MOSCOW,
AUGUST 18, 11:47 P.M. MSK
Major Valeri Volkov had been a young man in a hurry for much of his adult life, and as with most such men, he’d rarely taken a moment to appreciate his accomplishments. He was always looking toward the next goal, his next opportunity to rise. All of his previous advancements had been the product of study, diligence, and sacrifice. He had no influential family members or connections to push him up the ladder.
To this point his station in life was based solely on merit. He was sufficiently introspective to acknowledge that he didn’t possess nearly the natural talent of Piotr Egorshin. But he believed that once Egorshin advanced to bigger and better things, it would be Valeri Volkov, by virtue of endurance and determination, who would succeed him.
Volkov believed, however, that such succession would occur sometime far in the future. Yet here he was at the helm of the unnamed unit Egorshin had built and commanded with his brilliance, the unit that was central to Yuri Mikhailov’s designs for Russian glory.
All Volkov had to do was give an order. The systems and programs had been devised and built by Egorshin. The unnamed unit’s technicians had been trained by the prodigy, to whom Volkov had been loyal to the end.
At least that’s what Volkov kept insisting to himself to brush away the stray threads of guilt he’d felt after the interrogation by Stetchkin. Volkov had been honest throughout. He hadn’t trimmed or expanded his answers in service of his own ambitions. Nonetheless, upon learning of Egorshin’s death, Volkov felt as if he’d advanced to the unit’s leadership by stepping over a corpse.
While the feeling hadn’t entirely dissipated, it had substantially receded behind feelings of pride and power. He’d ascended to one of the more important positions in Mikhailov’s new Russia. His prospects now were almost as unlimited as those of the genius Egorshin had been. He allowed himself to think of a future of wealth, fame, and women.
All because of the tyrant Stetchkin’s fixation on Tatiana Palinieva. Astonishingly foolish, if somewhat understandable. Palinieva was remarkably attractive. Perhaps now Volkov might draw her interest. After all, if Egorshin could, Volkov could too. And why not? He would possess all the accoutrements of power that he assumed a woman like Palinieva found attractive. He’d make sure to pay his respects at the funeral.
Volkov stood in his station on a low platform at the back of the large plexiglass-enclosed room. His eyes, like those of the dozens of analysts and technicians seated at the sleek ergonomic workstations before him, were fixed on the large digital clock set above the massive movie theater–like screen on the front wall. The screen flashed a blizzard of letters and characters arrayed about innumerable lighted dots on a world map separated into ninety-eight grids. Each member of the unit had been tasked with a specific grid, but all the work for each grid was complete. When all of the digits on the giant clock reached zero, it would be left to Volkov alone to press the command key to set the event in motion. A single key. The program could have self-executed at the appointed time, but Egorshin had wanted to engage the event manually.
Stetchkin was monitoring the proceedings from General Maximov’s office down the long corridor on the same floor. Volkov was relieved that the tyrant wasn’t standing behind his shoulder. As soon as the event had been engaged, Stetchkin would notify Mikhailov and take credit. Volkov had no problem with that. There was enough credit to go around.
As the enormous clock ticked down, a faint murmur spread through the room along with a feeling of anticipation akin to the countdown toward a New Year. Volkov saw slight turns of the head; sidelong glances and smiles proliferated among the unit members. They, too, felt the power of being part of shaping history.
Less than thirty seconds now. As the clock ticked downward, the murmur began to fade to silence. Volkov saw Ludmila Rutina, the attractive analyst from the cyberwarfare division, stare and smile brazenly at him. He returned it with a rakish grin.
Four, three, two . . . Volkov held his breath, his index finger over the key . . . Zero. He tapped the key.
The massive screen froze and went completely dark. Nothing. Not a flash or a flicker. Just black.
Bolts of bewilderment and anxiety lanced through Volkov. He pressed the command key again, harder. Nothing happened.
Zero plus two seconds.
He pressed it twice more. Again, no effect.
