The Moscow Vector

  Behind them the woods began exploding, erupting in huge pillars of blinding orange and red flame. Shattered trees were thrown high into the air, tumbling end over end for hundreds of meters before crashing back to earth. Billowing clouds of smoke and lighter debris drifted downwind.

  Nearly a dozen high-ranking Russian army and air force officers stood on the roof of an old concrete bunker dug into the forward slope of a nearby ridge, watching intently through binoculars. More than one hundred heavily armed airborne assault troops wearing snow smocks and body armor were deployed along the ridge, guarding the generals. Command and electronics vans were set up behind the bunker, well hidden among the trees beneath infrared-resistant camouflage netting. Newly laid fiber-optic cables snaked away through the forest, feeding back to a secure communications network. To help preserve complete operational and strategic secrecy for this special set of maneuvers, dubbed WINTER CROWN, all radio, cellular, or standard landline transmissions were being severely restricted.

  An army colonel, listening intently through a headset, turned to the short, slender man standing beside him. Alone among all the observers crowded onto the bunker roof, this man wore civilian clothes. He was snug in a plain black overcoat and scarf. The wind ruffled his sparse brown hair. “The exercise computers report all simulated enemy artillery batteries and mobile fire control radars destroyed, sir,” the colonel told him quietly.

  Russian president Viktor Dudarev nodded calmly, still watching through his binoculars. “Very good,” he murmured.

  A new wave of sleek ground-attack aircraft—ultramodern Su-39s—raced low over the nearest hills with their powerful turbojet engines howling. They flashed past the bunker at high speed, flying down the wide valley below the ridge. Hundreds of unguided rockets rippled out from the pods slung beneath their wings, streaking onward on trails of smoke and fire. The whole eastern edge of the forest vanished in a rolling series of thunderous explosions.

  “All enemy SAM teams have been either suppressed or eliminated entirely,” the colonel reported.

  The Russian leader nodded again. He swung his binoculars to the left, peering east down the valley. There, in a growing clatter of rotor blades, came a stream of mottled gray-black-and-white helicopters, Mi-17 troop transports, each carrying a team of Spetsnaz commandos. Moving at more than two hundred kilometers an hour, the fleet of winter-camouflaged helicopters swept by the bunker and vanished into the thick smoke clouds now rising above the bomb and rocket-shattered forest.

  Dudarev glanced at the colonel, “Well?” he demanded.

  “Our special-action forces have penetrated the enemy front lines and are en route toward their primary targets—headquarters units, fuel depots, long-range missile complexes, and the like,” his military aide, Colonel Piotr Kirichenko, confirmed, after listening closely to the reports streaming through his headset. He looked up. “The first echelons of our main ground attack force are deploying now.”

  “Excellent.” The Russian president focused his binoculars on the distant opening to the valley. Small specks appeared there, moving fast and spreading out across the rolling, open ground as they drew nearer. They were tracked scout cars, BRM-1s, mounting 73mm cannons, missiles, and machine guns. Behind the scurrying reconnaissance units came masses of heavier armor—T-90 tanks armed with 125mm main guns. The T-90, clad in explosive reactive armor and equipped with IR jammers and anti-laser aerosol defenses to defeat enemy anti-tank missiles, was a significant upgrade of the older T-72. Designed to reflect combat lessons learned during the seemingly endless war in Chechnya, it was the Russian army’s most modern battle tank. New computerized fire control systems and thermal sights gave the T-90’s main gun range, accuracy, and firepower that was almost equal to that of the American M1A1 Abrams.

  Dudarev smiled to himself, watching the formations of tanks maneuvering at high speed down the valley. Western intelligence believed most of Russia’s T-90s were deployed in the Far East, facing the People’s Republic of China. But the West’s vaunted spy agencies were wrong.

