Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (android based ebook reader .TXT) 📕

fact, I can guarantee that you will be absolutelyamazed by the results of Ghost Strike.”

And that, he thought with carefully concealed pleasure, might have been the most truthful thing he’d said during this entirebriefing.

Federal Military Memorial Cemetery, on the Northeastern Outskirts of Moscow

Several Hours Later

Petrov stared moodily at the bronze bust of his father, Major General Vladimir Alexeyevich Petrov. Set atop a red granitetombstone, the sculpture’s suitably heroic visage stared out at an open vista of empty grass squares, paths, and access roads.The national cemetery, a replacement for the Kremlin Wall Necropolis, was intended to serve as a burial place for Russiandignitaries and military heroes for the next two hundred years. So far, only a small fraction of its forty thousand plotshad been filled.

He snorted. If the stubborn old bastard weren’t dead, he’d probably be complaining about the lack of company. As befitteda true Hero of the Soviet Union, the general had always “modestly” believed he should be the center of everyone’s attention.

Irreverently, Petrov lifted his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, old man. I’m sureI’ll see you in hell.” He tossed back a quick swig and then retightened the cap.

“Was that a belated funeral libation?” a dryly amused voice said from behind him. “Or simple thirst?”

Petrov turned around. Pavel Voronin stood a few paces away, dapper as always in a dark double-breasted wool coat.

“A bit of both.” He offered the flask. “Care for one yourself?”

Voronin shook his head politely. “Thanks, but not right now. Perhaps another time. Somewhere more . . . cheerful.” He glanced around the empty cemetery. There was no one else in sight. “Should I assume your presentation to the president went well?”

“Very well,” Petrov confirmed. Quickly, he ran through the details of the Ghost Strike exercise Zhdanov had approved.

Voronin whistled under his breath when he heard that the PAK-DA would now be carrying nuclear-armed cruise missiles. “Wasn’tthat pressing your luck a little far?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always emphasized the commercial aspects of this joint venture?” Petrov asked slyly.

“Your point?”

Petrov forced a laugh. “Having those weapons under our control only strengthens our bargaining position,” he explained. “Thefancier the goods in the shop window, the more a merchant can charge, right?”

The other man nodded slowly, acknowledging Petrov’s point. Nevertheless, it was clear that he didn’t particularly like theidea of a last-minute change in their plans. “Will loading those missiles affect the timetable?”

“Not in the slightest,” Petrov assured him. “You can give your boss the green light.” He checked his watch. “Tell him theshow kicks off just a little over forty-eight hours from now.”

Thirteen

Office of the Director of National Intelligence, McLean, Virginia

One Day Later

Determined not to feel intimidated by the fact that she was meeting one-on-one with the man in charge of all U.S. intelligenceactivities, Miranda Reynolds, head of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, followed an aide into Jonas Murphy’s office. Murphy,she reminded herself, was not an intelligence professional. Before being recently appointed as the DNI, the director of nationalintelligence, he had been a U.S. senator, and before that, a federal prosecutor. He undoubtedly had administrative, legal,and congressional know-how, but he lacked the experience that came naturally to those who’d spent their lives in the shadowyworld of spies and counterspies.

His office itself was surprisingly small, with a single executive desk and a comfortable-looking swivel chair set betweena pair of windows with the blinds drawn. A round conference table and several other government-issue chairs took up most ofthe rest of the room. A few prints, mostly of historical battles, lined the plain white walls, along with the usual photosof Murphy with the president of the United States and other high-ranking politicians.

Murphy himself, tall and lean, with faded red hair, stood up to greet her. He smiled politely. “Ms. Reynolds, it’s a pleasure to see you today.” He waved her into one of the chairs around the conference table and came over to join her. His aide departed as quietly and unobtrusively as he had appeared.

“Thank you, Director,” she replied crisply.

Murphy held up a hand, smiling. “Please, call me Jonas. Let’s leave that kind of stiff formality for places like Capitol Hill,where they thrive on titles instead of on what people actually do.”

Briefly taken aback, she stuttered, “Uh, yes, sir . . . I mean, Jonas.” If she hadn’t studied Murphy’s file first, she wouldhave thought he was hitting on her. But the former senator was happily married, and, unlike many of his senatorial colleagues—bothmale and female—he actually seemed to be faithful to his vows. In a way, she thought that was too bad. She’d been divorcedherself for nearly ten years. And it got harder and harder to date anyone the higher you rose in the CIA. Relationships carriedtoo much chance of scandal or compromise, especially if you were a woman pushing ahead in what had once been largely a male-dominatedpreserve. Besides, she admitted to herself, having an in with the man who ran the entire intelligence community could havecome in very handy during Langley’s next round of cutthroat internal warfare.

“So, Miranda,” the DNI continued, smiling faintly as though he’d discerned her thoughts, “as the saying goes, to what do Iowe the honor of this visit?”

Reynolds forced herself back to the present. “Well, the truth is, I’m here to make what may seem like a very strange request.”

“Sounds like a regular day at the office, then,” Murphy joked. “I get those all the time. From your people at Langley. Fromthe Pentagon. Heck, you can’t even imagine the kind of oddball proposals that come in from the NSA or the National Geospatial-IntelligenceAgency. I don’t think those codebreakers and satellite geeks really live in the same universe with the rest of us.” He sawher face and sobered up. “But you’re serious.”

She nodded her head. “Yes, I am. Dead serious.”

“Okay,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Shoot.”

“I need a top secret alert sent out to all U.S.-controlled radar stations, AWACS planes, and other air units operating inAfghanistan, Iraq, and Turkey,” Reynolds