Tsar (45 page)

“I’m coming.”

“I’m going to hang up now, Stoke. Get the gun. But you answer the second you see this phone ring. You’re all I’ve got to hold on to.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“No way.”

“’Bye, baby. Be strong.”

“’Bye.”

P
resident Jack McAtee said good-bye to the British ambassador, hung up the phone, shook his head wearily, and looked at the crisis team he’d assembled in the Oval Office. Those present included the vice president, Tom McCloskey; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Charlie Moore; the secretary of state, Consuelo de los Reyes; the new director of the National Security Council, Lewis Crampton; FBI Director Mike Reiter; and the director of the CIA, Patrick Brickhouse Kelly, better known as Brick.

His team.

The mood was tense. They had an American city in ruins, and the evidence pointed to a Russian terrorist as culpable. If that were true, and McAtee found out the Kremlin was even remotely involved, military confrontation with Russia was back on the table for the first time since Kennedy had stared down Khrushchev over Cuba fifty years earlier, sitting at this same desk.

And now there was news coming out of the Salina investigation that an airship carrying hundreds of VIPs and Nobel laureates, not to mention the vice president’s wife, might be a target for the same terrorists who had murdered Salina’s mayor and her family and destroyed the town. A key suspect had been seen in Miami just before the airship departed.

“You guys ready for this one?” the president asked, trying to smile.

McAtee was tired and looked it. He saw events spiraling out of control and knew he was powerless to stop them. All he could do now was try to learn as much as he possibly could about exactly what the hell was going on and make the very best possible decisions he could under the circumstances.

The only good news was that his White House team had been in crisis situations before, maybe not as bad as this one, but they’d weathered the storms, come through well enough. It they were all smart, kept their heads and wits about them, they might get through this one, too. But it was a bitch, no doubt about that. The Russians seemed out of control—and they still had thousands of nuclear warheads aimed at America.

“What is it, Mr. President?” Brick Kelly said.

McAtee said, “That was the British ambassador. He says he just got a WTFIGO cable from London. Anybody know what that stands for?”

“What the fuck is going on?” Lew Crampton said.

“Bingo, Lew. He says the MI-6 intel currently coming out of Moscow is going from weird to completely insane. One, the president, Rostov, just died in a helicopter crash. Clear weather, military chopper, very suspicious. Two, the Duma is in emergency session, locked down, no media, rumors flying. Three, one of the British service’s top operatives, an old friend of Brick’s and this office, was just arrested coming out of the Bolshoi ballet.”

“Not Alex Hawke?” Brick Kelly said.

“I’m afraid so, Brick.”

“Jesus. The KGB’s got him? Not good.”

Brick Kelly said, “As you well know, he’s gone undercover, sir. A new division of MI-6 called Red Banner. Designed to counter the resurgence of Russian intelligence. Hawke is in Moscow because—”

“He’s in Moscow because I sent him there, Brick.” The testiness in his voice bore witness to the tension in the room. “I was fully briefed on Red Banner by Sir David Trulove when he last visited the White House.”

“Sorry, Mr. President, I should have assumed that. At any rate, one of my agents is liaising with Hawke and Red Banner. He’s in Moscow now. Harry Brock. I’m sure he can help.”

“Ah, yes, Harry Brock. Well, that’s reassuring, Brick, knowing you have a man of that caliber inside the enemy camp.” The president’s sarcasm was not lost on anyone.

“He’s different, I’ll admit, sir. But he’s damn good in the field. I’ll contact him and the American ambassador when this meeting’s over. See if we can’t get Hawke released as quickly as possible.”

“Good. Thank you, Brick,” McAtee said.

The president rose from his desk, walked to his favorite armchair to the right of the fireplace, and sank down into it.

“Anybody got any ideas?” he said.

As usual, no one in his government agreed with anyone else about what the hell they should be doing at the moment. That’s why he’d assembled his team this morning, to try to make some wise collaborative decisions about how best to proceed through the current minefield.

