Fear the Survivors (38 page)

Barrett:
‘¿should we pass on this new information to our nato colleagues?’

If they had have been in a room together, they would have visibly flinched at Neal’s expression. Instead, a palpable silence invaded the conversation. Taming his annoyance, Neal eventually responded.

Neal:
‘yes, barrett, i imagine we should. we can tell them about the report from Turkmenistan, and hint that we have received others as well, but no mention of the recon teams, for obvious reasons. if we get more concrete proof we can pass that along. ¿ayala, can you take care of that?’

Ayala:
‘i can and i will, neal. but, to your point earlier, this raises a broader issue. our european allies are already very nervous, especially the germans, about activity in the former eastern bloc. this may drive them to want to bring home more forces from rolas, or worse, demand our own intervention.’

Neal was beyond anger now, a cool fury settling in his stomach that he could funnel his frustration into, to be dealt with or tapped into later, when he was alone. He responded calmly now.

Neal:
‘we all know the former is something we must resist with utmost force, given the already reduced us presence here. the latter is simply unacceptable under any circumstances. to leave rolas exposed, especially given this latest information, cannot be allowed.’

Ayala pushed the issue, as she knew she must. She doubted anyone else would, given Neal’s mood.

Ayala:
‘i agree wholeheartedly. but our allies may not. i am afraid that if we share too much at this stage, without an appropriate plan to counter, we may be inviting disaster.’

Barrett:
‘ayala, we simply must inform the europeans of this. we cannot leave important intel that could lead to significant casualties to stay in a file.’

Ayala:
‘i understand that, general, but neither should we incite fear and concern where no action is possible. look, if we are honest, the europeans are not going to intervene with force even if the russians invade ukraine, there will simply not be enough political support. that is also true of belarus and, to a lesser extent, the baltic states in the north. ¿honestly, barrett, am i wrong?’

She was not, and when no one responded, she was about to go on when Barrett begrudgingly followed her line of thinking.

Barrett:
‘no, ayala, you aren’t. the question is will they stop there. we have to hope that the russians, even in their current state of abandon, will hesitate before crossing the borders of any central european countries. because if they do, the europeans are going to be forced to respond, and when that happens, we are going to have to intervene on their behalf, all the more so if we have withheld important intel about the enemy’s capabilities.’

Ayala knew it, and Neal knew it.

Neal:
‘you are both right. we will, no doubt, be forced to share this information at some point in the future, but for now we will keep it to ourselves. that said, we will also prepare for worst case scenario here, and make sure we get more informed in the meantime.’

They all agreed, and the conversation turned strategic, Barrett starting to share his thoughts on the topic as imagery and analyses reeled across his memory. Ayala was also busy, communing with Minnie on centers of population and ground topography to update the recon teams’ search patterns.

As they all set to getting their limited but capable force into place for whatever was coming next, the three Recon Teams were setting off once more, beginning the night’s sortie after a day of stationary signal hacking, observation, and rest.

Ten miles ahead of Recon Team One, Captain Miller was unaware of another three-person team, split up and moving quietly, clad in the same night-black, power augmented armor as the Spezialists. They carried with them small subspace tweeters, capable of very limited transmission range. But these tweeters were not speaking, they were listening. Listening for the encrypted pulse of the Recon Teams more powerful subspace signal. Listening, even though they could not understand the hyper-encrypted signal. They were moving in, triangulating the source of the Recon Team’s subspace transmission.

They were watching Ayala’s small team. They were one of many teams looking for any possible incursion. Via innocuous-seeming radio, the Russians sent a message back to Moscow.

Ben’s team had been discovered.

Chapter 34
: Axis Two

Premier Svidrigaïlov would not have appeared ambitious to most. A middling sized man, he was mildly overweight, slightly balding, mostly grey, and a ho
st of other qualified adjectives. He seemed average almost by design, and he had had survived by this apparent mediocrity, and suffered under it, for most of his adult life.

For even as he appeared so very middle of the road, he had a fearsome loathing for the average. He used the bylines of the communist manifesto as the source of his public demagoguery, but in fact, he sought nothing so innocuous. He sought dominion, his dominion over his country, and then his country’s dominion over the world. The proletariat were the foundation of his empire, and he needed them strong like any good communist, but more importantly, he needed them well underfoot.

His office was munificent and ancient, an irony of the ever-changing power dynamic of Russia; from kingdom, to republic, to union, back to country, and now to empire, in little over a century. Moscow’s reach had ebbed and flowed like a tide, rushing between the shores of the Baltic, Arctic, Black, and Caspian Seas with more violence and variance than any other nation in recent history. But through all that, Red Square had remained at its center, unchanging, inviolate. It was a waterfall of influence, whose source, power, and size shifted constantly, but whose singular scale and majesty remained, a thundering tribute to the farthest-reaching capitol on earth.

Seated behind a vast, dark mahogany desk, topped with thick, burnished green leather carefully spread and hammered across its antique surface, the premier reclined, reading a briefing prepared by his deputy. Into his solitude the man in question entered, a brief knock heralding him.

