The Bear

by Bob Thomas

  “Even if we did, he’s not gonna be alive.” Pits trained his glasses back on the dark surface of the Arctic water. The Bering Sea was nowhere to be lost in the middle of winter. He could see the whitecaps as they surged across the otherwise, featureless terrain. A sudden jolt nearly sent him flying out the door of the Seahawk. He tugged on the strap that was holding him in, making sure it was secure. “Two hours is too long out here,” he shouted.

  “Leave it to the Navy to have to help out the fly boys,” the co-pilot yelled.

  “Wait!” Pits leaned forward again thinking it might give him a better look as he trained the binoculars down. “Deb …” Pits flipped the mic back up to his mouth. “Debris, three ‘o clock.”

  The HH-60 banked right and began circling several scattered pieces of debris. Bits and pieces were strewn in a line leading away from the coast. Most smaller pieces would have sunk and would never be recovered. Only the larger, flat surfaces that could lay across the water’s surface remained afloat. And in these conditions, that wouldn’t be a very long time. The Arctic waters had a cruel heart.

  “There!”

  “What Pits?”

  “Someone hanging on to a wing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not one of ours,” Pits shouted. “Big red star.”

  The Seahawk closed, hovering above the wreckage. The SAR crew began what they do best, what they trained relentlessly for; rescue from the sea, no matter who it was. It was the code of those who wore the uniform, never let the sea take a life, friend or foe. It was their way. Pits readied the hoist as his crew-mate Frankie Miles, a thin young black man with a winning smile from New York, strapped himself into the harness. Pits flipped the switch on the lift, guiding him down to the rolling surface. It required everyone to play their part; the pilot to keep it steady while Pits controlled the hoist. Too fast and he plunged Frankie into the water. He engaged the hoist after he got the ‘thumbs up’ from Frankie. The trick he knew, was to keep it from swaying. Though most of that was controlled by the pilot, how he managed the vertical aspect played a big part. The harness hovered above the wing as Frankie unbuckled and dropped to the bomber’s wing. The Russian was barely conscious, almost dead weight. Though the waters were tipped with whitecaps, the winds were relatively calm for this time of year, and within an hour of finding the wreck, a Russian airman was safely on board a United States Navy Seahawk helicopter.

  The White House

  The knock on the door to the Cabinet Room was anything but subtle. A hard bang and the door swung open as all heads turned towards the president’s chief of staff, whose eyes immediately found his boss. Martin Powell ran his fingers through his white hair, a signal that something was wrong.

  “We’ll be done here in a minute, Martin.”

  “Hello Mr. Secretary.”

  “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.” The president immediately rose from his chair, dead center of the long conference table, the others following suite, but he waved them back down in place. A hand to the shoulder of Secretary Stanton with a noticeable squeeze, told the secretary his meeting with this group was likely over.

  “Mr. President, we’ll just continue another time. We’re almost done anyway.”

  “Thank you Simon,” the president replied with a nod. “We’ll see everybody real soon,” he said with a smile. “Martin?”

  “Mr. President.”

  The chief of staff turned as the president walked past him and out the door. They were down the hall and around the corner before President Kiger stopped and looked out the windows onto the White House lawn. He turned to address his chief of staff but was waved off.

  “In your office, sir.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “It ain’t good, Mr. President,” he replied. “It ain’t good a t’all.”

  “Holy hell, Martin.” President Edwin Kiger simply fell back into his chair. “There’s going to be hell to pay for this. The Russians are going to be pissed.”

  “Better question is sir, what were they doin’ so close to our coast?”

  “Yeah, I know.” POTUS rubbed his forehead as he looked down at his desk. “I really didn’t need this right now. Not this close to an election. Any word on recovery?”

  “Nothin’ yet, sir. I’ve only had this for ten minutes.”

  “Alright,” POTUS sighed. “Get me everything you can as soon as you can. This will get out quickly, and we’ve got to put a lid on it.”

  “I wonder what the Russians are saying ‘bout now?”

  “I’m sure I’ll hear shortly.”

  “Perhaps we should call them first demanding to know what they’re doing?”

  “Put them on the defensive?”

  “Couldn’t hurt, sir.” Martin turned away from the desk as he pulled his thoughts together. “Perhaps President Novichkov isn’t aware of this yet. I wonder if a quick call might put him in a bad position?” He turned back again. “Does that ‘red phone’ still work?” he said with a grin. “We’ll teach that sum-bitch he can’t push his weight round over here.”

  “If he doesn’t know about it though, Martin, perhaps a back-channel approach might be a better option here.”

  “If you think that’s wise, sir.” He grinned again. “Could have been fun.”

  “Get me what you can, quickly. If I have to make a call, I need to know what in the hell the truth really is.”

  The president’s chief of staff looked down at the carpet in the Oval Office. He liked this one better than the last; a field of blue ringed with gold trim. It had the feeling of power, understated power, in an office that exuded power. Make no mistake, he worked for the most powerful man in the world, no matter what others thought. Money brought influence and economic say-so to an extent, but to control the fate of the world with a single phone call; that was real power, power most would never understand.

