Mirror Image

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

For just over an hour, Sergei Orlov had been asleep in the chair at his desk— elbows on the armrests, hands folded on his abdomen, head slightly to the left. Though his wife didn't believe he'd actually disciplined himself to be able to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, Orlov insisted that it wasn't a talent he'd been born with. He said that when he first became an astronaut, he trained himself to snatch sleep in half-hour segments amid the long hours of training. More remarkable than that, he said he found what he called his "rest bits" nearly as refreshing over the course of a day as his normal six hours of sleep a night. And there was the added benefit that, instead of his energy and attention span flagging as the day went on, they remained high.

He could never work like Rossky, who needed to stay with his problems until he had wrestled them to the ground. Even now, with his night counterpart on duty, the Colonel was still at his post in the heart of the Center.

Orlov also found that daunting problems always seemed to make more sense after a short nap. During his last space flight, a joint mission with Bulgaria— and the first three-cosmonaut flight since the crew of Soyuz II suffocated in their spacecraft— Orlov and his two comrades had tried to dock their Soyuz ship with the Salyut 6 space station. When engine failure left the ship and the station on a collision course, mission control ordered Orlov to fire his backup rocket to return to earth immediately. Instead, he fired a short burst to back a safe distance away, shut off his headset, and rested for fifteen minutes— to the dismay of his crew. Then he used the backup engine to effect the docking. Though there was no longer enough fuel in the backup rocket to return to earth, once inside the space station Orlov was able to troubleshoot the main engine, repair the faulty circuit, and salvage the mission… and the self-respect of the mission team at the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Later, back on earth, Orlov was told the on-board echocardiograph had showed that his cardiovascular activity slowed and remained down after his rest. Thereafter, cosmonaut training included "power naps," though they didn't seem to work as well for other cosmonauts as they did for Orlov.

He never slept to escape what was happening in his life, though when Orlov was finally able to shut his eyes at 1:45 A.M., it felt good to file away the concerns of the moment. He was awakened at 2:51 when his assistant, Nina, buzzed to tell him he had a call from the Ministry of Defense. When Orlov got on, Marshal of Communications General David Ergashev informed him about the troops moving into Ukraine and asked the new Operations Center for help monitoring European communiqués about their activities. Stunned by the news and wondering if this was just a high-level test of the Center's capabilities— why else wouldn't he have been told? — Orlov passed the order to Radio Officer Yuri Marev.

Through fiber-optic links with satellite dish stations outside of St. Petersburg, and through their own special lines in the city's own telephone center, the Operations Center was designed to monitor all electronic communications between the field and the Defense Ministry. It was also capable of monitoring all types of communications in and out of the office of the Chief Marshal of Artillery, the Chief Marshal of the Air Force, and the Admiral of the Fleet. The Center's job was to make sure those lines of communication were not being monitored by outsiders. It could also be used as a centralized clearinghouse to disseminate information among other government agencies.

Or they could simply listen in.

Before hanging up with Marev, Orlov asked him to tap into the data coming into the Ministry of Defense from General Kosigan and the Chief Marshals' offices. Marev's answer caught him off guard.

"We're already doing that," Marev said. "Colonel Rossky ordered us to follow the troop movements."

"Where is the information going?" Orlov asked.

"To the central computer."

"Very good," Orlov said, recovering quickly. "See to it that the information comes directly to my screen as well."

"Yes, sir," Marev said.

Orlov turned to his computer monitor and waited. Damn Rossky, he thought. Either this was payback for their earlier dispute or Rossky was in this somehow— perhaps with his patron Dogin. But there was nothing he could do about it. As long as information was recorded in the Center's main computer, available for dispersal internally or among other agencies, Rossky was not obliged to report it to the General… even an event of this magnitude.

As he waited, Orlov tried to get a handle on the situation, starting with the stunning suddenness of Ukraine's request. Like many other officials, he had assumed the various maneuvers were President Zhanin's way of showing the world that he had not abandoned the military in favor of Western business. But now it was clear that the march into the former republic had been planned, and that that was the reason so many troops had been near the border or en route. But planned by whom? Dogin? And why? This wasn't a coup, and it wasn't a war.

