The Moscow Offensive Read online

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to U.S. law enforcement and military and civilian security forces located right here in the United States. With all the turmoil and conflicts all over the world, it’s easy to forget those who stand watch over our homes, businesses, and military and government installations in America.

  Thank you for your service, your watchfulness, and your dedication to protecting our country. We pray you never have to be used, but we are thankful you’re on the job if the need arises.

  Epigraph

  Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent.

  —Marilyn vos Savant, American columnist

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Weapons and Acronyms

  About the Author

  Also by Dale Brown

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Cast of Characters

  Americans

  STACY ANNE BARBEAU, president of the United States of America

  EDWARD RAUCH, president’s national security adviser

  LUKE COHEN, White House chief of staff

  SCOTT FIRESTONE, admiral, U.S. Navy, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

  KEVIN CALDWELL, admiral, U.S. Navy, director of the National Security Agency

  JOHN DALTON FARRELL, governor of Texas and presidential candidate

  ANDREW DAVIS, head of Governor Farrell’s security detail, former sergeant in the Iron Wolf Squadron and U.S. Army Special Forces

  FRANK JAMESON, owner, Jameson Construction

  MARTIN CROWN, chief executive officer, Regan Air Freight

  HALSEY STUTZ, chief financial officer, Regan Air Freight

  TED LOCKE, director of flight operations, Regan Air Freight

  RAFAEL DÍAZ, special agent in charge, U.S. Secret Service

  CAPTAIN PAUL FRASER, U.S. Air Force, pilot of HH-60G Pave Hawk search-and-rescue helicopter, Barksdale Air Force Base

  COLONEL DANIEL KIM, U.S. Air Force, chief of security for Strategic Command Bunker, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base

  TEAM SERGEANT CASIMIR “KAZ” OSTROWSKI, U.S. Army 10th Special Forces Group

  LIEUTENANT (JUNIOR GRADE) CARLY DE MELLO, U.S. Navy, radar officer, E-2C Hawkeye 2000

  LIEUTENANT TIM LAYTON, U.S. Navy, Combat Information Center officer, E-2C Hawkeye 2000

  COMMANDER DENNIS NINOMIYA, U.S. Navy, executive officer, CG-53 MOBILE BAY

  LIEUTENANT BRIAN THORSON, U.S. Navy, tactical action officer, CG-53 MOBILE BAY

  CAPTAIN BLAIR POLLOCK, U.S. Navy, commander, Naval Base San Diego

  KARL ERICSON, National Cable News, broadcast engineer

  AMY MAGUIRE, National Cable News, audio assistant

  Isle of Man

  FRANCIS XAVIER REGAN, Canadian tax exile and billionaire, owner of Regan Air Freight and FXR Trucking, Inc.

  Iron Wolf Squadron and Scion

  KEVIN MARTINDALE, president of Scion, former president of the United States of America

  BRAD McLANAHAN, Cybernetic Infantry Device (CID) pilot and XCV-62 Ranger pilot, Iron Wolf Squadron

  PATRICK McLANAHAN, Iron Wolf Squadron training and intelligence expert, former lieutenant general, U.S. Air Force (ret.)

  MAJOR NADIA ROZEK, Polish Special Forces officer, attached to Iron Wolf Squadron as a CID pilot, and as copilot and systems operator for XCV-62 Ranger

  WAYNE “WHACK” MACOMBER, commander, Iron Wolf Squadron CID operations, former major, U.S. Air Force Special Operations Command (ret.)

  IAN SCHOFIELD, commander, Iron Wolf deep-penetration unit, former captain in Canada’s Special Operations Regiment

  SAMANTHA KERR, operative, Scion Intelligence

  MARCUS CARTWRIGHT, operative, Scion Intelligence

  DAVID JONES, operative, Scion Intelligence

  Sky Masters Aerospace, Inc.

  HUNTER “BOOMER” NOBLE, Ph.D., chief of aerospace engineering, Sky Masters Aerospace, Inc.

