“Among other things,” Berg mumbled.
“Have you contacted Reznikov?”
“Not until Foley’s job is done. He won’t tell me his big secret without hearing a prearranged code. We get the code from Viktor after the first phase of Black Fist is complete.”
“Reznikov seems really paranoid about this,” Bauer said.
“He’s been eating lobster Benedict and crème brule for the past few weeks. I’ve made it clear what he can expect to be served at the alternative location. He has every reason to see Black Fist succeed.”
“I know, but something about it doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Pampering a disturbed asshole like that for the rest of his life doesn’t sit well with me either, but this was the easiest way to elicit the details needed for Black Fist.”
He neglected to mention that he didn’t intend to honor the agreement.
“Mr. Berg,” the watch floor coordinator said, “Blackbird is in position. It sounds like they’re kicking this off a few minutes early.”
He nodded at the young woman and grabbed his headphones. Like most covert operations, they would have limited communications with the team. In this case, the communication would be filtered even further, since the team would communicate directly with General Sanderson under most circumstances. Sanderson had an open voice channel to the CIA Operations Center, which would be monitored by the watch floor supervisor, along with Bauer and himself. Sanderson would pass all relevant or requested information to him over the voice line or transmit lengthier data packets, like pictures or files, via secure internet connection.
The CIA’s job was to monitor progress and coordinate assets beyond Sanderson’s control. Specifically, they would interpret SIGINT information related to the Russian response to the attack, and most importantly in his view, they would direct the exfiltration package to Sanderson’s team.
The White House Situation Room would receive their updates through direct communication by Berg or Bauer to Thomas Manning. Any direct requests from the White House would have to be filtered through Berg to Sanderson, which accomplished two important goals. First, it prevented the White House from attempting to hijack the mission. The last thing any of them needed was for the president to start armchair quarterbacking tactical decisions. Sanderson’s team required complete on-the-ground autonomy.
Secondly, it gave the president some distance from the operation. If the mission failed spectacularly, the White House would have a disaster on their hands. Fallout from the mess would be compounded if anyone discovered that the president was calling the shots directly. He wouldn’t have much plausible deniability either way, but keeping him off the line was the best damage control move the White House could manage.
He pressed the headset transmit button. “Berg on line. I copy Blackbird is at assigned target,” he said, indicating that he was aware of Foley’s status.
“Roger. Stand by,” the digitally garbled voice announced through his headset. Several seconds later, the voice returned. “Blackjack, this is base. Commence Black Fist.”
“This is Blackjack. Commencing Black Fist.”
He recognized the voice of the second transmission. Richard Farrington.
Chapter 41
The president glanced at the clock on the wall in his private office, noting the time in Novosibirsk. 7:09 PM. The first phase of the operation would commence in six minutes. He had been told it would be finished quickly, but he wanted to be there to hear it for himself. He would have no dilutions of the truth today. The stakes were far too high. If everything went as planned, the secretary of state would still face an uncomfortable Monday. If the plan went sideways, they could wake up with a low-intensity war on their hands, jeopardizing their hopes of reelection in the fall.
His chief of staff had game-planned this from every angle and remained optimistic that even a total catastrophe today could be spun in their favor. Russia was ultimately responsible for the bioweapons attack a few weeks ago. A covert operation to destroy Russia’s current bioweapons program could be sold to the public as a drastic but necessary course of action in light of the devastating potential of True America’s attack. He preferred the first option.
His phone buzzed, indicating a call from the Situation Room watch floor. He picked up the phone and listened.
“Mr. President, I have Director Copley on the line.”
“Connect us, please,” he said and waited a second before continuing. “Director, this is the president.”
“Sir, they started Black Fist a few minutes early. Blackbird is moving to eliminate the first targets,” the CIA director said.
“We’ll be right there,” he said, hanging up the phone and moving toward his office door.
“They started early,” he said, before Remy could ask.
Jacob Remy shot up from the couch along the far wall, swiping his insulated coffee mug from the end table.
“Nice of them to wait for us,” his chief of staff said.
The president simply shook his head, signaling his agreement with Remy’s comment.
“After these targets are taken out, I want a private meeting with General Gordon. I need to personally communicate the role of his units in this operation. SOCOM will play absolutely no role on Russian soil, directly or indirectly, no matter how bad it gets for Sanderson’s team.”
“I’ll pull him aside,” Remy said.
“Thank you. Shall we see what our friends are up to in Russia?”
Chapter 42
Erin Foley crouched in the dark hallway, oblivious to the smell of garbage and lingering body odor that had nearly overtaken her moments earlier in the stairwell. The apartment building showed signs of neglect and wear from the outside — five stories of chipped paint, bent gutter downspouts and rusted balcony railings — but nothing had prepared her for the stench inside. Exacerbating her already unsettled stomach, she fought the urge to vomit until she arrived at the target apartment and narrowed her focus to the door.
The door handle’s locking mechanism turned out to be a basic cylinder design, which was highly vulnerable to picking. Unfortunately, the apartment had one more safeguard. A handheld metal scanner told her she would have to deal with an internal deadbolt two thirds of the way up the door. Finesse would cease to be an option once she finished with the door handle…if she ever got the damn thing open.
She had started the lock-picking process by raking the pins, hoping to catch most of them in the upper housing. No such luck. At least two of the pins dropped back into place. She manipulated one of the pins into place within a few seconds, but the last pin was proving to be a real bitch. Like everything in this building, the lock was showing signs of wear and probably gave the occupants a hassle every time they put their key in the door.
She placed her left ear close to the knob and listened, slowly easing up on the tension wrench inserted in the keyhole. With a little more wiggle room for the lock’s cylinder pin, she used the pick to push the final pin into the upper housing. As she moved the pick, she heard a faint click. That was it. She kept the tension on the wrench and slowly turned the doorknob all the way to the right, simultaneously listening for any sudden movements inside the apartment.
Satisfied that her efforts hadn’t been detected, she pocketed the tools and removed a small explosives package from one of her cargo pockets. Roughly the size of her thumb, the shaped Semtex charge would impart enough energy inward to pop the door’s second lock without destroying the door. The “popper” charge would also temporarily stun anyone in the immediate area behind the door, giving her a slight advantage. The only downside was the noise, which was sure to draw neighbors into the hallway. She placed the charge into the door jamb at the point indicated by the metal scanner and inserted a quick delay fuse. Almost ready.