Deep Black (21 page)

37

“They’ll take Kurakin out,” said Collins, helpfully keying a picture of the Russian president onto the data screens around
the conference table in the White House situation room. “They’d have learned their lesson from the aborted Yeltsin coup, and
they’d take him out right away.”

“Possibly,” conceded Rubens. “I would point out, however, that we have no intercepts on it, and no evidence.”

“There are no direct intercepts on the coup at all,” she volleyed back—a not-so-subtle suggestion that the NSA wasn’t doing
its job.

Rubens refused to take the bait, continuing to argue that it would be difficult for the plotters to hit Kurakin. “His bodyguards
are all exceedingly loyal—most of them either are old friends or are related by blood.”

“They’ll take him if they can,” said Blanders, the defense secretary. “They’ll use an assault force and, if all else fails,
a sniper.”

“Can we protect him?” asked the president.

“Should we?” said the defense secretary, making one last play at keeping America on the sidelines. “Should we even try and
interfere with the coup at all?”

Rubens sat back and listened as the others debated the matter. It was clear that the president had already decided to do just
that, calculating that above all else the democratic system in Russia must be preserved. He said twice that he neither liked
Kurakin nor trusted him—Rubens thought the former wasn’t true, even if the latter was. But President Marcke clearly believed
that long-term, democracy in Russia was preferable to a return to dictatorship, especially if it was run by the military.

Rubens’ gaze met Collins’. She’d aged quite a bit in the last three years, but she was still attractive.

In two more years she wouldn’t be worth another look.

Be director of the agency by then.

“What do you think, William?” asked the president.

“Kurakin would be a high-priority target,” he said. “They would need a rather large assault team with heavy firepower to get
past his bodyguards. As for a sniper . . .” He gestured with his hands. It was certainly possible. “The best way to protect
him is to tip him off to the coup.”

“If he believes us,” said Marcke.

“That would be up to him,” said Rubens.

“Tipping him off is the best way to protect him,” said Collins. “But revealing that we know about the coup will tell the Russians
a great deal about our capabilities.”

Rubens hadn’t expected the note of caution. Obviously she was positioning herself for any contingency—no matter what happened,
she would be able to say she’d been right.

So like her.

“There are many trade-offs,” said Hadash. “I would recommend telling Kurakin that he’s a target once we’re sure, but leaving
out details of our own attack. If we jam the rebels, ID the loyal units, and keep his communications lines open as Mr. Rubens
has outlined—if all of that does not ensure his success, then he does not deserve to be president.”

“Assuming he’s alive for us to tell,” suggested Collins.

She was baiting him, Rubens finally realized—the agency had humint on a plot they hadn’t shared.

It could not be very reliable if there were no intercepts. Nonetheless, Rubens saw his best move—his only move: feign some
vague understanding of it already.

“You haven’t briefed the president on the assassin theory,” he told Collins. “Perhaps you’d better.”

She hesitated ever so briefly. Rubens felt as if he’d won the point, if not the set.

“As Mr. Rubens hints, it is just a theory,” said Collins. “But a strong one.”

She detailed humint gathered within the past six hours that indicated a highly trained member of the Russian military had
cased out part of Bolso in the Caucasus region last week, examining part of the city where President Kurakin was supposed
to have been this week. When Kurakin’s schedule changed, the man disappeared.

“We call him the Wolf,” Collins added with an unbecoming smirk. “He was involved in the Georgian operation last year and has
assassinated two leaders of the southern Islamic movement.”

Rubens did not know who “Wolf” was, and Collins didn’t pop up an image on the screen. Whether this meant she didn’t know either,
or she was deliberately holding back information from him was anyone’s guess.

He fully suspected the latter.

“Why didn’t you share this information earlier?” asked Hadash.

“We just developed it,” said Collins. “And I’m still not convinced it’s significant.”

“William?” asked Hadash.

“There are no intercepts to back it up,” said Rubens. He resisted the temptation to add a subtle dig about the CIA not sharing,
deciding it was best not to provoke her. “But I agree in principle. It’s very possible.”

“Where is he?” Hadash asked.

“We believe Moscow,” said Collins.

“Desk Three can attempt to find and intercept Wolf as part of the operation,” said Rubens. “If we can get data on him. Still,
informing Kurakin is our surest way of protecting him.”

The secretary of state began to argue that they should go completely public with the information immediately, putting the
whole world on notice. Rubens rolled his eyes.

It was obvious that the president didn’t take that seriously, but he did pay attention when Blanders suggested that the entire
country’s electrical grid be disrupted. This could be accomplished largely through a software attack similar to the one planned
for the communications networks, but there would have to be a physical attack on at least two parts of the grid. Desk Three
did have assets to launch the attack; it controlled two groups of remote F-47C attack planes, which could be fitted with bombs.
But Rubens believed shutting down the grid would ultimately hurt the loyal forces more than the plotters.

