Price of Duty

NINETEEN

Snow fell out of a lead-gray sky, slowly covering the roads, woods, and fields around Voranava, a small town just thirteen kilometers south of the Lithuanian border. Spraying dirty brown slush behind them, a steady stream of trucks roared along the highway just outside the town. European Route 85 ran all the way from Lithuania to Greece.

A few blocks inside the town, two big semi-trailer trucks with Lithuanian license plates were parked outside a dreary apartment complex. A hand-lettered sign on the locked front door of the complex’s ramshackle community hall read zakryto dlya uborki, Closed for Cleaning.

Inside, a small group of hard-eyed, tough-looking men in civilian clothes lounged around the dingy interior. Three were playing cards. A fourth sat smoking a cigarette while idly polishing a wickedly sharp combat knife. The fifth man, their commander, Major Pavel Berezin, sat off at a table by himself. His hand rested on a secure cell phone.

They were members of Vympel, or Pennant, a Spetsnaz unit controlled by Russia’s FSB. Most Spetsnaz troops in Vympel were assigned to counterterrorist and nuclear-security missions. These five men were different. Highly trained and skilled in close-quarters combat, long-range marksmanship, explosives, and foreign languages, they formed a small elite team organized to conduct covert sabotage operations — both at home and abroad.

Berezin checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time in as many minutes. Were the higher-ups in Moscow getting cold feet? It wouldn’t be the first time that one of his nation’s political leaders, even a man as ruthless as President Gryzlov, aborted a high-risk operation right before it was due to kick off.

He scowled at the thought. A cancellation now would certainly improve his team’s chances of surviving the next couple of days, but it would also be enormously frustrating. He and his men were proficient at dealing out death and destruction, and they relished any chance to do so. Desk soldiers and rear-area jack-offs didn’t sign up with Vympel. His second in command, Captain Andrei Chirkash, sourly characterized these last-minute mission aborts as “whore farts.” “You’re all up and ready to go, right,” Chirkash would grumble. “But then, just as you start to get into your groove, she cuts a real stinker. And that’s the end of the match. No shot. No goal.”

The cell phone chirped twice, interrupting his gloomy thoughts. Berezin snatched it up. “Akrobat Odin. Acrobat One.”

“This is Inspektor Manezha, Ringmaster,” the gruff voice of Major General Kirill Glazkov, commander of the FSB’s V Directorate said. “Execute Mor Variant Six. Confirm.”

“I confirm Mor Variant Six,” Berezin said crisply.

“This mission is critical,” Glazkov said. “So make no mistakes, Pavel. Understand?”

“Da, ya ponimayu! Yes, I understand,” Berezin replied. “We are moving now. Acrobat out.” He powered down the phone and slid it into his rucksack. He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled. The sharp sound brought the rest of his team to their feet.

“Listen up!” Berezin told them. “The mission’s on. Everybody grab your gear and board the trucks.”

While the others slung their packs and moved toward the door, the Spetsnaz major pulled Chirkash aside. “If we get separated in traffic, Andrei, make sure you stick to the schedule, okay? The timing on this one is damned tight. We don’t have a lot of room for error.”

“So I understand,” his second in command replied. “But I hate relying on a bunch of long-haired komp’yutershchiks, geeks, this much,” he groused. “One little screw-up by those clowns could land us in the shit, buried up to our necks.”

Berezin grinned back at him. “It could, Andrei. And I don’t like depending on them either. Still, if you’ve seen the news, those techno-twerps are really handing the Poles and their little friends a high-tech ass-kicking.” His smile turned feral. “And pretty soon we’ll get to do the same thing, only the old-fashioned, up-close-and-personal way, eh?”

The conference room adjoining President Gennadiy Gryzlov’s office was crowded. His most senior national security advisers were there, including Sergei Tarzarov, his foreign minister; his occasional mistress Daria Titeneva; Viktor Kazyanov, the minister of state security; and Gregor Sokolov, his defense chief. They sat tensely in chairs arrayed around a large table while their most trusted aides lined the walls.

Gryzlov himself prowled back and forth, too full of energy to sit idly while waiting for the news from Belarus. A small part of him also enjoyed observing the worried faces of Titeneva, Sokolov, and the others as they swiveled back and forth, following his every move. Good God, he thought in cold contempt, they were like frightened sheep watching a lean and hungry wolf circling closer and closer.

A soft chime sounded from somewhere among his uneasy cabinet ministers. Gryzlov stopped pacing.

