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:
“Their range is even shorter,” Rogozin told him. “Which would force us to refuel them much closer to the North American coast. That would be extremely hazardous — and easily detectable by the North Warning System radars. The Americans and Canadians would have plenty of time to intercept our commando forces before they could reach their target.”
Zhdanov clenched his teeth in frustration. Try as he might, he couldn’t deny that the other man was probably right. If the traitorous colonel had really flown the PAK-DA prototype into the northern wastes of the United States or Canada, his only option would be to order its complete destruction by bombing or a missile strike. At best, that would be a hollow victory.
He noticed Golitsyn’s aide whispering to the admiral again. “You have something to contribute, Nikolai?”
Golitsyn bobbed his head. “Yes, Mr. President.” His aide leaned forward to enter a few commands on the keyboard in front of his superior.
A new image appeared, inset on the digital map showing northern Russia, the Arctic Ocean, Alaska, and northern Canada. It showed a large humpbacked nuclear submarine berthed beside a pier.
“This is Podmoskovye, one of our Delfin-class SSBNs, which the Americans called Delta IVs,” Golitsyn explained. “Several years ago, we stripped out her ballistic missile tubes and converted her instead to carry commandos and unmanned minisubmarines.”
“If you’re suggesting using this submarine to carry a Spetsnaz team to the North American coast, that still leaves our men faced with a rather long walk,” Zhdanov said wryly, holding his temper in check with difficulty. He’d long known the admiral wasn’t that bright. But he’d hoped Golitsyn’s younger, more educated subordinates would make up for their commander’s shortcomings.
“No, sir, that’s not my plan,” the admiral assured him earnestly. His aide typed frantically, and now the photograph disappeared, replaced by a schematic showing all of Podmoskovye’s compartments. Besides her twin 180-megawatt nuclear reactors, the most noticeable was a very large compartment immediately aft of her sail. A label on the diagram indicated that was a hangar where the submarine’s autonomous, unmanned minisubs were usually housed, enabling them to be launched secretly while below the surface. “What we can do is leave Podmoskovye’s smaller submersible vehicles behind and use this space instead to store collapsible bladders of helicopter aviation fuel. Then a high-speed run under the polar ice cap would bring the submarine to a point not far off the enemy coast, somewhere in the Beaufort Sea. Once there, she could break through the ice sheet and establish an improvised refueling point. In case it proves necessary to send in a Spetsnaz raiding party.”
Zhdanov considered the plan and asked, “How long would it take your submarine to reach its destination?”
Once again, Golitsyn held a short, hushed consultation with his aide. “A minimum of four days.”
Four days? That might as well be an eternity in the present circumstances, Zhdanov thought wearily. Then again, what other options did he have? He nodded. “Very well, Admiral. Issue the necessary orders to the Northern Fleet and Podmoskovye’s captain.”
At last, he turned his attention to two men seated just beyond Golitsyn. One, Sergei Veselovsky, headed the Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR. The other, Aleksandr Ivashin, led the nation’s military intelligence agency, the GRU. Each man looked more like a boring, middle-aged civil servant than a spymaster responsible for orchestrating the espionage and covert operations aimed at Russia’s rivals around the globe. That was good cover, Zhdanov supposed. As it was, he made it a habit to keep a very close eye on the pair of them. Overly ambitious intelligence chiefs and secret policemen were always a potential threat to any Russian ruler. “Veselovsky! Ivashin!” he barked. “Listen up!” Caught off guard, they stiffened.
Tired as he was, Zhdanov hid a pleased smile. It was a useful practice to crack the whip every now and again, if only to remind these men of who was in charge. “You’re going to immediately activate all of your intelligence assets inside the United States and the People’s Republic of China — including every single one of the deep-cover agents we’ve planted over the past three decades. If either Washington or Beijing pick up any clues to the PAK-DA bomber’s whereabouts, I’d better damned well find out exactly what they’ve learned just as soon as they’ve learned it!”
Twenty-One
Under the ECR’s bright overhead lighting, it was impossible to tell that it was still pitch-dark outside, with more than an hour remaining before the sun rose. But in a concession to the early morning hour, coffee carafes and china cups were set out along the large central conference table.
Jonas Murphy took a cautious sip from a steaming cup and then set it back down. Miranda Reynolds, seated next to him, raised an eyebrow. “Any good?” she asked.
“It seems to contain caffeine,” the director of national intelligence said thoughtfully, after a moment’s consideration. “Apart from that, I refuse to testify on the grounds that it might insult our hosts.”
From his position at the head of the table, Bill Taylor chuckled. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Jonas.” Then the secretary of defense nodded to Reynolds. “Glad you could join us this morning, Ms. Reynolds. I understand we have you to thank for the extraordinary video we’ve all seen?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” the CIA’s chief of clandestine operations said. The short recording he referred to was from a Russian Air Force pilot, Colonel Alexei Petrov. In it, he claimed to have successfully stolen Moscow’s much-touted stealth bomber prototype. The video had been emailed to her through the same covert server used by the shadowy Russian contact she’d met in Prague. She’d immediately relayed it to Murphy, who, in turn, had passed it straight on to the defense secretary and the Joint Chiefs. Before she’d even had time to finish dressing, she’d received a secure call summoning her to this early morning conference.
“So what’s your assessment of this message?” Taylor asked, not beating around the bush. “Is it genuine?”
Reynolds pursed her lips. “The man speaking does appear to be the real Alexei Petrov,” she said. “His facial features are a perfect match with other verified photos in our databases.” The CIA, like other intelligence agencies, amassed huge amounts of information on foreign government officials, military officers, business leaders, and the like — most of it from publicly available sources, including newspaper and magazine articles, television news broadcasts, and even internet sites. “And we can confirm that he’s regarded as one of Russia’s top test pilots, especially for multi-engine aircraft. Given that, it would be logical to expect him to head up their stealth bomber flight test program.”
“But is there anything in the guy’s record to suggest that he’d pull a stunt like this?” General Frank Neary asked suspiciously. The Air Force chief looked plainly skeptical. “I mean, Jesus, actually flying away with the most expensive and advanced experimental aircraft in the whole Russian inventory? That’s not exactly like walking into an embassy somewhere and asking for political asylum!”
“No, sir,” Reynolds admitted. “From what we know, Colonel Petrov was a highly decorated, highly regarded officer, one of apparently unquestioned loyalty.” She smiled slightly. “Then again, if there were any obvious reasons for Moscow to believe he might defect, Petrov would be in a Russian military prison or dead, and not sending us demand notes from a stolen high-tech aircraft.”