Zero plus four.
The heads of the personnel in front of him were swiveling back and forth, looking at their teammates, mouthing questions, scanning the screens on their desktops. Hands were shaking.
No answers.
Then, in rapid succession, the monitors on the desktops also froze and went dark. The sounds of confusion and panic rippled through the room. Technicians moved about urgently, looking over shoulders, asking questions, performing diagnostics.
Zero plus twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .
Volkov cast about the room, frantically searching the faces of the unit members, looking for anything that might indicate the owner had an answer, a solution. All he found was confusion and disbelief. The best and brightest were stumped.
Volkov frantically pressed the other keys on the board.
Zero plus seventeen. The phone on his desk trilled.
Stetchkin.
Volkov’s body froze, but his mind rocketed into overdrive. Fragments of explanations, images of Uganov and Egorshin, pleas for mercy, all careened and collided in his brain.
The phone trilled again and Volkov stared at the handset. He couldn’t avoid or delay: Stetchkin demanded immediacy. He would expect a definitive explanation. He would want results.
Volkov reached for the handset, wincing in anticipation of the tyrant’s unyielding questions and reproaches. But what he heard astonished him.
“Major, what is the problem? Can this be rectified immediately?”
Gone was the imperiousness and cruelty seemingly ever present in Stetchkin’s tone. The voice on the other end was worried and plaintive. It threw Volkov momentarily off-balance. Nonetheless, so as not to aggravate the tyrant, his response was apologetic and deferential.
“Sir, staff is performing an analysis as we speak. It may take a few moments to determine the cause of the problem and remedy it.”
“It is solvable, however? It is just a matter of time?”
The truth was Volkov had no idea. This should not have happened. Innumerable simulations had been run. All of the potential bugs had been worked out months ago. This was inexplicable, and the perplexed looks on the faces of the technicians scurrying about the room confirmed his belief.
“Without a doubt, sir. We will remedy this. I believe we can do so in short order.”
“Can you give me an estimate of how long?”
“Not precisely, sir. We are working on that.”
“A minute? Five minutes? An hour?”
“Very soon, sir,” Volkov dodged.
“You are confident the event will proceed shortly?”
“I am confident, sir,” Volkov lied.
“Is there anything your unit needs to ensure one hundred percent success?”
Volkov was struck by the servile, almost pleading quality in Stetchkin’s voice. He wasn’t just anxious; he was frightened. The sound was almost as incongruous as hearing a crocodile squeal.
And then Volkov remembered. He had represented to Stetchkin that the event could proceed without Egorshin with one hundred percent certainty. Under normal circumstances the failure of such representation would have doomed Volkov. Stetchkin, however, had made the very same representation to Yuri Mikhailov. Stetchkin, therefore, was no less terrified than Volkov. Thus, for the moment, Stetchkin and Volkov had common interests; they were allies.
Volkov replied, “Sir, we have everything we need. Thank you.”
“Understand that all of the resources of the Russian Federation are at your disposal, Major.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck. Please notify me the instant the problem has been resolved.”
“I will.”
Volkov would not.
For unbeknownst to either of them, Egorshin had exacted his revenge from the grave, courtesy of his uncle Sergei the magician.
It was zero plus fifteen minutes. Not a significant delay, but enough to require adjustment of downstream timetables. Large numbers of troops with massive amounts of equipment and weaponry were poised for a highly coordinated strike. As with any military maneuver, the optimal window for such a strike would not remain open indefinitely. A decision would have to be made soon.
Alexei Vasiliev was the only person in the room with Mikhailov, who had preferred not to be surrounded by a herd of generals and advisors when the event was initiated, all jockeying for position and spewing advice and observations. Mikhailov preferred to drink from a straw rather than a firehose. At critical times, the quality of information was more important than its volume.
Vasiliev was Mikhailov’s chief aide because he understood that principle. He didn’t bother his boss with extraneous ruminations. He spoke sparingly and precisely, and only about things that advanced his boss’s objective.
