He flipped on all the lights and walked over to a small minibar. “I can offer you coffee, mineral water, or Coca-Cola. Anyone interested?”
“Do you have anything stronger?” asked Pedersen.
“Not here, I’m afraid. I could make a call, if you’d like.”
“No, don’t go to the trouble. Coffee is fine. Thank you.”
“And for you?” the Lithuanian asked.
“Coffee for me too, please,” Harvath replied, stepping over to the windows. They offered an impressive view over the entire air base. “Didn’t the Soviets base many of their long-range bombers here during the Cold War?”
“They did indeed. This was one of only six airfields that could accommodate the Myasishchev M-4.”
“The Bison,” said Harvath, using the NATO designator for the aircraft. “Capable of reaching the United States, but not getting back to the Soviet Union. For a long time, though, the Russians sure had everyone fooled.”
“The bomber gap,” Pedersen stated, nodding. “The West was worried that the Soviets were building hundreds upon hundreds of these amazing jet-powered strategic bombers. In the end, it was all just a hoax.”
“An appropriate metaphor for the Soviet Union itself,” declared Landsbergis as he finished pouring three mugs of coffee and carried them over to the conference table.
Harvath agreed. Stepping away from the windows, he joined the two men and took a seat.
The VSD operator’s laptop was already connected to a projector in the center of the table. Powering it up, he waited for his presentation to load.
“As Carl said, I represent the Lithuanian State Security Department. Even though I am a few years younger, he and I have been friends and colleagues for some time. The Norwegian Intelligence Service has done many favors for the VSD, and I hope you have found that we have always generously reciprocated.”
Pedersen nodded.
“American intelligence has also been helpful to Lithuania,” he continued, “and we are very grateful for both relationships. In that spirit, we’d like to help you in any way we can.
“We are extremely concerned about the prospect of a Russian invasion. Currently, Lithuania is undergoing a savage Kremlin-backed disinformation campaign, meant to sow discord and weaken our country. Our fear that this may be a prelude to war has been discussed between America’s UN Ambassador and ours. It is the express opinion of the United States that we should not change our military posture for fear of tipping off or provoking Moscow. We understand this position.
“That being the case, we do not wish to sit idly by and wait to see what happens. America is our friend and ally. We also believe we should be involved in any fight that helps to protect and preserve Lithuania.
“Obviously, we cannot do this in any overt official capacity. If the Russians discovered that we had assisted, that could serve as a severe provocation and goad them into war.
“Anything we do will have to be covert and off-book, but rest assured that I understand fear is a two-way street. As we fear the Russians’ learning about our involvement with you, you fear the Russians’ learning about your involvement with us — and subsequently your mission into Kaliningrad.
“While I’d like to believe that the Lithuanian State Security Department hasn’t been penetrated by Moscow, history and common sense would suggest otherwise. No one in the VSD but me will know the details of your plans. And even then, for operational security, I will not know everything.”
The Lithuanian took a pause as Harvath looked at Pedersen.
“Without him,” said the Norwegian, “I don’t think you have a chance. With him, fifty-fifty. Maybe even sixty-forty.”
“Actually,” clarified Landsbergis, “based on what Carl has explained to me that you need, I think we can help improve your odds even more.”
“Show me what you have in mind,” replied Harvath as he sat back in his chair, raised his mug, and took a sip.
The VSD operative directed his attention to the front of the room and activated the first slide in his presentation.
CHAPTER 62
“One minute!” the jumpmaster at the ramp of the brand-new C-130J Super Hercules yelled to Harvath.
The aircraft was part of the Eighty-sixth Airlift Wing at Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Under authorization from United States European Command, the heavy-duty transport plane had been loaded with a very expensive and very specific shopping list of gear and flown to an air base in Lithuania.
There, four Americans had been standing on the tarmac waiting to meet it. When the aircraft came to a stop, they quickly climbed aboard and kicked the tires of every piece of gear that had been shipped to them.
The American team leader bought dinner for everyone and then spent a good two hours with the crew going over weather conditions, wind speeds aloft, altitude calculations, and other equations. He was one of the most thorough “customers” they had ever given a ride to.
“Thirty seconds!” the jumpmaster yelled.
The team had already double-checked each other’s gear and then had checked again. Standing at the ramp with their wingsuits, low-vis helmets, night-vision goggles, and oxygen masks, they looked spooky — like four dark superheroes out of some postapocalyptic comic book.
“Ten seconds!” the jumpmaster yelled.
They were all assembled near the edge of the ramp now. The wind was practically deafening, and it was much colder than it had been a few feet back. Technically, they were about to jump into Russia.
Harvath raised his gloved fist and gave everyone a bump. He’d be the last one out in case anything went wrong.
Ashby would go first, followed by Palmer, then Staelin, and finally Harvath. Had they clumped together, they might have created a significant radar signature. So instead, they were to take different glide paths to the same broad drop zone.
In their packs, they carried suppressed pistols, radios, individual med kits, a ton of cash, maps, and some compact, very high-tech equipment. President Porter, Bob McGee, and Lydia Ryan had wanted to ensure that they were as self-sufficient as possible.
“On the green!” the jumpmaster yelled, pointing to the light near the ramp. “On the green!”
Harvath glanced one last time at the infrared lights on the backs of everyone’s helmets. They were all working. He’d be able to track them all the way down.
“Five, four, three, two, one!” shouted the jumpmaster as the light turned green. “Go! Go! Go!”
One by one, the team dove, headfirst, off the ramp at the rear of the aircraft and tumbled through the bitterly cold night sky.
Quickly righting themselves, they extended their limbs, spread-eagled, and began to glide.
Harvath, like the other team members, watched the computer strapped to his wrist. It provided a range of important data, including altitude, speed, direction, and distance to target.
He had jumped with a wingsuit a handful of times before, but had done so in relatively controlled environments without much gear. The added weight they were now all required to carry had been a big source of back and forth with the flight crew, as they tried to decide where and when to green-light the team to jump.
Sailing through the moonless pitch-black, the only thing Harvath could see through his NVGs were the lights on his team’s helmets as they floated through the darkness ahead of him.
Per the course they had charted, they anticipated being in Lithuanian airspace for several minutes before they crossed into Kaliningrad’s.
Looking at his wrist, he did a quick bit of math. There’d be an alarm reminding them when to pop their chutes, but he didn’t want to depend on a computer. That wasn’t how the OSS would have done it.
Adjusting his trajectory, he continued to glide. There was absolutely no other feeling in the world like it.