Afghanistan

By Bill Greenwood

A British bureaucrat discovers a disturbing anomaly related to air cargo flights emanating from St. Petersburg, Russia. Concerned that it may be related to the kind of sneak attack that used to keep NATO commanders awake at nights during the Cold War, he brings it to the attention of intelligence analyst Warren Harrison. Harrison is struggling in his own right. A deeply personal tragedy has been compounded by the breakdown of his marriage, largely as a result of his secret and secretive career.
Harrison sets in motion a plan to both determine the veracity of the fears that have been aroused, as well as deal with the potential plot head on and with decisive force. He enlists a long-time colleague and old friend, Don Goodale, himself scarred by his role in the Cold War and its aftermath to learn what he can from the Moscow side. In Moscow, a Russian investigator has been pursuing the people behind the black market in arms that leads Russian soldiers to be killed by Russian arms in the hands of Russia's enemies. What Marina Tverdovski finds is far, far more sinister than the smuggling and sale of rifles and rocket launchers. A shadowy general, a relic of Russia's past for whom the Cold War has never really ended seems to have stolen a number of nuclear weapons, and appears intent on using them against the West in a diabolical sneak attack.
For these three and others, as they struggle with pain and heartache in their own lives, they must strive to prevent the deaths of millions. As they struggle to prevent the unspeakable, some must also confront the past, for this is not the first time that the rogue Petrosik has tried to use nuclear weapons against the West. The true roots of General Nikolai Petrosik's master plan to destroy the West lie in a land that seems forever cursed- Afghanistan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Greenwood
• Release date: May 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311832672

Bill Greenwood

Bill Greenwood is a mid-50's salesman, writer, racer, and aficionado of old Mopars. An enthusiast of decent bourbon and good scotch, he generally feels that liberalism is a mental disorder. He lives in Red Deer, Alberta with his wife of 35 years-Jane- and an annoying cat. When not writing, he's working on his race car, or making wine, or cursing at the weeds in his yard.

Book preview

AFGHANISTAN

By Bill Greenwood

Text Copyright © 2016 Bill Greenwood

ISBN-978-0-9950668-0-9

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to any

person living or dead is purely coincidental.

To my wife, Jane, and to all those who

live out on the pointy end of the stick.

Table of Contents

AFGHANISTAN

By Bill Greenwood

Text Copyright © 2016 Bill Greenwood

ISBN-978-0-9950668-0-9

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to any

person living or dead is purely coincidental.

To my wife, Jane, and to all those who

live out on the pointy end of the stick.

Table of Contents

Never in the field of human conflict, has so much been owed by so many to so few.

–      Winston Churchill

Afghanistan.  November 1983.  Near Khonduz.

Novosibirsk, Russia.  Present Day.

London. Monday.

Northern Ireland.  April, 1983.

Falls Church, Virginia.

London.

Moscow.  Tuesday Morning.

RAF Brize Norton

Belfast.  June, 1985.

Moscow.  Wednesday morning.

St. Petersburg.  Wednesday morning.

Northeast Afghanistan.  Wednesday.

North Atlantic Ocean.  64.38 North, 8.22 West.  Wednesday afternoon.

Washington, DC. Wednesday afternoon.

Karachev, Russia.  Wednesday afternoon.

London. Wednesday afternoon.

North Atlantic.  Wednesday evening.

Moscow.  Wednesday evening.

North Atlantic.  Wednesday evening.

St. Petersburg, Russia.  Wednesday evening.

Rapid City, South Dakota.  Wednesday evening.

Afghanistan.  1982.

Belfast.  June 1985.

Afghanistan.  1982.

Belfast. 1985.

Moscow.  Wednesday Evening.

Afghanistan. July 1983.

London.  Wednesday night.

Moscow.  Thursday morning.

Afghanistan.  Thursday Morning.

St. Fillian’s, Scotland.  Thursday.

Moscow.  Thursday.

St. Fillian’s, Scotland.  Thursday.

North of Lake Baikal. Thursday.

Afghanistan.  1983.

Kabul.

Thursday Night.  Everywhere.

