Treason, page 26
“We looked at that,” Dunnavant answered, “but we don’t think it will work. The Russian officer corps heavily stresses loyalty up the military chain of command, but that loyalty doesn’t extend to the president like it does here. Although we think that approach would work if you made a similar appeal to the U.S. military, we doubt if Kalinin’s appeal, made from exile, would be effective.
“President Kalinin is right,” Dunnavant added. “He has to appear back in control, having defeated the coup, for the individual units to disregard the orders of their superior officers.”
After absorbing everyone’s remarks, the president said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll proceed with the SEAL mission on three conditions: if Hippchenko agrees to support, if he thinks we can trust the FSB, and if he’s got the intel we need. Any objections?”
There were none, and the president asked, “How do we contact Hippchenko without tipping off the GRU? We should probably avoid official channels.”
“I agree,” Cherry said. “We can call him on his personal cell phone.”
“Good idea,” the president said. “Let me know when you run his number down.”
“That’s easy,” Cherry said. “I’ve got his number in my contact list.” Cherry pointed to the door; they’d placed their cell phones in lockers outside the Situation Room, since they weren’t allowed in classified meetings.
Hardison asked, “You’ve got his number on your cell phone?”
Cherry shrugged. “We talk.”
“About what?” Hardison asked.
“About stuff,” Cherry replied with an edge to her voice, making it clear it was none of Hardison’s business.
The president glanced at the Moscow clock on the wall. It read 4:30 p.m. “Let’s give Hippchenko a call.”
80
YASENEVO, RUSSIA
It was late afternoon in the Moscow suburbs when Josef Hippchenko, seated at his desk in the Y-shaped headquarters of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, scrolled through the afternoon update on his computer. Russia’s military and political landscape were in upheaval, and Hippchenko was proceeding cautiously as events unfolded, analyzing the issues extensively.
Although the SVR focused primarily on issues beyond Russia’s borders, one of its mandates included the authorization to Implement active measures to ensure Russia’s security. The authorization was broadly worded, deliberately using the term active measures, which was a Soviet term for political warfare. Although the SVR’s political warfare was supposed to be waged against other countries, the recent turn of events within Russia left Hippchenko pondering his options.
Hippchenko’s personal cell phone vibrated. He retrieved it from his jacket pocket and checked the number on the display.
Unknown.
He pressed the Accept button. “Director Hippchenko.”
“Good afternoon, Director Hippchenko. This is the president of the United States.” The man paused, waiting for a response.
“One moment, please,” Hippchenko replied.
He muted the cell phone microphone, then pressed the button on his desk phone for the SVR operations center. When the supervisor answered, Hippchenko said, “Trace the call to my personal cell phone immediately.”
After the supervisor acknowledged and hung up, Hippchenko decided to stall for time, concocting a flippant response, but with a sound premise. It was unlikely the president of the United States was on the other end. Hippchenko unmuted his cell phone.
“Not likely,” Hippchenko replied. “You’re the third American president who has called me today.”
There was a muffled laugh on the other end of the phone.
The man replied, “How can I convince you?”
“There are protocols in place for the United States president to communicate with Russian officials. Calling my personal cell phone isn’t one of them.”
A different person responded. “Josef, this is Director Cherry.” Hippchenko immediately recognized the CIA director’s voice. She continued, “Considering what’s going on right now, we can’t use official channels. We can’t afford to take a chance our plan is discovered.”
“What plan?” Hippchenko asked.
“We have President Kalinin.”
Hippchenko leaned back in his chair. The intelligence reports had been accurate. A U.S. Navy SEAL team had been sent into Krasnodar Krai to extract Kalinin. Whether the effort was successful hadn’t been determined. Until now.
“What do you plan to do with him?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you help.”
“How can I assist?”
“Kalinin needs your help to defeat General Andropov’s coup.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Cherry outlined the plan, then waited for Hippchenko’s response.
It didn’t take long to decide. Yuri was one of his closest friends, plus General Andropov’s invasion had gone too far. Andropov was convinced NATO was too weak to wrest back control of the occupied territories, but that didn’t mean NATO wouldn’t try. Hippchenko was dedicated to furthering Russia’s ambitions, but in a more civilized manner. Andropov’s plan would spill blood needlessly, plus the long-term ramifications for Russia were too complicated to accurately predict.
Hippchenko’s desk phone buzzed. “One moment,” he said, then muted the cell phone again. He picked up his desk phone handset. “Hippchenko.”
It was the SVR operations center. The call had been traced to the Oval Office in the White House. It was useful information, but he’d already convinced himself he was talking to the American president and his CIA director. He hung up and unmuted the cell phone.
“I will provide the requested support and evaluate whether the FSB units can be trusted.”
The American president responded, “Thank you, Director Hippchenko. What is the best way to coordinate our efforts?”
There was a secure conference room in the SVR operations center, where Hippchenko could confer with his most trusted subordinates and communicate with American and FSB leadership. He provided the number to the direct line.
