Collision

by William S. Cohen

  “National security? What the hell are you talking about?” Lebed asked.

  Oxley told him about Ivan’s Hammer and got an incredulous laugh in response.

  “Oh, come now, Blake … I can call you that now. That’s science fiction.”

  “Look it up in your archives. And I’ll send you what our files have on asteroids as space weapons. We think Basayev may be going in that direction: take control of SpaceMine, make demands, and stir global panic. You may think Ivan’s Hammer is amusing, but I’m sure your scientists will agree on the danger of changing a near-Earth asteroid’s orbit. And I think we need to get the UN involved in … well, a scientist I admire has a name for it: ‘defense of the Earth.’ I think we could make it a good joint project.”

  “I’d like to know more,” Lebed said cautiously. “As for Kuri Basayev, it appears that he is a problem.” He patted the pocket. “I will take care of the problem.”

  Oxley saw a waiter emerge from the hilltop restaurant. Someone pulled him back in.

  “There’s no time to talk much more,” Oxley said. “The security boys are getting nervous. This has been a good little session.”

  “I agree. It’s good to get to a moment where there’s no bullshit.… There’s one more thing. I know you get those morning intelligence reports on what the vacuum cleaners picked up. So do I.” Lebed looked down at the Bosporus glittering below. “We—and probably you, too—got a tap that showed your Mr. Hamilton is planning to visit Basayev. In fact, right now Basayev’s off there somewhere.” Lebed pointed toward the Black Sea. “And your Mr. Hamilton is in Moscow at this very moment, enjoying the hospitality of one of Russia’s finest hotels. It would be unfortunate if his meeting with Basayev takes place.”

  “That’s right,” Oxley said. “We’ve been thinking about finding a technical way to stop Hamilton. He might try to become a fugitive. But at the moment he can legally travel.”

  “Like Snowden,” Lebed said with a sharp laugh.

  Oxley did not respond.

  “Seriously,” Lebed resumed, “We’ll make sure Hamilton doesn’t visit Basayev. It could make matters complicated.”

  “Okay,” Oxley said, extending his hand, wondering what was going to happen to Basayev, yet knowing.

  “This looks like it might be starting something good,” Lebed said.

  “I sure hope so. Putin saw everything as a zero-sum game. Russia wins, America loses. That’s back-to-the-future thinking. It won’t work. Not in the long run. But we both lose in the meantime.”

  “Perhaps when you recognize that Russia is a great country and more worthy of respect than you and your European friends have given us … But enough. Let’s talk again another time.”

  They shook hands and began walking toward the top of the hill as Turkish commandos and men in suits began appearing.

  Oxley began speaking rapidly: “Listen, Boris. This is an opportunity for Russia to finally be serious about wanting to play a leading role on the world stage again and assume the role of a real peacemaker.”

  “What kind of a deal are you talking about?” Lebed asked.

  “We’ve got to come to terms about the asteroid that Basayev’s involved with. He and Hamilton are putting us—all of us—in danger.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “A joint press conference announcing our plan to support asteroid research and bring the UN into space. After all, your country has had an asteroid skim over it.”

  “I have advisors. You have advisors. They don’t want us to talk. They’ll go crazy,” Lebed said, his smile returning. “I assume that pocket of yours also has a draft of a statement about all this.”

  “It so happens that you’re right,” Oxley said, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket. “It has my cell phone number on it. Take a look, make whatever changes you want. We can bounce it back and forth and have a press conference later today.”

  “I’ll take a look, as you put it,” Lebed said. “Maybe show it to a couple of my people and get back to you. But there’s something we haven’t discussed … China.”

  “You want to bring the Chinese into this?”

  “We don’t have a choice. You know that they’re working to set up shop on the moon and then use it as launching pad to colonize Mars.”

  “They’re a long way from doing either,” Oxley said, a touch dismissively.

  “Not so far away, I assure you. We’ve been talking to them. They are going to shock you. Believe me.… They’re working on a solar sail to move asteroids as well. We need to meet this afternoon with President Zhang Xing. Otherwise, he’ll think this is a plot to contain China’s missions in space.”