Antwerp, Belgium. 1985.

Afghanistan.  November 1983.

St. Petersburg.  Thursday night/Friday morning.

Moscow.  February 1988.

Diego Garcia.  Indian Ocean.

Afghanistan.  1983.

St. Petersburg.  Friday Morning.

London.  Early Friday morning.

Siberia.  Friday morning.

Moscow.  Friday morning.

Isle of Lewis.  Friday morning.

London.  Friday morning.

Afghanistan.

Near the Poland/Belarus Border.  Friday afternoon.

London.  Friday evening.

Southwest of Moscow.  November.

Montrose County (Excerpt from the upcoming novel.)

 "Never in the field of human conflict, has so much been owed by so many to so few."

Winston Churchill

Afghanistan.  November 1983.  Near Khonduz.

   Nikolai Petrosik drew in a short, painful breath as he twisted around to prop himself up to a sitting position against the tire of the one truck that was not on fire.  The swirling smoke carried the smell of burning tires and diesel, spent gunpowder and explosives, and the acrid smell of burning flesh.  Petrosik was confused, and he didn’t know if it was just the effects of the gunshot wounds, or the after-effects of the maelstrom of the firefight that had just torn up his convoy.

   At first, he had assumed that the mujahedeen had hit them, and hit them hard, but the man he had shot was clearly either British or American.  Whoever it was, they were gone.  Worse, one truck in particular was gone.  Well, mostly gone, and what was in the truck was gone as well.

   That lying traitor Bure was walking his way, staggering slightly, sidearm in hand.  Petrosik grimaced in pain as he pulled his own pistol closer.  A bullet had pierced his shoulder, but until then he hadn’t noticed it due to the fact that the man who he had shot had also shot him just above the right knee.  The wound was bad, very bad.  Bure looked down at him.

   Still alive, are we, Petrosik?  Well, let us fix that.  He raised his gun to fire, but Petrosik merely rotated his wrist and squeezed the trigger of his 9-mm Markov.  The bullet struck Bure in the midsection, tearing apart his digestive organs and lodging in his back muscles.  He staggered backwards, and was starting to topple when Petrosik’s second shot caught him in the throat and severed his spinal column.  Bure was dead when he hit the ground.

   When the sound of the gunshots faded, Colonel Petrosik could hear the distant thrum of helicopters.  More confusion.  Who could have radioed for helicopters?  How could they be here so quickly?  He looked down at his shattered leg.  They better fly me to Moscow to fix this thing.  Those butchers at the military hospital in Kabul will just slice it off, he thought.  He pulled his gun closer, thinking that he might be able to smuggle it into the hospital to defend his leg.  Fucking Afghanistan. was his last thought as he faded into unconsciousness.

Novosibirsk, Russia.  Present Day.

   The truck driver looked at the barn.  It was more of an equipment shed, actually.  This must be the place, he thought, as he turned into the lane.  The hobby farm of some forgotten Communist Party apparatchik, it was probably in the hands of the gangsters now, he mused.  They had taken over almost everything after the demise of the Communists.  From one batch of gangsters to another.  However, he had hope.  Not everyone in Mother Russia was a gangster, a fool, or much worse.  Russia had more than her share of those in her past.  Unfortunately, they always seemed to rise to the top.  Yes, history had visited Russia with more than her share of tyrants. 

   As promised, the building was unlocked.  He backed up to the stack of crates.  Seven in all, they appeared heavy and were; 600 kilos each, three metres long, and about 80 cm. square.  Each had four sturdy lifting eyes.  His truck’s hydraulic picker boom made short work of loading the crates.  In a few more minutes, they were strapped securely to the bed.

   The paperwork was all there as promised.  Seven crates of milling machine parts, each bearing the logo of a Lower Volga region tool manufacturer, all destined for various western cities via the airfreight terminal in St. Petersburg.  At first glance, the requisite shipping seals appeared to be properly affixed.

   He drove out, closed the barn door, and turned on to the narrow road without even glancing at the farmhouse. 

