Dennison, an XO in the JSF and a woman almost always under complete control, would not do what she did. At least Doletskaya thought so. But this was his imagination, and he could imagine her doing anything he wanted.
So she lifted up the table, throwing everything onto the floor with a horrible crash and drawing the stares of everyone in the restaurant.
As a team of waiters came rushing over, she screamed at Doletskaya, “What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”
He and Antsyforov exchanged a knowing grin.
And when Doletskaya opened his eyes, he was sitting in a chair and staring into the beefy, bearded face of one of his interrogators, who asked again, “What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”
SEVEN
President of the United States David Becerra, fifty-six and the first Hispanic chief executive, was seated aboard Air Force One flying on a southwesterly heading at 38,500 feet above the Atlantic Ocean.
Recent news had left him with pain behind his eyes and a pit in his stomach; it seemed unlikely those discomforts would dissipate any time soon.
He was on a conference video call with Europe. The screens before him displayed European Federation President Nathalie Perreau, Enforcers Corps General Amadou de Bankolé, and Enforcers Corps Executive Officer Capitaine Ilaria Cimino.
Becerra had already greeted them and took a deep breath before speaking, determined to make the conversation go exactly where he wanted.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, Madame President, three days ago the Russians sent up three cosmonauts to the International Space Station on what our intelligence sources concluded was a resupply and repair mission.”
Perreau, just a few years younger than Becerra and an equally captivating speaker, glanced up from another screen set into her desk. “Yes, Mr. President. We monitored that launch, of course. And I’m still amazed that old station hasn’t crashed into the ocean.” Her English, though spoken with a French accent, was flawless.
“You’re amazed, Madame President? The engineers who worked on the ISS are some of the best in the world. That station will far exceed its lifespan, and it became the springboard for everything we put into the new Freedom Star.”
“If you’ve called to discuss that—” she began, immediately growing defensive. The Euros had been staunch opponents of Freedom Star, Perreau calling it “the beginning of a new insanity.”
“No, ma’am. I’m not calling for that.”
“Then, Mr. President, maybe you’ve called to explain why your ground forces pulled out of Moscow so quickly?”
The challenge came from General Amadou de Bankolé, commander of all special forces in Europe. He had even been involved in the design of the Enforcers Corps and possessed one of the most intimidating visages Becerra had ever seen: deep brown skin, a jaw that appeared to have been carved into shape with a bowie knife, and the cold, almost lifeless eyes of a shark.
Becerra carefully picked his words. “No, General, I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics of those operations.”
“I guess retreating is a bit embarrassing.”
Tucking his fist into the seat, Becerra responded slowly, “I’ll say this: any maneuver by the Joint Strike Force is carefully planned. Sometimes we trade space for time. And as the son of a Marine master sergeant and a Marine reservist myself, I understand that. As a military officer of your status, a man who has studied our tactics, techniques, and procedures, the situation and accompanying explanations should be obvious.”
There, he’d insulted the bastard.
And before Bankolé could reply, another voice broke in. “Mr. President, could you answer a question for me?” Capitaine Ilaria Cimino raised her brows. She was in her mid-thirties, an attractive woman who’d already had a distinguished career with Italian special forces units. In some ways, she reminded Becerra of Major Alice Dennison.
“President Becerra, I asked Capitaine Cimino to join us because she and her team were responsible for intercepting the original transmission and decrypting what they could.”
Becerra nodded. “Excellent work, Capitaine. I’m glad I have this opportunity to thank you.”
She grinned. “I appreciate that. But now I must ask for all us — have you learned what Operation 2659 is? Who is Snegurochka?”
“We are still working on Doletskaya, but the interrogation has proven difficult.”
“Torture him,” snapped Bankolé. “And get what we need.”
“It’s not that simple, General.”
He raised his voice. “Torture him.”
“I didn’t call this meeting to discuss Doletskaya or our justification for pulling out of Moscow. We have a serious problem, and I need your help.”
General Bankolé sighed and began to shake his head, but President Perreau quickly said, “Mr. President, sorry for the interruptions. You have our complete attention.”
Becerra sighed through a nod. “As I said, three cosmonauts headed up to the ISS on a repair and resupply mission. There are two other researchers up there right now: a Japanese scientist and an engineer from Brazil. About twenty hours ago we lost all contact with them and with the Russians, and shortly thereafter the station repositioned itself.”
“Just a technical failure?” asked Perreau, her tone indicating that she already expected the worst.
“We had hoped. But following the communication break, we lost two key satellites, the early warning bird around the Arctic Circle and a comm satellite with ELF capability to communicate with submarines under the ice cap.”
“Mr. President, what do you mean lost?” asked Cimino. “Lost communication?”
“No, Capitaine. I mean destroyed. We’ve picked up the debris fields. We’re not sure if they—”
“Mr. President, if you believe the European Federation’s laser satellites were somehow—”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. And I don’t suggest that Spetsnaz forces have introduced a virus into your system. We’ve been down that dark road before.”
“You’re trying to make a connection between those cosmonauts on the ISS and your lost satellites,” concluded Bankolé.
“Exactly. The data’s being reviewed right now. But there’s already speculation that the Russians used the ISS as a platform to take out our satellites. Our missile shield would stop anything they launch with a ground-based trajectory, but they could have smuggled up parts to construct a weapons system and fired it from the station. Could be laser- or projectile-based. We’re uncertain at this time.”
“What do you need from us?” asked President Perreau.
“If the Russians have seized control of the ISS, and if they have a space-based weapon onboard that station, one they could use to take out some of your lasers or our kinetic energy weapons, then we need to strike first.”
“Oh, my God.” Perreau gasped. “You want us to destroy the station?”
“No, if it comes to that, we’ll do what’s necessary. But right now I’ve got a blind spot up in the Arctic, and other stations have reported that the Russians have flown in some reconnaissance and communication aircraft. I need your lasers to take them out.”
General Bankolé frowned deeply. “If I may interrupt. Mr. President, if the Russians have done as you say — smuggled up parts to construct a weapon on the ISS, then why would they use it on two of your more insignificant satellites? Why didn’t they pick the obvious targets: your Rods from God and our lasers?”
“Thirty minutes ago I was sitting here, staring out the window, asking the same question. I don’t know all the details, the science involved. Maybe they couldn’t reposition the ISS to do so. Or maybe they took out the smaller satellites as a test. But believe me, we’re working on it. We’ll get the truth.”