Viktor Kazyanov gulped and grabbed at the desktop computer set on the table in front of him. For a moment, he stared down at the message it displayed. Then, clumsily, he typed in an acknowledgment.

“Well?” Gryzlov demanded.

“That was Glazkov,” Kazyanov stammered. “He confirms that Operatsiya Mor Variant Six is under way. His Spetsnaz team is on the move.”

Gryzlov nodded calmly. “Very good, Viktor.” His gaze sharpened. “Are Koshkin’s people ready?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the other man confirmed.

Satisfied, Gryzlov dropped into his own chair. He looked down the length of the conference table, studying the sea of nervous faces for a moment longer. Then he laughed. “For God’s sake, cheer up. You all look as though I’d just signed your death warrants.”

There was a moment of pained silence.

At last, Daria Titeneva spoke up. “We are worried, Mr. President, because this sudden escalation of Operatsiya Mor could easily jeopardize Russia’s interests and international reputation.”

“How so?” Gryzlov asked easily, still smiling.

She frowned. “Up to now, the cyberwar attacks Koshkin’s experts are conducting have been indirect and deniable. While others may suspect our involvement in these attacks on banking systems and electricity-supply networks across Eastern and central Europe, no one can prove it. But this Variant Six of yours is far more direct. If it goes wrong in any way—”

“Why assume that Berezin and his men will fail?” Gryzlov interrupted. “Why be so defeatist?” Titeneva flushed angrily.

“The foreign minister is merely pointing out the serious risks this gambit entails, Gennadiy,” Sergei Tarzarov said quietly. He leaned forward. “She is right to do so. So far, Koshkin’s viruses and malware infections have inflicted significant political and economic pain on our enemies. Best of all, they have done so without real cost to us. It is not defeatist to advocate continuing a successful strategy.”

Gryzlov waved the older man’s warning away. “Bah!” he scoffed, staring around the table. “You all make the same mistake. As usual, you confuse tactics and strategy.”

Tarzarov’s lips thinned, a sure sign of irritation.

Gryzlov smiled. So there is still a man alive in there, after all, he thought in amusement. Sergei may present that withered mask and dry pedant’s voice to the world at large… but prick him, and he bleeds.

Seeing the confusion on their faces, he sighed. Sometimes it was maddening to realize how dense and unimaginative even those closest to him could be. “Koshkin’s viruses are a tactic,” Gryzlov explained, with mock patience. “They are only one means to an end. Nothing more. Already it is clear that the damage they do is only temporary. Besides, as the Poles and other nations increase their Internet and computer security — with the help of these Scion mercenary specialists — the effectiveness of our hacking attacks will rapidly diminish.” He pointed at Tarzarov. “Tell me, Sergei… what are we trying to achieve with this cyberwar campaign?”

“The destruction of this Polish-led alliance,” the older man replied tonelessly.

“Precisely!” Gryzlov snapped. Suddenly he slammed his fist down on the table, rattling water glasses. Sokolov and Kazyanov turned pale. Titeneva and Tarzarov were made of sterner stuff… they barely flinched. “This war is not about screwing around with Polish bank accounts or turning off the lights in Warsaw, Budapest, and Riga. Our strategic aim is to smash the so-called AFN to pieces. And then, with Piotr Wilk and his fascist cliques tossed on the ash heap of history, we will be free to reclaim our traditional dominance over Eastern and central Europe.”

Tarzarov frowned. “We do not question your objectives, Gennadiy. Only the hazards you seem willing to run in pursuit of those ends.”

“All war involves danger,” Gryzlov retorted. “And in the end, those who are too afraid to act boldly still die — only without any lasting accomplishment or reward.” He glared around the table. “This is the time to strike harder. For this brief instant, the Poles and their allies are teetering on the brink of panic and political collapse. Which means this is the moment to push them off the cliff.”

Slowly, halfheartedly, Tarzarov and the others nodded.

Even their reluctant consent would suffice, Gryzlov decided. But for now it would probably be best to keep the rest of his plans to himself. The revelation that Operatsiya Mor was only the first step in an even more complicated, daring, and dangerous scheme would undoubtedly terrify them.

Snug in his heated kiosk, state border guard Sergeant Edvardas Noreika looked up at the dark, overcast sky. Snow flurries swirled down and danced across the highway and surrounding woods, sent spinning by a bitterly cold east wind. The weather was turning ugly fast, he thought. Thank God, the powers that be in Vilnius had put restoring electricity to Lithuania’s border checkpoints at the top of their priority list. But the local villagers, including his own family, were in for a long, brutal cold stretch.

