Video footage of the Zuljanah rocket launch appeared on screen. Steadily, the missile arced high over the Caspian Sea, roaring aloft on a pillar of flickering fire. “What you’re witnessing is the final test of a key element in our plan, the space vehicle that will deliver the MIDNIGHT weapon to its intended target.”
Yvgeny Rogozin, the lieutenant general in charge of Russia’s air force, frowned. “That’s not one of our ICBMs.”
“Correct, General,” Voronin said. “The rocket is an Iranian design.”
“The Iranians?” Gennady Kokorian, the defense minister, snapped querulously. “What the devil does Iran have to do with this MIDNIGHT plan of yours?”
“Everything,” Voronin said simply. Then he smiled coldly. “And nothing.”
Over the next several minutes, he walked his audience through the several stages involved in this high-stakes operation. The more he talked, the longer their faces grew. As he’d suspected from the beginning, they were conditioned by age and inbred caution to focus only on the risks involved — so much so that they could not recognize the enormous rewards to be reaped. These men are fossils, he thought contemptuously. Much the same, of course, could be said of Zhdanov himself, though at least the aging president still had just enough guts and greed to be useful to him.
When he finished, there was a long moment of horrified silence.
At last, Kokorin shook his bald head. “This plan of yours is insane,” he said bluntly. “You would stake everything on a single weapon? A weapon that is no longer even fully in our control?” He grimaced. “Failure would be utterly catastrophic, both for Russia, and for all of us in this room.”
“All the more reason to make sure we succeed,” Voronin retorted. He shrugged. “Besides, alea iacta est.” Seeing their looks of incomprehension at the classic Latin comment from Caesar, spoken as he the crossed to Rubicon to make his bid for power, he smiled thinly. “In other words, the die is cast. The Gulf Venture has already sailed and our Iranian allies will not willingly abort the operation now.”
They stared at him in shock. Until that instant, none of them had realized MIDNIGHT was already in motion. Voronin resisted the temptation to laugh. Had these tired and timid old men seriously believed they would be consulted first? That they were anything more than the tools Zhdanov would use if it was necessary and discard or ignore if it was not?
“There are risks,” he agreed. “But the potential rewards far outweigh them. At the moment, Russia’s status as a world power is mostly an illusion — one which rests on a foundation of sand. The longer we sit idle, the more the power conveyed by our military might, especially by our strategic nuclear forces, will be undermined by an aging, shrinking population and shaky economy. If nothing changes, we will only grow weaker as our competitors grow stronger. We must either act decisively now against our chief rival, the United States, or abandon any pretense of being a great nation.” He turned his attention to Zhdanov. “And I do not believe our people would react well to learning that all their sacrifices of the past decades were in vain.”
The president nodded dourly. He was only too aware that his countrymen would turn against even the strongest leader if they believed he had failed them. Fed a steady diet of propaganda claiming that Russia could still enforce its will on the rest of the world whenever it chose, they would not accept anything less. In essence, his continued hold on power rested on his ability to make reality conform to those lies before the Russian people figured out how badly they’d been duped.
“In any case, MIDNIGHT has been structured deliberately to minimize any significant danger to us,” Voronin continued slyly. “Any significant evidence that survives will pin the attack on another of America’s long-standing enemies, Iran’s radical Islamic regime — and not on us.”
Slowly, the men around the table relaxed and muttered their agreement. The younger man’s arguments were persuasive, especially since it was clear that his scheme had Zhdanov’s total support. Only Kokorin seemed unimpressed. His thin-lipped mouth curled in distaste. “You’ve certainly spun an elegant web of lies and deceit,” the elderly defense minister acknowledged. “So much so that I only wonder what else it conceals.” His eyes hardened. “Is your interest in this plan purely patriotic, some burning, selfless desire to see Mother Russia made great again? Or do you hope to achieve more personal gains in all the chaos you’re about to unleash?”
Zhdanov leaned forward with a scowl. “Enough, Gennadiy!” he snapped. “Remember, I’ve personally approved this operation. What I care about is what matters. And what matters to me are competence and boldness, not high-minded slogans that do nothing to advance Russia’s strategic interests. So far, MIDNIGHT has been executed flawlessly. That is what counts!”
Voronin bowed his head modestly, acknowledging this praise. Privately, he knew the reason for the president’s vehemence was that Kokorin’s tart comment had struck close to the bone. Zhdanov, like him, was fully aware that the world’s financial markets were about to be turned upside down — and that investments made with that in mind would yield extraordinary gains. Some, he mused, might find it grotesque to expect to profit financially from the probable deaths of a hundred million people. But while Russia’s leader undoubtedly intended mainly to pad his own considerable personal wealth, the ill-gotten fruits of years of near-absolute power, he personally had far bigger plans.
The financial rewards he expected to reap were important, but not in themselves. With three billion dollars at his disposal, Voronin had made himself the second most powerful man in Russia. How much more could he achieve with ten or twenty times that amount? His pale eyes narrowed in speculation. It would be quite amusing, he decided, to find out.
Thirty-One
Viktor Skoblin hit the power button on the satellite phone to turn it off. When the screen went dark, he handed it back to Yvgeny Kvyat. The former GRU officer got to work stowing its separate components away out of sight. It was vital to keep their Iranian “allies” unaware that the Raven Syndicate team had its own line of communication to Russia.
“Well? What’s the news from Moscow?” another of his subordinates, Dmitri Fadeyev, demanded.
Skoblin heard the tension in the other man’s voice. It mirrored his own. During the oil tanker’s seemingly endless voyage south through the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean, and now west into the South Atlantic — day after day without sighting land or any other ships — frictions had risen steadily between his small unit and the larger Iranian crew. Apart from their mission, the two sides had nothing in common. To Captain Heidari and the other Revolutionary Guard sailors and soldiers, the Russians were “godless mercenaries,” not true believers. The more fanatical among them clearly regarded the very presence of Skoblin and his men aboard as something that contaminated their ship’s holy purpose. So far, they’d limited themselves to muttered insults and sullen looks, but the Raven Syndicate’s ex-soldiers and spies were now being very careful never to go anywhere aboard the tanker on their own or unarmed.
He looked around the circle of anxious faces. “Mother Wolf is in position,” he told them quietly. “She will stay with us all the way to the launch point.”