   As his headlights pierced the gloom, the driver did some mental calculations.  It would take about four solid days to make his way to St. Petersburg on what passed for a road system in Russia.  And fuel!  When he had purchased the used Mercedes truck in Poland, he had wisely outfitted it with fuel tanks to hold 600 litres of diesel.  The concept of the roadside truck stop had not caught on yet in some parts of this part of the world.  That was also why he had taken another cue from truckers in the West, and fabricated a simple but functional sleeper cabin.

   The truck was a means to an end, he reminded himself.  For almost 20 years, he had lived and worked slightly on the fringes of Russian industry, routinely hauling loads of freight off the books and for cash.  No questions were asked, even when the goods were of questionable origins, and both buyers and sellers appeared to exist even further out in the fringes than he.

   But, the cash jobs provided a nest egg that was quickly growing.  He, his wife, and two sons lived inexpensively.  The day when they would take that money, leave Russia behind and live on it and the proceeds from another career long in the past was not far off.  One more good winter and then maybe an eternal spring in the south of Spain.

London. Monday.

   Warren Harrison was annoyed.  He had already taken a couple of extra-strength Advil pills, and his hip was still nagging him.  He was trying to blame it on the weather and late middle age, but that was not really convincing him.  Most likely stress, but who really likes to admit that?  That it was almost exactly a year since Brian’s airplane had crashed in Wales weighed heavily.  He tried to convince himself it could be worse.  The gunshot that was the source of the sore hip could have killed him.  He could have died on the long flight from Pakistan, or even in surgery while the doctors repaired his shattered pelvis, and never seen his son grow up and make the pledge to serve Queen and Country, as tragic as that had turned out.  Instead he had to live with the occasional (okay, nearly daily) discomfort that comes with growing old on a joint rebuilt from scraps of bone, muscle, tendon, plastic and titanium.

   Wendy Bales, his executive assistant for the past 15 years, tapped on the doorframe.

A Bob Porter wanted to know if he could get in to see you before noon.  I told him you were good with that.  He said that he hoped it was nothing, but he was quite anxious for you to take a look at something for him. Harrison regarded her with a smile.

You realize that if Her Majesty’s government finds out that you’re the one actually running my end of the Defence Intelligence Ministry, my entire career is in jeopardy?

And that’s exactly why you are going to give me an absolutely stunning performance review, next week, she replied cheekily.

Just get me some tea, you blackmailing wench.

Yes, M’Lord.  With that, she disappeared into the outer office. 

   Wendy had come with the job. Sixteen years previous, she was fresh out of university with a degree in government relations.  Sir Charles Heatherington, then merely an admiral, had plucked her resume out of a pile of Foreign Ministry applicants, and hired her to be his executive assistant at the Ministry of Defence.  He had told her simply that a spy agency was merely the sum of its entire people, and all he expected was her very best, every day.  For that, she would be rewarded with some extremely interesting anecdotes that she could share with no one, maybe even a front row seat to history occasionally, and a modest pension.  The job had been far, far more than that.

   A year in, Heatherington had shown her the resume of Warren Harrison, including details to which few people were privy, and asked her if she could work for him. 

He’s a decent chap.  You’ll have more responsibilities yourself, and a higher clearance.  I’ll recommend a boost in your salary if you take the job.

   More than one intelligence agency in the world was prepared to kill for the kind of information that Wendy Bales had been a party to through her years with Harrison.

   Warren Harrison had come into the job in a rather different manner.  He had enlisted with the Royal Marines at the age of 19.  It became clear rather quickly that he was a natural soldier, and by 26, he had achieved the rank of lieutenant, in the secretive and storied Special Air Service Regiment.

   At 27, he had been struggling to survive the aftermath of what was referred to as an operational incident.  More specifically, a rifle bullet had shattered his right hip and part of his pelvis.  Muscles were torn, and internal organs shredded, but the surgeons had been skilful and diligent, and he had survived. 

