1840–1920 Secure perimeter
1920–1930 Wash hands
1930–2000 Dinner
2000–2030 Watch TV news
2030–2130 Personal time
2130–2145 Evening formation
2145–2155 Evening inspection
2200 Retreat
While Herbert and his people stayed on top of the military developments, they also tried to collect information for Charlie Squires and his Striker commandos about the situation at the Hermitage. Satellite reconnaissance turned up no unusual traffic, and Matt Stoll and his technical staff weren't having much luck working up programs to enable the AIM-Satellite to filter out the noise in the museum itself. The lack of personnel on the ground compounded their frustration. Egypt, Japan, and Colombia had agents in Moscow, but none in St. Petersburg— and, in any case, Herbert didn't want to tell them that something was brewing at the Hermitage, lest they side with Russia. Old loyalties weren't necessarily changing in the post-Cold War world, but new ones were constantly being forged. Herbert didn't intend to help any of those along, even if it meant allowing extra time so Striker could study the site firsthand before defining their mission.
Then, at ten minutes after noon— 8:00 P.M. in Moscow— the situation changed.
Bob Herbert was called to Op-Center's radio room in the northwest comer of the basement. Wheeling over, he headed toward Radio Reconnaissance Director John Quirk, a taciturn giant of a man with a beatific face, a soft voice, and the patience of a monk. Quirk was seated by a radio/computer unit, UTHER— Universal Translation and Heuristic Enharmonic Reporter— which was capable of producing a virtually simultaneous written translation of everything that was being said by over five hundred different voice types, in over two hundred languages and dialects.
Quirk removed his headset as Herbert arrived. The three other people in the room continued working at their monitors, which were trained on Moscow and St. Petersburg.
'Bob,' Quirk said, 'we've intercepted transmissions indicating that equipment is being collected at air bases from Ryazan to Vladivostok for shipment to Belgorod.'
'Belgorod?' Herbert said. 'That's where the Russians have been holding maneuvers. What kind of equipment are they sending over?'
Quirk turned his blue eyes toward the screen. 'You name it. Automated communications trucks, vehicle- mounted radio relay stations, a helicopter-mounted retransmission station, Petroleum, Oil, and Lubricants trucks and trailers, along with full maintenance companies and field kitchen trucks.'
'They're setting up a communications and supply route,' Herbert said. 'Could be a drill of some kind.'
'I've never seen one this sudden.'
'What do you mean?' Herbert asked.
'Well,' Quirk said, 'this is clearly an engagement build-up, but before the Russians engage there's always a great deal of communication about the expected time of the encounter and the anticipated size of enemy forces. We'll pick up their calculations on speed-of-movement scales, and there'll be conversations between frontline forces and headquarters about tactics— envelopment, turning movement, combined, that sort of thing.'
'But you didn't get any of that,' Herbert said.
'Zero. This is as sudden as anything I've ever seen.'
'Yet when everything's in place,' Herbert said, 'they'll be ready for something big? like a move into the Ukraine.'
'Correct.'
'Yet the Ukrainians are doing nothing,' Herbert said.
'They may not know anything's up,' Quirk said.
'Or they may not he taking it seriously,' Herbert said. 'NRO photos show that they've got reconnaissance personnel close to the border— but not deep reconnaissance companies. Obviously, they don't expect to have to operate from behind enemy lines.' Herbert drummed his leather armrests. 'How soon before the Russians are ready to move?'
'They'll be in position by tonight,' Quirk said. 'By aircraft, it's just a short hop to Belgorod.'
'And there's no chance that these are bogeys?' Herbert asked.
Quirk shook his head. 'These communications are real, all right. The Russians use a combination of Latin and Cyrillic characters when they want to confuse us. The letters shared by the alphabets are supposed to throw us off because it's tough to know which alphabet they mean.' He patted the computer. 'But Uther manages to sniff them out.'
Herbert squeezed Quirk's shoulder. 'Good work. Let me know if you pick up anything else.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
'Sir,' said red-cheeked Yuri Marev, 'the radio room says they've received a coded communication via Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok. It's from the plane you've had me follow on the Hawk satellite.'
General Orlov stopped his slow pacing behind the computer bank and walked to the young man, who was seated at the far left of the bank.
'Are you certain?' Orlov asked.
'There's no doubt, sir. It's the Gulfstream.'
Orlov glanced at the clock on the computer screen. The plane wasn't due to land for another half hour, and he knew that region well: if anything, at this time of year the winds would work against them and the plane would be late.
'Tell Zilash I'm coming,' Orlov said, walking quickly to the door that opened into the corridor. He entered that day's code on the keypad beside a door across the hall, then went into the cramped, smoke-filled radio room which was located next to Glinka's security operations center.
Arkady Zilash and his two assistants were sitting in a tiny room filled to the ceiling with radio equipment. Orlov couldn't even open the door completely, since one of the assistants was using a unit tucked behind it. The men were all wearing headsets, and Zilash didn't see Orlov until the General tapped him on the left earphone.
Startled, the gaunt radio chief removed his headset and stuck his cigarette in an ashtray.
'I'm sorry, sir,' Zilash said in his low, raspy voice.
As if suddenly realizing he should stand, Zilash began to rise. Orlov motioned with his fingers for him to sit back down. Without meaning to, Zilash had always managed to test the boundaries of military protocol. But he was a radio genius and, more important, a trusted aide from Orlov's Cosmodrome days. The General wished he had more men like Zilash on his staff.
'It's all right,' Orlov said.
'Thank you, sir.'
'What did the Gulfstream have to say?'
Zilash turned on a digital audiotape recorder. 'I've unscrambled it and cleaned it up a bit,' he said. 'The transmission had a great deal of static— the weather is terrible over the sea right now.'
The voice on the tape was faint but clear. 'Vladivostok: we have lost power in our port engine. We do not know how serious the damage is, but some electrical systems are out. We expect to land a half hour late, but can go no further. Will await instructions.'
Zilash's big, hound-dog eyes peered up through the smoke. 'Any reply, sir?'
Orlov thought for a moment. 'Not yet. Get me Rear Admiral Pasenko at Pacific Fleet headquarters.'
Zilash glanced at his computer clock. 'It's four in the morning there, sir—'
'I know,' Orlov said patiently. 'Just do it.'
'Yes, sir,' Zilash said as he typed the name into his computer keyboard, accessed and input the scramble
