The restrictive ring that was going to be placed at the top of the silos was never really a problem. A large adjustable crescent wrench and a small hoist were the only tools that were required to remove the ring. And it wouldn’t take much time, either. Three men could have the ring out of the silo within just a couple of hours.
The problem that had the Soviet scientists puzzled was the cement that had to be poured into the bottom of the silos. The Russians knew that the Americans would send inspectors to observe when the silos were shut down, so they would have to fill the silos with concrete. But if they used regular cement, the walls of the silos would be destroyed if the time ever came when the Russians wanted to chip the concrete out. So, the question was, how could they save the silos, and yet still appear to comply with the terms of the agreement?
For years they stalled and delayed the SALT II negotiations while they looked for an answer to their problem. Then finally, they hit upon the solution. After years of experimentation a special mix of concrete was developed that initially set hard as rock. This allowed the Russians to pass the treaty verification process, which made both parties to the agreement very happy. But within just a few months of being poured, the special cement began to soften in the silos. Over time it continued to break down. Within a few years, the cement was no more firm than wet sand. This guaranteed that, should the occasion ever arise, the silos could be operational again within a very short period of time.
President Fedotov walked out onto the back porch of his living quarters. It was early evening, and a bitter wind had turned the air cold. At the bottom of the steps, a small gray sedan was already waiting, but if Fedotov was in a hurry, he didn’t show it. He descended the stairs one by one, then slowly crossed the driveway. When he finally made it to the car, he opened the door with a huff then plopped himself inside.
The car was being driven by General Hrihori Nahaylo, Fedotov’s Minister for Defense. General Nahaylo slipped the car into gear, then slowly began to make his way down the long drive and through the security checkpoints until he merged with the light traffic that was circling Kremlin Square. As he drove, he checked his rearview mirror and saw the two black sedans behind him.
Since it was past the dinner hour, General Nahaylo had brought along a small bottle of Kentucky whiskey, a decadent import to be sure, but one Fedotov enjoyed just the same. He waited until Vladimir Fedotov had settled himself back in his seat, then reached out and offered him the bottle. Fedotov lifted it with a smile, then poured a long drink past his dry lips and down his throat. He sucked in his breath and held it as he waited for the warmth to hit his belly.
“Well general, what have we got? Any word from that devil Hussein?”
“I spoke with him only moments ago, sir,” General Nahaylo replied. “Taha Ubaisi will be here within two weeks to counter-offer, but at this point, we are only squabbling about the details. The deal is going to go through, of that I am sure. The Iraqis want it even more than we. Three reactors, twenty billion in oil. Another four billion cash for warhead delivery systems.”
Fedotov smiled. “Fine, fine. Let’s get it done. Let’s move along. I want consummation of the deal before the month is through.”
“Yes, sir. That can be done, although it would help if you would agree to entertain the Rias here in Moscow. It is important to him, sir. It puts him on equal ground.”
The smile quickly disappeared. “Nyet, Nyet!” Fedotov shot back from other side of the car. “I don’t have time, I don’t have the desire. We’re not dealing with the camel-eaters just to agitate emotions in the West. His Sashis can be coddled and soothed sometime later. Let him thumb his nose if he must, but for now at least, I have far more important things to do. Tell him to start pumping the oil and depositing the cash. We’ll meet and kiss cheeks later on.”
Nahaylo grunted in reply.
“Now tell me, General, what of the nuclear breakout? That is our primary consideration right now. How much longer until it is complete?”
“The initial breakout is complete, sir,” Nahaylo announced with some satisfaction. “We finished just minutes ago.”
“How many silos have been refitted with their warheads?”
“As of this moment we have sixteen SS-18 missiles ready for service,” Nahaylo answered. “That’s a total of one hundred sixty nuclear warheads. Another twenty missiles will be placed in their silos within the next five days. It will take about a week to have them fueled and their navigation computers booted and realigned.”
“And the Americans have yet to detect any of our activity in the missile fields?”
“Nothing at all, sir. We have no indication that they are even looking.” Nahaylo chuckled. Fedotov laughed in response and passed him the bottle of whiskey, which Nahaylo pressed to his lips.
“Stupid Americans,” Fedotov sneered. “Trusting a treaty. How could they be so naive?”
Thomas Allen, the President of the United States, sat stiffly on the edge of the dark sofa, a white bathrobe around his shoulders, and a mug of hot, black coffee in his hand. It was four o’clock in the morning. The President was very awake. He jabbed his finger at Ted Wilson, his Russian specialist, and vented his fury once again. “I want you to tell me,” he snapped at his advisor, “with all that has been going on in Russia the past months, as closely as we have been watching those idiots screw things up over there, how could we not have seen this thing coming?”
Ted Wilson’s mouth hung open as if he would speak, but no sound emerged. General Gapp, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Chad Wallet, the Secretary of Defense, exchanged painful glares. The President stared at them, waiting for an answer. The Branson grandfather clock began to chime lightly, then let out four short strikes of its bell.
The four men sat in the President’s library, a warm and private little room tucked in a corner of the White House. The library was small and lined with old leather books. A white-framed fireplace adorned the west wall. The wallpaper was soft gray with rose highlights. A gilded wood chandelier hung from the ceiling. The furniture was early American, all original antiques.
Thomas Allen, a relatively young man with deep, brown eyes and broad shoulders, had only been President for twenty-two months. So far, it had been easy sailing. But now he was scared. He had never dealt with anything like this before.
“Gentlemen!” he glared around the room, “I want you to tell me. How was Fedotov able to openly violate the most significant strategic treaty of our time? And right underneath our noses? Those silos were supposed to be utterly useless, yet suddenly he has them on line. How? How did he do it!?”
Everyone started to speak at once. Everyone had an opinion. Nobody had any answers. The telephones started to ring. Voices became even more frazzled. Confusion and speculation soon filled the air.
But through it all, at least one thing remained perfectly clear.
The psychology and politics of nuclear weapons were well established political facts. For more than fifty years, nations had used their weapons of mass destruction to communicate to each other in the clearest of terms. And now, once again, the Russians were using their weapons to send a very powerful message to the West.
“Things are going to change,” Fedotov had told them. “And you may not like what you see. But it is none of your business. So stay out of it. Don’t interfere. Stay away or risk nuclear war.”