by Dale Brown
“That’s not good news,” Daren said. “Wonder what the boss is going to do?”
Rebecca looked over at Daren and smiled. “Well, I just want you to know, Daren, that the work you’ve done since you arrived here has been nothing short of amazing,” she said. “I never thought we’d have this capability — that we’d be flying around up here while a couple B-1 bombers are cruising nearby with us with no one on board. It’s a freakin’ miracle.”
“Thanks, Rebecca,” Daren said. He reached over, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. He then realized what he’d done and was expecting a rebuff, but he didn’t get one. “It’s been great working with you again — although this cockpit is sure as hell different from the last one we went to war in.” He paused, looking at the satellite imagery and analysis data being presented on the supercockpit display in front of him. “Wonder what the general is going to do?”
“I don’t see he has much choice. He’s got to withdraw,” Rebecca said. “Nine regiments — that’s as many as a hundred and twenty aircraft, if the regiments are fully staffed. We’re outnumbered twenty to one, and I don’t think even the airborne laser or what few weapons we have in place can make up for that.” She looked at Daren. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re right,” Daren said after a long pause. “It would be better if we had some help — a couple B-2 stealth-bomber squadrons and a few fighter wings for starters. Otherwise, we can hold out just long enough to get our guys out — if that long. The Russians have too many planes too close to Turkmenistan. It’s too easy for them to surge numerically superior forces.”
“So McLanahan has to pull back.” She gave Daren a wry smile and added, “That’ll be a first. I don’t even think he knows how.”
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
That same time
“I’m sorry things have escalated to this point, Mr. President,” Thomas Thorn said. He was seated in the Oval Office with Vice President Lester Busick, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, and Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General Richard Venti. “The United States does not want a war with Russia or anyone else.”
“Your military forces have destroyed dozens of aircraft, heavily damaged a communications vessel on the high seas, and killed seventeen men and women, sir, all in one night,” Russian president Valentin Sen’kov said. “If you don’t want war, President Thorn, you have a strange way of showing it.”
“I take it by your words, Mr. President, that you did not actually declare war on the United States of America?”
“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard, President Thorn,” Sen’kov said. “No one in my government has declared war, and certainly not with the United States. Yes, I consider the Taliban a threat to peace in Turkmenistan, but I have not declared war on them or anyone else!”
“Then Colonel General Kasimov’s declarations and warnings were not authorized or sanctioned by the Russian government?”
“I don’t even know a Colonel General Kasimov!” Sen’kov retorted. “Is this some kind of game, Mr. President?”
“We have e-mailed the Russian embassy in Washington with a digital recording and transcript of a conversation I had with Colonel General Kasimov, who said he was the Russian liaison to the Turkmen military general staff. He announced the imposition of martial law in Turkmenistan and said that, because of U.S. actions in Turkmenistan and by authority of treaties between Russia and Turkmenistan, a state of war existed between our countries.”
“I… this is outrageous! This is nonsense!” Sen’kov exploded. “I authorized nothing of the kind! It must have been approved by General Gryzlov, my chief of the general staff.”
“We are also monitoring a very large-scale buildup of tactical and strategic forces in Russia,” Thorn went on, “that all appear to be getting ready for air assaults in Turkmenistan.”
“I know that General Gryzlov issued a warning order directing mobilization and preparedness,” Sen’kov admitted. “He has that authority. He was very concerned about the shoot-down of the MiG-29 over Turkmenistan — fearing it might have been from a secret attack by the Taliban — and these recent attacks in the Caspian Sea and Krasnovodsk only reinforced his fears. However, I have not authorized any attacks against any forces anywhere.”
“So you issued no execution order for any attacks in Turkmenistan?”
“No, I did not,” Sen’kov said. “I understand that General Gryzlov delivered a draft execution order to my office. It is sitting here right in front of me on my desk, still unsigned.”
