Arctic Storm Rising

Thirty

Not far from Naples, a sleek, hundred-meter-long ship rode at anchor off the volcanic island of Ischia. Though it was as large as a naval frigate, the vessel’s big, gleaming windows, luxurious fittings, swimming pool, and aft helicopter pad marked it as a rich man’s plaything.

High up on the megayacht’s top deck, Dmitri Grishin stood at a railing. Through half-closed eyes, the Russian oligarch surveyed the glittering, moonlit waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Streetlamps illuminated the faded stucco facades of the restaurants, shops, and hotels that lined Ischia’s beaches and small harbor. He rolled his shoulders, in an effort to ease some of the tension eating away at him from the inside.

Abruptly, he turned as he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

It was Pavel Voronin. In a concession to the Mediterranean fall climate and his employer’s desire for discretion, he’d traded in his usual tailored business suits for an open-necked shirt, blazer, and khaki slacks. He’d flown in from Moscow the day before, and as far as Grishin’s family and the ship’s crew were concerned, the younger man was just another of the junior corporate executives the oligarch sometimes rewarded with brief stays on his yacht.

“Well?” Grishin asked.

“They’ve met our price,” Voronin told him with a slight smile. “I just confirmed it with our financial networks. All the required funds have been securely transferred.”

Grishin breathed out in relief. “Who met our demands? Moscow or Washington?”

“Both of them,” Voronin said, smiling more broadly now.

For a moment, the oligarch stared at him in astonishment, taken completely by surprise. But then a sly, triumphant grin spread slowly across his own face. This was beyond his wildest and most optimistic expectations. In the blink of an eye, the operation he’d dubbed Vanishing Act had just netted him close to six billion U.S. dollars. True, on paper, that was still less than his publicly declared net worth. But until now, most of his nominal fortune had consisted of hard assets — of factories, mines, oil and gas wells, ships, and fleets of trucks and railcars. Unfortunately, in Piotr Zhdanov’s Russia, tangible possessions and investments were not real wealth. They were only hostages: hostages to a government that could seize them by decree, either on a whim or to appease an angry mob looking for scapegoats for their country’s increasingly dire economic conditions. Under Moscow’s despotic and unpredictable rule, today’s billionaire could all too easily become tomorrow’s imprisoned pauper.

But now, Grishin thought with growing delight, he’d broken free. Close to six billion dollars, sheltered in an impenetrable web of dozens of secret accounts, represented both security and continued power and influence for himself and for his family. Even if Zhdanov tried to throw him to the wolves, he would fail. Grishin could safely ride out the coming economic and political storm abroad — biding his time until the moment arrived to choose the next winner in Russia’s ongoing cycle of internecine power struggles.

Jubilantly, he clapped Voronin on the shoulder. “Well done, Pavel!” He chuckled out loud. “Now you’re a rich man, too!”

Voronin had been promised a 1 percent share for his work in coordinating and orchestrating Vanishing Act. Perhaps such a sum was not true wealth when compared to that possessed by his employer, but it was a fortune nonetheless and ample reward for his labors, Grishin believed. Somewhat smaller shares had been promised to Bondarovich and the other ex-Spetsnaz soldiers Voronin had hired for the real dirty work. More, naturally, had been promised to Colonel Alexei Petrov for his part in the conspiracy.

“Which nation’s payment will we honor?” Voronin asked dryly. “After all, I need to let Petrov know in which direction the bomber should fly — once the winds ease up enough for it to take off again.”

Grishin shrugged. “Tell him to return the PAK-DA prototype to our own country, of course.” He turned back to the rail and looked out across the water again. “I’m willing to bleed Zhdanov and his cronies, but I’m no traitor. Not to the Motherland.” He glanced at the younger man. “The Americans were dupes, leverage to use against Moscow — never anything more.”

“Naturally,” Voronin agreed.

Grishin eyed him. “Once the stealth bomber takes off, are your men ready to clear off themselves?”

The other man nodded. “Bondarovich and the others have their orders. They’ll head for the Canadian border by snowmobile, where I have a bush plane waiting to pick them up. Nothing at the camp can be traced back to us.”

“And Colonel Petrov?” the oligarch asked quietly. “What arrangements have you made for him?”

Casually, Voronin leaned against the railing. His eyes were hooded. “Regrettably, Alexei is a proud and volatile man,” he said reflectively. “Somehow, I don’t think he’s really suited to a quiet, discreet life of luxury. It would be very hard for him to accept the need to disappear completely.”

“Perhaps so,” Grishin agreed.

“Which is why my men will take the necessary action on their way to the border,” Voronin assured him. “You can be very sure that no one will ever see the colonel again.”

