Devil's Fortress, page 1
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BOOKS BY DALE BROWN
the nick flynn series
The Devil’s Fortress
Weapons of Opportunity
Countdown to Midnight
Arctic Storm Rising
the brad mclanahan series
Tiger’s Claw
Starfire
Iron Wolf
Price of Duty
The Moscow Offensive
The Kremlin Strike
Eagle Station
the patrick mclanahan series
Flight of the Old Dog
Night of the Hawk
Sky Masters
Day of the Cheetah
Shadows of Steel
Fatal Terrain
The Tin Man
Battle Born
Warrior Class
Wings of Fire
Air Battle Force
Plan of Attack
Strike Force
Shadow Command
Rogue Forces
Executive Intent
A Time for Patriots
the puppet master series (with jim defelice)
Puppet Master
Act of Revenge
the jason richter series
Act of War
Edge of Battle
the stephen coonts’ combat series (with larry bond, stephen coonts, and david hagberg)
Combat
the dale brown’s dreamland series ( with jim defelice)
Dreamland
Nerve Center
Razor’s Edge
Piranha
Strike Zone
Armageddon
Satan’s Tail
End Game
Retribution
Revolution
Whiplash
Black Wolf
Raven Strike
Collateral Damage
Drone Strike
Target Utopia
standalone novels
Silver Tower
Hammerheads
Chains of Command
Storming Heaven
THE DEVIL’S FORTRESS
DALE BROWN
Copyright © 2024 by Creative Arts and Sciences, LLC
E-book published in 2024 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Alenka Vdovič Linaschke
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission
of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-212-18842-5
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-212-18841-8
Fiction / Thrillers / Military
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
This novel is dedicated to the people of both Ukraine and Israel, especially those killed or wounded by the brutality and cruelty of others. America needs to stand firmly in support of these two nations.
“Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.”
JOHN MILTON, PARADISE LOST
“Out of intense complexities, intense simplicities emerge.”
WINSTON CHURCHILL
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
About the Author
PROLOGUE
special research institute for plant genetics,
near kameshkovo, east of moscow, russia
late spring
Silhouetted against the fiery orange-red glow of the setting sun, three twin-engine Kazan Ansat helicopters flew east in a V-formation above a dense green forest of pine and birch trees. The lead machine was a black-and-scarlet Aurus VIP luxury transport model. The two helicopters trailing it were far more utilitarian and lethal designs in olive-green-and-gray camouflage—equipped to carry troops and armed with door-mounted 12.7mm KORD heavy machine guns. Their stubby fuselage wings bristled with antimissile flare and chaff dispensers.
Not far ahead, the woods gave way to an extensive complex of modern-looking steel-and-glass buildings encircling an inner core of large, solidly built greenhouses. A double row of tall wire fences ringed this top-secret installation. Heavily armed guards manned a fortified checkpoint, securing the sole entry point.
Rotors whirling, the three helicopters swung low over the complex, and then flared in, landing one after another on a wide concrete helipad. The moment their skids touched down, uniformed men carrying submachine guns jumped out of each helicopter—fanning out across the pad to form a protective screen. For a long, tense moment, they scanned their surroundings, plainly ready to open fire at the slightest sign of any threat. At length, their leader spoke into his throat mike, “All clear, sir. The local security environment is Code Green.”
Immediately, Pavel Voronin swung down out of one of the two armed helicopters. Trim and physically fit, he straightened up easily. A slight frown crossed his face as he noted the now-dusty and wrinkled sleeves of his perfectly tailored Savile Row suit. Compared to the plush leather passenger seating of the Ansat Aurus VIP transport grounded nearby, the gunship’s fold-down canvas seats had been dirty, cramped, and uncomfortable.
But then Voronin shrugged, discarding his brief moment of irritation. It had been a sensible precaution to fly here crammed into the back of one of the escort helicopters, using the brightly painted Aurus as a decoy in case of a surprise missile attack. After all, he had dozens of handmade suits—but only one life. And there were a great many people, both inside and outside of Russia, who would be happy to see him dead.
For several years, his shadowy company—Sindikat Vorona, the Raven Syndicate—had provided advanced intelligence and military expertise, equipment, and black ops services to many of the world’s most unsavory regimes, all close allies of Moscow. Along the way, he had amassed tremendous power and personal wealth, climbing ever higher in the circles of Russia’s ruling elites. In fact, until very recently, his influence over the nation’s authoritarian president, Piotr Zhdanov, had made him effectively the second most powerful man in Russia.
