PULKOVO AIRPORT, ST. PETERSBURG —23 SEPTEMBER

“The war begins in precisely two weeks.”

Luganov said it so matter-of-factly, almost casually, as they boarded the presidential jet for the flight back to Moscow that at first Oleg wasn’t sure he had heard the man correctly.

“October 7?” Oleg asked, aghast but desperate not to show it. “But that’s earlier than we’d discussed.”

“It’s going to be delicious, my son,” Luganov continued as he headed for the back of the plane. “NATO won’t know what’s hit them.”

When they reached the conference room, Luganov asked Oleg to shut and lock the door behind them. Oleg did as he was told as Luganov tore off his jacket and tie, loosened the top buttons of his freshly starched white shirt, and poured himself and Oleg glasses of vodka from the bar behind his white leather executive chair. The president took a swig. Oleg did not. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning. He was growing increasingly concerned about how much his father-in-law was drinking, though this was hardly the time to say anything. There were far more urgent issues on the table.

“So it’s true, Father —you’ve decided there is no way forward other than war?” Oleg asked, hoping to appeal to the man as a member of his family, not his staff.

“I have,” Luganov replied, opening the folder in front of him marked CLASSIFIED, scanning the cover page quickly, and then sliding the entire folder to Oleg. “This is the latest draft of the war plan. I’ve made several important changes since last week. But this is it. When I sign it, it will become final. But first I want you to take a look at it. Tell me what I’m missing. I want to leave nothing to chance.”

Oleg took a deep breath, then picked up the folder with cold hands and began to read it carefully. Soon the jumbo jet was rumbling down the runway and lifting into the air. Oleg kept reading. From time to time he looked up at his father-in-law, worried that he was expecting a response faster than Oleg was prepared to give it. Instead, the man seemed oddly and uncharacteristically detached. He was swirling his drink in his right hand while staring out the window at the massive city of St. Petersburg —home to more than five million souls —shrinking in the distance.

Oleg wasn’t trained in the strategies or tactics of the armed services. But he had spent enough time in the company of the president and his generals to perceive that the plan in front of him was flawless. It was built around speed and the element of surprise. To the extent that the West was expecting an invasion of Ukraine, Luganov’s calculus was likely spot-on —an invasion of the Baltic states would utterly blindside NATO leaders. Unless they began airlifting men and matériel around the clock, beginning that very night, it was highly unlikely they could prevent the Russian onslaught that was coming —certainly not with conventional weapons.

There was just one critical issue, but Oleg was terrified to raise it. He had seen the army chief of staff ask the same question, and the man had been immediately dismissed from the position he’d held with honor for five straight years —and not simply dismissed. Luganov had ordered the general arrested and sent into exile to who-knew-where on charges of treason. Did Oleg run the same risk now? He had been asked for his opinion. And he was family. Then again, Luganov had dismissed Yulia, his wife of thirty-four years, without any hint of emotion or regret. To this man, even those closest to him were evidently expendable. Still, Oleg mused, wasn’t it traitorous to his country, to his people, not to ask the question?

Oleg cleared his throat, both to get the president’s attention and buy just a moment more to figure out how best to frame the most crucial conversation of his life.

“From a military perspective, the plan is very impressive in every respect, Father,” he began, treading carefully. “Yet, in all honesty, I cannot shake my concerns about the intelligence informing the strategic concept.”

“How is that, my son?” Luganov said, turning from the window and finishing what was left in his glass.

The president did not seem defensive, so Oleg took another step. “You know I have always had the highest regard for Dmitri Dmitrovich,” Oleg continued, referring to FSB chief Nimkov. “But I have to ask, is he really giving us —is he really giving you —all the facts?”

“To what facts are you referring?”

“I’m just wondering how carefully Dmitri and his team of analysts have truly studied the American president.”

“Andrew Clarke?” sniffed Luganov. “Please —the man is a neophyte, a boorish fool. What more is there to know? He can’t get serious legislation through the congress. He knows nothing of NATO, nor does he care. If he did, he wouldn’t be so cagey about Article 5. He’d be moving troops and tanks into the Baltics. I’ve discussed this at length with Dmitri Dmitrovich. Believe me, there is nothing to worry about.”

“But, Father, there is something here that worries me,” Oleg said, leaning forward in his seat now. “I’m not disputing a single word you have just said, but I do question the psychological profile of Clarke that the FSB has provided. Indeed, I worry that the profile is deeply flawed and thus could be leading us down a very dangerous path.”

“Go on,” Luganov said.

“Clarke is clearly a neophyte; that is certainly true. And he’s obviously made many mistakes, some of which seem astonishing —ridiculous even. But by locking in on Clarke’s numerous weaknesses, his self-inflicted mistakes, and his political weakness, the FSB may be missing the man’s singular strength.”

“Which is what?”

“His capacity to learn from his mistakes.”

“Nonsense,” Luganov said. “He’s the most uninformed and inexperienced leader the Americans have ever elected. This opens up a door to us never unlocked at any other time since our humiliation at the collapse of the Soviet Empire.”

“But what the FSB is not properly weighing is that Clarke was elected,” Oleg calmly but firmly protested, careful to use Dmitri Nimkov as his foil, not targeting Luganov’s own analysis. “The man ran arguably the most disastrous campaign in the history of any country. He foolishly steered into not one political storm but many, yet he found a way to navigate to a safe harbor. He vanquished one opponent after another when no one thought he could. Admittedly, his transition was full of blunders, but in time he corrected those as well. He hired staff that did not serve him well, to put it mildly. Yet, one by one, he has fired them and replaced them. Moreover, he chose an experienced VP and a deeply experienced and rather accomplished cabinet. And for all the rancor, even chaos, in the American political system, certainly in the media, Clarke is getting things done. America hasn’t imploded. The economy is growing. Millions of jobs have been created. And they’re plowing tens of billions into more-robust defenses.”

Oleg could see frustration growing in his father-in-law’s eyes. He had only a few moments more to make his case without losing his job and perhaps his freedom. He had never spoken to the president like this. He could barely believe what he was hearing himself say, and yet he found himself pressing on just a bit further.

“My point is simply this —Dmitri Dmitrovich is asking you to base the entire premise of your invasion of not one but three NATO countries on the absolute certainty that the current president of the United States is a total beginner and has no idea what he’s doing and thus would never launch a counterattack against us using conventional forces and therefore would certainly never order a counterattack using tactical nuclear weapons, much less strategic nuclear weapons, even if you went nuclear first. Perhaps the FSB is right. But what if they are wrong? What if Andrew Clarke is more unpredictable than Dmitri Dmitrovich is giving him credit for? What if Clarke’s ability to course-correct makes him a far cannier opponent than the FSB has adequately considered? What if the FSB’s read on the American president is just wrong enough that this invasion of the Baltics leads us not to glory, but to . . . ?”

“To what?” Luganov asked.

“To ruin.”

At first, Luganov glared at him. But suddenly his entire countenance changed. He burst into laughter and poured himself another drink.

“Oleg Stefanovich, what a vivid imagination you have!” he roared. “My son, you are not a military man. You are certainly no intelligence man. But you are a good and loyal boy, and I truly cherish your capacity to amuse me as well as advise me. Now come —drink up! Drink with me to the coming victory that will electrify the masses and firmly and finally reestablish Russia’s place as the supreme global power.”

Oleg was furious, though he fought not to show it. Luganov was not only ignoring him, he was mocking him. And there was nothing Oleg could do about it. He had to demonstrate his loyalty. So he grabbed the glass of vodka and forced it down with a grimace. As he did, the president signed the war plan, then picked up the secure phone back to the Defense Ministry.