Countdown to Midnight
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to my fellow storytellers, all of whom amaze and inspire me with their imagination and skill. The art of turning a geopolitical “what-if” into a believable and exciting story is a driving force for me. Let’s press on and see what more we can create. The possibilities are endless.
Epigraph
The lofty pine is oftenest shaken by the winds; High towers fall with a heavier crash; And the lightning strikes the highest mountain.
—Horace
It is not the roaring thunder that smites, but the silent lightning.
—Ivan Panin, Russian émigré literary scholar
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
About the Author
Also by Dale Brown
Copyright
About the Publisher
Cast of Characters
THE QUARTET DIRECTORATE
nick flynn, agent, former U.S. Air Force intelligence officer
laura van horn, agent, and a captain in the Alaska Air National Guard
carleton frederick fox, head of the Directorate’s American Station, Avalon House
gwen park, chief of security, American Station, Avalon House
gideon ayish, head of the Directorate’s Israeli Station
tadeusz kossak, agent, former officer in Poland’s Special Forces
shannon cooke, agent, former member of the U.S. Army’s ultra-secret Mission Support Activity
alain ricard, agent, former officer in France’s elite Marine Commandos
sara mcculloch, Predator drone operator, former staff sergeant in the U.S. Air Force
mark stadler, security officer, Avalon House, former member of U.S Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance
tony mcgill, agent, former sergeant in the British Special Air Service (SAS)
cole hynes, agent, former enlisted man, U.S. Army
wade vucovich, agent, former enlisted man, U.S. Army
jack “ripper” ingalls, LM-100J pilot, major in the Alaska Air National Guard
THE RAVEN SYNDICATE
pavel voronin, owner and chief executive officer
viktor skoblin, team leader, former major, Russian Spetsnaz special forces
vasily kondakov, Voronin’s top deputy, a former colonel in the GRU (Russia’s military intelligence agency)
yuri linnik, operative, former Spetsnaz officer
kirill zaitsev, operative, former Spetsnaz officer
dimitri fadeyev, operative, former member of GRU assassination force, Unit 29155
yvgeny kvyat, drone operator, former officer in the GRU
konstantin danilevsky, team leader aboard SSBN-64 Podmoskovye, former colonel in the Russian Spetsnaz special forces
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
charles horne, director of Central Intelligence
miranda reynolds, head of the Directorate of Operations
philip demopoulos, head of the Directorate of Analysis
RUSSIANS
piotr zhdanov, president of the Russian Federation
colonel mikhail krylov, 12th Main Directorate, Russian Ministry of Defense
major anatoly yakemenko, 12th Main Directorate, Russian Ministry of Defense
captain leonid kazmin, 12th Main Directorate, Russian Ministry of Defense
admiral boris pleshakov, commander, Northern Fleet
captain first rank mikhail nakhimov, Russian Navy, commander, SSBN-64 Podmoskovye
senior lieutenant ivan pokrovsky, Russian Navy, navigating officer, SSBN-64 Podmoskovye
captain second rank maxim arshavin, Russian Navy, executive officer, SSBN-64 Podmoskovye
lieutenant leonid volkov, Russian Navy, radio officer, SSBN-64 Podmoskovye
gennady kokorin, Minister of Defense
admiral nikolai golitsyn, commander, Russian Navy
lieutenant general yvgeny rogozin, commander, Russian Air Force
konstantin yumashev, head of the Federal Security Service, the FSB
sergei veselovsky, head of the Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR
aleksandr ivashin, head of the General Staff’s military intelligence agency, the GRU
major general konstantin rezanov, commander 42nd Rocket Division, Strategic Rocket Forces
senior lieutenant anatoly yalinsky, Russian Navy, diving officer, SSBN-64 Podmoskovye
IRANIANS
mohsen shirazi, commander, Revolutionary Guard Aerospace Force
arif khavari, high-ranking official in Iran’s state-owned shipping company
dr. hossein majidi, chief missile engineer, Shahrud Missile Test Facility
navid daneshvar, naval architect employed by the Shahid Darvishi Shipyards, Bandar Abbas
lieutenant hassan noorian, member of Revolutionary Guard escort force for MIDNIGHT truck convoy
captain reza heidari, Revolutionary Guard Corps naval officer, commander of the Gulf Venture
touraj dabir, Revolutionary Guard Corps naval officer, second-in-command aboard the Gulf Venture
ISRAELIS
lieutenant colonel dov tamir, military attaché to Austria, also a member of the IDF’s Secret Liaison Unit
rivka amar, Mossad officer, chief of security, Israeli embassy to Austria
miriam weiss, chief of the consular section, Israeli embassy to Austria
avi elazar, high-ranking official in the Israeli government
commander rafael alon, head of Shayatet 13, Israel’s naval commando force
AFGHAN
masoud bokharai, government official, Nimroz Province, Afghanistan
Prologue
Aboard IRIS Damavand, in the Southern Caspian Sea
July
Off the northern Iranian coast, a sleek, 1,500-ton missile frigate lay at anchor, riding gently up and down as low waves rolled across the vast inland sea. On the open ocean, the Damavand would have been dwarfed by larger destroyers, cruisers, and aircraft carriers in the service of the world’s major naval powers. On the waters of the landlocked Caspian, however, the gray-painted Iranian war vessel, armed with anti-ship cruise missiles, a 76mm gun, and torpedoes, was the local equivalent of a mighty WWII-era battleship. The navies of most of Iran’s neighbors, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan, were little more than collections of even smaller and more antiquated missile boats and other patrol craft. Even Russia’s Caspian Flotilla, based at Astrakhan, more than a thousand kilometers north across the sea, had no warships larger than the Damavand ready for duty.
