Annenkov raised an eyebrow. “Who would believe that? It’s too small, isn’t it? I’ve seen wind turbines. They’re enormous. Some of them have blades that must be forty meters long.”
“Those are industrial-sized machines,” Filippov explained. “Turbines come in all sizes.” For a brief instant, it looked as though he might actually smile again, but the moment passed. “The paperwork for our shipments describes them as ‘experimental, high-efficiency small wind turbines intended for modular installation in disadvantaged and isolated rural communities.’”
“And customs officials actually buy that line of bullshit?” Annenkov asked in disbelief.
“They do.” One corner of the other man’s mouth twitched slightly. “In fact, thanks to the American government’s renewable-energy incentives, we receive a significant discount on the import duty and taxes for this equipment.”
Annenkov grinned. What could be better than seeing the Americans actually help make President Gryzlov’s planned operations that much cheaper? Still enjoying the irony, he paid close attention while Filippov showed him other disguised missile components. Kh-35 active radar homing seekers were concealed inside cylinders mocked up to look like the generators used to convert the mechanical energy of turbine blades into electric power. Missile flight control surfaces were camouflaged as tail vanes that kept turbines themselves facing into the wind in all conditions. Fuselage pieces were hidden in plain sight as sections of pipe or nacelle.
“Smuggling in the missile warheads and their turbofan engines is the trickiest part of the business,” Filippov admitted. “The Americans take more care to check for weapons and explosives crossing their borders. And engines are difficult to disguise as anything but themselves.”
“But it can be done?”
“Oh, yes, Colonel,” Filippov said with total confidence. “We have several shipments of oil and gas exploration equipment slated for your next flight.” Seeing Annenkov’s look of incomprehension, he explained. “Small explosive charges are commonly used in oil exploration and production — in seismic surveys to find potential fields and in the newly completed wells themselves.”
“So the explosives required for our Kh-35 warheads can be safely included with these apparently legitimate energy industry shipments,” Annenkov realized. Filippov nodded. “And our missile engines? What about them?”
“The turbofans are camouflaged as parts of large diesel motors used to provide power for oil-drilling rigs,” the ordnance specialist answered simply. “They should be effectively undetectable by any routine visual or X-ray inspection.”
Annenkov shook his head in admiration. Filippov and the men in Moscow’s RKU logistics branch were geniuses. Once the rotary launchers being sent by sea and then truck arrived here and were installed aboard his 737-200F, he would possess a powerful strike force. He knew both Gryzlov and Kurakin put more emphasis on their prized, ultra-advanced war robots, but the colonel was something of an old-fashioned warrior. In his experience, if you put enough air-launched weapons on target, you could destroy virtually anything.
Twelve
Kevin Martindale finished reading the intelligence report prepared by his top Scion analysts. With a frown, he flipped the manila folder closed, revealing the red security designations stamped on its cover, Nazbardziej Tajne, Nie Kopiować in Polish and Most Secret, Do Not Copy in English. Then he looked up, suddenly aware of the awkward silence.
Four others sat around the conference table: Brad and Patrick McLanahan, Whack Macomber, and Nadia Rozek. They were the key members of the joint Polish — Iron Wolf command team. And all of them were watching him with equally serious expressions.
He opened his mouth to begin. “I suppose—”
“If you really say, ‘I suppose you are all wondering why I have called you here,’ I will personally shoot you in the kneecap,” Nadia interrupted bluntly.
“And then I’ll break the other one with my bare hands, sir,” Macomber promised. He nodded toward the folder. “We know you’re dying to fill us in on what your guys uncovered at Bataysk, so let’s just cut to the chase, okay?”
Outwardly, both Brad and his father winced. But neither could completely hide his amusement.
Martindale forced himself to smile. There were moments when he wished these people didn’t take so much pleasure in baiting him. Then again, he guessed they’d earned the right by repeatedly risking their lives at his request. And, he supposed, he did have the occasional tendency to pontificate. Maybe you couldn’t spend years in politics and the White House — even in the unconventional way he’d played his part as president — without catching the disease.
“Very well, Colonel,” he said calmly. “You’re quite right. This”—he tapped the Scion intelligence report—“confirms our earlier speculation. Certainly as far as the Twenty-Second Spetsnaz Brigade is concerned.”
“You telling me their combat readiness really is collapsing?” Brad asked. The younger man could not hide his skepticism. No one who’d gone up against Russia’s elite special forces troops in battle could ever take them lightly.
Martindale nodded. “My best intelligence analysts have gone over every file Kerr and Cartwright retrieved from the Bataysk database and there’s no other possible conclusion. The Twenty-Second has been hollowed out.”
“Hollowed out how?”
“Over the past several months, some of its most experienced platoon and company leaders, scouts, snipers, demolition, and language specialists have requested permission to resign from active duty in the armed forces.”
“You say some,” Nadia said carefully. She looked at Martindale. “How many… exactly?”
“Fifty-two,” he said. “All of them with top-notch fitness reports.”
Whack Macomber whistled. “You’re right. Having that many of your best people dump out on you like that would leave a hell of a mark on any military unit. But in a commando outfit?” He shook his head. “That brigade’s fucked.”
Martindale nodded.
On the surface, the resignation of fifty-two officers and senior enlisted men didn’t seem like much — not out of a force with a total strength of thirteen hundred soldiers. But this was a case where quality counted for a lot more than raw numbers. In any military organization, a relative handful of natural leaders created the unit cohesion that was essential to combat effectiveness. That was especially true in the special forces, where so much depended on skill, initiative, and courage at the individual and small-unit level. In wartime, as casualties mounted, new leaders might emerge amid the stress of battle. In a peacetime army, with all its inherent bureaucratic sluggishness, it was much harder to rebuild a leadership cadre once it was lost.
“And the Russian high command is just sitting back and letting those guys leave?” Brad asked in astonishment.
“‘Just sitting back’ would imply a level of passivity which does not exist,” Martindale said quietly.
“Meaning what?”
“Far from fighting these resignation requests, Moscow actually expedited them. In fact, when the brigade commander, a Colonel Andreyev, filed a protest with his superior officers, he was threatened with disciplinary action for daring to stand in the way of any officer or soldier who wanted to return to civilian life.”
Patrick McLanahan’s frown was plain through the clear visor of his LEAF life-support helmet. “Tactics, marksmanship, and demolitions?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Those aren’t skill sets in high demand in the civilian world.”