Arctic Storm Rising

Seventeen

The Emergency Conference Room lay buried several levels beneath the Pentagon. Roughly the size of a small theater or a school auditorium, it was dominated by a long, rectangular table. Every position at this central conference table had its own secure communications links to different military and intelligence commands around the globe. Large digital screens mounted on the far wall could be configured to show everything from orbital satellite views to live video streams from combat units, ships, and aircraft anywhere in the world. During any major crisis, the ECR served the secretary of defense, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and other defense and intelligence officials as a war room, allowing them to make high-level command and control decisions on the basis of the best available information.

Late in the evening, Eastern Standard Time, Director of National Intelligence Jonas Murphy entered the ECR at a rapid walk. The room was filling up fast as Pentagon officials and senior officers representing all six uniformed military branches arrived for this hastily convened meeting. Murphy waved the two aides who’d accompanied him over to a row of chairs reserved for staff and took his own seat among the decisionmakers at the central table.

He nodded politely to Bill Taylor, the secretary of defense, who would chair this meeting. The other man’s thick, black-framed glasses and unkempt white hair made him look a bit like an absent-minded professor, but anyone who judged him on his appearance was in for a shock. A highly successful tech entrepreneur before coming to D.C., Taylor possessed a razor-sharp mind, one capable of juggling enormous amounts of detail without losing sight of the bigger picture. Murphy privately saw him as a huge improvement over the last incumbent at the Defense Department, a slick corporate type who’d seemed far more interested in self-promotion and favorable media reviews than in military readiness and the national interest.

Taylor pushed his glasses back up his nose and nodded in return. “You know anything about all this Russian shit that’s just hit the fan, Jonas?” he asked conversationally.

“I may have a few ideas,” Murphy allowed. How many of his cards he played during this meeting would depend entirely on the situation. The ECR was one of the most secure places in the Pentagon, perhaps in the whole world. But one of the most basic rules of intelligence was that secrets distributed too widely were very soon no longer secrets at all. There were an awful lot of people in this room right now, and leaking classified information to favorite journalists was an old, old game in Washington, D.C.

“Well, I just hope you brought enough intel to share with everybody,” Taylor retorted with a lopsided grin, obviously aware of the DNI’s inner misgivings. Briskly, he activated the microphone in front of him and tapped at it. “Okay, folks, let’s get started. The clock is running, and the president wants our recommendations on his desk, ASAP.” As the room quieted down, he nodded to the briefer, a Navy two-star, up at the podium. “Go ahead and fill us in on what’s been happening over the past several hours, Admiral.”

Short, trim, and fearlessly direct, Rear Admiral Kristin Chao was the current head of the Pentagon’s operations directorate. She pushed a control on her podium, dimming the lights. Simultaneously, screens lit up on the wall behind her. One showed a large-scale digital map of the entire Russian Federation. The rest showed smaller-scale maps of Moscow and its environs, the main bases of Russia’s Aerospace Forces, and the primary ports of Russia’s Northern, Baltic, Black Sea, and Pacific Fleets. A slew of icons representing surface-to-air missile units, fighter regiments, and air surveillance radars appeared across Russia’s vast Far East region. “Beginning approximately eight hours ago, our reconnaissance satellites and other assets detected a much-higher operational tempo across this area,” the admiral said tersely. “Combined with the temporary closure of Polar Route One across central Russia by Moscow, we assessed this activity as signaling the start of a large-scale air defense exercise of some kind.”

“An exercise that we were not informed about in advance, despite the Kremlin’s clear treaty obligations,” Taylor commented dryly.

“No, sir,” Chao agreed. Her expression was unreadable. “But as you know, Moscow honors its diplomatic obligations sparingly, if at all.”

“And even then often only by accident,” Taylor said with a cynical snort.

Chao smiled thinly. “So it seems, Mr. Secretary.”

“So what’s changed?”

“A great deal,” the admiral said simply. She touched another control. Dozens of new icons flashed into existence across the map of Russia and the smaller screens which showed close-up views of its most important political, military, and industrial centers. “Approximately sixty-five minutes ago, SIGINT — signals intelligence — intercepts and new satellite imagery confirmed that Moscow has ordered all of its air defense regiments, radars, and combat air units to their highest alert status. At the same time, the Russians have also closed all transpolar air routes across their territory. No new international flights are being allowed into their airspace.”

“What’s the Kremlin’s explanation for this sudden flurry of activity, Kristin?” the Air Force chief of staff, General Frank Neary, asked.

She shrugged. “There isn’t one, sir.” Her gaze was unwavering. “We’ve reached out on the hotline. But we’re not getting responses from any senior Russian officials, either military or civilian.”

“They’re not taking our calls?” Neary asked in disbelief.

“Either that, or President Zhdanov and his top people are all still in transit to safe locations,” Chao said bluntly. “Like the nuclear command and control bunkers outside Moscow. Or their new Mount Kosvinsky Kamen special facility deep in the northern Urals.”

