by Ted Bell
“Go on.”
“Sir David and I drove over here from Langley together. We had a chance to talk about this in the car. I think we’re very fortunate in one respect. We have personnel already on the ground who are best equipped to remove the current threat from Cuba. Sir David, will you tell the president our thoughts on Cuba?”
“Mr. President, as was mentioned earlier, Alex Hawke witnessed the explosion firsthand and was in touch with CIA station, Miami, in the immediate aftermath. If I may go off the record for a moment, I will reveal some highly classified information. I will tell you that Commander Hawke has a personal and long-standing relationship with Vladimir Putin.
“It’s actually a friendship, as bizarre as that may sound, but it’s been of some benefit. A couple of months ago, Putin gave Hawke a demonstration of a new Russian explosive called Feuerwasser. Virtually undetectable and more powerful than anything we’ve got by a factor of ten.”
“Hawke thinks the Russians are behind this Florida outrage?”
“Think it through, Mr. President.”
“One more remark like that and I’ll have your ass sent packing on the next thing smoking, Sir David,” the president said, barely concealing his mounting rage.
Trulove, aghast, looked around at his friends for support before continuing. He was determined not to let the American president’s bizarre behavior intimidate him.
CHAPTER 55
Hawke is absolutely certain the Russians are behind this attack in Miami,” Sir David said. “And in retaliation, it is Hawke’s intention to mount a joint strategic assault force and destroy the rebuilt Soviet espionage facility in retaliation. Director Kelly and I are prepared to view this sabotage on American soil as an act of war. And respond accordingly.”
The president said, “For Christ’s sake, Sir David, you’re talking about World War III here. I’d be very careful with your choice of words in this office, Sir David. You’re going down a road you may not want to go down.”
“Let me rephrase that. Certainly, I would posit that we stand on the brink of war, sir. Commander Hawke’s idea is that his action in Cuba will send a very strongly worded message to the Kremlin to back the hell off. If we don’t respond at all, it’s my personal belief that we most certainly will be sliding into global confrontation with President Putin.”
“Assuming your assessment is correct, and that’s a big assumption, what’s the next step in your view?”
“Great question, sir. Let me help you out there,” Admiral Moore said. And he proceeded to lay out the rationale they’d all agreed upon.
The president paid attention, nodding in the affirmative at the conclusion.
The men who were present that morning breathed a collective sigh of relief. The most powerful man in the world seemed to have at last begun to grasp the enormity of the forces arrayed against him around the planet. And the challenges the Western world would soon have to grapple with if it was to survive.
Sir David was quick to respond to Rosow’s question of what must be done. “Twenty minutes ago I was on with the prime minister at Number Ten Downing. I informed him about the Florida situation, just as I’ve informed you. I asked his approval for an immediate British-American assault force to be mounted, a joint operation between CIA and MI6, under the command of Alex Hawke, an active officer in the Royal Navy.”
“And?”
“The PM gave his swift approval to proceed, Mr. President. As did Secretary Matthews and Director Kelly. All we need now is your agreement to do the same, sir. And Director Kelly and I will take all appropriate actions in coordination with CIA and the Pentagon to bring the perpetrators of this outrage to swift justice.”
They waited for a response. And waited some more.
“Approved, Sir David,” Rosow finally said, getting to his feet. A bit of color seemed to have returned to his cheeks, and he had mustered a somewhat more confident demeanor.
“I have worked with Commander Hawke before, as you all know. Tell him my prayers go with him . . . So. I see I’m running out of time. Will that be all, gentlemen?”
They all stood up at once, some relief much evident on their faces.
“Thank you very much, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Will Matthews said, speaking for the group. “We deeply appreciate your not only listening to us this morning, but hearing us as well.”
They all began to file out.
Admiral Moore was lingering as the others headed for the door, filing past Murph.
“Got a minute, sir?” Moore said.
“Of course, Charlie.”
“I do have one more thing to say, Mr. President, on a personal note. I had a guy in my office at the Pentagon early this morning. Navy fighter pilot, a major, 301st Fighter Wing at NAS Fort Worth. Big-time hero. He wanted to see me because something bad had happened to him and he didn’t know who else to tell. This guy’s on Facebook, see, and two days ago, ISIS posted his face. And the face of his nine-year-old son, Lucas. And the kid’s dog. They wanted people to know where this guy and his family lived. Then they wanted them to show up at his house and slaughter them. The whole fuckin’ family. Now, Mr. President, I am deadly serious about this. If you need a bigger wake-up call than that? Hell, I think it’s high time I tendered my resignation as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. That’s all I’ve got to say. Sir.”
He started to walk out, but the president stopped him.
“Believe me, Charlie, I hear you. I count on all you guys to tell me the truth. If we hang together, I believe we have a very good chance of not only getting through this difficult time, but coming out the other side on the side of the angels.”
“I hope to God you’re right, Mr. President, I sincerely do. Because if you’re not, the only option left on the table is a great white nuclear flash of freedom out there in the Iraqi and Syrian desert. Turn those goddamned ISIS safe havens into charbroiled landfill.”
