ARMAGEDDON
When the President announced the American decision to give Russia a reminder of its nuclear capabilities over the North Pacific, Devlin McCarthy was sitting with the Russian Deputy Foreign Minister, Sergei Popov. She had requested an urgent appointment with Foreign Minister Kelnikov, but had been told he wasn’t available. At the same time as she was in the Foreign Ministry building, every single member of her Embassy staff with high-level contacts was also in meetings with their Russian counterparts, waiting for the media bombshell to drop.
Popov was one of those stereotypical ‘ministry of anything’ bureaucrats, who never added anything to a conversation, but who occasionally nodded, smiled or frowned, meaning his body language was usually more telling than what he said. He was very overweight and if he wasn’t comfortable, began to sweat heavily. If he was angry, his round, smooth face would turn bright red. If he felt he was in a winning position in a discussion, he would audibly smirk like a vaudeville actor. And he had a very annoying habit of speaking in a derogatory way in Russian to his aides, about the very people he was meeting with, knowing that some of them spoke perfect Russian and understood everything he was saying.
The excuse McCarthy had used to call for the meeting was the demand, made that morning by President Fenner, for the immediate withdrawal of Russian forces from Saint Lawrence. Devlin knew the deadline of mid-day was neither practical, nor reasonable — not least because Russia was not acting alone but on behalf of a so-called ‘coalition of nations’ in the Barents Euro Arctic Council. Popov had spent the first few minutes of their meeting making her aware of this, before advising that in any case, Russia had no intention of complying. He had then commented in Russian to his people, of which there were three sitting like nodding Easter Island statues, that ‘perhaps these dumb Americans should have thought through the consequences before they sank the Ozempic Tsar’. The Easter Islanders agreed.
It was around then when her telephone began buzzing in Devlin’s jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” she said, looking at the screen. “I think I need to take this. The American President is about to make an address to the nation. Shall we watch it together?” She logged onto the video feed and sat her phone on the table between them so that they could all see.
There was sudden consternation among the Russians as one of them suggested they should break off the meeting and perhaps reconvene after the President’s address. Another suggested to call off the meeting completely. By then, it was easier for them to remain and listen, out of fear of missing what the US President was saying.
As phrases like ‘nuclear missile test’, ‘North Pacific’ and ‘all weapons in our arsenal’ began to sink in, Devlin studied Popov carefully. She had seen the text of the President’s address before going into the meeting, so she knew what to expect. The Russians listened in complete silence, but the shock on Popov’s face was not just clear, it was palpable. It emanated from his every pore. Gone were his brash overconfidence, his dismissive asides to his aides. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead after the first few sentences, and by the end of the Presidential address he had reached for a handkerchief to wipe them away.
As the President concluded, Popov stood up, “I must consult with the Minister,” he said and started gathering his papers.
“Please tell him that at this stage, it is just a weapons test,” Devlin said. “What happens next, is in your hands.”
“Just a…” Popov said, biting off his words. But he could not contain himself. “It is a declaration of world war! Nuclear war! Has America gone mad?!”
“It was not us who invaded your territory and attacked your air force,” Devlin said, deliberately goading him.
“You… you sunk our freighter, made cyber-attack on our submarine, launched cruise missiles at our legitimate peacekeeping forces. Now you threaten us with nuclear war!” His hands were shaking as he stuffed papers into his briefcase, shaking so badly in fact that an aide took the papers and the briefcase from him.
He really believes it, Devlin realized. The Kremlin propagandists have done their job well. This is how war gets legitimized.
Now Popov’s look changed from anger to… what? Sadness? “This meeting is over. Someone will show you out,” Popov said. He walked to the door with his people. “Our military will not ignore this provocation. You have just doomed yourselves, and perhaps the entire planet.”
“Lie down, just lie still,” Dave said, kneeling behind Perri, holding him around the shoulders and easing him to the floor of the water tank. Blood stained his shirt just above his belt. “We have to get out. We have to get to into town and get you some help.”
“Check… the guy… outside,” Perri said through gritted teeth.
Dave lay him down and Perri curled up on his side, knees to his chest. Stepping carefully to a bullet hole at eye level on the side the shooting had come from, he peered out.
There was no one there. He saw blood on the ground though. He walked slowly around the tank, as quietly as he could, peering through bullet and shrapnel holes. The Russian had disappeared.
“He’s gone. I think you hit him.”
“You have to get out,” Perri said.
“We both have to…”
“Just go!” Perri said. “I can’t move.”
“I can’t just leave you here. You’re bleeding!” Dave said plaintively.
“Bleed worse… if I try to walk,” Perri said.
Dave looked outside again. There was still no sign of the Russian. “I can’t leave you lying here.” What can I do? He crouched and reconnected the radio, fumbling with unfamiliar wires before it came to life.
“Sarge, this is uh, White Bear, Sarge, are you there?” he asked. “Come in Sarge!”
He had to repeat himself three times, when finally the Mountie’s voice came on, “White Bear? This is Sarge. Is everything OK?”
“Yes everything is fine. Except it isn’t. We ran into a Russian soldier and Perri has been shot. In the guts. What should I do?”
“Dave, are you safe?” Sarge asked. “First you have to get to somewhere safe.”
“I think so, I think the Russian is gone. Perri shot him,” he said.
“Stay on the line, I am patching you through to emergency services,” Sarge said. Perri listened in as Sarge called what sounded like a 911 number, explained who he was and told the paramedic he was dealing with a gunshot wound in a foreign country. He came back on, “OK Dave, putting you through.”
It sounded like Sarge was holding the radio microphone up to a speakerphone. “Dave, is that your name?” a paramedic asked, sounding like he was talking from a fish bowl.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to ask you a lot of questions Dave and for now I just want you to give me short answers, OK?”
“Yes.”
“Is your friend conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah.”
“Can he speak?”
“Perri? Can you talk on the radio?”
“Hurts…” Perri said. “Thirsty.”
“He can, but he says it hurts. And he’s thirsty,” Dave said, reaching for a water bottle on the floor of the tank.