On the slope of a hill climbing steeply two hundred feet above a frozen stream, two men crouched near the base of a Sitka spruce tree. They wore thick parkas, ski pants, and fur-lined hoods against the intensifying cold. Besides their civilian winter clothing, they also had powerful night vision — capable binoculars slung around their necks. As storm clouds rolled across the sky above them, driven by high winds whistling down out of the north, daylight was fading fast.

One of them, Spetsnaz Captain Arkady Timonov, zoomed in on the pair of American HH-60G Pave Hawk helicopters parked on the apron near one of the air base’s two runways. Both had their rotors turning. “They’re spooling up,” he said to his companion. “Better get ready.”

“This is madness,” the other man, Lieutenant Leonid Brykin, muttered, more to himself than to Timonov. He knelt beside a large equipment bag and started unzipping it.

“Madness or not, we have our orders,” Timonov growled. Privately, he agreed with his subordinate, but Moscow’s urgent instructions left them with no real latitude. What made it even worse was that their superiors in the GRU had chosen to relay those instructions using encrypted text messages sent directly to their smartphones. Given the eavesdropping and code-breaking capabilities of the American National Security Agency, that was almost as bad as emailing their cover identities and pictures straight to the FBI. As it was, the Spetsnaz captain figured he and Brykin had no more than a day before federal law enforcement officers started looking for Mr. Pindar and Mr. Jones in earnest.

Still grumbling under his breath, Brykin finished unzipping the bag and hauled out a long, green fiberglass tube with a handgrip and trigger mechanism near the midpoint. It was a Pakistani-made Anza Mk III surface-to-air missile launcher. Based on a Chinese model derived from Russia’s own 9K38 system, this particular weapon had been captured from Muslim extremists in Chechnya and then smuggled covertly into Alaska years ago. Quickly, he set the tube in place on his right shoulder and flipped a switch to power up the missile’s seeker head and gyros. A soft hum confirmed the system was ready.

Next to him, Timonov peered intently through his binoculars. The first helicopter lifted off, climbed to about a hundred meters, and then dropped its nose slightly to gain airspeed as it crossed the runway. Accelerating, it swung north, heading straight toward them. The second Pave Hawk trailed close behind. Red, white, and green navigation lights blinked rapidly on both helicopters. He lowered the binoculars. “Here they come, Leonid. Make your shot count.”

The lieutenant nodded tightly. He pressed his eye into the SAM launcher’s sight and turned through a short arc, until he had the crosshairs settled squarely on the trailing helicopter. A speaker behind his right ear buzzed. Steadily, the buzz grew louder and shriller. “I have tone,” he confirmed. The missile’s infrared seeker head had locked on to the Pave Hawk’s heat signature.

Through the sight, Brykin saw the second Pave Hawk grow progressively larger. He estimated that it was now approximately three kilometers away and closing fast. Slowly, he pulled the launch trigger halfway back. That “uncaged” the missile’s IR sensor, allowing it to swivel freely inside the nose cone so that he didn’t have to aim manually anymore. The buzzing noise intensified. Satisfied that he had a solid lock on his target, Brykin angled the launch tube up at forty-five degrees. Anything lower risked having the missile strike the ground when it launched.

“Any day now, Leonid,” Timonov growled.

Ignoring him, Brykin squeezed the trigger all the way. Instantly, the Anza Mk III’s booster motor ignited, hurling it out of the launch tube in a dense, choking cloud of acrid smoke. The missile itself burst out of the cloud and soared skyward as its main rocket motor kicked in. Visible as a bright white dot riding a plume of smoke, it climbed high above the hill, arced over, and then darted straight at the trailing American helicopter.

Three seconds after launch, the SAM slammed head-on into the Pave Hawk’s main rotor assembly and exploded in a blinding red-and-orange flash. Trailing torn shards of rotor and fuselage, the stricken helicopter rolled over and plunged into the forest not far beyond the runway. Flames and darker black smoke eddied away from the crash site.

“Nice shot!” Timonov exulted. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here!”

Obeying, Brykin tossed the spent launcher away and followed his leader upslope and deeper into the woods. With luck, they hoped to make it back to their parked car and speed away before the base’s security personnel could react to this sudden ambush. Behind them, the surviving Pave Hawk took evasive action, spewing flares as it circled back toward the runway.

The American search-and-rescue mission had just been ruthlessly aborted.

Rear Admiral Kristin Chao tapped a control on her console, bringing up a live video feed from Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson on the Emergency Conference Room’s largest display screen. It showed a pillar of thick, oily smoke rising from the woods just beyond the air base. The smoke column curved sharply, swept southward by rising winds from the approaching blizzard.

“Approximately thirty minutes ago, one of the two helicopters assigned to our search-and-rescue mission was shot down — apparently by a handheld SAM fired from outside the base perimeter,” she said crisply. She looked sympathetically at Miranda Reynolds. The CIA official looked sick to her stomach. “I’m afraid that was the Pave Hawk carrying your go team.”

