11:05 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time (7:05 p.m. Arabic Standard Time)
The Situation Room
The White House, Washington, DC
The insanity rolled on. Lawrence Keller watched it unfold with increasing alarm.
“The Russians are overreacting,” General Stark said. “And they’re overplaying their hand.”
Stark was a madman, and Mark Baylor was just a step behind him. How did this happen? How had Keller himself gotten this so wrong?
They were better off with a do-nothing like David Barrett.
NSA and CIA listening stations had started picking up chatter from inside the Russian strategic command. Instead of simply allowing the United States to attack its allies in Syria and Iran with impunity, Russia was ready to go the mat. They had emerged from the disastrous 1990s in a weakened state geopolitically, militarily, and economically, but they did have one last card up their sleeves.
They had nuclear weapons left over from the Soviet Union.
Keller pointed at a military aide sitting to Stark’s left. “Can we hear that assessment again, please?”
Stark shook his head and sneered. “Mr. Keller, you have no authority here, and you have no military experience. I’m not sure we need to—”
“Incorrect, General,” Keller said. “Do your homework. I am the authorized representative in this room of the duly-elected President of the United States, David Barrett. I served in the United States Marine Corps, Second Battalion, Fifth Marines, from 1967 to 1971, with two tours of Vietnam. I spent the month of February 1968 in Hue City, taking it back from the NVA. I probably have as much combat experience as you do, General, if not more.”
Lawrence Keller was all the way out on a limb now. The situation was nuts, and as a result, he had lost his mind. Mark Baylor was watching him closely. Everyone was watching him. It was impossible to put the genie back in the bottle. It was impossible to fade back into the woodwork.
“Now let’s hear that assessment again,” he said.
The aide looked down at the paper in his hand. The paper had been passed to him from a runner who had come downstairs with the latest printouts.
The aide cleared his throat.
“Uh… as of eleven hundred hours Eastern Daylight Time, May eighth, Russian Strategic Command appears to have mobilized far-reaching military assets in response to American activities in the Middle East. Russian bombers and fighter planes are patrolling at the edge of American airspace in the Bering Strait, and have penetrated across the Arctic Ocean, testing British RAF response in the North Sea, and buzzing Canadian airspace over Newfoundland and Labrador.
“Russian bombers and jet fighters have been sighted over the Sea of Japan, and are moving eastward across the Mediterranean Sea toward the Levantine coast, hugging the contours of North Africa. Russian MIG-21s have entered Iranian airspace, at the invitation of the Iranian Supreme Islamic Council, and in an unprecedented provocation, are patrolling the borders between Iran and Iraq, as well as Iran and Afghanistan. American fighter jets have made visual contact—repeat, visual contact—with Russian fighters in both of these regions.”
The aide turned over the page, and skimmed the next one before reading aloud. He appeared to be a man of about thirty-five. His face had blushed red while reading the first page of the intelligence report. He cleared his throat again and breathed deeply.
“Perhaps most worrisome, more than two hundred missile silos across the Russian heartland and Siberia are reporting states of combat readiness. These include launch silos for nuclear-equipped intercontinental ballistic missiles targeting the United States. Russian Strategic Command has issued a communiqué stating that any American or NATO attack on Syria or Iran will constitute an act of war against the Russian Federation, and will be treated accordingly.”
He looked up from the paper and stared at Lawrence Keller. He raised his eyebrows as if to say: Satisfied?
“Thank you,” Keller said.
“They’re bluffing,” General Stark said.
“What makes you think that, General?”
Stark raised a bound sheaf of paper from the table in front of him. Stark was a man who was fond of paperwork.
“I’ve brought a Pentagon intelligence assessment of Russian strength relative to our own, which was developed over the past eighteen months. I brought it because I anticipated the possibility that they would pull these kinds of antics in an attempt to get us to veer off course. I’d like to summarize its findings, if I may.”
Mark Baylor nodded. “Please do.”
Stark nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
It irritated Keller to hear Stark calling Baylor by that title. He should call him Mr. Interim President, as unwieldy as that might sound. David Barrett was the true President of the United States, and as soon as this meeting was over, Keller was going to get started on a plan to reinstall him.
“Fact,” Stark said, raising a finger. “Russian Air Force, naval, and ballistic missile capabilities have degraded significantly since the collapse of the Soviet Union. As of December 2003, more than fifty percent of the MIG fighters in their arsenal are legacies left over from before the collapse. Maintenance on them is suspect, and we believe that at least five percent and possibly as many as ten percent are not even flight-worthy as of this moment. In any event, MIGs, new or old, are no match for our modern F/A-18 fighter jets. Their pilots are no match for our pilots. The Russian jets patrolling the skies are so much window dressing.”
Stark barely paused for breath. He raised a second finger.
“Fact,” he said. “The Russian Navy is in worse shape than their Air Force, if that’s possible. Many Russian ships and submarines are rusted hulks that can barely leave port. In August of 2000, less than five years ago, gentlemen, the Russian nuclear submarine Kursk exploded and sank during naval exercises in the Barents Sea, the first major exercises the Russians had attempted in ten years. All one hundred eighteen crew were lost. Russian communications systems, and command and control, were so poor that for six hours the Russian Navy didn’t even realize the ship had gone down. An internal assessment conducted by the Russian Navy, which we intercepted, suggests that sailor morale is as low as it’s been at any time in the modern era.”
