It tried to move right, but she moved right.
The tank feinted left, but she moved left.
The Oval Office was silent. MacPherson and Corsetti recalled the scene from Tiananmen Square in 1989 when a young Chinese man, determined to bring about democratic reforms in his blood-soaked country, faced off against a tank and thus the entire Communist government. Was it really happening again?
The rapid-fire patter of news anchors seemed to drift off midsentence, as each intuitively grasped that there was nothing they could say that would communicate more powerfully than the pictures they were beaming around the globe.
In a single moment, an old woman’s defiance in the face of sheer barbarism seemed to capture the entire battle, its cost, its stakes.
The tank’s turret popped open. A helmet-clad gunner emerged and began to scream back at the woman, who was still screaming at him.
Suddenly, the gunner drew his sidearm and pointed it at the woman’s head.
MacPherson gasped. How could he just watch the murder of this innocent woman on television? He was the head of the world’s only superpower. Wasn’t there something he could do? Yet how could he do anything without risking all-out war with Russia?
A gunshot rang out. A puff of dust and smoke rose from the pavement to the right of the old woman as a bullet ricocheted into the street.
But the woman did not flinch.
Another gunshot to her left, closer this time, but still the woman did not flinch.
The gunner retreated into the tank. The turret closed. Again, the tank moved left, but the woman blocked its path. Then back to the right, but she held her ground.
MacPherson sat mesmerized. Words did not come. The office remained silent.
Thick, black smoke began to pour out of the tank’s exhaust pipes and it began to move again, forward, toward the old woman. She took off her shoes and heaved them, one by one, with all her force, at the tank, now just ten yards away.
It would stop, right? It had to. These weren’t monsters. Russia was a civilized country, emerging from a century of darkness.
But the tank did not stop.
Instead, it increased its speed, and before the world could think or react, it mowed down the old woman and with her, Russia’s last line of defense.
18
MacPherson gathered his team in the Situation Room.
CIA director Jack Mitchell began the latest briefing by explaining that ultranationalist rebels continued to battle with forces loyal to Vadim in five midsized cities in southeastern Russia and around several key Siberian oil towns. But for the most part, the data suggested the putsch was brilliantly conceived, almost flawlessly executed, and very near complete.
As of yet, no one had stepped forward to claim credit or declare himself the new czar of Russia. Still, there wasn’t much doubt about who was behind the violence. Rumors had it that Sergei Ilyushkin’s top advisors were making preparations for a nationally televised address by their supreme leader within the next several hours.
MacPherson put four questions on the table:
First, if Ilyushkin was the mastermind behind the coup, what might his immediate demands be? Second, what were his longer-term intentions? Third, what should be the administration’s strategy to contain Ilyushkin? Fourth, were there any plausible scenarios for a surgical, preemptive strike to take out Ilyushkin and his allies and install an interim, pro-democracy, pro-Western regime?
Defense Secretary Burt Trainor responded to the last question first. “Mr. President, as sympathetic as I am to your desire to take Ilyushkin out, I’m afraid that does not appear to be an option at the moment. Based on the events of the past seventy-two hours, the man appears to have the support or sympathy of most of the Russian military’s high command.
“I think we have to assume at this point that Ilyushkin has seized control of Russia’s strategic nuclear forces. And, of course, his forces have surrounded not just the American Embassy but all of the NATO and other allied embassies. They control the fate of tens of thousands of Americans and other foreign nationals living, working, and studying inside Russia. And we believe they are holding Jon Bennett and Erin McCoy.”
MacPherson turned to Marsha Kirkpatrick. “What are the scenarios by which we could launch missions to rescue Bennett and McCoy, as well as our embassy personnel?”
“I’m afraid there aren’t any at the moment, Mr. President,” Kirkpatrick responded. “In terms of the embassy, the Marines on the ground were able to get the fires out and are tending to the wounded. The staff have been working around the clock all weekend burning documents and destroying all critical communications equipment. At the same time, however, rebel forces have positioned antiaircraft batteries on the rooftops of every adjacent building. Even if we wanted to send in airborne forces right now, they would likely be shot down.”
MacPherson leaned forward. “And Jon and Erin?”
“Sir, at the moment we don’t have any good intel on where they are. We’re not even sure they’re alive. We do have one Kremlin source who escaped during the chaos. She says she saw Erin wounded but alive and being loaded into an ambulance. But we haven’t been able to confirm that, and a check of local hospitals has turned up nothing.”
MacPherson didn’t want analysis. He wanted action, regardless of what the polls were telling him. “We can’t just sit here and do nothing, people. The status quo is completely unacceptable, and I want detailed contingency plans on my desk by this afternoon. One for rescuing our embassy personnel. One for extracting Jon and Erin. And I want a full-scale plan for retaking the Kremlin. In the meantime, start by pre-positioning rapid-response strike forces at forward NATO bases, ready to carry out such plans on a moment’s notice. Is that understood?”
MacPherson scanned the room so each of his principals could see the determination in his eyes. He could see the anxiety in theirs. The tension in the room was palpable, and he knew what everyone was thinking.
Was he really going to order U.S. forces into battle against a Fascist regime armed with nuclear weapons and obviously prepared to use devastating force?
Even he wasn’t sure. But doing nothing was out of the question.
Jack Mitchell glanced at Corsetti, then back at the president. “Mr. President, you can count on the men and women of Central Intelligence to get you what you need as quickly and professionally as we possibly can. But I need us all to be crystal clear on one thing.”
“What’s that, Jack?”
“Sergei Ilyushkin is not simply a disciple of Vladimir Zhirinovsky. He’s Adolf Hitler with thermonuclear warheads, and right now he’s got ten thousand pointed at our heads.”
Where was Erin? Was she alive?
That’s all Bennett wanted to know. But whom was he going to ask? He had no idea where he was. He had no idea what day or even what month it was. His eyes and limbs felt like lead. Every part of his body ached. But all he could think about was Erin.
He tried to open his eyes, but he was slipping in and out of consciousness. The room was small, and the walls were bare and a disorienting bright orange. The paint smelled fresh. The bed was small, like a child’s, forcing his feet to hang over the end. He realized he was wearing only a hospital gown. Two IV tubes were taped to his arm, and his hands were chained to the metal frame of the bed.
He tried to call out, but his mouth was dry and sticky, his lips chapped and raw.
How long had he been here?
Again his eyes felt heavy, and his head began to swim.