Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (3 page)

Her eyes opened wide.

Summoning up the last of his broken Czech, Smith whispered, “Zavolejte policii. Call the police.”

Before he could say anything more, the fast-gathering darkness closed in around him and swallowed him whole.

Northern Operational Command Headquarters, Chernihiv, Ukraine For hundreds of years Chernihiv had been called “the princely city,” serving as a fortified capital for one of the princedoms at the heart of the Kievan Rus, the loose confederation of Vikings who had made themselves the masters of what would later become Russia and the Ukraine. Several of its beautiful cathedrals, churches, and monasteries dated back to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and their golden domes and spires lent a quiet elegance to the little city’s skyline. Every year, busloads of tourists made the short journey from Kiev itself, one hundred and forty kilometers to the south, to gawk at Chernihiv’s ancient sites and artwork.

Few of those tourists ever noticed an isolated complex of Soviet-era concrete and steel buildings on the city’s outskirts. There, behind a barbed-wire perimeter fence guarded by heavily armed soldiers, lay the administrative center for one of the three major combat organizations of the Ukrainian military—the Northern Operational Command. The sun had long since set, but lights were still on throughout the complex. Staff cars bearing flags from every major unit in the command filled the parking areas surrounding a floodlit three-story central headquarters building.

Inside the building, Major Dmitry Polyakov stood off to one side of a crowded briefing room. He had carefully chosen a position that gave him a good view of his boss, Lieutenant General Aleksandr Marchuk, the man in charge of the army’s Northern Operational Command. The tall young major checked the folder under his arm yet again, making sure that it contained every report and draft order the general might need for this emergency military conference. Polyakov was well aware that Marchuk was a hard-charging, thoroughly professional soldier, one who expected his senior military aide to be ready to respond instantly to any need or order.

Marchuk, his senior staff officers, and Northern Command’s division and brigade commanders sat around three sides of a large rectangular conference table. A detailed map of their operational zone stood on an easel set up at the head of this table. Each high-ranking officer had his own briefing folder, an ashtray, and a glass of hot tea set out before him. Cigarettes smoldered in most of the ashtrays.

“There’s no doubt that both the Russians and Belarussians have dramatically tightened security along our joint border,” the briefer, a full colonel, continued. His pointer tapped the map at several places. “They’ve closed every minor crossing point from Dobrjanka here in the north all the way to Kharkiv in the east. Traffic is only being allowed across at checkpoints set up on the major highways—and then only after intensive searches. Moreover, my counterparts at both Western and Southern Command report similar measures being taken in their areas.”

“That’s not all the Russians are doing,” one of the officers sitting at the far side of the table said grimly. He commanded a Covering Force brigade, a new combined-arms formation made up of armored reconnaissance troops, scout and attack helicopters, and infantry units heavily armed with anti-tank missiles. “My forward outposts have observed company-strength and battalion-strength reconnaissance forces operating at several points along the frontier.

They appear to be attempting to precisely locate the duty stations of our border security detachments.”

“We should also keep in mind those troop movement rumors passed to us by the Americans,” another colonel added. The crossed hunting horns on his shoulder tabs identified him as a member of the Signals Branch, but that was only a cover. In reality, he served as the head of Northern Command’s military intelligence section.

Heads nodded around the table. The American military attache in Kiev had been distributing intelligence reports suggesting that some of Russia’s elite airborne, tank, and mechanized infantry units had vanished from their bases around Moscow. None of the reports could be confirmed but they were disturbing nonetheless.

“So what is Moscow’s official excuse for all of this unusual activity?” a heavyset tank division commander sitting next to the intelligence chief asked. He was leaning forward, and the overhead lights gleamed off his bare scalp.

“The Kremlin claims these are merely precautionary antiterrorist measures,” Lieutenant General Marchuk answered slowly, stubbing out his own cigarette. His voice was hoarse and sweat stained his high uniform collar.

Major Polyakov hid a worried frown. Even at fifty, the general was ordinarily a strong, healthy man, but now he was ill —quite ill. He had not been able to keep any food down all day. Despite that, he had insisted on calling this evening conference. “It’s only the damned flu, Dmitry,” Marchuk had rasped.

