News of it reached Russia, and the public was elated. This was Russia—this was exactly how a nation of warriors ought to handle things.
The next day, over the Arctic, Russian fighters tangled with U.S. jets, neither side yielding.
On the third day, Russia's Ministry of Defense issued a statement: at noon, a Russian fighter intercepted a U.S. Navy EP-3 electronic reconnaissance aircraft over the Caspian Sea and strongly condemned such American behavior.
Three straight days of friction. U.S. Ambassador to Russia Muse was deeply concerned and called President Palmer personally. Incidents like these weren't unheard of in the past, but announcing them at such a delicate moment carried a different weight.
A week later, the White House abruptly held a press conference announcing the expulsion of 35 Russian diplomats and the seizure of several properties used for intelligence work.
After the airport attack, Washington had two basic theories on how Moscow would react. One: Russia would flip straight to wartime posture—proxy war against the U.S., even direct conflict. No one wanted that outcome.
Two: Russia would take the oblique path and retaliate inside the United States using the same methods. That was not baseless speculation; there was precedent—the infamous Munich Massacre.
In 1972, at the 20th Summer Olympics in Munich, West Germany, members of Israel's delegation were taken hostage by the terrorist group Black September, which demanded the release of Palestinians held by Israel.
Despite a rescue attempt by West German authorities, and five terrorists killed, all eleven Israeli athletes were murdered. Afterward, Mossad launched a campaign of revenge, sending trained operatives as assassins to kill Palestinian leaders and anyone connected to the Munich attack around the world.
Proxy war or full-scale conflict were both possible, but the Kremlin had serious reservations—once war starts, it doesn't stop just because one side wants it to.
What the White House feared most was Option Two. If Moscow followed Israel's playbook, the American public would question the administration's competence—and if the consequences were severe, the U.S. might be forced into open war.
So while agencies were scrambling to catch Makarov, the domestic counterintelligence arm—the FBI—wasn't idle either. To prevent a cornered Russia from lashing out, a great many low-threat suspected spies were summarily expelled.
Since the Cold War began, both sides have never stopped placing agents in each other's countries. Some were caught; others have stayed in deep cover for years.
No one knew if Russia would really imitate Israel—but America had to prepare for the worst.
…
Omega Headquarters
Silly Sweetie stared bloodshot at her monitors. She had been working forty-eight hours straight. The rest of the intel cell had put in at least thirty-two. Not just them—every U.S. intel shop had been grinding overtime these past couple of days, sorting through the flood.
She flipped through feeds on her big screens. Suddenly something snagged her eye. She scrolled back to confirm, fell into thought—then bolted out of her chair and rushed to Steve Owen's office.
Three minutes later, Omega's primary team was gathered in the ops brief room.
"These fund flows look fishy. I traced them—all tied to a logistics company. The real controller of that company is 'Alexander Normanov,' but that's just an alias. I matched his face—guess who he is?"
"Yuri?"
As she spoke, she slapped a photo onto the briefing board. Steve recognized the man at a glance. Surname unknown—he was known as one of Makarov's closest lieutenants and right-hand man. They'd seen him before, when Makarov traded for the plutonium core.
"Right. Yuri. I pulled this company's activity and found a suspicious site—here. It's very likely a Makarov or White Masks safe site, but we have no hard intel proving Makarov himself is there…"
Silly Sweetie zoomed in on the digital map. A top-down satellite view appeared: a camp tucked into the forested hills. The label beneath marked it as Ukraine, Korsnoshe Mountains.
Steve heard her analysis and decided quickly. Intelligence is never a hundred percent. Most of the time it's only an aid. Whether Makarov was there or not—go and see.
He tapped the board, then pointed at Makarov's photo.
"Gear up. You've got thirty minutes. I'll get the Pentagon to backstop us. We lift in thirty. This one's code-named—Operation Kingfish."
…
Ukraine, Korsnoshe Mountains
Operation Kingfish was Omega's first U.S. grab attempt on Makarov, and the military gave it weight. They put a V-22 Osprey on transport and exfil duty and tasked an AC-130 gunship for close air support.
After repeated satellite passes, they picked a clearing as LZ. The Osprey flared and descended, rotor wash rolling the grass like waves. Skids down, ramp dropped. One more gear check, and Steve Owen led the team off and toward the target camp.
"Perimeter is clear. No movement."
From her console, Silly Sweetie watched the camp's every twitch via satellite. The landing had drawn no reaction. She poured herself another coffee—only thing keeping her upright. While the team moved, she'd kept constant eyes on the site and already mapped its force layout.
"On the observation point."
Steve's voice came over comms. They'd slipped through a belt of trees and reached the camp's vicinity. Ahead lay the lower slope; the camp sat below—blocky structures like barracks. They stayed in cover and watched while Swagger and Fred peeled off to find their own sniper perches.
"All normal."
Silly Sweetie again in their ears.
Using brush and trees as cover, Steve and the rest crept closer. Soon they were at the tree line—the camp's edge. No fencing; one more step and they'd be inside.
On a shoulder of the slope, Swagger set up his CheyTac Intervention M-200. The "Intervention" was built for extreme-range work—sub-MOA at 2,500 yards. Swagger had picked it specifically for this op.
"Wind three miles an hour, straight on; elevation correction four-point-five; adjust three mils on the glass…"
Fred, acting as spotter, tossed grass blades into the air from his palm and rattled off the numbers. Swagger dialed his turrets, each click a tiny "tch."
"Snipers in position. Four guards on the roofs, east and west barracks."
As Fred reported, Swagger settled the crosshairs on one of them.
"Operation Kingfish is go. Objective: capture Makarov alive."
______
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