First Strike

SEVEN

Maskiro leaned against the back wall of the control tower, fighting off exhaustion. They had released most of the control tower crew, keeping only five people as a hostage contingent, four women and one man. They were now stretched out in the middle of the room trying to get some sleep. His guards had already started their sleep/watch rotation, and there was really no reason for Maskiro himself to be awake right now. Better that he sleep while he could. It was far too soon for any of the American forces to mount an attack on the tower. Hostage rescue required planning, planning, and more planning. Probably at least two days, he decided, stifling a yawn. Maybe three.

So why am I still awake? My element commanders know how and when to contact me. There’s no need for me to be awake.

He knew what it was — the escape of the American submarine. A frigate and a destroyer in port had been easily subdued, their security forces clearly poorly trained and not prepared to react. They had not even attempted to leave port, instead mistakenly depending on a few sailors with shotguns to take care of any problems.

But the submarine — ah, that was a different matter. Were the American nuclear forces simply more cautious? Perhaps their commanding officer had been aboard and had ordered the ship underway. Yes, that had to be it.

The sergeant in charge of this detachment was eyeing him warily. Maskiro ignored him, but knew that it would be just a few moments before the sergeant, in the special way that senior enlisted men had of dealing with officers, would suggest that perhaps Comrade Captain might wish to stand down. He could even hear the tone the sergeant would use, slightly aggrieved and offended that the captain did not adequately trust his sergeant to maintain the watch, yet with the full measure of respect due to a senior officer.

Only two aircraft had been permitted to land after the troop transports were on the ground, and that was only because they reported that they were critically low on fuel and unable to divert. The transports had remained on the ground until the area was secure. Then, the troops had returned to unload the ZUK-88 trucks with their attached missile launchers. Once they had verified that all the trucks and launchers were operational, the missiles had been loaded on by specialist teams and the trucks departed the airport with armed escorts. From the main road, they would spread out into the countryside, moving to higher elevations and dispersing themselves about the island. By dawn, the last one would be in position. Along with the one squadron of MiGs on the ground, they would maintain air superiority around the island. Additionally, they were loaded with the most potent deterrent to American intervention — medium-range launchers equipped with special warheads. While the range was insufficient to cover the entire expanse of America, it was more than sufficient to reach Washington, D.C., Norfolk, New York, and other center-of-gravity targets. One squadron of MiGs was on the ground, under heavy guard, and another squadron was en route and would arrive in two days.

One squadron would be sufficient to maintain air superiority, even with the carrier lurking to the north. The Americans would not dare engage the MiGs over the island, not and risk civilian casualties, even assuming that the Bermuda government gave their permission for American intervention. Not everyone welcomed American forces and their sometimes heavy-handed way of dealing with things.

The sergeant was starting toward him. Maskiro debated ignoring him, but decided against it. The problem was, the sergeant was right. He held up his hand to stop the man. “I know. Toss me a blanket, would you?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” The sergeant changed directions and swung by the table to pick up a blanket. He handed it to his commander with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I will call you an hour before dawn, yes? Or as otherwise required.”

“Fine, fine.” Maskiro slid down to the tile and pulled the blanket around him. In seconds, he was asleep.

The reaction on board the carrier had at first been one of complete disbelief. Surely this was a prank of some sort, somebody’s idea of a bad joke. Russians invading Bermuda? It couldn’t be real.

A quick voice confirmation was immediately forthcoming. No one was entirely sure what was happening, but all the local Bermuda government sources were either not answering telephones or had gone off the air. The only immediate source of information was an ACN reporter on vacation with a cell phone, and ACN was jealously guarding that contact, relaying information to the Pentagon only after it had been broadcast.

When it finally became apparent that there was indeed a squadron of MiGs and a division of troops on the island, the Jefferson immediately turned southwest and kicked her four massive propellers up to flank speed. The cruisers paced her, while the frigates dropped slightly behind, unable to sustain the thirty-five knots plus that the Jefferson was capable of maintaining.

In TFCC, Coyote stared at the large screen tactical display, his emotions alternating between pure adrenaline highs and utter incredulity. Clustered around the airport were hostile air—hostile air—symbols! And reports were just coming in from overhead imagery that the transports had unloaded the ZIL-85 antiair defense systems vehicles and that they were already being dispersed about the island, hidden under the canopy of trees in the interior.