Moore turned away and headed for the door.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that, Charlie,” Rosow called after him. Moore stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to face the president.
“You do? Really? Why?”
“Humanitarian reasons, that’s why. I got elected for my convictions in that regard.”
“A few minutes ago you told us a story about your father. How he didn’t like problems. Well, I’ll tell you a story about my father. Rear admiral in the Second World War, a submariner. They called him ‘Boomer.’ Know what old Boomer told me? He said, ‘Son, when you take an oath to defend, you also make a promise to yourself . . . No retreat. No surrender.’ You might want to try listening to my old daddy for a change. He was pretty smart too.”
STANDING OUT OF THE RAIN at the South Portico, waiting for their respective cars and drivers, the four men were speaking in lowered voices.
“Well, that was fun,” Admiral Moore said.
“You’re going down a road you may not want to go down? Is that what he said to Sir David? Put his ass on the next thing smoking? Are you kidding me?” Brick Kelly said. “Funny, I thought we were all on the same side, just doing our goddamn jobs.”
“On the side of the angels, as it were,” Sir David Trulove added with a wry smile. He was still in a state of shock at the way he’d been treated by an American president.
Secretary Matthews said, “At any rate, if we all get fired, at least we finally got his attention. Maybe.”
“He can’t very well fire me,” Sir David said, raising his pale blue eyes to the troubled heavens.
“Good thing, too,” Moore said. “If he fails to act on this Cuban crisis thing, Sir David? You and that magnificent bastard Hawke, you sail Royal Navy destroyers right up into that Cubano harbor all by your lonesomes and you kick yourselves some serious Commie ass.”
“Rather colorful, Charlie, but I admire the sentiment.”
The Four, as they’d nicknamed themselves, fell silent then, watching their black cars moving slowly up the drive in the punishing rain; each man
wondering if he’d ever be standing on this exact spot again. At that moment, every member of the Four considered that prospect to be highly unlikely.
But, at least, they thought, individually and collectively, they had done their duty by their country.
CHAPTER 56
Cotswolds, England
Good morning, darling!” Ambrose Congreve trilled, practically bouncing into the sunny dining room of his country home, Brixden House.
Lady Diana looked up from her exquisitely tiny portion of perfectly poached eggs, kippers, and toast. It was early on a brilliantly sunlit Sunday morning. The French polished George III sideboard in the Adams dining room was groaning with piping hot goodies pour le petite dejeuner.
“Wait!” she said, gazing sternly at her husband. “Are you actually skipping, Ambrose Congreve?” she said.
“Am I? Well, I suppose I am, aren’t I?”
The portly old fellow hopped over to the cook’s vast sampling of delicacies arrayed beneath a large sporting oil of Diana’s late and unlamented grandfather, the Earl of Airlie. Ambrose, as was his wont, winked at the Earl and poked his forefinger at his belly. The old bastard was seated aboard his favorite hunter, Redhead, surrounded by his hounds.
Congreve heaped his plate with cheese-scrambled eggs and crumpets and Irish butter and a generous dollop of Mackays Three Fruit Marmalade. He filled his old mug with piping hot coffee and made his happy way around the long, long table to where his lovely wife was seated.
“What are you on about this morning, darling?” the lady of the house asked, patting her lips with crisp white linen.
“Well, for one thing, it’s a glorious day. Have you not bothered to look out the windows? God’s in his heaven and all’s well with the world, you cannot deny it.” He dropped his knife on the floor and bent beneath the tablecloth to retrieve it. “There you are!” he exclaimed, as if he’d found the mythical needle in the haystack.
“Really, Ambrose, wherever are your manners? This is not a rumpus room. Please, do try to compose yourself.”
“I shall, I shall. May I sample your eggs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down and shut up.”
“Now, now, mon petite bijou, try not to be so crab-appley on such a splendid day.”
“What has gotten into you? Why on earth are you dressed like that?”
“Like what?”
“Conflicting plaids of dubious shades.”
“Well. Where to start? Number one, we have left that drear idyll of ours on Bermuda far, far behind us.”
“Are you referring to Shadowlands?”
“I am.”
“I’d really prefer you not refer to a lovely old Bermuda home that’s been in my family for six generations as ‘drear.’”
“Duly noted. And, two, I have returned at long last to this . . . this royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden—this—”
“Seat of Mars? You got that right!” Lady Mars said, squirming on her well-rounded bottom and giggling.
“My curvy little Martian!” the husband exclaimed.
“Got that right, buster. And don’t forget it.”
“ . . . this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this . . . England!”
“Are you quite finished?”
“A little Shakespeare never hurt anyone. Pass the Times, please.”
“There you are. Read, and weep. The world markets have tanked because the Russians are invading Estonia. All of NATO is up in arms. Happy?”
“I am, I am.”
“You’re happy? How can any sentient being possibly find joy in the ruthless, jackbooted invasion of a sovereign nation full of free and happy people?”
“Oh, I have my reasons.”
“Care to enumerate one or two?”
“I certainly can. One, I have the Russians at a distinct disadvantage, you see.”
“Really, dear? Poor old Russians. And what might that disadvantage be?”
