“Our blessings go with you,” the First Lady said. “It’s good to have a close friend and a strong, true advocate of democracy in the Kremlin.”
“Yes … ah, but there is still one small matter,” Sen’kov said quickly. “I understand you are giving another news conference in a short time. I think this would be a good opportunity to propose a reparation plan for the relief of the Russian people. I think—”
“What did you say?” the President interrupted, almost choking on one of the Colonel’s legs. “Did you say a reparation plan?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said evenly. “We have not come up with any firm estimates on the damage caused by the AGM-131 weapon launched on Domodedovo, but I think a fair, conservative estimate might be in the order of one hundred billion dollars.”
“What in the hell are you talking about, Sen’kov?” the President retorted, spitting out the chicken. “Why should the United States or anyone pay reparations to Russia for the attack? First of all, it was a conflict between the Ukraine and Russia—”
“Come, come … we both know that it was not a Ukrainian AS-16 missile, as the pilot who launched the missile claimed during his radio message, but an American AGM-131 missile that destroyed Domodedovo,” Sen’kov said. “I think the world would be horrified to learn that you—”
“The United States did not launch the damn thing, the Ukrainians did!” thundered the President, his feet now off the desk. He looked at his wife, horrified, as if to say, Now see what you’ve gotten me into!
“Be that as it may, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said smugly, “the American involvement in the attack can be easily verified, and I think this confirmed story may prove, shall we say, damaging to your reelection hopes.”
“But it was you who suggested that we attack Domodedovo,” the First Lady snapped. “You told us he was in the bunker.” Her eyes were as big as saucers; her blonde hair was all but standing on end.
“How in the world would I have access to information like that, dear lady?” Sen’kov said. “I am just a simple congressman. I have no apparatus, no contacts, to get that kind of information. That is top secret information, shared by only a few close to the President, and certainly not with a member of the opposition party.
“Now, may I suggest we split the reparation payments into ten parts, ten billion dollars per year for ten years. Of course, during your news conference, you may call it humanitarian relief for the poor people of Russia. I have no objection to that. And we must discuss the procedures for plea-bargaining the lawsuits brought against my government by people affected by the fallout … that could go on for another five years.”
“This is blackmail!” the First Lady shouted, pacing with her extension in front of the French doors leading to the Rose Garden.
“You pull this shit on us, Sen’kov, and we’ll claim the same damages to Russia for its attacks on our NATO allies,” said the President, suddenly feeling an ulcer attack underway.
“But Mr. President — it is only fair,” Sen’kov said. “Of course, Russia did not use full-yield thermonuclear weapons, like the United States provided for the Ukraine, and it was Vitaly Velichko’s government, not mine, who ordered those horrible attacks on the Ukraine and Turkey. However, I am fully prepared to compensate the victims. My government would gladly negotiate reparations for the pain and suffering for the victims in the Ukraine and Turkey, and compensation for the property damage — minimal in our case, since the warheads launched against your allies hardly did any damage at all compared to the one missile you launched against us—provided the United States and NATO pay the same for victims in Russia.”
“Valentin … Mr. President,” the First Lady purred, “why are you doing this? Why are you turning on us like this? Your nation started a war against our NATO allies. Velichko would have started World War Three.”
“Dear lady, Mr. President, please understand,” Sen’kov explained. “Velichko was a mad dog, but he spoke for many in my country — like myself — that are disturbed by the disintegration of the Russian state. The Communists like Velichko bankrupted our country, it’s true, but his ideals are held by many here, including many powerful members of the armed forces. Just because the Cold War is over, the Soviet Union is no more, and the world is changing, does not mean that other countries can take what they want from my country, and we should do nothing about it. Russia should be powerful once again.
“I am not turning against you, my friends, I am appealing to you. You destroyed hundreds of square miles of Russian soil, killed hundreds of thousands of citizens, and poisoned perhaps half our nation. I did not tell you to do these things. I am asking for a promise to repay Russia for the destruction you caused. If you are unwilling to live with the fact that you made it possible for your ally Ukrayina to attack us with nuclear weapons, you should help rebuild what you destroyed.”
The President was on his feet, the phone cord almost pulling the bucket of Colonel Sanders’ chicken onto the floor. He’d pushed back his chair and was now pacing behind his desk. His face was red, puffed up, his eyes burning. “No, you listen to me, Sen’kov, my friend. You’re no better than the asshole we just got rid of. This is nothing but blackmail by someone who’s now in a position to do it. If we hadn’t intervened with NATO, and Velichko had stayed in power, I guarantee you that he woulda had you shoveling shit in Siberia. But you came to us. You sat in this very office and sold him out and now you’re proposing something just as duplicitous. Well, you know what?” the President gritted angrily, “you can go to hell.”
“The military commanders of my country would be very disappointed to hear you say that, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said. “You understand that my hold on the military is tenuous. I must constantly assure them that I will act to keep Russia strong. They will not be pleased to hear the great President of the United States has turned away from them after precipitating such a terrible attack.”
The youthful President was thunderstruck. Was Sen’kov actually threatening to re-ignite the conflict if America didn’t pay up? It certainly seemed that way. The burning ulcer in his stomach came back like a shotgun blast, matching the burning anger in his head. His knees felt weak and he dropped back into his chair as if pushed back into it. “You … you sonofabitch,” he said, drawing in deep breaths as if he were swimming against a riptide he had just encountered in a seemingly calm, tranquil sea, “don’t you dare threaten me.”
But the First Lady, listening in to the conversation at her extension, raised a hand to her husband, urging him — then, with a stern glare, ordering him — to calm himself. “All right, Valentin,” the First Lady said. “You have a deal. I personally guarantee you that I will head a commission to gather one hundred billion dollars for the ‘humanitarian relief of Domodedovo, and we will establish a commission to compensate any victims of the fallout. You have my word.”
“You are as caring and as intelligent as you are beautiful, dear lady,” Valentin Sen’kov said. “And I will guarantee that details of the Ukrainian nuclear missile attack on my country will never become public. You have my word. The best to you and yours. Good-bye.”
And the line was broken.
The President held his head in his hands, breathing heavily. “What did you just do?” he demanded, staring across the Oval Office at the First Lady, who was adjusting her skirt before his press conference. “I can’t believe you did that. We fight for our lives, lose all those crewmembers and allies, even risk a fucking third world war to get Russia to stop fighting — and now you’ve just guaranteed that we have to pay one hundred billion dollars to keep it all quiet?”