“You think so?” Berezin asked skeptically.
“Any man can stop a bullet,” Chirkash pointed out.
The major laughed. “That is so, Andrei.” He shook his head. “All right, then, let’s get these bandits and sheepherders sorted out and on their way. The sooner they’re off my hands, the better I’ll feel.”
Chirkash sketched a salute and moved off to shoo the Chechens into the hangar.
Once the bearded men were inside, the guards marched them over to long, folding tables piled high with weapons, ammunition, explosive vests, other equipment, and clean, Western-style cold-weather clothing.
Berezin stepped forward. “Listen up! You were briefed on your assignment in Moscow last night. But here’s where it gets real.” He eyed the assembled Chechens. “Which of you is in charge?”
The oldest man stepped forward with a proud glint in his pale blue eyes. “I, Timur Saitiev, command this force.”
Berezin nodded. “Very well, Saitiev. Get your men changed and distribute those weapons and gear as you see fit.” He checked his watch. “Your truck will be here at any moment.”
“Yes, Major,” the gray-bearded Chechen said.
“One more thing,” Berezin told him. “Be sure to leave your personal effects here. Wallets. ID cards. Cell phones. Prayer beads. The lot.” He smiled pleasantly, lying through his teeth. “We’ll keep them safe for your return.”
Stoically, Saitiev shrugged. “As you wish.”
The Spetsnaz major had a sudden uncomfortable feeling the Chechen could read his mind and didn’t give a damn. Then again, why should he? If Saitiev and his followers were already willing to strap on suicide vests to avoid capture, they must have few illusions about the mission they were being asked to undertake.
He turned away, hiding a grimace. Aspiring martyrs always gave him the creeps. Killing for a cause was one thing. That was man’s work. But seeking out death deliberately? Berezin shook his head in disbelief. That was sheer madness.
“Odarennyye komp’yuternyye khakery pol’zuyutsa sprosom,” a deep, resonant masculine voice said.
“Gifted computer hackers are in high demand,” a higher-voiced translator repeated, in English.
In silence, Brad McLanahan, his father, and the rest of the Iron Wolf command team listened carefully to the remainder of the recorded conversation sent by emergency courier from Moscow. Major Nadia Rozek, serving as President Wilk’s personal representative, sat next to Brad. He found himself aware of her every movement, her every gesture, no matter how slight or fleeting. It was both exhilarating and completely disconcerting. Never before had he felt so completely connected to another person.
Nadia’s mouth tightened as the digital recording came to an end. She turned to Kevin Martindale. “This second man? The one speaking to Truznyev? Do you know who he is?”
“My people couldn’t get close enough to take a picture of him,” the head of Scion said slowly. “But from the context and from Truznyev’s general demeanor, we’re pretty sure it was Sergei Tarzarov, Gryzlov’s right-hand man.”
“Well, it’s nice to know that we’re not totally paranoid,” Whack Macomber muttered.
Martindale glanced at him. “Major?”
“The Russians really are trying to kill us,” Macomber explained.
“Thank you for that incredibly deep strategic insight,” Martindale said wryly. He looked around the table at the others. “I admit nothing we heard was especially earthshaking or surprising, but at least this offers us a glimpse of what’s going on. And perhaps just as importantly, a sense of just who is making it happen.”
That was true, Brad thought. Still, something else in what was said had caught his attention. “This so-called treasure cave or whatever… the place Truznyev seems to think is the center for Gryzlov’s cyberwar program?” he asked. “Do we have any leads on what he’s talking about or where it could be?”
“None,” Martindale admitted. He shook his head gloomily. “Since this hit my desk last night, I’ve had Scion analysts digging around in every Kremlin database we can access.” The corners of his mouth turned down slightly. “Which isn’t nearly as many as I would like. The Russians have markedly tightened their computer security protocols over the past twelve months.”
“Yeah, and now we know why,” Brad said. He frowned. Learning that the bad guys weren’t complete idiots wasn’t especially surprising, but it still sucked.
Martindale nodded. “Indeed.” His fingers drummed softly on the tabletop. “Still, we’ve picked up a few pieces of the puzzle. Just not enough to paint any kind of accurate or even coherent picture.”
“Pieces like what, exactly?” Macomber asked.
“Orders to various military engineering battalions, putting them on standby for what are labeled ‘strenuous construction projects of the highest priority,’” the other man answered. “Along with similar orders to railroad construction units… and requisitions for huge amounts of reinforced concrete and other building materials.”
“And where was all that stuff supposed to go?”
Martindale grimaced. “We don’t know.” He looked frustrated. “Every message we’ve found so far ends with the same instruction: ‘Additional directives will be transmitted solely in writing or by word of mouth from the senior command authority. No further records connected to this assignment will be maintained electronically. Violation of this order in the slightest degree will be punishable by death.’”
“Gryzlov knew we’d come poking around,” Brad said grimly.
“So it seems,” Martindale agreed. He shook his head. “In a contest like this, familiarity doesn’t necessarily breed contempt. Instead, as you learn more about how your opponent thinks, you develop the ability to anticipate some of his moves. We’ve used that against Gryzlov in the past. Unluckily, though, it appears the learning curve works in both directions.”
“This is not a game,” a cold electronic voice said abruptly. “This is a war. A real war. And it is high time we started fighting in earnest, not just pussyfooting around.”
Startled, Brad and the others turned toward the huge machine positioned at the far end of the table.
“Excuse me, General,” Martindale said carefully. “I’m not quite sure I follow you. What, exactly, are you proposing that we do?”
“Kill Igor Truznyev,” Patrick McLanahan said bluntly. “We should have done it sooner. He got a lot of good people killed last year for his own petty political ends. And right now he’s funneling computer hackers to Gryzlov to organize more cyberwar attacks against us. We should wipe him off the map. Now. Before it’s too late.”
Martindale’s face was impassive. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “I strongly disagree, General McLanahan,” he said quietly. “On tactical, strategic, and political grounds.”
“How so?”
“Tactically, it would be extremely difficult to eliminate Truznyev. Strategically, our surveillance operation against him is just now beginning to yield actionable intelligence,” Martindale explained. He leaned forward in his chair, tapping the table with one forefinger for emphasis. “And politically, the assassination of a former Russian president by Scion, Iron Wolf, or Polish forces would be an unmitigated disaster. It would hand Gennadiy Gryzlov and Stacy Anne Barbeau precisely the evidence they need to smear us as warmongering lunatics.”
“He’s right, General,” Whack Macomber said somberly. “Could we get some guys into Moscow to drop Truznyev? Sure. But making that kind of hit would be messy as hell. And the odds of getting our people out safely afterward?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “As close to none as makes no damned difference.”