  “Yes Mr. President.”

  The Kremlin 15:45 h

  President Yuri Novichkov set the black handset back down onto its base. He stared at it as the smoke from his cigarette swirled away from his desk. He felt the chill of the office surround him. No matter what, it was still an old building, and it was winter in Moscow. He sat silent as his cup of tea grew cold.

  This was not the same as in the times of the Soviet Union. In those days, he could have covered nearly anything up. Those who made mistakes were simply never heard from again. Some were sent to the gulags, while others just disappeared. Siberia was always a good hiding ground. He wished he had that option now. The knock at his door brought him out of his trance.

  “You have heard.” The look on the president’s face was obvious.

  “Da.” He looked up as his aide walked into the room. “Any deaths?”

  “We don’t know yet. All we know is a plane went down off the American coast.”

  “What were they doing there? Alaska?”

  “It is part of our renewed reach to show the West we are not so impotent as they might believe, that we still have the backbone to be a world, military power.”

  “But to be so close. It is a provocative move, Andrey. We need to tread carefully here.” The president leaned back, feeling the plushness of his oxen-leather chair. “Is that all you came to tell me?”

  “Unfortunately no.” Andrey Volkov straightened as he delivered the news. “The American ambassador made a call within the past few minutes. I put him off. He was not happy.”

  “I would think not,” he smiled back. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you were in a meeting with the Minister of Agriculture.”

  “But you always tell him that,” Yuri laughed. “He must think that’s the only thing I ever think about.”

  “Well, they are always trying to make a deal on wheat. He must think we’re starving over here. He wanted a meeting within the hour. I told him that wasn’t possible.”

  “Let me know what you find out as soon as you find it.”

  “Yes sir.”

&n
bsp; “And Andrey, I need to know who ordered this foolishness.”

  Andrey nodded as he turned and left the room. The Russian president leaned back into his heavy, leather chair. He knew it would be more difficult to find who ordered such a mission. In the Soviet times, his aide would have been an active general, not a retired one, and finding that information would have been so much easier. But he knew he lived in a different era, a different time. It was obviously better in many ways, not only for his people, but his country as well. The hammer that was the Soviet regime was effective at keeping the populace under control, but it did little to advance Mother Russia. He lifted the black phone again.”

  “Call the American ambassador for a meeting.”

  Andrey turned down the hall and then around a corner, his office not far from the president’s. He picked up the phone on his own desk, but quickly laid it back down. He looked around his office, rather spartan compared to most of the others in the building. But it was his. How could something like this happen to him? He knew why. It was his own fault. He pulled a single key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock on his drawer. Some things never change, even here. The drawer contained only a single notebook that was filled with a list of names, key people who knew how to get things done. And a pistol, in case anything went horribly wrong.

  “Operator. Yes Mr. Volkov.”

  “Get me General Goraya in Petropavlovsk. Call me when the connection is complete.”

  Alaska 17:15 h

  “How’s our friend, doc?”

  “Not good right now, General, but he’ll make it. His injuries aren’t all the bad considering what he’s been through, but he’s got a bad case of hypothermia.”

  “Let me know when he can talk to someone.”

  “I will, General.” The doctor turned to reenter the room before stopping. “Sir? Do we really need a guard at the door?”

  “Protocol Doctor Finch. Protocol.”

  The doctor nodded as General Allan Foxx turned and made his way down the all-white corridor and around the nurse’s station. He was out of sight within seconds. Though he had been in the military most of his adult life, Steven Finch never quite understood the military mind. He believed most of them were stringent, limited in their thinking by the rules that they clung too. His was a different world. His was a world of ‘on the fly’ decisions that didn’t always conform to tight rules. Those decisions saved lives. He was always amused that the medical field was considered an ‘art’ field by the educational world instead of a science. But compared to the military, he understood. He looked up at the MP standing at the door and shook his head. ‘Crazy’, he thought, ‘just crazy’.

  Alaska Command

  General Allan Foxx, Alaskan Theater commander was back at his office trying to make sure everything had settled down. Nothing else had shown up across the Bering Sea, nor had any traces come over the poles. He had two E-3 Sentry aircraft, each with a pair of F-16C Falcons patrolling north of Barrow and Point Hope, watching the Santa routes. What else, he thought? What else? He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at the giant map of the northern hemisphere that covered the wall opposite his desk. He followed the coast, tracing along the nautical boundary claimed by the United States. Some aspects were in dispute, as were many boundaries around the world, but most were generally respected. Maybe this was just one of those tests.

  But it didn’t feel that way. What was he missing? A deep exhale allowed his eye to fall to the bottom of the map. That was it! He was only seeing part of the picture; his part. There was an entire world he was missing and his vision stopped at the State of Washington. This could only be the tip of the iceberg, as it were. His hand immediately went to his phone as he punched up a number directly to the DOD, Air Force Chief of Staff.