  JASON RICHTER, colonel, U.S. Army (ret.), Ph.D., chief executive officer

  HELEN KADDIRI, Ph.D., president and chair of the board

  RICHARD WITT, Ph.D., cyberneticist

  Russians

  GENNADIY ANATOLIYVICH GRYZLOV, president of the Russian Federation

  VIKTOR KAZYANOV, minister of state security

  IVAN ULANOV, president’s private secretary

  MIKHAIL ARONOV, Ph.D., chief cyberneticist for the State Cybernetics Factory

  CAPTAIN YURI BEZRODNY, commander, disguised special operations ship Brodyaga

  LIEUTENANT SERGEI ROZONOV, commander, Spetsnaz detachment assigned to Brodyaga

  MAJOR VASILY DRAGOMIROV, field operative for Russian military intelligence (GRU)

  CAPTAIN EDUARD NAUMOV, technical officer, GRU Ninth Directorate

  CAPTAIN DMITRY LEONOV, 22nd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade

  SENIOR SERGEANT ANDREI ISAYEV, 22nd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade

  COLONEL GENERAL VLADISLAV NIKITIN, commander, Southern Military District

  MAJOR GENERAL MAXIM BOROVKOV, chief of staff, Southern Military District

  COLONEL IVAN ZAITEV, commander, S-400 Triumf surface-to-air missile battalion

  RAZRESHENIYE KONFLIKTOV USLUGI (CONFLICT RESOLUTION SERVICES)—a private military corporation owned by Gennadiy Gryzlov

  VLADIMIR KURAKIN, president and chief executive officer, former major general in Russia’s special operations forces

  KIRILL ARISTOV, commander RKU reconnaissance and security detachment, former Spetsnaz captain

  NIKOLAI DOBRYNIN, second in command, RKU recon detachment, former Spetsnaz lieutenant

  PAVEL LARIONOV, RKU recon detachment, former Spetsnaz sergeant

  YURI ANNENKOV, commander RKU covert flight operations base in Moab, Utah, pilot for converted Boeing 737-200F cruise-missile carrier, former colonel, Russian Air Force

  KONSTANTIN USPENSKY, copilot for 737-200F cruise-missile carrier, former major, Russian Air Force

  ANDREJ FILIPPOV, ordnance specialist, former major, Russian Air Force

  COLONEL RUSLAN BARYSHEV, commander, Kiberneticheskaya Voyennaya Mashina (Cybernetic War Machine) force, former Su-50 fighter pilot, Russian Air Force

  CAPTAIN OLEG IMREKOV, KVM pilot, former Su-50 fighter pilot, Russian Air Force

  MAJOR VIKTOR ZELIN, KVM pilot, former Su-34 fighter-bomber pilot

  MAJOR ALEXEI BRAGIN, KVM pilot, former Su-27 fighter pilot, Russian Air Force

  MAJOR
DMITRY VESELOVSKY, KVM pilot, former Su-35 fighter pilot, Russian Air Force

  CAPTAIN SERGEI NOVIKOV, KVM pilot, former Su-34 fighter-bomber pilot, Russian Air Force

  Swiss

  WILLEM DAENIKER, investment banker chosen by Gennadiy Gryzlov to negotiate the secret purchase of Regan Air Freight and FXR Trucking, Inc.

  Poles

  PIOTR WILK, president of Poland, former general in the Polish Air Force and commander of the 1st Air Defense Wing

  COLONEL PAWEŁ KASPEREK, F-16 fighter pilot and commander of the Polish Air Force’s 3rd Tactical Squadron

  KAROL SIKORA, sergeant, Polish Special Forces, attached to Iron Wolf Squadron deep-penetration unit

  Hungarians

  TIBOR LUKÁCS, prime minister of Hungary

  Prologue

  GHEAY NIAR ÇHIARNYS (EAST WIND MANOR), ISLE OF MAN, IN THE IRISH SEA

  LATE FALL 2019

  Willem Daeniker glanced at the security guard seated across from him. A faint bulge beneath the other man’s dark jacket showed he was armed. The Swiss investment banker hid a wry smile as he looked away, out through the tinted windows of the big black Mercedes limousine. They were headed north along a winding, rain-slick road.

