Arctic Storm Rising
- Автор: Браун Дейл
- Серия: Nick Flynn #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 9780063015050
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Arctic Storm Rising». Краткое содержание книги:
Petrov hid his irritation. Mavrichev’s opposition to that part of his Ghost Strike plan was no surprise. But he could not afford to concede the point. Without real Kh-102s aboard the bomber when it took off, this whole operation was pointless. “Since we’ve already proved that the PAK-DA prototype is perfectly airworthy, the risk is minimal,” he argued, aiming his words at Zhdanov rather than the general. “Besides, we don’t have enough practice missiles in our arsenal to make up a complete weapons load. We’d be taking off light, which would not come close to replicating a real-life combat sortie.”
“So we build more of the dummy weapons,” Mavrichev countered stubbornly.
“Adding more delay and more expense,” Petrov retorted. “And for no good reason. Sooner or later, we’ll have to certify the PAK-DA’s readiness to carry a full payload of live missiles. It’s one of our key program milestones. Why not achieve it now if we can, considerably ahead of schedule?”
Zhdanov saw his point. “The colonel makes sense, Vasily Ivanovich,” he said to Mavrichev. “As the Americans say, ‘He’s got the ball, let him run with it.’” Smiling broadly, he turned back to Petrov. “You won’t let us down, will you, Colonel?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. President,” Petrov promised. He matched Zhdanov’s smile. “In fact, I can guarantee that you will be absolutely amazed by the results of Ghost Strike.”
And that, he thought with carefully concealed pleasure, might have been the most truthful thing he’d said during this entire briefing.
Petrov stared moodily at the bronze bust of his father, Major General Vladimir Alexeyevich Petrov. Set atop a red granite tombstone, the sculpture’s suitably heroic visage stared out at an open vista of empty grass squares, paths, and access roads. The national cemetery, a replacement for the Kremlin Wall Necropolis, was intended to serve as a burial place for Russian dignitaries and military heroes for the next two hundred years. So far, only a small fraction of its forty thousand plots had been filled.
He snorted. If the stubborn old bastard weren’t dead, he’d probably be complaining about the lack of company. As befitted a true Hero of the Soviet Union, the general had always “modestly” believed he should be the center of everyone’s attention.
Irreverently, Petrov lifted his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, old man. I’m sure I’ll see you in hell.” He tossed back a quick swig and then retightened the cap.
“Was that a belated funeral libation?” a dryly amused voice said from behind him. “Or simple thirst?”
Petrov turned around. Pavel Voronin stood a few paces away, dapper as always in a dark double-breasted wool coat.
“A bit of both.” He offered the flask. “Care for one yourself?”
Voronin shook his head politely. “Thanks, but not right now. Perhaps another time. Somewhere more… cheerful.” He glanced around the empty cemetery. There was no one else in sight. “Should I assume your presentation to the president went well?”
“Very well,” Petrov confirmed. Quickly, he ran through the details of the Ghost Strike exercise Zhdanov had approved.
Voronin whistled under his breath when he heard that the PAK-DA would now be carrying nuclear-armed cruise missiles. “Wasn’t that pressing your luck a little far?”
“Aren’t you the one who’s always emphasized the commercial aspects of this joint venture?” Petrov asked slyly.
“Your point?”
Petrov forced a laugh. “Having those weapons under our control only strengthens our bargaining position,” he explained. “The fancier the goods in the shop window, the more a merchant can charge, right?”
The other man nodded slowly, acknowledging Petrov’s point. Nevertheless, it was clear that he didn’t particularly like the idea of a last-minute change in their plans. “Will loading those missiles affect the timetable?”
“Not in the slightest,” Petrov assured him. “You can give your boss the green light.” He checked his watch. “Tell him the show kicks off just a little over forty-eight hours from now.”
Thirteen
Determined not to feel intimidated by the fact that she was meeting one-on-one with the man in charge of all U.S. intelligence activities, Miranda Reynolds, head of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, followed an aide into Jonas Murphy’s office. Murphy, she reminded herself, was not an intelligence professional. Before being recently appointed as the DNI, the director of national intelligence, he had been a U.S. senator, and before that, a federal prosecutor. He undoubtedly had administrative, legal, and congressional know-how, but he lacked the experience that came naturally to those who’d spent their lives in the shadowy world of spies and counterspies.
His office itself was surprisingly small, with a single executive desk and a comfortable-looking swivel chair set between a pair of windows with the blinds drawn. A round conference table and several other government-issue chairs took up most of the rest of the room. A few prints, mostly of historical battles, lined the plain white walls, along with the usual photos of Murphy with the president of the United States and other high-ranking politicians.
Murphy himself, tall and lean, with faded red hair, stood up to greet her. He smiled politely. “Ms. Reynolds, it’s a pleasure to see you today.” He waved her into one of the chairs around the conference table and came over to join her. His aide departed as quietly and unobtrusively as he had appeared.
“Thank you, Director,” she replied crisply.
Murphy held up a hand, smiling. “Please, call me Jonas. Let’s leave that kind of stiff formality for places like Capitol Hill, where they thrive on titles instead of on what people actually do.”
Briefly taken aback, she stuttered, “Uh, yes, sir… I mean, Jonas.” If she hadn’t studied Murphy’s file first, she would have thought he was hitting on her. But the former senator was happily married, and, unlike many of his senatorial colleagues — both male and female — he actually seemed to be faithful to his vows. In a way, she thought that was too bad. She’d been divorced herself for nearly ten years. And it got harder and harder to date anyone the higher you rose in the CIA. Relationships carried too much chance of scandal or compromise, especially if you were a woman pushing ahead in what had once been largely a male-dominated preserve. Besides, she admitted to herself, having an in with the man who ran the entire intelligence community could have come in very handy during Langley’s next round of cutthroat internal warfare.
“So, Miranda,” the DNI continued, smiling faintly as though he’d discerned her thoughts, “as the saying goes, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Reynolds forced herself back to the present. “Well, the truth is, I’m here to make what may seem like a very strange request.”
“Sounds like a regular day at the office, then,” Murphy joked. “I get those all the time. From your people at Langley. From the Pentagon. Heck, you can’t even imagine the kind of oddball proposals that come in from the NSA or the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. I don’t think those codebreakers and satellite geeks really live in the same universe with the rest of us.” He saw her face and sobered up. “But you’re serious.”