  Since gaining control over the Kremlin, the ex–KGB officer had worked hard to rebuild and reform his nation’s dilapidated armed forces. Thousands of corrupt or lazy or politically unreliable officers had been sacked. Dozens of poorly equipped or poorly performing tank and motor-rifle divisions had been ruthlessly disbanded. Only the best formations were kept in the army’s order of battle. And more and more money from Russia’s growing oil revenues had been spent on making sure this smaller force of elite divisions was far better-paid, better-equipped, and better-trained than the massed conscript armies of the old Soviet Union.

  Dudarev glanced at his watch. He tapped the colonel lightly on the arm. “Time to go, Piotr,” he murmured.

  Kirichenko nodded. “Sir!”

  As they turned to go, the generals nearest to them snapped to attention and saluted.

  Dudarev wagged a teasing finger at them. “At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Remember, no formality is necessary. After all, I am not really here. Nor have I ever been here. According to the Kremlin press office, I am off on a short holiday, spending a day or so at my dacha outside Moscow.” A humorless smile creased his thin lips. He turned and motioned toward the dozens of tanks and tracked BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicles now rumbling through the valley below them. “Nor is any of this really happening. Everything you see is no more than a dream. WINTER CROWN is only a paper drill, a mere headquarters map exercise. Correct?”

  The assembled senior officers chuckled dutifully.

  Under the terms of various conventional arms treaties Russia had signed, all of its large-scale military maneuvers were supposed to be announced weeks and even months in advance. WINTER CROWN was a flagrant violation of those agreements. None of the foreign military attachés stationed in Moscow had been notified. And every element of the exercise itself had been very carefully timed to ensure that U.S. spy satellites were not overhead whenever the thousands of troops and hundreds of vehicles involved were actively maneuvering across the snow-covered fields and forests.

  The same exquisite timing and elaborate security measures would soon be employed in other major exercises scheduled around the periphery of the Russian Federation, near the borders of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and the breakaway Central Asian republics. Anyone asking inconvenient questions about these intensive battlefield rehearsals would be informed that Russia was simply conducting “special antiterrorist training” for its rapid deployment forces. By the time the deception became obvious, it would be too late. Far too late.

  With Colonel Kirichenko close at his heels, he trotted down the steps cut into the hillside at the back of the bunker. A stocky, gray-haired man stood at the bottom waiting patiently for him. Like Dudarev, he wore a drab dark overcoat and stood bareheaded in the bitter cold.

  The president turned to his aide. “Go ahead and make sure everything is ready for our departure, Piotr. I’ll be along shortly.”

  The colonel nodded. He walked away without looking back. Part of his duties included knowing exactly when to vanish—and exactly what not to see or hear.

  Dudarev turned back to the gray-haired man. “Well, Alexei?” he asked softly. “Make your report.”

  Alexei Ivanov, an old and trusted comrade from the KGB, was now the head of a little-known section in the KGB’s successor, the Federal Security Service, or FSB. On formal organization charts circulated by the Russian government, Ivanov’s department carried the rather boring title of the Special Projects Liaison Office. But insiders called his shadowy domain “The Thirteenth Directorate” and tried very hard to stay out of its way.

  “Our friends have signaled that HYDRA is in motion—and on schedule,” he told the Russian president. “The first operational variants are taking effect.”

  Dudarev nodded. “Good.” He looked up at the bigger man. “And what of those information leaks you found so troubling?”

  Ivanov scowled. “They have been…sealed. Or so it is claimed.”

 
“You are not sure?” Dudarev asked, raising an eyebrow.

  The head of the Thirteenth Directorate shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have no real reason to doubt these reports. But I admit that I do not like this game of working by remote control. It is an imperfect process.” He frowned. “Perhaps even a dangerous one.”

  Dudarev clapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Alexei,” he said. “The old ways are dead, and we must move with the times. Decentralization and power-sharing are all the rage these days, are they not?” His eyes turned cold. “Besides, HYDRA is a weapon best employed at a safe distance and with total deniability. True?”

  Ivanov nodded heavily. “That is true.”

  “Then you will continue as planned,” Dudarev told him. “You know the timetable. Keep a wary eye on our friends, if need be. But do not interfere directly unless you have no other choice. Clear?”

