Price of Duty

PROLOGUE

Wrapped in stillness and silence for over three hundred million years, the mountain’s vast inner recesses now echoed with the measured clatter of boots and echoing voices. Construction units, laboring around the clock for months in brutal conditions, had carved out an intricate network of tunnels and connected chambers — piercing layers of solid rock already ancient when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards, Gennadiy Gryzlov strode briskly along a brightly lit passage, heading deeper into the warren called Perun’s Aerie by its makers. He found the word choice entirely apt. Perun was the old Slavic god of war, fire, and mountains, famed for hurling lightning from clouds like those that so often shrouded the jagged, icy peak soaring two thousand meters above their heads.

Sentries in thick overcoats and fur hats snapped to attention as Gryzlov passed, presenting arms with a flourish and the click of highly polished boots. With thinly veiled amusement, the forty-two-year-old president of the Russian Federation glanced at the shorter man stolidly keeping pace with him. “Colonel Balakin’s soldiers appear disciplined and alert, Koshkin. I trust you can say the same about your Q Directorate people?”

Major General Arkady Koshkin nodded. “Yes, Mr. President, I can,” he said confidently. His mouth twisted in a slight smile. “While I admit that the dress and mannerisms of my komp’yutershchiks, my tech geeks, are sometimes a bit eccentric, their expertise and ingenuity are remarkable. The weapons they are forging for us prove this beyond question.”

Like most senior officers in Russia’s Federal Security Service (the FSB), Koshkin wore civilian clothing rather than a service uniform. Eyes bright with intelligence and ambition gleamed behind thick spectacles. Long ago, he had concluded that cyberwarfare — the use of computer technology as a means to attack and disrupt the vital infrastructure of an enemy power — was the next true revolution in military affairs. Facing skepticism and hostility from slower-witted and more conventionally minded superiors, he had worked for years to win converts among the ranks of his nation’s rising political leaders.

Now those tireless efforts were coming to fruition. He had been given command of a new and highly secret unit within the FSB. Organized at Gryzlov’s personal orders, Q Directorate was responsible for all covert cyberwar action conducted beyond Russia’s borders.

They came to an intersection and turned right, ending up at a solid steel door. Koshkin pressed his palm against a biometric panel. The door swung open, revealing an enormous room crowded with racks of computers and other electronic equipment.

Flat-panel displays dominated the chamber’s walls. Power conduits and fiber-optic cables snaked their way toward a large bare patch in the middle of the tiled floor.

Gryzlov swung around, taking it all in. He nodded toward the open space. “That’s where your supercomputer will go?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Koshkin said. “It’s a new T-Platforms machine, faster and more powerful than any of their previous designs. The unit will be installed, tested, and fully operational in a matter of weeks.”

“Very good,” Gryzlov said. “What about the rest of your infrastructure?”

“Mostly complete,” Koshkin assured him. He took out a tablet computer and tapped its small screen. One of the large wall displays flickered to life, showing a detailed, three-dimensional schematic of the Perun’s Aerie complex. A chamber deep in the heart of the facility glowed green. “All internal and external power needs are met by a compact 171-megawatt KLT-40M naval nuclear reactor. As a result, this complex is, effectively, entirely off the grid, connected to the outside world only by deeply buried and highly secure communications links.”

The Russian president nodded. He moved closer to the display, studying it intently. “And your primary defenses?”

“Virtually impregnable,” Koshkin replied. He tapped his tablet again, bringing up a new map, this one depicting the narrow valleys and steep slopes surrounding Perun’s Aerie. “An interlocking web of sensors — IR-capable cameras, radars, motion detectors, and the like — ensures that no enemy can approach undetected, either by air or on the ground.” More areas glowed red on the big display. “Behind the sensor network, Colonel Balakin’s engineers have sown dense, carefully camouflaged, minefields. These barriers will channel any attackers into kill zones covered by antitank, machine-gun, and mortar fire from concealed bunkers.”

“And if the enemy attacks from the air?” Gryzlov asked with deceptive mildness. Before taking over his family’s highly profitable oil, gas, and petrochemical companies and then going into politics, he had been a serving officer in Russia’s air force. And he knew from bitter personal experience the kind of horrific damage precision-guided bombs and missiles could inflict.

“Our close-in air defenses include hidden SAM and antiaircraft batteries in pop-up emplacements sited high on the mountain above us,” Koshkin replied. “In addition, Colonel General Maksimov has obeyed your orders to station interceptors at Syktyvkar, including his first operational Su-50 stealth fighters. We have a direct secure link to those air units, and fighter jets can be overhead in twenty minutes.”

Gryzlov stepped back from the display. He clapped the shorter man on the shoulder. “Otlichnaya rabota! Excellent work!”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Koshkin said, striving to conceal his sense of relief. In public appearances, Russia’s youthful, good-looking leader radiated charm, confidence, and calm. Those closest to him knew the fierce temper and manic, often uncontrolled, rage that lurked behind the façade. Failing Gennadiy Gryzlov always carried a high and painful price.

“And the other defensive measures I ordered?” Gryzlov asked. “Are they operational yet?” Koshkin hesitated, and Gryzlov’s eyes narrowed in suspicion — he did not like having to draw out bad news from his subordinates. “Well?” the taller man demanded.

“Colonel Balakin informs me that work on them is running somewhat behind schedule,” Koshkin admitted. “But since the need for such backup defenses seemed so remote, neither of us felt it was wise to divert the necessary manpower and resources just now.”

Gryzlov’s mouth tightened, and his gaze turned cold. “That was a decision well above your pay grade, General.” He watched the FSB officer’s round face turn pale and then went on. “Whether or not you believe my orders are wise is irrelevant. Understand?”

