“Yegor Ryzkovich,” Shumenko said with passion, “think about how many people have underestimated the Americans in the past two hundred years. Do you really believe the U.S. will pull out of the Gulf region?”
“Da,” Pavlinsky declared, seeing the surprised look on Shumenko’s face. “Allow me to explain how we can contribute to—”
“Wait, wait a second,” the president interrupted as he stole a glance at members of his security detail. “Not here,” he said under his breath. “We’ll have dinner at my dacha.”
“As you wish.”
Shumenko’s wife, Anna, along with their three grandchildren, had been shepherded through the snowdrifts to the guest quarters to allow privacy in the massive dining room of the dacha. A bodyguard added logs to the crackling fire, then quietly left the room when Shumenko and Pavlinsky seated themselves at the dining table. They made small talk and ate a few bites of the array of caviar, smoked trout, sliced beef, and stuffed cabbage. When the maid and the chef retreated to the kitchen, the men shoved their plates aside and Shumenko poured generous amounts of Stolichnaya vodka into their glasses.
“We have to be very cautious with the Americans,” the president began in a tight voice. “We’ve already irritated Washington with our campaign to end sanctions on our trading partners. Now the State Department is forcing more sanctions on us for helping Iran with their missile technology — technology which is transforming the balance of power in the Gulf region.”
“Advanced missile technology,” Pavlinsky said dryly, “which is our sovereign right to provide to any nation. The United States has no right to tell us what to do with our technology.”
Shumenko slowly shook his head. “I understand, but look at the condition of our country and our people. We can’t afford to poke the tiger too many times.”
Grim and exasperated, Pavlinsky took a sip of vodka and looked his friend straight in the eye. “Nikolai Kopanevich, how long have we known each other?”
“Since we were in the Komsomol Youth League.”
“Have I ever betrayed you?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Pavlinsky raised a bushy eyebrow and spoke in a clear, firm voice. “The American military forces have diminished while the demand on their services is continuing to increase. Look at the Gulf region, the Balkans, the Western Pacific, South Korea, and other commitments.”
“They’re still in much better shape than our decaying military,” Shumenko said glumly. “While the Americans continue to launch improved satellites to monitor our military forces, we don’t have the money to replenish the early-warning satellites we need to monitor their missile fields and the world’s oceans.”
Shumenko’s voice turned flatter. “Our decision makers are blind, which greatly increases the risk of a major miscalculation.”
Pavlinsky ignored his friend. “In the foreseeable future, as Admiral Loshkarpov and I view it, the demand on the U. S. military will exceed the Americans’ force structure.”
Dubious, Shumenko blandly nodded. “Yes, their plate is full, but their cupboard is well stocked.”
“My friend,” Pavlinsky went on with raw emotion in his voice, “their pilots, Navy and Air Force, are leaving the military in droves.”
Impatience flashed in Pavlinsky’s eyes. “Major aircraft programs have been realigned or canceled, they’re running out of high-tech missiles and bombs, and budget squeezes are having an adverse effect on recruiting, personnel retention, and morale. They’re trying to maintain a superpower spread from one end of the globe to the other and it isn’t working.”
Pavlinsky squeezed his fist into a knot. “Their aircraft carriers are going to sea without a full complement of sailors. When the Sixth Fleet battle group deploys to the Persian Gulf, U.S. forces in the Mediterranean will have to make do with one submarine and four surface vessels. That’s absolutely insane,” Pavlinsky declared loudly. “It’s an open invitation for disaster.”
Shumenko paused a moment, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. “At a time when the U.S. is enjoying a reasonable amount of economic stability. How stupid of them.”
“That’s my point.” Pavlinsky tossed back the rest of his vodka. “In addition, we know the U.S. is having a problem with forward basing in the Gulf region. Host nations like Saudi Arabia, Oman, Turkey, and even Kuwait are becoming more reluctant to permit key U.S. air operations to originate from their sovereign territory.”
“Undermanned or not,” the president interrupted, “you’re forgetting about the Americans’ aircraft carriers. They have their own floating sovereign territories—100,000 tons of diplomatic persuasion.”
“Ah, yes.” Pavlinsky smiled thinly, the look in his eyes full of malice. “But they don’t have enough carriers to handle all the potential problem areas. If one or two carriers were damaged or destroyed, and say a crisis developed between North and South Korea, or India and Pakistan, or China and Taiwan, or another crisis erupts in the Balkans, someone would have to fill the void in the Persian Gulf.”
Shumenko reached for more vodka. “Someone who is welcomed in the Middle East — say a benefactor who isn’t despised by Iran or Iraq?”
Pavlinsky nodded in agreement. “A benefactor who can offer stability to the region.” He paused to allow his message to register. “Admiral Loshkarpov suggested that we send the cruisers Pyotr Veliky and Peter the Great, along with our navy’s flagship, Admiral Kuznetsov, to the Persian Gulf for an extended goodwill cruise.”
“Have you discussed this with anyone else, other than Loshkarpov?” the president anxiously questioned.
“No, of course not.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Shumenko said bluntly. “So, my friend, what is your plan?”
Pavlinsky answered with an air of enthusiasm. “I’ve scheduled a meeting in the near future with Bassam Shakhar. I’m proposing to you that we supply the kindling in the Middle East and let someone else light the fire.”
A sudden frown crossed Shumenko’s face. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea — too much instability and too many variables.”
“Trust me,” Pavlinsky said with a gleam in his eye. “Others — factions that hate the U.S. presence in the Gulf region — will confront the Americans. All we need to do is provide the critical mass.”
“Critical mass,” Shumenko quietly mused, then caught his friend’s eye. “A self-sustaining fission chain reaction?”
“Da,” Pavlinsky said firmly. “Our hands will be clean, I promise you.”
Shumenko remained quiet while he contemplated the pros and cons of the ambitious and risky undertaking. Finally, he looked at Pavlinsky for a long moment, then spoke forcefully. “Officially, I’m not going to endorse what you have suggested — and I don’t want to be involved.”
Pavlinsky quietly nodded. “As it should be.”
“We never had this conversation,” Shumenko insisted.
“You can count on me,” Pavlinsky said with a sly smile.
An awkward silence filled the room.
“I know I can,” Shumenko finally said, despite the anxiety he felt in his chest. “I’ll recommend sending our ships to the Gulf for a goodwill cruise, show the flag and all.”
Pavlinsky’s puffy eyes expressed his great satisfaction. “Leave everything to me.”
2
Dressed in a long dark cloak and white turban, Bassam Shakhar entered the austere chambers of his closely guarded office complex in the heart of the city. The thickly bearded multimillionaire, his lips barely covering his protruding teeth, was a fierce defender of the hard-line clergy. When the power struggle between Iran’s moderate president and the conservatives turned ugly, Shakhar had prodded agents from the Intelligence Ministry to assassinate over a dozen dissident writers and politicians.