“I’ll get over it. Right now, the military situation demands my full attention.

You know my rule: Duty first and last.”

Like any good soldier given an order, Polyakov had nodded and obeyed.

What else could he do? But now, looking at his leader, he was beginning to think he should have pushed harder to try to get the older man to seek medical attention.

“And do we believe our good Russian friends and neighbors, Aleksandr?”

the tank division commander asked wryly. “About these so-called antiterrorist measures?”

Marchuk shrugged. Even that small movement seemed to take an effort.

“Terrorism is a serious threat. The Chechens and others will strike at Moscow and its interests whenever and wherever they can. We all know that.” He coughed hoarsely, paused for a moment to catch his breath, and then forced himself to carry on. “But I have not seen any information—either from our own government or from the Russians themselves—that would justify so much military activity on so large a scale.”

“Then what should we do?” one of the other officers murmured.

“We will take precautions of our own,” Marchuk said grimly. “To keep ‘Czar Viktor’ and his cronies in Moscow honest, if nothing else. A little show of force on our part should go a long way toward deterring any idiocy by the Kremlin.” He pushed himself to his feet and stood facing the map. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. His face was gray. He swayed once.

Polvakov started forward, but the general waved him back. “I’m fine, Dmitry,” he muttered. “Just a little light-headed, that’s all.”

His subordinates exchanged worried glances.

Marchuk forced a ragged smile. “What’s the matter, gentlemen? Never seen anyone with the flu before?” He coughed again, this time a prolonged, hacking cough that left him head down and panting for air. He looked up with another faint smile. “Don’t worry. I promise not to breathe on any of you.”

That drew a nervous laugh.

Recovering slightly, the general leaned forward, supporting himself with his hands. “Now, listen carefully,” he told them, plainly fighting for ever}’

word. “Starting later tonight, I want all Read}’ Force divisions and brigades brought to a higher alert status. All personnel leaves must be canceled. All officers away from their units for an}’ reason should be recalled—at once. And by dawn tomorrow morning, I want ever}’ operational tank, infantry fighting vehicle, and self-propelled gun in this command fitted out with a full load of ammunition and fuel. The same goes for ever}’ transport and combat helicopter fit to flv. Once that is done, your units will begin moving to their wartime deployment areas to conduct special winter maneuvers.”

“Bringing so many troops to full combat readiness will be expensive,” his chief of staff pointed out quietly. “Extremely expensive. Parliament will ask serious questions. The defense budget this year is very tight.”

“Screw the budget!” Marchuk snapped, straightening up in irritation. “And screw the politicians in Kiev! Our job is to defend the homeland; not worry about budgets.” Abruptly, his face grew grayer still and he swayed again. He shuddered visibly, plainly wracked by a wave of terrible pain, and then folded slowly forward, collapsing facedown across the conference table. An ashtray crashed to the floor, spilling soot and cigarette butts across the frayed carpet.

Stunned officers jumped to their feet, crowding around their fallen commander.

Polyakov pushed through them, heedless of rank. The major touched Marchuk’s shoulder gently and then felt his forehead. He yanked his hand away. His eyes opened wide in shock. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “The general is burning up.”

“Turn him over onto his back,” someone suggested. “And loosen his tie and collar. Give him room to breathe.”

Working quickly, Polyakov and another junior aide obeyed, tearing open shirt and jacket buttons in their haste. There were gasps from around the crowded room when parts of Marchuk’s neck and chest came into view. Almost even inch of his skin seemed covered in raw, bleeding sores.

Polyakov swallowed convulsively, fighting against the urge to throw up. He swung away. “Fetch a doctor!” he yelled, horror-stricken by what he had seen.

“For God’s sake, someone fetch a doctor now!”

Hours later, Major Dmitry Polyakov sat slumped forward on a bench in the hallway just outside the intensive care unit of the Oblast Clinic Hospital.

Bleary-eyed and depressed, he stared down at the cracked tile floor, ignoring the muffled, incomprehensible squawks of the PA system periodically summoning various doctors and nurses to different sections of the building.