  “General Richter’s office.”

  “This is General Foxx, Alaska command. I need to speak to General Richter.”

  “Yes sir. It’s kind of hectic around here, General.”

  “I could have guessed that. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “I’ll put you right through, General. He’s in the command room.”

  “General Richter? You have a call.”

  “Richter.” The command center was a beehive of activity. The Air Force Chief of Staff stuck a finger in his ear to help block out the noise.

  “General Richter? Alan Foxx.”

  “So this is all your fault, Foxx.”

  “Afraid so, sir.” Foxx swallowed hard. He wasn’t high on the list of Richter’s favorite people, having clashed early in their careers. “I can barely hear you sir.”

  “Not surprised. This place is a beehive. There’s more brass here than at an antique dealer.”

  “Sir, I know the trouble started up here with the Russian incursion, but is anything happening anywhere else?”

  “What’s on your mind, Foxx?”

  “Sir, I was wondering if this is just a diversion; if something else was going on that I can’t see.”

  “That’s what we’re looking into, Foxx. Just keep your end covered up there.”

  The line went dead, and the theater commander just looked at the receiver. He should have known better. DOD. was probably looking at the same questions he had. But he needed his own answers, and he needed them quick. What did he have at his disposal to find them? There’s a broader picture here somewhere. But where?

  “Yes General?” The aide turned in his chair as Foxx came out of his office.

  The General looked out over the room like he was searching for something. He stepped to the large table pushed up against the far wall and summarily shoved everything on it to the floor. The sounds of lamps, plants and bric-a-brac hitting the tile stopped everyone in their place.

  “General?”

  “Get me maps. Lots of maps.”

  “Maps to what, sir?”

  “Everything. I want maps of every place you can find.” He turned to the aide sitting at the desk, placed his hands on his hips and just stared him down.”

  “Uhm, yes sir. Right away sir.”

  Within the hour, the table was covered with every type of map anyone could find, maps that spanned the surface of the globe were taped together forming a hodge-podge earth. Someone even brought a map of the near side of the moon. Hey, orders were orders. The commander of the Alaskan theater pulled the table away from the wall into the center of the room. Then, he began to circle. He walked in silence for several minutes before someone summoned the nerve to ask what he was doing.

  “Give me a marker, Lieutenant.” A nod from his junior officer was quickly supplemented with a large, black Sharpie. “What’s your name?”

  “Lieutenant Tonney sir.”

  “Lieutenant, you a smart cookie?”

  “Top of my class, sir. I’d like to think so.”

  “Well, mister top of my class, you’ve got a new job to do.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tonney, you’re about to get access to some very important information.” General Foxx leaned over and put a big, black X on the coast where the bomber went down. “I want you to co-ordinate all the incidents of Russian incursion over the last six months.

  “That shouldn’t be too hard sir. There can’t be too many of them in Alaska.”

  “I’m not just talking Alaska, son,” Foxx said as he leaned in over the table. “I’m talking, everywhere in the world.”

  Washington 18:00 h

  “Good evening, Mr. President.” Nikolay Muratov extended his arm, but felt the cool reception. He nodded as he sat down in the couch across from Edwin Kiger.

  “Ambassador, we have a situation.”

  “We do?”

  “I would hope your government would not have left one so important as you in the dark, Mr. Ambassador,” Martin Powell replied.

  “Nikolay, are you not aware of what has happened in Alaska?”

  “I am not, Mr. President.” The Russian ambassador pushed against the arm of the couch as he squirmed into hi
s seat. “My government must not think it is important.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, the downing of an American fighter over the coast of Alaska by Russian warplanes is hardly a non-event.”

  “Easy, Martin,” POTUS replied as he held up his hand. The president uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Nikolay, if I were you, I’d get hold of someone really quickly. I am, outraged that your country is so flippant that they would have failed to inform you of this.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. President. I know not, flippant.”

  “I’ll get you a dictionary, Mr. Ambass …” Martin stopped at POTUS’ raised hand. He was getting heated.

  “Nikolay, I want to make this very clear. I will not stand for any, and I mean any, incursion into United States airspace.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Let me finish,” POTUS replied as he sat back into the seat. “Any violation of this will result in the most dire of consequences.”

  “Mr. President, I will certainly pass along your words to my government. I certainly hope this will not have an adverse effect on the upcoming state function in a number of days. My country has always wished to respect international boundaries.”

  “Like in the Ukraine?” Martin responded. That drew a wince from the ambassador.

  “Please do so, Nikolay,” POTUS replied. “Good day.”

  The Russian ambassador was escorted from the Oval Office by a Marine guard. A thoughtful touch arranged by the chief of staff.

  “Well, I think that put him on the defensive, Martin.”

  “I would say so, sir. It would be difficult to believe he knew nothing about it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he knows Martin, or at least he knows something.”

  “Perhaps it was an oversight to leave him off the list of people to call.”

  “Not in this world, or any other, Martin.” POTUS turned as he looked at his aide. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”