  Overhead, bands of storm clouds drifted slowly across the sky, soaking hills and valleys that had been continuously inhabited for more than eight thousand years. Over the long millennia, wave after wave of peoples—Stone Age tribesmen, invading Gaels from Ireland, warlike Vikings, and then the rival Scots and English—had descended on this small island to hunt and fish and farm. But the old ways were passing fast, supplanted by wealthy newcomers and corporations lured by low taxes and limited regulation. Offshore banking and high-tech manufacturing were the forces driving the Isle of Man’s economy now. And so, one by one, centuries-old estates and homes fell into the hands of rich businessmen from around the world.

  Men like Daeniker’s host, Francis Xavier Regan.

  Like many of the world’s super rich, the reclusive Canadian billionaire ruthlessly shielded his privacy. Very few people were ever invited onto his property and they were always subject to close scrutiny. Tabloid journalists and other trespassers were met by armed watchmen and snarling dogs.

  Tires crunched on wet gravel as the Mercedes swung onto a long drive. East Wind Manor’s age-darkened stone façade, turrets, and chimneys loomed ahead through the dreary gray light of the fading day. Beside its massive front door, a somber manservant stood huddled under an umbrella, waiting to greet him.

  Once indoors out of the damp, Daeniker eyed his surroundings with interest. Stone floors overlaid by beautiful Persian rugs, dark oak paneling, gleaming suits of armor, ornate coats of arms, and walls lined with expensive paintings conveyed an overwhelming aura of both vast wealth and a distinguished and ancient lineage. The wealth was Regan’s by right, the Swiss thought cynically. But since his immigrant Irish father had been nothing more than a day laborer, the noble lineage belonged entirely to this purchased house.

  Meeting the billionaire in the flesh did nothing to dispel that cynical view.

  Regan, a tall, burly man in his midsixties, nodded curtly to a chair. “Well, Mr. Daeniker?” he demanded. “What have you got for me?”

  Unfazed by this rudeness, the Swiss banker opened his briefcase and took out a thick sheaf of documents. The international consortium he represented wanted to buy two of the other man’s privately held North American enterprises—FXR Trucking and Regan Air Freight. And the Canadian wanted to sell. Though these midsized transportation companies were the original foundation of his enormous fortune, Regan was not a sentimental man. In President Stacy Anne Barbeau’s overtaxed and overregulated America, neither business was worth his continued investment of time and money.

  Donning a polite smile, he handed the documents across the desk. “I think you will find everything is in order, Mr. Regan.”

  “Maybe so,” the other man said brusquely. “And maybe not.”

  Daeniker frowned, feeling uncertain for the first time. Both sides had already agreed on a price. Even more important, neither wanted to trigger any “inconvenient” scrutiny by government tax officials and regulatory agencies. What kind of game was Regan playing now?

  The billionaire looked back at him with a cold expression. “Your clients like to live dangerously, Mr. Daeniker. If they’d dicked around with me for just twelve more hours, they would have been shit out of luck.”

  The Swiss banker nodded. Regan was due to depart on his annual sailing vacation at dawn the next morning. Every year, before the worst winter weather hit the Isle of Man, he took his prized Dutch-built yacht, Bear Venture, on a weeks-long cruise south to Spain and then across the Atlantic to his second home in the Cayman Islands. And he made it a rule never to conduct any serious business while at sea.

  “I regret the various delays,” Daeniker said. He spread his hands. “But when one is dealing with the different interests of so many prospective investors, they are sometimes unavoidable.”

  Regan snorted.

  For a moment, Daeniker had the uncomfortable impression the other man knew he was lying. In truth, his real client had carefully controlled the timing of their negotiations. From the beginning, his orders had been clear: The deal must be concluded only in the hours just before Regan set sail from the Isle of Man.

  “Unavoidable or not, those delays are going to cost you,” Regan said, showing his teeth. He stabbed at the contracts with one powerful forefinger. “I’ll sign these. But my asking price just went up fifty million euros.”

  Daeniker raised an eyebrow. “Fifty million euros more? For what reason?”

  “For two reasons,” the other man told him coolly. “First, your buyers have inconvenienced me. They’ve wasted my time with bullshit. Nobody does that for free.”