For all of that, Pavel Voronin knew, this frigate, the pride of Iran’s Northern Fleet, was far more useful as an observation platform for today’s test than it would be in any real modern war. Naval guns and short-range cruise missiles were mere toys in any all-out struggle waged between nations armed with rockets capable of striking targets half a world away. And despite their stern religious fervor, many of Iran’s theocratic rulers understood this reality better than most. Which was why video monitors and computer consoles manned by white-coated technicians and scientists were currently crammed into almost every available square meter of deck space aboard the small warship.
Smiling inwardly, the trim, fit Russian moved to the windows lining one side of Damavand’s bridge, followed by his Iranian hosts—a group of bearded Revolutionary Guard officers. Voronin’s elegantly tailored Savile Row suit and handmade Italian shoes stood out plainly among their dark green uniform tunics, rank-emblazoned shoulder boards, and wide-brimmed caps. Surrounded by these hard-faced men whose brutal tactics kept Iran’s radical Islamic regime in power and spread terror around the globe, he appeared to be nothing more than a cultured and prosperous businessman. He found that a useful facade, one that concealed his true nature—ruthless, predatory, and utterly self-interested.
“The countdown is proceeding normally,” one of the technicians stationed on the bridge behind them reported in Persian. His words were echoed in Russian by a translator assigned to Voronin. “The test vehicle is completing its transition to a vertical launch position.”
Voronin raised a pair of binoculars to his pale gray eyes and peered out through the windows. There, several kilometers away, a large barge motored across the sea. A gleaming white rocket topped by a black nose cone swung slowl
y upright from its deck, hoisted into position by a powerful hydraulic crane. Moments later, it locked into place, towering more than twenty-five meters above the barge.
He nodded appreciatively at the smooth completion of this delicate operation. While not large compared to the enormous heavy-lift rockets developed by the United States, Russia, and the People’s Republic of China, the Zuljanah space launch vehicle still massed more than fifty-two tons. And the solid-fuel engines in its first two stages and its liquid-propellant upper-stage motor could send a good-sized payload into space up to five hundred kilometers above the Earth’s surface.
“The launch pad’s stabilizers and motion compensators are engaged,” the technician said calmly, parroting reports radioed to Damavand by the flight crew controlling operations from inside an armored trailer bolted to the barge’s aft section. “Go for launch in sixty seconds.”
Still focused on the distant rocket, Voronin nodded again to himself, this time pleased by the demonstrated efficiency of his Iranian hosts. Tehran had carefully scheduled this test for a relatively short window when there were no American or Chinese spy satellites in position to observe the launch. Their infrared early-warning satellites in geosynchronous orbit would certainly detect the Zuljanah’s rocket plume as it roared aloft and provide tracking data on its trajectory. But the absence of visual and radar imagery would still conceal certain key elements of this planned test flight from both Washington and Beijing.
The last remaining seconds sped past in a monotone blur of engine status and other system readiness reports relayed from the flight crew. All around him, Voronin sensed a sudden spike of tension as the critical moment approached. Finally, the technician called out, “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . ignition!”
Across the sea, the barge disappeared suddenly, hidden by a billowing cloud of gray smoke—a cloud lit from within by a bright orange glow. Moments later, the bright white rocket appeared above the cloud, riding a scintillating pillar of fire and trailing a plume of exhaust as it soared skyward and arced toward the northeast. It was accompanied by a loud, crackling roar as the first sounds of liftoff finally reached the Iranian frigate.
Voronin tracked the missile as it rode higher and higher, smiling openly now. He knew that launching the Zuljanah to the northwest instead of the northeast would have better simulated an operational flight. But it would also have sent the rocket’s payload arcing high over Ukraine and Poland, apparently on a course toward Berlin or London. And there was no point in alarming those in the West. Not yet, at least.
Once the rocket disappeared from sight, he turned his attention to a monitor set up at the back of the warship’s bridge. Its screen showed flickering images of the Zuljanah captured by long-range tracking cameras as it arrowed onward through the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Puffs of white vapor blossomed abruptly around the midsection of the rapidly accelerating vehicle. Suddenly, the bottom third separated and fell away, tumbling end over end back toward the earth.
