Eagle Station

Seventeen

In the last years of his rule, Gennadiy Gryzlov had ordered the construction of a massive new military command center on the northern bank of the Moskva River, within a few kilometers of the Kremlin. Completed at enormous cost, the huge complex was supposed to demonstrate the growing power and sophistication of Russia’s armed forces — both to bolster domestic public opinion and to frighten potential enemies. Nightly news programs had featured reports showing off vast, futuristic-looking control rooms, complete with IMAX-sized situation display screens and dozens of computer stations, all manned by dedicated young officers.

Now those rooms were empty, gathering dust.

For all their high-tech glamour, those overcrowded auditoriums had proved to be worse than useless during any real military crisis. Between the dizzying array of maps, status reports, and combat footage flashing across huge theater screens, and the hubbub created by a large audience of thoroughly useless subordinates, they were only breeding grounds for chaos and confusion.

Instead, Marshal Mikhail Leonov had established his own Defense Ministry command post far belowground. Surrounded by both human guards and automated defenses, it was much smaller — with just four workstations, one for him and three more for his chief deputies. Secure video links connected him to key military and intelligence service commands, including the FSB’s headquarters and Q Directorate.

He glowered at the screens. The Scion spies they were hunting seemed to have disappeared into thin air. FSB officers had found the enemy agents’ abandoned rental car behind a derelict garage on the road between Kansk and Krasnoyarsk. In all probability, that meant there was a third Scion operative in the region, a backup man or woman with another vehicle. He’d issued new orders to all the police checkpoints taking that into account. Beyond that, there was nothing more he could do but wait.

A secure phone beeped. One of Leonov’s aides answered it and then swung toward him. “It’s Minister of State Security Kazyanov, sir. He’s requesting an immediate video connection.”

“Put him through.”

Kazyanov’s broad face blinked into existence on one of his screens. He looked excited. “We’ve found something, Mikhail Ivanovich! Last night, the police stopped a van at a checkpoint outside Lesosibirsk. The driver claimed he was making deliveries to a number of businesses in the area. Since he appeared to be alone, they let him proceed after routine questioning. Fortunately, one of the local officers decided to check up on his story this morning—”

“Let me guess,” Leonov interjected. “None of the customers the driver named received any packages.”

“Correct.”

“Has this fake delivery van passed through any of our other checkpoints north of Lesosibirsk?” he asked. Kazyanov shook his head. “So now we know where to concentrate our search,” Leonov said with satisfaction. His eyes narrowed in thought. “I want the police and other local authorities to scour Lesosibirsk and the nearest villages. They know the ground better than anyone we can bring in from the outside.”

“That’s true,” Kazyanov said. He hesitated only momentarily. “And the outlying areas? Who will search them? Between old logging huts and hunting cabins, there must be dozens of possible hiding places scattered through those woods.”

Leonov nodded grimly. “I’m aware of that, Viktor.” He opened another secure channel, this one to the headquarters of Russia’s Central Military District in Yekaterinburg. “This is Defense Minister Leonov. Put me through to Lieutenant General Varshavsky. It’s urgent.”

He looked back at Kazyanov. “We’ll let the army handle the job. Between them, Varshavsky’s Third Guards Special Purpose Brigade and the National Guard’s Nineteenth Special Purpose Detachment Ermak can deploy several hundred Spetsnaz troops and at least a dozen helicopters.” He shrugged. “If the American spies are hiding in those forests, our soldiers will dig them out.”

After he’d issued his orders to Varshavsky, Leonov broke the connection and sat back thinking hard. Was he missing something? His breath caught for a moment. What if Scion planned to fly its agents out? The same way the Americans had covertly retrieved their downed spaceplane pilot from Russia’s Far East during the Mars One crisis?

Leonov shook his head in disbelief. It seemed impossible. The distances involved were much greater: the Krasnoyarsk region was well over four thousand kilometers from any American or American-allied airfield. No known short takeoff and landing aircraft had that kind of range. Not even the stealthy transport plane the Iron Wolf mercenaries had used before in raids against the Motherland.

Still, he decided, it would be a grave mistake to dismiss this possibility altogether. Time and again the Americans had shown themselves willing to run almost insane risks. He opened another secure video link, this one to Colonel General Semyon Tikhomirov. Once his deputy, Tikhomirov had moved up to full command of the Aerospace Forces.

The connection went through in seconds.

“Yes, sir?” the other man asked.

“Contact the 712th Guards Fighter Aviation Regiment at Kansk-Dalniy. I want four MiG-31s on ready alert. And make sure the radar stations in our Arctic defense zone are fully operational. If they pick up even the faintest low-altitude blip on their scopes, I want to know about it immediately!”