The first data began coming in. Russian infantry was arranging to link up with Ukranian forces in Kharkov and Voroshilovgrad, yet these weren't joint maneuvers. The appreciative communication from President Vesnik had made that very clear.

What was equally surprising was the unexpected silence from the Kremlin. In the eighteen minutes since the troops had crossed the border, Zhanin had made no public statement about the event. By now, every Western embassy in Moscow would be drafting and hand delivering letters of concern.

Marev and his small team continued distilling raw data from the incoming communications. The numbers of people and machines being moved were staggering. But even more astonishing were some specifics of the deployment. To the west of Novgorod, near the Ukrainian Administrative Center of Chernigov, General Major Andrassy had set up a ten-kilometer line of artillery battalions in triangular support formation: two hundred meters of M-1973 and M-1974 howitzers with one kilometer between them and the next two-hundred-meter bank; nearly a kilometer behind them, in the center of the forward kilometer gap, was another two-hundred-meter spread of artillery. The guns were aimed at the White Russian border and were located close enough to be equipped with direct fire optical sights.

This was no test. These were preparations for war. And if they were, he was wondering how much Rossky— and by association, himself— were involved in them.

Orlov asked Nina to get Ministry of Security Director Rolan Mikyan on the phone. Orlov knew the erudite Mikyan from his Cosmodrome days, when the Azerbaijani— who held a doctorate in political science— was seconded from the GRU, the military intelligence agency, to head up security at the space facility. The two had met several times over the past year to work out ways of sharing intelligence and prevent duplication of effort. Orlov had found that while the years hadn't dulled Mikyan's commitment to Russia, the upheavals had made him cynical— due, he suspected, to a late-blossoming fondness for his native republic.

Nina found the Director at home, though he hadn't been sleeping.

"Sergei," said Mikyan, "I was about to call you."

"Did you know about Ukraine?" Orlov asked.

"We're intelligence heads. We know everything that's going on."

"You didn't, did you?" Orlov asked.

"We seem to have had an information gap in that area," Mikyan said. "A blind spot that was contrived by elements in the military, it would seem."

"Do you know that we have a hundred and fifty howitzers pointed at Minsk?"

"The night Director just informed me," Mikyan said.

"And aircraft from the carrier Murometz off Odessa have been flying along the Moldavian border, being very careful not to cross over."

"You've been at this longer than I have," Orlov said. "What's your reading?"

"Someone high up has masterminded a very top-secret operation. But don't feel bad, Sergei. It's caught a lot of people by surprise including, it appears, our new President."

"Has anyone spoken to him?"

"He's locked Away with his closest advisers now," Mikyan said. "Except for Interior Minister Dogin."

"Where is he?"

"Ill," Mikyan said, "at his dacha in the hills outside of Moscow."

"I spoke with him just a few hours ago," Orlov said disgustedly. "He was fine."

"I'm sure he was," Mikyan said. "Which should give you some idea about who masterminded this."

The phone beeped. "Excuse me," Orlov said to Mikyan.

"Wait," Mikyan said. "I've got to get to the Ministry, but first I was going to call because there's something you should consider. Dogin sponsored your facility in the Kremlin, and you went on-line shortly before the incursion. If the Minister is using the Operations Center to help run this thing, and he loses, you may be facing a firing squad. Crimes against the state, helping a foreign power—"

"I've just been thinking something like that myself," Orlov said. "Thanks, Rolan. We'll talk later."

When Mikyan hung up, Nina told Orlov that Zilash was on the line. The General switched to the interoffice line.

"Yes, Arkady?"

"General, Air Defense on Kolguyev Island reports that the Il-76T crossed over Finland to the Barents Sea and is now headed east."

"Do they have any idea where it's headed?"

"None, sir," said Zilash.

"A guess— anything?"

"Just east, sir. The plane is headed due east. But they said it could be a supply plane. We're using the 76Ts to ferry cargo from Germany, France, and Scandinavia."

"Did Air Defense try identifying it?" Orlov asked.

