Zhilinkhov rolled his eyes upward to focus on his friends. His face continued to look menacing, twisted in anger and pain, while he stared at his fellow comrades. Zhilinkhov willed his left hand to move slightly, grasping his oldest friend around the wrist. The general secretary still had a powerful grip.
“Strike … America,” Zhilinkhov gurgled, “or I will order …”
“Yes, Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko replied, then encouraged the weakened leader to take a capsule.
Zhilinkhov swallowed the medicine sluggishly, then looked up. “Now … strike now.”
The youngest Politburo member, Nikolai Velekhin, discreetly motioned to his friends to step across the room. The bedroom fireplace, providing a variety of continuous noises, would conceal their conversation from the general secretary.
“Viktor Pavlovich is going to carry out his plan,” the newer member whispered. “It is too soon to strike the Americans. They are well prepared and could strike first. Their spies — what do they know? Where are they? We must do something before it is too late. For all of us. Viktor Pavlovich has the power to launch the strike by himself. The military commanders will not question the general secretary.”
“Calm yourself. We must have patience,” Yevstigneyev said nervously. “He will sleep for a while, then we can discuss this matter with him. We must remain silent, my friends. We cannot act on our own.”
Zhilinkhov lay quietly as he listened to the conversation of his coconspirators. His mind, although medicated, was clear in his purpose, his goal. He would not be denied in his quest. The general secretary of the Soviet Communist party would indeed strike a massive blow to the United States.
Zhilinkhov knew it would be only a matter of hours before the course of world history would be altered forever. He would recover from his stroke and rule the entire planet.
The general secretary dozed off as Colonel General Vranesevic quietly entered the room. He remained by the door, beckoning the group.
Dichenkovko led the men to the door. “What is it, General?”
“The Americans,” Vranesevic swallowed, “have sunk three of our submarines, off the Florida coast.”
Dichenkovko, along with the other members, turned toward the sleeping Zhilinkhov. “We must not disclose this to Viktor Pavlovich.”
Chapter Eighteen
The president, vice president, chief of staff, close cabinet members, and the military Joint Chiefs of Staff crowded into the White House Situation Room. The walls were covered with various screens, maps, projections, and satellite data.
Grant Wilkinson had been in private conference with Cliff Howard, secretary of defense, and the Joint Chiefs for the past twenty minutes.
Wilkinson spoke first. “Mister President, Admiral Chambers will speak for the Joint Chiefs.”
Chambers looked uneasy. “Sir, I know I was skeptical about the scenario painted by Mister Wilkinson. I’m still apprehensive about this whole affair.” Chambers inhaled, breathing deeply. “However, after analyzing all the data we currently have, along with the present Soviet nuclear status, I would conclude, I would have to say a Soviet first strike is a very real probability.”
The president sat quietly a few seconds, turned to his right, then addressed the Joint Chiefs. “Gentlemen, how do you view this revelation?”
General Hollingsworth, the Marine Corps commandant, spoke first. “Sir, you met Zhilinkhov. What does he have to lose?” Hollingsworth didn’t wait for an answer.
“His country is in shambles and rapidly eroding. Their only grasp, as far as power, is their military. Especially their massive nuclear capability.”
The general reached for his water glass, sipped a small amount to moisten his throat, then continued.
“SDI would render them almost impotent. The entire picture is a very real and very frightening situation. Sir, I believe we need … Well, I’ll let Mister Wilkinson explain our position.”
“No, you say whatever is on your mind, General,” the president said, lighting his rum crook.
“Well, sir,” Hollingsworth replied, “as I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve had options in the plans for just such a situation as a worst case—”
“What kind of situation?” the president asked, puffing lightly on the sweet cigar.
“Possible first-strike scenarios, sir,” Hollingsworth said, darting a look at Wilkinson.
The president remained quiet. The room was totally void of noise, tomblike.
“Grant,” the president said, sitting upright in his chair.
Wilkinson eyed the president, took a deep breath, then spoke directly to him, ignoring the remainder of the staff members.
“Mister President,” Wilkinson began, “we’ve been together, politically, and as friends, for what would we say … twenty-three years?”
“That’s right.”
The president placed his cigar down, clasped his hands, fingers entwined, then looked Wilkinson in the eye. “Explain your position.”
“Sir, we,” Wilkinson spoke very slowly, “the Joint Chiefs, Cliff Howard, and I, believe the United States should initiate a preemptive strike, a nuclear first strike against the Soviet Union.”
The room remained quiet as the stunned president and vice president stared at Wilkinson, not quite seeing the chief of staff in their shock. Herb Kohlhammer, slowly shaking his head, was speechless.
“For God’s sake,” the president exploded, looking appalled at the thought. “You’re serious! All of you!”
Grant Wilkinson stretched both arms on the table, palms down. “Sir, we are in a position from which we can’t extricate ourselves.” Wilkinson looked down for a moment, then returned his scan to the president. “Gridlocked, sir. Checkmated.”
“Jesus, Grant,” the president said, exasperation written on his face. “You can’t be serious.”
“Sir,” Wilkinson continued, “we have finally reached a point of no return. We can’t go back to yesterday and put another Band-Aid on the problem. We have finally been placed in a no-win position.” Wilkinson looked at Chambers, then back to the president. “No recourse.”
“Grant, we are the leaders of the United States of America,” the president said. “Your proposal is absolutely unthinkable.”
Wilkinson spoke slowly and forcefully. “Sir, we have no other choice. They’ve provoked us to the brink of war to test our reactions. They’ve attacked our space shuttle and SDI satellites. Their nuclear forces, en masse, are waiting for the order from the Kremlin, and we—”
Wilkinson stopped abruptly, looking down the table at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, then focused his eyes on the president.
“We have a trusted and loyal Kremlin operative, in direct contact with Zhilinkhov, corroborate our worst-case situation.” Wilkinson thought for a second. “The agent could have had no idea we had reached the same conclusion.”
Wilkinson leaned forward, then spoke quietly. “The Soviets, sir, are going to blow us off the face of the earth. Zhilinkhov doesn’t need the endorsement of anyone to order the strike. You know that.”
Wilkinson leaned back, then stared at the president. The chief of staff had to hold his hands together to keep them from shaking.
Wilkinson spoke again. “Sir, the Soviets … Zhilinkhov … is doing exactly what our Kremlin agent—”
“Dimitri,” General Hollingsworth quietly provided.
“What Dimitri said. Precisely. This isn’t coincidence, sir. Our operative broke the absolute rule of contact to get this information to us. He went through hell to escape after the KGB disaster, then saw his mentor killed. Yet, he remained rational and got the message to us.”