A single pair of gleaming, highly polished boots intruded on Polyakov’s view. Sighing, the major looked up and saw a dour, thin-faced officer staring down at him with evident disapproval. For an instant he bristled, but then he caught sight of the twin gold stars of a lieutenant general on the other man’s white-and red-embroidered shoulder boards and jumped to his feet. He threw his shoulders back, and lifted his chin high, standing braced at attention.

“You must be Polyakov, Marchuk’s senior aide,” the other man snapped. It was not a question.

The major nodded stiffly, still at attention. “Yes, sir.”

“My name is Tymoshenko,” the much shorter, thin-faced officer told him coldly. “Lieutenant General Fduard Tymoshenko. I’ve been sent from Kiev to assume command here, by order of both the defense minister and the president himself.”

Polvakov struggled to hide his dismay. Tymoshenko was known throughout the army’s officer corps as a political hack, one of hundreds left over from the days before the Ukraine regained its independence from the disintegrat-ing Soviet Union. His reputation as a field commander was dismal. Those who had endured his leadership spoke bitterly of a man more concerned with mindless spit-and-polish than with real combat readiness. These days he spent most of his time in various posts inside the Defense Ministry, energetically shuffling papers from one side of his desk to the other while making sure that influential politicians regarded him as indispensable.

“What is General Marchuk’s present condition?” Tymoshenko demanded.

“The general is still unconscious, sir,” Polyakov reported reluctantly. “And according to the doctors, his vital signs are deteriorating rapidly. So far, he is

not responding to any’ treatment.”

“I see.” Tymoshenko sniffed, turning his head to stare contemptuously at the drearv surroundings. After a moment, he looked back at the younger man.

“And the cause of this unfortunate illness? I heard some nonsense about radiation poisoning just before leaving Kiev.”

“No one knows yet,” Polvakov admitted. “The hospital is running a complete battery of tests, but the results may not come back for hours, perhaps even days.”

Tymoshenko arched a single gray eyebroyv. “In that case, Major, may I suggest there is no longer any purpose to be served by haunting these corridors like some little lost lapdog? General Marchuk will live —or he will die. And I am quite confident that he will do so with or yvithout your presence.” He smiled thinly. “In the meantime, it seems that I need an aide myself, at least until I can locate a more efficient and deserving young officer.”

Polyakov did his best to ignore the insult. Instead, he simply nodded expressionlessly. “Yes, sir. I will do my best.”

“Good.” Tymoshenko nodded toward the exit. “My staff car is waiting outside. You can ride back to headquarters with me. And once yve’re there, I want you to arrange temporary quarters for me. Something comfortable, I trust.

You can clear out Marchuk’s billet bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“But—” Polyakov began.

The dour little general stared up at him. “Yes?” he snapped. “What is it, Major?”

“W hat about the Russians? And the border situation?” Polyakov asked, not bothering to conceal his surprise. “General Marchuk intended to deploy the Command’s fighting formations to their maneuver areas at first light tomorrow.”

Tymoshenko frowned. “So I understand.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Naturally, I canceled those orders as soon as I arrived.” He shook his head derisively. “Full-scale maneuvers in the dead of yvinter? With all the wear and tear on expensive equipment that entails? And all because of a few paranoid whispers about the Russians? Utter madness. I really cannot imagine what Marchuk thought he was doing. The fever must have addled his brain.

Why, the fuel bills alone would be entirely prohibitive.”

With that, the new leader of the Ukrainian army’s Northern Operational Command spun crisply on his heel and strutted off, leaving Major Dmitry Polyakov staring after him in growing dismay.

The Pentagon

Corporal Matthew Dempsey of the Pentagon’s police force whistled softly under his breath as he walked his night beat along the massive building’s quiet, labyrinthine corridors. This was his favorite shift. The Pentagon never really shut down and lights still glowed under some office doors, but much of the grinding daytime hustle and bustle faded in the hours right around midnight.

The small radio receiver fitted in his ear squawked suddenly. “Dempsey, this is Milliken.”