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  CHAPTER 23

  SMOLENSK, RUSSIA

  24 DECEMBER

  2355

  A pair of Russian Su-57 fighter jets stood wingtip to wingtip on the airport’s service apron directly adjacent to the runway. A light snow had fallen during the night and a fog of frozen ice crystals hung in the air. The old Russian enclave here in Smolensk called this kind of winter fog “the Nun’s Veil,” but the pilots of the two aircraft wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to learn any local phrases or even to see the snow melt off in the morning sun. They had an exceedingly exact timeline to meet and needed to be airborne in under two minutes.

  The Su-57 was one of the world’s newest and most advanced all-weather fighter/attack aircraft. The Russian air force colonel in the cockpit of the jet on the left and the officer in the other jet—himself a full commander in the Russian navy—were a perfect match for the three-billion-ruble planes, as they were two of the world’s premier pilots.

  There were twenty-six Su-57 aircraft in tonight’s action, each paired with similarly elite men. All the other planes had either already launched or soon would be launching from remote bases like this one, and all were to converge on their separate targets at exactly the same time.

  The Su-57 was equipped with three rearward-facing HD cameras, two capable of locking onto pursuing targets so the pilot would not need to “check six.” But Russian air force colonel Ivan Zolotov ignored the cameras now, flexed his shoulders to pivot and look first back left, then right. The aircraft seat’s gray nylon quad-harness straps strained at the unnatural motion. He released his grasp from the flight stick and throttle as he turned, then instinctively regripped them as he turned forward again after checking aft with his own eyes.

  Zolotov’s many years of experience had taught him to release and regrip anytime he checked the three, six, or nine o’clock positions or the aircraft would respond to the tiny, involuntary muscle movements caused by straining his torso. Many pilots had learned that mistake in the air, which was to say they learned the hard way. The momentary disorientation caused them to grip the stick or throttle and pitch the aircraft unpredictably, sometimes cracking their heads on the glass canopy in the process.

  Colonel Zolotov was still on the ground, but his recent experiences hopping from airfield to airfield across the Russian Federation had also taught him to look back to ensure both engine cowlings and the tail fin stabilizing lines had been properly removed by the ground crew.

  The Su-57 was, after all, a fifth-generation aircraft, one like no other in Russia’s arsenal. These new Sukhoi had different safety protocols from other Russian fighters, and whenever Su-57 pilots of the 14th Fighter Aviation Regiment, nicknamed the “Red Talons,” took off from any airfield not native to their parent squadron, the ground crew was sometimes so unfamiliar with the modern aircraft that they failed to do their jobs properly.

  But today’s crew at the almost-defunct Smolensk-Severnyy Aerodrome in far western Russia proved to be different. It was clear the airport’s military section had been briefed on the importance of Zolotov’s squadron’s mission, although he was certain they had no idea of their ultimate objectives. Zolotov had noted a doubling of the ground crew, including a large group of guards patrolling the air base.

  This mission would not be one for prying eyes.

  Confident the engine cowlings had been removed from the intakes and the rudder tie-downs had been unfastened from the tail fins and stowed, Colonel Ivan Zolotov, commander of the elite Red Talon Squadron of the 14th FAR, centered his shoulders in the cockpit seat in anticipation of the final go from the ground crew.

  He held the throttle with his left hand lightly, eyes fixed on the sergeant on the ground who indicated “All okay” with the final flight and engine check. The sergeant rendered a long and formal salute.

  Right on time, he thought.

  Colonel Zolotov flicked the thruster ignition, then cracked a quick return salute.

  The young sergeant with the 12th Aviation Support Squadron wouldn’t be able to see this pilot’s face, only a mirrored visor, further shrouded by the darkness. The only identifiers on the aircraft were his rank painted on the fuselage: Polkóvnik, which meant “Regimentary” in Russian, corresponding to full colonel in the West.

  And there was one more, unusual marking on the aircraft: the red talon on the tail.

  Colonel Z’s control panel read, “Green across the board,” with some slight variations on the digital gauges, all of which the colonel took in with his highly trained eyes.

  And he looked over the gauges with pleasure, because the Su-57 did something revolutionary for a modern jet—even, especially, for a fifth-generation fighter.

  It trusted the pilot.

  The 57 had full instrumentation. Each gauge, indicator, marking, and annunciator was perfectly calibrated and not dumbed down to prevent pilot error or information overload. Sukhoi Design Bureau, the new premier conglomerate aircraft designer, had gotten it right as far as the pilots in the Red Talon Squadron were concerned.

  Colonel Z looked over to his wingman, Commander Tatiyev. With a slicing motion of his hand, he signaled the order to take off. Tatiyev raised his Nomex-gloved hand in his fighter’s bubble canopy, making a fisted O with his thumb and fingers, the Russian sign for “Ready and okay.”

  Zolotov gently throttled up, and the twin NPO Saturn Izdeliye-30 jet engines obeyed his commands, responding with a hissing that quickly increased to a smooth roar. The engines sounded clean and new, and felt truly impressive in their responsiveness, with none of the hesitancy or the gravelly whine he was used to in his older Su-35S.

