Long Shot

19

Colonel General Valery Ivanovich Levchenko, the commander of Russia’s Western Military District, was ushered into the office of President Vladimir Pushkin at mid-morning on Wednesday, April 13. There were whispers within the upper echelon of Moscow’s military hierarchy that the flamboyant Levchenko had finally overstepped his authority and that the president intended to deal harshly with him. Reassignment away from the palatial headquarters in St. Petersburg to some staff assignment was a strong possibility, perhaps even a demotion to some job that would be so insulting that it would force a resignation. Levchenko came across the carpet in his tailored uniform and stood at stiff attention, without a word being said until the door closed.

President Pushkin came around the desk, gave a warm chortle and shook his hand. “How was your flight, Valery?” He moved to a samovar on the credenza and prepared cups of hot tea while his guest collapsed into a chair, all formality gone.

“It was good. I left clouds of doubt in St. Petersburg by dropping hints that I may not return.” Levchenko laughed again and accepted the tea. “I gather that similar rumors are circulating around here. Everyone avoided my eyes on the way in, like I was a leper.”

The president took a seat. “Yes. Pavel Sergeyev has done everything but broadcast the news of your imminent demise, so you must look appropriately chastised and saddened when you leave. Now bring me up to date. How goes the Strakov plan?”

Yevchenko drank some tea, put the cup down and opened his hands. “As expected. The man has been almost clairvoyant. NATO intelligence services are hanging on his every word, although he has given them nothing of substance. Meanwhile, the attack by one of the overflights worked out brilliantly. The MiG going down in Finland — being shot down, no less — was a statistical guarantee. Sooner or later, it had to happen. Like a clash of swords before a duel. This time, someone was cut. Strakov arranged the attack order before he left.”

The president opened a gold cigarette case and offered one to Levchenko, who declined the smoke. Pushkin took his time flicking open a lighter and inhaling, then carefully blowing a smoke ring that hung in the air. “We have received the expected protests, and have denied that the plane was on any hostile mission. The pilot simply did not know where he was because the Finns jammed his communication. When attacked, he defended himself. I have instructed our people to file a protest of our own, claiming the so-called neutral Finns should have helped rather than luring him in and opening fire without cause. The boy will get a nice posthumous medal.”

“He did an excellent job. Sacrifices have to be made at times.” The general took out his personal electronic tablet and scanned some sites before speaking again. “Now the Ivonov scheme projects that NATO will retaliate somewhere in the region.”

Pushkin agreed. “Yes. From what I know of President Thompson, he will do something. The fact that it happened in Finland was a wonderful touch, because NATO cannot claim that any of its members were attacked.”

“The more fog and confusion we sow, the better,” the general said. “I expect the response will be something in proportion to the flea bite in Finland. But it will open the door for us to respond even harder. According to Strakov, everything should be ready in time for Sunday’s election in Narva.”

“Good, good, good.” The president was enjoying this. The Western democracies were terrified that a situation similar to the Ukraine would bloom in April like a noxious weed, and Russian troops would once again be on the move. They were right, but didn’t yet know it. “How is Ivanov himself?”

“According to our sources in Brussels, he is living very well. They even let him go shopping. American newspapers and television are covering him.”

“And he really thinks he will be able to escape when the time comes?”

“Mr. President, the man is a dare-devil and understands the risks. The plan is for the FSB to kidnap a high-ranking American of some sort, maybe a businessman or even a diplomat, this weekend and hold him to create a prisoner-swap scenario for Ivanov’s freedom at the proper time.”

Pushkin liked that plan. He had used the strategy before.

Levchenko continued, “One thing you should also know is that he obtained the presence of the American sniper that he wanted, a psychotic criminal named Kyle Swanson, to begin the interviews. He gave Swanson the Armata systems at bait. Ivanov now has them all dancing to his tune.”

“And how go the election preparations? Is that all in place?”

“Under tight control, sir. We will have a mayor and a majority of the council in our pockets after the vote. Democracy will rule in Narva, and we will be permitted to do whatever we wish!” He relished the irony of using the freedom of the vote to lead a revolution.

“That’s it, then?”

“Everything is there for now, sir. The plan is on schedule. My army is returning to the barracks after Phase One of Operation Hermitage and getting ready to launch Phase Two right after the election. I should be getting back to St. Petersburg now before they start thinking I’ve been imprisoned in the Lubyanka or sent off to some corrective colony for my sins. General Pavel Sergeyev will be disappointed that I have not.”

