by Ted Bell
Emblazoned on the lower right-hand corner of the plate-sized fuselage piece he held in his hand was a red, blue, and white emblem. The flag of the Russian Federation! Beauregard went rigid at the sight of it.
He’d just shot down a Russian passenger plane.
Uncle Joe had fucking lied to him.
Since the very inception of this mission, and all the subsequent training of his Vulcan crew and battle support troops, the colonel had been led to believe he was tasked with bringing down a Chinese air force military transport carrying troops en route to Beijing. But he had not done that. No, no. He had not done that at all.
Hell, it was an Aeroflot jetliner, the flagship carrier of the Russian Federation, for fuck’s sake. Russians shooting down Russian passenger planes? Way beyond the pale, even for a man who had seen it all. This was a KGB black op of the very blackest persuasion. Why in God’s holy name were the Russian secret police now committing mass murder against their own citizens? Beauregard had done a lot of very bad things in his life, but this nightmare was indisputably evil.
He walked away from the Vulcan site in a fury, fists clenched, shaking his head in disbelief, storming across the blood-soaked ground toward his mud-spattered jeep. He wanted to be alone. He climbed in and sat behind the wheel, pulling out his cigarettes and lighting one.
He saw Koczak striding angrily toward him. He looked like he felt he’d been betrayed by the colonel himself. But then the captain saw the look on Beauregard’s grief-stricken face, stopped abruptly, turned and walked away. He had seen that the American was in shock, clearly just as shaken about what had just transpired as were he and his men.
Beauregard sat there in that open jeep for a long time. Preparations to depart were almost complete. He thought back to his initial meeting with Uncle Joe, the so-called Dark Rider, in his tower office at the winter palace, parsing their entire conversation, word for word. He had a knack for remembering conversations, a mental vault where he stored the valuable ones. He’d made no mistake. Uncle Joe, the very spooky reincarnation of Joseph Stalin, and God knows how many of his new employers, namely, the freaking Kremlin, had duped him. Set him up and played him like a freaking patsy right from the bloody beginning. Betrayed his trust, like many another client had done before them, in the bad old days.
He’d believed he was making a comeback here in Russia. Put all his foolish mistakes and misplaced confidences behind him. And yet. And yet, here he was, thrown right back under the goddamn bus again. The one place he’d sworn he’d never find himself again.
Fuck.
Had the whole damn world suddenly gone crazy?
What the hell was going on?
CHAPTER 53
The Oval Office
The president of the United States was in his office, alone with his thoughts. The barrage of worries that had buffeted him all year long was not mitigated by the Washington weather. A hard rain beat against the windowpanes. It seemed to Rosow that it had been raining for months. Even now, heavyweight thunderclouds were coming out of their four corners and sparring in the skies above the White House; jagged spears of bright white lightning appeared to strike closer and closer still to the storm-whipped bushes out in the Rose Garden.
He let a quiet sigh escape his lips, then turned away from the windows and opened the center drawer in the Resolute desk. Pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds, he struck a match, and lit one up. The sharp nicotine bite was instantaneous, and he drew the smoke deeply into his lungs. Oh, yeah. That was definitely better.
Nicotine and caffeine were the only ways the besieged president could manage the stress these days. One wave of crises after another, it seemed, each one roaring toward the shoreline almost before its predecessor had a chance to begin to recede.
He certainly couldn’t play golf during these dark days. No more buddy-boy foursomes at Congressional, not after the media beating he’d taken during his latest summer golf vacation on Nantucket earlier that year. Christ, they’d killed him. Nothing left to do now but hunker down, ride out the storm, and—
His door was pushed inward. His long-suffering secretary, Maura Murphy, also under siege, stuck her head tentatively inside the door.
“They’re here for you, Mr. President,” Maura said, somewhat nervously. She knew trouble when she saw it. And, from the overheard whispers among those waiting out in the hallway, she knew one thing. This meeting was not going to be easy for the boss. She’d long feared for his health—now she feared for his sanity. He’d made a brave start, tried his best, but now the world had conspired to kill him.
