Surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards, Gennadiy Gryzlov strode briskly along a brightly lit passage, heading deeper into the warren called Perun’s Aerie by its makers. He found the word choice entirely apt. Perun was the old Slavic god of war, fire, and mountains, famed for hurling lightning from clouds like those that so often shrouded the jagged, icy peak soaring two thousand meters above their heads.
Sentries in thick overcoats and fur hats snapped to attention as Gryzlov passed, presenting arms with a flourish and the click of highly polished boots. With thinly veiled amusement, the forty-two-year-old president of the Russian Federation glanced at the shorter man stolidly keeping pace with him. “Colonel Balakin’s soldiers appear disciplined and alert, Koshkin. I trust you can say the same about your Q Directorate people?”
Major General Arkady Koshkin nodded. “Yes, Mr. President, I can,” he said confidently. His mouth twisted in a slight smile. “While I admit that the dress and mannerisms of my komp’yutershchiks, my tech geeks, are sometimes a bit eccentric, their expertise and ingenuity are remarkable. The weapons they are forging for us prove this beyond question.”
Like most senior officers in Russia’s Federal Security Service (the FSB), Koshkin wore civilian clothing rather than a service uniform. Eyes bright with intelligence and ambition gleamed behind thick spectacles. Long ago, he had concluded that cyberwarfare — the use of computer technology as a means to attack and disrupt the vital infrastructure of an enemy power — was the next true revolution in military affairs. Facing skepticism and hostility from slower-witted and more conventionally minded superiors, he had worked for years to win converts among the ranks of his nation’s rising political leaders.
Now those tireless efforts were coming to fruition. He had been given command of a new and highly secret unit within the FSB. Organized at Gryzlov’s personal orders, Q Directorate was responsible for all covert cyberwar action conducted beyond Russia’s borders.
They came to an intersection and turned right, ending up at a solid steel door. Koshkin pressed his palm against a biometric panel. The door swung open, revealing an enormous room crowded with racks of computers and other electronic equipment.
Flat-panel displays dominated the chamber’s walls. Power conduits and fiber-optic cables snaked their way toward a large bare patch in the middle of the tiled floor.
Gryzlov swung around, taking it all in. He nodded toward the open space. “That’s where your supercomputer will go?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Koshkin said. “It’s a new T-Platforms machine, faster and more powerful than any of their previous designs. The unit will be installed, tested, and fully operational in a matter of weeks.”
“Very good,” Gryzlov said. “What about the rest of your infrastructure?”
“Mostly complete,” Koshkin assured him. He took out a tablet computer and tapped its small screen. One of the large wall displays flickered to life, showing a detailed, three-dimensional schematic of the Perun’s Aerie complex. A chamber deep in the heart of the facility glowed green. “All internal and external power needs are met by a compact 171-megawatt KLT-40M naval nuclear reactor. As a result, this complex is, effectively, entirely off the grid, connected to the outside world only by deeply buried and highly secure communications links.”
The Russian president nodded. He moved closer to the display, studying it intently. “And your primary defenses?”
“Virtually impregnable,” Koshkin replied. He tapped his tablet again, bringing up a new map, this one depicting the narrow valleys and steep slopes surrounding Perun’s Aerie. “An interlocking web of sensors — IR-capable cameras, radars, motion detectors, and the like — ensures that no enemy can approach undetected, either by air or on the ground.” More areas glowed red on the big display. “Behind the sensor network, Colonel Balakin’s engineers have sown dense, carefully camouflaged, minefields. These barriers will channel any attackers into kill zones covered by antitank, machine-gun, and mortar fire from concealed bunkers.”
“And if the enemy attacks from the air?” Gryzlov asked with deceptive mildness. Before taking over his family’s highly profitable oil, gas, and petrochemical companies and then going into politics, he had been a serving officer in Russia’s air force. And he knew from bitter personal experience the kind of horrific damage precision-guided bombs and missiles could inflict.
“Our close-in air defenses include hidden SAM and antiaircraft batteries in pop-up emplacements sited high on the mountain above us,” Koshkin replied. “In addition, Colonel General Maksimov has obeyed your orders to station interceptors at Syktyvkar, including his first operational Su-50 stealth fighters. We have a direct secure link to those air units, and fighter jets can be overhead in twenty minutes.”
Gryzlov stepped back from the display. He clapped the shorter man on the shoulder. “Otlichnaya rabota! Excellent work!”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Koshkin said, striving to conceal his sense of relief. In public appearances, Russia’s youthful, good-looking leader radiated charm, confidence, and calm. Those closest to him knew the fierce temper and manic, often uncontrolled, rage that lurked behind the façade. Failing Gennadiy Gryzlov always carried a high and painful price.
“And the other defensive measures I ordered?” Gryzlov asked. “Are they operational yet?” Koshkin hesitated, and Gryzlov’s eyes narrowed in suspicion — he did not like having to draw out bad news from his subordinates. “Well?” the taller man demanded.
“Colonel Balakin informs me that work on them is running somewhat behind schedule,” Koshkin admitted. “But since the need for such backup defenses seemed so remote, neither of us felt it was wise to divert the necessary manpower and resources just now.”
Gryzlov’s mouth tightened, and his gaze turned cold. “That was a decision well above your pay grade, General.” He watched the FSB officer’s round face turn pale and then went on. “Whether or not you believe my orders are wise is irrelevant. Understand?”
Koshkin nodded.
“Then you will obey me,” Gryzlov snapped. “I want those troops and weapons and explosives in place as soon as possible. No more delays! No more bitching and whining about money and resources. You and Balakin are soldiers in the service of Mother Russia, not pissant junior accountants! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The Russian president’s angry expression softened slightly. “So far, you have done reasonably well, Arkady. Don’t screw up at the end, eh?” His smile grew warmer and more genuine. “After all, you want the chance to test these shiny new cyberweapons of yours, yes?”
Koshkin snapped to attention. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Then keep me informed of your progress,” Gryzlov said. “And tell Colonel Balakin to pull his thumb out of his ass and obey my orders… all of my orders.”
Powered by two massive turbofan jet engines, the sleek, modern passenger airliner climbed smoothly through clear blue skies over northern Russia — bound westward toward Moscow at just under five hundred knots. While most Superjet 100s carried around a hundred passengers, this one was different. The plane had been purchased as a transport aircraft for Russia’s leader, so its main cabin was almost empty, occupied only by a few luxurious leather chairs reserved for VIPs, a couple of rows of business-class-style seats for the president’s military and civilian aides and bodyguards, and a well-stocked bar and galley.