Long Shot

18

“We have a situation, sir.”

President of the United States Christopher Thompson was finishing off a small tuna salad lunch at his cluttered desk in the Oval Office when National Security Adviser Dean Thomas entered. Thompson looked up from a thick book of budget numbers. “What is it, Dean?”

“An intruding Russian fighter jet has attacked and destroyed a Finnish missile battery deep on Finland’s side of the international border. The plane was shot down during the attack.”

The president pressed his thumb hard against the pen in his hand, almost to the breaking point, then shoved aside the briefing book. The numbers from Congress would wait a while. “Dammit! I have warned Pushkin again and again that those overflights risked a confrontation. Do we have any details?”

Dean Thomas dropped a single piece of paper on the desk. It was only two paragraphs. “Not many,” said the NSA adviser. “It happened about an hour ago, right at sundown on their local time. A MiG-29, one of the better Russian aircraft, appeared out of nowhere on what appeared to be an attack run and an officer of the Finnish Defense Forces pushed the button in response and missiles flew in both directions.”

“What about hard evidence?”

“Yes, sir. Survivors of the missile battery found the plane wreckage and it’s clearly Russian. Radar records back them up. No question there.”

“Has there been any response from Moscow? Military or otherwise?” President Thompson was out of his chair and leading his national security adviser out the door, heading for the Situation Room underground.

“Nothing yet, Mister President.”

“Okay. Let’s get the staff together and see if we can get ahead of this thing to keep it from escalating. I want the vice president in on this, and get the chairman of the Joint Chiefs over here from the Pentagon. A video link with our new guy, the supreme allied commander in Europe?”

“General David Lincoln. He has been in the job for less than month. I doubt if he knows anything that he hasn’t passed to the Pentagon at this point.”

“Right. I remember him now. Hold on that video for the time being. I’m sure NATO is all over this.”

Thomas matched the president’s big strides as they fell in with a phalanx of Secret Service agents. “Keep in mind, sir, that Finland is beyond the NATO umbrella. Our options there are very limited unless they ask for help.”

“I know. I know. But that country is a proven and dependable ally, Dean, and I have no intention of letting Pushkin plant his flag there.”

“Like they did under the North Pole.”

“Exactly. Remember the new information from the Russian defector about them secretly pushing more troops into the north during that military exercise? Pushkin has some fantasy about owning the whole Arctic Circle.” The president was viewing a map in his mind. Russia was pressing in from the Ukraine in the south, the Baltics were a tinderbox, and the big bear was now apparently reaching more boldly into the northernmost territories. “After this meeting is over, arrange something quiet so I can meet with the leaders of the House and Senate. I need them fully informed so we don’t get bushwhacked politically if this thing blows up. If there must be a military reaction by our side, I want their fingerprints to be on any document I sign.”

“Got it.” The national security adviser was working his cell phone speed dial. “Who else?”

“The Central Intelligence Agency. Pushkin went too far with this blatant violation of Finland. I think it is time for some payback, Dean. I’m sick and tired of backing down every time this bully makes another demand.”

Marty Atkins, the deputy director for clandestine operations for the CIA, considered his options after hearing from the White House. President Thompson had authorized a tit-for-tat operation to retaliate against the Russians for the MiG strike. Atkins was glad the Russky son of a bitch got blown out of the sky. The state department would handle the formal protest, but the big guy in the Oval Office wanted to underscore the message with a dark world dirty-tricks move. That was what Atkins did for a living.

Had Marty been at a poker player, he would have been a smooth-dealing card mechanic with aces up both sleeves, in his pants and even in his shoes. For him, it was only a matter of which to play. He first had to consider the region — a retaliation op in El Salvador or Liberia would be next to meaningless. The men in Moscow might not even connect the dots. The Finland incident was clearly part of Russia’s long-range strategy for militarizing the Arctic Circle and grabbing its strategic basins of natural resources. The northern site required something in that general region. Not within Finland itself, which was still maddeningly neutral, but close enough to make the point to the Kremlin.

He ran his fingers along a huge wall map of the world while his top two assistants discussed the problem. They were good tricksters, both former field agents who had earned entry into his room of secrets.