   His days of jumping out of helicopters were over, though.  Nevertheless, his bravery and dedication to duty had not escaped the attention of Admiral Heatherington, always on the prowl for good talent.  The admiral had recommended Harrison do some research for him while convalescing.  Later, Heatherington had arranged for Col. Harrison to be loaned to the Defence Intelligence Ministry, allowing him to retain his rank and position within the regiment.  Eventually, he became Heatherington’s second-in-command, and Wendy Bales’ immediate boss.

   Harrison’s job description was officially termed Threat Assessment.  That meant he read reams of reports, and listened to various bits of analysis from people such as economists and field agents.  This branch of British Intelligence ran a number of its own agents in several countries around the world, many of whom reported only to Warren or Sir Charles.  Warren reported to Sir Charles, who reported to the Commons Intelligence Committee, or the prime minister.

   Sir Charles had, not inaccurately, described the job as being akin to that of a fighter pilot – endless tedium punctuated by moments of sheer, stark terror.

   Warren Harrison sipped his tea and looked out over London on this uncharacteristically clear fall morning.  His bleak mood was more than the product of his sore hip.  Along with the death of his only son, the last year had seen the rift in his marriage grow deeper.  At this moment, his wife Sarah was in the north of Scotland visiting her mother, and quite probably deciding their future.  All that probably made it just a little easier for his daughter, Elizabeth, to remain almost incommunicado at Georgetown University in the United States.

    Lieutenant-Colonel Bob Porter, Royal Air Force, arrived rather early, and Harrison immediately noted a sense of urgency in Porter’s manner.  Porter started with a question. Are you familiar with the old Gatekeeper program?

   Vaguely.  Fill me in.

   Well, Gatekeeper was a system that was set up in the 60s, to prevent the Soviets from launching a sneak attack on the west with nuclear weapons stashed in the cargo holds of Aeroflot airliners.  We used the assumption that an effective surprise would necessitate near-simultaneous airbursts over a number of European cities within a several-minute span of time.  Given that, we continually monitored approach and landing times and manipulated them so that eventuality could not occur.  We discarded the procedure at the end of the Cold War.  Well, one of our people over at the Ministry of Transport decided to make a variation of the program and run it on a PC with access to the European Air Transport Agency.  He used to work for us and it was really just an intellectual challenge.  This morning, this showed up. 

He slid a folder of papers across the desk.

   It shows a group of landings in the five major European capitals, plus New York and Washington, in a time span of 18 minutes, this coming Friday morning.  Now, before he got all excited, our man ran a back check on the program.  All of the flights in question originate in St. Petersburg, and are the same airfreight company.  Up until about six weeks ago, their landing times varied widely.  Then, the departures were moved around by increasing amounts until we get this lump of landings.  That is when he called me.  I decided this was over my head, so I called you.

   Warren regarded the information carefully. 

All right, then.  Frankly, Bob, I’m not sure how to look at this. I will do this though, I’ll get some of my people to rattle the bushes and see what shakes out.  We’ll also try and get a peek inside the freight depot in St. Petersburg, Christ only knows how, but we will.  Either Wendy or I will keep you posted.  Meanwhile, it appears that time is of the essence.

   Porter took his leave, and Warren went over the data once more, a little slower and more carefully.  He took the sheaf of papers and stepped into Wendy’s office. Is Sir Charles still in, or has he gone for lunch?

   She glanced up from her computer Still in.  He’s taking a late lunch with the PM today. 

   As usual, Warren entered the office of Sir Charles Heatherington unannounced and without knocking.  I’ve got something that I think warrants our attention, sir.  I’d like your opinion.  Sir Charles listened to the synopsis while he looked over the report.  He remained silent for several moments after Warren finished his outline.

   Nothing in our threat data, he finally asked, that backs this up?

   Not a thing that I’ve seen.

   Sir Charles rose from his desk and walked over to the credenza and poured a cup of tea, and silently regarded the London skyline as he stirred in a lump of sugar.  At length he cleared his throat and took a sip of tea before addressing his younger colleague.

