The Backup Asset Page 4

  Krassner turned slightly to face Henri.

  “What do you think these military actions are about?”

  “Sir, I think these incursions are testing our response times, our response procedures, and our response strength. Overall, they’re testing our response, or wearing out our vigilance while testing our response.”

  Seiden looked away briefly to hide his irritation. The incursions analysis was not completely finalized. Yet she was venturing a non-substantiated hypothesis, the exact opposite of what they had discussed on their way in. Well aware of that, Henri swallowed hard and mentally prepared to walk on thin ice. Whatever the risk for her career, Krassner needed to know the facts ASAP. It was an acceptable risk, if she were to be proven wrong. Much better than taking the risk of informing Krassner a few days too late.

  “What for?” Krassner asked.

  “Nothing good, that’s for sure,” she blurted. Without turning her head, she caught Seiden flashing an angry glance toward her.

  “That’s an understatement,” Krassner commented. “Can you venture some guesses?”

  “Umm . . . sure. I think they could be testing our response to figure out where and how to conduct a first strike. That’s one theory. Another theory is that they could be conducting these territorial displays of aggression to distract us, while they’re looking to launch ballistic missiles. The missiles scenario is covered in my report. In addition, a third scenario is that they could be doing these close-call incursions in the hope that someone on our side gets nervous and engages by accident. Although, in all fairness, I don’t see them caring too much about who started it, or who’s to blame. Abramovich is beyond that. He just wants vengeance for the Crimea sanctions and the public humiliation they brought him.”

  “If you were to choose one scenario, which one do you think is the most plausible?”

  She hesitated a little before answering, wondering, as many other people had wondered lately, how sure she was. Very.

  “I’d have to say scenario two, sir. I’d have to go with the nuclear-strike scenario.”

  Silence fell thick, lingering for a few seconds that seemed like hours. Krassner opened the report and briefly browsed through it, making a quick note on one of the pages.

  Then he looked up at Henri again.

  “What do you think of my technology advisor’s opinion, with respect to the new cold war? Do you think he has a point?”

  She hesitated, not sure whether the question was directed at her or at Seiden.

  “Can you venture a guess which technologies would be more interesting to acquire or develop to consolidate our offensive and defensive positions?”

  Krassner was looking straight at her, and so was Seiden, who nodded discreetly.

  “Mr. President, I don’t have this analysis completed. I can look into this issue and prepare a report in a matter of days.”

  “You’re an analyst, right? Then analyze, speculate with us. Let’s hear what you think.”

  Krassner wasn’t going to give her any room to maneuver out of the situation. She might as well use the opportunity to tell him what she thought. Henri took a deep breath before speaking, reminding herself to slow her machine-gun verbalization to an easier-to-follow delivery rhythm.

  “Mr. President, I think technology should be a much higher focus for the US military. Should have been would be the right way to put it. We need to allow innovation to penetrate our weapons systems, aircraft, communications, everything technology.

  “The backbone of our Air Force is based on thirty- to forty-year-old concepts. The fifth-generation jets are coming into service way too slow. So slowly, they’re already somewhat out-of-date by the time they become operational. We fly the same planes as we did thirty years ago. Maybe they’re not thirty years old, but their concepts are. Yet most of us can’t stomach having a car older than eight years.”

  “Enough,” Seiden whispered into her ear, barely audible. She clammed up promptly.

  “Not at all, let her continue,” Krassner said.

  She cleared her throat, suddenly constricted by seeing how stiff the president’s military advisor seemed. His pursed lips, flanked by two deep ridges formed around his mouth by an expression of offended consternation, were conveying a clear message. Drilling, unforgiving eyes focused on hers with an intensity she hadn’t encountered too often. She decided to lay off the fighter jets for a while.

  “We put satellites into orbit at roughly five to seven times the cost that other countries spend to do the same thing. Private entrepreneurs can figure out how to build rockets and move cargo into space cheaper and faster than NASA.”