Before ending the call, the American president said, “We need you to keep the plan limited to the fewest people possible until the last moment. We can’t afford to alert any of General Andropov’s sympathizers.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
81
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
Inside the main Ministry of Defense building, on the third floor underground, Christine O’Connor sat on the edge of her cot in a dark cell. The accommodations were spartan: a cot, toilet, and sink, plus a locker at the foot of her bed for personal items, although she had none. It was dead quiet inside the eight-by-eight-foot room, one she concluded was soundproof. Whether that was to prevent sound from entering or exiting, she wasn’t sure.
When Anna opened the door to her home in Beregovoy yesterday, soldiers stormed inside. There was little Christine could do aside from lying on the floor as directed. Her hands were handcuffed and she was led into an armored personnel carrier, enduring a bumpy half-hour ride. She was then transferred to a military helicopter, and after a long transit north, the chopper touched down on one of two landing pads atop Moscow’s main Ministry of Defense building.
Her interrogation had started this morning, and the day-long event had gone as well as she could have hoped. She’d refused to provide any information concerning NATO war planning and hadn’t been harmed. After being threatened and cajoled, with neither tactic producing results, she’d been returned to her cell a few minutes ago. Before departing the interrogation room, however, the GRU colonel in charge had informed her that tomorrow’s interrogation would go much differently. She had no idea what that meant, but had imagined a few scenarios.
She was about to settle into her cot for the night when her cell door opened. Two soldiers entered, while the GRU colonel who’d led the interrogation effort waited by the doorway. Christine was handcuffed and escorted down the corridor, then shoved inside another cell that looked more like a hospital room, with two more soldiers inside. What caught her attention immediately were the straps attached to the bed for her feet and hands.
Her handcuffs were removed and she was forced onto the bed by two soldiers, then held in place by all four as they strapped down her wrists and ankles. Christine considered resisting, but didn’t see the point. She’d be overpowered and the result would be the same.
Another man entered the cell, wearing a white lab coat. After a short discussion with the colonel, he stopped by Christine’s bed.
“My name is Andrei,” he said in English. “I understand you’ve refused to provide the requested information. I’ve been directed to make you more pliable. Unfortunately, there are severe side effects to this process, and you will not be the same afterwards. There will be a window of lucidity, about eight hours, after which you will be permanently insane. You won’t know who or where you are. You will merely exist in a vegetative state.”
“Your scare tactics won’t work, doc,” Christine replied, trying to quell the rising fear as she evaluated the man’s claim.
Andrei frowned. “I’m not trying to scare you, Christine. Only provide you with accurate information so you may make a wise decision. I have done this many times and do not enjoy it. I don’t want you to end up a drooling shell of your former self.”
Andrei leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Tell them what they want to know. Your silence isn’t worth what this will do to you.”
Christine stared at him, her mind reeling at the scene created by his words—an image of herself sitting in a chair in an insane asylum, drool being wiped from her chin as she gazed into the distance with vacant eyes.
Okay, the scare tactics are working.
Andrei saw the indecision play across her face and waited patiently while she vacillated, alternately deciding to tell them what they wanted to know, then immediately admonishing herself for the thought. Her resolve gradually crumbled and she was about to acquiesce when she reminded herself that the issue was bigger than herself. Providing the requested information would cost countless lives and jeopardize the NATO offensive. Although she didn’t know what strategy General Wheeler would employ, she knew the options.
She turned away from Andrei and looked at the ceiling.
“Well, then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Andrei went to a small refrigerator and retrieved an IV bag containing a clear solution, which he hung from a stand beside Christine’s bed. He disinfected her arm, although Christine wondered what the point was, then inserted a needle into a vein. He attached the IV tubing to the needle, then adjusted the drip rate. Christine felt the cool liquid enter her bloodstream.
“This will take some time,” Andrei said. “The solution entering your body contains two drugs. One will reduce your inhibitions, making you more likely to talk in the morning, while the second drug is preparing the receptor sites for the chemicals you will receive if the morning’s interrogation fails. You’ll have until then to change your mind. Once the next chemicals are injected into your bloodstream, there is no turning back.”
Andrei pulled a syringe with attached needle, plus a small vial from a cabinet, placing them on a tray which he set on a table beside her. He exchanged a few words with the GRU colonel, then the men left, turning off the lights and closing the door.
Christine tested her restraints, trying to break free. When that failed, she tried to slide her hands through the straps, but her wrists were securely fastened. After trying both options again several times, she gave up. There was nothing more she could do except wait until morning. She stared at the ceiling as the drug dripped into her bloodstream.
82
USS MICHIGAN
The tension in the air was palpable.
Throughout the day, as the twenty-eight SEALs prepared for combat, Captain Wilson sensed an eerie quiet seep throughout his submarine. The SEALs had entered the two missile tubes that had been converted to ammunition magazines, each containing thirty tons of munitions, extracting the desired weapons and ordnance for tonight’s operation. All twenty-eight SEALs were now in the Battle Management Center behind the Control Room, with Commander McNeil having just completed the mission briefing. Wilson lingered in the BMC as the SEALs huddled around the dual-display workstations in groups of four, reviewing the plan in more detail.