Neary stared at her, as did almost everyone else in the Emergency Conference Room. “Are you seriously suggesting that the Russians are preparing for war?”

“We can’t ignore the possibility.” She brought up a series of satellite images. They showed dozens of advanced fighter aircraft and Tu-160M2, Tu-22M, and Tu-95 heavy bombers being fueled and armed at bases across the Russian Federation. “There is a serious concern that all of this unprecedented activity could be the prelude to a surprise military move against the United States or some of our allies.” That created a tremendous stir across the crowded room.

Taylor leaned forward. Behind his thick lenses, the secretary of defense’s eyes were watchful. “Do we have any intelligence that might argue against that rather unnerving possibility, Admiral?”

“Yes, sir,” Chao admitted. She tapped another button. New images appeared, these showing the docks and submarine pens around Murmansk and Vladivostok. “So far, we see no indications that Russia’s ballistic missile submarines or surface combatants are changing their peacetime operational patterns.” More detailed satellite pictures appeared, this time of major Russian army bases. Row after row of parked main battle tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, self-propelled artillery pieces, mobile antiaircraft weapons, and other vehicles were visible. Plainly labeled “before” and “after” images showed no significant changes over the past several days. “Nor do we detect any evidence that its ground combat forces are moving to a higher state of readiness.”

“What about their ICBM force?” Neary asked.

The admiral spread her hands. “It’s difficult to say, General. We haven’t yet picked up any firm evidence that their mobile and silo-based strategic nuclear missiles are moving to a higher state of readiness… but I’m not sure we would in any case.”

Neary nodded grimly. Keeping track of Russia’s road-mobile long-range missiles was a difficult task at any time, and Moscow had secure landline connections to its hardened ICBM silos. If the Kremlin actually issued strike orders to its land-based strategic nuclear forces, the U.S. probably wouldn’t know anything until its satellites spotted the heat plumes from hundreds of separate missile launches. And at that point, Washington would have less than thirty minutes’ warning before a devastating hail of nuclear warheads detonated across the United States. It was the nightmare scenario that had haunted American presidents and military leaders for decades.

“But as far as we know now, this unprecedented level of military activity seems limited solely to Russia’s Air Force, surface-to-air missile regiments, and surveillance radars?” Taylor asked pointedly.

Admiral Chao nodded firmly. “That’s correct, Mr. Secretary.”

Taylor looked along the table toward Jonas Murphy, favoring him with a shrewd, amused smile. “Which brings us around to you, Jonas.”

“Me?” Murphy said, trying his best to sound surprised.

“Yes, you,” the older man said wryly. “Earlier today, your office transmitted a top secret alert to all of our U.S. Air Force formations deployed in Turkey, Afghanistan, and Iraq, right? An alert that raised the possibility of a Russian aircraft making an unauthorized transit through their areas of operation?”

Crap, Murphy thought, feeling suddenly cornered. “That’s true.”

“So why did you send out this highly unusual alert?” Taylor asked bluntly, not bothering to beat around the bush.

Left with no other choice, Murphy fell back on partial truth. “The CIA received intelligence from what appears to be a high-level Russian source. Intelligence which suggested the possible defection of a pilot flying one of their most advanced military aircraft sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”

“What type of aircraft?” Taylor pushed.

“Tupolev’s PAK-DA experimental stealth bomber prototype,” Murphy admitted.

That drew the reaction he’d expected. General Neary and the other Joint Chiefs of Staff seated at the table with him looked stunned at first and then somewhat predatory. The prospect of getting a close, hard look at the technology that Moscow had openly boasted would rival and even exceed that of America’s own stealth bombers was irresistible.

“How reliable is the CIA’s intelligence on this?” Taylor asked directly.

Murphy shrugged. “That’s unknown, I’m afraid. We don’t have any history with their source… yet.”

“A defection attempt of that magnitude could certainly explain the frantic Russian air and radar activity we’re seeing now,” General Neary mused out loud, looking up at the wall screens. Then he turned back to Murphy. “But do you have any honest-to-God confirmation that such a defection is actually underway?”

The DNI glanced at the secure smartphone he’d laid faceup on the conference table in front of him. There were no new messages from Miranda Reynolds, the head of the CIA’s clandestine operations service. He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I don’t.”

“Which means what you’ve been sold could be typical Russian disinformation,” Neary pointed out. “Part of a deliberate plan to sow confusion and slow our response to the increase in military readiness we’re seeing right now.”

Murphy nodded uncomfortably. “That’s certainly possible.”

“Which leaves us with the question of how we’re going to respond to what we do know right now,” Taylor broke in. “Which is that the Russians are rapidly bringing their combat air units and ground-based air defenses to wartime levels of readiness.” He looked along the table. “Suggestions?”