  She paused for a few seconds, waiting to see if they wanted her to continue. Krassner made an inviting gesture with his hand.

  “Did you know that European countries are significantly more advanced in their search for clean energy? They are decades ahead of us. The list can continue, but the bottom line is that our traditional resistance to change has cost us dearly in terms of progress. The weapons we build are clunky, obsolete and carry huge price tags. They’re not efficient; they don’t make use of modern technologies, light materials, process innovation (like three-dimensional printing), or materials innovation, such as carbon fiber molding. The Chinese have already 3D-printed an apartment building and are manufacturing light jets made from carbon fiber: light, maneuverable, and fuel-efficient. Yet we build the same clunky rust buckets designed in the fifties, so I would say yes, your advisor was definitely right. Technology will definitely play a role in future war strategy, from more perspectives than just cyber warfare. By the way, I think we’re actually doing fairly well in cyber warfare. At least, courtesy of the NSA, we seem to be better prepared in that area.”

  “Please continue,” Krassner said. “What would you do?”

  “Well, we did make some progress in the past decades, not much, but we’ve made some. Unmanned flight, stealth technologies, computing power, all these new technologies gave us immense strategic advantages. We just need to continue on this path. For each area, we should drive innovation before we spend trillions more ineffectively on antiquated technology. I’d also focus on revamping NORAD and our antimissile defense; it might come in handy sooner than we’d like. We also need to observe more, to find out what’s out there, to, well,” she chuckled slightly, thinking of paraphrasing a known movie title, “to spy hard. For many years, we’ve been focused on GWOT and forgot all our other enemies. Global war on terror must continue, but we need to redeploy in other areas.” Seeing Seiden’s consternated look, she added quickly, “In my humble opinion.”

  Krassner smiled.

  “Thank you for your candor and original thoughts; they’ll keep us busy for a while.” He turned slightly and looked toward Seiden. “Director Seiden, as soon as the intrusions analysis is complete, I want it on my desk. Let’s talk strategic response immediately; get it set up.”

  Krassner walked briskly out of the conference room, followed closely by his two advisors and his assistant. Seiden and Henri left immediately after them, heading for the parking garage.

  Alone with Seiden in the car, she allowed herself to take a deep breath.

  “Sir, am I fired?”

  “Not sure yet,” Seiden replied without a trace of humor in his voice. “This wasn’t like any other presidential briefing I have attended, that’s for sure. Put some numbers together to substantiate your theories on those Russian incursions. Write your report, do the most thorough work you’re capable of. Ideally, do that before presenting to me, to anyone, especially the president. But in this case, keep me posted as you go, tell me what you find, as soon as you find it.”

  “Are you concerned I might be wrong in my theories?”

  “No . . . I’m afraid you might be right.”

  ...6

  ...Friday, February 26, 3:11PM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)

  ...Vitaliy Myatlev’s Residence

  ...Kiev, Ukraine

  Vitaliy Myatlev enjoyed the crisp w
inter air and the fading sunshine on his home’s terrace. Bundled up in a long astrakhan fur coat and matching hat, he sat on the lounge chair smoking his cigar and drinking vodka, impervious to the frigid air.

  He loved the feeling that the terrace gave him. Offering a great vantage point, he could see in all directions for miles, while enjoying privacy and peace when lounging on the imported patio furniture. It was this terrace that had tipped the scale and made him fork out almost seven-hundred-thousand dollars for the villa. The colonial-style, two-story, white mansion had six bedrooms, four baths, a sauna, and a Jacuzzi suite, and the fantastic terrace spread out over almost two-thousand square feet.

  His staff took great care of the terrace. The snow was removed promptly as soon as it fell, the patio furniture cleaned and dried, and gas patio heaters imported from America had been installed in the appropriate spots. That was where Myatlev liked to sit and think about the important things in his life.

