The only silver lining in the ordeal was the reaction of the president’s chief of staff, Kevin Hardison, her White House nemesis. Their relationship had become poisoned by opposing viewpoints and personal animosity, but upon her return to the White House, he’d refrained from his usual aggressive behavior. How long this reprieve would last she didn’t know, but was thankful nonetheless.
The Town Car stopped under the West Wing’s north portico and Christine and McVeigh stepped from the sedan, passing between two marines in dress blues guarding the formal entrance to the West Wing. After a short walk down the seventy-foot-long hallway, they reached the open door to the Oval Office. Hardison was already seated in one of the three chairs facing the president’s desk, and after the president waved them inside, Christine and McVeigh settled into the empty chairs.
Christine waited for McVeigh to begin. Although she was involved on the periphery, the attack on U.S. military forces was in the SecDef’s domain. He wasted no time getting started.
“I wish I had better news, Mr. President. Roosevelt will be out of commission for several months. She suffered extensive damage to her Flight Deck and Island superstructure. The Navy estimates she’ll be in the shipyard for five to six months.” McVeigh waited before continuing, letting the president absorb the loss of yet another aircraft carrier. “That leaves us with four operational carriers, which means we’re going to have to drop to two carrier strike groups on deployment. The Navy is assessing whether to pull a strike group from Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf, or drop our presence off China to one strike group.”
The president asked, “How long before one of the carriers damaged in the war with China returns to service?”
“Another year at the earliest,” McVeigh answered. “As extensive as Roosevelt’s damage is, she’ll be the first back in service.”
“Is there any way we can speed up the repairs?”
McVeigh shook his head. “Every yard is already in twenty-four-seven shiftwork, and we’ll be delaying the repairs of other carriers, refocusing our efforts on Roosevelt as soon as she arrives at Pearl Harbor.”
The president nodded. “Have you determined who attacked Roosevelt?”
“We have,” McVeigh answered as he unlocked the courier pouch and retrieved the orange Top Secret folder. “There are several critical pieces of information. The first is that Roosevelt was attacked by a twenty-four-missile barrage.” He pulled a printout from one of the Aegis Warfare System displays, showing twenty-four inbound missiles, placing it on the president’s desk.
“The second piece of information,” McVeigh said as he placed another printout on the desk, “is that the missiles were launched from a submarine. As you can see,” he said, pointing to the second printout, “there were no surface or air contacts in the launch area.”
McVeigh pulled a report from the folder, laying it beside the printouts. “Next is ONI’s analysis of the missile flight trajectory — speed, altitude, and evasive maneuvers prior to impact — which identifies the missiles as SS-N-19 Shipwreck missiles. SS-N-19s are Russian-made P-700 Granit missiles, and only Russia has this weapon in its inventory.
“Finally,” McVeigh said, “the only submarine capable of firing a twenty-four-missile salvo of Shipwreck missiles is an Oscar II. There is no doubt, Mr. President. Roosevelt was attacked by a Russian guided missile submarine.”
The president leaned back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. Until this moment, the obvious perpetrator was China.
The president asked, “Do we have any intel that explains why Russia would attack us?”
“No, Mr. President. We have no answers at this point.”
The president asked no further questions as he assessed the complicated situation: the reason for Russia’s aggression, how to broach it with the Russians, what to release to the American public, and last, but most important, the United States’ response.
Finally, the president spoke. “This doesn’t make any sense. Russian fingerprints are all over this attack. They can’t deny it.”
“They can always deny it,” Hardison replied. “And I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“What do you recommend?” the president asked, surveying the three members of his staff and cabinet.
Christine answered, “You could call President Kalinin directly. But rather than confront him, I recommend you just lay out the facts and let him explain. As you pointed out, the evidence seems irrefutable. See what he has to say, and you can take it from there.”
The president turned to Hardison, who agreed, then McVeigh, who said, “I think that’s a good start. Hopefully, there’s a reasonable explanation for what happened. The last thing we need right now is a conflict with Russia, right on the heels of our war with China.”
After a moment of reflection, the president nodded his agreement. Looking at the documents on his desk, he said to McVeigh, “Make copies I can give to the Russians, redacting whatever is appropriate.”
To Hardison, he said, “Get the Russian ambassador over here. Today.”
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dusk was settling over the city skyline as Ambassador Andrei Tupolev emerged from the rear entrance of the Russian embassy, slipping into the back seat of his limousine, its door held open by his driver. The door closed with a thud and a moment later, his car pulled into traffic on Wisconsin Avenue for the short drive to the White House. The driver said nothing during the transit and Tupolev’s thoughts turned to his pending meeting with the U.S. president, reviewing the information hastily provided by the Kremlin.
Ambassador Mushroom. That should be his official title tonight. Like a mushroom, he was being kept in the dark and fed manure. Which, in turn, he would feed to the Americans. Tupolev had been a diplomat for forty years and knew when he was being lied to. He had a suspicion as to what was really going on, and if he was correct, the American president’s reaction would determine Russia’s next step.
The American capital glided past him during the transit, and his car ground to a halt in front of black steel bars blocking the entrance to the White House. After the gate guards checked the ambassador’s identification and completed a security sweep of his vehicle, checking for explosives inside and underneath his car, the gate slid aside and Tupolev’s sedan pulled forward, coasting to a halt beneath the curved overhang of the West Wing portico.
One of the two marines stationed by the entrance saluted as Tupolev stepped from the car, and the ambassador nodded his appreciation as he made his way up the marble steps toward the White House. Standing at the entrance was Kevin Hardison, the president’s chief of staff, who greeted Tupolev, then led the way down the blue-carpeted hallway. Instead of heading into the Oval Office, Hardison turned left into a conference room. It took Tupolev a moment to realize what room they had entered and the irony therein. The Roosevelt Room.
Hardison guided Tupolev to the center of five chairs on one side of the table, then departed, returning a moment later with another man and two women, followed by the president. Tupolev stood as the president entered the room.
The obligatory greetings were exchanged, and Tupolev noticed the forced smiles on the American faces.