Again, more silence in the control room, until—
“Should we close and search for survivors, sir?” asked the XO.
Andreas thought a moment. “No.” He took a deep breath, then called, “Navigator? Give me a course to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait. With the east end of the gulf iced in, that strait is a perfect choke point — and we get to say who comes through there.”
“Hello, Prime Minister,” said President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin. “I’m glad you could take my call. I know it’s early there.”
Prime Minister Robert Emerson of Canada had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He had loosened his tie, and he barely opened his mouth when he said quite curtly, “Get out of my country.”
“I’m afraid, Prime Minister, that it is far too late for that. But what I have to tell you is quite urgent and will benefit you greatly, if you are willing to negotiate.”
“Kapalkin, you’re a creature of realpolitik, coercive and amoral. There are no negotiations here. Get out of my country.”
“Prime Minister, I understand how you feel, and I know how important it is for you and your people to remain neutral in this conflict. I can guarantee that Canada will not become involved, if we work together.”
“We are already involved. You’ve invaded the Northwest Territories and are heading for Alberta.”
“That’s not all. As we speak our Spetsnaz forces are heading toward Edmonton and Calgary. They will parachute into those cities and seize control of power and communications uplinks, as well as those early warning radar systems for the JSF’s missile defense shield. It is winter. Very cold. And we will shut down the power. But we don’t have to do that.”
“If we hand over control of Alberta?” Emerson guessed.
Kapalkin spread his hands in a gesture of bon homie. “What is politics, Prime Minister? It is simply the pursuit, possession, and application of power. Let us share that power.”
Prime Minister Emerson closed his eyes and massaged his temples, then suddenly blurted, “You know the Americans want to…‘share power’ with us as well.”
“And we know you’ve already failed to stop them from crossing your borders. But we’ll forgive that. All we need from you now is a promise not to interfere. And once we control Alberta, you will continue production — even increase it — with our assistance.”
“And of course, the Russian Federation will receive a substantial portion of our profits. Come on, you were a smuggler. And this sounds like a proposition put forth by the Russian mafia, not the Federation.”
That remark stung, and Kapalkin sharpened his tone. “Prime Minister, if you’ll recall, I was also co-owner and chairman of one of Russia’s largest oil and gas companies. I know this business. I know how together we can continue production and force the Americans and Euros to pay dearly for that oil. Let Canada become richer — with our help.”
“Mr. President, I must be frank with you. I don’t believe a goddamn word.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Get out of my country.”
“It’s too late for that.” Kapalkin raised his index finger. “Let me add this: If your government decides to offer military assistance to the Americans, you will suffer the full military might of the Russian Federation.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, at this point you are far better off doing nothing. Remain neutral. We will respect that. We will do everything we can to limit the number of casualties and preserve your infrastructure. Take some time to think it over. You will come to see that what I’m offering is far more attractive and will allow Canada to step out from the shadow of those American cowboys. You could take it to your people, but I understand a cabinet revolt would bring you down quickly, and that your parliament is quite anemic, with several members vying for your position. Sit on your hands for now, if that is your wish. But do not help the Americans or the Euros. I will call you again in a day or two. And we will see how you feel then.”
Emerson just stared blankly at him, a man still unwilling to admit defeat. He would. In time.
“Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister.” Kapalkin suppressed his smile.
The large, touch-screen map table showing the Northwest Territories and Alberta flickered with “Blue” and “Red” force activity as Major Alice Dennison shifted past it on her way back to her desk to take a call.
When she sat down and saw the origination, she nearly fell out of her chair. She swallowed hard and smoothed back her hair, then adjusted the collar of her uniform to buy some time and calm herself a bit. After another deep breath, she reached out with a trembling finger and touched the screen.
President Becerra was seated aboard Air Force One. His brows raised. “Hello, Major Dennison.”
“Uh, hi. I mean, hello, Mr. President. This is, uh, I’m sorry,” she stammered.
“Relax, Major. I just need a little favor.”
The President of the United States was asking her for a favor?
“Actually two things.”
He could ask for ten. “Uh, yes, Mr. President?”
“It’s my understanding that you’ve been in direct contact with an F-35 pilot forced to eject up in the Northwest Territories, Major Stephanie Halverson, call sign Siren.”
“Yes, sir. We lost all those fighters. She was the last one to hang on. She put a hell of a dent in their operations.”
“I know. And it’s also my understanding that no one’s been assigned the TRAP mission to get her out of there.”
“No, sir, we tried. I was hoping we could split up one of the ODA teams we dropped into High Level, but their C-130 got hit before the whole company got out. We only have a couple dozen operators on the ground, with no air support yet, so I can’t spare them. And even if I could, I doubt I could get them up there in time. The first sorties carrying the brigade from the Tenth Mountain won’t reach Grand Prairie for a couple of hours now, and they’ll be even farther south.”
“I want that pilot recovered.”
“Of course, sir, but she’s way behind enemy lines.”
“Major, I talked to her myself. She was the tip of our spear, and I won’t write her off. Now before you even think it, this isn’t some PR stunt to create a ‘feel-good’ story. That pilot is a valuable asset. And she’s worth the risk.”
“Yes, sir. Getting a team up there could also provide us with some boots-on-the-ground intel of their staging area.”
“Exactly.”
“Sir, I’ll do everything I can.”
He nodded. “And the second thing. I know you’ve been trying to crack Doletskaya. Keep at it. The GRU rarely engages in straightforward ops like this.”
“I know, sir. We’ve got that number, that code name, then we just hit the wall.”
“Dig more into his past. Maybe the key is there. And also… consider the source of that information.”
“Sir?”
“The Euros tipped us off, handed over that intel. There’s nothing to say that the intel isn’t corrupt, or that the intel will point to the Euros being directly involved.”
“I’ll expand my search. Anything else, sir?”
“Oh, that’ll keep you busy. Thank you, Major.” Someone beckoned him. He smiled politely and ended the call.
Dennison sat there, just breathing. Then she bolted from her chair and cried, “Where are those Marines from Pendleton? Are they still in the air?”
TWENTY-TWO
Were it not for the arrival of those Spetsnaz troops in their snowmobiles, Major Stephanie Halverson would not have located her ejection seat.
She wouldn’t have looked up, considering that maybe her best hiding place would be in a tree, carefully hidden among those thick, snow-laden limbs. While she had been scanning the trees, her gaze had lighted upon an irregular shape, and as she approached for a better look, she realized the damned seat had lodged itself some twenty feet above, the chute tangled in the limbs. So much for calling Hammer again. At least for now.