Koshkin nodded.

“Then you will obey me,” Gryzlov snapped. “I want those troops and weapons and explosives in place as soon as possible. No more delays! No more bitching and whining about money and resources. You and Balakin are soldiers in the service of Mother Russia, not pissant junior accountants! Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The Russian president’s angry expression softened slightly. “So far, you have done reasonably well, Arkady. Don’t screw up at the end, eh?” His smile grew warmer and more genuine. “After all, you want the chance to test these shiny new cyberweapons of yours, yes?”

Koshkin snapped to attention. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“Then keep me informed of your progress,” Gryzlov said. “And tell Colonel Balakin to pull his thumb out of his ass and obey my orders… all of my orders.”

Powered by two massive turbofan jet engines, the sleek, modern passenger airliner climbed smoothly through clear blue skies over northern Russia — bound westward toward Moscow at just under five hundred knots. While most Superjet 100s carried around a hundred passengers, this one was different. The plane had been purchased as a transport aircraft for Russia’s leader, so its main cabin was almost empty, occupied only by a few luxurious leather chairs reserved for VIPs, a couple of rows of business-class-style seats for the president’s military and civilian aides and bodyguards, and a well-stocked bar and galley.

Gennadiy Gryzlov swiveled his seat to face Sergei Tarzarov, his chief of staff. “So, what did you think of Koshkin’s new Q Directorate playground?”

Tarzarov, a thin, plain-looking man, was cautious. “The facility is impressive enough,” he allowed. His mouth turned down. “As it should be at the cost of several hundred billion rubles.”

Gryzlov grinned to himself. Tarzarov was renowned for his shrewdness and cunning. For decades, the ruthless old man had survived and prospered as the ultimate Kremlin insider — as the man who made and unmade heads of state, cabinet ministers, generals, and intelligence chiefs. One by one, his rivals vanished. If they were lucky, they were merely driven into political oblivion. Those who were not so fortunate, or who were perhaps more dangerous, ended their days in a gulag or an unmarked grave.

But for all his cleverness, Tarzarov was a dinosaur. Like so many steeped in the old ways, he measured a state’s power chiefly by its military strength — by the numbers of bombers, tanks, artillery pieces, and nuclear-tipped missiles it could field. He was blind to the overwhelming strategic advantages waiting for those who first mastered the new digital battlefield.

“You believe we are wasting Russia’s resources?” Gryzlov pressed.

“I do not doubt that Koshkin’s promised new weapons will be useful in their own limited way and at the right time,” Tarzarov said slowly. He shrugged. “But I am not sure we need them now, Gennadiy. And at such expense. Our position in the world is strong and it grows stronger with every passing day.”

“Oh?” Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. His voice grew cooler, laced with biting sarcasm. “Have you forgotten how the Poles and their high-tech American mercenaries handed us our asses last year?”

“There were certain tactical setbacks,” the older man admitted. “But we achieved a strategic victory. We now hold all of eastern Ukraine, and the NATO alliance lies in ruins.”

“Save the bullshit for the gullible masses,” Gryzlov retorted, his patience fraying. “McLanahan and his Iron Wolf Squadron bombers and fighting machines kicked the snot out of two of our tank armies, destroyed dozens of our most advanced combat aircraft, and then wiped out the best part of a tactical missile brigade.”

“But now Patrick McLanahan is dead,” Tarzarov reminded him quietly. “Shot down by one of his own countrymen — as you demanded. And this act of cowardice by the American president, Barbeau, has spelled the effective end of NATO. No one trusts the Americans anymore.”

“McLanahan may be nothing more than burned ashes scattered across Poland,” Gryzlov growled. “But his Iron Wolf mercenaries and their Polish paymasters are still very much alive. And their continued existence threatens our power in Europe and around the world. You’ve seen the intelligence reports. Poland’s so-called Alliance of Free Nations is fast becoming a rallying point for all those who should fear and obey us.”

Tarzarov fell silent. Much as he hated to admit the younger man’s point, he could not deny that the Poles with their freelance American military and technical experts remained a thorn in Moscow’s side. Despite a yearlong campaign of black propaganda, secret bribes, and thinly disguised saber rattling, Russia had failed to win back the allegiance of any of the former Soviet puppet states in Eastern and central Europe. The members of Warsaw’s new defense pact were showing far more resilience and cohesion than he had expected.

Gryzlov read his thoughts. He nodded. “Now you see it, Sergei. Too often we have seen victories snatched away by weapons and technology beyond our capabilities. That must stop. It is high time we made our enemies dance to a tune of our choosing, not theirs.”

Reluctantly, Tarzarov nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Gennadiy.” He sighed. “But I fear the consequences if word of your plan leaks out. The damage to our international position could be severe.”

“True enough,” Gryzlov agreed, with a quick, predatory grin. “But one must be willing to take risks in any high-stakes game. Empires are not won by fearful men.”

He glanced away, staring out across the vast and empty sky. “Still, I agree that secrecy is vital. For now, at least.” He turned back to Tarzarov. “Tell me, Sergei. Can the FSB successfully conceal the existence of Perun’s Aerie from foreign spies?”

The older man frowned. “Koshkin’s security and his maskirovka, his deception plans, are good. Very good. But good enough to hide so large a facility from the West?” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Babushka gadala da nadvoye skazala, ‘to li dozhdik, to li sneg.’ My grandmother told fortunes and said, ‘It will either rain or snow.’”

It was an old Russian proverb meaning basically, “Who can say? Maybe yes and maybe no.”

“Then let us hope it will snow,” Gryzlov said enigmatically.

With that, Russia’s president fell silent, staring out across the heavens as the Superjet 100 sped west.