He raised a third finger. “Fact. Russian infantry units performed so poorly, and so chaotically, during the two recent Chechen Wars, that we do not anticipate them being deployed against us in any theater at the current time. We would welcome it if they were. Their leadership corps are some of the same people responsible for the humiliating debacle in Afghanistan during the 1980s. The vast majority of their foot soldiers are either young, inexperienced, and poorly trained, or have gone through adverse experiences in Chechnya, with the attendant psychological damage that suggests.”
He stopped speaking. It was quiet in the room.
“Thank you, General,” Mark Baylor said. He looked around at the faces gathered there. The last face he reached was Lawrence Keller’s. “I like it,” Baylor said. “I think we need to strike while the iron is hot. Let’s go forward with the attacks.”
Lawrence Keller sighed.
“Mr. Interim President,” he said, trying the title out. It sounded fine to his ears. It sounded almost emasculating, as though Baylor was the caretaker of a small nonprofit organization for children, while the executive director was recovering from hip replacement surgery.
“Mr. Interim President,” he said again, more forcefully this time. “That’s all well and good, and I’m certain we can defeat the Russians in any conventional theater of combat. But we haven’t heard anything from the general about their nuclear and ballistic missile capabilities. General?”
“You already know what I’m going to say about their ballistic missile capabilities,” Stark said.
“Well, a few moments ago this gentleman to your left told us that more than two hundred Russian missile silos are reporting full combat readiness. I’d like to hear more about that, if I might, before we launch a war against the world’s other major nuclear-armed power.”
General Stark’s voice suddenly rose in anger. “In what capacity are you acting that you think—”
Keller pointed at Stark. “I already told you what capacity. I am the representative of the duly-elected—”
Stark looked at Baylor. “Mr. President?”
Baylor shrugged and nodded. “Just give him the assessment,” he said. “So we can all get out of here.”
“Okay,” Stark said and sighed. He turned to a new page.
“Give us all of it,” Keller said. “Don’t hold back.”
Stark stared at him.
“Russian ballistic missile capability is a shadow of its former self,” he said. “Many of the weapons systems have not been maintained or upgraded since the late 1980s. Command and control has degraded, as have general communications system-wide. We believe that some silos are reduced to making telephone contact with Russian Strategic Command. Their missile defense and distant early warning systems are Cold War–era leftovers, and may be nonfunctional by any modern standard. However, the sheer size of the original Soviet arsenal is a matter of some concern. If even fifty percent of the original arsenal is still operational, and we believe it is, then it’s clear that an even, toe-to-toe nuclear exchange would be a disaster for both them and us.”
Keller shook his head. “And you would like to instigate a war with them, General?”
Stark’s face turned red. He raised a single finger. “The Russians are not going to risk a nuclear war over Iran and Syria.”
“Is that a fact, or is that your opinion?”
Stark’s eyes were on fire.
“Sir, if it comes to that, we can win a nuclear war against the Russians. My intelligence shows that a massive preemptive first strike on the Russian mainland, with simultaneous launches from our ballistic missile silos as well as our nuclear equipped submarines and destroyers, would overwhelm—”
“General, are you insane? Should we really risk a nuclear war just because you want to attack Iran? I remind you that the President’s daughter has been kidnapped. We should be sifting through intelligence data about her whereabouts, rather than—”
Stark’s voice rose almost to a shout. “Completely overwhelm their missile defense capabilities, resulting in the loss of more than ninety percent of their—”
Keller didn’t know what to say. He stood and pointed at the general again.
“Behold a pale horse!” he shouted, quoting the Book of Revelation. “And its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed close behind! And the two were given dominion over the Earth, to kill by sword and famine and plague, and by the wild beasts.”
Stark stopped. He gaped at Keller.
“Did you just ask me if I was insane? Listen to what you’re saying.”
A man at the conference table stood. He was a tall man with wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a light blue dress shirt and khaki pants. A dark blue blazer was draped over his seat. A wire hung from his right ear, suggesting he was listening to information coming from somewhere else. He was clearly not military, but he was also dressed a little bit casually for normal government work. He had been sitting there quietly this entire time. His appearance was utterly nondescript. He was not a man who stood out or would be easily remembered. He could be anyone.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “If I may interrupt, I’m Special Agent Smith with the Central Intelligence Agency. I was sent here to participate in these discussions, but I haven’t felt I had anything to offer until now. I’m receiving real-time updates indicating that in the past several minutes, the President’s daughter may have been located. No one is sure yet. But if it’s really her, she is in the mountains of northwestern Iraq, she is alive, and ad hoc rescue attempts are already underway.”
He paused and looked at Mark Baylor.
“Sir, I’d like to suggest that we stand down from a nuclear war footing for the time being, and focus our deliberations on…”
Baylor nodded, not even missing a beat. One minute he was ready to bring about Armageddon, the next, he was ready to discuss a rescue operation. He was a chameleon. They all were. It made Lawrence Keller sick.
“Yes, of course,” Baylor said. “That’s very good news. Let’s get Elizabeth out of there.”
A silence drew out. It seemed to last a long moment. Keller was still standing, frozen in place, his finger pointed like a gun at General Stark. Stark’s mouth was open as if he was about to speak.
“Are you gentlemen okay with that?” the CIA agent said.
“I’m fine with it,” Keller said. “Of course. I welcome it.”
“General Stark?” the agent said. “We need to act fast and assist the rescue attempt in any way we can. At the very least, we need to put the assets in place to secure the region where we believe she might be. We need to do that now.”
Stark shrugged. He turned the paper over in front of him.
“Okay,” he said. “But I think we’re losing an opportunity.”