The way she felt then, waking up the next morning with a hangover and a throbbing pain in her arm, was exactly how Devlin McCarthy felt now having been woken in person by Carl Williams and his ever-present laptop-based lifeform, HOLMES.
“You woke me to tell me what?”
“Ma’am, there’s no way to sugar-coat this, so I’ll let HOLMES tell it and you can decide what you do with it,” Williams said. He sat his chubby bearded self down on the end of the sofa outside her bedroom. She sat at the other end in a bathrobe, slippers and with a confused expression on her face. He took out a smartphone, turned on the speaker and sat it on the table in front of her.
“I thought you needed him hooked up to your ‘fat pipe’?”
“For analytical work and data exchange. Right now he’s just in conversation mode.”
She nodded, “OK, sure. Go ahead HOLMES.”
The tinny British voice was loud in the small room, “Hello Ambassador, do you remember saying to me that the Russian air force officer behind the attack on Saint Lawrence must be someone they really trust? ‘A party insider’, was your exact phrase?”
Devlin had by now had dozens of conversations with HOLMES, and she didn’t share his perfect recall. “No, HOLMES, I have to admit, I don’t.”
“Well, ma’am, you did. So working on that premise I have been looking at officers of the Eastern Military District 3rd Air and Air Defense Forces Command and building a database of the sons and daughters of prominent political and military leaders who would be of the right age to be leading a Russian air unit of at least Brigade strength. The interrogation of pilots downed and captured over Alaska identified they were from the Russian 6983rd Brigade, and the commander of this unit fits the profile you described. He is Yevgeny Bondarev, the grandson of the former Commander in Chief of the Russian Aerospace Forces, Viktor Bondarev. He is an active member of the Progress Party, served with distinction in the Middle East and on his return to Russia his unit, the 5th Air Regiment, was attached to the 3rd Air and Air Defense Forces Command. When the commander of the 6983rd retired, Bondarev was promoted.” HOLMES was talking like a military search engine, and Devlin had trouble assimilating all the detail, being as it was 0330 in the a.m. and she was still waking up.
“Yes, so… so, what?”
“I have examined every single piece of data currently held in US intelligence databases related to Major-General Bondarev,” HOLMES said. “I have also obtained access to his GRU personnel file and an FSB intelligence dossier compiled on him as part of his vetting for the position of Commander of the 6983rd Air Brigade.”
Now Devlin came awake, “You hacked GRU and FSB servers?”
“Not personally ma’am,” HOLMES replied, his voice conveying no irony. “But you don’t need to know more.”
“No, I don’t,” Devlin agreed. She turned to Williams. “Where are we going with this?”
Williams squirmed awkwardly, “We found something in the files, related to you.”
We found something in the files, related to you. This was a sentence no Ambassador ever wanted to hear from a spook.
“Tell me,” Devlin said.
“In the FSB file, there was a US birth certificate recording a Russian national, Yevgeny Bondarev, as the father of a child born two years ago,” HOLMES said. Devlin went cold. HOLMES continued, “The mother of the child was listed as your daughter, Cindy McCarthy. The child’s name is…”
“Angela,” Devlin said quietly. “Angela McCarthy.”
“What I want is simple,” Bondarev was telling Arsharvin. He had just reviewed imagery from the US attack on Ugolny. His voice was low and dangerously quiet. “I want to know how the Americans managed to get two Fantoms, which have a range of only 1,500 miles when carrying a full payload of ground attack ordnance, through our long and short-range air defenses and underneath a cloud of circling drones and then hit my air base, bury me alive and kill every damn crew member of the 573rd Fighter Aviation Regiment, when the nearest US airfield out of which they could have flown is Lewis McChord in Washington State!” He took a breath. “Which is twice the range of a Fantom, or in case you need reminding, two thousand, five hundred freaking miles from Anadyr.”
“We’re working on that, comrade Major-General,” Arsharvin said. There were other officers present, so he was sticking to formalities. He was also being very careful because he knew his friend, and he knew what he was going through. This was not a time for being defensive. “Our first theory was mid-air refueling. But they would have had to refuel over Alaska, or the north coast of Russia, and we have not been able to identify any likely radar or satellite data indicating the US managed to get a refueling aircraft into the theatre, manned or unmanned.”
Bondarev was staring at him, waiting. They were seated across a table from each other in his temporary operations center in the harbor at Anadyr; a former harbormaster building commandeered because it was the only building with enough connectivity to support their data communication needs without choking. “You have other theories, then,” Bondarev stated, not asking.
Arsharvin nodded to one of his junior officers, “The most likely is still that the US at some point managed to position mobile drone launch units in Alaska State and since the outbreak of the conflict, has moved these West, so that they are now in a position to threaten our rear,” the man said. “They have had the capability to launch their Fantom aircraft off the back of a heavy hauler since…”
Bondarev cut him off, “We already discussed US mobile drone launch capabilities.” His eyes narrowed. “However my intelligence chief has not identified any such units operating within this theatre. Or was there a report that I missed?”
“No, comrade Major-General.”
“But you have information to that effect now?”
“No, Comrade Major-General,” the man said. “Only speculation.”
Bondarev stood abruptly, and Arsharvin flinched. “I cannot target ‘speculation’ Lieutenant Colonel Arsharvin,” Bondarev said. “I have an immediate and existential threat to my ability to maintain air supremacy in the Bering Strait theatre, and that threat is currently unknown, unquantified, and…” Bondarev slammed a hand down on the table, “un-located!” He was not finished. He held up a sheaf of papers Arsharvin had delivered earlier in the day. “The enemy is not playing our game, you tell me. He is putting nuclear submarines into firing positions off our coastline. He is moving a significant part of his air force to the US north-west, but holding it in reserve. Currently, I have five regiments facing his three. Within a week we will probably be evenly matched. Within two, we will be outmatched, and then he can come against us. We need to get our troops safely on the ground in Alaska before then, but…” He slammed the table again. “Instead! Instead I am being bled by an asymmetrical interdiction force of insignificant strength able to inflict significant losses because my intelligence unit was apparently deaf, dumb and blind to this threat!”
Arsharvin had taken all he could. Yes, his friend was a superior officer. Yes, he was hurting. But he could not place the blame for the deaths of 200 men on Arsharvin and his officers. Not alone.
“With respect, Major-General,” Arsharvin said, standing as well. “There were only two stealth aircraft used in this attack. However they got through, they got lucky.” There was a map of Alaska on the table, and Arsharvin span it around, his finger stabbed down on the rugged western coastal region. “If they have mobile launch units in the theatre there are very few areas they could operate from. We have standing patrols over Nome, so they didn’t come from there, and east of Nome there are no roads, only logging trails. There are no suitable airfields, only dirt strips used by light aircraft flown by bush pilots. If they are there, we will find them.” He took his hand away and stood, “I promise you, Comrade Major-General.”