The Coward's Way of War (20 page)

He scowled over at the FSB Representative, wishing that the man could be sent to a gulag for the day.  The FSB’s officer – Dyakov had flatly refused to join him at the airfield – was a dangerous unknown, yet the FSB had to be involved.  The FSB was responsible for securing and concealing the biological weapons program and their cooperation was required, but he had no idea just how much he could trust them.  He shook his head in wry amusement.  The answer was actually very simple; not at all.  It occurred to him that the real reason the FSB was so annoyed was because it would waste all of their hard work, but there was no choice.  The President had spoken and Zaitsev, who respected and admired his friend, would obey.

There was a short delay as the ground crew mated the steps to the American aircraft, before the hatches opened and allowed a pair of men to come forth into the Russian cold.  The Americans – one of them, he noted with a twinge of the old racism, was clearly of Arab descent – hadn’t come prepared for Russia's cold.  He snapped his fingers at a pair of soldiers and they hurried off to find a set of greatcoats.  The Americans would not be able to use the cold as an excuse to stop inspections and declare war.

He stepped forward and held out a hand as the Americans reached the tarmac.  “General Zaitsev,” he identified himself.  “Welcome to Russia.”

The American's eyes narrowed, but if he wondered just what was going on, he didn't ask.  “Doctor Nicolas Awad,” he said, shaking Zaitsev’s hand.  “It's been a long flight.”

“Of course, of course,” Zaitsev said, studying the American carefully.  The Americans, honouring an inspection protocol that everyone else regarded as a dead letter, had thoughtfully supplied files on the inspectors for the Russians to read.  The FSB had warned that the files were probably lies –
they
lied when Russian inspectors went to America - but Zaitsev wasn't so sure.  The Americans wouldn't have lied about something so simple.  “I suggest that we spend twenty minutes refreshing ourselves and getting everyone fitted out for the cold, and then we can head to the first inspection site.”

The American nodded, thoughtfully.  “That would be welcome,” he said.  “My team and I are keen to start as soon as possible.”

***

Nicolas watched as the Russians welcomed the team, a handful of Russian scientists sharing observations with their American counterparts.  The small reception hall had been outfitted with small glasses of vodka and some snacks,
but there was no massive feast, much to his private relief.  He didn't want to be rude, yet one way the Russians had distracted previous inspection teams had been wining and dining them until they were too full to move.  Apart from checking that the team had been vaccinated against Henderson’s Disease – Nicolas had heard nothing definite, but he had the impression that the first cases had appeared in Russia – the Russians had been content to allow the Americans to set the pace.  It made a pleasant change from endless stonewalling.

The Russians finally escorted the team into a set of buses and drove off through the forest.  Russia – at least the parts of the country he could see through the windows – seemed to be a pretty country, although he had to admit that he could see very little of it.  Tyler had commented, in one of his rare relaxed moments, that the Germans had thought the Russian autumn was pretty too...and that had been followed by a hellish winter.  The Russian winter had destroyed quite a few armies over the centuries.  It boded ill for war, if war came between America and Russia.  The most optimistic conventional war plans he'd seen suggested that the war would take at least three years.

He sat up as the coaches drove through a set of secure gates and into a massive courtyard.  He turned his head and saw a large building, built in the traditional Russian style and surrounded by armed guards.  A large sign written in the strange Russian alphabet stated that it was the Moscow Institute of Commercial Research.  Nicolas snorted to himself as they were urged off the coaches and into the building.  The Russians had artfully concealed most of their biological weapons program under a veneer of commercial research.  The building would be easy to use as a hiding place for biological weapons.

“Come on in,” the Russian General said, waving them past the armed guards.  They didn't look happy to see so many Americans walking past them as if they owned the place, but said nothing.  Nicolas was unfamiliar with their uniforms, yet there was something about them that suggested police, rather than soldiers.  It was a faintly sinister air.  “The Director is looking forward to meeting you.”

Nicolas was quite looking forward to it himself.  Biopreparat – the cover the Russians used for their biological weapons program – was almost totally black, even to the CIA and other western intelligence agencies.  The CIA hadn't even been able to put a name to the director, nor had the British, French, Germans or Poles.  The Europeans might have concealed information they possessed – the CIA had a bad reputation for burning sources, no matter who they worked for – but Nicolas doubted that it would happen in this case.  There were, at last report, over three hundred cases of Henderson’s Disease in Europe. 

He blinked in surprise as a small woman, with hair so blonde that it was almost white, appeared out of a large wooden door.  She was tiny – she barely came up to Nicolas’s shoulder – yet she was clearly formidable, with sharp blue eyes and tight lips.  Her face was alarmingly pale, coloured only by her red lips and bright eyes.  She held out a hand and Nicolas took it automatically, feeling her hand squeeze his tightly.

“This is Director Olga Dmitriyevna Sedykh,” Zaitsev said.  “She is the current director of the biological research program.”

“I have been ordered to give you full access to the labs,” Olga said. Her English was perfect, but clipped, as if she was biting out each word.  She wasn’t happy to have the Americans invading her domain.  “If you will come with me...”

Nicolas followed her, concealing his own surprise with an effort.  Russia was, despite some positive changes, a very sexist society in many ways, even though it was hardly comparable to most of the Middle East.  It was rare to see a woman in such a position of power and responsibility, which meant that she was either extremely formidable or had very powerful patrons.  She wouldn't be someone’s mistress, not with such a vital post; she would be someone trusted to carry out her duty. 