  “But Zhang might tell the world what Hamilton and Basayev have been up to and claim that China’s research is for science, peace, and harmony.” Oxley made no attempt to conceal his growing frustration in dealing with an increasingly powerful and not-so-humble China. “And then denounce us as global terrorists!”

  “If he does, we’ll go public with what we’ve got on the Chinese military.” Lebed chortled. “Your NSA doesn’t know everything, well … at least not anymore. Our FSB may be a little old-school for you, but we still do intelligence the old-fashioned way.” A smile spread across Lebed’s broad face, revealing a set of teeth so perfect that Oxley found himself wondering if they were real. “We might even release documents showing how much he and his family have tucked away in Swiss bank accounts and London real estate. All that propaganda about antimaterialism and rooting out corruption … well, it might not play so well on Twitter.”

  “Tell me, Boris,” Oxley said, leaning slightly into Lebed’s shoulder. “Do you know what a ‘Sabra’ is?”

  “Of course, it’s a Hebrew word for Jews who are born in Israel.”

  “Yes, and it also refers to people who are like a desert cactus, a prickly pear, which is tough on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside.”

  “Your point being?”

  “I know Sabras, Boris,” Oxley said, jabbing Lebed’s arm. “And you’re no Sabra!”

  Taking Oxley’s joke as a compliment, Lebed said, “You’re right. I am more like what one of your politicians once said about your political caucuses—the pricks are all on the inside.”

  With that, both presidents broke into unrestrained and infectious laughter and Lebed said, “It is good, Blake, that we have this talk. We should have more.”

  *

  Two motorcades appeared at the top of the park, near the restaurant. Each president’s official photographer had them pose for a handshake before they headed for their cars. When Oxley got into his limousine, he found Ray Quinlan awaiting him in the backseat. He was seething.

  “First that goddamn golf course caper,” Quinlan said. “Now this, Mr. President. What the hell are you doing? You could lose a secretary of state over this. She’s back in the villa, boiling mod.”

  “So are you, Ray,” Oxley said, laughing.

  “Again, what the hell are you doing?”

  “A walk in the woods. Like Reagan and Gorbachev.”

  “Get your facts right, Mr. President. The walkers in the woods were Paul Nitze and a Russian negotiator.”

  “Well, anyway, it will go into the memoir,” Oxley said.

  “Are you going to wait for the memoir before you tell me what you two talked about?”

  “World peace, Ray. What in hell do you think we’d talk about?”

  “Fine. But how about a few details? The press is going crazy and we’ve got to brief them before they start running totally false stories and crazy speculations. Was it a good meeting or a bad one? Nasty or nice? Lebed’s a fucking dictator masquerading as a moderate. New bottle, old wine. Stone-cold killer. Come on, Mr. President. Give me something.”

  “Okay, Ray, okay. Tell Jimmy to alert the press that Lebed and I will hold a press conference this afternoon to make a major announcement.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Well, there’s likely to be one more. Pres
ident Zhang Xing.”

  “What?… What about the Indians, the Japanese…”

  “I’m sure that all of them are going to support what we’ll say,” Oxley said, free of any self-doubt about what he was about to do. “Come on, Ray. Enough of the negative stuff. ‘Doveryai, no proveryai.’”

  “Jesus, You really believe that ‘trust but verify’ shit?”

  “Ray, I said to get on board. We’re about to make some history.”

  73

  Kuri Basayev rose from a night of lovemaking and slipped on a pair of swimming trunks. He moved swiftly from the master bedroom suite without disturbing his companion and climbed to the top deck of the Aglaya.

  While not obsessively narcissistic, Basayev was proud of how his body looked. He was lean, muscular, and tanned. Worthy of an Esquire magazine cover, he mused. Well, only if he was a publicity-seeking hound, which he clearly was not.

  Women were drawn magnetically to him. On occasion, he would be seen in the company of a beautiful woman, but his interests lay elsewhere. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the company of women. Actually, he found them to be both interesting and entertaining. But whenever he sensed they were moving a bit too close to intimacy, he diplomatically eschewed their romantic advances by intimating that his heart belonged to others.

