Long Shot

26

Colonel General Valery Levchenko of the Western Military District was amused by the worry in the voice of his superior officer, Pavel Sergeyev, chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation. Pavel was scared.

Levchenko lit a cigarette and carefully blew out a ring of smoke that went almost to the ceiling of his office before being shredded by the air-conditioning drafts. “We cannot say that something like this attack was unexpected,” he told the man in Moscow. “Some snipers took out Victor Mizon and his security chief and got away. It was a very professional operation. I admire professionalism.”

“Is it true that we were warned in advance? Why wasn’t something done? Why wasn’t I told?” Sergeyev hardly knew Mizon, but that was beside the point.

“Yes,” replied Levchenko. “My people received and passed along a very vague warning that had taken its own sweet time coming through the security service pipeline. You should ask the FSB why you were not copied on the message.” He decided to dig at his superior a bit more. “If Moscow had been more alert, that message could have made a difference.”

General of the Army Sergeyev was provoked by the haughty attitude of General Levchenko in St. Petersburg. “Never mind that. A Russian general has been murdered!”

“He was only a fucking border cop, Pavel. You can promote another deserving soldier to fill that empty desk in Moscow.”

Sergeyev huffed, “I remind you that this happened in the Western District, not in Moscow. Your territory and your responsibility, General Levchenko.”

If that was a threat, it failed. Levchenko actually laughed, and the sound rattled in the ear of Sergeyev. “Actually, I do wish they had picked some other general, but the snipers did not ask for my choice of targets. We all knew that something was coming because of the MiG attack on Finland. This was it. Now it’s our turn again. Time to move on.”

“I shall confer with President Pushkin this afternoon about overall strategy along the border.” In his mind, Sergeyev remembered how his arrogant subordinate had only recently been raked over the coals personally by the president. This incident would further undermine the man’s reputation.

“Do not bother yourself with that, General Sergeyev. My staff is already taking the steps necessary and will suggest an appropriate response to President Pushkin. And forget about young General Mizov, sir. Let it go. Think of it as if he died in battle, and give him a medal if it will make you feel better. I have this matter under control.” He hung up before the old man could respond. Levhenko thought that Russia could use a few more dead generals.

Swanson slept as hard as a flop-eared hound, snoring on his back. Occasionally, he scratched at the leg bandage. Someone looking at the slender warrior would have thought this was a man at peace, although the closed eyelids twitched with the rapid eye movement going on. His brain was firing in overdrive.

One and one always equal two, he thought, while sound asleep. Always. No. In some computer languages, one and one equal only another one, because twos do not exist in those codes that open and close microscopic electronic gates. Therefore, nothing is truly absolute. Something did not add up.

Kyle had been anticipating an ugly dream visit by the Boatman, for those brief unconscious confrontations were his way of dealing with his post-traumatic stress. He had killed a man today, and had lost a good friend who had traded her life for his. Swanson had been on too many battlefields not to know that shit happens out there. A rise in terrain, a slip on a rock, the turn of a head can make all the difference between getting hit and being safe once the shooting starts. That was what happened with Anneli. She zigged when she should have zagged. It could just as easily have been Kyle in a body bag tonight.

So he was making peace with her passing from this life, for it was not his fault. It was the fault of some anonymous Russian soldier who dropped the mortar shell into its tube and sent it zooming off to explode above the trail. In that linear sense, one and one still made two. Swanson ground through the entire mission, start to finish, over and over, and the answer was always the same. Something was not right about it. He did not know the answer, and that nagging, unanswered question itched worse than the stitches on his leg.

The general’s mistress was not doing her job, in the opinion of several staff members and office workers. General Ravensdale was moody and waspish when he should have been bright and cheerful. There was trouble in paradise, they gossiped, but it was probably nothing that could not be cured by some little blue pills. Erectile dysfunction was a serious issue for a couple in that age bracket. The staff fervently hoped things would improve over the weekend.

Senior members knew that Ravensdale had a lot more on his mind than romping with rich widow Arial Printas. They had been briefing him throughout the day about the new border incident in Kaliningrad, and with updates on the interrogation of Colonel Ivan Strakov. That was being transcribed almost as fast as the Russian spoke, and the comments were distributed with top-secret classification among the NATO member nations. The general had every right to be concerned.

As bothersome as the dire predictions was the total absence of information about who killed the Russian general. The why was pretty plain, although unspoken. Ravensdale knew the name of the shooter, but pretended he did not. The intelligence community trying to track the event got very little help from London or Washington. The NATO deputy commander was impressed and surprised that the secret had held because Swanson had struck in Kaliningrad only hours after the dinner aboard the yacht. The sniper escaped without a trace.

By the time the cobalt sky faded into drifting and heavy clouds that edged toward the city like a soggy warning, the general had vigorously pursued his official functions. Through private meetings and encrypted telephone communication, Ravensdale insisted that the startling new data being revealed by the Russian defector required immediate action, almost radical. NATO troops, insisted the British general, had simply been caught too far out of position and too engaged in other places when the true threat was growing in the north.