“Already, Murph?” he said, glancing at his watch.
“It’s just gone ten, sir,” she said in her clipped upper-class British accent.
“You’re right. Show them in, please, Maura.”
She turned away and said over her shoulder, “Gentlemen, the president will see you now.”
The president, seated behind the famous Resolute desk, rose to his feet and stiffened his spine. He’d been dreading this morning’s first scheduled appointment all week. All you have to do is get through it, he reminded himself. Just get through it. And move forward.
He stood there smiling warmly and watched them enter.
First through the door was his CIA director, Brick Kelly. Next, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Charlie Moore. Then, in quick succession, the new secretary of state and his old Florida golf buddy, Will Matthews, and the visiting director of the British intelligence agency MI6, a tough old bird named Sir David Trulove.
The president smiled broadly at his colleagues’ solemn entrance and went around his desk to greet them all. Once everyone had been seated, and the steward had served coffee and poured tea for Sir David, the president took the big winged chair to the right of the fireplace and the famous porthole portrait of General George Washington hanging beside it.
“Well, gentlemen, let’s get down to business. I know you’ve all got a lot on your minds, so let’s hear it. Brick? You look bright-eyed and chipper this morning. Why don’t you go first?”
Director Kelly had had a lot of coffee that morning and his brain was humming. He leaned forward, putting both hands on his knees and waiting until he was sure the commander in chief was giving him his full and undivided attention. Kelly began.
“Thank you, Mr. President. We’ll try not to take too much of your time today. I hope you don’t mind if I attempt to summarize the concerns of the group? Might be easier, sir.”
“Absolutely. Everybody okay with that?” the president said affably.
Everyone nodded in the affirmative.
“All right, then. Your meeting, Brick. What’s up, guys?”
Brick stood up, took a quick look at his colleagues, squared his shoulders, and said, “Mr. President. It may come as no surprise to you to learn that we here in this room find ourselves deeply troubled. We’ve lost our way. As a nation. All of us. We believe the whole world is coming down around our ears. We simply cannot continue to hide in the shadows hoping that all this will go away.”
“Excuse me. All this?”
“With respect, sir, yes, all this. Allow me to elaborate in broad brushstrokes, the status quo. Russian-backed troops have now taken the capital of Kiev. When all of Ukraine falls, and it soon will, Putin will quickly move to reabsorb it into the renascent empire we at Langley now call ‘Soviet Union II.’ Even as we speak, Russian T-90 tanks, armored divisions, and ground troops are massing preparatory to a surge across the bridge over the Narva River that marks the Estonian-Russian border. Resistance and bloodshed around the capital of Tallinn will be heavy, but futile. The prime minister of Estonia, your friend, Taavi Roivas, and his military command are hunkered down for a fight . . . but they are extremely anxious for a strong signal of support from this office.”
“I’m not unaware of Russian aggression toward its neighbors, Brick.”
“I understand that, sir. Here’s my point. What we’re now facing resembles, to me at any rate, the domino
theory in Southeast Asia back in the 1970s, Mr. President. And what we believed then was that once one domino tile toppled, the other tiles in the region would soon follow. That’s why we at CIA have been monitoring Estonia so closely since the fall of Crimea and most likely the Ukraine. Continue to sit on our hands and a single bridge is all that stands between one of the great democracies and horrendous bloodshed. I will state the obvious. Every one of our allies in Eastern Europe is now feeling Russian heat. Poland, the Czechs, and all the rest are very nervous about our response here . . . if there even is one.”
“With respect, Brick, I am not the one generating the heat. The heat these capitals are feeling is coming from the Kremlin, not this White House. Let me be clear. Americans know this. They know that no one is more passionate about the right of sovereign nations to remain free than I. Do we understand each other?”
“Unfortunately, I’m quite sure we do, Mr. President,” Kelly said, and sat down.