Voronin had used this influence to orchestrate two back-to-back covert operations aimed at destroying the United States and completely upending the world’s balance of power in Moscow’s favor. The success of either plan would have left him perfectly positioned to elbow the aging Zhdanov aside and seize the reins of authority for himself. His frown deepened. Instead, both operations had failed, the last catastrophically so. As a result, he now teetered on a precipice, still enormously powerful and dangerous, but with an increasing number of foreign and domestic enemies eager to hurl him over the edge.
All of which made the secret research and development work being carried out at this relatively remote and highly guarded scientific complex that much more vital.
“An impressive-looking facility,” a quiet, self-assured voice said from behind him. “At least from the outside looking in. I only hope these supposed scientific breakthroughs justify the enormous sums you’ve invested here.”
Voronin turned to face the man who’d followed him out of the helicopter. Lean and long-faced, with short-cropped gray hair, his companion was the most visible sign of his weakened status.
Kiril Rodin was the Raven Syndicate’s new chief of Special Operations. But unlike the rest of Voronin’s personnel—mostly veterans of Russia’s foreign intelligence services, the SVR and GRU, and its armed forces—who were personally loyal to him and to the high salaries he paid, Rodin was wholly Zhdanov’s man. He was the Russian leader’s personal agent inside the Syndicate, and he had explicit orders to keep Voronin on a tight leash going forward.
That would have been bad enough, but Rodin was actually something considerably more dangerous. He was not simply Zhdanov’s spy; he was also a trained assassin. In effect, Rodin was the cocked pistol held ready at the base of Voronin’s skull—poised to liquidate him the moment the increasingly paranoid president lost patience with the younger man’s perceived f ailures or began to see him as a serious threat.
“You’ll be able to judge the strategic significance of these technical advances soon enough,” Voronin promised, holding his temper in check. He turned back to watch as the Institute’s director and chief scientist, Dr. Georgii Neminsky, hurried across the landing pad to greet them. A curt signal from his senior bodyguard sent two men to intercept the short, balding scientist before he got too close. Swiftly and efficiently, they patted him down for concealed weapons before passing him through.
Now somewhat flustered and disheveled, Neminsky was still straightening his tie when he reached them. “Welcome back, Mr. Voronin. We’re honored, as always.” He turned to Rodin. “You must be―”
“Rodin. Chief of Special Operations,” the gray-haired man said simply.
“And also my resident skeptic,” Voronin told Neminsky with a slight, humorless smile.
Obviously unsure of how to react, the scientist merely bobbed his head in acknowledgment and gestured toward the central building. “All right then, gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, I can brief you fully on our extraordinary progress.”
While the hallways and administrative workspaces the scientist guided them through wouldn’t have looked out of place in any ordinary modern office building, the Institute’s primary laboratory control center was eye-opening—a technological marvel that might have been the bridge of some enormous science fiction starship. Consoles topped by keyboards, multiple UHD displays, and virtual reality goggles paired with controllers of varying types were slotted along stepped, curving tiers—all facing a wall-sized screen. White-coated technicians and scientists manned these consoles, wholly intent on monitoring what appeared to be a bewildering array of brightly color-coded graphs and streams of ever-changing alphanumerical data.
Watching his subordinate/minder, Voronin hid a cynical smile. Despite his earlier skepticism, it was obvious that Rodin could not help being impressed. That was one hurdle down. Now it was time to discover if the other man could think strategically—on a global scale—or if he was just another unimaginative trained killer fit only to follow orders from his superiors.
Voronin glanced at Neminsky. “You may proceed.”
Obeying, the scientist touched a control at one of the consoles. Immediately, the large central wall display blinked to life. It showed the view from a camera covering the complex’s inner core. Fortress-like windowless structures ringed multiple greenhouses. Another tap highlighted them in red. “These are our key research labs,” he explained. “They are accessible only through a series of ‘clean’ rooms of steadily increasing rigor. To kill surface bacteria and reduce the odds of potential contaminants entering from the outside world, we use high-intensity ultraviolet lighting and keep them under positive air pressure. We also recirculate the air inside through a series of ultra-efficient particulate filters, while maintaining consistent temperature and humidity levels.”