"Yes, sir. They're sending out the right signal."

That didn't mean anything, Orlov knew. The heat-emitting beacons placed in the noses of the planes were easy enough to build, buy, or steal.

"Has anyone talked to the 76T?" Orlov asked.

"No, sir," said Zilash. "Most of the transports are maintaining radio silence to keep the airwaves clear."

"Has Air Defense picked up outside communications with any other Russian aircraft?" Orlov asked.

"Not that we're aware of, sir."

"Thank you," Orlov said. "I'd like half-hour updates, even if nothing changes. And I want one thing more, Zilash."

"Yes, sir."

"Monitor and record any communications between General Kosigan and the Interior Ministry," Orlov said. "The regular phone lines as well as the General's private uplink."

The dead air lasted only a moment, though it seemed longer.

"You want me to spy on General Kosigan, sir?"

"I want you to follow my orders," Orlov replied. "I'll assume you were repeating them rather than questioning them."

"Yes, sir, I was, sir," said Zilash. "Thank you."

When Orlov hung up, he told himself he was wrong about the plane, that this was one of those drills the CIA occasionally ran to see how the Russians would react if they thought the crew of one of their planes or ships had become agents-in-place— operatives recruited to provide information about their own spheres of activity. There was nothing worse in any military confrontation than for commanders to start doubting the loyalty of their own troops.

But instinct argued against that, helped along by caution. Assuming the plane was from the U.S. or NATO, he considered possible destinations. If it were headed for the U.S., it would have gone over the Arctic or across the Atlantic. To reach the Far East, it would have used the air lanes in the south. He thought back to his last conversation with Rossky, and to the question that seemed to have only one answer. Why use a Russian plane unless they were planning to go somewhere in Russia? And where in eastern Russia could they possibly want to go?

That question, too, seemed to have only one answer, and Orlov didn't like it.

He punched in 22. A deep voice rumbled from the phone.

"Operations Support Officer Fyodor Buriba.

"Fyodor, this is General Orlov. Please contact Dr. Sagdeev at the Russian Space Research Institute and get me a summary of U.S. and NATO satellite activity from nine P.M. until one A.M. this morning, covering the area of eastern Russia between the Sea of Okhotsk and the Aldan Plateau, as far south as the Sea of Japan."

"At once," said Buriba. "Do you want just the prime coverage— global positioning system reports and the times the data was downloaded, or do you also want the electro-optical sensor reports, isoelectric focus—"

"Prime coverage will be enough," Orlov said. "When you have that, correlate the data with the time the goods were transferred from the Gulfstream to the train in Vladivostok and see whether any of the satellites might have seen it."

"Yes, sir."

Buriba hung up, and Orlov sat back and gazed up at the black ceiling. Albert Sagdeev's Office of Space Debris Reconnaissance at the Russian Space Research Institute had been established to track the increasing numbers of discarded boosters, abandoned spacecraft, and dead satellites orbiting the earth and presenting real hazards for space travelers. But in 1982 its staff of five was doubled and it was also charged with clandestinely studying U.S., European, and Chinese spy satellites. Sagdeev's computers were tied to uplinks across the nation, and watched whenever the satellites transmitted data. Though most of it was digitally scrambled and couldn't be reconstructed, at least the Russians knew who was watching what and when.

It was conceivable— no, likely, the more Orlov thought about it— that the increase of Russian troop movements over the past few days would have caused the U.S. and Europe to keep a closer eye on military facilities like the naval base in Vladivostok. And in so doing, they may have seen the transfer of the crates from the jet to the train.

But why should that attract enough attention to send a plane after it? he wondered. Especially when the train could be watched from space, if all the U.S. or Europe wanted to do was follow it.

If the plane intended to meet the train, it would probably want to spend as little time over Russian territory as possible. That meant an approach from the east, which gave his son anywhere from ten to fourteen hours to prepare.

Still, it was a dangerous undertaking for whoever was running the 76T, and the question remained. Why would anyone bother?

Despite all that was going on, Orlov knew he had to find out why the cargo was so important. He knew there was only one way to do that.