“So what does this mean?” Thorn asked. “Is General Gryzlov acting on your orders, or is he provoking a war on his own?”
“I don’t know if he has access to information I do not, or if he has misinterpreted a directive from my office,” Sen’kov said. “In any case we will investigate immediately. But I assure you most emphatically, Mr. President: Russia is not at war with the United States.”
“I believe you, Mr. President,” Thorn replied. “But the world will soon see what we see: Russia getting ready to attack someone. We must have some kind of assurance that war is not imminent. The American Congress will certainly want a full explanation, and our military forces will press to go to a heightened state of alert. If that happens, we may not be able to control the escalation.”
“Then I suggest a meeting, Mr. Thorn,” Sen’kov said. “An emergency summit, in Reykjavik, Iceland, tomorrow morning. We shall issue a joint statement telling the world we are not at war; we shall both pledge to restore peace and democracy to Turkmenistan and work together to solve racial, cultural, religious, and ethnic conflicts all over the world.”
“Agreed. I’ll be there,” Thorn replied.
“Very good, Mr. President. I look forward to seeing you in Iceland.”
Thorn set the phone down and turned to Vice President Lester Busick. “Summit meeting between Sen’kov and me, tomorrow morning, in Reykjavik.”
“Well, at least the bastard chose someplace more or less in between our two capitals,” Busick said as he picked up his phone to start making arrangements. “The asshole probably denies the whole thing.”
“I have a feeling he’s as much in the dark as we are, Les.”
“Real fucking great. That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“What’s the status of our folks in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, Robert?” Thorn asked.
“Everyone’s standing by, sir,” Secretary of State Robert Goff replied. “Secretary Hershel has been in contact with the Taliban leader, Jalaluddin Turabi, who told her he wants to see what the people of Turkmenistan say. Gurizev is dead; we feel it’s far too dangerous for any American to go to the capital while the Russians control the city. I believe her mission is done.”
“Same here,” Busick said. “Let’s get her the hell out of there.”
“All right,” Thorn said. “General Venti, have General McLanahan’s aircraft escort Deputy Secretary of State Hershel’s aircraft out of Uzbekistan and stay with it until it’s safely back on friendly soil. Then have the rest of McLanahan’s force evacuate to Diego Garcia. I want maximum protection for the entire contingent. He’s authorized to use every aircraft he’s got to see to it that Hershel and his ground forces are safely out of the region.”
“Should McLanahan’s teams stand by on Diego Garcia, in case they’re needed again over Turkmenistan?”
Thorn thought about it for a moment, then replied, “No, General. As soon as Deputy Secretary Hershel is back on U.S. territory, bring them home. Be sure to pass along my thanks for a job well done.”
“Yes, sir,” Venti said. He picked up a telephone and began issuing orders.
Secretary Goff was the only adviser not otherwise occupied. “So what do you think this General Gryzlov is going to do next?” he asked Thorn. “Is he a loose cannon, an opportunist, or just plain crazy?”
Thomas Thorn thought about the question for a moment. “I think he’s going to make his voice heard,” he said. “He o
bviously has something to say, and he has the power and authority to force others to listen. We are definitely going to hear from him again — soon.”
THE RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION, THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
That evening
As soon as Valentin Sen’kov left his official residence at the Kremlin, his security and transportation network went into action. Three shell-game groups of three armored limousines departed the Kremlin, with Sen’kov’s group in the middle, taking a different route than in times past. Each limousine flew the crest of the president of Russia, so it was impossible to tell which actually carried him.
In general, government flights, especially ones taken by the president, originated from Zhukovsky Airport southeast of Moscow, which was both a military airfield and a government research facility. Two of the shell-game groups headed toward Zhukovsky, each taking a different route. This time, however, the third team broke off from the others and headed northwest, to Sheremetyevo-1 Airport. Normally used for regional and Commonwealth flights, Sheremetyevo-1 was once Moscow’s largest international airport — that honor now belonged to Sheremetyevo-2—so it could easily handle large international flights.