A chime sounded, signaling the arrival of the next two vehicles in his queue. He looked up. Both were long semi-trailer trucks with Lithuanian plates. The camera set up outside his kiosk flashed twice, capturing a digital image of each truck’s license plate. Using his computer, Noreika checked the numbers against his booking list. They matched.

To cut down on the traffic congestion that plagued Lithuania’s border checkpoints, especially those with Belarus, the government had instituted a system that allowed truckers and other drivers to book a scheduled crossing time. The automated system even allowed certain vehicles, those registered to precleared Lithuanian businesses and corporations, to avoid the usual customs inspections and paperwork.

Sergeant Edvardas Noreika loved the system since it cut back on much of the dull, routine paperwork that used to bog down every shift. Preclearances also allowed the station’s border guards, along with their customs-department colleagues, to focus more closely on foreign-owned cars and trucks and those that they suspected might belong to smugglers and other criminals.

A large green checkmark appeared next to each license-plate image on his computer display. Both trucks had passed the preclearance process. He tapped a key, sending the captured imagery to the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of the Interior in Vilnius. Then he slid open the window of his kiosk, shivering in the sudden blast of cold air, and waved the semitrailers on through.

As the first truck rolled slowly past, Noreika greeted the driver with a grin. “Sveiki namo, vaikinai. Welcome home, guys. How was Greece?”

The trucker, a tough-looking man in a leather jacket, laughed. “Too sunny for my taste.” He gestured at the snow now falling more heavily. “Who could resist our glorious winters?”

“Me, for one!” Noreika joked. Then, with a final wave, he slid his window shut and turned back to check the next vehicles waiting up in his queue.

A couple of minutes later, his computer crashed — freezing in midscreen as it exchanged data with the central government network in Vilnius. “Šūdas. Crap,” he muttered. He switched the signal light outside his kiosk to red and got on the phone.

“The whole system is down, Sergeant,” his superior told him, sounding harried. “Vilnius says a huge denial-of-service attack just knocked out most of our servers. What’s worse is there’s also some kind of computer virus loose in the database. It’s already erased all the information we collected today.”

Noreika whistled. What a mess. “How long will it take to get the system back up?”

“God only knows,” the other man said. “Not anytime today, that’s for sure.”

“Sweet Christ,” Noreika muttered. “What do I do in the meantime? I’ve got one mother of a lot of trucks stacking up along the highway.”

“You pull on your jacket and gloves, Sergeant,” his supervisor growled. “And then you leave your nice cushy kiosk and do your job the way you were trained, with a logbook, a pencil, your brain, and your eyes.”

In all the confusion over the next several hours, it never occurred to Edvardas Noreika to connect the two big semi-trailer trucks he’d cleared through his control point with the malware infection raising hell in Vilnius.

A couple of kilometers up the road, Spetsnaz lieutenant Mikhail Kuritsyn checked the text he’d just received. He glanced across the cab at the driver, Major Pavel Berezin. “Ringmaster confirms the Vilnius network is down, sir.”

“Khorosho. Good,” the major said, keeping his eyes on the road. “It’s nice to know that Koshkin’s geeks managed to pull off phase one without stepping on their dicks.”

Kuritsyn nodded. He turned away, hiding a lopsided smile. Like Captain Chirkash, Berezin was a technophobe. The lieutenant suspected the major had never met a computer he didn’t want to put a bullet in.

Idly, he swiped at the truck cab’s passenger-side window. As the weather turned even colder, it was starting to fog up. His hand froze in midmotion.

They were driving through a narrow belt of forest. There, in among the trees, he could see tracked vehicles parked under camouflage netting. They were American-made M113 armored personnel carriers. Several dozen soldiers in winter camouflage parkas were gathered around tiny field stoves, heating food or boiling water to make tea or coffee.

“Don’t look now, but we have company, Major,” Kuritsyn murmured.

“Relax, Mikhail,” Berezin said. “Our friends out there belong to the Grand Duchess Birutė Uhlan Battalion.” He chuckled. “They’re deployed to protect Lithuania against an invasion by those dastardly Russians.”

“The ones who wear uniforms, you mean,” Kuritsyn said, matching the major’s sarcastic tone. “Not like us.”

“Invade Lithuania? Us? Perish the thought, Lieutenant,” Berezin said with a grin. “Remember, we’re just passing through.”

Although it was still early afternoon, it was already getting dark. Bright arc lights gleamed ahead. They were coming up to the Polish border checkpoint. Headlights flickered dimly in the distance, showing long lines of cars and trucks backed up waiting for permission to enter Poland.

