19
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was an informal meeting, if any meeting in the Situation Room could ever be characterized as such, particularly with the President and his closest advisers on hand—SecState Scott Adler, SecDef Robert Burgess, DNI Mary Pat Foley, and chief of staff Arnie Van Damm.
A regional map of the Balkans was displayed on one of the big screens on the wall nearest the table, along with satellite photographs of Russian forces in and around Belgrade, Serbia.
President Ryan had ordered up a buffet of salads and sandwich fixings for the late dinner gathering. He had a few things on his mind that he wanted to get cleared up as soon as possible, and this was the only time Arnie could pull everyone together. With a hundred urgent national and global issues clawing at his schedule every day, Ryan had learned to prioritize better than most.
But he’d also learned that the White House wasn’t just a fire station, and his job wasn’t limited to turning the hose on the nearest blaze raging out of control. Anticipation was one of his great strengths, born out of decades of analytical experience. Better to keep the fire from starting than to try to put it out. He’d also learned to trust his gut—technically, his limbic system—and his gut was boiling.
Ryan stacked a few slices of rare roast beef between pieces of dark and hearty pumpernickel bread slathered with Dijon mustard, serving himself after the others had filled their plates. Only DNI Foley helped herself to the kale salad with cranberries, almonds, and fig dressing, which she ate seated in a chair next to Arnie. SecState Adler and SecDef Burgess sat across from them, each sipping hot black coffee from a heavy ceramic mug bearing the presidential seal.
“Thank you all for taking the time out of your schedules and away from your families,” Ryan said, taking the black leather chair at the head of the room. “I’m hoping this will be a short one.” Ryan took a big bite of his sandwich.
“You mentioned two questions in your memo,” Arnie said.
Ryan nodded, swallowing. “The first question I want to tackle is this Russian buildup in Serbia. My PDB this morning”—Presidential Daily Brief—“contained photos of Murmansk-BN EW vehicles deployed near Belgrade.” Ryan hit one of the pictures on the big-screen monitor with his laser pointer. “I’m told it’s part of their Slavic Sword and Shield military exercise. Are we convinced that’s all there is to this?”
As the director of national intelligence, Mary Pat Foley oversaw the intelligence gathering and processing of all sixteen agencies in the IC, including the CIA. She didn’t miss much, and even scanned Ryan’s daily PDBs. “The Sword and Shield exercise is an annual event now—three years in a row. This one is the largest one yet, and the most sophisticated. But we have no indication of hostile intent.”
The SecDef set his coffee down. “It’s a massive training exercise for Russian, Serbian, and Belarusian Spetsnaz units. It’s the wrong mix of forces to launch any kind of sustained cross-border strike, if that’s your concern, Mr. President.”
“Key word ‘sustained,’” Ryan said.
“Noted,” the SecDef agreed.
“Spetsnaz are their best troops, and the EW equipment they’ve deployed is top drawer. Some say better than ours,” Ryan said. “Interesting combo. Putting their most advanced equipment that far forward is a helluva security risk for them. They must really want to make an impression.”
“They do,” SecState Adler said. “They’re feeling the pressure in that part of the world. Montenegro just joined NATO last year; Croatia and Slovenia are already members. Macedonia wants to join, and so does Bosnia-Herzegovina—except for the Republika Srpska. They all want to join the EU, even some Serbian politicians. The Russians are feeling encircled, and Serbia is the key to stopping the advance.”
Ryan rubbed his chin. “Okay, let’s assume all of this is to keep the Serbians in the fold, and that it actually works. That doesn’t stop the rest of the cards from falling out of their hands. Their strategic situation will continue to deteriorate. So, what’s the play here?”
“Restore their reputation,” the SecDef offered. “They let NATO bomb the hell out of the Serbs during the war. Maybe this is their way to try and rehabilitate themselves with their Slavic brethren.”
“National and ethnic appeals are very strong these days. Catalonia, Belgium, Brexit—the European Union is threatened by nationalism. It only makes sense for the Russians to play on that to their advantage,” Mary Pat said. “While Europe is dividing, Russia might be trying to gather her Slavic children under her wing.”
“I’m sure that’s part of all of this,” Ryan said. “But there’s something more.” He stood and stared at the images on the wall monitors. “You all know how these guys think. If they can’t take a country outright, they like to stir up the pot.”
“Which ‘pot’ are you talking about?” Van Damm asked.
Ryan pointed at the center of the regional map. “Seems to me that there used to be sixty thousand NATO peacekeepers over there to enforce the peace accords, but they’re all pulled out now, aren’t they?”
Adler shifted in his seat. “Down to about six hundred total for the whole area.”
Ryan turned to him. “The Europeans were the ones who made a hash of that whole thing, and they’re the ones who promised to keep an eye on it. What happened?”
The secretary of state shrugged. “Europe’s always been that way. They never carry their full load, and they seldom follow through. As far as Bosnia’s concerned, they didn’t want to pay the price for continued peacekeeping operations, and their attention is drawn elsewhere these days.”