  He flicked the switch releasing the arresting gear on both wings’ wheel brakes and then the hydraulic braking system control, fully opening the engine’s air intakes.

  The aircraft both had a full weapons loadout hanging from their pylons, so Colonel Z knew they’d have to use the full length of the airstrip to compensate for the heavier takeoff profile.

  The two Su-57s streaked down the pristine Runway 26, building speed in front of long plumes of flame.

  In moments they lifted off into the black, cold December night.

  Colonel Z watched the wheels fold up into Commander Tatiyev’s jet on his right as his own did the same below him.

  He has the knack, thought Colonel Z as he glanced at their wingtips, only two meters separating them. Perfectly level and not an ounce of stick too much.

  As the overall mission commander he noted with interest that he would not give one order for the rest of the flight, because they were not to break radio silence for the entirety of their mission.

  He settled back in his seat and thought of the hours ahead.

  CHAPTER 24

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  25 DECEMBER

  0010

  Forty-four-year-old Colonel Ivan Glowski paced slowly behind his men, watching them work, although there wasn’t much to see. Like robots, the three rows of computer cyberespionage specialists sat still and silent at their computer workstations in the darkened room, their eyes focused on their screens.

  The twenty-six hackers were soldiers in the Russian military’s GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate, but they hardly looked the part. Not one man in the unit wore the requisite black tie with his gray-green dress uniform. Half didn’t wear their tunic jackets at all, opting instead for just their military-issue T-shirts and uniform belts and pants. Many were in flip-flops, and their workstations were no more orderly than their attire.

  But Colonel Glowski didn’t care. He had recruited every one of these computer specialists, selecting them based on their dossiers of successful hacks, plucking them from various other units in the army and navy. In his grueling assessment interviews he’d personally grilled each of them to determine their skill level.

  Glowski himself wore a uniform, in contrast to his men, but it didn’t fit him at all
. Unlike colonels in other Moscow commands, who wore custom-tailored finery, Glowski wore a jacket that was too short in the sleeves and his collared shirt pinched his thick neck, so he left it unbuttoned and wore his tie only for official functions.

  But his troops loved him for his lack of prim and proper military decorum. It made them feel special and indicated that they weren’t really in the strict, regulated part of the Russian military forces. The hackers were a rebellious group. The men appreciated Glowski’s treatment of them, and they called him “Papabear” as a term of endearment.

  But even though they enjoyed freedom from basic military discipline under Colonel Glowski, things were far from lax.

  The unit’s designation, officially speaking, was APT28. This was what was on the rosters of the GRU. But to the Americans and the rest of the West, they were known by another name.

  “Fancy Bear.” The name came from a coding system ascribed to the Russian unit by the West when they were still unidentified. The Russian hackers themselves enjoyed the name, so they now referred to their control center as “the Bear’s Den.”

  They were Russia’s most elite hacking arm, and Colonel Glowski’s countdown clock, hanging above the front 162-centimeter computer screen, told them they were twenty minutes away from their most important operation ever.

  Colonel Glowski peered over his military-issue spectacles at the big monitor. He and the men had nicknamed it “the Pageantry.” It served very little real purpose, but visitors to the control room were unable to understand the hackers’ universe without some kind of visual representation. Because of this, “the Pageantry” had become APT28’s showpiece. Their main attraction. The data regularly displayed on the central screens was portrayed in flickering, changing colors that looked like a row of Christmas trees.

  In reality, each “tree” represented an “enemy,” a NATO or U.S. mainframe computer or critical terminal or junction. A mini-forest of sorts, the trees displayed a cascade of icons colored yellow or green, with a few switching occasionally to red.

  Ivan “Papabear” Glowski turned away from the monitor and looked at the personal computer screens of his men now. Needless to say, Glowski was a master cyberespionage expert in his own right, known to stop his relentless pacing and rush to his own workstation to assist his men when things got intense.

  And right now he had every expectation that such intensity would be called for in exactly nineteen minutes.

  * * *

  • • •

  NORTH ATLANTIC

  KAZAN

  25 DECEMBER

  0012

  The Kazan was one of Russia’s newest Yasen-class nuclear fast-attack submarines. She was a sleek and modern vessel, powerful, stealthy, and incredibly deadly. Named after the capital of Tatarstan, a republic in the Volga District, she had been lurking for days in the North Atlantic, but now she hung in the dark, cold depths west of the northern tip of Ireland.

  The K-561, as her hull number designated her, barely moved and made hardly a sound. Descending slowly, with only two degrees down bow-angle, the massive vessel’s screw turned just one revolution every five seconds, narrowly defeating the ocean currents as she sank lower.

  The red battle lanterns were lit inside the seafoam-green-painted bridge of the Kazan, giving off eerie light. The shiny copper instruments, pipes, and valves shone with a ruby-colored glow in the half darkness.

  Captain 2nd Rank Georg Etush looked over the control stations in front of his men around the bridge. He knew every gauge, switch, and button by heart. He had personally served at four of the positions in front of him on other subs in his two decades of service.

  Every few seconds one of the men would look up from his work and glance at the captain as he stood at the railing; the men’s eyes reflected the battle lights, but Etush knew they were looking past him at the nuclear chronometer on the wall to his right.

