Goliath

by Richard Turner

The White House

  Oval Office

  President Donald Kempt switched off the television and wearily sat down on the dark-green, leather couch. A youthful man with a thick mop of prematurely gray hair, he was the first president elected from the state of North Dakota. With a daily stream of bad news about the deteriorating situation in Russia flowing into the White House, he felt the full weight of his job pushing down on his shoulders. He wondered why anyone one would ever put themselves through such torment to be president. He was not even sure that he had the stamina to go through this for another four years. He shook off such thoughts for another day and turned his attention toward the members of his staff.

  Several members of the president’s National Security sat quietly in the room, but with the holiday season upon them, several of the usual key staff members were still noticeably absent.

  “I know what CNN is telling me, but what is the true situation in Russia, and how much longer can President Ivankov keep a lid on the growing unrest?” asked the president, throwing the question out to the room.

  Dan Leonard, the president’s National Security Advisor, a white-haired, former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, took out his reading glasses, placed them on his wide nose, and started to read the latest information that he had received from his various field offices. Leonard cleared his throat and then spoke. “Mister President, things are getting worse by the minute over there. Martial law was established throughout the country earlier tonight, but that did not prevent a suicide bombing at the Domodedovo International Airport in Moscow. This attack resulted in the deaths of at least forty-five Americans, nearly all university students, along with a hundred and sixty-five other foreign nationals who were all waiting in line to board a plane out of the country. It’s still a confused situation at the airport, but our field personnel over there are working closely with the local authorities to try and get an accurate count of our casualties.” Leonard did not make eye contact with the president as he continued to thumb through his file. He found what he was looking for and continued. “My counterpart in the Russian government says that he believes that at least another one hundred and eighty-five Russians were killed earlier in the day, when a tanker truck full of fuel was detonated outside of a police checkpoint in the heart of Moscow, and hundreds more have horrific wounds from the fire. It may take them a couple of days to confirm their exact totals, as these figures also include those potentially incinerated in the blast.”

  “My God, this is worse than Iraq at the height of the insurrection,” said David Grant, the Vice President. Grant was a Texan, ten years older than the president; he was a popular man, with hawkish views on national security. He squirmed forward in his chair and said, “Damn it all. We need to do more to help the Russian government, before they fall to this cabal of nationalist terrorist groups. Russia’s the number two exporter of oil in the entire world, and I don’t need to remind anyone that any interruption in the flow of that oil would have a crippling effect on the economies of Europe, China, and Japan. Our own economy isn’t as strong as we had predicted earlier in the year. We cannot sit idly by and allow the world to spiral into a depression that would make the 1930s look like child’s play. It wouldn’t sit well with the voters.”

  The president shot Grant a ‘not now’ look for his last comment.

  “Sir, I have to agree with the VP. It’s in our best interests to push Congress for another multi-billion-dollar aid package to their military and law agencies, before all is lost. To do nothing would be suicide with the electorate,” said bookish-looking John Morillo, the current Director of the FBI.

  “What about ties to known terror organizations? Has anyone taken the time to see if these attacks are their handiwork?” the vice president threw out, as he took a sip of coffee. “We hurt them badly in Yemen, Somalia, and Afghanistan. I have no doubt that they’re looking for ways to strike back at us. I know right-wing groups don’t normally mix with Islamists, but stranger things have happened, especially when it is in both of their interests. We know that they’re always looking for new and more imaginative ways to strike here in the States.”

  Voices rose in the room at the mention of another possible attack on the United States.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said the president, trying to keep his team focused on the problem at hand. “The issue now is what do we do to prevent the fall of a friendly government?” President Kempt paused for a moment to ensure he had everyone’s attention. “I hate to say it, but we should acknowledge the fact that it may already be too late for President Ivankov; pro-Western or not, he has failed to contain this worsening crisis.”

  “What about Dmitry Romanov?” the vice president asked. “He is definitely pro-Western and is reputed to have ties to the Romanov royal family, something that would sit well with hardliners in both camps. Hell, he could easily be seen by many as a compromise candidate for the Presidency.”

  President Kempt sat silently, lost in thought for a few moments. “You may be right, Dave. He may be the only option left to us in a couple of days if Russia continues to fall apart,” said the president, wishing things were not so dire.

  No one said a word, but the implications were clear, the U.S. needed to be ready to step in and help oversee the peaceful transition between Romanov and Ivankov. No one wanted a reactionary nationalist government with access to Russia’s vast nuclear arsenal. Events were spiraling out of control, and they had to be prepared to act—and act decisively—to ensure that Russia did not collapse into total anarchy.

  “Mister President, I have met Romanov on several occasions over the years. With your blessing I will start exploratory talks immediately,” said Grant to the president.

  “I don’t want this to get out into the media that we are looking at replacing President Ivankov,” said the President. “Dave, treat this as a social call and nothing else right now. Ivankov still represents the horse I’d like to back in this race, but we need to be prepared to act should he continue to falter.”

  There was a knock at the door. An aide entered the room and, without saying a word, walked over to Dan Leonard and handed him a note. As the Chairman of the NSA read the note, the color drained from his face. “Oh God, no,” Leonard blurted out.

  “Now what?” asked the vice president.

  Everyone in the room leaned forward in their seats as they waited on Leonard’s next words.

  Leonard hesitated; he seemed to be searching for the right words to say. “Mister President, the South African Ambassador is asking to see you immediately. It would appear that they were not completely honest with the world about their nuclear disarmament program. It would appear that they retained two nuclear bombs as a means of deterrence, but they have been reported as stolen,” said Leonard as he sat back and blankly stared out of the window.

  “Do you mean to tell me that there are two nuclear bombs loose out there?” shouted the vice president.

  “It would appear so,” replied Leonard.

  No one in the room noticed as President Kempt sank deeper into his couch, and seemed to age several years in an instant.

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