by Dale Brown
“I am not turning against you, my friends, I am appealing to you. You destroyed hundreds of square miles of Russian soil, killed hundreds of thousands of citizens, and poisoned perhaps half our nation. I did not tell you to do these things. I am asking for a promise to repay Russia for the destruction you caused. If you are unwilling to live with the fact that you made it possible for your ally Ukrayina to attack us with nuclear weapons, you should help rebuild what you destroyed.”
The President was on his feet, the phone cord almost pulling the bucket of Colonel Sanders’ chicken onto the floor. He’d pushed back his chair and was now pacing behind his desk. His face was red, puffed up, his eyes burning. “No, you listen to me, Sen’kov, my friend. You’re no better than the asshole we just got rid of. This is nothing but blackmail by someone who’s now in a position to do it. If we hadn’t intervened with NATO, and Velichko had stayed in power, I guarantee you that he woulda had you shoveling shit in Siberia. But you came to us. You sat in this very office and sold him out and now you’re proposing something just as duplicitous. Well, you know what?” the President gritted angrily, “you can go to hell.”
“The military commanders of my country would be very disappointed to hear you say that, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said. “You understand that my hold on the military is tenuous. I must constantly assure them that I will act to keep Russia strong. They will not be pleased to hear the great President of the United States has turned away from them after precipitating such a terrible attack.”
The youthful President was thunderstruck. Was Sen’kov actually threatening to re-ignite the conflict if America didn’t pay up? It certainly seemed that way. The burning ulcer in his stomach came back like a shotgun blast, matching the burning anger in his head. His knees felt weak and he dropped back into his chair as if pushed back into it. “You … you sonofabitch,” he said, drawing in deep breaths as if he were swimming against a riptide he had just encountered in a seemingly calm, tranquil sea, “don’t you dare threaten me.”
But the First Lady, listening in to the conversation at her extension, raised a hand to her husband, urging him—then, with a stern glare, ordering him—to calm himself. “All right, Valentin,” the First Lady said. “You have a deal. I personally guarantee you that I will head a commission to gather one hundred billion dollars for the ‘humanitarian relief of Domodedovo, and we will establish a commission to compensate any victims of the fallout. You have my word.”
“You are as caring and as intelligent as you are beautiful, dear lady,” Valentin Sen’kov said. “And I will guarantee that details of the Ukrainian nuclear missile attack on my country will never become public. You have my word. The best to you and yours. Good-bye.”
And the line was broken.
The President held his head in his hands, breathing heavily. “What did you just do?” he demanded, staring across the Oval Office at the First Lady, who was adjusting her skirt before his press conference. “I can’t believe you did that. We fight for our lives, lose all those crewmembers and allies, even risk a fucking third world war to get Russia to stop fighting—and now you’ve just guaranteed that we have to pay one hundred billion dollars to keep it all quiet?”
The First Lady rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop whining. Pull yourself together and start getting ready for your news conference. I’m going next door to my office to freshen up.”
“Wait a minute,” the President said. “You just gave him a hundred billion dollars. Where are we going to get that? Congress won’t go for it—they wouldn’t give Yeltsin shit after I begged them to. The American people won’t go for it, they want it for the cities, for health care, AIDS, whatever … and our allies sure as hell won’t pitch in.”
“I said … I’ll take care of it,” the First Lady said firmly. “After all, look what that attack averted—World War Three. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter who launched the weapon, it was our attack, our plan, and it just saved the asses of governments all over the world. We’ll get the money from them, even if we have to break their fucking arms to do it.”
“But, honey, this is blackmail. Sen’kov blackmailed us, now we’re going to blackmail our allies?”
The First Lady shrugged. “It’s a small price to pay to have a Russian president in one’s back pocket,” she said, patting her hair. “That attack killed a lot of Russian military commanders and right-wing neo-Communists, and we can certainly prove it was Sen’kov who gave us the information. Valentin Sen’kov belongs to me—I mean, us—now. Besides, it’s only money, dear. Now come with me and I’ll spruce you up before the press conference. As to what you should say, I think the best course would be …”
As she talked on, the President and First Lady headed toward the door leading to the other West Wing offices. A Secret Service agent, who’d been in their presence the entire time, opened the door for them to exit. The President was about to go out first, then he noticed the look from his wife. He stepped back. “After you,” he said tightly.
“Always.” She smiled, marching forward.
THE END