The president’s motorcade drove into the airport through a side entrance and was picked up by airport security police and MVA Interior Ministry and OMON special-operations troops. It continued on at high speed to a secure ramp area, where a Tupolev-204 medium-range VIP transport was waiting. Sen’kov and his staff members quickly boarded via the main port-side forward airstair. There was no sendoff, no ceremony, no pomp and circumstance. The president of the Russian Federation was greeted by the captain and the chief of the aircraft’s security staff, a female OMON officer, and shown quickly to his seat in the rear VIP cabin, along with several of his senior staff.
Once Sen’kov was seated in his plush high-backed seat and positioned for takeoff, he turned to his chief of staff. “General Gryzlov’s location?” he asked.
“As of ten minutes ago — in official quarters,” his aide replied, checking his notebook. “He made only four phone calls, all to staffers back at his office, routine calls. His computer and cellular phones have not been used. His staffers have made numerous calls, but all callers have been verified and their conversations monitored. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
If he was planning a coup, Sen’kov thought, he was doing it very, very quietly indeed. “Is he aware of this trip?”
“If he is, sir, he has not contacted anyone that might be considered unusual or suspect,” the aide said. “Minister of Defense Bukayev will contact General Gryzlov when he awakens in the morning and notify him that the president has departed for the summit meeting.”
“Everyone else in the cabinet sticking to their schedules?”
“Yes, sir.”
For the first time since he left the Kremlin, Valentin Sen’kov could relax. General Gryzlov was obviously too busy with his invasion plans to worry about planning a takeover of the government or of the president’s last-minute travel plans. Although it was probably not completely wise to leave Moscow with this showdown brewing between him and Gryzlov, Sen’kov was confident that a meeting with Thomas Thorn would give him the look of a peacemaker and enhance Gryzlov’s image as a dangerous and unpredictable berserker. If Thorn was smart and well briefed, he would treat Sen’kov as his equal; that would help keep the Duma — the Russian parliament — and the people on his side so he had a chance of weathering this crisis.
For the first time security forces showed the world that the president was on board the plane as vehicles with flashing lights escorted the Tu-204 to the runway for takeoff. Sen’kov felt vulnerable and nervous — he wished the escorts would go away so the VIP transport had a better chance of blending in with all the other airliners. But the Tu-204 was a big plane, there were only three others like it in existence, and they were the only ones with the word russia painted in big red Cyrillic letters on the side, along with the president’s crest on the tail. It made a big enough stir by itself, let alone surrounded by a dozen security vehicles. Before he knew it, though, the huge twin-fanjet transport was airborne, heading northwest on the great-circle route to Iceland.
Sen’kov was finally able to relax. He reclined his seat back, buzzed the galley, and ordered a glass of ice-cold vodka and some toast points and caviar, which were served him in just a few minutes. Sen’kov turned on his computer, checked his messages, and then called up the latest intelligence and cabinet staff briefings. Things actually seemed to be calming down. Even Gryzlov’s airpower mobilizations were slowing a bit. Everyone’s locations and activities appeared normal — no clandestine meetings, no evacuations, no runs on banks.
Gryzlov still had plenty of time to fuck things up, Sen’kov thought as he sipped his vodka, but right now the government seemed to be plodding along pretty much as usual. He could definitely feel the tension in the air, but perhaps the boiling point had not yet been reached. Iceland was a pretty good place to be right now.
