First Strike

propellers up to flank speed. The cruisers paced her, while the frigates dropped slightly behind, unable to sustain the thirty-five knots plus that the Jefferson was capable of maintaining.

In TFCC, Coyote stared at the large screen tactical display, his emotions alternating between pure adrenaline highs and utter incredulity. Clustered around the airport were hostile air—hostile air— symbols! And reports were just coming in from overhead imagery that the transports had unloaded the ZIL-85 antiair defense systems vehicles and that they were already being dispersed about the island, hidden under the canopy of trees in the interior.

Coyote turned to the senior Marine, his CLF, or Commander, Landing Forces, and noted, “Bitch trying to dig them out. You’ll get thermal signatures from the satellites that will pinpoint their locations, but the terrain’s going to be rough going for your men.”

Colonel Avery Forrester smiled dryly. “Not a problem. I’ve already got my people working on it.”

“Boy Scouts, aren’t you? Always prepared.”

“We try to be.” Forrester frowned. “Although I’m not so sure we’re going to get the chance to take a shot at this. If I know the SEALs, they’ll be chomping at the bit to get in there.”

“Yep,” Coyote acknowledged. “It is the sort of thing that’s right up their alley. Their bread and butter, if you will.”

“Yes, Admiral, but—”

“And frankly,” Coyote continued as though the Marine had not spoken, “a covert landing followed by some shooting and looting sounds like a SEAL mission rather than one for your people. They’re going to have to swim in, you know.”

“We can take the Osprey in,” the colonel said.

Coyote flicked his laser pointer at the chart. “With the ZILs? I don’t think so — not until we know how effective they are. You start decimating the only operation Osprey squadron in the fleet and nobody’s going to be very pleased.”

“To the contrary, sir, with all due respect. The Osprey is ready for an operational test just like this. She’s got enough spoofing and jamming gear on board to deal with the ZILs, even assuming your aircraft misses her with HARMs. Using the Osprey now would answer a lot of questions, Admiral. We need this.”

“It might raise more questions than it answers, Colonel. You realize that?” Coyote studied the man for a moment, wondering how to proceed. Sure, it should be a straight tactical decision. In theory, at least. But it never really was, was it? The political forces back in the Pentagon always had their own agendas, most of which including winning wars in such a way as to ensure their next reelections.

“We are ready. The Osprey is ready.”

No use sugarcoating it. The colonel is a big boy. “I understand that. I’ll wait and see what my staff recommends, but my inclination is to use your troops as the first wave ashore after the SEALs neutralize the ZILs. Assuming, of course, that we’re ordered in.”

The colonel’s face clouded over. “With all due respect, Admiral, is there a little favoritism going on here?”

Coyote regarded him levelly, his face hard and cold. “I’m going to forget you said that, mister.”

The colonel flinched, then his own expression matched the admiral’s. “As the admiral wishes. If I may be excused?”

“Yes.” Coyote watched the colonel go, his back ramrod stiff and his posture every inch Marine. There hadn’t been any easy way around that one. The colonel was way out of line to even suggest favoritism.

That’s why they gave you the stars, amigo. So you could make these calls. But, damn, that’s a man I want on my side, not against me. Well, we’ll see. If he sucks it up and acts like an officer, he’ll be fine. And, if he doesn’t, he’ll learn real fast what it’s like to dance with elephants.

Chechen Military Camp

0400 local (GMT+4)

Korsov surveyed the ragged collection of prefab buildings, ramshackle stores and tents that made up the rebel troops’ command center. Politics makes strange bedfellows, and allying his interests with those of the Chechen forces had at first seemed an impossible coalition. But the Chechens were desperate. They could not hold out forever against the Russians, and they eagerly jumped at Korsov’s promise of complete autonomy. They had their sympathizers inside the Russian command structure as well, and, in exchange for the use of their insurgent network in certain matters, they had proved to be if not entirely hospitable at least more receptive to his needs than his own government.

The commander of the Chechen forces was an old, battered Russian colonel, now elevated by the fact of his mutiny to the rank of general. Ilya Petrovich had seen action in Afghanistan and knew what the Russians were capable of, both in a military sense and in the likely treatment of the Chechen forces once they were overrun.

Petrovich’s face was deeply lined, his skin rough and burned. His eyes were a faded blue, his short hair silver around his face but glossy black at his crown. He seemed to have problems concentrating on what Korsov told him, as though he were continually listening to another voice just out of earshot.

And perhaps he was, Korsov thought, as he started to review operational security procedures for the third time. It was the sound of his ancestors talking to him, preparing to welcome him to the other side.

Like many Russians, both Korsov and Petrovich had deep streaks of superstition running through their souls. It underlay the patina of the Eastern Orthodox church, so long banned but never really suppressed in Russia, and tainted all of their planning with a dark fatalism that was not often understood by their opponents.

Korsov started again from the beginning. “I can’t give you the flight plans. With all due respect, comrade, it would be too dangerous. Both for you and for me. Should your opponents find out that I am here, they could accelerate their timetable, putting you in jeopardy before I can ensure your future.”

Petrovich seemed amused. “Jeopardy.” He pointed at a deadfall of rubble at the far end of the camp. It was the remains of a barracks that had been bombed the week before. “What would you call that?”

“An atrocity,” Korsov responded promptly.

“Yes. Yes, of course. But comrade”—and suddenly Petrovich seemed fully alive, more alert than Korsov had seen him before—“if you do not give me your flight plans, I cannot alert our antiair batteries. It would be a shame to shoot you down in the name of operational security, would it not?”

“I will give you the exact details. At the appropriate time.” And not far enough in advance that you can betray me in exchange for Russian mercy, if there ever is such a thing.

Petrovich shrugged. “I have explained to you our equipment limitations. Communications with all of our outposts are not the most reliable.” He peered down at Korsov from his slightly greater height. “These are not conventional forces, you understand. Our patriots work differently.”

Korsov nodded, feigning respect. “Of course. I understand and am willing to take that chance.” What you mean is that you hide some defenses in the civilian population. As though that would stop anyone from attacking them.

“Very well. Six hours’ notice, then,” Petrovich said, apparently assuming that the final determination was his to make.

Korsov nodded his understanding, if not his agreement. Six hours — no. Perhaps thirty minutes. And if your forces are so foolish as to target me, I will destroy them on my way out.

Wexler’s townhouse

0500 local (GMT-5)

Even though her townhouse was air-conditioned, dehumidified, comfortable, and completely covered by security forces, sleep eluded Wexler. She shoved the blankets off for the third time in the last ten minutes, then immediately pulled them back up. Finally, concluding that her restlessness was not attributable to anything outside her own mind, she gave up. She pulled on an old bathrobe and plush slippers and headed for her office.

“Good morning, ma’am,” a voice said from her living room.

“Morning. Can’t sleep,” she answered shortly. She could have ignored him completely, she supposed. Brad had promised her that the increased security would be completely transparent to her, and part of the deal was that she could pretend that they were not around. But there was a deep streak of innate courtesy in her bones that prevented her from carrying out what she’d insisted on. “I’ll be in my office,” she concluded.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. Thanks.”