“What about Afghanistan?” suggested Stew Willenson, a burly middle-aged man who once had ridden mules on dangerous missions in those unforgiving mountains. Atkins shook him off. “None of the ’Stans,” he ruled. The Russians would laugh. They had left nothing of interest behind after their own ill-fated Afghan adventure back in the 1980s. Moscow was pleased that the U.S. remained bogged down there.

Agatha Brice, an expert in European affairs, spoke, her glasses low on her nose. “Maybe give some TV time to that Russian defector, like Moscow did with Edward Snowden. Embarrass them in public?”

“That’s not a bad idea, Aggie. Something we should plan on doing at some point. Not strong enough for this. The problem was military in nature, so we need something military as a response. A small but painful reminder that we’re watching them.” Atkins’s eyes scrolled across the map. Finland was just above Estonia, and the Russians were making those same kinds of pesky overflights along the borders throughout that region, only without any direct attacks. To the south, Lithuania and Latvia were tantalizing plums for Russia. He sat down at his desk and steepled his fingers and was soon lost in thought.

Agatha’s comment about the defector formed the nugget of an idea. Calico and Kyle Swanson were in Brussels doing the interviews with Colonel Strakov, which were not yielding the ground-shaking revelations that everyone had hoped. They could change gears on the Russian without a problem, slow that down long enough for his two valuable agents to do the sort of work they did best. Calico knew Estonia like the back of her hand, and Swanson knew the military. Plus, Atkins thought, Swanson was perhaps the most dangerous man on a payroll filled with talented operatives.

“OK, people, I’ve got it.” Marty Atkins smiled like a wolf. “We’re going to send Kyle Swanson out on a hunt. He’s sitting around Brussels right now with the defector.”

“Swanson? Sir, that man is a bull in a china shop!” protested Agatha Brice. “You’ve seen his report? He thinks Strakov is worthless.”

“Kyle is a clumsy bull only when he wants to be, Aggie. Most times, he is a snake in the weeds. I’ll talk to him, and meanwhile, you lot get cracking on a range of options.”

Swanson took the video call in a secure communications suite at the safe house, with Jan Hollings crowded next to him at the table. Despite their tendency to grate on one another, Kyle and Calico had settled into a good working team, primarily because she would not be cowed by him, and he would not be pushed around by her. The relationship rotated between stormy and smooth.

They listened seriously as Marty Atkins briefed them over the encrypted link. It was a significant mission change. They were to do an as-yet undefined black op as a balance for a Russian jet that had crossed the Finnish border and destroyed a missile battery.

“What about our defector, Colonel Strakov?” asked Jan. She had been the case officer for the initial interrogation, and was almost as unhappy as Swanson with the early results.

“Don’t give me your damned problems, Calico. Give me a solution.” Atkins actually had no idea of the next step for Strakov.

Swanson bit back a smile as he saw Hollings flush at the reprimand. “This could be a good break, Marty. I think the asshole is playing us. For someone who wanted to talk to me so badly, we have gotten very little in return. No actionable intelligence at all. Interesting material that we would have found sooner or later anyway.”

“I agree,” Calico said, almost gritting her teeth, as if saying those words were difficult. “Suppose we change the rules. I know just the guy to give him a try — my husband, army colonel Tom Markey.”

Atkins had to recall that name. “He’s a computer wizard or something, right?”

Swanson broke in. “Hell, yeah. Great idea. Markey is the big dog in NATO cyber-warfare and is based over here in Tallinn. He once told me that his and Strakov’s careers almost were identical. Let’s get me out of the way and put the Russian in the room with someone who actually speaks geek, and he won’t be able to dodge the questions. Strakov will understand the logic of us giving it a try.”

“Will he clam up because you are absent?”

“He did not like it the first time, so he might bitch a bit when I go away again, Marty. Who cares? Strakov is playing a game. I think the only reason he wanted me was so he could give up the Armatas and establish that he was the real deal.”

“Swanson can always go back at him later for more questioning, if necessary.” Hollings also had other business that needed her attention. The Narva election was right around the corner, and she had to be there to monitor it.