   There are a number of things to consider.  First, of course, is the lack of collaborating data.  This does not necessarily imply a lack of threat.  We’ll need to activate some of our resources that are deeper inside our usual circle.  Next is the conspiracy itself.  If we go at this wrong, we alert them, drive them even further underground, and risk another attack later on, maybe one we don’t see coming.  We keep this tight.  I don’t want the Russian government even suspecting that we are peeking behind their curtains any more than usual, so you’ve got to find a way of looking for some stray nuclear weapons without them knowing it.  I’m quite certain that we don’t want to deal with the fallout of them getting all in a huff about us not trusting them, and all that.  The possibility that something like this might also be part of a coup should not be ruled out.  Lastly, we both agree on the general problem of those people owning nuclear weapons in the first place.  We need to be prepared to go in and get them.  He looked back at Warren with one eyebrow raised, and said, Damned Russians.

   Damned Russians, indeed, sir.  I have two analysts I can put on a fishing expedition, and I’ll have a chat with D’Angelo over in Langley.  Maybe they have something that doesn’t twig any alarms all by itself.  I’ll also try and get a look into that airport.  I’ll have Hargate set up a recovery plan. Sir Charles nodded and Warren turned to leave, but he paused at the door, Should make for an interesting week, sir, don’t you think?

   There was no humor in the question.

   Oh, it’ll be that, I’m sure.  Get your resources in motion and I’ll get looking after the political end.  While Warren was returning to his office, Sir Charles picked up his telephone and punched the line to the desk of Wendy Bales.  She picked it up immediately.

 Sir?

   Is Mrs. Harrison still in Scotland, Wendy?

   Yes sir.  She’s due to return on Sunday.

   How is she traveling?

   By plane, I believe, sir.  I can confirm if you’d like.

   Do that for me, please.

    Aye, sir.

   Back in his office, Warren quickly jotted down a few notes, and then called Wendy to his office.  Ms. Bales, it appears we’ll have an interesting week.  I’ll need you to contact Hargate over at Hereford. I want him here as soon as possible.  Burton at RAF, as well.  While the potential involvement of the Special Air Service signified that something large was afoot, the secretary showed no outward reaction.  Well, she told herself, it definitely would not be a boring week.  Harrison continued, Do you have any idea the whereabouts of Donald Goodale?

    Yes.  He’s in Moscow doing a readiness assessment of our embassy ops crew.

    Their embassy ops crew consisted of handpicked embassy security personnel who also formed a small special operations team to deal with threats to the embassy or British government interests.  They operated well under the radar of the current Russian government just as they had operated under the radar of the Soviets.  Over the decades of the Cold War, one of their specialties was bringing Moscow-based spies in from the cold and spiriting them out of the country.  It was a talent and a resource that had never been set aside.

     Text him.  Have him get to a secure line and call me, and get Ranjit and Powell up here.

    When his two intelligence analysts arrived, Warren laid out their task. 

What I need you two gentlemen to do is set up some form of search grid in our database that will be focused on two things.  One will look for personnel and equipment movements that might point to some form of coup plot within the Russian armed forces.  There might be patterns that we just are not seeing in our day-to-day view.  In addition, there might be interactions among some of the individuals who still can’t get over losing the Cold War.  We might be missing something there.  Mr. Ranjit, I believe that might be your area?  Powell, you’ll need to focus on what we know about weapons inventories and audits over there.  We’re looking for, probably, seven nukes.  I would assume they would be of the air-drop variety, but don’t rule out other sources.   Both of the researchers were in their early 30s and held very high security clearances, but the request still got their attention. 

   Should we assume that the clock is running on this one, Mr. Harrison? Ranjit asked shortly.

    That would be wise.  I’d appreciate any extra hours you fellows care to put in, as will Her Majesty’s government.  The two young men exchanged a glance.  That had been Harrison’s polite way of saying, Don’t sleep until I have some answers. 

   After the two left, Warren found himself realizing that he was internally reverting to combat mode already, and being surprised again at how quickly the change occurred.  It had happened on 9/11 when they had locked down the country and, somewhat by dumb luck, nabbed six terrorists before they could launch their attack on London.  Another had accompanied the discovery of some atomic bomb components in a shipping container in Southampton inbound from Turkey.  More worrisome, one was a trigger for a Soviet device.  Four harrowing days later, a half-dozen Irishmen and two Iraqis were dead on a Middlesex road, and a 50-kiloton relic of the Cold War was in the hands of the British Special Forces.

