President’s Reception Office
Grand Kremlin Palace
Moscow, Russia
1641 local time
The phone on Yermilov’s desk buzzed.
He pressed the intercom button and said, “What is it?”
“Mr. President, there is a Brown Fox transmission,” his executive assistant said.
Yermilov felt a band tighten around his chest and his breath stuck in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder at Boris, who stood impassively by the large drapery, hands clasped in front of him. He was either not aware of the weight of this message on the intercom or, more likely, he was simply too professional to react.
“Thank you,” Yermilov finally said, then pressed the button to break the intercom link with a trembling finger. “Leave me, Boris,” he said without looking back at the man.
“Yes, sir,” Boris said, and Yermilov felt the movement as the man retreated to the secret door beside the bookcase and disappeared, a metallic click signaling the door to the secret safe room and weapons depot had closed.
The Russian president opened his computer, then entered the three-stage authentication that only he knew, and a message box opened. For more than a decade now, the only traffic on the top secret communications system that established a direct line between the Russian and American presidents had been the hourly, low-side messages between the operators, confirming the system to be operational. Twenty-four messages a day, twelve sent from each nation, and this was the first time he had received a message personally, despite the daily requirement to log in to confirm the system worked on the Kremlin’s end.
The message box populated with a series of symbols and numbers at first, which instantly transformed to words, in Russian, as the program decrypted the message:
We must talk.
Yermilov leaned back in his chair, struggling to breathe. This was about more than the tensions between their fleets in the Atlantic. Ryan had communicated his position quite clearly in his national address—a message intended more for Yermilov than the American public, Yermilov suspected. It had contained the expected saber rattling and finger-pointing. After all, an American plane had been lost—but then, they had shot down a Russian jet in response. Yes, wars were started in such situations, but this must be more than that.
He knows. He knows, somehow, about the Belgorod and the plan to place a weapon in Norfolk Harbor, to lie waiting should they escalate in the future.
No. It was impossible. That operation was highly compartmentalized. This must be about the downed fighter. Nothing else made sense.
I must show strength.
He typed his reply.
Release the Finitor, return our sailors, withdraw your carrier strike group . . . Then we can talk.
He watched the letters and symbols fill the screen again in real time and could picture the American president, sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, typing his reply.
We know about the Belgorod and its tasking.
Yermilov’s heart skipped a beat.
But how much did Ryan know? That the Americans had a network of spies in Russia was known, and a constant source of pain for him, not to mention cost. It seemed half the budget of FSB operations these days was spent rooting out assets and closing leaks. And with satellite technology, there were no secret movements or deployments. Of course, they had been watching from overhead and had seen the Belgorod set to sea. He had leaked the propaganda about the Status-6 torpedo capabilities for just this reason, long before Ilyin had come to him with his plan. So what this needed was bravado and saber rattling of his own.
K-329 is a deterrent to protect Russia from American aggression.
Before he’d even finished typing, a new message appeared.
Intelligence indicates the Belgorod has orders to conduct a Status-6 nuclear first strike against America.
Yermilov felt instantly light-headed as all the blood drained from his face. He’d interacted with Ryan long enough to know that the American President was forthright to a fault. Ryan didn’t lie. Ryan didn’t bluff. Somehow, the man had managed to become and remain President with a policy of telling the truth even when it weakened his negotiating leverage. Yermilov didn’t know what to type, so he stared at the screen and felt afraid.
Very afraid.
There would be no way for the Americans to distinguish between the attempt to sneak a Poseidon UUV into Norfolk Harbor and an actual first strike. And if Ryan knew about the mission, the Americans would be monitoring for it and much more likely to detect it.
I have to abort the mission. It’s too dangerous.
He was still staring at the screen when more text came in.
Ilyin, Rodionov, Aralovich, and Boldyrev are plotting against you.
We suspect Gorov is in league with these men.
The Belgorod attack will spark a war between our countries, trigger a coup, and you will take the fall.
Thousands, if not millions, of innocent people will die.
This transmission is your last chance to remain in power and save your country.
If you do not cooperate, our first Tomahawk salvo will target your office and two dozen command and control locations in twenty-eight minutes.
Yermilov stared at the screen, his head swimming. Ryan’s transmission had confirmed his worst fears. The Russian president looked into the future and imagined with perfect clarity the sequence of events that would lead to his downfall and demise. Ilyin had manipulated him brilliantly, and in his gut, Yermilov understood that the old man meant to do it—detonate the nuke, cripple the American fleet and East Coast command, use it to justify a coup, and start a brand-new Cold War.
Let me help you stay in power, Mr. President.
He couldn’t help but glance at his watch. Twenty-seven minutes. Then he placed trembling fingers on the keyboard.
What are your demands?
Pull the Northern Fleet out of the Atlantic and cease flight operations.
It will be done.
Terminate the Belgorod’s mission, order it to surface immediately and return to port.
Yermilov let out a long, hissing sigh through clenched teeth.
That might not be possible if Captain Gorov has gone rogue, as your intelligence suggests.
Ryan didn’t reply for nearly a full minute.
Then our only choice is to hunt down K-329. Together.
First, cancel your missile attack.