Sen’kov loosened his tie, removed his shoes, turned on a Western satellite-news channel, and munched on caviar — farm-grown caviar, he hoped, not the crap they were still harvesting from the Caspian Sea. He checked the large computer flight-tracking screen on the bulkhead, which plotted out their position and showed their altitude, airspeed, world times, and estimated time en route. They were just over the Gulf of Finland, safely out of Russian airspace. He was tired, but he needed a little relief from the job before he thought about sleep. Sen’kov briefly considered inviting one of the female OMON security officers back to his private cabin for a little horseplay — she had definitely signaled some interest in some private pleasures, no doubt in exchange for some professional favors — but decided he needed the rest more than he needed—
At that moment the phone buzzed. Sen’kov looked at it strangely. His phone was set on “private” when he didn’t wish to be disturbed, and if one of his aides had something very urgent, he would simply walk in and give it to him. Sen’kov ignored the buzzing, knowing that one of his aides or someone in the communications cabin would pick it up — but no one did. Irritated, he picked it up. “Komoo,” he said curtly.
“Mr. President, you didn’t tell me you were departing the capital,” General Anatoliy Gryzlov said.
Sen’kov’s blood turned cold when he heard Gryzlov, especially using that ominous tone of voice. “What is it, General? Bukayev was going to notify you at dawn. I’m trying to get some rest.”
“Try that OMON captain from the Thirty-first Rifles. She told me she was looking for a promotion and a transfer to Kaliningrad,” Gryzlov said. “She’ll give you anything you wish in exchange—anything. Believe me, I know. It was my recommendation that got her promoted to captain and a billet in the presidential security detail.”
So Gryzlov did have extensive connections in OMON, Sen’kov thought — and he most certainly did in the MVD Interior Ministry as well. Oh, shit… “You called to tell me about one of your OMON sluts?”
“I called to tell you, Sen’kov, that you broke faith with me and with Russia by not signing that execution order, then blabbing about me to the Americans,” Gryzlov said. “I don’t appreciate being lied to and having my name smeared to a bunch of Americans.”
“Your name is dead, Gryzlov!” Sen’kov thundered. He immediately buzzed the outer working area for his aides, then started typing a message on his computer, informing the MVD and OMON security officials to arrest Gryzlov. “I won’t tolerate your insubordination any longer! You’ve threatened me for the last time. I hereby relieve you of duty, General. Have your deputy report to the Defense Ministry for instructions. You will be confined to quarters. If you submit your resignation and retirement request immediately, I won’t press for a court-martial.”
“How generous of you, Sen’kov,” Gryzlov said. “But that won’t be necessary. I will depart the general staff this morning — and I will confine myself to the Kremlin White House.”
�
�What are you talking about?” There was no reply to his buzzer, and the e-mail wasn’t being transmitted. He reached under his desk and hit the “panic button,” which was supposed to send every security officer on board rushing into the cabin — but no one showed. He picked up the phone to the cockpit. It rang, but no one answered.
“It is simple, Sen’kov: You’re out, and I’m in,” Gryzlov said. “Oh, and I would recommend that you do not open the door to your VIP cabin.”
“What did you do, Gryzlov?”
“Nothing too dramatic — just a simple slow failure of your plane’s pressurization system,” Gryzlov said. “Plus, I disabled the cabin altitude-warning lights and the oxygen-generating system. When the cockpit reached four to five thousand meters altitude, your flight crew should have experienced the first symptoms of hypoxia — oxygen starvation — declared an emergency, and donned their oxygen masks. The masks won’t work, but they won’t have realized that until too late. Everyone in the main cabin should have been unconscious from hypoxia by then, and a few minutes later the flight crew would have succumbed to oxygen starvation. Right about now your plane should be on autopilot, cruising over western Finland with everyone on board unconscious — except you. Remember, don’t open your cabin door — your cabin is sealed pretty well against pressurization loss.”
Sen’kov leaped to his feet and pounded on the cabin door, but no one answered. He checked the peephole — sure enough, the security guards were sound asleep. This can’t be happening! he screamed to himself. This was a nightmare!
He looked out one of the portholes on the starboard side of the Tu-204 and was surprised to see a Russian air force MiG-29 in close formation with him. He waved, and the pilot waved back. Relieved, Sen’kov went back to his desk, punched another satellite channel, and waited to be connected.