"Yes, sir, " Winstead said. "We've tracked down those claims. They're true, Mr. President."
"It just keeps getting better and better."
"Mr. President, " Secretary of Defense Lopez said.
"Secretary Lopez."
"Sir, the Russians have raised the alert levels of their nuclear forces to levels comparable to the Cuban Missile Crisis levels, sir. I recommend that we raise our level to DEFCON 2, sir."
Another knot twisted Mack's stomach.
"Mr. President, " the secretary of state spoke up.
"Secretary Mauney."
"Rising to DEFCON 2 would be a mistake. Sir, that puts us on the precipice level for nuclear war."
"But, Mr. President, " Secretary Lopez responded, "we must continue to show strength here. Remember, Russian forces in the Caucasus region threaten our Turkish allies. The Russians know only one word. Strength. They've raised their threat level. We must respond."
"But, sir, " Secretary Mauney responded, "now is the time for calm and reason before all this blows up. I urge an open dialogue with the Russians before it's too late. Sir, I believe we should first have Secretary Lopez contact the Russian minister of defense to calm things down and assure them that our forces are not there to attack them. That would be followed up by you calling President Evtimov, sir."
The CIA director spoke up. "I'm afraid it won't be possible for Secretary Lopez to call Minister Popkov."
"What do you mean, Director Winstead?"
"Sir, our intelligence sources in Moscow say that Minister Popkov has been assassinated."
That news was a bucket of cold water on Mack's head.
"Not only that, sir, but we have satellite photos showing trucks fueling at least two dozen long-range intercontinental ballistic missiles in Siberia. These missiles had been drained of fuel as part of the Ballistic Missile Reduction Treaty negotiated by the previous administration."
"What's going on? Who's in charge of the military?"
"Sir, we hope that President Evtimov is still in charge. But the answer to the question is that we really don't know, " Director Winstead said.
"Mr. President, " the secretary of defense said. "All the more reason to raise the readiness status of our nuclear forces to DEFCON 2. We don't know who's running the show."
"Let's call President Evtimov, " Secretary Mauney retorted. "Let's defuse this thing now. Please."
"Of course Evtimov will claim he's in charge." Secretary Lopez's voice was as tense as Mack had ever heard it. "But are we to believe that?
Popkov is murdered. Then they raise their nuclear alert status to Cuban Missile Crisis levels? Sir, that means that they're targeting American cities again. Right now.
"The Russians know only strength. You'll get Evtimov's attention if we're at DEFCON 2. He'll know we mean business. And if someone other than Evtimov is running their military, whoever is in charge will know that we mean business too."
Mack stood, crossed his arms, and paced back and forth across the front of the ornate conference room. The secretary of defense was right. The Russians had for generations only understood and responded to strength. But the secretary of state was right too. This whole thing was spinning out of control. The thunder of war – of nuclear war – boomed in the distance.
The president stared at the red telephone on the table. In theory, he was supposed to pick up that phone, get the president of Russia on the line, and immediately defuse the specter of nuclear holocaust.
That was the theory anyway.
But there was theory, and then there was reality. Someone had murdered the man, who next to the Russian president himself, was directly in charge of Russia's deadly nuclear arsenal.
On top of that, nuclear warheads were being targeted at American cities again.
What to do? If rogue forces controlled the Russian military, failing to raise the level of United States forces could invite a preemptive strike. But raising the level of American forces could further provoke the Russians. A miscalculation either way could cost the lives of millions.
Lord, help me. We must remain so strong that no potential adversary will dare test our strength.
The words of Ronald Reagan rang in the back of his mind.
"Mr. Secretary." He looked at the secretary of defense. "Order United States nuclear forces to DEFCON 2."
CHAPTER 25
FSB Headquarters
Lubyanka Square, Moscow
The Russians had kept him in isolation for several hours, Pete assumed, first in a holding area onboard ship, and then at a holding facility in Odessa. But because they had taken his watch, and because he could not see outside, he could only estimate how much time had passed.
He saw sunlight again when they chained his arms and legs and led him out of an armored car across the tarmac to a plane at Odessa Airport. He was grateful for a few minutes of fresh air. He was also grateful that they had placed him in a seat by the window, which allowed him to at least enjoy the daylight, a welcome respite from the deadly silence of the armed guards accompanying him on the flight.
He had assumed they were taking him to Moscow, and his suspicions were confirmed when he spotted the spirals of the Kremlin through a break in the clouds.
A few minutes later, the plane touched down on a large, concrete runway.
At gunpoint, the guards rushed him to an armored jeep, and they sped away out of the airport with blaring sirens and whirling lights of police escorts both in front of and behind the armored jeep.
About thirty minutes later, the armored jeep sped down a large boulevard, heading straight up toward the multi-colored bulbed spirals towering into the overcast sky.
This world-famous sight looked more imposing in real life than it had in the pictures. But to be in an armed vehicle approaching St. Basil's Cathedral in the heart of Red Square, thousands of miles from home, Pete realized that he was about to be held accountable for his actions as commanding officer of the USS Honolulu.
A light rain fell as the jeep turned right just in front of the Kremlin. The driver swung around the perimeter of Red Square, turned right again, and headed into an underground parking deck of a large grey building with Stalinesque architecture.
Pete did not remember his geography of downtown Moscow all that well, but he assumed that this was Lubyanka Square, the former headquarters for the old KGB, and now its successor, the FSB.
The jeep stopped near an underground freight elevator shaft, where half a dozen armed Russian soldiers were waiting.
One of them opened the door. A younger man, wearing a dark suit, spoke in perfect English. "I am Special Agent Vasily Borvich. I am a translator working for the Russian government. Come with me and these men, please."
A soldier pushed a button and the elevator doors swung open. All six soldiers stepped in, surrounding Pete with their guns. The translator stepped in and closed the doors, then pushed the button. The elevator started rising.
"Where's my crew?"
"It is not for you to ask questions."
The elevator stopped. The doors swung open into a large corridor with fluorescent lights and antiseptic-smelling tile floors.
"Step out of the elevator and follow me."
They stepped across the hallway from the elevator, their boots clicking and echoing down the corridors. They walked through two ornate double doors.
The doors swung into a large, chandelier-filled courtroom. The courtroom was packed with people who turned and stared at Pete.
"Walk forward."
Pete stepped down the center aisle, through a wooden gate.
"Sit here." The translator pointed at a table to his left.
At the table to his right, a grim-faced Army officer stared him down with angry eyes.
Something was said in Russian. Three high-ranking military officers, one each from the Russian Army, Navy, and Air Force, stepped through the door behind the big benches in front of Pete. All three looked to be in their fifties. With a solemn face, the Army officer in the middle nodded at a clerk.