“You’d have considerable suffering in the general population,” Hadash said, making the argument for him. That allowed Rubens
to speak up with what seemed like a reasoned counterproposal—it could not have been a better setup if it had been scripted.

“We do have the option for some selective, temporary blackouts, if necessary,” he told the president. “And we will have assets
in the air in case it’s deemed necessary.”

“I envisioned more comprehensive forces,” said Blanders. Having made his last stand, he was now belatedly trying to carve
out a piece of the pie for his people. “Delta and some Rangers could be there within twenty-four hours.”

“Too risky,” said Marcke. “A large force could easily complicate matters.”

Johnny Bib nudged Rubens’ leg under the table. He was looking at his alphanumeric pager and scribbling furiously on his yellow
pad. Rubens tried to look discreetly at the notes but couldn’t make out what Bib was writing.

“I will choose the moment to inform Kurakin,” said the president. His voice was firm; the decision was irrevocable and it
was time to move on. “Billy, I want you to make the assassin a priority. Can you do it, Billy?”

He’d need Karr and his team and some of the CIA people.

The CIA people were already in place; they’d have to take point.

Change the satellite priorities.

Revamp the signal intercept schedule.

Stretch everyone to their breaking point.

Impossible.

“Yes, of course we can do it,” Rubens said.

Bib slid over his pad. Rubens had to squint to decipher the words, and even then it was tough going. Bib had filled the page
with chicken scratch that would make a doctor’s prescription look like forty-eight-point block letters.

“Bear Hug will execute at my command only,” said Marcke. “George, I want you at the command center to keep me updated. We’ll
use the dedicated line.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” interrupted Rubens, rising. “The units we’ve been watching are on the move. I would estimate the
action will begin in forty-eight hours, or less.”

38

Karr clicked through the different magnifications of the photographs, though he was no longer paying any real attention to
them. Most of the vehicles that had been at the base yesterday were gone, which probably meant that the bulk of the troops
that had been located there had left with them. The question was, Had Martin?

There seemed like only one way to find out—go in and look. But that wasn’t going to be easy.

The bug that had heard Martin had landed between two low-slung buildings near the northwestern perimeter of the base. Two
guard posts were situated within fifty feet of the buildings along the fence line. Even if there was no surveillance equipment
to supplement them, their sight lines not only overlapped but also were visible from another set of posts farther away. Because
of the way the buildings were arranged, Karr doubted there were mines between them and the fence—but since the satellite archives
showed there were minefields just to the south, it would be difficult to be sure without checking.

Less than a hundred yards from the buildings sat a small airstrip, probably intended solely for helicopters. Six Helix and
two Hip choppers were dispersed around it. The strip was heavily guarded. A pair of ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns were set up in
shallow revetments at either end of the field; there were at least two other netted areas south of the helicopters where 23mm
guns might also be hiding. Mounted on tank chassis, the weapons were primitive but deadly, and not just against aircraft.
Farther to the south, just off the main road into and through the complex, was an SA-6 missile launcher with its associated
vans and radar. The air defenses could hold off a pair of F-16s, let alone the Hind.

A bit of a knot, but probably doable.

“So what do you think, kid?” asked Charlie Dean, leaning in the truck window. He smelled of the rotgut he’d been pretending
to drink.

“I think we need a clandestine insertion, a major diversion, and a Marine division.”

“No high-tech miracle force multipliers?”

“Actually, all we need is a pair of pliers.” Karr pondered the image, then clicked the handheld’s keys and had the computer
conjure a simple outline from the photo. He knew they could get in; the plan to do it was hovering somewhere in the back of
his brain but just hadn’t come forward yet.

“We’re not getting in,” said Dean.

“Sure we are,” said Karr. Something in Dean’s sarcasm finally coaxed the idea into the conscious part of Karr’s head. “We
slip across here, come right over the road, then find our guy. We need a serious diversion down on this end at first. Then
again at the end.”

Dean looked at him as if he were insane. “This looks like a minefield.”

“That’s because it is.”

“How do we get across it?”

“Fly,” Karr joked.

“The chopper will be a sitting duck.”

“I’m kidding, Charlie Dean. Man, you’re a lot of fun, but sometimes you’re way too serious.”

“I’m always serious where my life’s concerned.”

Karr laughed. “Listen, I want you to come in with me. We’re going to need Princess out here in case we get nailed, and besides,
watching her butt while you’re getting through a minefield is extremely distracting.”

“You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Karr gave him a fist to the shoulder. He liked the geezer; working with him kept him on his toes.
“Let’s go find some food. All this thinking makes me hungry.”

On the one hand, Dean agreed that they had to rescue their man, no matter the odds. He admired that; it was, after all, the
Marine Corps way. On the other hand, what Karr had sketched out barely deserved to be called a plan.