    It had been decided that not even the Russians should know how close one of their bombs had come to killing thousands of Britons, and the plot became a closely guarded state secret, known only to a few handfuls of individuals.

    Don Goodale was having a security meeting with a small group of British bankers when the Royal Marines found him.  His official cover when in Moscow was as a security consultant, and he often turned off his cellphone during these client meetings.  Even though the fees he charged actually found their way back to the Royal Treasury, he considered it a matter of customer courtesy to turn off his phone when dealing directly with the paying clients.  The bank managers were somewhat concerned when the two soldiers, who moved with the muscular grace of big cats, firmly but very politely asked if he could come with them.  Goodale protested, but quickly changed his tune when one of the uniformed young men said simply, Her Majesty’s request, sir.  It was a simple, but meaningful code phrase.

    The chat with Harrison was brief, after which he looked at his watch, and made a call to a cellphone that he knew was not ringing.  The British government was paying for it.  He left a voice mail message.  He would cancel his morning appointments and assume that the recipient of the call would meet him in the morning.

Northern Ireland.  April, 1983.

   The truck rolled down the narrow road in the chill darkness of a spring night.  The soldier in the back would not be completely sure of their location until the driver slowed for a particular corner and his master sergeant rapped his knuckles on the back window.

   The truck slowed to let a following car pass, and Lieutenant Donald Goodale, SAS, hunkered even lower in the bed to avoid the illumination of the sedan’s headlights.  Several minutes later the truck slowed again, and Master Sgt. Lewis tapped the rear glass and said, Let’s go, Donny.

  Goodale stepped fluidly onto the cobblestone road as the truck stopped momentarily at the right-angle turn before heading west in the darkness.  To the left lay a gap in a hedgerow and the boundary between Ireland and Northern Ireland.

  Under cover of darkness, he breached the hedgerow, and a few hundred yards further on, passed through another hedgerow and into Ireland. He paused in the darkness and contemplated the mission ahead as well as how far he was from his upbringing and the comfortable home his parents had provided.

The son of an electrical engineer and a homemaker in Wolverhampton, his youth had been a pleasant, if somewhat restless one.  An uncle had spent five years in the British Army, and had suggested that his athletically and intellectually gifted nephew might find the military a rewarding challenge.

   The uncle had proven right, and the younger Goodale molded easily into the role of skilled soldier.  He excelled on the rifle range, and passed sniper school with exceptional grading from his evaluators, who then recommended him for candidacy for the Special Air Service regimental selection process.  Through each phase, Donald Goodale demonstrated an exceptional level of mental and physical toughness, even measured against his fellow candidates.  Now, he faced his toughest test yet.

   A few days previous, he had been asked to volunteer for a special counterinsurgency mission.  For three straight days, he had studied the dossiers, including videotapes, of two Libyan and two Russian men.  Their features, their build, and their movements were so deeply ingrained into his consciousness he could have picked them out of a crowd at a football stadium.

   The young man spent but a minute reflecting on the gravity and the nature of his task.  He took a gulp of water from his small canteen, and scanned the area with his night-vision binoculars before crossing himself and moving on into the dark countryside.

   He moved swiftly through the night, careful to avoid drawing too close to some of the small farms along the way so as not to set any of the ever-present and usually ever-vigilant dogs to barking.   Four miles on, he was on a hillside overlooking his target.