  “Yes, your orders are clear,” the bigger man agreed reluctantly. “I only hope your faith is justified.”

  Amused, the Russian president raised an eyebrow. “Faith?” His lips twitched upward in a brief, icy half-smile. “My dear Alexei, you should know me better than that. I am no true believer—in anything or anyone. Faith is for fools and simpletons. The wise man knows that facts and force are what truly govern the world.”

  Tbilisi, Georgia

  Georgia’s capital lay in a natural amphitheater, surrounded on all sides by high hills topped by ancient fortresses, crumbling monasteries, and dense forests. On a clear day like this one, the far-off snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus Mountains appeared on the northern horizon, standing sharply etched against a pale blue sky.

  Sarah Rousset, a correspondent for The New York Times, leaned on the railing of the balcony of her top-floor room in the five-star rated Tbilisi Marriott. She was only in her mid-thirties, but she had allowed her originally chestnut-colored hair to go mostly gray. Looking older than she really was somehow reassured both senior editors and potential news sources. With one eye shut, she focused through the viewfinder of her digital camera and began snapping pictures of the enormous crowd filling the wide, tree-lined avenue below.

  She zoomed in on a diminutive white-haired woman holding a rose-colored banner aloft. Black mourning ribbons fluttered from the staff. Tears trickled unheeded down the woman’s wrinkled face. With one light tap of her finger, Rousset froze the powerful image and stored it in her camera’s memory. That one should make the front page, she thought. Right beside the lead article with her byline plastered on it.

  “Marvelous,” she murmured, still taking pictures.

  “I beg your pardon?” the tall, square-jawed man standing at her shoulder said coldly. He was the chief of mission for the U.S. embassy here.

  “All those people,” Rousset explained, nodding at the Georgians packed below them. Beneath a sea of rose-colored flags and placards, the silent crowd was slowly flowing east toward the Parliament building. “There must be tens of thousands of people down there in the freezing cold. Maybe more. And all of them united in sorrow and grief. Just for one sick man.” She shook her head. “It’s going to make a marvelous story.”

  “More like a terrible tragedy,” her companion said tightly. “For Georgia certainly, and perhaps for the whole Caucasus region.”

  She lowered the camera and glanced sidelong at him from under her long lashes. “Really? Would you like to explain why…in a way my readers can understand, I mean?”

  “Not for attribution?” he asked quietly.

  Rousset nodded. “No problem.” She smiled delicately. “Let’s say that you’ll appear in print as ‘an expert Western observer of Georgian politics.’”

  “Fair enough,” the diplomat agreed. He sighed. “Look, Ms. Rousset, you need to understand that President Yashvili is more than just an ordinary politician to those people. He’s become a symbol of their democratic Rose Revolution, a symbol of Georgia’s peace, prosperity, and maybe even its continued existence.”

  He waved a hand at the distant hills and mountains. “For centuries, this region was torn back and forth between rival empires, Persia, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Turks, the Mongols, and finally the Russians. Even after the Soviet Union imploded, Georgia was still a wreck, ravaged by ethnic infighting, corruption, and political chaos. When the Rose Revolution swept him into office, Mikhail Yashvili began changing all that. He’s given these people their first real taste of competent, democratic government in eight hundred years.”

  “And now he’s dying,” Rousset prompted. “Of cancer?”

  “Maybe.” The tall American diplomat shrugged gloomily. “But no one really knows. My sources inside the government say that his doctors haven’t been able to identify the illness killing him. All they know is that his vital organs are failing rapidly, shutting down one by one.”

  “So what happens next?” the female New York Times reporter wondered aloud. “After Yashvili dies.”

  “Nothing good.”

  Rousset pressed harder. “Could other regions break away—just like South Ossetia and Abkhazia?” Fighting in those two self-declared “autonomous republics” had killed thousands and lasted for years.