Voronin saw Rodin nod his understanding of the need for such precautions. Advanced genetic manipulation and selective breeding research being carried out by the Institute’s scientists required near-total control over the laboratory environment. The slightest unwanted infection or impurity could create havoc, wrecking whole experimental strains and causing weeks or even months of delay.
Neminsky selected another control. The camera view zoomed in on the greenhouses sited at the very heart of the sprawling facility. Lights glowed brightly inside some of them. Others were dark. “Entering these greenhouses themselves requires an even more demanding set of precautions,” he continued. “No one goes inside unless they’re wearing a full biohazard suit, complete with sterile gloves, boots, and air-displacer helmets—and then only after completing a series of intense decontamination protocols. And, naturally, those same rigorous decontamination protocols apply to anyone leaving the greenhouses—which are also held under negative air pressure to help prevent the escape of any of our genetically altered organisms.”
Rodin frowned. “That seems remarkably cumbersome.”
“It is,” Neminsky agreed, “which is why all but the most delicate work inside these areas is conducted remotely—using special, purpose-built robots and other machines controlled or supervised from this control center.” He indicated the virtual reality gear equipping many of the room’s consoles. “In effect, we operate our test sites as if they were their own, entirely separate alien worlds.”
“At a tremendous expense,” Rodin observed, “according to the figures I’ve been shown.”
“Dr. Neminsky’s precautions are quite necessary,” Voronin assured Rodin. He signaled the scientist. “Show him your results, Georgii.”
With a tight nod, Neminsky brought up a series of new images—this time from cameras sited inside several of the greenhouses themselves. They showed row upon row of dead and dying plants. Brown and yellowish patches discolored their leaves, stalks, or stems. He switched from camera to camera, naming the different crops as they were shown. “What you see are wheat, corn, barley, rye, potatoes, rice, soybeans, and sorghum, among others―”
“The world’s most important food sources for both humans and livestock,” Voronin pointed out.
Neminsky nodded. “Exactly.”
“And your creations are what’s killing them?” Rodin said slowly. “These plant diseases you’ve manipulated?”
Again, the scientist nodded. “Most of our work here is focused on fungi, the chief destroyers of plants in the natural world. Our most recent tests confirm that the organisms we have successfully engineered are now resistant to all currently available fungicides.”
Rodin stared at the screens. “Which means what, exactly?”
“Already nearly a quarter of the world’s food crops fall prey to naturally occurring fungal infections,” Neminsky told him. He indicated the imagery of dead and dying plants. “But we estimate that our modified organisms are lethal enough to wipe out between 95 and 98 percent of any infected crop. And we have also successfully modified these fungal spores to survive extremes of temperature, humidity, and UV radiation . . . all while being so small that they are easily dispersed by the wind.”
Rodin looked at him. “So, in effect, you’ve created a new class of doomsday weapons.” He shook his head dismissively. “Weapons that cannot have any practical use in the real world. Who would seriously contemplate releasing diseases that would effectively destroy the entire world’s food supply? No one.” He glanced sidelong at Voronin. “Except, I suppose, a suicidal madman determined to pull the whole human race down into the grave with him.” His bemused expression hardened. “And I can assure you that President Zhdanov is neither suicidal nor insane, which means this costly research and development effort—scientifically impressive though it may be—is nothing but a dead end. And a total waste of the Syndicate’s resources.”
Voronin merely smiled. “Ah, Rodin. I fear you’ve committed the cardinal error of jumping to a flawed conclusion on the basis of incomplete data.” He turned to Neminsky. “Perhaps you can explain the situation more fully to our friend?”
The scientist nodded. “We have been conducting another extensive research program—one that runs parallel with our development of these more infectious and lethal plant diseases.” He brought up new imagery on the central wall display. These showed video captured inside other greenhouses. Greenhouses that were full of lush, vibrant plants. “The fields you see here have also been exposed to our weaponized plant diseases,” he explained. “But we sowed them using seeds genetically modified to resist the effects of our deadlier creations. In addition, we’ve developed high-efficiency fungicides tailored specifically to these altered fungal spores. This means we can extract normal crop yields even from the worst-infected agricultural zones.”