Admiral Moore leaned forward, lasering in on the president.
“With all due respect, Mr. President. This administration began by betraying existing American commitments to Poland and the Czech Republic. Withdrawing their missile defenses as a sop to Putin, from whom we got absolutely nothing. And leaving our allies and vulnerable borders unprotected. Followed by undermining Israel’s position in the Middle East. Basically throwing them to the wolves and courting our worst enemies, the Iranians! Now we’re about to leave Ukraine twisting in the wind, refusing to give them the weapons to defend themselves.”
The president managed a smile.
“Go on.”
“Let’s not forget our recent deal with Cuba,” Kelly said. “We gave the Castros every single thing they demanded and got only a hostage or two in return.”
The president glowered at his CIA chief with such intensity that everyone was silent for a moment. Finally, Admiral Moore, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, spoke up once more.
“I think Putin has got this whole damn administration hornswoggled is what I think, sir. Look at just one incident. A few days ago, the Russian army shoots down a Russian passenger plane full of Russian citizens. Why? Who the hell knows anymore. White House took their eye off the ball? And what does the administration finally do? Express moral outrage and demand a full investigation? No, sir. We call Putin up and express our condolences and sympathy for the families! I’m speechless, Mr. President.”
“Let’s just say we agree to disagree, Charlie. Okay. Anyone else? I can see this is going to be an all-cards-on-the-table kinda day around here. So. Who else wants to play their hand?”
“I seem to have a full house, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Will Matthews said, getting to his feet. “So I’ll go next.”
“Fine, Will. Go ahead.”
“En route to this office from State just now, I received a call from the Florida governor telling me in detail about a newly developing nightmare in South Florida.”
“Nightmare?” the president said, staring at his newly minted cabinet officer as if he found this outpouring of more bad news from a friend of his own party hard to believe. “Is that what you said?”
The president suddenly seemed very weary, shaky, unsteady in his movements, and many in the room feared he might even collapse. But Matthews had the floor now, and he was determined to press on whatever the cost might be.
“I think one could safely call the situation in South Florida a nightmare, sir. I realize you have a very full calendar, but I’m saddened and somewhat surprised you’ve not already been briefed by your own staff.”
“Don’t apologize. Just tell me what the hell happened.”
“No apology on my part is called for, sir. I personally put in a call to you at five-oh-five this morning. It’s logged on the White House phone record. With the intention of informing you that shortly after dawn, a huge explosion rocked North Miami Beach. The primary FP&L power station located there on the coast, the one that fuels the entire South Florida grid, has been leveled. We already have reason to suspect terrorism.”
“Terrorism.”
“Yes, sir. Terrorism, by any other name, is still terrorism. Sir David Trulove here and I have spent the last two days chairing the Global Terror Crisis panel at the Carlisle Barracks at the War College in Pennsylvania. He’s been on the phone with Governor Brian Burns offering help with the investigation. Perhaps he can shed additional light on this situation in Florida. Sir David?”
“I can do that,” Trulove said, rising and looking directly at the president. “Mr. President, first, I want to say how delighted I am to be here in Washington and how deeply I value the friendship between our two countries. I’ve also been on the wire this morning with Alex Hawke, sir, one of my senior MI6 officers whom you may recall from the enormously successful Operation Lightstorm in China and North Korea last year.”
“Of course. The rescue of Dr. Chase and his family from a North Korean death camp. Brilliant action. Lord Hawke and his son were recent guests in this house.”
“Yes, sir. Hawke’s in Miami now, recuperating in the wake of that recent tragedy right here on the White House lawn.”
“Dreadful, just dreadful,” the president said.
“I have asked Lord Hawke to look into this matter, as he is already pushing a link to Cuban terrorism.”
The secretary of state rose to his feet, joining Sir David in addressing the president.
“Commander Hawke is already quite certain that Russian-backed Cuban terrorists from an island spy base came ashore somewhere in the Keys. Then made their way surreptitiously up to Miami and used a wholly new Russian explosive to obliterate South Florida’s entire power grid.”
