“Your conclusion?”
“Pushkin does not know that she is gone. Nobody told him. The president of Russia is out of the loop. Moscow is not running the show.”
33
Colonel Tom Markey ushered Kyle Swanson into a chilly and dim room at the NATO Cooperative Cyber-Defence Centre of Excellence. This was his domain, a never-never land of computer hackers, programmers, nerds, theoreticians and developers who pulled strings of electrical DNA from the air and wove secret computer projects that ordinary mortals probably would never see. Parts of the work would eventually leach into the public domain, but the Centre was primarily Europe’s electronic war room. “Welcome to my world,” Markey said with pride.
“We’re running out of time, Tom.” Swanson was not in the mood for a show-and-tell computer seminar.
“In real-world time, you are right, but within these walls, the clock is not really much of a factor. Have a seat over there.” Markey pointed to a row of chairs positioned around a silvery table. The colonel took the chair at the head of the display board, flanked by two military assistants, one each from Latvia and France.
“Now, Kyle, what did you tell Atkins about your personal preference for handling the situation at the bridge? Do you recall?”
“Of course. I wanted to point a laser at the bridge and blow it up with a load of smart bombs. The answer was negative because I probably couldn’t get down there in time with the needed manpower support and equipment.”
“Right.” Markey said. “We conquer time and distance in here on a regular basis, so let’s first get you in place. Captain Vauban? Captain Augulis? Please build the Narva bridge.”
The shiny tabletop began to hum with a low vibration, and light blue lines rose from the edges and divided into squares that shimmered with flashes of energy and formed a visible plate that floated a foot above the surface of the table. “That is our canvas, Kyle. Now we paint,” Markey said.
A column of blue numbers scrolled in the air, and a blizzard of photographs slashed along one side. It reminded Swanson of the calibrations he saw in the scope of his Excalibur sniper rifle. The computer was thinking.
“We are creating a hologram. With unimaginably exact measurements and images gathered over the years, we have every inch of the Narva bridge on file, almost from every possible angle. Other bridges, other things, other places, too, of course.”
“I thought you guys just hacked e-mails.”
“Cyberwarfare can take many forms, my friend. Snooping on e-traffic is not our purpose.”
The floating image took shape, squares and rectangles flashed into being, found position and shrank to pixels, which then were sharpened until finally the image of the Narva bridge hung before Swanson, correct in every detail. “Amazing. Nice picture, but so what?”
“Wait for it. Captain Vauban, proceed to real time, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the French officer. He slid his fingers across a flat-surface pad that took the place of a normal keyboard and directed new instructions into the holographic interface.
There was more shimmering and the image smoothed out even more until Kyle realized with a start that he was seeing it exactly as it was, with such clarity that even the water beneath was rippling. Two men in police uniforms walked along an edge.
“The Russians closed it this morning, Colonel,” said the Latvian. “That’s why there is no traffic.”
Markey nodded. “Very well. Now, Kyle, take that pen from the holder before you. Click it on and a laser will fire up that is slaved through our system to the image.”
Swanson pushed his thumb down on a small bulge on the titanium-encased laser. A bright, emerald beam popped to life from the end. He danced it across the bridge, a bright green lance of light with a small circle as a pointer. “Are you saying that I can paint the bridge from right here?”
The colonel laughed. “Exactly. Wherever you rest the point, the bombs will strike with precision. I suggest that we now call NATO and tell them we are ready on this end. All they have to do is scramble a plane suited up with a package of GBU-12s.”
“Son of a bitch,” Kyle muttered.
Levchenko was back outside, having found his headquarters a claustrophobic hive of busy people, while out in the open, he felt the energy of his mighty force pulling at its leash. The night had been short and gloomy, but had provided the needed cover to move the pieces into their final jump-off positions. The fog and haze had cleared to give him a better view of the city of Narva sitting there, waiting for him to come and take it.
As always, the situation demanded late changes. That damned fool mayor had let the American spy escape and gotten himself captured in the process! The chief of police had personally called Levchenko several hours ago with that news and for instructions about what to do with him. For months, the Russians had been inserting Spetsnaz soldiers into the security forces across the river, and the chief was a Russian by birth and on the payroll.
How much did the spy know? The police chief reported that she had been isolated in a holding cell prior to the escape. The mayor then came on the phone and promised she knew nothing of the morning’s plan. He had been forced by a mysterious and murderous agent to fetch her. Two officers were dead. Levchenko detected the lie in the nervous voice, but he had to analyze the situation as it stood at the moment.
It didn’t really matter. The mayor should still come across the bridge at nine o’clock. One hour from now. The idiot could be dealt with later.
As the Russian watched from the rampart of the fortress on his side of the border, he saw some dots appear above the western horizon. He grabbed his binoculars and zoomed in as a flight of four Estonian Army choppers rushed in to land, and soldiers popped out and formed into ranks. He matched that move by ordering a platoon of assault troops to the front of the line to provide support for the advancing tanks. The police chief would try to interfere with the Estonian troops over there, but that was a losing proposition in the long term. No matter, thought the general. His forces would brush that light force aside like wolves going through a family of rabbits.
The biggest decision he had made that morning was to keep all of this new information to himself. Spreading it to higher levels might cause fear in Moscow, and he did not want any interference from afar. He was the commander on the ground, and he would command.
Lizzie Borden and Calamity Jane had been in the air for hours after taking off from Royal Air Force Fairford base in Gloucestershire, England, and were loitering in a racetrack pattern at forty thousand feet before getting their final instructions. They were the chosen ones. “Fuck, yeah,” exclaimed U.S. Air Force Major Elizabeth “Lizzie” Sullivan, the thirty-four-year-old command pilot of the huge B-2 bomber named the Spirit of Kansas.
“Watch your language, bitch. There are ladies present,” shot back the only other member of the crew, copilot Captain Janie “Jane” Dean, as she started punching in the target coordinates and other data.
This would be a relatively short hop. Two days ago, they had been at the home base of the 509th Bomb Wing in Whiteman Air Force Base outside of Knob Noster, Missouri. Despite their notorious nicknames, the two officers were among the best in the squadron. Sullivan, who held a graduate mathematics degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, lived alone following a divorce and had no problem preparing for the flight to England. Dean, a Georgia Tech graduate with a master’s degree in electrical engineering, had to line up a babysitter for her kids because her husband was also a B-2 pilot and was off somewhere else in the world for the entire week. Reaching the RAF Fairford forward-operating location had been little more than a long, easy glide for the two friends. Being smaller than men, they had more space in the tight cockpit, and the plane had carried no ordnance; it was simply moving closer to a potential battlefield.