  “Or maybe even escalate into another all-out civil war?” she went on. Filing reports from a war zone was a risky business, but it was also the path to journalistic stardom. And Sarah Rousset had always been ambitious.

  “Possibly,” the tall man admitted. “Yashvili doesn’t really have a clearly defined successor, at least not anyone trusted by all the different political factions, nationalities, and ethnic groups in Georgia.”

  “What about the Russians?” she asked. “There are still lots of native Russians living here in Tbilisi, right? If serious fighting broke out in and around the city, would the Kremlin send in troops to stop it?”

  The diplomat shrugged again. “As to that, Ms. Rousset, your guess is as good as mine.”

  Chapter Five

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  President Samuel Adams Castilla led his guest into the darkened Oval Office and flipped on the lights. With one hand, he loosened his carefully knotted bow tie and then unbuttoned his formal dinner jacket. “Take a pew, Bill,” he said quietly, motioning toward one of the two armchairs set in front of the room’s marble fireplace. “Can I get you a drink?”

  His Director of National Intelligence, William Wexler, shook his head quickly. “Thank you, but no, Mr. President.” The trim, telegenic former U.S. senator smiled fulsomely, evidently hoping to take the sting out of his refusal. “Your wine stewards were very generous at dinner tonight. I rather think that one more glass of anything might tip me right over the edge.”

  Castilla nodded coolly. Some members of the White House social staff seemed to harbor the unexpressed conviction that guests at state dinners should always be offered enough rope to hang themselves—or, in this case, enough alcohol to put a whole regiment of U.S. Marines under the table. Guests who were wise resisted temptation and pushed away their wineglasses before it was too late. Guests who were not wise were rarely invited back, no matter how influential or popular or powerful they might be.

  He glanced at the ornate eighteenth-century clock ticking softly on one curved wall. It was well past midnight. Again he waved Wexler into a chair and then sat down across from him. “First, I appreciate your willingness to stay on so late tonight.”

  “It’s really no trouble, Mr. President,” Wexler said in a rich, professional politician’s baritone. He smiled again, this time revealing a set of perfect teeth. Although he was in his early sixties, his deeply tanned face showed very few lines or wrinkles. “After all, sir, I serve at your pleasure.”

  Castilla wondered about that. Stung by a series of damaging and very public failures, Congress had recently enacted the first major reorganization of America’s intelligence-gathering apparatus in more than fifty years. The legislation had created a new cabinet-level post—the director of national intelligence. In theory, the DNI was supposed to be able
to coordinate the U.S. government’s complex array of competing intelligence agencies, departments, and bureaus. In practice, the CIA, FBI, DIA, NSA, and others were still waging a fierce bureaucratic war behind the scenes to severely limit his powers.

  Overcoming so much powerful institutional resistance would take a very shrewd and strong-willed man, and Castilla was beginning to have serious doubts that Wexler had either the will or the mental dexterity. It was no real secret that the former senator would never have been his first choice for the position, but Congress had dug in its collective heels and refused to approve anyone but one of its own. With even nominal control over a total intelligence budget of more than forty billion dollars, the Senate and House of Representatives were very interested in making sure the DNI post went to someone they knew and trusted.

  Wexler had served as a senator from one of the smaller New England states for more than twenty years, compiling an earnest, if relatively undistinguished, legislative record, and earning a reputation as a decent, hardworking member of the various Congressional committees overseeing the armed forces and intelligence agencies. Over his years of service, he had accumulated a great many friends and very few serious enemies.

  A solid majority of the Senate had believed he was the perfect choice to head the U.S. intelligence community. Privately, Castilla was convinced that Bill Wexler was a painfully polite, well-intentioned pushover. Which meant that the reforms intended to streamline and strengthen the management of U.S. intelligence operations had only added yet another layer of red tape to the whole system.

  “What exactly can I do for you, Mr. President?” the national intelligence director said at last, breaking the small silence. If he was at all puzzled by Castilla’s decision to pull him aside at the state dinner to arrange this unusual and highly irregular late-night conference, he hid it well.