“Jesus Christ, Will. Didn’t we just normalize relations with the Castros and Cuba? The ink’s hardly dry on the treaty.”
“We did indeed, Mr. President,” Secretary Matthews replied. “Apparently, this is the new normal.”
CHAPTER 54
Rosow waited for the British intel chief to proceed, but he seemed to have nothing more to add. By now, it was apparent to all that the president had retreated to fight his corner. He was on the ropes now, just suffering the body blows, not truly engaged, hanging on by his fingernails and yet another cup of coffee.
The silence lingered on. Trulove looked around for guidance from his colleagues, found none, and sat back down. The old spymaster closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. He could not remember being in a more tension-filled room in his entire life. It seemed as if they were all sitting around having coffee and discussing the end of the world.
“Anything else?” the president finally muttered, his voice colored with exhaustion and tinged with sarcasm.
Brick Kelly was quick to speak up.
“Mr. President, here’s what we’re trying to say. I can’t emphasize this enough. We are going around the world creating power vacuums. Like the one that gave rise to ISIS in Iraq. The isolated political space America now occupies vis-à-vis both our friends and enemies around the world is untenable. Shaky ground at best. We need to return to terra firma, sir, and we need to do it right now. We need a strong hand on the tiller. We’re out of options.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do, Brick?”
“Show some strength, for God’s sake. Some guts, some backbone. Some goddamn courage. Some goddamn leadership.”
The truth was finally out in the open. And it hurt. Not only the president, but every man in the room. A deep silence pervaded the Oval Office. Everyone seemed to be staring at their shoes. After an eternity, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Moore, seemed barely able to contain his anger as he got to his feet.
“He’s right, sir. We’re knee-deep in the shit, if you’ll pardon an old navy saying. You asked us if there was more. I’m afraid there is a great deal more. Kelly’s right. Because the White House failed to follow my suggestion and leave a force multiplier of marines behind when we pulled out of Iraq, ISIS has now moved to within mortar distance of Baghdad and closing
. Because we have failed to subsequently augment air strikes in Iraq and Syria with boots on the ground, ISIS is rapidly gaining ground and territory. Even Yemen has fallen to them. They are hell-bent on conquering the Arab world.”
“Now, just a damn minute. Are you saying you and Secretary Matthews now disavow any State Department role in these goddamn decisions?”
“I’m saying, Mr. President, that I personally cannot and will not take public responsibility for the loss of that historic city to barbaric terrorists. Cities, like Tikrit, Mosul, and Ramadi, that we paid dearly for in blood and treasure. Add that to the copycat homegrown terrorists now beheading our citizens in the streets of the Midwest and—need I really go on, sir?”
No answer.
The president seemed to have wilted. He slumped back in his chair with his hands clasped quietly in his lap. His greying head was back against the tufted yellow cushion and he was staring at the ceiling; soon tears were running down his cheeks. His visitors were aghast. This man, who once seemed so charismatic, so much bigger than life that he was bulletproof—now he was shrunken and shrinking, disappearing inside an empty suit.
No one dared speak.
After a while, Rosow seemed to summon strength from somewhere. He looked across at them and spoke.
“You know, it’s funny. My father used to say something to me back when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Made a lot of sense, the old guy. He’d say, ‘Son, always surround yourself with folks who come to you with solutions, not problems.’ And that’s what he always said, you know, when I went to him with one of my problems. So how do I respond to this—to this laundry list of problems? How? You tell me. You’re all here now. Tell me what—tell me what to do.”
“Mr. President,” Kelly said, “would you like a glass of water? Some more coffee, sir?”
“No, thanks, Brick, I’m fine.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?”
“Please do.”
“I know we’ve given you a lot to think about. But I think it prudent to deal with the closest problem to home first. The incursion and sabotage just carried out by Russian-sponsored terrorists in South Florida.”