The intercom outside the door beeped. "Chief, it's Bob Herbert."
Hood pressed a button on the side of his desk and the lock clicked open. The door swung in and an agitated Bob Herbert wheeled over. He dropped a diskette on the desk. Whenever Herbert was upset or puzzled, his Mississippi accent thickened. It was very thick now.
"Somethin' happened at eight P.M., local time," Herbert said. "Somethin' big."
Hood glanced down at Herbert's diskette. "What happened?"
"All of a sudden, Russians are every-goddamn-where." He pointed at the disk. "Run it. G'wan."
Hood downloaded the data and saw that Herbert wasn't exaggerating. Pilots and planes from Orenburg were being transferred to the Ukrainian border. The Baltic Fleet was on a low-level alert, ostensibly as a drill. And the battery of four Hawk satellites usually used to monitor the West had been diverted to potential Russian targets in Poland.
"Moscow's paying special attention to Kiev and Warsaw," Rodgers said as he studied the satellite coordinates.
Herbert said, "What's interestin' about the Hawks is that the downlink station in Baikonur went silent at eight P.M., local time."
"Just the station?" Rodgers asked. "Not the satellite dishes?"
"Not the dishes," Herbert said.
"Then where's the data going?" Hood asked.
Herbert said, "We're not sure— though here's where it gets real curious. We detected increased electrical activity in St. Petersburg at exactly eight P.M., local time. Now, that happens to have been when the TV station in the Hermitage began broadcasting, so it could have been coincidental."
"But you wouldn't bet the Ponderosa on it," Hood said.
Herbert shook his head.
"This is what Eival Ekdol promised us," Rodgers said, still studying the deployment. "Something military. And it's being done very cleverly. If you take each of these events individually, they're all pretty routine except for the change in the Hawk targets. Matériel is moved from the port at Vladivostok on a regular basis. Maneuvers are held on the Ukrainian border twice a year, and it's time for that now. The Baltic Fleet frequently drills close to shore so that isn't unexpected."
"What you're saying," Hood said, "is that unless somebody had the big picture, it would seem as though nothing were amiss."
"Right," Rodgers said.
"But what I don't understand," said Hood, "is if Zhanin isn't behind whatever's going on, how could an operation of this magnitude be kept from him? He'd have to be aware that something's going on."
"You know better than anyone that a leader's only as good as his intelligence," Rodgers said.
"I also know that if you tell two people something in Washington, it's no longer a secret," Hood said. "That's got to be true in the Kremlin as well."
"It isn't," said Herbert. "If only one person knows something over there, it's no longer a secret."
"You're forgetting something," said Rodgers. "Shovich. A man like that can use threats and money to shut down the information pipeline pretty effectively. Besides, though he may not have the big picture, Zhanin probably knows about some of what's going on. Dogin or Kosigan may have gone to him right after the election and convinced him to authorize a few of the maneuvers and troop transfers to keep the military happy and busy."
"Dogin would benefit from that as well," Herbert pointed out. "If at some point any of this goes wrong, Zhanin's autograph is on several of the orders. There's mud on everyone."
Hood nodded, then cleared the screen. "So Dogin's the probable architect, and St. Petersburg is his sandbox."
"Yes," said Herbert. "And Striker's gone to play with him."
Hood continued to stare at the black screen. "The Interpol report is due at three," he said. "That's when you guys sit down with the Hermitage plans and updates and figure out how to get inside."
"Right," said Rodgers.
Herbert said, "I've got the Tactics and Strategy team putting together plans for getting our team across the Neva, using an airdrop, power rafts, or a midget submarine. Dom Limbos is overseeing it. He's worked river crossings before. And Georgia Mosley in supplies knows what gear she may have to dig up in Helsinki."
"Then you've ruled out the idea of Striker going in as tourists?" Hood asked.
"Pretty much," said Herbert. "The Russians are still watching tour groups and photographing suspicious individuals in hotels, on buses, and at the museum and other sites. Even if our people never go back, we don't want their photos on file."
Rodgers looked at his watch. "Paul, I'm going to go sit in on the TAS session. I've told Squires he can expect a game plan before he lands at around four P.M., our time."
Hood nodded. "Thanks for everything, Mike."
"Sure," Rodgers said. As he rose, he looked at an antique globe paperweight on the desk. "They never change," he said.
"Who?" asked Hood.
"Tyrants," said Rodgers. "Russia may have been a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma to Winston Churchill, but what I see here is a story as old as history— a band of power-hungry individuals who think they know better than the electorate what's best for them."
Hood said, "That's why we're here. To tell them they can't do this without a fight."
Rodgers looked down at Hood. "Mr. Director" — he smiled— "I like your style. Me and General Gordon."
Rodgers left with Bob Herbert, leaving Hood perplexed and feeling as though he'd bonded with his General— though if his life depended on it, he couldn't figure out how or why.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sakhalin Island in the Sea of Okhotsk is a rugged, six-hundred-mile-long stretch of fishing villages on the coasts and majestic pine forests and coal mines in the interior, of rutted roads and a few new highways, of ruins of Romanov prison camps and of ancient graves where the most common surname is Nepomnyashchy— "Unremembered." Situated one time zone west of the International Date Line, it is closer to the Golden Gate Bridge than it is to the Kremlin. When it is noon in Moscow, it is already 8:00 P.M. on Sakhalin. The island has long been a retreat for leaders, many of whom have had dachas, comfortable cottages in the hills, and for eremites who lose themselves in Sakhalin's untouched wilderness to seek God and peace.
The Russians have long maintained a military presence in Korsakov, on the island's southeastern tip near the Kuril Islands, which stretch from the northern tip of Hokkaido to the southern tip of Kamchatka. The islands were occupied by the Soviet Union in 1945, though Japan still claims the seven-hundred-mile-long string of islands and the nations have argued over them ever since.
The Russian base in Korsakov is spartan, consisting of an airstrip, a small harbor, and four barracks. Five hundred naval troops and two regiments of spetsnaz frogmen and naval soldiers are stationed here, daily air and sea patrols keeping an eye and electronic ear on the activities of Japanese salmon boats.
Twenty-three-year-old Junior Lieutenant Nikita Orlov sat at his desk in the command post, high on a peak overlooking the sea and the base. His black hair was close-cropped, save for the longish waves that hung down over his forehead, and his full, ruddy lips were set in a square jaw. His brown eyes were alert and gleaming as he reviewed local intelligence and faxed news reports from the previous night— and stole frequent glances out the open window.
The young officer loved getting up before dawn, learning what had happened while he slept, and then watching the sun peek over the horizon and burn across the sea toward the base. He loved the waking of the world, even though each day no longer held the promise it did when he was a boy and then a cadet: that the Soviet Union would stand as the most enduring empire in the history of the world.