“With that goal in mind, they designed the mission, not based on sound tactics and military doctrine, but to guarantee a Russian response. They selected targets deep within Russia to ensure that the B-1 was eventually detected. They selected targets other than the missile launching facilities — like armor rally points, troop concentrations, and Russian command bunkers — all designed to look like the first wave of a major attack. And they made everything time-critical. Very time-critical. The Russians would see the missiles and bombs exploding, and only have a few minutes, maybe only seconds, to decide how they were going to respond.
“But,” Blake continued. “we have a very different priority, and I promise you, they’ll never even know we were there. Unlike the Ukrainian mission, we will never penetrate their radar coverage. It’s one missile, one shot, and we’re gone. One quick baaam and we’re out of there and heading for home. Ammon only has to get eighty miles behind the enemy…” Blake stopped and corrected himself, “excuse me… the Russian border, at which point, he would be within range to launch the missile and then turn and run. And although we do penetrate the border for a very short time, we have designed the mission to take advantage of the gaps in the Russian coverage. If Ammon stays low, if he takes advantage of the terrain to hide from the Russians’ radar, if he lets the B-1 do what it was designed to do, then he will remain always hidden, hunting between holes in the Russian radar sites. And they’ll never even know he was there.”
“What about the missile itself?” Allen asked. “Won’t they see it coming? I mean, its target is in the very heart of Moscow. How could it penetrate so deeply without being detected?”
“Sir, this new missile is one fabulous thing. It is extremely fast. It cruises at seven hundred knots and thirty feet. It is very small. And stealth was its primary design goal. From radar-absorbing paint to absurd and angular lines, it has it all. Nothing can pick it up. Nothing. Not even us. On its initial flight test, we couldn’t even find it, even when we knew it was there. So, no sir, the missile will never be seen.”
Allen stood up from his chair and began to pace around the room, stretching his arms out behind him and cracking his knuckles in his hands.
“How will you target him?” he wondered aloud. “That seems an impossible task. Think back on the Gulf War, my friends. How many Air Force sorties, how many missions did they send after Hussein, hoping to kill him in one of his bunkers? Fifty? Sixty? A hundred? And still, we never found him. Never even got close. Despite dozens of sorties from the world’s greatest Air Force, he was never in danger at all.
“Now, you tell me we can get Fedotov with one missile. How? He adheres to the same security measures. His movements are always top secret. He never sleeps in the same place. He spends a lot of time inside hardened bunkers. He only moves around late at night.
“Given these facts, how in the world will you find him? How do you program the missile? It has to have target coordinates. It has to know where to go. But how do you program a missile to hit the target when you don’t know where the target will be? Now, unless this missile is a lot smarter than we are, I just don’t see how this mission can be a success.”
Weber Coy, the director of the CIA, smiled and leaned forward in his chair. “Sir, do you remember the KY-400 satellite?”
The President frowned.
“The new EYE, sir. The reconnaissance bird. You were briefed on it last week at the SPACECOM conference.”
The President nodded his head.
Coy cleared his throat and began to explain. The President sat back and listened.
President Allen looked at his watch. Four-thirty in the afternoon. He was tired. He needed a nap. He hadn’t yet eaten any lunch. His head pounded at the base of his skull.
So much had happened in the past ten days. The invasion of the Ukraine. The Blackjack. The Nertrav with its eleven thousand Ukrainian soldiers killed. Since then, the U.S. and Russia had done nothing but pound their chests and rattle their swords. His life had taken on a nearly surreal edge, with middle-of-the-night meetings, a panicking press, endless military and intelligence briefings, preparations to defend Western Europe, while at the same time trying to keep the hawks in Congress at bay. It had stretched him to the absolute limit.
The President pushed himself back in his chair and propped his feet up onto the desk which had once belonged to James Madison and had been used to pen a large portion of the United States Constitution. Milton Blake winced as Allen’s shoes scuffed across the antique desk, perhaps one of the most valuable pieces of furniture in the world. The President ignored the look on Blake’s face as he brought his fingers up and gently rubbed his forehead, then spoke without opening his eyes.
“Okay, I think you’ve convinced me. I think there’s a chance it could work. But now let me ask you, if this is such a great idea, then why don’t we use our own men? We have B-1 crews sitting on the end of the runway, all loaded up and ready to go. We have the assets. We have the objective. Why not give them the mission and let them go?”
Blake glanced over at Weber Coy, who cleared his throat. This was, after all, his area of expertise. He had some experience with this question before, although years ago and with another administration.
“Sir, I know you already understand why we can’t do that,” was all Coy said.
The President raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Weber. I think I do. But why don’t you go ahead and explain, just in case one or the other of us might have missed the point.”
Coy answered in an even tone, as if reciting the lines from rote memory. “Sir, during peacetime operations, it is now, and has been for more than a generation, illegal for you, or I, or anyone else within our government, to order the assassination of a foreign leader, regardless of how unpleasant or dangerous they may be. In this matter, our hands are tied. It is simply illegal.” Coy paused and then added, “Sir… as you already know.”
“So what you are suggesting is we disregard our own law,” Allen sneered. “Take matters into our own hands. Just say screw the Congress and our Constitution. It’s cowboy time! And we’re running the show.”
Coy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hated the President’s sarcasm. As long as he had known him, he still wasn’t used to it. Blake glanced over to Weber Coy. Their eyes met quickly, then Coy looked away.
“What we’re suggesting, sir,” Blake finally replied, “is that we avoid a nuclear war. Yes, it is a highly controversial solution. But let me put things into perspective by asking you this question. Years from now, when you are seventy-five, and lying awake in your bed, which action will make it more difficult for you to sleep? To remember how you ordered the elimination of an insane tyrant who was preparing to use nuclear weapons? Or how you sat on your hands and did nothing while thousands of people were sent to their deaths?”
The President leaned forward in his chair and shook his head. His eyes were drawn and tired. For a while he stared off into space and said nothing. “This is indeed a lousy business that we find ourselves in,” he finally commented.
Blake and Coy nodded their heads in agreement.
Allen remained silent for some time, and then said, “One more problem. Let’s say that, by some freak of nature or unforeseen circumstance, let’s say that someone finds out. Be it the Russians, or God forbid, our own press. There’s so much that could go wrong. What if this Ammon fellow gets shot down and captured? Or what if the Russians detect the missile and somehow trace it back to us?” Blake opened his mouth to speak. Allen lifted his hand to cut him off. “Now I know that you say it is impossible, but let’s face it, in the fog of war, anything can and will happen. So, let’s just go ahead and plan for the worst. How do you propose we respond?”