  Etush liked this spot on the bridge; it would give him the opportunity to look into the men’s eyes and read their moods. And right now he could tell they were anxious. He surmised every one of their stomachs, like his own, was churning as silently but as powerfully as the ship’s engines several decks below their feet.

  He was pleased with the men’s performance so far. In just the past few hours they’d passed close to three opponents: an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, a Virginia-class fast-attack submarine, both of the U.S. Navy, and a Norwegian Ula-class patrol sub. It had taken hard work and skill, but the Kazan had evaded all three.

  Etush thought of the other Russian subs in his pack. Only a few people at the Admiralty Building in Saint Petersburg, and perhaps a few more at the Ministry of Defense and the Kremlin, knew exactly how many vessels were being employed in this operation. His own understanding of the threat his nation would face soon enough made him believe all four Yasen-class subs in service would be tasked, and surely vessels of other classes would be employed as well.

  Etush didn’t know the full scope of the operation, but there was an energy back at Flotilla HQ like nothing he’d seen before. Many of the boat captains he’d seen passing in the halls were electrified, switched on. Despite the fact they’d all been ordered not to breathe a word of any of this, he felt he could almost tell by sight in the mess hall who had been selected for this mission.

  He’d told himself now not to worry about anything outside his control. He and his men owned one small piece of the undersea puzzle, and they would do their jobs.

  His stomach continued churning as he looked back across the bridge.

  More red glowing eyes on the clock.

  More red glowing eyes on him.

  The United States and other NATO powers kept a close eye on Russian submarine traffic out of Sayda Inlet, home of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Analysts had noted the pattern and distribution of Russian submarines leaving port and being detected around the Atlantic to be more or less normative of Russian fleet actions for this time of year. In fact, if there was anything suspicious, it was that most all the vessels left port on schedule with nothing much amiss in the Russian naval yards. This improved efficiency wasn’t lost on the NATO intelligence experts, but it was briefed as a new high point for Russian fleet operational readiness. Just one more reason to keep an eye on them.

  It followed ten years of continuous progress for the Russian navy, after all, so it was no surprise.

  The item NATO never could have determined from their surveillance, however, was that a select portion of Russia’s undersea fleet was, in fact, coordinating their actions on separate targets across the Atlantic seafloor.

  While the West remained oblivious, the submarines involved in the opening salvo of Operation Red Metal converged on their targets in near-perfect synchronicity.

  Captain Etush squeezed the brass railing in front of him and said, “Level on the bow. All ahead three-quarters speed. Come to course.”

  The men on the bridge sprang to action, moving like clockwork in harmony with the vessel. The two planesmen both pulled the sub’s yoke control, carefully watching their gauges to keep the boat level as the engines churned up. The men at Ballast Control bled a slight air differential from the forward trim tanks to the main ballast tanks. The navigator reaffirmed his plot both digitally and on the large seafloor map in the center of the control room.

  “Sir, navigation reads target designated: Midgardsormenan. Distance: two nautical miles. Target attack run in three minutes.”

  “Very well. Helm, steady. Weapons cross-check, then weapons free; Dmitry, you may launch when ready.”

  “Aye, Captain,” replied the weapons officer.

  “Navigator?” Etush said quickly.

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “You own the time.”

  “Aye, sir.” The navigator reached over near the captain and set the ship’s red digital timer to twenty minutes. He would start the clock the instant the weapon
s officer fired the first of their torpedoes.

  The entirety of the men’s conversations, including the strict issuance of vital commands, was passed between them in tones that did not rise to a level above the low chatter in a coffee shop: more than a whisper, but certainly below normal conversational level. Their time beneath the waves made them superstitious of raising their voices lest any sound be heard by their enemies.

  And right now, those enemies could be anywhere, perfectly silent themselves but listening for signs of a Russian sub.

  Etush said, “Sonar, last American contact?”

  “Captain, last contact with the Amerikanski was an Ohio-class, verified as USS Georgia. Eighteen hours ago. Her bearing: two-two-zero degrees, eighteen nautical miles. Plot had her as steady and on course. That would place her bearing one-nine-one degrees at one-six-three nautical miles distance. Nothing further.”

  “Very well,” said Captain Etush. “Anything more on the Ula?”

  “Sir, no acoustic, but she still plots on course.”

  “Very well.” The captain wasn’t overly concerned about the Norwegian submarine, but he didn’t like not knowing exactly where she was. “Keep updating estimated range and bearing.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The weapons officer called out now. “Sir, notifying the bridge of weapon one ready now. Timing set and confirmed by all weapons. Twenty minutes to complete full attack run on all three targets.”

  “Very well. Navigator, any replots?”

  “Negative, sir. Current plot and attack run holds. Recommend steady as she goes.”

  “Understood. Helm, maintain course and speed.”

  Seconds later the weapons officer called out, a little louder than usual, which Etush knew was due to adrenaline. “Sir, launch on target one. Torpedo is in the water.”

  As he said this, the navigator touched the clock and it began its countdown. If their timing and plot were perfect, their mission would finish exactly on time.