“They have no idea that the celebrated Demon of Deduction is hot on their trail.”
“Completely in the dark, are they?”
“Utterly. And, two, I’ve donned my cloak and dagger once more. The game is afoot, you see. Well, there you have it, dearest. I cannot tarry, I fear. Headed down to Cambridge after breakfast. Taking the Yellow Peril. Going to see an old friend.”
“Male, one only hopes.”
“Indeed. You remember Stef Halter.”
“The history professor. Magdalene College. You were at Cambridge together.”
“Correct. Dr. Halter and I are set to have a very interesting day of it.”
“Picnic by the Cam? Punting, just you two and a blanket?”
“Don’t be clever, Diana. This is serious business. Halter, Alex Hawke, and I have enjoined our mighty forces once more. We are well into the fray, I’ll have you know.”
“What fray?”
“Hawke’s erstwhile friend, Vladimir Putin, the second and third president of Russia, has been acting very much the naughty boy lately. Eating countries like popcorn. We three valiants are going to put a swift stop to his gluttony.”
Diana looked up and gazed deep into the middle distance.
“My God, he’s serious,” she said, putting down her heavy silver fork.
“Deadly serious.”
“What has our Mr. Putin done now?”
“Blown up Miami Beach, for starters.”
“He did that?”
“Alex and I certainly believe he did. Using Cuban proxies, but yes. Saboteurs, you see. That’s why Professor Halter and I are meeting. Prove he did it. Stef and I can wrest the truth from the mire of lies, if anyone can.”
“This Dr. Halter. He’s a Russian scholar, is he?”
“No, my darling, he’s a Russian spy.”
“For whom?”
“MI6 for one. KGB for the other. A double agent. You might want to keep that bit under your hat.”
“A mole?”
“Hmm. The longest-serving double in the history of British Secret Service. Man’s a veritable genius at playing the Great Game. Not always one move ahead, more like nine. When he’s not teaching the unteachable at Cambridge, he’s lurking about deep in the labyrinthine wonders of the Kremlin. Together, the great Halter and I shall uncover who exploded Miami Beach. And who brought down that Russian passenger airliner. One and the same chap is behind it, I think. Major acts of military sabotage of epic proportions with civilian casualties. Quite unlike the typical fingerprint of a KGB operation. Stef thinks it may even be an outsider. Someone Putin keeps in the shadows, you see.”
“I’ll save you a trip. The Chinese brought that airplane down, Ambrose, not the Russians. Murdered all those poor souls. Even I and the BBC could have told you that.”
“Not necessarily true, Diana. Stef has some very good friends inside the uppermost echelons of Mandarin society in Beijing, you see. The crème de la crème of the Chinese Communist Party. And the inside poop is that the Chinese had nothing to do with that horrific act. It was the Russians.”
“Preposterous. Even they are not capable of killing three hundred of their own.”
“Ah, but they did.”
“So you say. Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“A feint. A dodge. A distraction. Putin is hell-bent on re-creating the former Soviet Union. He’s decided it’s his legacy to history. Despite how all the denizens of the free world may feel about it being overrun by Russian tanks. Unconfirmed reports have him mobilizing Russian troops on the Czech border, the Polish border, Hungary, and God knows where else. All under the cover of war games. Stef and I aim to uncouple the Russian words for ‘games’ and ‘war’ before we’re through.”
Diana paused, put down her napkin, and stared far into the middle distance. There was a pretty starling in the Japanese cherry beyond the windows. Then she turned her worried countenance once more upon her husband.
“You really are going up against Putin, aren’t you?�
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“Yes, Diana. I am.”
“I don’t like it. Not a bit of it.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he’s incredibly dangerous, that’s why. You could get yourself killed.”
“Goes with the territory, darling. I’m a copper. It’s what I do.”
He tried to caress her hair, but she pulled away, her eyes glistening.
“What you do is scare me to death sometimes. I simply could not face life without you, you know.”
“Nor I without you.”
“And yet, off you go again.”
“Because I must. It’s my duty. My honor.”
“Well, go on then, damn you, and do what you must. And, for God’s sake, please be careful. I don’t relish the idea of you driving among all those lorries on all those motorways in that little bright yellow toy car of yours. Why don’t you take my Range Rover? You just might find that Boz Scaggs CD you’ve been searching high and low for in the audio player.”
“I’ll be fine. The Yellow Peril is unmatched when it comes to sheer roadability.”
“So you say. You’re not wearing that horrid yellow jacket and yellow tie to meet with a distinguished Cambridge don, are you?”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Well, they’re both equally hideous, for starters.”
“Match my car, do they not? The old Growler?”
“Try matching your big blue eyes. Always a better strategy.”
“I vastly prefer yellow.”
“That’s because, unlike you, my darling, I was endowed by our Creator with impeccable taste.”
“You’re not opposed to this cap’s sprightly young check, I don’t suppose . . . are you?”
“Your red driving cap? No. By all means wear it. Maybe we’ll all get lucky and it will blow off . . .”
Ambrose turned and headed for the staircase.
“I’ll be off as soon as I change, then. I do love you madly, dearest.”
“And I you. Will you be home in time for supper?”