The deputy waited quietly just inside the door while the premier finished reading whatever paragraph had interested him. When the leader glanced up, he saw the deputy’s expectant expression, telling him that the man had something pressing to report, and gave a curt nod.

“Premier Svidrigaïlov,” said Peter Uncovsky, deferentially, “if I may, I have an issue that may require your attention.”

The premier frowned inquisitively, but without anger, taking his cue from his assistant’s tone that this was not something that threatened the security of the federation, though it did merit some concern. A wave of the premier’s hand brought the diminutive Mr. Uncovsky to stand in front of the expansive desk. Though Peter usually carried himself tall and straight, he tended to stoop unconsciously in the premier’s presence. And so he stood now, his head suspended in front of his shoulders, and delivered his message in the quick and efficient manner that the premier preferred.

“I have received word from Field Commandant Beria, Premier. He wishes to share that he has intelligence to suggest the allied force known as TASC has sent operatives into Russia to supervise our movements at Rostov, and potentially Bryansk and Belgorod as well.”

“Uhh!” exclaimed the office’s surly resident, leaning forward to face his most senior advisor. “Again with this news of these ‘allied forces.’ Why is he obsessed with this piss-ant group of scientists and their petty, hodge-podge force?”

The deputy waited while Yuri exhausted his brief rant.

“I do not know, Premier. But he remains insistent that they are a threat.”

“A threat!” said Yuri Svidrigaïlov, his assistant’s comment only refueling his indignation. “What could possibly be a threat at this stage? He counsels action, he counsels dominion, and then, as soon as we have momentum with us, he calls for caution.”

Peter nodded appreciatively, as though listening to the wisdom of the ancients, then responded, “He sends notice of this potential incursion, and asks permission to review our invasion plans for Ukraine and Belarus with you. What message would you like me to send to him, Premier?”

“Of course he asks to review our plans once more,” said the premier, in a tone laden with thick, sarcastic obsequiousness. “Let us see if we can be of assistance to him, shall we? Get Commander Beria on the line.”

Peter hesitated just a moment, then nodded and turned. Stepping out of the large room, he barked some quick orders at the dedicated bank of secretaries filling an office across the hall from the premier’s, and then waited. He did not like it when the premier was in this mood, and he liked it even less when the man spoke to his protégé Beria this way. Premier Svidrigaïlov had seen a hairpin turn in his fortunes since one Nikolai Beria had joined his cadre of confidants some four months ago, and those close to the premier were under no illusions as to just how instrumental the mysterious Commandant Beria had been to the ongoing rise of a certain Premier Svidrigaïlov.

Not that Peter would dare say such things to anyone else. This may not be the days of the Great Purges of Stalin, but no one who knew Premier Svidrigaïlov’s leadership style doubted his thirst for power, or his capacity for ruthlessness should someone stand in his way. Many a foolhardy party member or minister of one of their newly inducted ‘allied states’ had suffered under the illusion that they could express an adverse opinion openly. With the noose-like grip they had squeezed around the Empire’s communications, no one had ever learned what had happened to those men, but suffice to say their opinions were not shared enough times to find any wider purchase.

The irony was that Peter was close to certain that Nikolai Beria was not only the military mind behind Russia’s recent and very swift conquests, but that Nikolai was also the fist at the end of Svidrigaïlov’s far reaching arm, the blade that silenced any voice naïve enough to stand against the diminutive man’s rule.

“Minister Uncovsky?” the plaintive voice roused Peter from his musing, and he turned to the lady standing to his left, nodding, as she went on. “I have Field Commandant Beria on line four.”

“Good, good. Put it through to the premier’s office.”

He did not wait for confirmation. It was not a request. Instead, he turned briskly and returned to the great office across the hall, knocking once more, before poking his head in.

“I have the commandant on line four, Premier.”

Yuri Svidrigaïlov waved Peter in as the premier pressed speaker and the flashing red button for line four on his desk phone.

The line sprang to life as Peter closed the door behind him and walked over to a small, inconspicuous chair in a corner, near the premier’s shoulder.

“Commandant?” came the premier’s barking voice.

“Yes, Premier, this is Field Commandant Beria,” came the crisp, deep Russian voice through the speaker. “How may I be of service?”

“Yes, yes, Nikolai,” there were not many people that did not sit up when the field commandant spoke, such was the combination of his ever growing reputation and his natural gravitas, it was even enough to knock some of the superiority from the premier’s haughty disposition, “we have received this news of your concerns about ‘incursions,’ and ‘allied forces.’ I agree that this is most inconvenient, and that they have sent forces onto sovereign Russian soil is something they will be made to pay dearly for.”

Peter waited for the field commandant to interrupt the premier’s somewhat directionless rant. Indeed, Beria was the
only
man who could interrupt the premier. But no interruption came, and so the premier went on, “What I still fail to see is why we are even discussing this? Deal with these spies like you did the NATO ones that had infested Moscow. Deal with them at let us proceed as planned.”