Berezin spun the wheel slightly, turning into the lane reserved for Polish-registered vehicles. Traffic there was moving, inching ahead in fits and starts. He and Chirkash had switched their Lithuanian license plates and registration documents for those from Poland not long after leaving Vilnius.

When they reached the head of the line, he rolled down his window and offered his papers to the young Polish Customs Service officer who’d flagged him over to her station. Her breath steamed around her as she jotted down information in a thick logbook. “When did you leave Vilnius?” she asked.

“This morning,” Berezin told her. “Right after breakfast.” He shook his head. “Man, things are screwed up on the Lithuanian side of the border. Their computers are down and it took us an hour to clear customs.”

She nodded. “The same thing’s going on here.” She shrugged. “It’s a good thing you’re Polish. We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.”

“I appreciate it,” the Spetsnaz major said. He jerked a thumb at Kuritsyn. “So does my nephew. He promised his girlfriend he’d be home in time for a late dinner.”

The customs officer pointed toward the long trailer behind their cab. “So what’s your load?”

“Furniture,” Berezin replied. “A consignment of oak desks, bed frames, and dining room sets.”

“Furniture? With this cold snap hitting and all the power outages, you might get a higher price selling it for kindling,” the young woman said with a bitter smile.

Berezin matched her expression. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“And what’s your destination today?” she asked, still taking notes.

“Warsaw.”

She nodded, handing back his papers. “Well, you should have an easy time of it from this point on. The snow’s not too bad yet, so the roads are still clear.”

With that, she waved them on through the checkpoint. Berezin pulled back onto the highway and drove south. Behind them, the truck driven by Andrei Chirkash pulled up to the same customs officer.

Sitting next to the major, Kuritsyn pulled out his secure cell phone and sent another short text, this one informing Ringmaster, Major General Glazkov, that they were proceeding toward their designated operational area.

Cruising at forty thousand feet, Kalmar Airlines Flight 851 flew onward over Russia at 490 knots. The Boeing 777-300ER was on a long-haul red-eye flight from Shanghai in the People’s Republic of China to Helsinki, Finland. A large majority of the hundred and fifty or so passengers aboard were Chinese business executives headed west to explore new investment opportunities or oversee existing ventures. More than six hours after takeoff, most of them and some of the flight attendants were dozing in their seats, lulled by the pervasive roar of the wide-body jet’s powerful twin GE90-115B turbofan engines.

Far off to the north, a few lights signaling the presence of small towns or cities dotted an otherwise pitch-black landscape. Apart from that, there was nothing to catch the attention of anyone peering down at the passing countryside. This part of Russia just west of the Urals was almost uninhabited — a vast region dominated by primeval forests and swampland.

In the cockpit, Captain Kaarle Markkula ran through a routine check of the engine readouts shown on the large color flat-panel LCD display set squarely in the middle of the instrument panel. Everything was normal.

To his right, First Officer Tuomas Saarela muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep, twisted awkwardly against his shoulder straps, and then drifted off again without ever really waking up. His mouth fell open as he snored.

Markkula shook his head in envy. Saarela was one of those lucky people who seemed able to fall asleep almost anywhere in the blink of an eye if given half a chance. Night flights were the younger man’s favorite, since their passengers only wanted to grab some shut-eye themselves. They never wanted or expected the usual running monologues from the flight deck that were the bane of most airline flight crews’ existence.

For one brief second, he was sorely tempted to take to the 777’s intercom. “On your right, you will see a vast expanse of nothing at all,” he could say. “And for those of you on the left side of the aircraft, you are fortunate enough to observe even more emptiness.”

Instead, the Kalmar Airlines captain once more busied himself with scanning through his instrument readouts and displays. He decided to let Saarela sleep until they were ready to begin their descent toward Helsinki. Since they were still almost nine hundred nautical miles out from the Finnish capital, that wouldn’t be for at least another ninety minutes or so.

What neither Kaarle Markkula nor anyone else aboard the 777 noticed was the large, twin-engine jet aircraft steadily closing on them from above and astern. Its navigation and running lights were off, rendering it almost invisible against the night sky.

The Tu-214R was Russia’s most advanced electronic intelligence aircraft. Bulges studded its fuselage, containing the sensors and antennas that allowed it to intercept, analyze, and record a wide range of enemy radars, radio transmissions, and other forms of communication.

