The major nodded. “It is, sir.” He hid his irritation. The 12th Main Directorate’s specialists — directly responsible to the Minister of Defense for Russia’s strategic and tactical nuclear weapons stockpiles — had a widely known habit of throwing their weight around when dealing with line officers. But there was nothing to be gained from pushing back. Their expertise and the overwhelming importance of their mission made them effectively untouchable by anyone outside their direct chain of command. Instead, he snapped another parade-ground-quality salute and spun around to shout new orders to his men.
Obeying immediately, they spread out across the airfield apron — adopting wider intervals as they moved farther away from the An-72 cargo plane.
Colonel Mikhail Krylov concealed his satisfaction as the Engels-2 security troops dispersed to their new stations. Even from a hundred meters, there hadn’t been much danger that the major, his junior officers, or any of their enlisted men would notice anything amiss. But why take unnecessary chances?
He turned to watch the rest of his truck convoy arrive. The big 8x8 cargo carriers pulled in and parked close to the An-72’s tail section. Their armored BTR-82 escorts rolled into position to ring the aircraft, well inside the loose perimeter formed by the ground troops. Their turret-mounted autocannons swiveled outward, covering every possible approach to this section of the airfield. If any of the base security soldiers noticed they were also covered by the arcs of fire from those 30mm cannons, they kept their mouths shut. When it came to protecting the powerful weapons in their charge, the 12th Main Directorate’s personnel trusted no one.
The rumbling noise made by the Ural truck motors died away as their drivers switched off. For a long moment, absolute silence reigned, without any sign of movement among the parked vehicles.
Krylov turned to his ranking subordinate, Lieutenant Colonel Potkin. “Note the time carefully, Andrei.”
“I’m ready, Colonel,” the other man assured him. He held an old-fashioned stopwatch in one hand.
Nodding, Krylov pulled a whistle out of his breast pocket and blew three shrill blasts. In response, the officers and men waiting aboard his trucks instantly swung into action — clambering down out of cabs and over back tailboards. Within minutes, they had lowered a pair of forklifts out of one of the trucks and were using them to unload sealed metal crates from the others. Every green-painted crate bore radiological warning labels indicating it contained a live nuclear warhead or bomb. Each also had a unique serial number to identify the precise weapon stored inside.
Krylov watched closely while one of the forklifts carefully hoisted the first of the unloaded weapons containers. Slowly, it trundled up the An-72’s rear ramp and into the cargo compartment. A group of his officers and senior enlisted men shepherded the forklift at every step. As far as the air base command staff and most of his own subordinates knew, this was a strategic readiness exercise designed to test the Saratov-63 depot’s ability to rapidly transfer its stored weapons in the event of a major international crisis. If events appeared to be sliding toward all-out war, large numbers of those nuclear missile warheads and air-dropped bombs were supposed to be flown to the different airfields and missile complexes dispersed across Russia’s vast territory.
Today’s drill was expected to evaluate how well the 12th Main Directorate’s procedures and personnel performed under pressure. That was true as far as it went, Krylov knew. But the real purpose of this exercise was actually a carefully hidden secret, one known only to a small, tight-knit group… starting at the very top, with Russia’s President Zhdanov, and working down from there to Krylov and two of his junior officers.
Inside the An-72’s spacious cargo compartment, Major Anatoly Yakemenko supervised the crews tasked with stowing the heavy crates and securing them to the aircraft’s deck. They were following a carefully drawn up loading plan. Each container was assigned its own precisely calculated place inside the plane. Too much weight stowed either forward or aft of the cargo jet’s center of gravity could lead to a crash — an unthinkable prospect for an aircraft that would be carrying megatons of fission and fusion weapons if this exercise were the real thing.
“That’s the last of them, Major,” a young lieutenant reported, pointing to where a group of senior NCOs were methodically tightening the restraints used to latch a crate into position on the An-72’s deck.
Yakemenko nodded. Under his careful eye, the crew checked its work and then stepped back. He tugged hard at one of the straps, making sure there wasn’t any excess give. Satisfied, he spoke into his handheld radio, “Colonel, this is Yakemenko. The loading phase is complete.”
“Roger that, Anatoly. Your crews have worked hard and done very well,” Krylov responded. “As a reward, we’ll give everyone a thirty-minute rest break before concluding the exercise.”
The colonel’s whistle shrilled again, this time ordering his men back outside the cargo aircraft. Yakemenko stayed right where he was. Instead, he watched through narrowed eyes while all of the others trotted down the An-72’s ramp. They were in a hurry to get back to the relative warmth of their trucks.
When the last man was off the ramp and out of sight, he moved to the cargo compartment’s forward bulkhead and rapped twice on a locked door that sealed off the An-72’s crew area and cockpit. It opened at his signal, revealing a group of four solidly built men in Air Force flight suits. The uniforms were a cover, since he knew these men actually worked for the Raven Syndicate.
“All clear?” one of them asked.
Yakemenko nodded. “You’ve got twenty-nine minutes,” he warned. He stepped aside to clear the way.
Without bothering to reply, the four Raven Syndicate operatives bent over and picked up what looked exactly like another weapons crate from inside the An-72’s crew area. Straining under its weight, they muscled it awkwardly through the door and into the cargo compartment. Carefully, gingerly, they lowered the heavy container to the deck. Any loud noises now would be disastrous.
Captain Leonid Kazmin, the youngest of the select group of 12th Main Directorate officers now secretly in Pavel Voronin’s pay, followed them out. He flashed Yakemenko a jumpy, nervous half smile. “Is my special package ready, Anatoly?”
Yakemenko pointed to one of the first warhead crates that had been loaded aboard the An-72. It was tied down not far from the cargo compartment’s forward bulkhead. “Right over there, Leonid. And it’s all yours.”
With a tight nod, Kazmin signaled his work crew. As quickly and quietly as possible, they loosened the straps holding the real crate to the deck. Once the container was free, they lugged it across the compartment, faces purpling with effort, and set it down next to the duplicate they’d just brought out from concealment.
Kazmin knelt beside the two crates, making one last check. First, he compared the placement and appearance of their respective radiological warning labels. They matched perfectly. So did the serial numbers prominently displayed on each container. Just as promised and planned. He breathed out in relief.
Scrambling back to his feet, he gestured for his men to replace the real weapons container with its phony twin. Sweating, they moved the fake crate into position and refastened all the straps and tiedowns.
Impatiently, Yakemenko watched Kazmin and the others finish up by manhandling the genuine container back through the door into the cargo jet’s crew area. When it closed and latched shut behind them, he quickly ran his eyes over the rows of crates secured to the An-72’s deck. Nothing seemed out of place. Mentally, he crossed his fingers. Now it was time to find out if all their careful planning would pay off. Presidential authorization or not, Voronin had made his expectations of absolute secrecy in this carefully contrived shell game abundantly clear.