Now the commandant replied, his tone measured, his patience tested, but not exhausted, “Premier Svidrigaïlov, as you say, I intend to deal with the spies here just as swiftly as we did the various agents that had been present in Moscow, as well as in Islamabad, Astana, and even Dushanbe. But, as I have mentioned before, these forces are not quite the sa …”

He was cut off by an ever more impatient premier, Peter flinching at the man’s brashness, “Nikolai, enough! I have already ordered you to rotate out the Special Forces from our new Stannic territories, much to the consternation of my governors in place there. Are you not also getting the full weight of all new Ubitsya Drone production coming from the Plant?”

The premier was referring to the new Ubitsya, or “Assassin” Drones, which the new and mysterious production facility at Novosibirsk was producing in slow but steady numbers. The plant had been a costly investment, one his budget had been ill equipped to afford, but it had paid incredible dividends. Nikolai had been insistent, to the point of vocally berating the premier, that they should make the investment.

He had been wise to limit the confrontation to a private meeting, the premier’s patience would not have stood for open defiance, but Nikolai had been right.

Yuri’s memory of the event was far from accurate now, though. Now he remembered himself as the visionary who had pushed for the new plant. Now he remembered only the façade of absolute confidence he showed to his other direct reports.

It was this bravado that now shone through once more.

Nikolai was silent for a moment, the line buzzing only with static, until he quietly replied, “Of course, Premier, and I appreciate your support, as always. May I suggest that you also show such wisdom in your support of my desire to factor in the allied forces involvement at this stage?”

“But why, Nikolai, why? I have seen with my own eyes what the Ubitsyas can do. Together with the full weight of the second, tenth, and twelfth armored divisions, battalion support, and the full air force fleet at your command, what difference could these allied reconnaissance teams make?”

“Premier, if you will permit me, it is not the forces already here that I am worried about. It is the broader involvement their presence implies.”

The premier was confused. “How can the allied taskforce’s involvement be any more serious than the already mobilized forces from the very countries that make up this …
taskforce
? You are making no sense, Nikolai.”

The tone that came from the line now was as close to curt as Peter had heard anyone be with the premier since his ascension to power, “Yuri Svidrigaïlov, my friend,” the name was said with the weight of a parent, a parent whose patience is close to fraying, “if I have preached nothing since joining you in your rightful step into power, it is that there are forces at play here that are not as they seem.”

The premier went to interrupt, if only to warn Nikolai not to overstep his bounds with another present, but the man on the end of the line did not desist, saying now, “You have seen what benefits may come from the new materials we have had access to from our Novosibirsk facility. Well, did it occur to you, my leader, that we would not be the only ones that would be able to develop them?”

The premier was stunned into silence. Not just by the force of Nikolai’s tone, but by the force of his words. He allowed himself a surreptitious glance at the attentive, if quiet, Peter, and then composed himself, “You are saying that that the Americans and Europeans have developed the same armor plating technology?”

Far away, in the mobile command center that Field Commandant Beria was using as his center of operations for the next phase of Premier Svidrigaïlov’s planned expansion, a sigh was barely contained.

“No, Premier, not the Americans and Europeans, though I fear they may have some measure of access to the technology as well, yes. Premier, when I have expressed concerns about TASC in the past, it was not simply because they represented a growing military capability. The taskforce was not formed without purpose, Yuri,” and here, the man on the line became a tad liberal with his understanding of the current global political situation. “I have reason to believe the allied taskforce was formed specifically to try to counter Russia’s resurgence.”

The premier was wide-eyed, but Nikolai was not finished. “I had not wanted to mention it before, but the reconnaissance forces I have encountered here, small as they are, have confirmed my suspicions. The allied taskforce has developed a version of the armor plating as well. They are coming for Mother Russia, Premier, and I need your help to stop them.”

The premier’s expression was childlike, pleading almost, and his voice as he replied was plaintive, “Of course, Nikolai. For Mother Russia.”

- - -

Far away, standing at a data bank, the man known as Field Commander Nikolai Beria stared at a wall of screens. His mind was alive with a hot flow of data coming to and from a black canister embedded in the bottom of the data bank, wired into it at an almost primal level.

As he finished his discussion with the premier, his lips did not move. The secure line to the mobile command center was linked, via the data bank, directly into the large subspace tweeter in its base. And from there the signal was being transmitted directly into his machine mind.

As he continued his tiresome debate with his puppet premier, he simultaneously opened a second connection. He did not use one of the many telephone lines patched into the command hub he was at the center of. Instead he used his subspace tweeter to tap into a small but pervasive network of tweeters he’d had one of his many Russian engineering groups distributing over the past months. It reached out across the more populace locales of the ever-growing dominion of the Russian People’s Federation. It reached all the way across Kazakhstan, onward to the Plant, their secret resonance chamber facility in Novosibirsk.