   He set up a hide in the cover of a thicket and waited.  Well past midnight, as he watched through his spotting scope, a dark Peugeot entered the farmyard.  He switched his view to his riflescope.  Two men got out of the car and four others approached from the farmhouse.  He knew that he had only a few moments to positively identify his targets and shoot.  He carefully and swiftly planned the shot, keeping in mind the direction the men might move when they finally reacted, likely about the same time the second victim would drop.  He picked his first target, took one more stabilizing breath, and squeezed the trigger. There was little report from the partially silenced muzzle, and 1.3 seconds later, the 9-mm bullet peirced the chest of the man standing close to the driver’s door of the Peugeot.  The man, a 15-year veteran KGB operative, gasped and died.  By then, the second bullet was halfway through its 650-yard journey.  It hit the Libyan in the centre of his back just as he turned his head in reaction to the sound of the Russian dying.  The bullet exited his chest, along with a chunk of his spine.  The other Libyan was just beginning to move when the third bullet struck.  Goodale had known he would go left, towards the cover of the car, and led accordingly.  The bullet struck from the left side, under the arm, and passed through the heart and both lungs, lodging in his right bicep.  Before Goodale could draw on him, the other Russian was already on the move, having reacted to the second shot.  However, he moved true to form.  Being left-handed, as the shooter knew, he turned to his right to get to cover.  That played right into the shot.  Unfortunately, moving targets mean moving sights, and Goodale dropped his aim ever so slightly.  He caught the man in the right thigh, dropping him but not killing him.  Cursing, the shooter paused ever so briefly and made a final shot for a certain kill, despite knowing that the man would have bled out in a matter of minutes.  It had been six seconds from the first shot.

   This left two men standing, both of them hardened IRA veterans.  For several seconds, they waited for the next two shots, but none came.  By then, the soldier was on the move, hiking to meet his pickup at a pre-arranged time and place.  The helicopter would make one run across the border, set down for exactly 90 seconds, and then leave.  Its route was carefully planned to cause the least disturbance amongst both the citizenry and the Irish government and Goodale meant to be on it.

   As Goodale’s Royal Navy chopper made its way east across the Irish Sea, another was going west.  A civilian helicopter, it bore registry that completely disguised its British government ownership. The pilot and co-pilot were RAF, and the ‘businessman’ passenger was Admiral Heatherington.

   It landed in Dublin just after 8 a.m.  A Jaguar XJ saloon car was waiting, driven by a retired Royal Marine who padded his pension by, as he put it, Keeping an eye on the Irish.

   Twenty minutes later, Heatherington was introducing himself to the appointments secretary of Gerry Byrne, leader of the political wing of the IRA.

   Why, yes, Mr. Bell, Mr. Byrne looks forward to hearing more about your proposal, she smiled. I’ll show you right in.

   Byrnes’ cheerful demeanor turned dark in a moment, as he quickly recognized his guest.  What the fuck is this? he hissed.

   Just a courtesy visit, Gerry.  I just thought I’d bring you the news from County Monaghan myself. 

   He tossed a manila envelope on Byrne’s desk.

   Those four are dead.  We’ve seen to that.  My advice to you is that you and your people quit dancing with the Russians and their friends.  There will not be an upside for you in the long run.  Not by a long shot.  Can I be any more clear on that?

   Heatherington met Byrne’s cold, hard stare with his own.  He would not hesitate for a moment to order the death of this man’s family, if that’s what it took to get the IRA to end its dalliance with the Soviets.

   It’s nice we could have this chat, Gerry.  I’ll see myself out.

   Thirty minutes later, his helicopter was back over the waves of the cold Irish Sea.

   British Intelligence approached Goodale, with regimental approval, nearly a year later.  Intrigued, he accepted.  Immediately, he was sent back to school and in the space of six months, learned to speak and write Russian fluently.  He practiced for hours on end, and became proficient with several Warsaw Pact firearms.  He learned how to pick locks and honed his already prodigious observation skills.

Goodale needed to be able to go into Eastern Europe, including the Soviet Union and blend in.  He was not going to be a spy, but a spy watcher.  A spy protector.  In the waning days of the Cold War, every level of the Soviet regime had been compromised.  Spying for the West was a life-threatening act, and everyone was a suspect.  Sometimes, if a source became compromised, it was possible to deflect the KGB long enough to make the trail go cold.  Other times, it was a necessity to bring an asset out simply by acting quickly and decisively and literally sweeping him or her out from under the Kremlin’s iron hands as they came crashing down.  Occasionally, the only way to get someone out was to send in an agent who could fly into Moscow on forged papers, walk into a Moscow subway washroom every bit the Western businessman, and emerge as a long-suffering Muscovite.  Donald Goodale could do that.  From there he could contact his charge, and armed with all of his abilities, bring that person out to the West.