Salvo suspended, but we will be watching.
Yermilov’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. But to say anything further would be to cede any strength and dignity he had left.
So he said nothing.
He pressed the button on the intercom.
“Yes, Mr. President, sir?” came the strained voice. She must know that a direct message from the American President could not possibly be something good.
“Get Colonel General Andreyev on a secure line immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yermilov dropped his head into his hands. His world was spiraling out of control. Should he move swiftly against Ilyin and the other traitors now? Or should he proceed methodically and dismantle their networks?
The FSO is still firmly under my control, as is the army, Wagner, and probably the GRU. Not everyone respects Rodionov.
The same was true of all the coup members. Certainly, they had a web of supporters, but Yermilov was still the president and commander in chief. Ninety-nine percent of the officers and rank and file would follow his commands . . . bend to his will. Institutions functioned because of authority, not loyality. He wrangled his breathing under control and quelled the panic in his chest. Making decisions driven by fear and urgency rarely resulted in the optimal outcome. He’d risen to power by being calculating, methodical, and feared. He still had the upper hand. Coups were only successful when they had a catalyst and when they could capitalize on the element of surprise.
Ryan’s Brown Fox transmission had robbed Ilyin of both.
One step at a time, he told himself. De-escalate. Stop K-329. Then round up the traitors.
The intercom light on his phone flashed and he pressed the button.
“General Andreyev is on the secure line, Mr. President,” the secretary said.
“Da,” he said and took the call. “Colonel General Andreyev, we have a problem. You are the only one I trust now, and I must have your complete loyalty.”
“You have it, Mr. President,” came Andreyev’s proud and perhaps relieved voice.
“You must tell no one of this conversation, Oleg,” he said, trying to sound intimate with his new confidant. “I’ve learned there is a conspiracy at the highest levels to undermine my authority and start a nuclear war with the United States.”
“Nuclear war?” Andreyev said, the shock and dismay in his voice the proof Yermilov needed that the man was both unaware of the plot and properly terrified by the prospect.
“Da, comrade. The situation is both dangerous and delicate. It will require your leadership, discretion, and cooperation to identify the co-conspirators and stop the war. You will be my right-hand man putting down this dangerous cabal. Understood?”
“Completely, Mr. President. You have my unwavering allegiance.”
“First, I need the Northern Fleet to pull back from the American strike group. Cease all flight operations at once and steam the fleet north back into the Arctic exercise area.”
“It will be done immediately.”
“There is more, Oleg,” he said. “I have learned a most unsettling truth: submarine Captain First Rank Gorov has gone rogue. He is working with the conspirators. I fear we have lost control of K-329.”
There was a long pause and he could imagine Andreyev trying to read between the lines.
“I am not surprised by this. Admiral Boldyrev has been working at odds with the NDMC and my staff. May I speak frankly, Mr. President?”
“Da.”
“Boldyrev is not loyal to us, sir.”
“I know. What about Defense Minister Volkorov? Can we trust him? Or do you believe his loyalties lie with Ilyin?” Yermilov asked, giving Andreyev another nugget of trust.
“I think Volkorov is tired of trying to lead in Ilyin’s shadow. Since Ilyin retired and you appointed Volkorov, he has struggled to win your confidence. Ilyin is constantly undermining him.”
Yermilov nodded. “This is helpful information, Oleg. We need Volkorov in our corner.”
“Show him favor and he will have the confidence to finally assert himself. He was afraid that working at odds with Ilyin would undermine your trust in him. He has been waiting for this moment.”
By confiding in Andreyev, the man had reciprocated. This was exactly what Yermilov needed most.
“What is our best submarine in the Northern Fleet, Oleg?”
After a moment, Andreyev answered, “I assume you mean apart from Captain Gorov and the Belgorod.”
His head of military operations was piecing it together.
“Da.”
“Captain First Rank Denikin and K-560, the Severodvinsk. I would put the K-560 up against the American Seawolf without hesitation.”
“What is K-560’s status?” he asked. He thought he knew the position and readiness level of his most capable hunter-killer submarine, but that was before Ryan’s transmission.
“It is patrolling the North Atlantic, ready to protect and defend our fleet at a moment’s notice, Mr. President.”
“And you are sure it is in theater?”
“I will confirm, but I’m highly confident that neither the asset nor its captain are compromised,” Andreyev said, once again proving his loyalty, intuition, and worth. “What are your orders?”
How did I let it come to this?
He let out a long sigh, scarcely believing the order he was about to give.
“Transmit new orders to K-329 to abort its mission, surface immediately, and stand down. I want all communications routed through and monitored by your office at the NDMC. At the same time, send an encrypted flash message to Captain Denikin of the Severodvinsk. For the captain’s eyes only,” he said. “Presidential Order number 10522: K-560 shall hunt down and destroy the special missions submarine Belgorod, K-329.”
“But, sir, this is dangerous to have both instructions out at the same time. What if K-329 complies and stands down? Do you still want me to sink it?”
“If Gorov complies, then we cancel Denikin’s kill order, but I am afraid this is nothing but wishful thinking. I suspect we will not be hearing from Captain Gorov until it is too late and he has already started a war that will end us all.”