Flynn nodded. “All of that is true. Which is precisely why Zhdanov is working through Voronin’s Raven Syndicate and the Iranians. It lets him hide Russia’s involvement. And without solid evidence that Moscow is directly responsible, would an American president be willing to unleash a nuclear Armageddon that might end all of human civilization?”
“Probably not,” Fox agreed slowly. “And even if he was, I’m not sure the rest of the chain of command would go along with him.”
“Well, one more thing’s for damned sure,” Flynn said bluntly. “The Russians definitely have the nuclear weapons technology and expertise needed to build EMP warheads… and the supercomputing power required to plan the most destructive attack.” He leaned forward, intent on making his point. “Remember how none of us could see what strategic advantage the Russians and the Iranians hoped to gain by destroying a single city? Because the huge risks of sparking a total war never seemed to match up with any possible gain? This is the answer, Br’er Fox,” he argued. “A successful EMP attack carried out by hidden intermediaries lets Zhdanov and the nutcases in Tehran cripple us without giving themselves away. With millions dead or dying and our whole civilian economy in ruins, we’d have to turn inward — dedicating every ounce of our remaining resources trying to cope with the avalanche of disaster unfolding here at home.” His jaw tightened. “Sure, all our missiles, bombers, warships, tanks, and artillery would be untouched… but so what? They’d be rendered effectively useless by the sheer magnitude of the domestic catastrophe we’d be facing. It’d take us decades to recover — decades with the Russians and their allies consolidating power in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, South America… hell, wherever they want to.”
Finished, he sat back, feeling suddenly exhausted. Even though he didn’t have any hard facts to back up his speculation, he was still as sure of this as he’d ever been about anything. And he absolutely needed the higher-ups in the Quartet Directorate to understand the magnitude of the threat they now faced. Four no longer had time to play it safe or to try to conserve scarce resources.
Laura Van Horn broke the uneasy silence. “Nick’s right,” she said flatly. “His hypothesis is the only one that fits all the data.”
Somberly, Fox nodded. “I agree.” He sighed. “Which makes our need to seize the Gulf Venture and that nuclear-armed missile it’s carrying that much more urgent.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Unfortunately, none of our leased satellite reconnaissance sweeps of the world’s oceans have turned up the tanker yet. We’re as much in the dark now as we were when we started looking.”
“It has to be heading for either the North Atlantic or the Caribbean,” Flynn said abruptly.
Fox stared at him. “Why there, and not the Pacific?”
“Because we have anti-ballistic missile interceptors based in Alaska and California,” Flynn explained, feeling more and more certain that he was right about this. “With just one shot in their quiver, the bad guys can’t risk watching their warhead blown out of space before it reaches its intended detonation point.” His fingers drummed on the table. “They have to launch their attack from where we’re most vulnerable. And that’s off the eastern seaboard.”
“The Navy’s Second Fleet has destroyers and cruisers armed with SM-3 interceptors,” Van Horn pointed out. In combination with powerful AN/SPY-1 Aegis Combat System radars, RIM-161 Standard Missile 3’s were designed to shoot down short- and intermediate-range ballistic missiles.
Flynn nodded. “Yep. And if those ships were deployed on a picket line with their radars energized and the crews on alert, they’d have a chance at making an intercept.” He shrugged. “But my bet is that most of them are swinging idly at anchor right now at Norfolk, or deployed somewhere else.”
“You’d win that bet,” Fox told him. “The Russians started a major fleet exercise in the Barents Sea about three weeks ago. The Navy responded by sortieing a large task force of our carriers and other warships into the Norwegian Sea for joint maneuvers with other NATO countries.”
“Man, those assholes Voronin and Zhdanov aren’t taking any chances, are they?” Flynn said bleakly. “They wave the red cape and off our admirals charge… in exactly the wrong direction.”
Fox grimaced. “So it appears.” He looked across the table at them. “Suggestions?”
“We have to gamble,” Van Horn told him. “We need to concentrate all of the Pléiades imaging satellite searches on the approaches to the Atlantic and the Caribbean.”
Flynn nodded. “Laura’s right. Focusing our satellite passes should roughly double our odds of spotting that oil tanker before it reaches its planned launch point.”
“If your guess is wrong, and the Gulf Venture is actually steaming toward the West Coast, re-tasking the satellites that way guarantees certain failure,” Fox warned.
“That’s so, and I wish like hell we had more options,” Flynn conceded. “But I’ve got an itchy feeling at the back of my neck that tells me we’re running out of time fast. So we can’t hold anything back in reserve,” he said forcefully. “We can’t split our limited resources trying to cover all the possible bases. Our only choice is to go all in… and we have to do that now.”
Thirty-Two
Pavel Voronin sat beside Piotr Zhdanov in the back of the president’s armored black limousine. Other cars carrying plainclothes bodyguards were ahead and behind them. Several more wheeled armored personnel carriers packed with troops brought up the tail end of this convoy.
They turned off the highway and onto a narrow track that ran deeper into the surrounding forest. Studded tires crunched over snow and ice as the column of vehicles drove slowly along the winding trail. A quick thaw across this part of Russia a few days ago had been followed by one last freezing spring storm, leaving the trees sheathed in glistening coats of ice.
Two kilometers off the main road, they came out into a clearing. Razor wire-topped fences stretched in either direction. Patrols of soldiers in white winter parkas accompanied by dogs could be seen along the perimeter. As they approached the main gate of this isolated compound, the leading vehicles turned off the track and parked on the side, clearing the way for Zhdanov’s limousine to proceed alone.
The guards manning the gate pulled it open. They waved the big black car through without stopping it. Officially, the Russian president was not here, and so no records of this secret visit would be kept.
At the center of the compound, the limousine pulled up outside what appeared to be a simple forester’s hut. Bodyguards riding up front jumped out and opened the rear doors for Zhdanov and Voronin. When they emerged, a major waiting at the open hut door stiffened to attention. “Mr. President, welcome to the Forty-Second Rocket Division,” he said briskly. His eyes darted to Voronin and then just as quickly shifted away. Clearly, he’d been briefed against showing too much curiosity about the Russian leader’s civilian guest.