“You see,” Yuri said. “That’s why I wanted you here.” The tall, strong man lifted his square chin and went back to looking over the shoulders of his men.
Twenty minutes now from the scheduled launch time. Jake checked his watch and hoped his advice was correct. The SS-27 was a newer weapon. This launch had only been scheduled after the last test, two months ago, had resulted in the missile exploding in its launcher. They were testing a new guidance system, using only the SS-27 three-stage rocket. Everything else was new. In fact, if this test went as planned, the Russians would destroy an entire class of long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles. It was a modernization of the force that Washington, London and Paris all agreed was necessary, and that Moscow had found money for by oil sales to those three countries. The one stipulation from the Western nations had been an observer at each step of the way. Independent observers with no current affiliation with any government.
Flying at 36,000 feet, the Boeing 747, painted black as the night, cruised north along the Kamchatka Peninsula, just outside Russian international airspace.
Monitoring a console in what would have been the upper first class section, Colonel Tim Powers glanced sideways at a major from his new command. Colonel Powers had been a Cold War missile officer, spending twenty-four hour shifts hunkered down deep underground in launch facilities in North Dakota and Wyoming. Later, as he gained rank, he had transferred to Space Command, a post that he thought would bring his first star.
“How far from the Russian coast?” the colonel asked the flight crew over his mic.
“Right on our flight plan, Sir,” came the voice of the pilot, Captain Billy Waters, with a strong Georgia accent. “We’re banking west now and will start turning south in exactly ten minutes. Still in international airspace.”
“Thanks, Billy.” The colonel shifted nervously in his chair and glanced about the compartment at his fellow officers. All of them had been hand-picked by Colonel Powers, not only for their high compartmentalized security clearances, but for their ability to keep their mouth shut at the “O” Club with their fellow officers.
Although the Russians knew they were there, and, in fact, had encouraged their observing presence, they also had no idea of their true mission. Had they known, they would have scrambled MIGs and shot them from the sky. If they could. The colonel smiled thinking about that possible encounter. Would they be able to counter those air-to-air missiles? They had done it repeatedly with American Sidewinders, so there was no reason to believe their success would be any less effective with inferior Russian missiles.
“Heading south,” the pilot said.
The large plane started a slow bank to the left.
They were close now. Time to test the true capabilities of this bird, the colonel thought.
“COIL up and ready?” the colonel asked.
“Check.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“All right, folks. Let’s prepare for the launch.” He checked his watch, which was synchronized to nuclear time down to a hundredth of a second. “Five minutes, twenty two seconds.”
The colonel checked each of his crew. They were determined, their eyes intense and focused on their screens. They were about to commit a breach of international law, but that didn’t seem to bother any of them. If all went as planned, missiles would become as innocuous as the bow and arrow. He smiled. Welcome to modern warfare.
Inside the Russian launch facility, the men made last-minute preparations. Jake knew the trailer was nearly soundproof, but he still considered plugging his ears during the launch. He had observed a number of ground-launched cruise missile launches at Vandenburg Air Force Base, California, in the ‘80s, and they had been a lot louder than he would have thought-especially while outside and a short distance away.
Watching his old friend and sometime adversary, Jake could sense a high level of angst and uncertainty in the man. Something he would have never guessed possible in Yuri Pushkina.
Yuri waved Jake over to a console that would show the flight path of the modified SS-27 Topol-M missile.
“Here we go, my friend,” Yuri said. “Ten seconds.”
Jake and Yuri watched the computer monitor over the shoulder of a young captain. As the time counted off, the first indication that they had a launch was not on the computer, but the slight shaking felt throughout the compartment and the muffled roar from outside. Then the missile showed progress on the computer screen, climbing to three times the speed of sound toward the northeast in just seconds. Jake knew that the missile would swiftly reach a speed of 24,000 kilometers per hour in a few minutes. At that rate, with a nuclear payload, the missile would be able to strike Seattle in thirty minutes and Los Angeles in less than forty.
Hell of a deal, Jake thought, watching the computer screen, as the missile reached a trajectory passing over the Tatar Straight and Sakhalin Island. Soon, the missile would reach critical velocity and altitude over the Sea of Okhotsk, pass over the Kamchatka Peninsula before the planned self destruction over the Bering Sea, where a Russian sub would mark the reentry and ensure nothing remained on the surface. Which was unlikely, Jake knew, considering the speed of descent and the destructive charge within the missile.
Yuri leaned forward toward the screen as the missile started to cross the Sea of Okhotsk.
Then it happened. The unlikely. The improbable. Suddenly, the computer image that signified the missile disappeared.
“What the hell?” Yuri yelled in Russian. “What happened, Captain Petrov?”
The young captain clicked a few keys on his computer, desperately trying to make the missile re-appear. Nothing. He shook his head in disbelief. “It is gone, Colonel Pushkina.”
The next few minutes were chaos as secure phones rang from superiors and Yuri tried his best to explain that he had no idea what had happened.
2
The Asian woman watched the city of Khabarovsk pass by through the passenger window, her mind muddled by nearly twenty-four hours of constant travel. She had read in an on-flight magazine that Khabarovsk was the eastern gateway to Russia, serviced by an international airport and two main rail lines, including the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The city was mostly planted along the eastern side of the massive Amur River, a major supply route for trade with Japan and a magnet for summer sun worshippers. Now, though, with winter still holding on, the 615,000 citizens of Khabarovsk spent most of their time at work, huddled at home, or in the smoky bars, she guessed.
The Volkswagen Santana sedan cruised through the darkness along Lenina Street, only a few other cars in sight, and those creeping along like snails.
She gazed at the driver, who tapped chop sticks on the dash in sync with the Beatles song, Tax Man. Watching the street lights come on, her only thoughts were on the absurd man to her left. The man she only knew as Laughing Dragon. From what she had seen in the last six months, the man lived up to both parts of his moniker. She understood the Dragon part, since she had seen the man turn on enemies with vicious precision without breaking a sweat-the only thing missing was the fire from his mouth. It was the Laughing part that had so baffled her. He would break into an insidious unrestrained titter for no apparent reason, bringing a chill to her skin. Perhaps he was as insane as her former runner had said just before he turned up missing.
“Tax Man,” the driver sang, his voice much higher than the Beatle, his chop sticks clanking the dash, and his bald head bobbing up and down.
“There’s Komsomolsk Square,” the woman said, trying to get him back on track to their goal.
The driver yelled “Tax Man” one more time and then broke into a high-pitched cackle-his version of a laugh.