They’d been ambushed at the junkyard because they put too much stock in their high-tech gizmos, but at least that plan could
be defended based on the available intelligence. This one couldn’t. Forget the satellite photos. Even just driving around
it told Dean it wasn’t going to be infiltrated. Best to go in there with a couple of companies and serious firepower.

As in six or seven tanks.

They drove back to the gypsy camp, Karr bopping up and down to some tune only he could hear, Dean trying to come up with some
kind of alternative plan.

There weren’t any.

Nor were the gypsies or whatever they were at the building. Instead, a black car sat in front of the building ruins, a man
in a suit sitting with his arm out the window, smoking a cigarette. Karr kept a steady pace as they passed.

“What’s up?” asked Dean.

“Looks like the police pushed them on,” said Karr. “So much for a cheap meal.”

“It cost me a decent pistol,” said Dean.

“Lia’ll bring you another; don’t worry. Couple of nice little hideaways in the S-1 pack—these little Glocks.”

“Plastic.”

“Strong and light.”

“Still plastic.”

“You only like six-guns, right, Wyatt Earp?”

“I’m not against technology. When it’s appropriate.” Dean leaned against the dashboard as he turned toward Karr, bending his
head so that it was almost in his face. “You don’t really think we’re going to get in and get out alive, do you?” he asked.
“Even if most of the soldiers are gone, the perimeter is well protected.”

“Nah. That minefield’s wide open.”

“How do we get across it?”

“Pogo sticks.”

“Very funny. You’re going to have to lay it out for me, step by step. Otherwise I’m not coming.”

Karr turned to look at him. The look that crossed over his face combined disgust, anger, derision—and fear. Then it dissolved
in a laugh so hard the truck shook.

“You’re a lot of fun, Charlie Dean. Truly.”

39

Even Malachi balked at the plan when they conferenced in the Art Room with the Desk Three team. The team needed to get by
an SA-6 missile battery with a helicopter—not an easy prospect without eliminating the battery, but doing so seemed almost
impossible from the ground.

“So let’s get it from the air,” said Tommy Karr cheerfully.

“Can we?” Telach asked Malachi, who was sitting in the Art Room for the conference.

There was no time to get an F-47C into position, let alone the larger A-7 space plane. That left the Space Platforms’ Vessels.

Which weren’t armed.

He could put one through the radar van. Smack through the side with the processing gear—all he’d have to do is fry a transistor
or two and the unit would be dead.

Shit, yeah.

“I can take out the SA-6 with a Vessel,” he told them.

“How?” asked Telach. Pacing in front of the blank screen at the front of the room, she looked exactly like his third-grade
teacher, Mrs. Woods.

Malachi tried to ignore that. He’d had a bad experience with Mrs. Woods.

“I’ll put one of the Vessels through the radar van,” said Malachi. “Sizzle-boom, it’s gone.”

“What about the ZSU-23s?” said Rockman.

“What, the guns?” asked Karr. “Screw ’em. Fashona’ll nail the closest suckers with missiles off the Hind when he comes in.”

“Timing’s going to be tight,” said Rockman. “You have to take out the SA-6 just before the helicopter pops up to clear the
fence, then get the guns.”

“You’re telling me the helicopter’s going to be on the radar screen at six feet?” asked Karr.

“The fence is twenty,” said Rockman. “And they have a second dish outside to cover just this contingency.”

“Ah, the SA-6 can’t hit shit under a hundred and fifty feet,” said Karr. “We just stay under that.”

“I can take out the processing van,” said Malachi. “Tell me the time and it’s gone.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Karr.

“Yeah, but what about the guns?” insisted Rockman.

“Those Zeus suckers?” asked Karr. “If the helo comes in right, they won’t be a problem. They don’t have a good line of fire,
and besides, Fashona’ll splash them.”

“That’s not entirely true,” said Rockman. “There’s about ten seconds’ worth of exposure in and out.”

“Ah, what’s ten seconds?” said Karr.

“You know how much lead that translates into?” asked Telach.

“Enough for a coffin,” said Karr cheerfully.

Malachi leaned back in his seat, sipping his strawberry milk. A diversion in the air outside the fence, opposite the direction
of the helicopter, would divert the gunners long enough for the Hind to wax them. He could self-destruct a Vessel out there,
but there wouldn’t be much of a bang—the whole idea of the process was to be as unobtrusive as possible.

What if he crashed two together?

Still not much of a bang. Unless he had the boosters on them.

“I got it,” said Malachi. “Rather than using one Vessel and self-destructing, we fly two down, then have them crash into each
other. Should cause some sparks.”

“How much?” asked Karr.

Malachi wasn’t sure. “I’m going to have to talk to the design people,” he told her. “May run some sims, too, see where the
best impact would be and—”

“Run what you want,” said Karr. “Just as long as it happens in two hours.”

“Two hours—that’s tight, dude.” Malachi turned to the screen where he’d punched up a course earlier. “Two hours—I’d have to
launch within five minutes.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Karr. “We’ll look for the bang. Update us on times when you’re ready.”