“The primary card the Russians hold right now is energy,” the secretary of state said, shifting her weight around on the sofa. “One, the petro-rubles make them immune from certain threats. And two, if pushed, they can throw the switches at Gazprom and Rozneft and turn out the lights in all of Europe.”

“Not to mention the Baltics, East Ukraine, et cetera,” the vice president added. “Bastards. They think they’ve got us in a corner. Rule one: Never corner a rat or the American military.”

Tom McCloskey, the former Colorado rancher, was smart and tough, and he could focus. That’s why McAtee had put him on the ticket, a decision he’d never regretted once.

The president looked at Kelly. “You’ve got human assets inside both Gazprom and Rozneft, isn’t that right, Brick? Deep cover?”

“Yes, sir, we do. Three Russian engineers manning the on/off switches are on our payroll. Unnumbered accounts in Geneva.”

“Could these guys actually stop this thing? If the Kremlin tried shutting everything down in Europe? Or the former Soviet republics?”

“Stop, no. Delay, yes. At least, they could buy us valuable time in a crunch. That’s why they’re there.”

McAtee smiled. “Well, good news at last. We’re on a roll. Anybody else?”

General Moore leaned forward, looking at his boss. “I ordered our overhead capability rerouted this morning. All sixteen of our low-level birds are now operating over the Russian mainland, Mr. President. Total satellite coverage.”

“Good work. We’ll need—”

“Mr. President?” Betsey Hall said, interrupting. McAtee’s secretary had cracked the door and stuck her head inside.

“Yes, Betsey?”

“An urgent call for you. From Moscow.”

“Who is it?” McAtee asked, looking at the blinking light.

“Someone named Korsakov. I believe he’s the late President Rostov’s successor.”

“Turn on the tape, Betsey,” McAtee said, returning to his desk, punching a button, and picking up the receiver.

“This is President McAtee,” he said.

“President McAtee, I am Ivan Korsakov. I’ve just been selected by the Russian Duma as the new leader of our government. You are the first person I’ve called.”

“Well, I’m glad you called. Congratulations, President Korsakov.”

“Actually, I’ve been proclaimed Tsar.”

“Tsar, is it? Well, that is interesting. Historic, one might say.”

McAtee covered the phone and said to his team, “They’ve got a Tsar now. Holy Christ.”

“Mr. President, I’m delighted we have this chance to speak,” Korsakov said. “And I look forward to working with you. Striving to build a better world.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that, given recent troubling events.”

“Mr. President, the people of my great country are relying on me to restore Russian pride and honor. All Russian people, whether they are in the Baltics, in Estonia, Lithuania, East Ukraine, wherever, they are all relying on me to restore the cohesion of the Russian nation.”

Restore cohesion?

McAtee paused a moment to gather his wits and then said, “I’m sure over time, we will be able to work through your issues and still develop a plan that will retain the current integrity of Europe.”

“Mr. President, I am not entirely sure of your meaning, but let me tell you what we feel we must do to reunite our citizens in the Baltics and East Ukraine.”

“This sounds an awful lot like irredentism, and I don’t think you—”

“If by that word you mean someone who advocates the restoration to their country of any territory properly belonging to it, then yes, that is exactly what I am saying to you. I am only speaking now of the territories mentioned. We can discuss Moldova and the ‘Stans’ at a later date.”

“I must be misunderstanding you. Surely you’re not proposing to alter the national boundaries of the European Community?”

McAtee looked up, surprised. His entire team had gotten up and gathered around his desk, lending him support. He smiled at them, grateful. He needed it.

He continued, “What you’re suggesting would cast us back into the confrontation we put behind us at the end of the Cold War.”

Secretary de los Reyes nodded her head, vigorously approving the tack the president was taking.

Korsakov said, “Now, now, Mr. President, please. There is no need for confrontations. Let’s not even speak in those terms.”