SVR Director Hippchenko had provided schematics of the Ministry of Defense building, and Zaslon operatives would provide the SEALs with security cards that would allow access through the building’s security features. If everything went as planned, the SEALs and President Kalinin would gain access to the control center fourteen minutes after entering the building. Entry was the biggest challenge, as all entrance points were monitored with cameras and would be secured at the projected 3 a.m. ingress time. During the mission brief, Wilson listened with fascination to the plan McNeil briefed, outlining their route on a map provided by Russia’s SVR.
While the SEALs penetrated the National Defense Control Center, a two-block perimeter would be established by SVR Zaslon forces and three FSB Spetsnaz brigades. Director Hippchenko had concluded the FSB could be trusted and the FSB director had committed the three Spetsnaz units under his purview to the effort.
Hippchenko had considered including Russia’s Federal Protective Service, the counterpart to America’s Secret Service, but decided otherwise. Although the organization as a whole would be loyal to Kalinin, it lacked a large, central unit that could be maneuvered into place around the Ministry of Defense perimeter. Too many individuals would have to be brought into the plan, increasing the risk it might be discovered by those loyal to General Andropov. For similar reasons, incorporating the Interior Ministry forces was rejected. Russian National Guard units were also considered for the perimeter, but Hippchenko was unsure where Director Karakayev’s loyalty resided.
Finally, a combined SEAL and Zaslon assault team had been discussed but discarded due to language barriers—only Harrison and two other SEALs spoke Russian, plus the communication gear wasn’t interoperable. If the schematics were accurate and security cards worked as promised, twenty-eight SEALs would be more than enough.
The four-man fire teams completed their review of the building schematics, along with primary and backup contingency plans, then filtered from the BMC to suit up for deployment. For tonight’s mission, the SEALs would exit via mass lockout from the two Dry Deck Shelters. There was insufficient room to fit all twenty-eight SEALs in the two shelters at once, since the shelters still held the SDV mini-sub and one RHIB, so two lockouts would be required.
When McNeil finished the review with his fire team, he approached Wilson, and the two men were joined by Harrison. Wilson had requested their presence after the mission preparations had been completed.
“Captain,” McNeil said, “what did you want to discuss?”
“I received a Personal For message today, which contained good news and bad news.” Wilson’s eyes shifted to Harrison. “The good news is that Christine is alive.”
“What?” Harrison asked. “Where is she? How is she?”
“She’s fine as far as we know; she was walking on her own. Unfortunately, that’s where the bad news starts. She turned up in a town called Beregovoy yesterday and requested assistance. A CIA team was sent to pick her up, but the Russian Army got to her first. She’s been transported to Moscow, most likely for interrogation. However, it seems her fate and ours remain intertwined. She was taken to the main Ministry of Defense building.”
Harrison asked, “Do we know where she’s being kept?”
“Zaslon operatives will provide that information to you tonight if they’ve obtained it.”
The two SEALs exchanged glances. McNeil spoke first. “There will be no deviation from the mission plan. Once we’ve gained access to the control center and Kalinin has regained control over the Russian military, we can search for Christine. Until then, she doesn’t factor in. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Harrison replied. “No argument.”
Although Harrison had provided the proper response, Wilson was certain the wheels were churning inside his head.
McNeil and Harrison left the Battle Management Center to gather their gear and suit up. Michigan was already in shallow water, approaching the launch point. Wilson checked the time. They’d arrive on station in less than an hour. As the last SEAL fire team left the BMC to prepare for the mass lockouts, Wilson entered Control and settled into his chair on the Conn.
* * *
“Dive, prepare to hover.”
Moments earlier, Michigan’s main engines had gone silent and the submarine was now coasting to a halt at periscope depth. Michigan was in water only 130 feet deep, allowing the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine to approach within two miles of shore. Close enough, Commander McNeil had said. The SEALs would swim underwater to the coast from there.
“Ready to hover,” the Diving Officer reported.
“Hover at eight-zero feet,” the Officer of the Deck ordered as he circled on the port periscope.
The Diving Officer ordered the Chief of the Watch to engage hovering, and Wilson waited as the system took control, keeping the submarine on ordered depth.
The first fourteen SEALs had climbed into the two Dry Deck Shelters and were awaiting permission to flood down the hangars. The evolution was directed from Control, as Michigan would become heavier as water flooded into the shelters, with neutral buoyancy maintained by pumping water from the variable ballast tanks. The hovering system would handle things automatically, but on occasion the system lost control and manual intervention by the Chief of the Watch was required.
“Hovering is engaged,” the Diving Officer reported. “Steady at eight-zero feet.”
The Officer of the Deck, still circling on the periscope with his face pressed against the eyepiece, addressed Captain Wilson. “Sir, hold no sonar or visual contacts. Request permission to flood down the port and starboard shelters.”