“Are there any survivors from the downed helicopter?” Bill Taylor asked gravely. The white-haired defense secretary, who was usually more energetic than far younger men and women, appeared to have aged visibly over the past several hours.

“A handful, Mr. Secretary,” Chao replied. “All critically injured, many with severe burns.”

General Neary, the Air Force chief of staff, stirred in his seat. “And the sons of bitches who shot our bird down? Any luck finding them yet?”

Regretfully, the rear admiral shook her head. “No, sir. Personnel from the 673rd Security Forces Squadron are combing the area where that missile was launched. They found this”—she brought up a picture of the discarded SAM launcher—“but that’s it, so far.”

Jonas Murphy stared at the image. “Is that a Russian-made weapon?”

“It’s a Pakistani copy of a Chinese-designed derivative of the Russian 9K38 Igla,” Chao told him. “The type NATO labels an SA-18.”

Miranda Reynolds glowered. “That missile’s a goddamned blind. This wasn’t some random terrorist attack by Muslim extremists. This was a Russian Spetsnaz operation, from beginning to end.”

Chao nodded. “That’s almost certain, Ms. Reynolds.” She sighed. “What’s much less certain is whether this Russian special forces operation is actually at an end.”

“Meaning what?” Murphy asked.

“Meaning that we cannot be sure yet that they had only one missile team deployed outside Elmendorf-Richardson,” she said bluntly. With the press of another key, she brought up a map hurriedly put together by her operations directorate staff experts. It showed all the areas around the air base where concealed enemy SAM teams might reasonably hope to take a shot at aircraft and helicopters while they were most vulnerable — at takeoff, on landing, and in the early stages of any flight.

A quick study of this map elicited dismayed-sounding murmurs from all of the military professionals present.

Chao nodded. “You see the point.” She turned to Taylor, Murphy, and Reynolds, the only three civilians now allowed into this cavernous war room, and explained. “Even using units from the Army and Army National Guard, it will take us a minimum of several hours to search and secure these areas. And until we’ve done that, launching another search-and-rescue mission toward those crash sites would be like ordering our people to play Russian roulette.”

“Literally, in this case,” Taylor said grimly.

“I’m afraid so,” the rear admiral agreed.

“But by the time our troops manage to secure the base perimeter against a missile ambush—” Murphy began.

“That storm front will be directly overhead,” Chao confirmed. “Making further flight operations impossible until the weather clears.”

Miranda Reynolds scowled. “Don’t we have any other assets — troops, aircraft, something, for God’s sake — anywhere else in Alaska we could send into the Brooks Range to look for those downed aircraft… and the stealth bomber?” Her fingers drummed nervously on the conference table. “Just because we’ve paid Petrov’s price doesn’t mean Moscow’s going to give up on getting the PAK-DA back. And if the Russians beat us to the punch while we’re sitting on our asses waiting for better weather conditions, we’ve just thrown away billions of dollars and a bunch of lives for nothing!”

In answer, Chao brought up another map, this one centered on northern Alaska. “My staff has found one possibility,” she said quietly. Her fingers touched a control, highlighting Kaktovik and Barter Island. “There’s a Joint Force security team deployed here, at one of our North Warning System’s long-range radar stations. We’ve checked the records and all the personnel attached to this force have parachute training. In fact, they’ve recently completed a practice jump.”

Neary shook his head. “All the airborne training in the world’s no good without a plane to jump from. And with that blizzard socking in both Eielson and Elmendorf-Richardson, we’re screwed on that front.”

“Not quite, sir,” Chao said coolly. “There’s an Air National Guard HC-130J on the ground now at Barter Island.”

The Air Force chief of staff stared at her. “On the ground there? Why?”

“Because it lost an engine in-flight and had to make an emergency landing,” she answered. “But we’ve checked the specifications and that Super Hercules is rated to fly, even with a dud engine.”

“You’d be asking the flight crew to take a hell of a risk,” Neary commented. “Not to mention the troops you’re asking to parachute into the middle of nowhere in the tail end of a blizzard.”

Miranda Reynolds broke in impatiently. “Everything about this mess involves risk. I say we tell them to go.” She looked at Chao. “Who’s in charge of this security team?”

The rear admiral smiled oddly at her. “A U.S. Air Force officer it appears that your agency has had some dealings with in the not-so-distant past, Ms. Reynolds. The officer in question is a certain Captain Nicholas Flynn.”

Reynolds’s mouth fell open in consternation. “You’re kidding me,” she managed to get out at last.

Chao shook her head, still smiling wryly. “No, Ms. Reynolds,” she said. “I most certainly am not.”