“Frankly, Mr. Korsakov, we don’t know each other. But let me assure you that you cannot expect me to remain silent and inactive while you prepare to cast aside all precedent and all the legal instruments that have given this world the stability it enjoys today. You are talking about illegally absorbing millions of citizens now happily part of other nations.”

“Mr. President, this is not a negotiation. I had hoped to avoid just this sort of overheated rhetoric. But then, perhaps you haven’t considered the security dimensions of the moment we seem to have arrived at?”

“Security dimensions? Is that a threat?”

“You are aware of the terrible incident at Salina, Kansas.”

“Of course, I’m aware of Salina. An unfortunate development. We’re sure it’s not likely to happen again.”

“On the contrary, that is exactly what is likely to happen again. But this time to a major population center and without benefit of advance warning.”

“Mr. Korsakov, think extremely hard about what I am about to say. You yourself are not nearly so immune to certain actions as you seem to think. Reprisals could be swift and overwhelming.”

“You are in no position to threaten me, I assure you.”

“I’m not?”

“No. Trust me, as you will soon learn, you are not.”

McAtee searched the faces of his team before replying. Each one of them made a slashing motion across the neck.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Korsakov. I am unable to continue this conversation any longer. Our ambassador will be in touch.”

He hung up.

“Play that back on speaker, will you, Betsey?” he said after a moment.

The team stood around the desk and listened as both sides of the conversation were played. Jaws dropped, eyes rolled, but no one spoke when it was over. The implications of what they’d just heard were too profound to be assimilated in an instant. The world had just shifted on its axis, and the floor beneath their feet felt as if it might give way at any moment.

“Well?” the president said. “Welcome to the parallel universe. We’ve fallen through a wormhole. I always wondered if things could get any crazier. Now I know.”

“Good Lord,” the vice president said, managing a grim smile. “We’re back to October 1962. Maybe worse.”

“Definitely worse. This man is insane. A genius, perhaps, but a raving megalomaniac. Khrushchev was merely a Commie thug with a grade-school education,” Mike Reiter said. The good-looking young director had only been on the job a few years. But he was a major history buff and had taught Russian studies at Georgetown before joining the FBI.

Consuelo de los Reyes felt her cell phone vibrate and stepped a few paces toward the Rose Garden windows to take the call. She listened for a few moments, then turned back to face the group, shaking her head, her face drained of all color.

“And the vice president’s wife? Is she all right?” they heard her say. She listened and then looked at McCloskey, nodding, giving him a brief smile that said she was okay.

“Tell us what’s happened, Conch,” the president said when she’d ended the call.

“The airship
Pushkin
, en route from Miami to Stockholm for the Nobel ceremony, has just been taken over by Russian terrorists. One of the hostages managed to get to a satellite phone and call her fiancé in Miami. A man named Stokely Jones who does contract work for the Pentagon.”

“Friend of Hawke’s,” Brick Kelly said. “Ex-Navy SEAL. Hostage-rescue specialist.”

“My God, poor Bonnie,” the vice president said, wandering dazedly over to a sofa and collapsing into it. “She’s okay?”

“Yes. That’s what the hostage told Mr. Jones. She had seen her, and she was okay.”

The president stood up, staring at Charlie Moore.

“Everyone, listen carefully. I want you and your teams to initiate the following measures immediately. Lock down all Russian assets in this country. Everything. Seize all bank and real estate assets, detain and arrest the crews of every Russian ship in every U.S. harbor. Euro Command in Germany needs to crank up, now, General Moore. I need you to ascertain our offensive strike capability as of right this minute. Have the chief of naval operations send a flash message to the fleets, putting them all on high alert worldwide. Tell the CNO we need to know where all of our subs are, in the North Sea, around Kiel and St. Petersburg, also on the other side, Vladivostok. Tell him to get our carriers out of harm’s way immediately. With me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next. A flash message to the Air Force. We need to know exactly what our immediate bomber and fighter capabilities are and where. And we need to activate the capacity to jam the Russians’ low-level combat satellites, and do it now. Yes?”