  He felt comfortable there, whether night or day. He felt on top of the world, unperturbed, untouchable, superior, and that sat very well with his ambitious nature. One of the richest men alive, Myatlev was a true Russian oligarch with global interests in banking, gas, oil, and whatever else he could think of.

  A former foreign intelligence KGB officer, and now a talented businessman, Myatlev knew how to seize opportunity and put it to work, and he had done that aggressively since the day Russia had started to turn from communism to capitalism. Self-made and uncompromising, he had the innate talent to spot favorable circumstances or events and to construct the fastest, most profitable, business enterprises exploiting such circumstances.

  Decisive, fast, unscrupulous, and ferociously ambitious, Myatlev was never satisfied. He forged ahead in quick bursts, building enterprise after enterprise and launching initiative after initiative, amassing wealth at a stunning rate.

  Yet not everything was perfect in his world. Unaccustomed to defeat, Myatlev still ground his teeth, thinking of the recent failure he had suffered. His plan had been perfect, majestic. The execution had been spot on, carefully monitored by him personally, step after carefully planned step. It should have never failed, yet it did, and the unknown reasons behind that failure kept him up at night. That ill-fated failure could still get him killed.

  That’s why Myatlev appreciated a place where he could unwind, put his thoughts in order, and prepare for new challenges, new opportunities. His Kiev villa offered that perfect spot, unique among all his other properties. He was never going to sell the villa.

  He signaled his bodyguard, Ivan, for some more vodka. Ivan topped his glass promptly, adding several ice cubes to it. He took a sip, inhaled the harsh alcohol vapors, and took another sip.

  His cell phone came to life and caused Myatlev to frown. He took it out of his pocket and, seeing the name on the display, his frown deepened as he cussed under his breath before picking up.

  “Gospodin prezident, what a pleasure!” Myatlev managed to sound sincere.

  “Vitya, yes, it’s Petya; you recognized me!” Russian president Piotr Abramovich sounded glad to hear him, almost cheerful, which could prove even more dangerous than the alternative.

  They exchanged pleasantries for several minutes in typical Russian fashion when old friends catch up. They recounted their recent holiday meals and guest lists, recommended new exotic foods to each other, and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. Then Abramovich switched gears abruptly and got to the point.

  “Vitya, I want you to come visit with me. We need to talk.”

  Abramovich sounded very determined. Myatlev felt his blood freeze in his veins.

  “It will be my pleasure, Petya,” he managed, “just give me a few days to wrap things up here. I’m in the middle of something big, you know.”

  “Ha ha, aren’t you always,” Abramovich laughed. “All right, but don’t make it too long. I need to see you.”

  Myatlev ended the call with trembling hands. He had been a fool to think that if he moved to Ukraine he could escape Abramovich. He had failed his mission, and Abramovich was not a forgiving man. His epic defeat had caught up with him. There was nowhere on Earth where he could hide from the fallout.

  He gulped the remaining vodka in his glass and decided to go inside. He needed to come up with a plan.

  Holding the door open for him, Ivan asked, “Are you OK, boss? You look pale.”

  ...7

  ...Tuesday, March 8, 5:07PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)

  ...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters

  ...Norfolk, Virginia

  Vernon Blackburn rarely left his office at 5.00PM sharp. He felt uncomfortable busting through the gates among the masses of blue-collar, younger employees. Most engineers rarely went home on time. He felt almost embarrassed making his way through security at the exit and waiting in line after several exempt employees, but today he just had to get out of that office. He couldn’t breathe in there . . . He’d tried to open the window, dropped the thermostat setting to 68 degrees, but nothing helped. He had to get out.

  As he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep Grand Cherokee he took a deep breath, the first deep breath he’d been able to take in more than an hour. He was ready to go home.

