Zhukov turned his head to the left and then to the right. “Look around you, people of Russia. Look at what we have become. Look at how far the great Russian empire has fallen. A few short years ago, we were the greatest country this earth had ever seen. And now we are the largest third-world nation in history.”
His voice climbed to a shout, nearly eclipsing the voice of the CNN translator. “Where has our greatness gone? Where has our power gone? Where has our honor gone? And the will of the great Russian people? I will tell you where they have gone! They have been stolen from us. They have been leached away from us by treachery and fraud.”
Zhukov lowered his voice. “The West could not defeat the Soviet Union with tanks, and missiles, and soldiers. Our might was too great. Our courage was like iron. So they defeated us with lies, and with lust for material objects. They were afraid to face the naked power of the Soviet military, so they attacked our national ideals instead. They whispered their capitalist perversions into our ears until our minds were clouded. They eroded our internal values, made us lust after designer jeans and cellular telephones until we lost all touch with our moral center.”
His eyebrows drew even tighter. “And it worked. We stumbled blindly into their velvet-lined trap and we were destroyed.”
“Look at us,” he said again. “Look at the Rodina, the great land of Russia, the invincible Soviet empire. We are nothing. We are less than nothing. We have traded our national identity, our strength, and our self-respect for microwave ovens and video games. We made a whore’s bargain with the enemies of our country, and now we lay in the gutter, violated and bleeding, wondering how we could have fallen so far.”
He pointed a thick index finger toward the camera. “It stops here! It stops now! Like Vladimir Ilyich before me, I DECLARE THE REVOLUTION! I have raised the sword and drawn the blood of the true Russia’s enemies. There will be more blood, I am certain. But no price is too high for reclaiming Russia’s rightful place in the world.”
“What has happened here is only the first step,” he said. “I proclaim the independence of Kamchatka. As of this moment, Kamchatka is a sovereign country, entitled to the recognition and rights enjoyed by all nations. And I will make this new nation the cornerstone of the reborn Russia.”
Zhukov’s features softened. “My fellow Russians, I do not raise my fist against you. We are brothers and sisters, children of the Motherland. Together we are the rightful inheritors of the Russian dream, and together we will seize that dream and return our nation to its former greatness. I invite you, all true people of Russia, to join me in taking back that which is rightfully ours.”
His voice changed pitch, became lower and harder. “To the false government in Moscow, I say this … You cannot stop what has begun here. You are not the leaders of this nation, no matter what titles and honors you have conferred upon yourselves. You are parasites and fools. You have betrayed the very people you were sworn to protect. You have brought Russia to her knees. Now I order you to stand aside as the true patriots of this country lift their beloved mother to her feet.”
Zhukov lifted his right hand and clenched it into a fist. “If you attempt to interfere, the will of the Russian people will rise up to crush you. And I, Sergiei Mikhailovich, will be the instrument of their anger.”
He slowly lowered his fist. “You have read your reports by now. You know what I have at my disposal. But what you do not know — what you cannot know — is that my resolve is stronger than you can imagine. If you test me, I will do that which you fear above all things. I will use the weapons at my disposal.”
His eyebrows came down until his eyes were nearly slits. “I do not bluff, and I will not negotiate. The revolution is now, and it is utterly unstoppable. Your choice is simple. Step aside, or die.”
The camera held on Zhukov’s face for a few seconds as the English interpretation wound down, then the scene cut to the CNN studio where a grim-faced news anchor began the inevitable follow-up commentary.
The national security advisor thumbed the remote again, and the screen froze. “That’s about it, Mr. President. The rest of the news cycle amounts to speculation and tail-chasing.”
President Chandler closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands. He opened his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Somebody please tell me that this lunatic is bluffing.”
The secretary of defense nodded. “He may very well be bluffing, sir. The Russian Ministry of Defense says he’s full of hot air, at least with regard to his thinly-veiled threats about going nuclear. Our satellite imagery confirms that Zhukov’s rebels were only able to put one ballistic missile submarine to sea. The other two ballistic missile subs are still tied to the pier at Rybachiy naval station, possibly because he couldn’t find enough nutcases among the Russian sailors to crew more than one submarine. But whatever the reason, all of Zhukov’s eggs are in one basket. If the Russians can take out that one missile sub, Mr. Zhukov’s nuclear threat evaporates.”
The White House chief of staff leaned back in her chair. “Madame Secretary, how sure are we that the Russians can knock out that missile sub?”
“The Russians are pretty confident,” the secretary of defense said. “Their attack submarine, the Kuzbass, is in an excellent position to intercept and destroy Zhukov’s ballistic missile sub before it reaches the Sea of Okhotsk.”
The president made a steeple of his fingers. “So we’re waiting for one Russian submarine to destroy another Russian submarine? Do we have a fallback plan?”
“We don’t think we’re going to need one,” General Gilmore said. “Mr. President, the Kuzbass is an Akula class attack sub. Fast, quiet, and very very good at hunting other submarines. The missile sub, the Zelenograd, is an older Delta III class boat. Her missiles are deadly against land-based targets, but the Chief of Naval Operations assures me that she won’t last ten seconds in a shooting match with an Akula.”
Gregory Brenthoven smiled, “His missiles.”
The General frowned. “Pardon me, sir?”
“Russian ships and submarines are male,” Brenthoven said. “But never mind that. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please continue, General.”
The general scratched his chin. “That’s about it, sir. The Kuzbass will sink the missile sub. If that doesn’t work, the Russian Navy chases the missile sub under the ice pack, where they can hunt it down and kill it at their leisure. I guess that’s our fallback plan: let the Russian Navy trap the missile sub if they can’t kill it outright.”
Veronica Doyle glanced at her palmtop computer. “And we’re absolutely certain that this submarine can’t launch missiles through the ice?”
Brenthoven nodded. “The Delta III has no ice penetration capability. Once that submarine is under the ice, it won’t be able to launch.”
“There could be millions of lives at stake here,” the president said. “I’m not comfortable with any plan that amounts to chasing the snake into a corner and tossing a blanket over it. And I’m not particularly crazy about leaving it up to the Russians to do the work.”