“I thought the Europeans had a high representative over the entire Bosnian government—some joker who can pull crazy politicians and stubborn bureaucrats out of office, and implement laws or whatever else they need to do to keep the peace and make the government function,” Arnie said.
“You sound a little jealous of this high representative guy,” Ryan said, smiling.
“It would make things a lot easier around here if you had that kind of power over Congress.” Arnie’s pale blue eyes smiled mischievously.
“No, thanks,” Ryan said.
The secretary of state said, “The bottom line is that in recent years, the high representative has stepped back from any kind of intervention, in order to promote Bosnian self-determination.”
“Which is just another way for the Europeans to say they don’t want to be bothered with it anymore. But by pulling out those peacekeepers, they’ve created one hell of a power vacuum,” Ryan said. “And the Russians, like nature, abhor a vacuum.”
The President crossed over to the wall of monitors.
“There are recent reports of escalating violence in Bosnia, and the re-formation of ethnic militias,” Foley said. “That fits your vacuum thesis quite neatly.”
“It’s a damn powder keg over there,” Adler said. “Five hundred years of blood feuds and genocides. It’s like the damn Hatfields and McCoys, but with IEDs and machine guns.”
Ryan touched the Bosnian map. “The Russian New Gen warfare model fits this situation perfectly, doesn’t it? They have the means, the proximity, and the natural target—an ethnically and politically divided country right next door to Serbia. Even if the Russians don’t want to take Bosnia over, another bloody civil war in the heart of Europe will demand a NATO response.”
“Tying up NATO forces for years, maybe decades,” Burgess said. “Freeing the Russians up to pursue their interests elsewhere.”
“And keeping NATO from any further expansion,” Adler added.
The DNI shook her head grimly. “That’s playing with fire. After the last war, the Bosniaks aren’t going to wait around for NATO to save them from Serbian attacks. They’ll retaliate quickly and in force.”
“There are twenty-five million Muslims in Europe who might rise up if NATO doesn’t act swiftly enough, or if the Ser
b attacks are too vicious,” the SecState added.
“Bosnia,” Ryan said, processing a thought. He tapped the map again. “The cradle of modern jihad against the West. This is where it all began, twenty-six years ago.”
Ryan turned around to face the long mahogany table, his prodigious memory kicking into high gear. “Osama bin Laden was issued a Bosnian passport at one time, and Khalid Sheikh Mohammed—the mastermind of 9/11—was granted Bosnian citizenship. Thousands of jihadis flocked from all over the world to fight in the war against the Western powers in defense of the Umma in Bosnia. Al-Qaeda learned its first battle lessons here before moving on to Afghanistan.”
“We can’t let that happen again,” the SecDef said. “The radicals don’t need another base of operations, particularly one in the heart of Europe. We need to stomp that out before it even gets started.”
“So that’s the Russian plan? Reignite a Muslim war in Europe?” Arnie said.
Burgess and Adler exchanged a worried glance as Ryan poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Maybe,” Ryan said.
“Maybe?” Adler asked.
“The Russians aren’t stupid,” Ryan said, “and they’re pretty good at history, too.” He took a sip of hot coffee as he headed back for the map. “That’s a lot of chaos, and it could easily spin out of control. Especially if the Serbs are suddenly on the bad end of the stick again. For the sake of their existing alliances and their credibility, the Russians would have to intervene.”
“If ethnic Croats in Bosnia got caught up in all of that, Croatia might take advantage of the situation again, just like in the last war,” Adler said. “They booted two hundred thousand Serbs out of Croatia in 1995. Some of their politicians have dreams of Greater Croatia just like many Serbs dream of Greater Serbia.”
Ryan touched the map again. “Here. Sarajevo. Ring a bell, anyone?”
“Oh my God,” Foley said. “World War One.”
“Archduke Ferdinand and his wife killed by a Serbian nationalist, right in the heart of the city,” Ryan said. “That was the spark that lit the fuse.”
“Resulting in the collapse of three empires, including Russia’s,” Adler said.
“The Russians are a lot of things, but suicidal isn’t one of them,” Ryan said. “A civil war in Bosnia could turn into another clash of empires. Another world war.”
“So you don’t think the Russians are engaging in New Gen warfare over there?” Van Damm said.
The President sat back down, rubbing his face with frustration. “Hell, Arnie, I don’t know. That’s why I have all of you here. My gut tells me no, but I know we’re missing something. I can feel it. What did Twain say? History doesn’t repeat, but it often rhymes?”
He glanced around the room. “We need to keep a close eye on this situation. I’d like each of you to take another swipe at this stuff with your staffs and get back to me with your best ideas by the end of the week. I’m not in the mood for any surprises, Russian or otherwise. Understood?”
Heads nodded around the table as notes were taken on paper and tablets.
The President glanced back up at the map of Bosnia and its capital city. He knew his son was due to land in Sarajevo in the next several hours. He had to remind himself that Junior managed to survive a killer typhoon in Singapore last year.
But the fiery storm his son might be heading into now would be far more dangerous.
* * *
—
The President’s thoughts about his son were interrupted by his chief of staff. “You said you had another question about the Russians.”