“Staging nominal,” the technician reported. And, as a new plume of flame appeared at the base of the now-truncated rocket, “Second-stage ignition.” Moments later, the process repeated as the Zuljanah’s second-stage engine finished its planned burn and detached—leaving the much smaller third stage’s motor to propel its payload the rest of the way into space.
Voronin saw the wavering, blurry pictures on the monitor vanish, replaced by a digital map with a bright green arrow depicting the spacecraft as it flew high above the central wastes of Kazakhstan. The speeding rocket had passed well beyond the range of Iran’s earthbound tracking cameras. From now on, the crew monitoring its flight would be dependent on telemetry from the spacecraft itself. “Payload deployment confirmed,” he heard the technician say. “The vehicle is now more than twenty-three hundred kilometers down range, and rapidly approaching the planned apogee of this suborbital test flight.”
Based on an earlier mission planning briefing by his Revolutionary Guard hosts, Voronin knew what to expect next. So he wasn’t surprised by the next flurry of reports.
“Telemetry indicates trouble aboard the spacecraft,” the technician said suddenly, still sounding calm. “Key flight control systems show signs of cascading hardware and software failure.”
Voronin noticed sly smiles appearing around him. The telemetry data currently being broadcast by the Iranian satellite was completely false. It was intended to deceive Iran’s enemies who must, by now, be closely monitoring every signal from this unannounced rocket test flight.
Mohsen Shirazi, the senior officer aboard, stepped forward. As commander of the Revolutionary Guard’s Aerospace Force, the gray-bearded brigadier general had shepherded this missile project from its earliest days—approving every detail of its design, construction, and flight testing. He stabbed a finger at the waiting technician. “Initiate autodestruct,” he ordered.
Seconds later, Voronin saw the telemetry feed abruptly cut off. To outward appearances, the “dying” Iranian spacecraft had been destroyed by conventional explosive charges as a safety precaution, so that its scattered debris would burn up harmlessly on reentry. In reality, this final detonation had been carefully planned. The payload’s precisely timed explosive destruction was one of the crucial elements of this entire experimental flight.
Shirazi turned toward him. “Well, Mr. Voronin?” he asked.
“Most impressive,” Voronin replied honestly, with a thin smile. “Your Zuljanah rocket is all that you promised . . . and more. I will recommend to Moscow that we proceed as agreed with POLNOCH’, MIDNIGHT.”
Shirazi and his comrades nodded in grave satisfaction. Though he kept a low profile, they knew Voronin was a wealthy Russian entrepreneur, a private citizen whose shadowy company—Sindikat Vorona, the Raven Syndicate—provided military and intelligence expertise, services, and equipment to the highest bidders in trouble spots around the globe. His close ties to the Kremlin and especially to Russia’s autocratic president, Piotr Zhdanov, were less widely known, but they made him the ideal go-between for this high-risk, high-stakes secret operation.
Russia and Iran might not share a common ideology, but both governments knew only too well that they had a common enemy in the United States and its global network of allies. And in the murky, amoral world of Realpolitik, the old adage “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” pointed the way forward for Moscow and Tehran. The two countries were also painfully aware that time was not on their side. Though outwardly militarily strong, confident, and aggressive, each faced growing internal challenges and weaknesses—troubles that might topple even the most repressive regime if left unchecked. Their growing fear of the future, Voronin knew, was what had made his masters in Moscow, along with Tehran’s theocrats, so eager to find some way, any way, however dangerous and however deadly, to overturn the world’s existing balance of power.
Cold amusement flickered in Pavel Voronin’s pale eyes. President Zhdanov, Shirazi, and all the others involved in this plan were convinced that MIDNIGHT was the answer to their prayers. And so it was. Left unsaid was the reality that it would also pave his personal path to even greater wealth and power.
One
Kitzbühel Ski Resort, Austria
January
Shadows cast by the setting sun stretched across a long, winding ski trail bordered by snow-dusted pines. Down in the narrow valley at the foot of the mountain, the Kitzbüheler Horn, lights were beginning to glow—outlining the streets and buildings of one of Austria’s most popular and charming Alpine villages. The forested heights of another peak, the Hahnenkamm, the Rooster’s Comb, climbed skyward on the other side of the town. Curving white trails crisscrossed the slopes of that mountain as well. Kitzbühel was the center of one of the largest ski areas in the Tyrolean Alps, attracting crowds of competitive skiers and the world’s jet-setters during the winter months.
Nicholas Flynn came gliding around a curve in the trail and turned to a quick stop off to one side. His skis sent a little curl of loose powder pattering downhill. He raised his goggles briefly, squinting down the slope ahead. This late in the day, the light was going flat, making it difficult to spot any bumps or dips along the surface. Fortunately, this was a trail designed for intermediate skiers, and not one of the steep, rugged runs favored by experts or amateurs with lots of medical insurance and a death wish.