  Regan leaned back in his chair, looking smug. “And second, as a means of guaranteeing your clients’ continued anonymity. It’s obvious that this ‘consortium’ of yours is nothing but window dressing. And ordinarily, I don’t do business with folks I don’t know. But I’m willing to make an exception in this case . . . at a price.”

  Daeniker kept his mouth shut.

  “So here’s the situation as I see it,” Regan went on. “Your real buyers have tried hard to hide themselves.” He shrugged. “Maybe because they want to dodge some confiscatory taxes or nitpicking regulations. Or maybe because they’re the sort of people who need new ways to make dirty money a little cleaner. So what I figure is that your mysterious principals really don’t want my security people poking and prying around to identify them, Mr. Daeniker.” He smiled thinly. “My bet is that you’re empowered to sweeten this deal to make sure it goes through on time . . . and without any inconvenient truths coming out. Correct?”

  Daeniker sat motionless for several moments, thinking fast. At last, he sighed. “Such a circumstance was not entirely unforeseen. I am authorized to go a bit higher, but no more than—”

  Regan shook his head. “We are not bargaining here.” His eyes were stony. “The price goes up fifty million. Or you leave empty-handed. It’s your call.”

  “You are a hard man, Mr. Regan.”

  The other man nodded. “That I am. Which is why I’m sitting on this side of the desk and you’re on the other, Mr. Daeniker.”

  An hour later, Willem Daeniker watched the dark stone walls and dim lights of East Wind Manor disappear behind him, swallowed up by night and rain. The Mercedes swung onto the main road, heading back to the airport where a private jet sat fueled and waiting. Frowning, he pulled out his smartphone and typed a short text message to Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov waiting impatiently in Moscow, sixteen hundred miles due east of the Isle of Man: Arrangements complete. Cost 50m higher than hoped. Unfortunately, seller still shows regrettable curiosity.

  SPECIAL OPERATIONS SHIP BRODYAGA (PROWLER), FAR OUT IN THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

  SEVERAL NIGHTS LATER

  Stars speckled the moonless night sky—tiny points of light glitter
ing in the midst of infinite blackness. Far below, in inky darkness, an elegant craft more than a hundred meters long and with a displacement of over four thousand tons slid gracefully through long, rolling waves. Without any running lights illuminating her superstructure, the destroyer-sized ship was almost invisible.

  Seen in daylight and from a distance, Brodyaga looked like a luxury mega-yacht, not a warship. Her sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows mirrored those of other gleaming, ultramodern private vessels owned by the world’s wealthiest men and women, including a number of Russia’s leading industrialists and business oligarchs.

  In reality, Brodyaga was a disguised intelligence and special operations vessel for the Russian Navy. If necessary, she could discreetly slip in and out of foreign ports that were otherwise off-limits to Russia’s surface combatants and spy ships. Nor was she routinely trailed by Western warships and aircraft while at sea—which gave her the necessary freedom of movement to conduct any number of covert missions.

  Like this one.

  Brodyaga’s red-lit Combat Information Center was buried deep in her hull, far below the spacious staterooms and luxurious fittings used to fool foreign observers. Crammed full of sophisticated electronics and displays, it was a hive of quiet, purposeful activity.

  Captain Yuri Bezrodny leaned over the shoulder of one of his junior lieutenants. Carefully, he studied the low-light images transmitted by a drone flying forty kilometers ahead. They showed a large, two-masted ketch sailing downwind at around four knots. His eyes narrowed. There were no other ships or aircraft within effective radar range. Their sonar reported no subsurface contacts. And the sea state and weather conditions were near optimal.

  He straightened up and turned to his executive officer. “Launch the strike team.”

  Forty minutes later, a rigid inflatable boat, comparable to the F470 Zodiac rubber raiding craft used by U.S. Navy SEALs, sped across the sea at nearly fifteen knots. A coxswain manned the tiller at the rear and seven more Spetsnaz combat frogmen straddled the gunwale, lying low to reduce their profile. They wore black wet suits and night-vision gear. Compact Groza-4 assault carbines were slung across their shoulders. Fitted with suppressors on shortened barrels, the weapons were designed for close-quarters clandestine action.