“Sir, you’re not well,” Sokolov said. “Dr. Fedkin—”
“Fedkin is of no consequence,” Krupin said, lowering his voice to a sustainable level. “There will be no more procedures and no more treatments until I’ve gained control of this situation.”
Sokolov nodded respectfully, but felt his anxiety deepen. Krupin didn’t have the stamina to lead this war effort and he was increasingly hampered by his inability to differentiate between himself and Russia. The quick, easy victory he needed was no longer possible. Sacrificing focus on the larger battle to concentrate on his political survival would create a slow moving disaster that the country might never recover from. This war was now about Russia’s future while Krupin was becoming part of its past.
“Contact your counterparts in the West, Andrei. Reiterate that we’ve moved nuclear weapons into Latvia and make sure they understand that they’ll be used at the first hint that the Latvian insurgency is being assisted from the outside.”
It was precisely the wrong strategy, devised with a man who was thinking in terms of days and weeks instead of years and decades. NATO had indeed surprised them, but it was too early to determine if it would matter to the final outcome of the war. Certainly, a tactical nuclear strike might eventually become necessary, but the timing, target, and retaliation would have to be carefully considered.
“Yes, sir.”
“This isn’t an idle threat, Andrei. It can’t be. What’s the least populous major city within easy reach of our weapons?”
“Sir, I think we—”
“Answer me! I have no more time for your failures. Every minute that passes without a victory strengthens my enemies in Moscow. They’re plotting against me. I can feel it. I’ve always been able to feel it.”
“Copenhagen,” Sokolov said, finally. “Approximately three quarters of a million people.”
“Then make the threat specific—choosing the major city with a low population will convince them. We’ll see just how much the West is willing to bleed to try to take back a country that’s rightfully ours.”
“I understand,” Sokolov responded, not sure what else there was to say.
“I want you to set up a video conference between us and the rest of my military commanders, Andrei. Fifteen minutes from now.”
“Then you’ll have to excuse me so I can make preparations.”
He turned on his heels and heading for the door.
The breakup of the Western alliance and the resurgence of Russia was within reach, but it would be a long and difficult path. Their fist would have to be slowly closed around Latvia, proving to the surrounding nations that NATO was powerless to protect them. Internet disinformation campaigns would have to be expanded and modernized, turning countries and citizens against each other. The election of autocratic leaders sympathetic to Russia would have to be supported. Chaos would have to be fomented in Syria and North Africa in an effort to create a refugee crisis that would overwhelm Europe.
Krupin had started this process, but it was increasingly obvious that he was no longer capable of finishing it. It was time for Sokolov to begin laying the groundwork for taking control of Russia. Krupin would have to be isolated in such a way that he could still be used as a power base but would have no involvement in generating strategies or setting policy. His strength and intelligence would be missed, but it was the only way that Russia could live on in his image.
CHAPTER 47
CENTRAL RUSSIA
THEY’D been slower than even Rapp’s worst-case scenario. The back of the mountain they’d come down had been more treacherous than expected, and they’d nearly been taken out by two separate rock falls. Worse, Azarov hadn’t been kidding when he’d said his fitness had slipped. The superhuman he’d been when he trained six hours a day and pumped himself full of PEDs was just a memory now.
It wasn’t all bad, though. The Russian was still one of the top five operators in the world and the wolf pack had been content to just watch the two men intruding on their territory instead of tearing them apart.
Even better, the gear they’d been promised was right where it was supposed to be. Bushwhacking across seventy miles of some of the world’s most rugged terrain with no food or water and then attacking a fortified ammo dump with sticks and rocks wasn’t something that was going to turn out well.
Rapp dragged a waterproof duffel from where it had been buried and emptied the contents onto the ground. Their tents, sleeping bags, and a raft were already lined up in the dirt—all brands commercially available in Russia. The dry bag contained more technical equipment, including night-vision gear, a GPS, and solar powered chargers. Weapons were limited to a couple of hunting rifles and two Serdyukov SPS pistols. The Agency got high marks for putting together all this weathered Russian crap, but he doubted it would be enough for anyone to buy them as a couple of buddies on a fishing trip. Particularly with Sergei’s body rotting on the side of that mountain and theirs missing. Survival now turned on moving fast and not being spotted.
He finally found their communications equipment packed with a bunch of freeze-dried Russian provisions. Borscht and beef Stroganoff? He’d have to get Azarov to read the labels.
He turned on a portable satellite radio receiver he found, using the included Bluetooth earpiece. It was tuned to an English language station out of Moscow, and despite the government spin, he was able to get an idea what was happening.
All the talk about NATO’s “ambush” of peaceful Russian navy ships and subsequent “cowardly retreat” suggested that Western forces were continuing to kick ass on the water. The price would be high, though. It was hard not to wonder how many men and women he’d served with over the years were now on the bottom of the Baltic Sea. Just as bad, it appeared that Krupin had threatened Copenhagen with a nuclear strike. At the behest of the “treacherous American government” the “cowardly Danes” were abandoning their capital city. Based on the chances Rapp gave himself of pulling off his mission, he hoped they were running, not walking.
Beyond that, information was hard to come by. There was no thumb drive with an encrypted briefing or additional reports on the war effort. Not even an update on the whereabouts of Krupin or Sokolov. No big surprise. They’d been cut loose at this point. If they got caught, the Agency would say that he’d never been officially reinstated to the CIA after his actions in Saudi Arabia and feign ignorance of his actions. If pressed, Kennedy, would cite his personal debt to Azarov and point out something that Krupin understood better than anyone: if you hit Grisha Azarov, he was going to hit back.
So, from now on, his life would be ruled by the unknown. How heavily was Krupin’s treatment facility guarded? How could they gain access to the building? Hell, was he even there or would they be charging a bunch of medical personnel and a couple of bemused janitors?
Their campsite finally descended into shadow, forcing Rapp to slip on a down jacket as he inflated their raft. A little help preparing would have been useful, but Azarov was dozing in a pile of leaves near the shore. Better to have him rested than screwing with foot pumps and weapons checks.
? ? ?
“I’m sorry,” Azarov said, appearing from the trees. “I didn’t think I’d sleep that long.”
“The good life can be destructive,” Rapp said pointing to a few cold sausage links and something that resembled a Russian Pop-Tart.
“And I’m its most willing victim,” he said, walking over to the food. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. We’re pretty much packed up.”
The Russian sat on a log and took a bite of sausage, studying the wide, slow moving river. “It’s funny. More and more when I try to look back on my life, I wonder what happened. You chose this. I stumbled into it.”