  Those “others” required extreme discretion. He could not afford to have rumors floated about his sexuality. Not in today’s Russia. Maybe not in any Russia.

  Nikolay, his latest love, had been carefully vetted—and forewarned. His relationship with Basayev was to remain private. Failure to abide by the rules would have grave consequences. Nikolay had little trouble understanding the message.

  *

  Today was picture-perfect in every way. The sun had surfaced miraculously from behind the horizon, mystical in its illusion of cylindrical perfection. So close, you could dive into its very center and emerge as a god on fire.

  The giant red ball had burned off the earlier morning haze, revealing a sky so blue that it convinced Basayev that there really was a heaven on Earth.

  “Another shitty day in paradise,” Basayev joked to his two steroid-buffed-up bodyguards.

  “Right, boss,” Andre Margelov, the taller of the two, responded. “Better enjoy it. Weather is supposed to shift tomorrow.”

  Basayev dove into the saltwater pool that ran nearly the length of the Aglaya. He swam with long, leisurely strokes for nearly thirty minutes. Invigorated, he concluded a final lap and then hoisted himself out of the pool. An eager servant handed him a large Egyptian cotton towel emblazoned with the letters “KB” and placed a freshly brewed cup of coffee at a table nestled between two teakwood deck chairs.

  As Basayev toweled off and slipped into one of the padded chairs, he picked up the book he had skimmed the previous evening before turning his attention to Nikolay.

  The book had a clever title, which had caught Basayev’s eye. The author of The Geography of Bliss had traveled to a number of countries in an effort to determine which people deemed themselves happy, and which did not—and the reasons that accounted for their state of mind.

  In some countries where the people were dirt poor, the writer had found that the people were generally satisfied with their lives. Yet in other, more wealthy nations, he discovered palpable discontent and unhappiness. The answer seemed to be that those who were happy had trust in their leaders and fellow citizens. They believed that whatever their economic status, others saw them as people and truly cared for their well-being.

  “What horseshit! Pure psychobabble,” Basayev laughed, and tossed the book into a large straw wastebasket. “I’m happy,” he proclaimed to his two musclemen, who had no idea what prompted him to blurt out his feelings at that moment.

  I’m about to dump that sniveling coward Hamilton, Basayev thought. That loser who pissed his pants at the thought of having to meet with the FBI, a bunch of law-school rejects who think they can still ride on a reputation they no longer deserve—if they ever did.… Soon, I’ll be one of the richest men in the world and I’ll hold the keys to the future in my hands. And I won’t have to worry about the law because in Russia, Boris Lebed is the law, and his law is all that matters!

  Basayev rose from his chair and started for the gym below, where he planned to lift weights and then spar with his black-belt martial-arts instructor.

  A soft whine in the sky above caught his attention. He glanced up and saw what looked like a large bird, silhouetted against the sun, circling overhead. He surmised it was at least ten to fifteen thousand feet above them. It couldn’t be a bird. He had never heard a bird make such a sound.

  “Andre,” Basayev shouted, “what in hell is that … thing?”

  Margelov, placing his left hand over the brow of his forehead, squinted at the object Basayev was pointing to. “Don’t know, boss. Looks like some kind of small plane,” he said, hitting the call button of his walkie-talkie.

  “Captain, there’s a plane circling above us. Can you get a call through and tell the pilot to fuck off? And I mean now!”

  Several minutes passed as the plane continued to circle overhead. Finally, the Aglaya’s captain said, “Sorry, I can’t get through to the pilot. I must have the wrong transmission code or he simply refuses to acknowledge the call.”

  Without further warning, Margelov whipped off the automatic rifle slung across his shoulder, slammed the bolt of his weapon back, and fired a burst of twenty rounds in the direction of the plane. It was a foolish and futile act. The bullets had no chance of hitting the aircraft.

  Almost in anticipation of Margelov’s action, the plane above peeled away to the right, and then swung behind the Aglaya’s stern, releasing two smoking arrows that headed straight for the boat.