Coyote turned to the senior Marine, his CLF, or Commander, Landing Forces, and noted, “Bitch trying to dig them out. You’ll get thermal signatures from the satellites that will pinpoint their locations, but the terrain’s going to be rough going for your men.”

Colonel Avery Forrester smiled dryly. “Not a problem. I’ve already got my people working on it.”

“Boy Scouts, aren’t you? Always prepared.”

“We try to be.” Forrester frowned. “Although I’m not so sure we’re going to get the chance to take a shot at this. If I know the SEALs, they’ll be chomping at the bit to get in there.”

“Yep,” Coyote acknowledged. “It is the sort of thing that’s right up their alley. Their bread and butter, if you will.”

“Yes, Admiral, but—”

“And frankly,” Coyote continued as though the Marine had not spoken, “a covert landing followed by some shooting and looting sounds like a SEAL mission rather than one for your people. They’re going to have to swim in, you know.”

“We can take the Osprey in,” the colonel said.

Coyote flicked his laser pointer at the chart. “With the ZILs? I don’t think so — not until we know how effective they are. You start decimating the only operation Osprey squadron in the fleet and nobody’s going to be very pleased.”

“To the contrary, sir, with all due respect. The Osprey is ready for an operational test just like this. She’s got enough spoofing and jamming gear on board to deal with the ZILs, even assuming your aircraft misses her with HARMs. Using the Osprey now would answer a lot of questions, Admiral. We need this.”

“It might raise more questions than it answers, Colonel. You realize that?” Coyote studied the man for a moment, wondering how to proceed. Sure, it should be a straight tactical decision. In theory, at least. But it never really was, was it? The political forces back in the Pentagon always had their own agendas, most of which including winning wars in such a way as to ensure their next reelections.

“We are ready. The Osprey is ready.”

No use sugarcoating it. The colonel is a big boy. “I understand that. I’ll wait and see what my staff recommends, but my inclination is to use your troops as the first wave ashore after the SEALs neutralize the ZILs. Assuming, of course, that we’re ordered in.”

The colonel’s face clouded over. “With all due respect, Admiral, is there a little favoritism going on here?”

Coyote regarded him levelly, his face hard and cold. “I’m going to forget you said that, mister.”

The colonel flinched, then his own expression matched the admiral’s. “As the admiral wishes. If I may be excused?”

“Yes.” Coyote watched the colonel go, his back ramrod stiff and his posture every inch Marine. There hadn’t been any easy way around that one. The colonel was way out of line to even suggest favoritism.

That’s why they gave you the stars, amigo. So you could make these calls. But, damn, that’s a man I want on my side, not against me. Well, we’ll see. If he sucks it up and acts like an officer, he’ll be fine. And, if he doesn’t, he’ll learn real fast what it’s like to dance with elephants.

Korsov surveyed the ragged collection of prefab buildings, ramshackle stores and tents that made up the rebel troops’ command center. Politics makes strange bedfellows, and allying his interests with those of the Chechen forces had at first seemed an impossible coalition. But the Chechens were desperate. They could not hold out forever against the Russians, and they eagerly jumped at Korsov’s promise of complete autonomy. They had their sympathizers inside the Russian command structure as well, and, in exchange for the use of their insurgent network in certain matters, they had proved to be if not entirely hospitable at least more receptive to his needs than his own government.

The commander of the Chechen forces was an old, battered Russian colonel, now elevated by the fact of his mutiny to the rank of general. Ilya Petrovich had seen action in Afghanistan and knew what the Russians were capable of, both in a military sense and in the likely treatment of the Chechen forces once they were overrun.

Petrovich’s face was deeply lined, his skin rough and burned. His eyes were a faded blue, his short hair silver around his face but glossy black at his crown. He seemed to have problems concentrating on what Korsov told him, as though he were continually listening to another voice just out of earshot.

And perhaps he was, Korsov thought, as he started to review operational security procedures for the third time. It was the sound of his ancestors talking to him, preparing to welcome him to the other side.

Like many Russians, both Korsov and Petrovich had deep streaks of superstition running through their souls. It underlay the patina of the Eastern Orthodox church, so long banned but never really suppressed in Russia, and tainted all of their planning with a dark fatalism that was not often understood by their opponents.

Korsov started again from the beginning. “I can’t give you the flight plans. With all due respect, comrade, it would be too dangerous. Both for you and for me. Should your opponents find out that I am here, they could accelerate their timetable, putting you in jeopardy before I can ensure your future.”