   On June 14, 1985, the IRA detonated a 1000-lb bomb in Belfast.  Goodale was in London at the time, doing an extensive debriefing on an extraction that had gone sideways.  The KGB had pieced together the possibility of a defection of one of their people from their Prague operation during a prisoner exchange, and the results had been very messy.  The escape into Bavaria had come about by only the narrowest of margins.

   What no one knew yet, though, was that Goodale’s anonymity had been partially blown.  The KGB knew his face but not his name.  It was only a matter of time before the two were put together.

   On the morning after the blast in Belfast, Donald Goodale requested direct approval from Admiral Heatherington to informally investigate the bombing under the auspices of MI5.

North of Lake Baikal.

   General Petrosik grimaced slightly as he shifted in his seat.  Flying played havoc with his knee.  The rebuilt tendons and cartilage did not enjoy the changes in cabin pressure that accompanied travelling in military aircraft, even ones equipped for the comfort of high-ranking officers.  The plane banked to the left as it began its final descent into the old airfield.  Petrosik unhappily noted that all of the lights in the place were turned on.  Fools, he thought to himself. Don’t they know how many American satellites are up there?  Just the same, he felt a little honoured that his people would put on the lights to welcome him to the home of the next Russian Revolution.  Besides, the Americans had no idea of the significance of this place.  And in a few days, they would know even less.  He shifted a little more and stretched his leg out into the aisle in order to take some pressure off the knee, and waited for the plane to touch down.

Falls Church, Virginia.

   The building looked like any other non-descript commercial warehouse along US 29 in the DC suburbs.  What was different was the array of satellite dishes on the roof and the armed Marines behind bulletproof glass in the entry.  The signage and the property title listed the building as owned by a media company.

   This was one of a number of United States Naval Intelligence listening posts.  Many happen to hide in plain sight while the men and women inside conduct real-time satellite photoreconnaissance.

    What have we here?  Tim, take a look at what I’m showing on No. 3 will ya?

Lieutenant Vasquez, United States Navy, had been orienting a satellite to take photographs of a Chinese ballistic missile site, and had a lens-eye view of the emptiness of the eastern Urals when the lights appeared, as though someone had just flipped a light switch.

    Lt. Burris leaned over and eyeballed Vasquez’s screen.  Looks like an airfield to me. he remarked matter-of-factly.  At the same time, Vasquez had opened a new window on his terminal screen and typed in the latitude and longitude of the anomalous lights.  Almost instantly, a brief synopsis of the decommissioned Soviet missile base popped up.  Sanchez read it quickly and, just as quickly, typed instructions to his satellite’s computer to take more pictures of the site on subsequent passes.  Don’t appear to have a Closed ‘cause we lost the Col’ War,’ sign hangin’ out any more, does it Richie?  Burris drawled.  Vasquez nodded and smiled at his fellow Texan’s dry observation. 

    He leaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee cup, as his satellite left Siberia behind and raced southeast toward Harbin.

 Who the hell knows what the Russians get up to, anymore?  I’ll kick this upstairs and let the high-priced help see if it’s worth anything.  If they need to know more, it’ll be on the bird’s hard drive.  Meanwhile, let’s hope the Chinamen smile for the nice Navy camera.

    Vasquez’s terminal automatically sent an email detailing the anomalous lights to a desk at Naval Intelligence in the Pentagon.  There, a colonel would follow it up, as well as pass it on to Air Force Intelligence, Army Intelligence, and the CIA.  Within 24 hours, six people would look at this bit of information and assess it according to what they knew.  Within 48 hours, another 36 people would see it.  At some point, someone might find it important or useful.  Otherwise, the info would simply die somewhere.  It would also get plugged into a tremendous database in the National Security Agency mainframe, where it might or might not collide with some other tidbit of information.  Together, two or three or four useless tidbits might become an important or useful bit of data.  Or not.

London.

    The operational commanders of the SAS and RAF