  He started the slow commute, lined up behind several other cars crawling out of the parking structure in the five o’clock rush. A few minutes later, he picked up speed, driving eastbound on Virginia Beach Boulevard. Then he approached the stoplight at the corner of Virginia Beach and 460. If he took a right turn, that would lead him to I-264 then I-464, on the road to his home in Chesapeake. A left turn would take him to his favorite bar on Lafayette, the 1700 Somewhere. Nope, he was going to go home this time, he promised himself. He preselected for the right turn and set the blinker on, waiting for the light to turn green and letting his mind wander.

  The car behind his Jeep honked twice, startling him. The light had turned green and cars were zooming past him. On an impulse, without any thought or concern for the fast-moving cars coming from behind, he cut all lanes and made a left turn, pedal to the metal, among screeching tires and a concert of angry honks. Once he made it out of the intersection he slowed down, resuming his normal, calm driving demeanor and rubbing his forehead furiously. All right, just one drink, just one, he promised himself again. Maybe this promise he could keep.

  His watering hole of choice was a bar aptly named 1700 Somewhere. The owner, retired Navy, had rebranded to military time one of the world’s most famous excuses for a drink. This time it was 1700 right here where he was, and he needed no excuse. The blue light of the bar’s neon sign looked inviting in the darkening dusk.

  He parked his Jeep on the side of the building and went straight inside. Vernon was a regular; the bar was almost empty, and the bartender didn’t wait for any order. He filled a glass promptly with double bourbon on the rocks and placed it on a napkin in front of him.

  Vernon liked this familiarity, this sense of belonging that comes from being a regular in a place, any place. It almost felt like home in a twisted kind of way for the mentally weary, exhausted man in search of a break between work and family.

  He held the glass with both hands, playing with it and making the ice cubes clink in the liquid as he swirled the glass gently. He cherished this moment, the furtive moment when he still had a drink in front of him, still having something to look forward to before resuming the dullness of his daily existence.

  He looked at the familiar walls, decorated with identical clocks showing the time in various places of the Earth, labeled neatly as if the bar were some kind of special operations room at the CIA.

  The walls wore the patina of time gracefully. Still showing traces of the era when smoking was permitted indoors, those walls were a living memory of the times when people were allowed to gratify their senses with more than just alcohol.

  He almost didn’t notice the woman taking a seat to his left at the bar. He felt her scent first, a fine, expensive hint of French perfume. He decided it was French, bu
t he wasn’t really sure. That’s what French perfumes smelled like in his mind: discreet, classy, and almost arousing.

  Vernon turned to look at the woman, making eye contact with her for a split second. She wasn’t the typical barhopper looking for action. She was neatly dressed in a tight skirt and silk blouse, and her high-heeled shoes looked expensive.

  She didn’t shy away from the eye contact; he did. But before looking away he had noticed the beginning of an inviting smile on the woman’s perfectly glossy lips.

  She touched his arm gently to get his attention.

  “Hi,” she said, almost whispering. “I’m Michelle.”

  He turned to look at her, surprised. In the rare occasions he had started conversations with women in bars, he had initiated them, not the other way around.

  He was relatively attractive, in his early forties, wearing his six feet even quite well and enjoying the artistic looks given by his brown hair, almost at shoulder length, and a neatly trimmed beard. Most people took him for an artist, actor, or musician rather than an engineer, a laser electro-optics engineer no less, holding a PhD in laser applications.

  Vernon enjoyed his bohemian appearance a lot and cultivated it carefully, ever since that day in junior college when Samantha, a long-legged dazzling blond two years his senior, had invited him to take a hike because, according to her, nerds never got laid. He let his hair grow that fateful, abstinent summer, combing it back and growing a beard that gave him an early air of maturity. Samantha acknowledged the improvement the following fall by becoming the second notch in his belt, standing proof that artists got laid a lot, even if nerds didn’t. After all, his looks got him all the action, not his student ID card.

  “Vernon,” he replied, turning toward the stranger. They shook hands. “What can I get you?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” she murmured, smiling and touching his arm again.