Petrovich seemed amused. “Jeopardy.” He pointed at a deadfall of rubble at the far end of the camp. It was the remains of a barracks that had been bombed the week before. “What would you call that?”

“An atrocity,” Korsov responded promptly.

“Yes. Yes, of course. But comrade”—and suddenly Petrovich seemed fully alive, more alert than Korsov had seen him before—“if you do not give me your flight plans, I cannot alert our antiair batteries. It would be a shame to shoot you down in the name of operational security, would it not?”

“I will give you the exact details. At the appropriate time.” And not far enough in advance that you can betray me in exchange for Russian mercy, if there ever is such a thing.

Petrovich shrugged. “I have explained to you our equipment limitations. Communications with all of our outposts are not the most reliable.” He peered down at Korsov from his slightly greater height. “These are not conventional forces, you understand. Our patriots work differently.”

Korsov nodded, feigning respect. “Of course. I understand and am willing to take that chance.” What you mean is that you hide some defenses in the civilian population. As though that would stop anyone from attacking them.

“Very well. Six hours’ notice, then,” Petrovich said, apparently assuming that the final determination was his to make.

Korsov nodded his understanding, if not his agreement. Six hours — no. Perhaps thirty minutes. And if your forces are so foolish as to target me, I will destroy them on my way out.

Even though her townhouse was air-conditioned, dehumidified, comfortable, and completely covered by security forces, sleep eluded Wexler. She shoved the blankets off for the third time in the last ten minutes, then immediately pulled them back up. Finally, concluding that her restlessness was not attributable to anything outside her own mind, she gave up. She pulled on an old bathrobe and plush slippers and headed for her office.

“Good morning, ma’am,” a voice said from her living room.

“Morning. Can’t sleep,” she answered shortly. She could have ignored him completely, she supposed. Brad had promised her that the increased security would be completely transparent to her, and part of the deal was that she could pretend that they were not around. But there was a deep streak of innate courtesy in her bones that prevented her from carrying out what she’d insisted on. “I’ll be in my office,” she concluded.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. Thanks.”

She shut the door behind her with a firm click, then leaned back against it and sighed. First the intrusions into her private life, and now the president’s blind ambition. Didn’t he see what could happen? Didn’t he understand that short-term political expediency would do more to lose the election for him than any number of civilians killed in Bermuda?

Oh, sure, she understood his reasoning, and, on one level, she was tempted to agree with him. Among the current crop of politicians, he was indeed the best person to occupy the Oval Office. A shudder ran through her as she considered what sort of president the other party’s nominee would be.

Are you being completely honest about this? Aren’t you just covering up the fact that if he loses, you lose?

Her appointment was a political one. If the other party swept the White House, she would be asked to resign. Not in so many words, but it was an accepted fact of this life that she’d chosen that she’d be expected to tender her resignation immediately.

So what? I was a good lawyer before I took this job — I’ll be a good one after I leave the U.N. Nobody stays here forever, you know.

A pang swept through her. There was so much still left to do in the U.N., so many possibilities for peace and prosperity.

Ah. So it is about the power, isn’t it?

No, it wasn’t.

Was it?

The telephone broke into her increasingly uncomfortable musings and she trotted over to her desk to answer it, grateful for the distraction. The LCD read out indicated it was a secure call originating at the White House. She picked up the handset and simultaneously began spinning the dials on her safe, retrieving the crypto key that would enable the telephone to synchronize with the one on the other end. “Wexler,” she said, still fumbling with the dials. “Give me a moment to go secure.”

“Take your time, Sarah,” the president’s voice said. “And get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

After the president had concluded the call, Sarah Wexler slumped back into her chair, her security key in her hand. Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time, either. It had not been so long ago that she’d discovered that the Russians had planted a listening device in her office. While she’d been able to turn the tables on them then, and had since stepped up her electronic security measures, the incident had left a residue of distrust and uneasiness between the American and the Russian delegations. Reactions from the other members of the CIS had been all over the board, with some of them quite privately gleeful over the comeuppance Russia had received while publicly protesting American policies.

Russia herself had recalled her ambassador and replaced him with a man she had yet to get to know. The few times they had met, he had been cold and distant, formally correct, but showing absolutely no inclination to develop the sort of working relationship that normally characterized the U.N.

Nevertheless, there was no getting around it. She needed to talk to him, and talk to him immediately.

She pulled out her Palm Pilot and dialed his number.