The truck in front of him pulled forward through the checkpoint. A police officer cradling a submachine gun in his arms nonchalantly waved for Grekov to move towards him. Placing his son’s picture back in his wallet, Grekov changed gears and then slowly drove forward until waved to a halt by the police officer.
Several vehicles back, a thin, blonde-haired driver watched Grekov pull up to the roadblock. Reaching down into a small backpack, the man removed a commonplace disposable cellphone and then dialed a number. Instantly, there was a bright flash of light, immediately followed by the noise of the blast as Grekov’s truck evaporated in a massive explosion. A blinding orange and red fireball shot straight up into the sky. Along with it, the police checkpoint vanished in the blink of an eye. Instantly, fifteen other vehicles around Grekov’s truck were consumed in fire as the blast wave and shrapnel ripped through everything they hit. Flame, smoke, and confusion spread out like ripples from a rock thrown into water.
The thin man who had detonated the bomb via his cellphone watched his handiwork with some satisfaction, and then calmly jumped out of the cab of his vehicle. In the ensuing chaos, he simply walked into the nearest alleyway. Soon the man disappeared among the throng of people jostling with one another trying to get away from the rapidly spreading fire. Whistling to himself, the man knew that the best suicide bombers were the ones who did not even know they were.
17
President Donald Kempt switched off the television and wearily sat down on the dark-green leather couch. A youthful man with a thick mop of premature gray hair, he was the first president elected from the state of North Dakota. With a daily stream of bad news about the deteriorating situation in Russia flowing into the White House, he felt the full weight of his job pushing down upon his shoulders. He wondered why anyone one would ever put themselves through such torment to be president. He was not even sure that he had the stamina to go through this for another four years. Shaking off such thoughts for another day, he turned his attention towards the members of his staff.
Several members of the president’s National Security sat quietly in the room, but with the holiday season upon them, several of the usual key staff members were still noticeably absent.
“I know what CNN is telling me, but what is the true situation in Russia, and how much longer can President Ivankov keep a lid on the growing unrest?” asked the president, throwing the question out to the room.
Dan Leonard, the president’s National Security Advisor, a white-haired former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, took out his reading glasses, placed them on his wide nose, and started to read the latest information that he had received from his various field offices. Leonard cleared his throat and then spoke. “Mister President, things are getting worse by the minute over there. Martial law was established throughout the country earlier tonight, but that did not prevent a suicide bombing at the Domodedovo International Airport in Moscow. This attack resulted in the deaths of at least forty-five Americans, nearly all university students, along with a hundred and sixty-five other foreign nationals who were all waiting in line to board a plane out of the country. It’s still a confused situation at the airport, but our field personnel over there are working closely with the local authorities to try and get an accurate count of our casualties.” Leonard did not make eye contact with the president as he continued to thumb through his file. He found what he was looking for and continued. “My opposite number in the Russian government says that he believes that at least another one hundred and eighty-five Russians were killed earlier in the day when a tanker truck full of fuel was detonated outside of a police checkpoint in the heart of Moscow, and hundreds more have horrific wounds from the fire. It may take them a couple of days to confirm their exact totals, as these figures also include those potentially incinerated in the blast.”
“My God, this is worse than Iraq at the height of the insurrection,” said David Grant, the Vice President. Grant was a Texan, ten years older than the President; he was a popular man with hawkish views on national security. He squirmed forward in his chair and said, “Damn it all. We need to do more to help the Russian government before they fall to this cabal of nationalist terrorist groups. Russia’s the number two exporter of oil in the entire world, and I don’t need to remind anyone that any interruption in the flow of that oil would have a crippling effect upon the economies of Europe, China and Japan. Our own economy isn’t as strong as we had predicted earlier in the year. We cannot sit by idly and allow the world to spiral into a depression that would make the 1930s look like child’s play. It wouldn’t sit well with the voters.”
The president shot Grant a ‘not now’ look for his last comment.
“Sir, I have to agree with the VP. It’s in our best interests to push Congress for another multi-billion dollar aid package to their military and law agencies before all is lost. To do nothing would be suicide with the electorate,” said bookish-looking John Morillo, the current Director of the FBI.
“What about ties to known terror organizations? Has anyone taken the time to see if these attacks are their handiwork?” threw out the vice-president as he took a sip of coffee. “We hurt them badly in Iraq, Somalia, and Afghanistan. I have no doubt that they’re looking for ways to strike back at us. I know right-wing groups don’t normally mix with Islamists, but stranger things have happened, especially when it is in both of their interests. We know that they’re always looking for new and more imaginative ways to strike here in the States.”
Voices rose in the room at the mention of another possible attack on the United States.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said the president, trying to keep his team focused on the problem at hand. “The issue now is what do we do to prevent the fall of a friendly government?” President Kempt paused for a moment to ensure he had everyone’s attention. “I hate to say it, but we should acknowledge the fact that it may already be too late for President Ivankov; pro-Western or not, he has failed to contain this worsening crisis.”
“What about Dmitry Romanov?” threw out the vice-president. “He is definitely pro-Western and is reputed to have ties to the Romanov royal family, something that would sit well with hardliners in both camps. Hell, he could easily be seen by many as a compromise candidate for the Presidency.”
President Kempt sat silently, lost in thought for a few moments. “You may be right, Dave. He may be the only option left to us in a couple of days if Russia continues to fall apart,” said the president firmly, wishing things were not so dire.
No one said a word, but the implications were clear: the US needed to be ready to step in and help oversee the peaceful transition between Romanov and Ivankov. No one wanted a reactionary nationalist government with access to Russia’s vast nuclear arsenal. Events were spiraling out of control, and they had to be prepared to act and act decisively to ensure that Russia did not collapse into total anarchy.