Karl moved in closer to the SUPO officer and gently touched the side of her face. “You have a few minor cuts.”
Hanna turned Karl’s head and scrutinized the right side of his head. “So do you. You are bleeding from your head.”
He touched the wound and suddenly realized she was right. Considering the accident, he must have bounced his head off the side window. For some reason, he had no pain. Probably the adrenaline coursing through his body. It wasn’t a big cut, though, since the bleeding had dried up already.
His biggest concern now was with how the Russians had found him. Somehow, they had tracked him from Murmansk, despite his escape and the use of a new Russian identity. If he had to guess, the Russians must have done a background on everyone on the flight from Murmansk to Helsinki. His Russian passport would fool border and customs agents, but not the scrutiny of the FSB, SVR or the GRU. They were beyond finding out what he had taken with his drone video, and were now simply trying to kill him. But if that were the case, then why not stay there and kill him instead of letting him live? Interesting. Maybe they still needed answers from Karl.
8
John Bradford, the Director of Central Intelligence, sat at his desk and watched the video for the fifth time. Bradford had been an Air Force pilot, rising to the rank of four-star general. But he had been a fighter pilot, flying F-15s and later the F-22. He was still amazed that these little drones with small cameras could produce decent videos. They were becoming a problem in counter intelligence, but quite helpful with their own intel efforts — both in the military and with the civilian intelligence agencies.
Bradford glanced across the desk at Sherman Swanson, the CIA Director of Operations, who seemed a bit anxious. The man looked like a crazy-ass college professor with his disheveled hair and overgrown unkempt beard, Bradford thought.
“What do you think, Sherm?” Bradford asked.
The Operations Director shrugged. “My people think it’s an upgraded version of the old SS-20. It’s too big to be a Topol-M.”
“I agree,” Bradford said. “The SS-27 also has a different transporter erector launcher.” He hesitated and brought up the specs on the old SS-20 on his computer. “The length is about right for the SS-20. Let’s assume the Russians have gone back and built a new version of this missile.”
“Then they’re in violation of the INF Treaty,” Sherm said.
Bradford laughed. “That’s the least of our problems. Besides, I don’t think the Russians give a shit about old treaties.”
Sherm raised his hands in frustration. “We violated the ABM Treaty with our own missile defense system. Maybe this is their tit for tat.”
“We violated the ABM because they violated START One and START Two,” Bradford reminded his operations officer. “We have a right to defend ourselves from incoming nuclear missiles from rogue nations.”
“Yes, sir. That’s our perspective. But if we both send our missiles and we’re able to blow up theirs before they can blow us all to hell, then we no longer have MAD. We have the assured destruction of our enemies.”
“I understand, Sherm.” The two of them had gone over this scenario dozens of times in the past two years, with neither getting the upper hand. They were essentially in agreement. That wasn’t the problem. He had kept Sherman Swanson in his current position even after the man had been passed over for Bradford’s position. But the DCI was almost always a political position. At least in recent history.
“What do we do about this intel, John?” Sherm asked.
“If we run it up the flag pole to a new president, there’s no telling how he might react,” Bradford said. “On the other hand, if we don’t brief him and the shit hits the fan, we’ll get taken from behind without gel.”
Sherm smiled with that thought. “You got that shit right.”
“All right. What’s your assessment?”
The operations director sat forward on his chair, his hands on his knees. “This might be a test. To see how we react.”
Bradford leaned back in his chair in deep thought. “We discussed recently rumblings from India and their ongoing conflict with Pakistan. Could they be shipping the missile to one of those countries?”
“Not likely,” Sherm said. “They have their own nukes. Besides, they would probably ship it from Vladivostok and not Murmansk.”
His colleague had a good point. “What about Iran?”
“More likely,” Sherm said. “The Israelis have become more emboldened, threatening to bomb the Iranians back to the Stone Age if they continue their nuclear production. So, if you can’t build them yourself, why not buy them from the Russians?”
That was a disturbing prospect, Bradford thought. “What if they had other plans? Like moving them closer to America?”
“What would be the point? They already have thousands pointed at us from their own land.”
Sherm was right, of course. And that was always a problem Bradford had with the whole Cuban Missile Crisis. The only reason America was so pissed off, was the fact that the Russians were trying to put nuclear missiles so close to the American homeland. But they could do the same thing with their submarine forces. The problem was with response time. Their missiles could be off and bombing America before the U.S. could unleash their own nukes from their ICBM silos. It was an unfair advantage that upset the balance of power in the hemisphere.
“What does the ship list as its manifest?” Bradford asked.
“Oil equipment destined for Sao Tome and Principe,” Sherm said.
Bradford gave his classic uncertain look, with full furled brows and wrinkles across his forehead. “Where the hell is that?”
“Island nation off the Central African coast. Off the coast of Gabon. Originally settled by the Portuguese.”
“Impressive. You know this off the top of your head?”
“No, sir. I had to look it up before coming here.”
“Thanks for the honesty,” Bradford said. “Do they have a huge oil production there?”
“That they do. And a Russian oil billionaire runs much of the production there.”
Bradford pondered this for a moment as he brought up the video one more time. “What are your plans with this Karl Adams?”
“He’s being recalled as we speak,” Sherm said.
“What about his next assignment?”
“Undetermined at this time. His immersion was scheduled to be another few months.”
A classified alert suddenly appeared on his screen at the same time that his secure SAT phone buzzed on his desk. Bradford ignored the phone and read the message on his computer, while he noticed his operations director also reading something on his phone.
“Are you getting this, Sherm?” Bradford asked.
“Our young officer being attacked in Helsinki?” Sherm provided.
“Looks like he was nearly killed in the attack.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was he doing with SUPO?”
“We provided him with a package,” the operations director said. “Passport, money and instruction. We thought it would be better to go through a third party to isolate Adams.”
“Yet, somehow, they still found him. You think this has to do with the video?”
“More than likely.”
Bradford turned away from his screen. “Now we know that they know that we know.” He hesitated in deep thought. Then he said, “What if this is just one shipment? What if they’ve loaded a dozen other ships with these missiles? Couldn’t they simply use these ships as a platform to launch these mobile nukes?”
“Yes, they could. But it’s not likely.”
“Why?”
“As you probably know, dealing with nuclear weapons in the Air Force, they require a lot of security and maintenance — neither of which are possible on a rusty old ship. Subs and naval surface ships are designed for both.”