President Pushkin rose along with General Levchenko and this time, the two men awkwardly hugged. “Please stay on top of this, Valery Ivanovich. We want Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania back, and the Ivanov plan gives us the best chance to bring them home without starting the incident. For diplomatic reasons, we must not fire the first shot. But once someone else shoots, be ready to strike hard and get across that border in such force as to make NATO think twice about responding. Now, go.” He motioned toward the door, and the colonel general departed, masking his satisfaction with a dour look of gloom.

The hardest thing for the CIA’s deputy director of clandestine operations to do was nothing. Marty Atkins had set in motion the immense intelligence-gathering resources of the United States government and his main task now was not to meddle. Thousands of the smartest people on the planet were shaking the trees to see what might fall out.

They did not know exactly what they were looking for, but they were specialists. The Russians had screwed up an airspace invasion over Finland and orders had come down to examine anything out of the ordinary in their respective sectors. Not only was NATO fully involved, but so were assets in Asia, Latin America and even the Middle East. It was time to make a statement to Moscow. The messenger had been chosen. All that was needed was an appropriate target.

Every shred they could find was considered, the Internet clouds were combed, the NSA monitoring was scanned, and that harvested mass of human and signals intelligence was then winnowed, either trashed or funneled up to the next level. Step by step, the best of the possibilities crept up the ladder until it was on the CIA desks of Atkins’s two top assistants. Stew Willenson, the square-shouldered military veteran, and prim and precise Agatha Brice watched like a pair of hawks, sometimes asking for more information on a topic, but discarding most of it out of hand. Nothing fit.

With his machine humming, Marty Atkins took advantage of a rare opportunity to escort his wife out to dinner at a nice seafood restaurant in Baltimore. They spent Wednesday night enjoying themselves with lobster and white wine and an excellent, romantic hotel. Marty had left orders that he was not to be contacted unless the White House was under direct assault by at least a regiment of enemy ground forces. He would be back on the clock tomorrow morning.

Stew and Aggie labored all night and lashed their troops to get this thing done. There had to be something out there that fit the established parameters. They did not know what it was, but would when they saw it. And they revealed no details to the others who were supporting them, mindful of the final instruction from Atkins that the word “secret” in this case meant exactly that. There was a suspected leak somewhere, and the fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. Within the Central Intelligence Agency, that included only Atkins, Brice and Willenson. The director himself, a political appointee, was not in the loop.

Aggie had gone to the cafeteria for a sugar-and-caffeine fix about dawn, and when she returned to her office, Stew was waiting for her with a big grin on his face. “What?” she said, placing her warm onion bagel smeared with cream cheese on her desk.

“I think our boys and girls have nailed it.” He was drumming his fingers on his big knee.

“Where?” She slid into her chair and put on her glasses when he handed her the note.

“It’s in Russia, but not the big, real Russia. The target is just across the southwestern border of Lithuania, in the Kaliningrad Oblast.” He pushed over a printout of the region. Kaliningrad was a small country of less than a million people, sandwiched in a triangle between Lithuania to the east and Poland to the south. To the north lay the Baltic Sea. “Easier for our team to get in and out.”

“What is the target, Stew?”

“Why, Aggie, my dear, we are going to crash a birthday party.”

Kyle Swanson was a firm believer in the six-P sniper mantra that “Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance” and left as little to chance as possible, because something was always going to go wrong on a mission, and usually at the worst possible time. Without good planning, however, you didn’t have a prayer. He had been aboard the yacht when Sir Geoffrey Cornwell arrived early on Thursday afternoon. The old man looked good, although still very unsteady on legs that had been smashed during a terrorist attack on his castle in Scotland several years ago. The brilliant mind, though, remained as sharp as ever.

“You should not be here,” Kyle scolded the chairman and chief executive officer of Excalibur Enterprises once Jeff was made comfortable in the spacious salon.

“Pat sends her love. She chose to stay at home,” said Jeff. Lady Patricia, Sir Jeff and Kyle were the sum of a peculiar process in which three adults who had no one else had decided to create a family amongst themselves. Swanson was the adopted son. “She also told me to remind you to stop getting into trouble, get married and present us with scads of lovely grandchildren.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” If he lived long enough, Swanson would be the sole heir to what had become a sizable fortune. Cornwell had created a weapons development company after he was forced to retire for medical reasons from the Special Air Services, in which he was a colonel. He broke a leg during a training jump and it did not heal enough for the SAS doctors to risk him doing it again. His little company came of age as the big dollars flowed in the War on Terror, and the springboard to that success was the mighty sniper rifle known as the Excalibur. While recovering from a wound of his own, Swanson had been loaned to Cornwell by the Marine Corps to help develop the state-of-the-art weapon, and the strong relationship with Pat and Jeff grew from there. Once the company became a known quantity in defense contracting circles, Cornwell discovered a genius for business in a variety of fields and the business was now worth billions. Kyle Swanson was executive vice president when he wasn’t operating in the dark world as a master sharpshooter for the CIA.

