Grigory was swimming in confusion. His brain was working overtime to try to understand what he was hearing.

“But they didn't take the information public,” he replied. “So they don't know everything about the operation, only the strike on Chernabura Island.”

“Yes, but do not take pride in that minor stroke of luck. I should have you arrested for jeopardizing the state. Perhaps you should stick to your corporate affairs—maybe you can do a better job running your company. After all, it is your namesake.”

The pricks of fear on Rostov's neck had become a full-fledged clawing. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and he was drenched in perspiration despite the cool temperature of his office.

Pushkin laughed again, then resumed his conversation. “Do not fear, my friend. I will not have you arrested… not yet.”

Grigory swallowed deeply. His mouth was very dry and he thought he was in danger of losing his voice. “What can I do, sir?”

Pushkin swirled his glass of vodka again, causing the ice to clang noisily against the tumbler. At the same time he switched the encrypting device back on.

“Exactly as I said—nothing for now. I have salvaged your mission by convincing the Americans that it was the Garza regime that was behind the attack on their soil. I pledged not to bring Russia into the conflict should Venezuela ask for military assistance. By now I believe President Taylor has suitably chastised Garza. You are to cease operations until I tell you otherwise. That should provide convincing evidence that they have succeeded. Have I made myself clear, or should I have the state police pay you a visit?”

“I understand fully and, naturally, will comply completely.”

“After a bit of time has passed, you can turn your operatives loose and resume the mission. By then, the Oregon professor and his Japanese colleague should be living normal lives again, don't you think?”

“Yes. We believe they may both be in protective custody at the moment, but that will end once the Americans believe they have neutralized the threat. We can then operate freely once more.”

“Good. You know, this evolution of the plan may actually be quite beneficial. The Americans find it all too easy to place blame on Garza. They are blinded by their dislike for his politics.

“I think that the best strategies parallel living organisms, don't you? And as Darwin taught us, organisms must evolve in response to their environment, or they will become extinct.”

Then the line clicked as President Pushkin hung up.

Grigory Rostov was visibly shaking. He pushed himself back from his desk and rose from his plush leather chair. Stripping off his suit jacket as he strode to the wet bar, he let the jacket fall in a heap on the floor. He put a handful of ice in a crystal tumbler and then filled the glass with vodka.

Within a matter of minutes his world appeared to be on the verge of implosion. What had happened? As Rostov raised the tumbler, he stared at the ice cubes, his thoughts beginning to coalesce. He took a long drink, closing his eyes as the chilled vodka slid down his throat.

All was not lost. He would simply follow orders and postpone the final actions. The targets would assume they were safe, and the Americans would drop their guard as they always did. Patience. In the end he would prevail. Right now, he simply needed to avoid attracting any more attention from President Pushkin.

What a fool, he thought. Pushkin allowed himself to be rattled by the American president. Obviously intoxicated, he had seriously violated prudent communication practices. Fortunately the line was scrambled.

After Pushkin terminated the phone call with Rostov, he smiled inwardly. He shook his glass of ice water again and wondered who was easier to manipulate—the Americans or Grigory Rostov. No matter. Within the hour, the American intelligence agencies would be circulating classified transcripts of a selected portion of the conversation that had just taken place.

If he had encrypted the entire call it would have taken much too long to break the communication, if at all. By momentarily turning off the encrypting device he was ensuring that the U.S. intelligence agencies would get that portion of the conversation that he wanted them to have. The Americans would think it peculiar that several seconds of the call were not encrypted, but they would most likely assume that there was a glitch with the scrambling software—their good fortune and Russia's bad luck.

Soon, the final piece of his strategy would evolve—and he would be clean. With the blame fully placed on another, he would be free of political fallout.