For more than a week, its flight crew had practiced intercepting and flying undetected in ever-closer formation with a number of different foreign and domestic airliners traversing Russian airspace. But tonight’s mission was not another drill. This was the real thing.

Inside the Tu-214R’s darkened main cabin, two dozen Russian Air Force officers occupied the computer and electronic intelligence workstations lining the sides of the fuselage. Specially selected from among the top graduates of the Zhukov Air and Space Defense Academy in Tver, they were each expert in different fields of signals intelligence collection and analysis. None of them really understood why they were operating so far inside Russian airspace, where all they could detect were friendly radar emissions and radio and cell-phone traffic. Ordinarily, their aircraft flew intelligence-gathering missions along the periphery of potentially hostile nations — including flights that took them right up to the edge of American airspace.

Despite their curiosity, the Tu-214R’s regular crew avoided paying too much attention to the two men seated at a console close to the cockpit. Orders from the top were clear: showing excessive interest in these men or their work would earn the culprit a one-way transfer to a remote outpost above the Arctic Circle.

One of the pair appeared much younger than the other air-force officers around him. A mop of unkempt hair hung low over his wrinkled, ill-fitting flight suit. He sat hunched over a computer keyboard, peering intently at a series of numbers and characters scrolling up across his display. His companion, older and more polished, wore the twin-headed eagle shoulder flash of the FSB.

The young man hissed in annoyance. “The signal is still too weak. This is crap. I can’t work with static. I need a coherent data stream.” He glanced away from his screen. “Tell the pilot he needs to get closer, much closer.”

“I’m sure that Colonel Annenkov is doing his best, Stepan,” the other man said mildly.

“Well, his best right now isn’t damned well good enough,” the young man said irritably. “What’s the point of my wasting all this time riding around in this glorified sardine can if this jet jockey and his guys can’t do their jobs?” His voice rose higher. “If these air-force zeroes are too gutless to do what’s necessary, we should just return to base.”

“Calm down,” the FSB officer said, unruffled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He clicked his mike. “Colonel, this is Major Filatov.”

“Go ahead,” the pilot’s tense voice said in his headphones.

“Our specialist requests that you continue your approach. He needs a stronger signal from the target.”

“Does your pet komp’yutershchik want me to rip a hole in their fucking fuselage so he can just run a data cable into their flight-management computer?” Annenkov asked acidly.

Filatov permitted himself a pained smile. Acting as the intermediary between Koshkin’s hacker and the Tu-214R commander was never a pleasant task. In their own ways, both were highly skilled, but neither had much patience for anyone outside his respective closed fraternity. “I hope that will not prove necessary,” he said calmly.

Slowly, carefully, Annenkov edged closer to the unsuspecting 777, careful to stay slightly above the bigger jetliner to avoid hitting any wake turbulence.

Major Filatov listened to the conversation between Annenkov and his copilot as they maneuvered.

“Two hundred meters, sir.”

“Understood. Coming up a little on the throttles,” Annenkov replied, the strain evident in his voice.

The Tu-214R bucked, catching a minor curl of turbulence coming off the wide-body passenger jet’s wings.

“Airspeed now nine hundred twenty kilometers per hour. Range to target is one hundred fifty meters,” the copilot reported.

“Easing back on the throttles,” Annenkov said.

“Range now one hundred meters and holding.”

Suddenly the young computer hacker stabbed a finger at his display. Lines of code had flashed onto the screen. “Ah! There we go!” His fingers rattled across his keyboard.

“Can you break in?” Filatov asked.

The younger man sneered, still intent on his work. “This is not a movie, Major. There is no way to ‘break in’ to a computer system on the fly, merely by typing. What I’m doing is uploading a special hacking tool I developed for this mission. It’s a program designed to exploit weaknesses I’ve already identified in Kalmar’s security protocols.”

Filatov fought for patience. “Will this special tool of yours do the job?” he asked.

“It already has. I’m inside their system,” the hacker said smugly. “Their protocols were childish. That 777’s computer is predisposed to accept what it believes is navigational data from satellites.”

Triumphantly, he tapped a key. More lines of code scrolled across his display, too fast to read, and then disappeared. He swiveled to face his FSB handler with his arms folded across his chest. “Mission complete, Major.”

Filatov breathed out. He keyed his mic again and relayed the good news to the Tu-214R’s cockpit crew.

Gradually, the twin-engine Russian spy plane decreased its speed, falling farther and farther behind until it was a safe distance from the Kalmar Airlines passenger jet. Then it banked away, disappearing into the pitch-dark sky.