Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Garin remained seated as the other passengers gathered their items from the overhead bins and moved toward the exit. He took one last opportunity to survey as many of the passengers as he could, although most had their backs to him.

Garin trailed the last passenger up the aisle to the galley, where the senior flight attendant, as promised, had an extra-large cup of coffee waiting for him. Garin downed the cold coffee in a couple of gulps, grateful for the infusion of caffeine. He thanked her and proceeded up the Jetway to the terminal.

Foot traffic along the concourse was moderate, permitting Garin a relatively unobstructed view of those who populated it. Although he put nothing past Bor, who was capable of the most brazen of acts, Garin knew it was extraordinarily unlikely anything would happen within the terminal. As Garin walked in the direction of the parking garage, he pulled out yet another burner and called Dan Dwyer, who picked up immediately.

“What’s the latest?” Garin asked.

“Luci’s here with Congo. She told Olivia about your dance in Dallas, and I told her about the party in Georgia. Olivia was hesitant to go to her boss with just that, but she did anyway. I haven’t heard from her since she left, but she should’ve spoken to him by now.”

“Why was she hesitant?”

“CYA syndrome. In her defense, it’s not exactly conclusive evidence.”

“Of all people, she should know what we’re up against. Who we’re up against.”

“She does,” Dwyer assured him. “Remember, she’s still a civilian. For a civilian she’s a good soldier. Cut her some slack.”

“No one gets any slack, Dan. No one.”

Dwyer sighed. “What are we up against, anyway?”

“I hope to find out very soon,” Garin replied.

“Who are we up against? Beyond our scary friend?”

“That’s not for this call, Dan. No markers.”

“You’re using a throwaway and my system’s as secure as it gets.”

“Not for this call.”

“That bad?”

“Think about it.”

Dwyer sighed again. “What’s next?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll know soon. Very soon,” Garin said. “Am I all set?”

“All set. Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.”

Garin terminated the call as he passed Gate C3. In the window overlooking the tarmac he caught the reflection of a woman walking a few steps behind him. It was a woman who had been seated four rows before him on the flight. Her lips were moving—just barely—as if she were whispering to herself. And he caught the glint of a small device in her ear.

FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 15, 4:15 P.M. EDT

Once again, Laura, I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

“You’re looking at a wide-angle shot of the Caucasus to provide perspective, not detail,” said Laura Casini. “It’s helpful to orient yourself to the geography first.”

“Southwestern Russia.”

“Right. Black Sea to the west, Caspian to the east. This shot is just north of the Caucasus from Sochi to Grozny. You can also see part of the eastern shore of the Caspian in Kazakhstan.”

“I’m oriented,” Olivia said.

“Okay, now I’m going in for a tight shot—the highway between Grozny and Makhachkala.”

Casini manipulated the mouse, and the image on the big screen dissolved, reconstituted, then sharpened.

“T-14 tanks, APCs, trucks, self-propelled Msta-Ss, and troops,” Olivia said, puzzled. “Lots and lots of them. I’d say two divisions at least. I haven’t heard anything about this. Does DIA know?”

“This is from just a few hours ago. I went back in time to see when the movement began, but we don’t have any recent images. If I had to guess, I’d say this all happened in the last forty-eight hours. And that’s not all…”

Casini manipulated the mouse again. “This is a closer shot of the northeastern shore of the Caspian. Kazakhstan.”

“Are those Russian troops?”

“See for yourself.” A closer shot appeared.

“Another division,” Olivia said, confusion in her voice. “Russians in Kazakhstan?”

“They’re moving south.”

“Toward Syria?”

“Nope,” Casini said. “They’re too far east. If the western division continues in the present direction, they’ll go through Georgia, and then Azerbaijan, to Iran. The eastern division will go through Kazakhstan, then Turkmenistan, to Iran.”

Olivia stared at the screen, her brow furrowed. The puzzle still was missing several pieces.

“Laura, do you have any shots of the area south of Saint Petersburg?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and we do.”

The screen showed troops and equipment near Estonia and Latvia.

“At least three tank battalions from the Western Military District within miles of the Latvian border. Two more with lots of artillery near Estonia,” Olivia observed. “In total that’s far more than we’ve seen in recent maneuvers. They could easily overwhelm NATO forces. We have Abrams tanks and Bradleys at Grafenwoehr. But by the time we could deploy them the game would already be over.”

“They’re not moving at all, though,” Casini said. “They seem to just be parked there. No activity.”

“They don’t have to be moving to be concerning. Within hours of getting the order from Mikhailov, they’d be halfway inside the Baltics,” Olivia explained. “What really concerns me are the divisions near the Caspian. They are moving. And their movement is, frankly, incomprehensible.”

“What’s incomprehensible about it?”

“The Russians know that, eventually, we’d notice these buildups, these movements. You don’t need KH-13 to see that. Concentrations of troops and matériel of this size are going to be spotted in the ordinary course,” Olivia explained. “And given everything that’s happened in the last month, they know NATO would read them the riot act if there was any inkling that mischief was afoot.

“But apparently, that doesn’t bother them. They’re massing and moving as if they’re unconcerned about NATO reaction, like these exercises are completely innocent and nonthreatening. And like we know they’re innocent and so we aren’t going to react.”

“Aren’t they?” Casini asked. “I mean, after the failed EMP operation, they wouldn’t provoke another crisis, right?”

Olivia examined the screens for several seconds in silence.

“You’re not going to disappear again on me, are you, Olivia? That was rude.”

“Laura, do you have images from Baltiysk and Kronshtadt?”

“The Baltic Fleet.” Casini nodded matter-of-factly.

Seconds later the split-screen images of naval bases appeared. The two women studied the screen for anomalies.

“I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,” Olivia said tentatively.

“That’s because you’re not a super-sharp-eyed spy-satellite sleuth,” Casini countered. “There’s absolutely no sign of the Nakhimov Missile Ship Brigade.”

“Are you sure?”

“Your job is analysis. My job is surveillance.”

“Do you see anything else missing?” Olivia asked.

“Not immediately.”

“Laura, I need you to examine any and all available satellite surveillance of Russian naval bases in the near abroad.” Olivia paused. “No, make that Russian military bases in the near abroad, especially Georgia, Kazakhstan, and Tajikistan—and let me know what you find.”

“What do you expect me to find?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Olivia replied. “I hope.”

CLEVELAND, OHIO,

AUGUST 15, 4:17 P.M. EDT

Garin took the escalator from the terminal to the people mover that led to the parking garage. There were few people along the way.