  “Holy fuck, boss. Get below. Quick! That son of a bitch is going to…” Margelov’s warning died in his throat. The aircraft was Russia’s latest entry into its drone arsenal.

  It was the Altius-M, developed at, and operated out of, the Sokol design bureau in Tatarstan. It was patterned after the American-designed MQ-9 Reaper and was two years ahead of what the CIA had predicted for its production schedule.

  Unlike the Reaper, it carried only two Hellfire-type missiles and not fourteen. But two missiles were more than enough to sink the Aglaya.

  Each of the laser-guided missiles weighed over a hundred pounds, including a twenty-pound warhead, and traveled at a speed of 950 miles per hour. One of the missiles carried a thermobaric warhead, which penetrated the surface of the Aglaya and collapsed the lungs of all personnel on board before burning them to a crisp.

  The second missile carried an armor-piercing warhead and locked on to the Aglaya’s large fuel tanks, which had been refilled the previous day.

  In a matter of a few seconds, the Aglaya was shredded into a thousand pieces and reduced to a smoldering burnt-out carcass of a sea myth, bobbing on the surface of the Black Sea.

  74

  Two days after the G-20 summit, GNN’s Ned Wilson, nearly hyperventilating, broke through an afternoon soap opera to make an unscheduled news announcement.

  “This just in,” he said, as an image of a white yacht came on screen. “Turkey is reporting the apparent sinking of the yacht Aglaya, owned by multibillionaire Kuri Basayev, the Russian financier who is one of the richest men in the world. He is believed to have been on board, along with an undisclosed number of friends and crew members.”

  In the right-hand corner of the screen appeared an officer in a white uniform, standing in front of a map of Turkey. A caption identified him as Captain Ömer Ozsecen of the Turkish navy.

  As Ozsecen spoke, an interpreter translated: “A fisherman reported hearing a very loud explosion and seeing flames twenty or thirty meters high this morning.” The officer pointed to the map, and the interpreter continued. “The spot was about sixty kilometers off Sinop. A destroyer sent to the area discovered evidence of wreckage identified as the Aglaya. No survivors were found.…”

  *

&n
bsp; Upon learning of the sinking of the Aglaya, Ray Quinlan quickly directed that all members of President Oxley’s national security team meet with Oxley for a briefing in the Situation Room. The greetings and normal preliminaries were dispensed with as President Oxley made it clear that he was in no mood for business as usual.

  “Frank,” the President said, directing his question to Frank Carlton, the director of national intelligence. “How many goddamn times does GNN have to beat the CIA to the news when it involves something as important as the sinking of Kuri Basayev’s boat? Jesus!”

  “I don’t have a good answer for you, Mr. President,” Carlton said sheepishly.

  “And don’t tell me it’s because Congress has crippled the NSA! We’re supposed to be tracking every movement, every conversation that President Lebed and his military chiefs have. When did that stop?”

  “It hasn’t stopped, but…”

  “Never mind, just tell me what in hell happened. Was it an accident as GNN is reporting?”

  Carlton shook his head. “No. It went down off Sinop. There used to be a Turkish naval base there. Now it’s a university. But luckily, one of our destroyers happened to be in the area and picked up a radar trail. Here are several photos our boys took. Take a look.”

  Oxley did so, and saw a ghostly red trail arching across the Black Sea. In a corner of the photo was an inset photo of a drone.

  “The Russians call it the Altius-M, their new long-range attack UAV. It looks to be a knockoff of our Reaper,” Carlton said.

  “I thought our intelligence people said the Russians were two years away from building drones,” Oxley queried, clearly angry and worried about this revelation.

  “Well, the Russians have been getting some help from the Israelis on design work and the Iranians gave them access to the RQ-170 that we lost over the border of Afghanistan, and the Russian scientists are no slouches when it comes to technology and the budget of ten billion dollars that President Lebed is pouring into their UAV program…”

  “Okay. Okay,” Oxley said, anxious to get on with the briefing, while signaling that it was anything but okay with him.