“We have a guest for dinner tonight, Kyle,” Cornwell said. “My friend Freddie is flying over to be with us.”

Swanson almost choked on his drink. “The same little shit who threatened to blackmail us out of business if I didn’t do what he wanted?”

“The very one,” Jeff replied genially. “Time to mend some fences, eh? And you will be polite and will not refer to General Sir Frederick Ravensdale, the deputy supreme allied commander of NATO in Europe, as a little shit. At least not to his face.”

Swanson lifted his beer. “Gee, Pops, do I have to?”

“Yes. Now that I’m settled aboard, please call in the SAS boys and that lovely dark-haired creature that I saw them orbiting about on deck. I assume that is your Miss Kallasti. Patricia will be quite pleased when I send a photograph, and she may start thinking about wedding gowns again.”

“Oh, Jesus, your wife has problems. I suggest we place her in an assisted-living facility.”

Sar’nt Stanley Baldwin and Corporal Grayson Perry had known Cornwell only as a legend within their elite unit, and that cemented them as friends from the first handshakes. Anneli stayed close to Kyle, shy in the presence of a man of such obvious wealth and power, but Jeff smashed that barrier within minutes. The waitress from Estonia was soon laughing with the rest of them. Cornwell told a naughty story about a new member of Parliament.

The captain of the Vagabond, Trevor Dash, leaned into the cabin and motioned Kyle outside. “You have an urgent contact from Langley,” he said.

The private, encrypted call from Marty Atkins did not take very long, since it was just a broad overview. Swanson confirmed that the secure computer was ready to receive a large data dump, and it lofted over the Atlantic Ocean in an incredibly short time, for the yacht’s comm suite was totally compatible with the machines in Virginia. Soon, Kyle was calling portions up on the screen while the large printer in the corner spat out page after page. It did not take long to understand that this was a big-league mission that reached far beyond a diplomatic protest note. He liked it, although he knew nothing about the country called Kaliningrad.

A Russian general named Victor Mizon was getting his second star and being bumped up from a deputy chief of the Border Service of Kaliningrad to be a first deputy head of the service. By coincidence, the promotion would become effective next week on his birthday, during a final tour of his field command. A party was being arranged in his honor at a small border camp south of the city of Nesterov, a base where the general had once served as a mere lieutenant.

With bureaucratic efficiency, it was known as FSB Artillery Camp 8351 on Moscow lists, and as Rooster Cap Nowak in NATO, which used computer-generated code names. It lay almost right on the boundary between Kaliningrad and Lithuania, and was only a stone’s throw from Poland. That corner emplacement was protected by a battery of 120mm heavy mortars, with a range of sixteen miles, artillery pieces that were capable of lobbing high-explosive rounds into two adjoining countries.

A heavy forest and swamp lay along Lake Vištytis, which stretched toward Lithuania. A road network that fed through the border camp junction showed routes all the way to Poland. Swanson made another note. Doing a sniper hit was one thing; extracting was a different ball game. The entire operation was going to be dicey. Difficult, but he still liked it. It was a straight, sweet and simple retaliation for a Russian attack that had claimed the lives of eight soldiers plus the Russky pilot.

He continued reading, growing more fascinated with each page. Another factor was the quality of the unit there. Once, such a place had been staffed by mere border guards with a couple of machine guns, but in recent years, the duty had been wrapped into the Federal Security Service, the FSB, which indicated an upgraded level of militarized training. The background papers showed it was no isolated independent operation of the state. It now belonged to Russia’s huge Western Military District, which was based in St. Petersburg; in other words, it was part of the Russian army. No FSB general, not even one with personal alumni links, would bother to inspect a mere wide spot in the road where guards checked the papers of truck drivers. There were real soldiers there. It was something else to put in the mix.

When the computer downloads and printouts were finished, he momentarily studied a file photo of the target, then shifted the data to a flash drive, wiped the secured memory and locked everything in a safe. He was astonished to realize that more than two hours had passed since he had entered the room, and also that he needed a shower. The smell of stale sweat might hint that he was under pressure. It was nothing that a bar of soap and some hot water could not cure. Never let ’em see you sweat, he thought, and hurried to his cabin.

His personal warrior ethos did not allow him to quibble with what was, at its root, an assassination order. Marty Atkins had told him that it had been cleared to the top, which Kyle knew meant it had been stamped by the White House. That was enough for him.