Atkins approved. “Okay. Done. I will have temporary duty orders cut today that will get Markey in there as soon as possible. Calico, you go back to Tallinn tonight and get your mind back on Narva.”

“Wait a minute. If I go back to Tallinn and Tom comes here to Koekelberg, we won’t even get to see each other. That isn’t fair.”

“Sorry, Jan. I wasn’t thinking about your personal life. Please take time to share a cup of coffee at the airport, then get your butt back into Estonia. Are we clear on that?” Marty Atkins put an edge to his voice. “Now Kyle, you obviously can’t do this thing alone. So while the analysts are finding a target, you go ahead and pick out a strike team, anybody you want, and we’ll arrange to have them…”

Swanson put up a palm to signal him to stop. “I’ve already got my team.”

“Who?”

“I’m not going to tell you that, Marty. I think there is a leak in this pipeline and this is going to be a high-risk job. Trust me. Keep a really tight need-to-know lid on everything.”

“Well, in any case, it is going to take a couple of days to move some operatives into position.…”

“We’re already here, Marty. I can stage in twenty-four hours.”

“You can get the needed hardware from NATO.…”

“I have everything we need, except, maybe, for transport. Give us a target and we can roll.”

Brokk was dead. There was not a shred of proof for that conclusion, but Anneli Kallasti knew in her heart that it was true. The Disappeareds never came back, and Brokk’s rising stature as an anti-Russian political firebrand had sealed his fate. She was bundled in a heavy coat, and stood alone near the bow of the big yacht, her forearms on the rail as an icy wind flecked her face with spray from the waves, mixing with her tears. He was gone. The municipal election in Narva, on which they had placed so much hope, would be held this Sunday and the pro-Russian candidates would likely win. With Brokk gone, no one had stepped forward to replace him, and there was no organized opposition to the big, heavy claw that pressed down on the city to keep it firmly in line for Moscow. Pushkin’s handpicked man would become the mayor, Konstantin Pran of the Workers’ Party would take over next week, and the future of her country and home city would be up in the air.

The Vagabond had been sailing gently for hours through the swells. It did not matter to her, for her entire life was vanishing. Only a week ago, she had been a waitress, a student, a lover, a political activist and a young woman with a long, bright life ahead of her. Estonia needed her, but she could not return there, for she was a fugitive wanted on a trumped-up murder charge. Her only crime had been the mild and flirty kidnapping of a young Russian soldier for less than a day and setting him free unharmed. He probably had never mentioned it to anyone.

Her only female friend now was Jan Hollings of the CIA, the beautiful and smart but volatile woman who would play a big role from here on. It was too early to determine what that might be, although Anneli had spent a long time trying to guess. On the male side, she was in the magnetic field of Kyle Swanson, which was both a comfortable and frightening place to be. His decisions would have just as large an impact on her as would those of Calico. Anneli felt as though she was being pulled in a dozen different ways. If trust was the final issue, then she would go with Kyle.

She inhaled the salty air. The lights of other ships were in plain view as they sailed through the North Sea beneath the midnight sky. The weather had cleared, but dark clouds still hid the stars. She had never been to sea before and was surprised that the waters were such busy traffic lanes. There were thousands of people around her, separated by a broad apron of water, and yet she had never felt so alone in her life.

Two shadows met on the bridge wing as Sarn’t Stan Baldwin relieved Corporal Grayson Perry for the next watch. Except when she was in her cabin, the girl was always within sight of one of the British snipers. “What’s happening, Gray?” Baldwin asked in a quiet voice.

“Nothing at all. She has been standing there for two hours now. That story about what happened with her boyfriend would be enough to shake anyone.”

“It is a difficult time for her.”

“Yes. Any word from Swanson?”

“He will meet us tomorrow. Also coming aboard, flying in from London, is Sir Jeff Cornwell himself. Maybe even a NATO general. Big doings are afoot.”

“Sounds interesting. Well, I turn her over to you now, Sar’nt, and I will hit my mattress.”

“I have her. Get some sleep.” Baldwin brought some binoculars to his eyes. The girl was just standing there at the rail, watching nothing. He wished she would go back inside. He would give her a little more time, then go and fetch her before she caught pneumonia.