That was it. Sean smiled at Buxton. “I think we have our security force.”
“Who?” Captain Buxton asked, unsurprised that the Maj had again sparked on something. It was his way.
“Our enemy,” Sean answered. “The trick is convincing them to do it.”
That, he knew, would be the job of another.
“Holding court” was not the exclusive domain of the president of the Russian Federation.
Interior Minister Georgiy Bogdanov walked directly from his Zil limousine across the darkened Kremlin grounds to the office of the president and handed him the report without hesitation. “State Security received this less than twenty minutes ago,” he said accusatorially. “Tell me to keep trusting the Americans!”
Konovalenko read over the report, actually a news story to be printed the following morning in the paper of the American capital. That Bogdanov had received a copy of the translation in advance of him or Foreign Minister Yakovlev was not surprising. This had gone straight to State Security, as it was not from their CIA contact, and it was no secret that Bogdanov had allies in the upper echelons of the intelligence service. KGB holdovers entirely. Did nothing ever change?
But it was disquieting. The look on the president’s face belied that as he handed the sheets to Yakovlev.
“The Americans have started relocation procedures for their President,” Bogdanov said quite unnecessarily. It was all in black-and-white. “And a raket submarine is missing? All while our warning radars are shut down!”
“Georgiy Ivanovich.” Yakovlev laid the report on the president’s desk. “This is an unverified report.”
“Yes, from an agent you have chosen to handle the most delicate of tasks!” Bogdanov’s neatly combed brown hair fell forward as he shouted. A sweep of his hand pushed it back in place. “You cannot argue trust anymore, my good president. Do you not think the Americans would know these actions would concern us at a time like this? Why, then, have they not informed us in advance? Why?”
The question was proper, Gennadiy Timofeyevich Konovalenko admitted. So were the fears that motivated it. He looked up to Yakovlev. “Has there been any word from Marshal Kurchatov on the American submarine?”
“Just that an air search has begun in the Caribbean,” the foreign minister reported.
“A search!” Bogdanov said sarcastically. “How very convenient this all is.”
“We will figure this out,” Yakovlev assured him.
“No.”
“No, what?” the president inquired..
“This cannot be tolerated,” Bogdanov said with a force that only a man unafraid of defying his leader could. “You cannot simply sit here and think of an explanation.”
“What do you suggest, then, Comrade Interior Minister?” Konovalenko demanded. His puffy cheeks flushed a red that even his hardest drinking could not match.
“See if the good American President can explain this.”
Konovalenko sat back in his chair, rocking as he pondered what had to be done. He was treading very dangerous ground, part of which he had created by lack of foresight. His strongest ally in the military establishment, the defense minister, no less, was half a world away in the camp of his nation’s…enemy? Bogdanov’s faction in the government enjoyed the support of several high-ranking officers, men who might be unafraid to challenge the Motherland’s leadership with Kurchatov so far removed.
He had to counter anything that would give Bogdanov and his hard-line cronies an excuse to move on his leadership. He had to prevent that. Disaster could only follow. Before they could take a mile, he would give an inch.
“Igor Yureivich, get the translator.” The president slid the multiline phone to the center of his desk and scooted close to it. “I hope this satisfies you, Comrade Interior Minister.”
Satisfying me is the least of your worries, Bogdanov thought. “Let us hope so.”
“You are kidding?” the President inquired hopefully, but with the knowledge that one did not joke about such things.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Bud said. Sitting next to him, across from the President, was Greg Drummond.
“And you, Mr. Drummond, you concur?”
The DDI was not a regular attendant at briefings in the Oval Office — Anthony Merriweather had reserved that task for himself — and the years that he had on the man sitting across the desk from him could not diminish that somewhat unnerving fact that the most powerful leader in the world was asking him for his opinion on a matter of extreme importance. He actually felt queasy at the moment. “I do, Mr. President.” The Man kept his eyes focused on the DDI. He wanted more. “The target makes sense considering Castro’s expressed hatred of the Russian leadership. They abandoned Cuba, in his eyes. The longer-range Chinese missile also points to Moscow as the target.”
The President removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for several seconds before laying the bifocals on his desk. “Let me see if I have this right. We have a missing missile sub, the Russians have no early-warning radar functioning, and there is a thirty-year-old Soviet nuclear warhead targeted on Moscow. Well, gentlemen, if this is true, we have just been visited by Mr. Murphy himself.”
“Sir, we need to talk to the Russians,” Bud said.
“And you think they’ll believe this?”
“We can’t afford to assume that they won’t,” Bud responded. “Showing trust doesn’t always mean that the picture is rosy, but if something happens and we didn’t tell them, then they will most certainly see the worst. And we won’t be able to convince them otherwise.”
The President looked away from both men, his eyes falling upon the picture of his wife. Unlike his many predecessors, he did not reserve the credenza behind his desk for the obligatory family photos. Several were on his desk, where he could see them. They might have looked better for the cameras arrayed behind him, but then he’d never considered life, or this job, to be a photo op. Pictures held more meaning than that, and the very recent one he was gazing upon was more important than most. The first lady’s growing stomach added a beauty to her that he’d never dreamed possible. The media was joyous for their own reasons; for the first time in decades the White House would echo with the patter of little feet. To the President, it was the little feet that mattered, not the anticipated media circus that would accompany the birth of his first child.
His stare shifted off the picture and to the room as he thought. All of this could come to an end. All of it. And for no reason other than a madman’s singular, vengeful act. “He has no idea what could happen, does he?”
“Probably not, sir,” Bud answered. “We are living through the collision of design with circumstance. With that combination we can only imagine the result.’”
“God. Bud, can’t we do anything quicker to take that missile out? Bomb it or something?”
“Mr. President, a surgical strike might have a ninety-nine-percent chance of destroying the weapon. Delta would have a ninety-nine-point-one percent chance. Point one is not much of an improvement, but the extra certainty is worth the time and effort. If a bomb misses, all it would take is the press of a button to fire the weapon. We would not have time to react. Troops on the ground can adapt to the situation more quickly than any other force we can employ. If the command bunker they hit is the wrong one, they can shift to another target in seconds. Moving more aircraft in after a failed strike, even if the weapon hadn’t been fired, would be worthless; the surprise would have been lost. This is the best way.”