Dressed in a casual pair of khaki slacks, a white polo shirt, and loafers, a Rolex watch hugging his left wrist, his thick blond hair greased and brushed straight back, Rolf Hartmann sat in the plush study of his mountaintop mansion, its oversized windows providing him with a phenomenal view of the German capital.
My capital.
His selected guests were enjoying the cool and sunny afternoon weather, lounging about in the heated pool behind the mansion, where the drinks and food had not stopped since breakfast services concluded at ten. The informal event was being kept totally secret to avoid conveying the image that he was celebrating when the nation was in mourning. This afternoon, after attending the funeral services of the former government members, Hartmann planned to give another speech at the steps of the Reichstag, where he would outline his plan to not only find those who had attacked Germany but also propel the nation to become the world’s superpower within five years.
Marking the beginning of my new government.
Christoff Deppe entered the room, similarly dressed and accompanied by the commanding officers of the three branches of the German armed forces, all wearing their uniforms.
“What is it, Christoff?”
“Three of our communications satellites just went out. We think it might be the Americans.”
Hartmann stood and turned around, facing the windows, hands behind his back. “How certain are you that it wasn’t a malfunction?”
“We are certain that they were disabled. We also just got reports from our Russian and Chinese allies that some of their satellites, the most advanced ones, have been attacked.”
“How were they attacked? Did their radar systems—or ours—detect incoming missiles?”
Deppe shook his head. “No missiles.”
“Then it had to be a cyberattack.”
“That’s our consensus as well.”
Hartmann felt a wave of anger oozing out of the deepest recesses of his gut, spreading across his abdomen like heartburn, reaching his throat.
“It’s the Americans, Christoff. They think they can bully any nation of the world, like they did in Afghanistan and Iraq, and before that in Panama, Libya, Grenada, and Serbia. They think they can push us around as well,” said Hartmann, before adding for the benefit of the armed forces commanders, “It is bad enough that I strongly suspect they were behind the attack at the Reichstag, but now that we are down, they want to further destabilize us by attacking our telecommunications infrastructure, trying to show to the world that we are once again incapable of protecting ourselves. They are trying to push our country into chaos, into anarchy, so they can come marching in here claiming that they had to step in and help Germany back to its feet again. And they have chosen to do it covertly, just like they did at the Reichstag. Is the report ready from the autopsies?”
Deppe nodded. “It is scheduled to hit the newswire before this evening, but it will be difficult to perform our standard broadcast with those satellites disabled.”
“Then use other satellites. We have dozens of them up there under our direct control. Use them, Christoff, and then find out who is disabling them and terminate the nuisance with extreme prejudice.”
“Very well. Also, the generals would like to bring their military forces to a high level of alert. They fear the worst, and the disabled satellites only add to their paranoia.”
Hartmann looked at the three military officers, who nodded in unison and said, “Yes, Herr Hartmann. We are very concerned.”
“Then do it,” Hartmann replied. “Get our forces—as well as those of our closest allies—to a state of high alert, and do it openly. I want to send the Americans a message.”
“I also need to speak with you about another issue,” said Christoff, looking over his shoulder at the three officers behind him. They understood, did an about-face, and filed out of the office, closing the door behind them.
“Well? What is it?” asked Hartmann, dreading what could be next, deciding to walk toward the minibar to make himself a drink.
“Just got an update from our people in Paris.”
Dropping two cubes of ice into a glass before pouring three fingers of Chivas Regal, Hartmann said, “What do our people in Paris have to say?”
“I’m afraid both Ken Morotski and Rem Vlachko may have been captured alive by Savage and his gang.”
Hartmann closed his eyes briefly, his mind processing the information, working the angles, considering the implications.
“It will not matter,” he replied. “After tonight nothing will matter. Just pull the rest of the team home. I want everyone inside our borders.”
“Very well.”
“And the other problem?” Hartmann asked, bringing the glass of Scotch up to his lips.
“One of our bank accounts in the Cayman Islands.”
Hartmann stopped in midstride, then lowered the glass.
“What about it?” he asked, well aware that roughly ten percent of their fortune was spread out across several accounts on that island.
“It has been drained.”