“Yeah, but it’s not exactly connected. My PDB this morning contained secondary confirmation of the report we received a couple of weeks ago about the Syrian Army strike on Idlib with thermobaric munitions.”
“Deploying the new Starfire heavy flamethrower system,” the SecDef said, “122-millimeter thermobaric missiles fixed on the new T-14 Armata chassis.”
“Thermobarics? That’s some nasty stuff,” the DNI said. “Almost as destructive as a tactical nuclear strike, but without the radiation.”
“I thought the Syrian government had a ceasefire with Al-Nusra,” Arnie said. “Trying to stabilize the area.”
“There was a ceasefire,” Foley said. “Al-Nusra leadership got complacent, and the Syrians took advantage. Decapitated the entire senior council in one strike, including the emir.”
“Just like those bastards to break a truce,” the SecState said. He was a longtime opponent of the vicious Damascus regime.
“But damn smart,” the SecDef said. He turned to the President. “How does a Syrian Army operation tie into the Russians?”
“A Syrian operation, sure, but with Russian weapons, Russian training, and, I’d be willing to bet, Russian ‘advisers’ on the ground.”
“Without the Russians, Damascus would’ve fallen by now. They’re the reason a ceasefire with the opposition was even possible to begin with.”
“But you’re connecting what happened in Syria with what’s happening in Serbia,” Foley said, her face frowning with curiosity. “You think it’s two sides of the same coin?”
“If the Syria situation starts to spin out of control, our attention will be focused there, and not on the Balkans,” Ryan offered, tossing out a bread crumb. Foley picked it up.
“And if the Balkans heat up, we won’t be paying attention to Syria.”
SecDef Burgess added, “And it’s not as if there aren’t a hell of a lot of other things going on in the world right now.”
“I see it now,” Adler said. “The Russians are playing a little three-dimensional chess with us.”
Ryan sighed, exasperated. “I can’t shake the feeling there’s another pair of hands at work here.”
“Whose?” Foley asked.
“Cui bono? Who benefits?” Ryan asked, falling back on his Jesuit training.
“Al-Qaeda, ISIS, the Russians . . . even the Chinese and the NorKs, if all of our attention is diverted away from the Pacific,” Burgess said.
“All true. But something tells me there’s a missing piece, something obvious and right in front of our noses, if we could just see it.” Ryan stood, buttoning his suit coat, signaling an end to the session. The others stood as well. He thanked them again for coming on such short notice as Arnie ushered them out the door.
“Anything I can do for you, boss?” Arnie asked.
“Maybe a couple aspirin, and a crystal ball, if you can find one.”
Arnie smiled. “Back in a jiff with the aspirin. And that crystal ball is still on back order.” He shut the door behind him.
Ryan reached for the phone to call his son but caught himself. It was six hours later over there and the kid was probably asleep.
Besides, Junior could take care of himself.
20
REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
The man was pouring himself a cup of hot tea when a pair of heavy boots clomped onto his front porch. Before he could set the pot down, his door rattled beneath the pounding of a thick hand.
The man assumed the worst. He pulled a nine-millimeter pistol out of a drawer and marched toward the door, holding the weapon behind his back. Just as he arrived, the hand pounded on the door again. He unlocked it and flung it open—
“Tarik?” the man said. “It’s an honor—”
“Idiot! What are you thinking!” Tarik Brkić shouldered his way into the man’s house, followed by two younger Bosniaks, dark and determined. They slammed the door shut as Brkić stormed toward the wide picture window, where a huge black AQAB—Al-Qaeda in the Balkans—flag hung. The banner bore the infamous white Arabic letters declaring the shahada.
The tall, burly Chechen snatched the black AQAB flag and balled it up before shoving it into the man’s quivering hands.
“I don’t understand.”
/> Brkić had a full, wild red beard streaked with gray, and a voice cold and hollow like an empty grave. But it was the Chechen’s milky white eye that struck terror deep into the man’s soul, a brutal reminder of Brkić’s terrifying war record.
“The whole point of hiding in the middle of the infidels is to remain invisible, and you go and hang that flag?”
“But I’m far from the road, and I’m proud to be in the jihad. The kafir Serbs never come out this way.”
“Take your damnable pride back up north and gather with the others who are under constant OSA-OBA surveillance,” Brkić said, stepping closer. “But if you do anything to jeopardize our work here again, I will personally make you a martyr for the cause.”
The man bowed his head. “I understand. I am truly sorry.”
Brkić laid a callused hand on the man’s shoulder. “Zeal is good, but wisdom is better if we are going to win the day.”
The man nodded violently, cursing his own stupidity. The Chechen felt his burner phone vibrating in his pocket. There was only one person who had his number, and never a reason for him not to pick up when he called.
Brkić signaled to his men with a nod, and the three of them headed back outside. When they shut the door behind him, he answered.
“Yes?”
“You did well,” the electronically altered voice said. “But there is still much to do.”
Anyone listening in on the encrypted line—an impossibility, his technicians assured him—would not be able to tell the gender, age, or nationality of either of them. But Brkić knew the caller well from years before, under the code name Red Wing—from a time when Brkić had another name, too.