94
MOSCOW
In the Operations Center conference room, deep in the bowels of the Kremlin, the air was cold and the tension thick. President Yuri Kalinin sat at the head of the table, flanked by his military and civilian advisors, absorbing the somber information. When General Andropov completed his update, Kalinin cast his eyes across the large video screen on the far wall, assessing the carnage.
Every one of Russia’s surface combatants in the Pacific had been destroyed, most floating aimlessly on the surface — blackened hulks or red torches with spires of smoke rising into the sky — while others had gone to the ocean bottom after internal explosions ripped their hulls apart. In return, all four of America’s aircraft carriers had been damaged, but none fatally, and only a few of the American cruisers or destroyers were disabled. Additionally, the United States had attacked what remained of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet, sinking the four frigates patrolling the mouth of the Bosphorus. America’s goal in the Black Sea wasn’t clear, but Kalinin had an inkling.
One of General Andropov’s aides, with a flustered look on his face, entered the conference room and delivered a folder to the General. It contained a single-page message, which Andropov reviewed, then slid to Kalinin without a word. As Kalinin read it, the heat rose in his face. He was about to ask Andropov what Russia’s response should be, when the aide cleared his voice.
“Excuse me, Mr. President. I have an additional message.”
Kalinin shifted his attention to the Army Colonel, who said, “The American president has requested a videoconference with you.”
“When?” Kalinin asked.
“Now,” the Colonel answered. “We can proceed if you desire.”
Kalinin surveyed the men and women at the table, implicitly asking for their input. None came, with several of his advisors avoiding his gaze, their eyes staring at the table.
“Put the American president on-screen,” Kalinin directed.
A moment later, the American president appeared on the display, with the video feed showing a situation not much different from Kalinin’s: the president seated at a conference table, flanked by his advisors.
“Good morning, President Kalinin.”
Kalinin checked the clock on the wall, annotated with Washington, D.C., which read 4 a.m.
“Good morning to you as well.”
“I’ll cut to the chase,” the American president said. “I’ve considered the ultimatum you gave NATO and the United States. Although you have a few valid concerns regarding your borders, I’ve come to the conclusion that a Russian occupation of Lithuania and Ukraine isn’t a good idea, so you’ll have to leave. I also realize that isn’t going to happen if I just say please, so I’ve been searching for a way to convey my request in a more convincing manner.”
Kalinin didn’t miss the flippancy in the president’s words. He had the upper hand and was using it.
The American president continued, “Your attempt to blackmail the United States and NATO was both brilliant and inspirational, and it gave me an idea.”
The right half of the screen morphed into a nine-grid, three-by-three display, showing video feeds from oil refineries and natural gas facilities, with the American president’s image remaining on the left half of the screen.
“American forces have taken control of Russia’s twenty-four largest oil and natural gas facilities,” the president said, “wiring them with explosives.”
The nine videos zoomed in, focusing on explosives attached to equipment, each with a sophisticated detonator pressed into the explosive material.
“Do these look familiar?”
The American president reached for a small electronic tablet and tapped in a ten-digit code. The detonators on-screen activated, and the videos zoomed back out.
“All of the explosives attached to your facilities have been armed, and I probably don’t need to inform you, but if anyone tries to remove or jam them, they’ll detonate. Also, in case you get any clever ideas, the master disarm code has been changed.”
The American president added, “I’ve also moved several submarines into the Black Sea, which I’m sure you’ve noticed by the absence of a few Russian frigates. In two hours, unless ordered otherwise, they will commence sinking all merchant ships departing Russian ports on the Black Sea. At that time, you can also say good-bye to your twenty-four largest oil and natural gas facilities.”
Kalinin realized the implications; the Black Sea terminals loaded the vast majority of oil and natural gas destined for Asian and African markets, not to mention being the largest grain ports in the country. By destroying the twenty-four facilities and cutting off the flow through the Black Sea, America would cripple Russia’s economy.
The American president interrupted Kalinin’s thoughts. “Of course, none of this will occur if you withdraw your troops from Lithuania and Ukraine. You have two hours for us to detect your troops returning to Russia.”
The American president let his demand sink in, then asked, “Any questions, Yuri?”
Although a few choice words came to mind, Kalinin had no questions. The American president’s ultimatum, as well as Russia’s response, was clear.
Kalinin replied, “We will begin withdrawing troops immediately.”
“Excellent,” the American president said. “As a show of goodwill, I’ll disable the detonators at your oil refinery in Omsk, the largest and most modern in Russia, I believe.”
The president tapped in a ten-digit code and pressed enter.
One of the nine video feeds blanked out in a blinding white flash, fading to reveal a dozen orange fireballs rising skyward from a mass of twisted metal engulfed in flames.
“Sorry, Yuri,” the American president said. “I’m all thumbs.”
The screen went black.
95
SOCHI, RUSSIA
Christine’s eyes opened slowly, then fluttered back shut as her blurry vision was greeted by a throbbing headache. She opened her eyes again and lifted her head slowly, and her vision cleared. She was lying on her stomach on a wooden floor in a dimly lit room, with the only source of light being shafts of sunlight streaming through slots near the top of the room. There was a brackish smell in the air and the sound of waves lapping against pilings.
She was in the boathouse, inside a storage room.
Confirming her assessment, there were several piles of crates cluttering the room, along with a few old life preservers and vests.
Christine tried to push herself to her feet, then realized her hands were cuffed behind her back. She rolled onto her side and then to a sitting position. She was still in her nightgown and barefoot. Looking around, she examined her new accommodations more closely. She was in a twenty-by-twenty-foot room with no windows and a single door. The only openings to the outside were several six-inch-wide slots at the top of the wall to her left. Above, a few pipes ran the width of the room a few feet above her head.
She rocked forward onto her feet, and on the slim chance the door was unlocked, she pushed the lever down with one foot, then hooked her toes behind it and pulled. No luck. She heard a man’s voice on the other side of the door, speaking in Russian. At first, she thought he was talking to her, but then there was a squelch of a handheld radio, and she realized the man was a guard posted outside, most likely informing Gorev she had regained consciousness.