The Russians were being totally bellicose up there, and had even threatened to point nuclear missiles at Danish warships if Denmark became a part of the NATO antimissile shield. Article V of the NATO charter clearly stated that an attack on one member would be considered an attack on all twenty-eight nations. Ravensdale was forceful and eloquent as he pointed out that Sweden and Finland were non-members and could not be counted as full allies. They might even open the gates to the troops of Moscow rather than try to repel them. The prudent thing to do, he argued, would be to immediately start shifting NATO forces into the region. Prove to Moscow, Helsinki and Stockholm that the North Atlantic Treaty Organization would do whatever was necessary to protect its northeastern flank.

He finally left the office at ten o’clock Saturday night for a late dinner with Arial Printas at Aux Armes de Bruxelles. The tall man looked tired, but his companion was radiant. She had mussels and he nibbled at a medium-rare steak, with wines both red and white. There was little conversation. Afterward, they took a stroll along the Beenhouwersstraat.

“I tried to warn you about that attack,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you stop it?”

Arial rolled her eyes. “Oh, that. It was sent through the usual channels, Frederick. We did all we could from this end.”

“A general was killed.”

“General. Sergeant. Lieutenant. What does it matter? Forget it.” She slid her arm into his. “Why did you call me tonight? I thought you were angry.”

Ravensdale took his time before answering. “We have a problem, and I have a solution.”

“Tell me,” she said. She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and he did not recoil. Something had him excited.

“I was informed this afternoon that Colonel Thomas Markey, the American who is interviewing Ivan Strakov, is drafting a report that will cast doubt on the defector’s story. Markey does not believe the scary scenario that Strakov is painting.”

“When will this report go out?”

“Probably not until Monday. They were interviewing all day, and then Markey flew back to his home in Tallinn for the weekend.”

“Will his report have an impact?”

“Yes. It could block everything, for Markey is well respected in the cyberwar field. For instance, he will challenge Strakov’s claim that Russia has fielded an advanced computer system known as ‘Eyeglasses’ that could alter the balance of power.”

“I know nothing about computers.”

“Well, Strakov describes it as a secret optical system that is superfast. Faster than anything the West has operational. Markey calls it bullshit and doesn’t believe any such thing has been developed. He plans to show that the Eyeglass system, even if it exists, has been rendered obsolete by the research being done into neurocomputers and artificial intelligence.”

“Hmmm.” Noncommital. She bumped his hip slightly. Again, he did not pull away.

“Those new machines — ours — are being designed to think more like a human brain, and to actually learn from themselves as they go along.”

“Never mind. I understand the point. This Markey person therefore presents a danger, and that is the problem. You said you had a solution for it, too.” She brought them to a halt in the shadow of a wall, pulled him close and gave him a kiss.

“I want a deal first,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I have persuaded the allies to start pulling forces away from the Baltics and into the Arctic, which is what you really wanted. I will continue to support Strakov, although he is getting too cocky and careless. So in exchange for this solution, I want your people to leave me alone in the future. If I pursue things any harder, I will draw unwanted attention. Let me finish this and retire in peace.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against the stone wall. “I agree, Sweetheart.”

Ravensdale’s heart jumped when he heard the soft endearment.

“You advanced the cause nicely. After tonight, we can be done. If you wish. What is this solution?”

“We give Colonel Markey something more important to worry about than Ivan Strakov. I have learned that his wife, Janice, is the CIA station chief in Estonia. If something unfortunate should befall her this weekend, the colonel will forget all about writing his report.”

“Hah.” Arial Printas laughed aloud and crinkled her nose as soft raindrops began to sprinkle. “I love the way you analyze things so brilliantly, Freddie. Let’s get a taxi.”

The general was going to have a good night. Arial would make a private call and pass along the information as soon as they reached the hotel. This time, the message would rocket along to the intended recipients. Even clerks would understand its importance. Instead of wanting to kill her, Ravensdale now just wanted her.

Combined Task Force 10 was created with great urgency within the Pentagon and its British military equivalent located at Northwood, in a suburb of London. With not a moment to waste, CTF 10 was hammered into shape, only on paper for the moment, but those papers would kick-start a massive movement of men and machines. It was a huge organization that would draw naval power from ships from the U.S. Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean, the Second Fleet in the Atlantic and the Royal Navy in the North Sea. The initial land force, with the power of a full corps, would be provided by the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force and their brethren in the Royal Marines. Land-based NATO units from around the region would redeploy to Denmark.

With the U.S. Army Central Command tied down in the Middle East, a new command headquarters would be opened at the Northwood facilities in Eastbury, Hertfordshire. The major problem as seen by both Washington and London was that there would be inevitable friction between the United States military establishment, NATO and the civilian governments of non-members Finland and Sweden. An overall commander with great experience and a diplomatic touch was needed, and it should not be an American.

While he slept peacefully beside Arial Printas in her hotel suite after enjoying the best sex he had had in ten years, General Sir Frederick Ravensdale, GCB, GBE, DSO, the deputy supreme allied commander of NATO in Europe, was promoted to lead the new military force being created to counter the threatening Russian moves in the Arctic.