Mikhailov had sat alone in his office at the time scheduled for the event’s initiation. He knew that any significant developments would be reported by Vasiliev, so he busied himself with a stack of mundane reports about natural gas production and related economic outputs.
Vasiliev had waited until zero plus five minutes before informing his boss that the event had not yet launched—there had been some type of catastrophic systems failure at the unit. Mikhailov received the news as if receiving a weather report. It was raining despite a forecast of a sunny day.
But, as always, the unflappable Mikhailov had packed an umbrella. So he invited Vasiliev to take a seat and the two talked hockey for several minutes, until there was a light knock at the door. Vasiliev rose and opened it to a tremulous aide, who whispered something before disappearing as fast as she could. Vasiliev turned to Mikhailov and simply shook his head once and retook his seat to await further instructions.
Mikhailov was deliberative. He had a bit of time. His contingency plan was in place and ready to proceed. All he had to do was give the order.
“We will give the unit another forty-five minutes.”
Vasiliev nodded. “Realistically, Mr. President, if necessary we have more time than that.”
“Yes, I know. But it is better to set a firm deadline; otherwise, we will find ourselves pushing the schedule back five more minutes, then ten, then ten more. Alert Bor.” Mikhailov smiled, anticipating Vasiliev’s response. It was his aide’s unofficial duty to second-guess him.
“Mr. President, the Bor option presents enormous risk. Perhaps it would be advisable to wait.”
“Either option presents enormous risk, Alexei.”
“The Bor option, however, if executed with anything less than perfection, will assuredly precipitate war, and not merely regional skirmishes, but a major conflict. A world war, which could result in the use of nuclear weapons.”
“Bor will execute with perfection. That is why we entrusted the backup operation to him.”
“But he was thwarted in the EMP operation,” Vasiliev noted. “There is no guarantee he will not be thwarted once more.”
“Bor was not thwarted. The Iranians were. By Mr. Garin.”
“Respectfully, Mr. President, I submit the risk is greater now. Garin—and for that matter, the Marshall administration—was placed on notice of our ambitions by the EMP operation. We cannot dismiss Garin—our file on him is substantial. Even Bor respects him.”
“Alexei, we are cognizant of the risk. We have discussed the probabilities more times than I can count. Indeed, the Main Intelligence Directorate ran the probabilities through their supercomputers—what?—literally billions of times. The majority of outcomes show success. And if there is a failure—the possibility of which I do not discount—the Americans will assign blame to ISIS, because every single person Bor is running is inspired by, and believes himself to be working for, that group.”
“This would dwarf the 9/11 attacks, Mr. President. The American people will expect and demand massive retaliation against anyone with any fingerprints on it.”
“No, Alexei, they most assuredly will not. They will demand retribution, but not suicide. ISIS and the jihadists will be made to pay. And even then Marshall’s hands will soon be tied. Half of the American populace believes Marshall to be a warmonger. They and the press will act as a restraint.”
Vasiliev paused for a moment. “But what of NATO? When we move into Greater Russia, Article 5 will be triggered.”
“Not one member of NATO will go to war over Latvia, Alexei. Or Estonia. Or even Ukraine. They are timid and dependent on our gas. And when we sweep through Iran, they will even cheer us for assisting them, for removing the chief state sponsor of terror. Again, keep in mind probabilities.”
“Still, Mr. President, is it worth the risk?”
“We shall soon discover the answer, Alexei. But consider for a moment the potential rewards. Greater Russia, Iran, the Persian Gulf. No nation has conquered so much territory in more than seventy years. None has done so successfully in more than one hundred. So”—Mikhailov smiled again—“having dutifully performed the role of court skeptic, kindly alert Bor to be prepared to receive final orders within the hour.”
“And if the unit does not rectify the problem—a problem you were guaranteed would never occur—what shall we do with Stetchkin?”
The smile left Mikhailov’s face. “Nothing. For now.”