Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

Alex brushed loose strands of hair from her face and said coolly, “I thought I told you, David, I’ve been helping Captain Scott wrap up Admiral Drummond’s affairs. Jake’s here to escort the Admiral’s body back to the States and—”

“So I hear,” Hoffman said. “I also hear that you’ve signed out for Murmansk tomorrow. May I ask why?”

“We’re going to take a look at the hotel where Frank and that sailor died,” Scott interjected. “Alex agreed to be my escort.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Alex,” said Hoffman sourly. “There are some important things that need attention here. For one, there’s the summit briefing document.”

“David, I’ve already promised Jake that I’d go,” she said, chagrined.

“If you’ll permit me, Mr. Hoffman,” Scott said, “I’ve been ordered to report all the details of the incident in Murmansk to my commanding officer in Washington. The FSB report is quite thorough, but there’s nothing like seeing that place firsthand. While we’re there, I might want to visit the sub base in Olenya Bay, and Alex knows it like the back of her hand. I’d say that’s pretty important.”

Hoffman turned his gaze on Scott. “Alex works for me, Scott, and the DOE, not the U.S. Navy. I don’t lend my people out for use as tour guides.”

“This is no tour we’re taking,” Scott said acidly. “An American flag-rank officer has been murdered in Russia. I need Alex’s help to find his killer.”

“I heard,” Hoffman said, gazing past Scott to the blizzard on the conference table, “that Drummond took his own life.”

“You heard wrong,” Scott said. The look he gave Hoffman said further discussion about Drummond had ended.

“David, we’re packing up Admiral Drummond’s papers right now.” Alex swept an arm in the direction of the table. “Another day and we’ll be finished.”

Hoffman moistened his lips. “All right, one more day. But that’s all. I expect everyone in the office to turn to.”

“Thanks, David,” Alex said to Hoffman’s departing back.

She wouldn’t look at Scott. Arms folded, she paced the room with her head down and said, “I’m sorry, but I should have warned you. David’s very defensive.”

“And he’s jealous too,” Scott observed.

“Jake, that’s ridiculous. He’s simply worried about the budget cutbacks at State. They’re looking hard at DOE and usually start by cutting frills.”

Scott moved papers around on the conference table. “Securing loose fissile materials is considered a frill?”

“State prefers to leave the hunt for nuclear material to private organizations with money like Earth Safe. David worries that he’ll be sent stateside to oversee the dismantling of an old nuclear power plant. Would you want a job like that?”

“Have it your way.” Scott picked up a batch of documents and squared their sides.

“Look, I’ll smooth things out with him later. I have to live with him after you’re gone.”

“Is he your lover?”

She stopped pacing and gave Scott a hard look. “Of course not. I told you, he’s my boss. We’ve worked together a long time, I like David, and—” She caught herself and looked away. “God, why am I telling you this?” She waited a bit before she turned back and saw Scott looking intently at a document that he had found tucked inside a report that he held spread open on the table with his other hand.

“Bingo,” Scott said.

Alex moved to his side. “What?”

“It’s him,” Scott said.

“Who?”

There was no mistaking the significance of what he’d discovered. He planted a thumbnail under a name in capital letters in the text of a decrypted message. “That Chechen terrorist. Alikhan Zakayev.”

Scott and Alex read the message together.

////PURPLE//INTERCEPTS INDICATE (GEN)

ALIKHAN ZAKAYEV OPERATING ST

PETERSBURG VICINITY AND NORTH//

CONCERN REGARDING TIMING RE POSSIBLE

OPERATION(S) COINCIDE SUMMIT//URGENT

YOU IDENTIFY-CONFIRM//CONTACT

AUTHORIZED//USE EXTREME CAUTION//RISK

RED DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT//PURPLE END////

“What does contact authorized mean?” Alex asked.

“That Frank had permission to meet with and talk to Zakayev.”

“Why? Zakayev’s a terrorist. He kills people.”

“We must have information that Zakayev is planning an operation to coincide with the summit.

Washington wanted Frank to get information and if necessary meet with Zakayev, try to head it off.” “Head it off? How?”

“Offer him something. Or kill him.”

Alex’s voice came out strained. “What you just said. Do you know what that means? It means the United States government has a connection to Alikhan Zakayev, who just killed a thousand civilians in Moscow.”

“And Frank Drummond too,” said Scott.

The Mi-28 helicopter, rotors clattering, lifted off the pad from Tushino Aerodrome, north of Moscow. As it gained altitude it swung north toward the Kola Peninsula. Moscow’s gray suburbs quickly disappeared, replaced by the barren, snow-streaked Russian steppe stretching to the horizon.

Scott and Alex, belted into their bucket seats in the divided cabin, faced an impassive Yuri Abakov across the aisle like paratroopers headed for the drop zone. He had on his ushanka hat and wore a short, heavy coat over civilian clothes. Their breath plumed in the biting cold, which a pair of overhead electric heaters had so far failed to overcome.

Twenty minutes after departing Moscow, Alex twisted around, pointed out the Perspex window, and said above the noise of the chopper’s rotors and turboshaft engine, “Amazing. We’re almost over Rybinsk.”

Scott looked out and saw a clump of factories and smokestacks and to the north, a huge body of water shimmering like beaten metal. “How do you know?”

“Because that’s the Sea of Rybinsk down there. And if you look to the south, you can see the city of Rybinsk on the Volga.”

“She’s right,” Abakov said, passing them two cups he’d filled with coffee from a thermos. “Rybinsk is a big manufacturing center. In ’41 they dammed the upper Volga to make a reservoir, one of the biggest in the world.”

Rybinsk quickly slipped aft and disappeared.

Scott sat back in his seat and sipped hot, black coffee. Abakov briefly met his gaze, then looked away. Scott took it as his opening.

“Tell me about Alikhan Zakayev.”

This time Abakov met and held Scott’s gaze. “Tell you what?”

“What he’s like. Why he hates Russia.”

“He hates Russia,” Abakov said, “because he wants independence for Chechnya and we won’t give it to him. So he started a war and he’s losing it and wants to make us pay for his mistakes. It’s that simple.”

“The truth is,” Alex said, “the Russian Army killed Zakayev’s entire family: wife, children, parents, and grandparents. That’s why he hates Russia. Why won’t you admit it, Colonel?”

Abakov glared at Alex, then looked out the window.

“Is that true, Colonel?” Scott said.

“Zakayev was a former KGB major,” Abakov said, his gaze on Scott. “I knew him in Moscow in the late 1980’s. Even then he was a hard man, driven. He moved up the ladder and made full colonel. Then, in 1991, during the failed coup in Moscow, he disappeared. We thought he had defected to the West, but instead he had returned to Chechnya, where he joined the rebel forces who had declared their independence. Yeltsin sent in troops to put down the rebellion, and Zakayev, who by then had risen in the ranks of Chechen guerrillas to general and commanded a huge rebel force, put up a hell of a fight. We offered to negotiate but Zakayev refused and”—Abakov threw up his hands—“as a result we may have to launch an all-out war against Chechnya. Another terrorist attack like the one at the concert hall and I think Chechnya’s days are numbered.”