After a glance at his colleagues, Neary leaned forward. As the chief of staff for the Air Force, this was largely his bailiwick. “My recommendation to the president is that he immediately raise our own alert status to DEFCON Three, both here at home and abroad.” The other senior officers around the table nodded, signaling their agreement. DEFCON Three would put the entire U.S. military on full alert, with the Air Force ready to move at fifteen minutes’ notice. “And I also strongly recommend that he contact our allies and urge them to take similar precautionary measures.”

Murphy interjected. “I concur, but with the caveat that we still urge caution by our air units operating near Russia’s southern frontier. If a Russian pilot really is trying to defect, I’d rather that we weren’t the ones who shot him down.”

“Doing so carries risks of its own,” Neary warned. “Even a single aircraft conducting a surprise strike can inflict a hell of a lot of damage using modern weapons.”

Taylor considered that carefully. “That’s true, General,” he said after a few moments. “But Director Murphy has a good point, which I’ll pass on to the president.” The defense secretary spread his hands. “Anyway, if the Russians are preparing a serious attack against us, they aren’t going to use just one plane — no matter how well it’s armed—” He broke off abruptly as new digital maps opened on the far wall. These depicted regions of northern and western China. More symbols appeared, thickly clustered near the People’s Republic of China’s border with Russia.

“We’ve received new satellite and SIGINT data, sir,” Admiral Chao confirmed. “All major fighter and SAM units assigned to the PRC’s Western and Northern Theater Commands have just gone on high alert.”

“Seems like Beijing’s getting spooked by the Russians, too,” Taylor said somberly. He reached for one of the secure links at his place. “It’s time I called the president.”

Staff Sergeant Peggy Baker sat up a little straighter in her swivel chair. She’d just caught a flash of movement on one of the multiple screens at her workstation. A small colored dot briefly appeared on the feed from the FPS-117 phased array radar at Barter Island. It faded out for a few seconds and then reappeared for another very short interval before disappearing completely.

For a moment, she was tempted to write off the blip as just a radar or weather anomaly. After all, seriously bad weather was closing in over the radar site and all of northern Alaska, complete with high winds and driving snow and ice storms. Then again, L-band radars weren’t affected by storms to the same degree as high-frequency equipment. So whatever that unidentified object was, it could be something real. And from the size of the reflection, it was also very small, no larger than a good-sized bird — but no bird in nature moved at that kind of speed, almost 450 knots. She picked up the phone to her supervisor. “Ma’am,” she told Lieutenant Colonel Carmen Reyes, “I may have picked up a bogey here. It could be nothing, but I think you should take a look at the track.”

“On my way,” Reyes said crisply. She hung up and trotted down the short flight of steps from the observation deck to the main floor of the operations center. It took her less than thirty seconds to reach Baker’s station. “Okay, Peggy, show me what you’ve got,” she ordered.

Rapidly, the sergeant entered a series of commands on her keyboard to pull up a recording of the data from Barter Island’s radar. Reyes leaned over her shoulder, watching as the faint blip appeared, moved slightly across the screen, vanished, and popped up again for a few short seconds. Based on the short observed track, if that was a genuine bogey, it had been heading almost due south across the coast about twenty nautical miles east of Kaktovik. She pursed her lips in thought. “Contact Anchorage Center. See if they know anything about a private jet or commercial airliner that’s gone astray up that way.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Baker picked up her direct line to the FAA’s Air Route Traffic Control Center and relayed the colonel’s question to one of the controllers on duty. On its face, the suggestion wasn’t unreasonable. About an hour ago, the Russians had abruptly closed all the transpolar routes through their airspace. As a result, ARTCCs across the Northern Hemisphere were scrambling to divert dozens of civilian passenger jets and cargo planes to alternate routes. It was just possible that they’d lost track of one in all the confusion.

After a brief conversation, Baker hung up. She swiveled to Reyes. “Negative on that, ma’am. Anchorage says all the flights they were monitoring are accounted for. No civilian aircraft have been cleared through that sector.”

Reyes tapped her foot on the tiled floor while she ran through her options. Although there weren’t any aircraft currently on patrol, Third Wing did have two F-22 Raptor fighters on alert status. But even if this was a genuine bogey and not just some kind of equipment- or weather-related glitch, its last confirmed position was more than five hundred nautical miles from Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. That was very near the outside edge of a Raptor’s subsonic combat range. Plus, by the time any F-22s arrived on scene, whatever the Barter Island radar had detected would be long gone. There was also one more significant factor to consider. “What’s our latest read on the weather?” she asked.

“Horrible,” Baker told her. “The Barter Island station reports strong winds from the north at forty knots, gusting to sixty, with a solid cloud layer down to less than five hundred feet. Conditions are worsening fast, with blowing snow and sleet. Visibility on the ground is only around fifty or sixty feet right now. And the storm front that’s whacking them is headed straight our way.”

Reyes shivered, suddenly very glad her command post was deep underground and centrally heated. She came to a decision and shook her head. “Right, I’ll buck this one up to Wing for their final call, but my recommendation will be that we let this bogey go. Given the weather conditions and the extreme range, there’s almost no chance of making a successful or safe intercept.”