“Of course,” he agreed.  There was no point in trying to make it any harder than it had to be.  “We are looking forward to getting down to work.”

The conference room, large enough for three inspection teams, was dominated by a large map of Russia.  Nicolas looked up at it and swore; there were
hundreds
of biological research facilities marked on the map, some hundreds of miles away from Moscow.  Unless the Russians were completely insane, the facilities they needed to visit would be among those located above the Arctic Circle.  The entire inspection tour could take weeks.

He shook his head and took one of the chairs.  “We’ll divide our forces and begin the inspection with an examination of your records,” he said, flatly.  The Russians had given them access to everything, but it would take far too long to inspect everywhere.  It was a neat way of delaying the inspections; after all, no one could threaten war over too
much
cooperation.   Perhaps the records, all of which were stored in Moscow, would tell them where to start.  “With your permission...?”

“Yes,” Olga said, flatly.  “They will be brought to you.”

Social trust is what holds society together.  Without that trust, society falls apart.  The states we conside
r to be part of the Third World are that way, partly, because they have very low levels of social trust.  This isn't a flaw so much as a feature; their societies reward those who trust no one outside their kin and punish those who try to extend trust.  The man who trusts is not a good guy, but a fool.

- Captain Darryl Tyler

New York, USA

Day 17

“All right, listen up,” Doug snapped.  The twenty-one middle-aged soldiers, stiffened with a handful of men with more recent combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, looked back at him with varying levels of attention.  The unit’s discipline had taken a terrible knock in the wake of the news leaks about the Mayor of New York, who many of the men had once respected.  Doug had heard several of them openly discussing leaving their posts and striking out on their own, even though it would count as desertion.  “We have a job to do and, you’ll be pleased to hear, we’re going to be leaving this post and going into New York.”

That, as he had expected, drew some smiles.  The Forward Operating Base – it felt weird to use such terms on American soil – had been set up in a set of local buildings, which felt surprisingly luxurious after some of the hovels they’d had to use in Afghanistan.  The soldiers had had comfortable beds, access to civilian cooking equipment and a dedicated entertainment suite, including cable television and the internet.  Doug had warned them that they had to leave the houses in good condition – the owners had been encouraged to evacuate and were temporally resettled in a refugee camp some distance away – and he’d been pleased with the response he’d been shown.  The houses would be left in better condition when the soldiers finally pulled out, if they ever could.  One of his private nightmares was remaining on the blockade forever, while New York died in front of him.  It haunted him in the dead of night.

He'd only been able to speak to his wife a handful of times since the crisis had begun and he was worried about her, more worried than he had been willing to admit.  Lindsey was right in the middle of the city, trying to tend to the sick and dying, even though she hadn't been vaccinated yet.  She hadn’t been able to say much, but Doug had searched the internet and read a few medical blogs coming from the heart of the crisis.  What he had read had shocked him.  There were dead bodies piling up all over the city and the food was running out.  It was a recipe for trouble, even before the Mayor decided to alienate the entire population.

“The latest shipment of the vaccine has finally arrived outside the city,” he continued.  The massive trucks had arrived under heavy military escort, although the Marines who had guarded the convoy as it made its way towards the city had already been pulled out and sent onwards to other duties.  The United States military was being pushed to the limit and the demands just seemed to keep rising.  The latest news on the internet was that a BCT was going to be inserted into Panama to keep the Panama Canal open, no matter what the local government – or what was left of it – had to say.  “Our mission is to escort it into the distribution centre, where it will be distributed according to the
official
distribution list.”

There was no overt rebellion, but he sensed unease among his troops.  He couldn't really blame them, for they hadn't been on permanent service.  The National Guard had always been closer to the civilian than the military – they were known as weekend warriors, not entirely without reason – and the entire unit had family within the danger zone.  Their outrage at the Mayor was real, their desire to see their own families vaccinated was almost overwhelming...and discipline was suffering because of it.  He silently cursed the Mayor and his cronies under his breath, hoping that the FBI team that had been sent to investigate would find enough to get him in jail before he was publicly lynched.  The latest from the NYPD had been that crimes of violence were skyrocketing in the inner city.

“There may be some people who will try to take it from us,” he said.  That, as he had expected, had the effect of focusing a few minds.  Most of them had served on escort duties in Afghanistan, where ambushes and looting had been common.  “We are armed and authorised to use deadly force to repel attack, but I expect you all to be careful.  We are not operating in enemy territory here” – after the Mayor’s little political brainstorm, he wondered if that was still true – “but within an American city. The last thing we need to do is convince the population that we’re turning against them.”

He allowed his voice to soften. “I know that you’re all stressed, tired and worried about your families,” he added.  “Focus on the job at hand; if we work together, we can get them through this crisis without losing anyone.  Mount up.”

The soldiers saluted and marched over to the Humvees, leaving Doug wondering if he was doing the right thing.  It wasn't common knowledge, but last night the battalion XO had placed a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing his brains out all over the room.  The suicide note he’d left behind had explained that he’d lost his family to Henderson’s Disease and no longer had any reason to live.  Doug understood how he felt – he didn't know how he would survive if someone happened to Lindsey and the kids – but he had roundly cursed the stupid bastard in private.  How could he kill himself when he had been so desperately needed?  Doug had known officers who could only have been improved by a bullet through the skull, yet the XO had been competent, if not particularly imaginative.